Or however that quote goes. If I really cared for the welfare of my blog readers, I'd have googled it, right?
I'm reading this book about the history of statistics in baseball and the controversies about and uses thereof (shoutout to Mr Indemnity: sound familiar, dude? it's your book. want it back when I'm done?) It's all much more fascinating than my poor description would probably lead you to believe. Do you know what the guy who invented rotisserie (i.e. fantasy) baseball said? Something along the lines of feeling like he's Robert Oppenheimer and has let loose a great evil upon the world unintentionally. Ha! He also said that people follow him into the men's room and try to regale him with stories of their teams and all the great decisions they've made when he's just trying to take a shit. So, yeah, I can see where that would get a wee bit annoying.
Anyway, the book also discusses how with the advent of computers, completely meaningless stats can be called up at a moment's notice and inserted into, say, the mouth of Tim McCarver. (The book doesn't *actually* mention Tim McCarver. That's editorializing on my part. Mea maxima culpa.) I am reminded of that by the blurb yahoo! sports has given me today on Miguel Olivo, who is both my catcher and, y'know, Ubaldo's. According to them, Mr Olivo now has 101 career HRs and 102 career walks, and no MLB player with at least 100 HRs has ever ended his career with more home runs than walks. To which I say: So? And also: Huh? What exactly is that supposed to tell me? That he never waits for a pitch?
I'll tell you a bit of news that tells me more about Mr Olivo. He passed a kidney stone in the middle of Wednesday's game and went right on playing. Would JD (Nancy) Drew do that? I think not.
xoxo
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
ubaldo5
In case you aren't keeping track. Oh, it's so much fun having a new favorite Dominicano.
Lemme tell you about my boy. His mother was (is?) a nurse, his father was (is?) a bus driver. They strongly preferred he not sign a baseball contract till he finished high school, so he didn't. He didn't mind. He always thought he was going to be a doctor. But the pitching arm would not be denied. Instead, it's his older sister who's in medical school.
/heartwarming story of up outta poverty
In other baseball news, do you guys know whom Rihanna is dating? Hint: look for her at Dodgers games!
Maybe next month I will stop talking about baseball and celebs. But I wouldn't count on it.
xoxo
Lemme tell you about my boy. His mother was (is?) a nurse, his father was (is?) a bus driver. They strongly preferred he not sign a baseball contract till he finished high school, so he didn't. He didn't mind. He always thought he was going to be a doctor. But the pitching arm would not be denied. Instead, it's his older sister who's in medical school.
/heartwarming story of up outta poverty
In other baseball news, do you guys know whom Rihanna is dating? Hint: look for her at Dodgers games!
Maybe next month I will stop talking about baseball and celebs. But I wouldn't count on it.
xoxo
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
my head's gonna explode today
Really, reading or watching the news is just an exercise in masochism. It is better for one's mental health, never mind blood pressure, to just remain blissfully ignorant of what is going on in the world outside one's own little sphere. I mean, I get enough agita from my own life. However and be that as it may, have you all heard what's going on down in the Oklahoma legislature? Lemme quote from the NYT for you!
"The second measure passed into law Tuesday protects doctors from malpractice suits if they decide not to inform the parents of a unborn baby that the fetus has birth defects. The intent of the bill is to prevent parents from later suing doctors who withhold information to try to influence them against having an abortion." The Governor, Brad Henry, vetoed this measure last week (along with another misguided piece of legislation we won't go into) but the Republican majority overrode the veto.
Alrighty! Let's all move to Oklahoma where it is now legal for your doctor to lie to you about your test results! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Oh, wait. It's only legal to lie to pregnant women (and their partners) about their test results. They still have to give you the straight dope on your prostate exams and your cardiac stress tests. I am reassured. Those (probably white, probably male, probably middle-aged) legislators will still be able to make informed decisions about their own medical care. Whew. That's a relief.
Governor Henry said this: “It is unconscionable to grant a physician legal protection to mislead or misinform pregnant women in an effort to impose his or her personal beliefs on a patient."
I myself can't argue with that. Unconscionable is a great word for it. Excuse me while I go look at lolcats and calm myself.
xoxo
"The second measure passed into law Tuesday protects doctors from malpractice suits if they decide not to inform the parents of a unborn baby that the fetus has birth defects. The intent of the bill is to prevent parents from later suing doctors who withhold information to try to influence them against having an abortion." The Governor, Brad Henry, vetoed this measure last week (along with another misguided piece of legislation we won't go into) but the Republican majority overrode the veto.
Alrighty! Let's all move to Oklahoma where it is now legal for your doctor to lie to you about your test results! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Oh, wait. It's only legal to lie to pregnant women (and their partners) about their test results. They still have to give you the straight dope on your prostate exams and your cardiac stress tests. I am reassured. Those (probably white, probably male, probably middle-aged) legislators will still be able to make informed decisions about their own medical care. Whew. That's a relief.
Governor Henry said this: “It is unconscionable to grant a physician legal protection to mislead or misinform pregnant women in an effort to impose his or her personal beliefs on a patient."
I myself can't argue with that. Unconscionable is a great word for it. Excuse me while I go look at lolcats and calm myself.
xoxo
neurology in the news
Have you heard the latest? Some, um, expert has opined that Ben Roethlisberger's repeated concussions may have led to his "socially undesirable" behaviors.
Is that what we're calling raping women now? Socially undesirable behavior? That would seem to be perhaps the mildest possible descriptor in my view, but being as I'm a chick, not a male forensic pathologist, maybe I'm overly sensitive to these things! Maybe if I were a male forensic pathologist I'd consider sexually assaulting people as of equal weight with not showering often enough or asking inappropriate personal questions! Who knows?
Let me give you my personal professional opinion, gleaned from 25 years of working in the wonderful world of neurology. Frontal lobe head trauma does sometimes lead to unfortunate behavioral and personality changes. Anger and, especially, inability to control anger is a big one. Impulsivity is another. If you told me that Roethlisberger (sorry, this douchebag is *not* getting a "Mr" in my blog) was randomly beating the crap out of people who cut him off in traffic or making rash and unwise statements at press conferences or even pulling a Tiger Woods and screwing every big-boobed blond that comes along without consideration of the consequences, I'd say, yeah, okay, being hit in the head over and over and over again could conceivably lead to that sort of thing. Having your posse "drag" an extremely drunk young woman back to you, bringing her into a bathroom and locking the door behind you so can't be interrupted, then forcing yourself on her as she says no, uh, not so much. That's just sociopathic douchebaggery (with an element of planning that would belie impulsivity) from some entitled asshole without a shred of empathy who gets paid a lot of money to throw a fucking football and therefore thinks he is ever so much more important than you, I, or some woman in a bar.
Why, yes, I am starting with PMS week. Thanks for asking!
xoxo
Is that what we're calling raping women now? Socially undesirable behavior? That would seem to be perhaps the mildest possible descriptor in my view, but being as I'm a chick, not a male forensic pathologist, maybe I'm overly sensitive to these things! Maybe if I were a male forensic pathologist I'd consider sexually assaulting people as of equal weight with not showering often enough or asking inappropriate personal questions! Who knows?
Let me give you my personal professional opinion, gleaned from 25 years of working in the wonderful world of neurology. Frontal lobe head trauma does sometimes lead to unfortunate behavioral and personality changes. Anger and, especially, inability to control anger is a big one. Impulsivity is another. If you told me that Roethlisberger (sorry, this douchebag is *not* getting a "Mr" in my blog) was randomly beating the crap out of people who cut him off in traffic or making rash and unwise statements at press conferences or even pulling a Tiger Woods and screwing every big-boobed blond that comes along without consideration of the consequences, I'd say, yeah, okay, being hit in the head over and over and over again could conceivably lead to that sort of thing. Having your posse "drag" an extremely drunk young woman back to you, bringing her into a bathroom and locking the door behind you so can't be interrupted, then forcing yourself on her as she says no, uh, not so much. That's just sociopathic douchebaggery (with an element of planning that would belie impulsivity) from some entitled asshole without a shred of empathy who gets paid a lot of money to throw a fucking football and therefore thinks he is ever so much more important than you, I, or some woman in a bar.
Why, yes, I am starting with PMS week. Thanks for asking!
xoxo
Monday, April 26, 2010
zen dress code
This entry will contain no mention of the following: my yard and bitching about same, my fantasy team and bitching about same, Ubaldo Jimenez and/or the Colorado Rockies, and Shawn Carter Knowles. I feel like I have been boring you all. So I'ma talk about yoga instead. That'll be scintillating!
No, seriously. There was a piece on jezebel today about yoga being intimidating these days with its trendiness and the women all dressed in lululemon and the "rock star" teachers and the $20 a class fancy-schmancy studios and etc etc. It referenced a NYT article about the backlash against this, with studios that are "donation only" and at which there are no star instructors and no judgment about what one wears to class.
Well. I told y'all I'm taking Sunday morning Kripalu yoga? It works out to $12 a class, it's held at one of the hospital's wellness centers (in a strip mall, kinda) so not fancy, and the instructor is a crunchy MT in her (I'll guess) 50s. But let's talk clothing. The first week I went I wore yoga pants, a yoga cami, and a hoodie over that. I was planning on taking my hoodie off, but when I got there I saw that a.) no one else was wearing camis or tank tops--everyone had at least short sleeves and b.) there were men in the class (I don't know why I wasn't expecting that) so I felt a little less comfortable being less covered anyway. So I kept my hoodie on. Which was fine. Being a little warmer rather than cooler is better for yoga anyway. The only problem was that my hood kept flopping over my head during the forward bends.
This week I figured I would instead wear a loose-ish short sleeved t-shirt. I have certain t-shirts fitting that description that I use for working out at home. Concert shirts, souvenir shirts, that kind of thing. You know what I'm talking about. So off I go to class in yoga pants and a Dropkick Murphys shirt. It's green (of course!) and black and shiny and has a tattoo-ish skull logo on it. What's wrong with that? The teacher says to me, and I quote, "That's quite a shirt." I just smiled at her. I did not know that punk rock t-shirts are not appropriate yoga wear. Sue me. If MCA from the Beastie Boys can be a big ol' Tibetan Buddhist and ask for his fans to meditate to help shrink his cancerous tumor, I fail to see how punk and yoga don't mix. God. Do you think if I wear my Dharma Buns shirt next week ("the one true way of making a great sandwich") I'll get the side eye for that too?
Maybe I'll try it and find out.
xoxo
No, seriously. There was a piece on jezebel today about yoga being intimidating these days with its trendiness and the women all dressed in lululemon and the "rock star" teachers and the $20 a class fancy-schmancy studios and etc etc. It referenced a NYT article about the backlash against this, with studios that are "donation only" and at which there are no star instructors and no judgment about what one wears to class.
Well. I told y'all I'm taking Sunday morning Kripalu yoga? It works out to $12 a class, it's held at one of the hospital's wellness centers (in a strip mall, kinda) so not fancy, and the instructor is a crunchy MT in her (I'll guess) 50s. But let's talk clothing. The first week I went I wore yoga pants, a yoga cami, and a hoodie over that. I was planning on taking my hoodie off, but when I got there I saw that a.) no one else was wearing camis or tank tops--everyone had at least short sleeves and b.) there were men in the class (I don't know why I wasn't expecting that) so I felt a little less comfortable being less covered anyway. So I kept my hoodie on. Which was fine. Being a little warmer rather than cooler is better for yoga anyway. The only problem was that my hood kept flopping over my head during the forward bends.
This week I figured I would instead wear a loose-ish short sleeved t-shirt. I have certain t-shirts fitting that description that I use for working out at home. Concert shirts, souvenir shirts, that kind of thing. You know what I'm talking about. So off I go to class in yoga pants and a Dropkick Murphys shirt. It's green (of course!) and black and shiny and has a tattoo-ish skull logo on it. What's wrong with that? The teacher says to me, and I quote, "That's quite a shirt." I just smiled at her. I did not know that punk rock t-shirts are not appropriate yoga wear. Sue me. If MCA from the Beastie Boys can be a big ol' Tibetan Buddhist and ask for his fans to meditate to help shrink his cancerous tumor, I fail to see how punk and yoga don't mix. God. Do you think if I wear my Dharma Buns shirt next week ("the one true way of making a great sandwich") I'll get the side eye for that too?
Maybe I'll try it and find out.
xoxo
Sunday, April 25, 2010
more show n' tell
Something's gonna grow here. Hopefully.
And here.
Pretty weeds, I guess. I left 'em.
Closeup of the pretty purple flowers.
Girls--I mean chives--gone wild!
This still needs help. Lots and lots of help.xoxo
epic
I never watch SNL anymore because a.)it usually sucks b.)I get up at 5:45am on Saturdays and so have very little motivation and ability to stay awake that late and c.)if I read or hear from anyone that there was anything on it that would have amused me, it pretty much always ends up on youtube for my viewing pleasure. HOWEVER. Next week? I am led to understand that they will be featuring Betty White and Jay-Z. That I will stay up for.
New topic. Did you watch the Sox game last night? WTF do we think is wrong with Papelbon? I think I would prefer my ace closer to just save the game, not "make it interesting" then save the game. That asshole Lackey, as I like to fondly refer to him, is on my fantasy team--don't blame me, I inherited him--and, despite his mediocre-to-crappy performance, did at least get me a win. So there is that. Also, Jones' HR was good for me. Was it good for you too? (Oh, I crack myself up.)
And one more thing. I slaved in the yard for another two hours yesterday after work, which is a sad state of affairs lemme tell you, and that makes eleven hours total this week in case you're counting, which I am. I am still not done. I may not even be 2/3rds done. But at least I don't quite feel like crying when I look at it anymore. Also, Friday night I spent an hour or so assembling my "bistro set" for the deck and it looks very cute. I don't think I was quite expecting two chairs and a table to arrive in one box (i.e. in lots and lots of pieces, yo) but I suppose that is what one gets for buying patio furniture that costs $170 as opposed to patio furniture that costs $450. (I was really shocked at how much this shite costs when I started looking at it.) Anyway, if any of you all want to come have a drink on my deck (um, one at a time, I said "two chairs"), you are invited, and I promise I tightened those bolts pretty good so the chair probably will not collapse. Probably.
xoxo
New topic. Did you watch the Sox game last night? WTF do we think is wrong with Papelbon? I think I would prefer my ace closer to just save the game, not "make it interesting" then save the game. That asshole Lackey, as I like to fondly refer to him, is on my fantasy team--don't blame me, I inherited him--and, despite his mediocre-to-crappy performance, did at least get me a win. So there is that. Also, Jones' HR was good for me. Was it good for you too? (Oh, I crack myself up.)
And one more thing. I slaved in the yard for another two hours yesterday after work, which is a sad state of affairs lemme tell you, and that makes eleven hours total this week in case you're counting, which I am. I am still not done. I may not even be 2/3rds done. But at least I don't quite feel like crying when I look at it anymore. Also, Friday night I spent an hour or so assembling my "bistro set" for the deck and it looks very cute. I don't think I was quite expecting two chairs and a table to arrive in one box (i.e. in lots and lots of pieces, yo) but I suppose that is what one gets for buying patio furniture that costs $170 as opposed to patio furniture that costs $450. (I was really shocked at how much this shite costs when I started looking at it.) Anyway, if any of you all want to come have a drink on my deck (um, one at a time, I said "two chairs"), you are invited, and I promise I tightened those bolts pretty good so the chair probably will not collapse. Probably.
xoxo
Friday, April 23, 2010
the commonwealth n' me
A couple months or so ago I got a jury summons in the mail, requesting my service on April 26th. That seemed as good a day as any. And the summons was to a courthouse that was conveniently located but to which I had never been. I therefore saw no reason to request a change of date or venue and was prepared to send my confirmation card right back. Then I noticed that one could confirm online, an option not available the last time I was called circa 2002/2003. So I did. I also told Led Zep Girl to mark my schedule out that day. Then I didn't think a thing about it for several weeks.
Well, maybe two weeks or so ago, I realized it was coming up soon. I thought it was a little strange that I hadn't gotten anything back from them. I was hoping for one of those notices that tell you you're on standby and to call the business day before to see if you are actually needed, but even barring that, I was pretty sure that they sent you something. So every day from there on in, I'd expect correspondence from the Commonwealth in my mail, and every day I was disappointed. Finally at the beginning of this week, I went and looked at my original notice, which I had nicely tacked to my bulletin board, just like an organized person would have. Oh, look here. "You will be mailed a reminder notice about 10 days before your scheduled date." Considering it was now six days before my scheduled date and I had nada, it was a wee bit disturbing.
So then I thought, well, hmm. Maybe if you reply online, they figure you do not prefer snail mail. But I couldn't remember providing them an email address and I hadn't gotten official government email. So I logged back into the website and entering my badge # and PIN got this: A search of your badge number confirms you are no longer obligated to appear for jury duty. Reason your service is not currently required: Cancelled.
Well, thank you so much for telling me, Office of the Jury Commissioner! How efficient of you! I'm telling you, if I hadn't investigated this and just had gotten up early Monday morning, put on my nice reputable-looking clothes, and hauled myself off to district court and *then* found out it was cancelled, there might have been a big incident with foul language and yelling and takedowns by muscular cops and handcuffing, and while that possibly might have been fun, it's probably better it was prevented. Don't you think?
Anyway, I just went back on the website for the third time and printed out that screen that says they don't need me, because I'm not taking any chances with these people's competence or lack thereof.
xoxo
Well, maybe two weeks or so ago, I realized it was coming up soon. I thought it was a little strange that I hadn't gotten anything back from them. I was hoping for one of those notices that tell you you're on standby and to call the business day before to see if you are actually needed, but even barring that, I was pretty sure that they sent you something. So every day from there on in, I'd expect correspondence from the Commonwealth in my mail, and every day I was disappointed. Finally at the beginning of this week, I went and looked at my original notice, which I had nicely tacked to my bulletin board, just like an organized person would have. Oh, look here. "You will be mailed a reminder notice about 10 days before your scheduled date." Considering it was now six days before my scheduled date and I had nada, it was a wee bit disturbing.
So then I thought, well, hmm. Maybe if you reply online, they figure you do not prefer snail mail. But I couldn't remember providing them an email address and I hadn't gotten official government email. So I logged back into the website and entering my badge # and PIN got this: A search of your badge number confirms you are no longer obligated to appear for jury duty. Reason your service is not currently required: Cancelled.
Well, thank you so much for telling me, Office of the Jury Commissioner! How efficient of you! I'm telling you, if I hadn't investigated this and just had gotten up early Monday morning, put on my nice reputable-looking clothes, and hauled myself off to district court and *then* found out it was cancelled, there might have been a big incident with foul language and yelling and takedowns by muscular cops and handcuffing, and while that possibly might have been fun, it's probably better it was prevented. Don't you think?
Anyway, I just went back on the website for the third time and printed out that screen that says they don't need me, because I'm not taking any chances with these people's competence or lack thereof.
xoxo
Thursday, April 22, 2010
ubaldo2
Won. Pitched 7.1. 5 Ks. ERA 0.00. WHIP 0.95.
He gets besos too! (Of the motherly kind. He's a little too close to D's age for me to want to do anything but kiss his forehead and make him a nice dinner and tell him how proud I am of him.) April 22 and four wins already. That's 50% of Colorado's total, btw. You think I'm joking when I say first 20 game winner in Rockies' history?
I know my bubble's gotta burst sometime and he'll have a bad outing, but right now? He's making up for the rest of that parade of losers on my team.
xoxo
He gets besos too! (Of the motherly kind. He's a little too close to D's age for me to want to do anything but kiss his forehead and make him a nice dinner and tell him how proud I am of him.) April 22 and four wins already. That's 50% of Colorado's total, btw. You think I'm joking when I say first 20 game winner in Rockies' history?
I know my bubble's gotta burst sometime and he'll have a bad outing, but right now? He's making up for the rest of that parade of losers on my team.
xoxo
where else?
I hesitate to say that where I live gives me access to the worst of both worlds, because I enjoy so many of the "worsts." But let me give you an example. I was whining in here the other day about feeling embarrassed by my crappy yard and lawn, because I cannot keep up with the standard set by my immediate neighbors who are under the delusion that they actually live in the burbs. On the other hand, we have running right past our little island of faux suburbanity the prison bus. Have we done a prison bus conversation lately? Today's was, um, interesting.
Unassuming young man gets on, ascertains from the driver that the bus goes by the hospital, and sits down in one of the front seats. Several minutes later a guy from the back of the bus, possessing a huge neck tattoo and a stupid sideways baseball cap, comes forward. "Hey, man! I knew that was you! I been looking at you for twenty minutes, trying to figure it out." [Ed note: Just as six inches is nine in male measuring, 10 minutes is apparently twenty.] Handshakes and shoulder clasps ensue, and then they start discussing where they are on their way to. Oh, they are both going to the hospital to see their sick children. Whaddya know? Neck tattoo is surprised unassuming boy has a child, it's all news to him.
"No, man, I got two. A boy and a girl." Cellphone pics are shown about and neck tattoo says, "Oh, yours are young." Unassuming boy says, yeah. And they're only about a month apart! Let's digest this shall we? Someone recently asked me to explain the definition of "manwhore" in relation to one of Our Lil MILF's anecdotes. I would like to kindly refer to unassuming boy as exhibit #1. Also, I would like to buy him some condoms, or perhaps a nice vasectomy, but that's neither here nor there.
He and neck tattoo start discussing how they never see each other anymore and how the old gang has broken up. And gang may just be the right un-euphemistic term there. "Everyone's locked up," says neck tattoo sadly. "Or they got kids."
Okay, so maybe I don't want to buy unassuming boy a vasectomy. Maybe he needs to keep on impregnating random women to keep him on the straight and narrow.
So, really, how can I consider the chance to listen to that conversation a worst? And then there's this. D had a psych appointment this morning, and as we do, we went to the ghetto Shaws market across the street from the clinic (not my usual nice clean Shaws at which I will actually buy meat) to pick up a few things afterwards. Well. Sort of near the deli case, they have some cold drinks refrigerated. As we walked by, D says, "Huh. What kind of coke is that." It was in a long glass bottle. On closer inspection, it was all in Spanish. "OMG," I said. "I think this is the fabled Mexican coke with real sugar in it!" We read the ingredients and yeah, baby. So we bought one for him and one for me. Whatever undocumented Central Americans shop at this ghetto Shaws, I would like to give them besos! Your demand for the products of your homeland brings joy to the gringos too.
xoxo
Unassuming young man gets on, ascertains from the driver that the bus goes by the hospital, and sits down in one of the front seats. Several minutes later a guy from the back of the bus, possessing a huge neck tattoo and a stupid sideways baseball cap, comes forward. "Hey, man! I knew that was you! I been looking at you for twenty minutes, trying to figure it out." [Ed note: Just as six inches is nine in male measuring, 10 minutes is apparently twenty.] Handshakes and shoulder clasps ensue, and then they start discussing where they are on their way to. Oh, they are both going to the hospital to see their sick children. Whaddya know? Neck tattoo is surprised unassuming boy has a child, it's all news to him.
"No, man, I got two. A boy and a girl." Cellphone pics are shown about and neck tattoo says, "Oh, yours are young." Unassuming boy says, yeah. And they're only about a month apart! Let's digest this shall we? Someone recently asked me to explain the definition of "manwhore" in relation to one of Our Lil MILF's anecdotes. I would like to kindly refer to unassuming boy as exhibit #1. Also, I would like to buy him some condoms, or perhaps a nice vasectomy, but that's neither here nor there.
He and neck tattoo start discussing how they never see each other anymore and how the old gang has broken up. And gang may just be the right un-euphemistic term there. "Everyone's locked up," says neck tattoo sadly. "Or they got kids."
Okay, so maybe I don't want to buy unassuming boy a vasectomy. Maybe he needs to keep on impregnating random women to keep him on the straight and narrow.
So, really, how can I consider the chance to listen to that conversation a worst? And then there's this. D had a psych appointment this morning, and as we do, we went to the ghetto Shaws market across the street from the clinic (not my usual nice clean Shaws at which I will actually buy meat) to pick up a few things afterwards. Well. Sort of near the deli case, they have some cold drinks refrigerated. As we walked by, D says, "Huh. What kind of coke is that." It was in a long glass bottle. On closer inspection, it was all in Spanish. "OMG," I said. "I think this is the fabled Mexican coke with real sugar in it!" We read the ingredients and yeah, baby. So we bought one for him and one for me. Whatever undocumented Central Americans shop at this ghetto Shaws, I would like to give them besos! Your demand for the products of your homeland brings joy to the gringos too.
xoxo
Monday, April 19, 2010
i.am.discouraged.
No, not just about baseball, real and fantasy versions. No.
I am discouraged because I spent 4--count 'em--4 hours today working in the yard, filled up six of those giant paper leaf and yard waste bags, have three more piles of crap in the back that would go in more giant paper bags if I had any more, and my yard still looks like complete and total shit. Plus I broke my iPod earphones (don't ask) and smashed my left ring finger with a cement paver and if the nail on that finger turns black I wouldn't be totally surprised. I almost started crying, not from dropping a cement block on my hand, but because it is so hopeless. There are hours and hours and hours more work to do to get it acceptable. Keeping it acceptable is even harder. It's not like housework or laundry that you can do even if it's raining or at 8 or 10 pm.
I feel completely humiliated because I know all my neighbors sneer, but I am sorry. I can neither comfortably afford the team of landscapers to come weekly and/or have a sprinkler system installed like my effin yard is a golf course nor do I have the time like some of my retired (early and otherwise) neighbors to spend six hours a day every non-rainy day gardening and doing yardwork. Like in most things in life, I cannot keep up.
On the plus side, I no longer have vines climbing up the side of my house anymore and I pruned some of that fucking tree *that belongs to the fucking city* so that it is not such a hazard to innocent pedestrians. And everything is off my deck so I can put my new little table and chairs out there when they arrive. I'm sure you're all impressed.
xoxo
I am discouraged because I spent 4--count 'em--4 hours today working in the yard, filled up six of those giant paper leaf and yard waste bags, have three more piles of crap in the back that would go in more giant paper bags if I had any more, and my yard still looks like complete and total shit. Plus I broke my iPod earphones (don't ask) and smashed my left ring finger with a cement paver and if the nail on that finger turns black I wouldn't be totally surprised. I almost started crying, not from dropping a cement block on my hand, but because it is so hopeless. There are hours and hours and hours more work to do to get it acceptable. Keeping it acceptable is even harder. It's not like housework or laundry that you can do even if it's raining or at 8 or 10 pm.
I feel completely humiliated because I know all my neighbors sneer, but I am sorry. I can neither comfortably afford the team of landscapers to come weekly and/or have a sprinkler system installed like my effin yard is a golf course nor do I have the time like some of my retired (early and otherwise) neighbors to spend six hours a day every non-rainy day gardening and doing yardwork. Like in most things in life, I cannot keep up.
On the plus side, I no longer have vines climbing up the side of my house anymore and I pruned some of that fucking tree *that belongs to the fucking city* so that it is not such a hazard to innocent pedestrians. And everything is off my deck so I can put my new little table and chairs out there when they arrive. I'm sure you're all impressed.
xoxo
Sunday, April 18, 2010
sunday sundry
1.) Had my first Sunday morning yoga class today at the hospital wellness center. Not that I didn't know it already, but my pecs are t-i-g-h-t. Also my balance on one leg? Not so good. And just because I made that crack in here last week about preferring to have nothing to do with any of those people I went to high school with? I'm innocently getting my meditation cushion thing out of the closet and a woman comes up to me all, "Oh! I think we went to school together!" The irony of the universe is strong, my friends.
2.) I watched Rebecca on DVD this week. I remember reading and loving the book when I was fifteen or so--the lady at the used bookstore my dad and I went to kept recommending other books that she thought I'd like after that, and none of them were quite as good. (I mean, you people know me. Do you think the 15 year old Andrea would have liked a good twisted gothic romance? Isn't it self-evident?) If I've ever seen the Hitchcock movie before, though, I don't remember. I know it's supposed to be a classic and all, but there was *no* chemistry between Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine.
3.) Oh, and in other physical fitness news, I've been equivocating between joining the gym again or trying the couch-to-5k. After re-trying on my kevlar sports bra this morning while getting dressed for yoga, I think I'ma go for the couch-to-5k. It's cheaper. There's even a website where you can download music with the proper intervals for the timing! On the other hand, if we have a rainy crappy spring and early summer, I probably won't stick with it, because I'm, y'know, a big baby.
I think that's it for now.
xoxo
2.) I watched Rebecca on DVD this week. I remember reading and loving the book when I was fifteen or so--the lady at the used bookstore my dad and I went to kept recommending other books that she thought I'd like after that, and none of them were quite as good. (I mean, you people know me. Do you think the 15 year old Andrea would have liked a good twisted gothic romance? Isn't it self-evident?) If I've ever seen the Hitchcock movie before, though, I don't remember. I know it's supposed to be a classic and all, but there was *no* chemistry between Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine.
3.) Oh, and in other physical fitness news, I've been equivocating between joining the gym again or trying the couch-to-5k. After re-trying on my kevlar sports bra this morning while getting dressed for yoga, I think I'ma go for the couch-to-5k. It's cheaper. There's even a website where you can download music with the proper intervals for the timing! On the other hand, if we have a rainy crappy spring and early summer, I probably won't stick with it, because I'm, y'know, a big baby.
I think that's it for now.
xoxo
ubaldo!
First no-hitter in Rockies history, bitches. Keep watching. I've got a good feeling about this boy.
xoxo
Saturday, April 17, 2010
suck it, hallmark
I had to buy my son a birthday card yesterday. This was not easy nor was I satisfied with the outcome, which is sorta ridiculous considering it is/was just a convenient place to stick some cash and (yes, we are white trash, shut up) some scratch tickets. But I like to make the effort and get a card which is not totally lame.***
We are not a mushy card kind of family. I mean, god knows, I am a hugger, and god knows, we say "love you" with some amount of frequency, and we even occasionally have a poignant moment when someone expresses heartfelt appreciation for someone else, but we do not give cards that say "oh, you're the best [relationship] a person could ever have!" It's just not in the family MO.
So I always try to get D funny cards for every occasion, usually with some kind of ridiculous cat or dog photo on the front. If lolcats ever develop a line of cards, I am right there, baby. But yesterday was a huge fail. All the "funny" birthday cards had one of two themes. Either oh-you're-so-old-haha or get-fucked-up-on-your-bday-haha. Those of us in our 40s can freely give and get the former to and from each other, but they're not really fitting for someone in their early 20s, you know? And the latter? It's really painful in some ways, but no, my son was not going to go out and drink beer and pick up women on his birthday, and joking about it would be ridiculously insensitive. And besides, even if he was, does your mom give you a card that encourages you to partypartyparty? No, she does not.
I ended up buying a very generic but graphically pleasing card from the $.99 line. Which is, I guess, fine. His present fit into it.
xoxo
***Did you know you aren't supposed to say "lame" because it's offensive to people who can't walk or some such shit? Srsly.
We are not a mushy card kind of family. I mean, god knows, I am a hugger, and god knows, we say "love you" with some amount of frequency, and we even occasionally have a poignant moment when someone expresses heartfelt appreciation for someone else, but we do not give cards that say "oh, you're the best [relationship] a person could ever have!" It's just not in the family MO.
So I always try to get D funny cards for every occasion, usually with some kind of ridiculous cat or dog photo on the front. If lolcats ever develop a line of cards, I am right there, baby. But yesterday was a huge fail. All the "funny" birthday cards had one of two themes. Either oh-you're-so-old-haha or get-fucked-up-on-your-bday-haha. Those of us in our 40s can freely give and get the former to and from each other, but they're not really fitting for someone in their early 20s, you know? And the latter? It's really painful in some ways, but no, my son was not going to go out and drink beer and pick up women on his birthday, and joking about it would be ridiculously insensitive. And besides, even if he was, does your mom give you a card that encourages you to partypartyparty? No, she does not.
I ended up buying a very generic but graphically pleasing card from the $.99 line. Which is, I guess, fine. His present fit into it.
xoxo
***Did you know you aren't supposed to say "lame" because it's offensive to people who can't walk or some such shit? Srsly.
Friday, April 16, 2010
sexual politics of sex
There's probably going to be some TMI in this post because I can't conceptualize how to say everything that's whirling around in my head without throwing in a personal example or two. So, y'know, if you have a weak stomach, look away.
Have you heard the Larry King stuff? Apparently his breakup with wife #whatever is due to his cheating with her sister. Dude. Of all the women in the world, you gotta sportfuck a close blood relative of your spouse? That's...an unfortunate choice. But never mind Mr King's lack of personal judgment. I want to talk some about a point that's been brought up in response to it.
It's been opined in the press that this is all the fault of Viagra (Cialis, etc) because Mr King is part of the first generation of elderly men who didn't have to give up on sexual intercourse. I mean, I'm sure that of course there have always been outliers: healthy and randy guys in their 70s and 80s who could get it up and keep it up long enough to complete the act on at least a fairly regular basis. But I think we'll agree that, generally, that has probably been the exception rather than the rule and that most people, before the invention of these pharmaceuticals, would assume that after a certain age sex would become a rare or nonexistent experience. If, of course, we're defining sex as intercourse, more about which very soon.
I think we also would all agree that the invention of these drugs has not always been a boon to these elderly guys' wives. Many of them are of an age to have been brought up with the idea that wimmins don't like seks, so they never let themselves. Or perhaps, their husbands sucked in bed. It happens. In any case, these ladies might well have been happy to stop doing it, and the introduction of the magic pill means that damn, there's a chore I thought I was done with that's popped back up again. Um, so to speak. There's also the possibility that some of the sucked-in-bed guys, when deprived of the ability to go straight to the P-in-V, may have diverted their drives into more creative activities that were to their partners' liking, and the magic pill and resumption of P-in-V means back to less satisfying times for the ladies. (Speculation about that in the media, too. I don't make this shit up.)
Now, I am somewhat torn. I think I have made clear in this blog, and in conversation with those of you who are my close personal friends, that I think that if you are in a relationship, there is some duty to provide sexual gratification to your partner, and vice versa, whether or not you are particularly into it. But "duty" isn't the right attitude to take to the duty. My hard-won personal philosophy is this: you can't go wrong by remembering this is the person you love and are bonded to and that you should want them to have fun and feel pleasure, and that if you are the one providing that fun and pleasure for them, even better. It should make you happy to make them feel good. So, no lying back and thinking of England, or grudgingly performing cunnilingus with the attitude of "are we done yet?" If your partner is really randy and you are really not, just go along with the attitude what can I do that's gonna give them some fun? and I can almost guarantee you, by the time you're done, you'll be having fun too.
In fact, I will guarantee it. If you try it and it doesn't work for you, I'll refund what you paid to read this blog entry. If people could wrap their brains around this concept, there'd be a lot fewer divorces and a lot less infidelity in this country. (Um, not that the Larry Kings of the world wouldn't still cheat 'cause, c'mon now, her fucking sister?) As I've also said before, I was into my 30s before I grasped this concept, so I won't claim to have never been selfish myself. In fact--as I've discussed with some of you all lately--the only time in my life that I was ever completely uninterested in sex for a prolonged period of time was when I was pregnant and for the first few months after I gave birth. So, basically, I expected my husband to go without for a solid year because I didn't feel like doing it. I can look back now and feel really regretful about that. If I didn't want the P-in-V, I should have at least been sucking a lot of cock, is what I'm saying. Now, S and I had a lot of other problems in the relationship, so I don't think my being more sexually available during that year would have necessarily *saved* our marriage, BUT IT WOULDN'T HAVE HURT. Ahem.
But okay, even taking my stance into consideration, I gotta tell you: I do feel bad for these 75 year old women whose husbands go to the MD and demand (or just accept what's handed out like candy!) the Viagra. If you didn't enjoy sex when you were 25 and you were both a lot more spry, to say the least, you ain't gonna enjoy it fifty years later. Your thinning vaginal walls and arthritic hips aren't going to add anything to the proceedings, but medical science isn't quite as concerned about at least one of those things as they are with the apparent god-given right of everyone with a penis to have an erection at will.
But that brings me back to another conversation I've had recently. I also think that if, in a relationship, you really are not willing to satisfy your partner's sexual needs, the only fair and good and right thing to do is to freely allow them to get it elsewhere. I think it's preferable, intimacy-wise, if you make the effort and don't totally disengage sexually, but if you do, then open up the relationship. Maybe all those 75 year old women whose husbands take the Viagra scripts should say, "You have my permission to get it wherever you can, darling." Though, that's probably the kind of event that leads to really old men offering me a ride in their cars when I'm just walking home from the 7-11. Sigh.
The whole thing is a big can of worms. But as long as the pharmaceutical industry is making bucks, who the hell cares, right?
xoxo
Have you heard the Larry King stuff? Apparently his breakup with wife #whatever is due to his cheating with her sister. Dude. Of all the women in the world, you gotta sportfuck a close blood relative of your spouse? That's...an unfortunate choice. But never mind Mr King's lack of personal judgment. I want to talk some about a point that's been brought up in response to it.
It's been opined in the press that this is all the fault of Viagra (Cialis, etc) because Mr King is part of the first generation of elderly men who didn't have to give up on sexual intercourse. I mean, I'm sure that of course there have always been outliers: healthy and randy guys in their 70s and 80s who could get it up and keep it up long enough to complete the act on at least a fairly regular basis. But I think we'll agree that, generally, that has probably been the exception rather than the rule and that most people, before the invention of these pharmaceuticals, would assume that after a certain age sex would become a rare or nonexistent experience. If, of course, we're defining sex as intercourse, more about which very soon.
I think we also would all agree that the invention of these drugs has not always been a boon to these elderly guys' wives. Many of them are of an age to have been brought up with the idea that wimmins don't like seks, so they never let themselves. Or perhaps, their husbands sucked in bed. It happens. In any case, these ladies might well have been happy to stop doing it, and the introduction of the magic pill means that damn, there's a chore I thought I was done with that's popped back up again. Um, so to speak. There's also the possibility that some of the sucked-in-bed guys, when deprived of the ability to go straight to the P-in-V, may have diverted their drives into more creative activities that were to their partners' liking, and the magic pill and resumption of P-in-V means back to less satisfying times for the ladies. (Speculation about that in the media, too. I don't make this shit up.)
Now, I am somewhat torn. I think I have made clear in this blog, and in conversation with those of you who are my close personal friends, that I think that if you are in a relationship, there is some duty to provide sexual gratification to your partner, and vice versa, whether or not you are particularly into it. But "duty" isn't the right attitude to take to the duty. My hard-won personal philosophy is this: you can't go wrong by remembering this is the person you love and are bonded to and that you should want them to have fun and feel pleasure, and that if you are the one providing that fun and pleasure for them, even better. It should make you happy to make them feel good. So, no lying back and thinking of England, or grudgingly performing cunnilingus with the attitude of "are we done yet?" If your partner is really randy and you are really not, just go along with the attitude what can I do that's gonna give them some fun? and I can almost guarantee you, by the time you're done, you'll be having fun too.
In fact, I will guarantee it. If you try it and it doesn't work for you, I'll refund what you paid to read this blog entry. If people could wrap their brains around this concept, there'd be a lot fewer divorces and a lot less infidelity in this country. (Um, not that the Larry Kings of the world wouldn't still cheat 'cause, c'mon now, her fucking sister?) As I've also said before, I was into my 30s before I grasped this concept, so I won't claim to have never been selfish myself. In fact--as I've discussed with some of you all lately--the only time in my life that I was ever completely uninterested in sex for a prolonged period of time was when I was pregnant and for the first few months after I gave birth. So, basically, I expected my husband to go without for a solid year because I didn't feel like doing it. I can look back now and feel really regretful about that. If I didn't want the P-in-V, I should have at least been sucking a lot of cock, is what I'm saying. Now, S and I had a lot of other problems in the relationship, so I don't think my being more sexually available during that year would have necessarily *saved* our marriage, BUT IT WOULDN'T HAVE HURT. Ahem.
But okay, even taking my stance into consideration, I gotta tell you: I do feel bad for these 75 year old women whose husbands go to the MD and demand (or just accept what's handed out like candy!) the Viagra. If you didn't enjoy sex when you were 25 and you were both a lot more spry, to say the least, you ain't gonna enjoy it fifty years later. Your thinning vaginal walls and arthritic hips aren't going to add anything to the proceedings, but medical science isn't quite as concerned about at least one of those things as they are with the apparent god-given right of everyone with a penis to have an erection at will.
But that brings me back to another conversation I've had recently. I also think that if, in a relationship, you really are not willing to satisfy your partner's sexual needs, the only fair and good and right thing to do is to freely allow them to get it elsewhere. I think it's preferable, intimacy-wise, if you make the effort and don't totally disengage sexually, but if you do, then open up the relationship. Maybe all those 75 year old women whose husbands take the Viagra scripts should say, "You have my permission to get it wherever you can, darling." Though, that's probably the kind of event that leads to really old men offering me a ride in their cars when I'm just walking home from the 7-11. Sigh.
The whole thing is a big can of worms. But as long as the pharmaceutical industry is making bucks, who the hell cares, right?
xoxo
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
presented for your amusement
I just discovered the existence of unhappyhipsters.com. Making fun of design mags/blogs and hipsters? Irresistible.
Enjoy!
And this as well...
And this!
Last one, I promise
I could keep going all day. I was getting Dwell for awhile as one of those deals where they send you free magazines hoping you'll subscribe or that their advertisers will think someone actually reads their rag, and it was all like this. If they had known how far out of their target market I am, they'd have shit.
xoxo
Enjoy!
And this as well...
And this!
Last one, I promise
I could keep going all day. I was getting Dwell for awhile as one of those deals where they send you free magazines hoping you'll subscribe or that their advertisers will think someone actually reads their rag, and it was all like this. If they had known how far out of their target market I am, they'd have shit.
xoxo
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
chicks, starting early
Townie Girl has an eight year old daughter. She's a big girl, tall for her age, solid, but overweight by the percentiles, such that her pediatrician is on their case. She's been to the nutritionist and some kind of exercise program for, let's be plain, fat kids, and Townie Girl is always restricting what snacks she can have and so forth. (M1 and I always look at each other when this is being discussed. They're gonna give that girl an eating disorder. Oh, for sure, she'll be throwing up by middle school.) But she's naturally a big girl. She's never going to be a delicate little sylph. She'll grow up and not be able to wear sundresses. [<--self-indulgent private joke, just ignore, thx]
Well, she has this other little girl she goes to school with who is her nemesis. They do not get along at all, and the other little girl has at times been gratuitously mean, telling her she's too fat to wear a bathing suit and so forth. Despite their apparent enmity, Townie Girl's daughter was invited to the other girl's birthday party. She and Townie Girl were out shopping prior to the party and came across a Justin Bieber t-shirt, which is apparently the Birkin bag of the 8 y.o. girl set, and the begging started. Please, mom, please, mom, please, mom. "I want to wear it to [mean girl's] birthday, so she'll be jealous of me at her own party." Bwah. Never underestimate how early women learn to be cunts.
But this is a tough one for a parent, y'know? You really do not want to encourage retaliatory cruelty, but when someone has hurt your child, it is really really really difficult to take the high road and feel sympathy or empathy. Your protective instincts kick in and teaching your child to take the high road is much more difficult than it otherwise would be. (I don't know if it gets easier or even harder when you're the grandmother. But I'd like to find out. Someone get working on that! I do know this: when I'm the (step)grandmother there ain't gonna be any snack restricting at my house. Everyone will just have to deal.)
xoxo
Well, she has this other little girl she goes to school with who is her nemesis. They do not get along at all, and the other little girl has at times been gratuitously mean, telling her she's too fat to wear a bathing suit and so forth. Despite their apparent enmity, Townie Girl's daughter was invited to the other girl's birthday party. She and Townie Girl were out shopping prior to the party and came across a Justin Bieber t-shirt, which is apparently the Birkin bag of the 8 y.o. girl set, and the begging started. Please, mom, please, mom, please, mom. "I want to wear it to [mean girl's] birthday, so she'll be jealous of me at her own party." Bwah. Never underestimate how early women learn to be cunts.
But this is a tough one for a parent, y'know? You really do not want to encourage retaliatory cruelty, but when someone has hurt your child, it is really really really difficult to take the high road and feel sympathy or empathy. Your protective instincts kick in and teaching your child to take the high road is much more difficult than it otherwise would be. (I don't know if it gets easier or even harder when you're the grandmother. But I'd like to find out. Someone get working on that! I do know this: when I'm the (step)grandmother there ain't gonna be any snack restricting at my house. Everyone will just have to deal.)
xoxo
more decor
The nice UPS man brought me my new summer quilt and shams yesterday, so I washed the new sheets the other nice delivery man brought me from overstock last week (300 thread count, so not so awesome as my other ones, sadly) and prepared to change the bed. However, I soon realized that I was going to have to change the bedskirt too, because the one I had on there was going to clash. No problem. I knew I had a plain cream-colored old one I could use. I even kinda sorta knew where it was: in one of my bedroom closets, in a pile of various old sheets and blankets I'm not using.
Of course this meant taking everything out of that closet pile to find it. I swear to god, I would tell you I've decluttered almost everything in the main parts of the house, including that particular closet. That does not explain why there is a pair of boots in there, in a box, that I have not worn since 1997, which I have kept solely because I remember fondly the night I wore them. I used to have more things like that--dresses that didn't fit and would have been way out of style even if they did, that were hanging in my closet because they had certain romantic associations attached--but I've let them go. The boots, however, remain. WTF, Andrea? Are you nuts? Why, yes, yes I am. I also found in this, ahem, decluttered closet a Target bag that was completely empty except for a giant unopened bag of 300 jumbo cotton balls. Really, Andrea, really? I don't even use cotton balls, 'cause the feeling of them creeps me out.
Anyway, I found the bedskirt and I made the bed, and it all looks very nice, even though now I've got to adjust to not having super-heavy sheets over me. Just thought I'd let you know, because I realize you people hang on my every purchasing decision. Such as.
xoxo
Of course this meant taking everything out of that closet pile to find it. I swear to god, I would tell you I've decluttered almost everything in the main parts of the house, including that particular closet. That does not explain why there is a pair of boots in there, in a box, that I have not worn since 1997, which I have kept solely because I remember fondly the night I wore them. I used to have more things like that--dresses that didn't fit and would have been way out of style even if they did, that were hanging in my closet because they had certain romantic associations attached--but I've let them go. The boots, however, remain. WTF, Andrea? Are you nuts? Why, yes, yes I am. I also found in this, ahem, decluttered closet a Target bag that was completely empty except for a giant unopened bag of 300 jumbo cotton balls. Really, Andrea, really? I don't even use cotton balls, 'cause the feeling of them creeps me out.
Anyway, I found the bedskirt and I made the bed, and it all looks very nice, even though now I've got to adjust to not having super-heavy sheets over me. Just thought I'd let you know, because I realize you people hang on my every purchasing decision. Such as.
xoxo
Sunday, April 11, 2010
oh, look
Regular programming is resuming before tomorrow! I wanted to share a couple more things with you all.
First, re the evil Facebook: So, one of the Benevolent L's "friends" that we clicked on had someone I went to grammar school with as their friend. Benevolent L did not know this guy, but opined that he was handsome. Yes, indeed he is. Was he good-looking as a kid? Eh. He wet his pants. See? This is my problem with the whole enterprise. Here's an attractive middle-aged man, bright, presumably has done things in the past 40 years, and some asshole like me sees him on Facebook and their first association is, oh, yeah, he had an eneuresis problem when he was seven.
Similarly, we came across a woman we went to high school with. I didn't really know her per se, but we had a class together. Well, when I was in college, someone who was a friend of her sister told me that their father had molested them. When the Benevolent L asked me today whether I remembered her, it was the first thing I thought of. I didn't say anything--L wasn't the one who'd told me that story and I have no idea if she'd heard the same, and I don't even know if it's true. But again? Here's a middle-aged woman smiling brightly in her Facebook picture, presumably having had a life full of experiences over the past 30 years, and some asshole like me looks at it and immediately their mind goes to some piece of horrible, maybe true, maybe not, gossip they were told in 1981.
I mean, do you see my point with this? My boss asked me one day if I was on Facebook and I said, NO, and that I couldn't imagine anything more horrifying than some guy I dated when I was 15 finding me on there. Townie Girl cracked up and said, "I'm That Girl. I looked up every single one of my old boyfriends." Me, I think the people from your past should be allowed to stay there. Um, unless you are using them as characters in your boring, I mean colorful, blog stories, referred to only by their initials or pseudonyms. Or unless they are still part of your present, of course.
Okay, second subject. MBTA etiquette, part 4573. If you are on a crowded train or bus, and I politely and considerately move my pile o' stuff onto my lap so that you can share my seat, and then the train or bus empties out such that there are now plenty of vacant seats, you should get up and fucking move so I can spread out again. I don't care if you are only going four or five more stops. If you aren't getting off in the next two minutes, fucking move across the aisle. And thank you for your consideration.
That is all.
xoxo
First, re the evil Facebook: So, one of the Benevolent L's "friends" that we clicked on had someone I went to grammar school with as their friend. Benevolent L did not know this guy, but opined that he was handsome. Yes, indeed he is. Was he good-looking as a kid? Eh. He wet his pants. See? This is my problem with the whole enterprise. Here's an attractive middle-aged man, bright, presumably has done things in the past 40 years, and some asshole like me sees him on Facebook and their first association is, oh, yeah, he had an eneuresis problem when he was seven.
Similarly, we came across a woman we went to high school with. I didn't really know her per se, but we had a class together. Well, when I was in college, someone who was a friend of her sister told me that their father had molested them. When the Benevolent L asked me today whether I remembered her, it was the first thing I thought of. I didn't say anything--L wasn't the one who'd told me that story and I have no idea if she'd heard the same, and I don't even know if it's true. But again? Here's a middle-aged woman smiling brightly in her Facebook picture, presumably having had a life full of experiences over the past 30 years, and some asshole like me looks at it and immediately their mind goes to some piece of horrible, maybe true, maybe not, gossip they were told in 1981.
I mean, do you see my point with this? My boss asked me one day if I was on Facebook and I said, NO, and that I couldn't imagine anything more horrifying than some guy I dated when I was 15 finding me on there. Townie Girl cracked up and said, "I'm That Girl. I looked up every single one of my old boyfriends." Me, I think the people from your past should be allowed to stay there. Um, unless you are using them as characters in your boring, I mean colorful, blog stories, referred to only by their initials or pseudonyms. Or unless they are still part of your present, of course.
Okay, second subject. MBTA etiquette, part 4573. If you are on a crowded train or bus, and I politely and considerately move my pile o' stuff onto my lap so that you can share my seat, and then the train or bus empties out such that there are now plenty of vacant seats, you should get up and fucking move so I can spread out again. I don't care if you are only going four or five more stops. If you aren't getting off in the next two minutes, fucking move across the aisle. And thank you for your consideration.
That is all.
xoxo
weekend in progress
I am at the Benevolent L's house, on her laptop, which is way less contaminated with crumbs than mine. Just sayin'. We just spent a shitload of time looking at her (evil) facebook, wherein I can see what all the people I went to high school look like now without ever having to ever interact with any of them ever again, which is just how I like it, thanks. Yesterday I spent many many hours with another friend (who shall remain nameless unless they choose to identify themselves) looking at every sofa in effin MetroWest. A purchase was not made. Like the passive voice there? Do I sound bitter? Maybe I'm just overly caffeinated. Benevolent L and I drank a lot of coffee this morning too. Oh! I did buy a side table yesterday, even though I was not the one shopping for furniture. I've wanted this particular table for two years and it was on sale plus another ten percent off. There will be pictures when it is eventually in my house. Also, I am way off my diet this weekend, so if you see me eating next week, take the food out of my hand and, y'know, smack me or something. My baseball players suck and I obviously don't know what I am doing because I take a guy out of my starting lineup and they decide to fucking hit for the cycle, and I put a guy in, and he sits. Sigh. This is a learning experience, I tell you what. Okay, obviously I am overly caffeinated because this is one long run-on paragraph, but I thought that might amuse you all.
Namaste and happy Sunday, bitches. Regular programming will resume tomorrow.
xoxo
Namaste and happy Sunday, bitches. Regular programming will resume tomorrow.
xoxo
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
glamour grammy
Oh, yeah, so the other day while I was getting my pedi, I was perusing this magazine I'd never seen or heard of before. I couldn't even begin to tell you its name. No idea. But it was a big, thick tome, like "the September Issue". You could chuck it at an intruder and they'd get hurt, is what I'm saying. And it was organized into sections, like skin, hair, teeth, etc. Each one of those sections would tell you what's wrong with you and what product you should buy or what procedure you should get to fix it. Now, frankly, that's not much different than any other magazine aimed at chicks. It was just a little bit more blatant, which I guess is refreshing.
But the last section, and perhaps the thickest, was all about plastic surgery. There was this feature wherein they showed a before and an after, and it'd say something like "Emily, age 53, before looks 61, after looks 48." Which was hilarious all on its own, because why 48, not 47 or 49? They were totally just pulling numbers out of their asses. So that was, as I say, amusing, no matter how much of a pro- or anti- facelift or botox kind of person you are. But then I came to the woman who was 77, looked 87 before and 70 after.
The mind boggles. Really, isn't there any point at which we are allowed to just give up? Am I, as a woman, supposed to fret about looking pretty, and not just pretty but young, until the day I croak? I.don't.think.so. When I am 77, I'm going to be really happy with myself if I am just alive and still walking and able to remember my name, thanks. And I'm sure that by the time I'm 77, my doctors will probably be wanting to do enough various necessary surgeries on me that I won't need to have any elective procedures to play chicken with the anesthesia death.
Just say no.
Besides which, I saw this episode of Rachael Ray (her talk show, not her cooking show, obs) recently in which they showed how just tweezing your eyebrows correctly makes it look like you've had an eye job. It was remarkable. Also, hair in your face=good. (If Carla had just kept the bangs, she coulda skipped the botox entirely, yo.) Magazines don't want to tell you these things, 'cause how can you sell product that way? But Rachael just wants to sell me cookbooks and overpriced pots and pans. Anyway, there are work-arounds that'll do you just fine till you do reach the age where you can confidently say, I just don't give a fuck anymore.
If someone wanted to buy me a booblift, though, I probably wouldn't say no. Ha!
xoxo
P.S. Blogger spellcheck wanted to turn tweezing into tweeting, which is just sad.
But the last section, and perhaps the thickest, was all about plastic surgery. There was this feature wherein they showed a before and an after, and it'd say something like "Emily, age 53, before looks 61, after looks 48." Which was hilarious all on its own, because why 48, not 47 or 49? They were totally just pulling numbers out of their asses. So that was, as I say, amusing, no matter how much of a pro- or anti- facelift or botox kind of person you are. But then I came to the woman who was 77, looked 87 before and 70 after.
The mind boggles. Really, isn't there any point at which we are allowed to just give up? Am I, as a woman, supposed to fret about looking pretty, and not just pretty but young, until the day I croak? I.don't.think.so. When I am 77, I'm going to be really happy with myself if I am just alive and still walking and able to remember my name, thanks. And I'm sure that by the time I'm 77, my doctors will probably be wanting to do enough various necessary surgeries on me that I won't need to have any elective procedures to play chicken with the anesthesia death.
Just say no.
Besides which, I saw this episode of Rachael Ray (her talk show, not her cooking show, obs) recently in which they showed how just tweezing your eyebrows correctly makes it look like you've had an eye job. It was remarkable. Also, hair in your face=good. (If Carla had just kept the bangs, she coulda skipped the botox entirely, yo.) Magazines don't want to tell you these things, 'cause how can you sell product that way? But Rachael just wants to sell me cookbooks and overpriced pots and pans. Anyway, there are work-arounds that'll do you just fine till you do reach the age where you can confidently say, I just don't give a fuck anymore.
If someone wanted to buy me a booblift, though, I probably wouldn't say no. Ha!
xoxo
P.S. Blogger spellcheck wanted to turn tweezing into tweeting, which is just sad.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
and why i love my job, part i don't know
I just had this kid in here. He's eleven. (Flirting with severe HIPAA violations), his name was Victor [hispanic lastname] and I kept wanting to think his name was Victor Martinez, which it was NOT, but which is a sign of too much baseball on the brain or something. Anyway, he looked like a little baller, bling in his ears and a big curly ponytail. But he's pre-pubertal and no one's taught him to be hard yet, so he was one of those really open kids. Charming, too, but totally open.
He was very concerned when I told him I was going to turn the lights down when we started testing, because he's afraid of the dark. I was trying to reassure him that it wasn't going to be completely dark, and he was telling me all about how he needs his door to be cracked open at night and the hall light on, and how his younger sister *doesn't* need the hall light, and how he thinks it's all because of this horror movie he watched this one time.
So, hoping to distract him, because he really wouldn't stop obsessing that it was going to be too dark no matter what I said, I asked him to tell me what the movie was about. He launches into the plot synopsis, in that detailed way kids do. And then he gets to "...and so he pulls out a luigi board..." and you have never seen anyone keep a straight face like I kept a straight face.
I'ma start using that! The next time someone asks me to predict something I couldn't possibly predict, I'm going to ask them, "What do you think, I have a luigi board?"
I have a great job.
xoxo
He was very concerned when I told him I was going to turn the lights down when we started testing, because he's afraid of the dark. I was trying to reassure him that it wasn't going to be completely dark, and he was telling me all about how he needs his door to be cracked open at night and the hall light on, and how his younger sister *doesn't* need the hall light, and how he thinks it's all because of this horror movie he watched this one time.
So, hoping to distract him, because he really wouldn't stop obsessing that it was going to be too dark no matter what I said, I asked him to tell me what the movie was about. He launches into the plot synopsis, in that detailed way kids do. And then he gets to "...and so he pulls out a luigi board..." and you have never seen anyone keep a straight face like I kept a straight face.
I'ma start using that! The next time someone asks me to predict something I couldn't possibly predict, I'm going to ask them, "What do you think, I have a luigi board?"
I have a great job.
xoxo
there's always good news and bad news
Glass half empty, glass half full, blah blah. Which do you want first?
Okay! Good news! My ET cash-in went through in today's paycheck. It's like Christmas in April. And now I don't have to feel guilty about stuff like having gotten my hair and nails done, and buying some new shirts. NOT THAT I SHOULD FEEL GUILTY ANYWAY, IT'S MY MONEY AND I WORK HARD FOR IT, AND I PAID DEBIT, SO THERE. Ahem. Excuse me, I was having a little cap locks Kanye moment there. All better now. Apparently a big fat check makes me exuberant. Other things do too, but right now we'll just go with the check.
Now for the sad sad bad news. My fantasy baseball players are sucking. Sucking. My reliever blew his save last night, Mr Lackey couldn't get a fucking win for me, none of them could steal a base to save their fucking lives, and other than Ryan Howard and Adam Jones, they all embarrassed themselves at the plate yesterday. I just have to have faith in Ubaldo as the future of the empire I will eventually build. Also? I have Brad Hawpe (sucking) on my team too, so I suggest you all think go Rockies! I have a bunch of Orioles and Angels too, so you can root for them as well, 'k? And if you feel bad rooting for Baltimore, just remember the Sox ain't going nowhere this year even though they "have the best pitching in baseball."
Namaste, bitches.
xoxo
Okay! Good news! My ET cash-in went through in today's paycheck. It's like Christmas in April. And now I don't have to feel guilty about stuff like having gotten my hair and nails done, and buying some new shirts. NOT THAT I SHOULD FEEL GUILTY ANYWAY, IT'S MY MONEY AND I WORK HARD FOR IT, AND I PAID DEBIT, SO THERE. Ahem. Excuse me, I was having a little cap locks Kanye moment there. All better now. Apparently a big fat check makes me exuberant. Other things do too, but right now we'll just go with the check.
Now for the sad sad bad news. My fantasy baseball players are sucking. Sucking. My reliever blew his save last night, Mr Lackey couldn't get a fucking win for me, none of them could steal a base to save their fucking lives, and other than Ryan Howard and Adam Jones, they all embarrassed themselves at the plate yesterday. I just have to have faith in Ubaldo as the future of the empire I will eventually build. Also? I have Brad Hawpe (sucking) on my team too, so I suggest you all think go Rockies! I have a bunch of Orioles and Angels too, so you can root for them as well, 'k? And if you feel bad rooting for Baltimore, just remember the Sox ain't going nowhere this year even though they "have the best pitching in baseball."
Namaste, bitches.
xoxo
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
again, go carla
I'll direct you to this piece on my close personal friend and hair role model, Carla Bruni. (Even if you don't want to humor me by reading it, click the link just so you can see the adorable pic of her.) Oh, Andrea, I hear you thinking, you just like to post articles that agreed with your own personal pet theories. To which I say, duh. Why the fuck else would anyone have a blog?
Anyway, I just wanna say that life would be a lot easier for, uh, some people if our culture could wrap its collective brain around the concept that not all committed relationships are monogamous and that's okay. I'ma give props to my girl Carla, to Monique, and to Tilda Swinton as public figures who are open about that concept. Hell, I even have to give props to the evil Facebook for the fact that apparently one can list one's relationship as "it's complicated". Ha!
In other somewhat unrelated news, I put a pot roast in the crockpot for my dad to eat tonight and I got some mild complaints that it's all in one piece. Srsly. It's not enough that I leave him home cooked food when I'm not here, it's gotta be cut up. I'm this close to signing him up for meals-on-wheels so he'll appreciate what he's got now. And, yeah, okay, if he cuts off a finger when I'm not here, I will feel guilty. Better leave my cell on. Eye roll.
xoxo
Anyway, I just wanna say that life would be a lot easier for, uh, some people if our culture could wrap its collective brain around the concept that not all committed relationships are monogamous and that's okay. I'ma give props to my girl Carla, to Monique, and to Tilda Swinton as public figures who are open about that concept. Hell, I even have to give props to the evil Facebook for the fact that apparently one can list one's relationship as "it's complicated". Ha!
In other somewhat unrelated news, I put a pot roast in the crockpot for my dad to eat tonight and I got some mild complaints that it's all in one piece. Srsly. It's not enough that I leave him home cooked food when I'm not here, it's gotta be cut up. I'm this close to signing him up for meals-on-wheels so he'll appreciate what he's got now. And, yeah, okay, if he cuts off a finger when I'm not here, I will feel guilty. Better leave my cell on. Eye roll.
xoxo
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
bits of evidence
I went to acupuncture today (Marcy says hi) and then I went to the chi-chi spa down the street for a pedicure. It's the first pedi I've had since January, and the first pedi I've had *there* since last August. My feet, as you can imagine, were a mess, but my sweet Russian aesthetician was thrilled to see me back. I've always referred to her as my "Russian" aesthetician based solely on her accent, but seriously, I was doubtful. Not only is her first name not one I would think of as traditionally Russian--nor is her last--but she's, y'know, sweet. Those Russian women, like that nurse at the GYN's, usually scare the crap outta me.
Well, I was apparently her last client today, and as I was sitting with my feet under the dryer, she asked one of the front desk girls if she'd like her to paint her nails before she left. So they were talking quietly while she was doing that, far enough away from me that I could only hear bits and pieces. My aesthetician said, "...and then we were in Moscow." (Aha!) The other woman must have asked her if she ever went back or saw her family that was still there or something of that nature, because she said, "Well, it was all bombed. No one lives there now." The other woman said, "Oh, well maybe you could all meet in Moscow." Bombed? I wish I paid enough attention to recent world history to figure out where she probably comes from. Chechnya? They had a war there, didn't they? Help me out, smaht readers. (OR, I could just ASK her sometime. But where's the fun in that?)
xoxo
P.S. My toes look great.
Well, I was apparently her last client today, and as I was sitting with my feet under the dryer, she asked one of the front desk girls if she'd like her to paint her nails before she left. So they were talking quietly while she was doing that, far enough away from me that I could only hear bits and pieces. My aesthetician said, "...and then we were in Moscow." (Aha!) The other woman must have asked her if she ever went back or saw her family that was still there or something of that nature, because she said, "Well, it was all bombed. No one lives there now." The other woman said, "Oh, well maybe you could all meet in Moscow." Bombed? I wish I paid enough attention to recent world history to figure out where she probably comes from. Chechnya? They had a war there, didn't they? Help me out, smaht readers. (OR, I could just ASK her sometime. But where's the fun in that?)
xoxo
P.S. My toes look great.
now i'm disturbed
I've been watching the first season of Fringe on DVD. Actually I keep meaning to blog about that. I got it because D told me it was supposed to be like the X-Files, which, if you knew me in the 90s you would know I was a huge fan of. At least until the mythology totally fell apart and David Duchovny (who, personally, I would do any time anywhere even though he's been to rehab for the quote unquote sex addiction and does, based on Californication, kinda look like hell now) left. So far the mythology on Fringe seems a little less by-the-seat-of-the-pants, so there is that, but I am often annoyed by 1.) the portrayal of mental illness on the show and 2.) the fact that (much like House! but worse, because none of the characters are MDs!) Walter, the mad scientist character, his son Peter the semi-disreputable genius, and the FBI agents all know how to do every kind of medical procedure known to man in Walter's lab. But I guess I can't be too picky about plausibility in a show that's soon about to introduce invaders from a parallel universe, hmm?
The reason I haven't blogged about that yet is that I figured that if you aren't watching too, none of my comments on the show will make any sense. So just ignore the whole preceding paragraph! Except for the part where I'd do David Duchovny, 'cause he's hot.
What I really mean to talk to you about today, what's really horrifying me, is this: on an episode I watched Sunday night, there's a scene that takes place in a strip club, and the music that the dancer was dancing to has been stuck in my head for two days now. Not the words, because I don't know them, just the melody. Because I don't know the words, I was at a loss as to how I could possibly find out what that song is. But just now, I figured, oh! I should go to the Fringe forum on TWoP. I bet someone will have mentioned it somewhere. Because those people on TWoP can get a little obsessive about their shows, y'know?
Well, whaddya know? It took me about ten or fifteen minutes to come across the comment "How cool is it that they used Lady Gaga's 'Starstruck' in the stripclub scene?" I didn't want to believe it, but I went on allmusic, played the sample of Starstruck, and yeah. It's a fucking Lady Gaga song that's been stuck in my head for two days. And now I need to buy it.
I really don't know what to say about that.
xoxo
The reason I haven't blogged about that yet is that I figured that if you aren't watching too, none of my comments on the show will make any sense. So just ignore the whole preceding paragraph! Except for the part where I'd do David Duchovny, 'cause he's hot.
What I really mean to talk to you about today, what's really horrifying me, is this: on an episode I watched Sunday night, there's a scene that takes place in a strip club, and the music that the dancer was dancing to has been stuck in my head for two days now. Not the words, because I don't know them, just the melody. Because I don't know the words, I was at a loss as to how I could possibly find out what that song is. But just now, I figured, oh! I should go to the Fringe forum on TWoP. I bet someone will have mentioned it somewhere. Because those people on TWoP can get a little obsessive about their shows, y'know?
Well, whaddya know? It took me about ten or fifteen minutes to come across the comment "How cool is it that they used Lady Gaga's 'Starstruck' in the stripclub scene?" I didn't want to believe it, but I went on allmusic, played the sample of Starstruck, and yeah. It's a fucking Lady Gaga song that's been stuck in my head for two days. And now I need to buy it.
I really don't know what to say about that.
xoxo
Monday, April 5, 2010
more baseball thoughts
I have to publicly admit that Papelbon, at least, did his job properly. And, y'know, YOUK!
Also, it takes just one evening of doing it for me to realize how very very much I missed sitting in my living room yelling at the TV with my son over the long sad winter. I should probably work on getting more emotionally involved with hockey or (god forbid) football, or re-emotionally involved with basketball, so I'd have something to give my life meaning between October and April. I mean, Buddhism is all well and good, but inner peace has nothing on the gut-wrenching ups and downs of watching your pitchers suck and your batters battle back. And then there are Orsillo and Remy, heaping an inning and a half of scathing but deadpan sarcasm on Neil Diamond without cracking once. Remdawg needs to stay physically and mentally healthy this year, 'cause god knows I need the entertainment to stave off my own crazee.
And with the rest of the regular season starting today, just repeat after me: Ubaldo Jimenez, first 20 game winner for the Colorado Rockies. Keep thinking that, 'k?
xoxo
Also, it takes just one evening of doing it for me to realize how very very much I missed sitting in my living room yelling at the TV with my son over the long sad winter. I should probably work on getting more emotionally involved with hockey or (god forbid) football, or re-emotionally involved with basketball, so I'd have something to give my life meaning between October and April. I mean, Buddhism is all well and good, but inner peace has nothing on the gut-wrenching ups and downs of watching your pitchers suck and your batters battle back. And then there are Orsillo and Remy, heaping an inning and a half of scathing but deadpan sarcasm on Neil Diamond without cracking once. Remdawg needs to stay physically and mentally healthy this year, 'cause god knows I need the entertainment to stave off my own crazee.
And with the rest of the regular season starting today, just repeat after me: Ubaldo Jimenez, first 20 game winner for the Colorado Rockies. Keep thinking that, 'k?
xoxo
Sunday, April 4, 2010
oh, c'mon
Can we hear again about How Great the Red Sox pitching staff is?
Beckett, you're fucking killing me here and it's only the second inning of the goddamn season. It's gonna be a long summer, I can just tell.
Edited to add: Ramirez and Okajima? You're fucking killing me too. Stellar pitching! Stellar!
xoxo
Beckett, you're fucking killing me here and it's only the second inning of the goddamn season. It's gonna be a long summer, I can just tell.
Edited to add: Ramirez and Okajima? You're fucking killing me too. Stellar pitching! Stellar!
xoxo
show n' tell
As promised a long time ago, the foo-foo dining room chandelier my dad loves so very, very much. These photos really do not do it justice. I should probably buy a new camera and then learn how to take a freakin picture, huh? There's a concept for ya!
And as a bonus, the new lamp I bought at IKEA last night for the desk in Boho Paradise. Cheap Chinese crap, but oh!so!pretty!
xoxo
And as a bonus, the new lamp I bought at IKEA last night for the desk in Boho Paradise. Cheap Chinese crap, but oh!so!pretty!
xoxo
Saturday, April 3, 2010
die, suzy homemaker, die
I was reading over my last post, as you do, and it occurred to me that I could tangent off of it, as you also do. I really wonder how much of my loathing of doing housework comes from the combination of my mother always hating it herself and the torture of being forced to participate as a child. Because it wasn't enough for my mom that I would--eventually--do whatever it was she had told me to do. There was also this heaping load of guilt applied that I wasn't doing more. She had some kind of misguided notion that if I really loved her, I would be volunteering to clean for her, which...no. (To those of you who are reading this right now and laughing your ass off, and you know who you are, I will say, as I usually do, shut UP.)
So then I was thinking, why is it that there are some domestic kind of things that I actually enjoy, like laundry? Does that come down to the fact that I wasn't forced to do laundry as a kid? I didn't do my own laundry till I was a teenager, and even then, only if I wanted something particular clean that was in the dirty laundry. Otherwise mom would do it when she was doing other laundry. In fact, when I was in college and I brought home laundry to do, my mom would iron it for me, so that I'd look nice. We won't even get into the pathology engendered *there*.
Yeah, so. No unpleasant laundry associations in my subconscious apparently. Which is strange for one reason. See, when I was very small, we didn't have a clothes dryer. I guess most people didn't in the 60s? But maybe when I was 9 or so, we got one. Our washing machine was in the kitchen pantry, because we had to manually hook it up to the faucet to use it and drain it into the sink. The dryer, however, was installed down in the cellar. Three floors down. It became my job to put the clothes in the dryer and take them out when they were done. Now, I was a kid, with lots of energy, so running up and down flights of stairs carrying baskets of laundry was not anything unpleasant to me. Going into the cellar, however? Oh, it was scary down there. Dark and musty and filled with cobwebs, and worst of all, there were old jars of preserved...something...on some shelves, and having watched TV shows and movies I probably oughtn't have and having a very active imagination, I would be half-convinced they were some kind of body parts. So I became extremely good at getting laundry in and out of the dryer as quickly as it possibly could be done.
Maybe that's why I so enjoy doing laundry! Since I no longer have to do it in the presence of mystery jars of doom, it's a piece o' cake in comparison! There's a logical explanation for everything, yo.
xoxo
So then I was thinking, why is it that there are some domestic kind of things that I actually enjoy, like laundry? Does that come down to the fact that I wasn't forced to do laundry as a kid? I didn't do my own laundry till I was a teenager, and even then, only if I wanted something particular clean that was in the dirty laundry. Otherwise mom would do it when she was doing other laundry. In fact, when I was in college and I brought home laundry to do, my mom would iron it for me, so that I'd look nice. We won't even get into the pathology engendered *there*.
Yeah, so. No unpleasant laundry associations in my subconscious apparently. Which is strange for one reason. See, when I was very small, we didn't have a clothes dryer. I guess most people didn't in the 60s? But maybe when I was 9 or so, we got one. Our washing machine was in the kitchen pantry, because we had to manually hook it up to the faucet to use it and drain it into the sink. The dryer, however, was installed down in the cellar. Three floors down. It became my job to put the clothes in the dryer and take them out when they were done. Now, I was a kid, with lots of energy, so running up and down flights of stairs carrying baskets of laundry was not anything unpleasant to me. Going into the cellar, however? Oh, it was scary down there. Dark and musty and filled with cobwebs, and worst of all, there were old jars of preserved...something...on some shelves, and having watched TV shows and movies I probably oughtn't have and having a very active imagination, I would be half-convinced they were some kind of body parts. So I became extremely good at getting laundry in and out of the dryer as quickly as it possibly could be done.
Maybe that's why I so enjoy doing laundry! Since I no longer have to do it in the presence of mystery jars of doom, it's a piece o' cake in comparison! There's a logical explanation for everything, yo.
xoxo
Friday, April 2, 2010
hippidy hoppidy
I just had a little cheeseburger for lunch as a big FU to my Catholic upbringing, yo. No, actually, I had it because I haven't eaten yet today and since I have to go to the grocery store after work to attempt to buy the meat I want for Easter dinner and don't know when I'll get supper, I thought I should have something with protein and fat in it that will stay in my belly for hours. The FU is just a bonus!
Last night I had to go to the CVS for one of the six times a month I get to pick up *someone's* prescription, and while I was there, I guilted myself into buying some Easter candy for the men. I'm not dying eggs--I didn't last year and the universe didn't implode, so--and I certainly am not going to church, and while I am going to make an Easterish meal Sunday, I felt like I ought to make some other kind of effort. The women in my office, who all have young to youngish children, have been Easter shopping all week and I was like, oh yeah, I remember when this holiday meant Stuff to Do. I feel like a slacker ignoring it completely, even though it has no big spiritual meaning for me anymore.
When I was a kid, I gotta tell you, I dreaded holy week. We had to go to church Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We had the lily parade on Thursday. We had stations of the cross on Friday. We had the (I must admit) really cool service on Saturday night. And then Easter morning, new clothes, and the church wicked hot and crowded--SRO, with all the people who only went to Mass twice a year. And in between, my mom would be having one of her holiday cleaning frenzies, which meant she'd be forcing me to do shit I didn't want to do, and being a royal bitch besides. (Sorry, mom.) But at least in the end, there was a shitload of chocolate to be consumed.
There's some kind of message in there about how people get eating disorders. Maybe.
Happy Easter!
xoxo
P.S. Bad news however! Our lil MILF just told me she got another job that she had applied for, that pays way more, so she is leaving us. Tear!
Last night I had to go to the CVS for one of the six times a month I get to pick up *someone's* prescription, and while I was there, I guilted myself into buying some Easter candy for the men. I'm not dying eggs--I didn't last year and the universe didn't implode, so--and I certainly am not going to church, and while I am going to make an Easterish meal Sunday, I felt like I ought to make some other kind of effort. The women in my office, who all have young to youngish children, have been Easter shopping all week and I was like, oh yeah, I remember when this holiday meant Stuff to Do. I feel like a slacker ignoring it completely, even though it has no big spiritual meaning for me anymore.
When I was a kid, I gotta tell you, I dreaded holy week. We had to go to church Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We had the lily parade on Thursday. We had stations of the cross on Friday. We had the (I must admit) really cool service on Saturday night. And then Easter morning, new clothes, and the church wicked hot and crowded--SRO, with all the people who only went to Mass twice a year. And in between, my mom would be having one of her holiday cleaning frenzies, which meant she'd be forcing me to do shit I didn't want to do, and being a royal bitch besides. (Sorry, mom.) But at least in the end, there was a shitload of chocolate to be consumed.
There's some kind of message in there about how people get eating disorders. Maybe.
Happy Easter!
xoxo
P.S. Bad news however! Our lil MILF just told me she got another job that she had applied for, that pays way more, so she is leaving us. Tear!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
notes
1.) Graffiti seen in North Station ladies' room this week: Punks Rule, OK? No, what punks do not do is ask permission. Kids these days. Sigh.
2.) So, last night trivia was cancelled because the guy who runs it did *not* bounce back from major abdominal surgery in less than a week as he had expected. Go figure. Instead Mr Barma and I went out to see some music. He warned me in advance that the venue was bad, and not in a good way. In fact when we were eating dinner, he suggested that if I thought I was going to need to use the bathroom at any point during the evening I do it then. (And when I needed to go a second time during the evening, I took his keys and ran across the street and up the block to his condo and then came back. Swear to god.) We discussed that some places could be filthy and disgusting and that is part of the whole experience (See: The Rat), but this place last night had not earned the cred for that. It's just a poorly managed pit. Example? Mr Barma goes to the bar to get us a couple crappy beers ('cause they don't sell good beer, silly), the bartender takes the order, wanders off from behind the bar, comes back several minutes later empty handed and asks, "What was that you wanted again?" But what I would most like to convey to you all is the decor. There were all these water features, one of which was, no lie, a fountain spewing TidyBowl blue water. There were gogo cages sans any dancers. There were private booths with gem names over them: pearl, sapphire, diamond, etc. There were weird club chairs on wheels and tables covered with tablecloths last seen at a christening at the VFW. And, y'know, keep in mind the filthy floor and bathrooms. It came to me while Mr Barma was off taking ten minutes to buy two beers in a mostly empty bar. This was a Las Vegas ultralounge for people who have gone to hell. (Yeah, see, now at least I know what the nightlife is gonna look like in the afterlife for me.) Oh, and I have to mention the little Asian cocktail waitress who has SUBLIME tattooed across her back, begging the question: the band or the adjective? If it's the adjective, I gotta give her props. Most people don't have that kind of self-confidence!
3.) Finally, in the Metro today (or maybe yesterday, I just found it on a bench) there's a piece about one of Tiger Woods' mistresses saying he is cheap, and that all he ever bought her was a wrap from Subway on one occasion. The article then snarks that her problem is that she thinks he's the cheap one in that story. Excuse me? Slut-shaming, what? Leaving aside any personal feelings I have about women who fuck famous married guys and then kiss n' tell in order to land a book deal or 15 minutes of fame, that's just totally unnecessary. A multimillionaire who doesn't even provide his paramours with, say, a nice room service dinner, a good bottle of wine, effin' cab fare...that's just outrageously cheap, and bad manners. Just add it to the tally of Mr Woods' poor behavior, and don't use it as an excuse to take a shot at some woman because she's a "slut." Grr.
xoxo
2.) So, last night trivia was cancelled because the guy who runs it did *not* bounce back from major abdominal surgery in less than a week as he had expected. Go figure. Instead Mr Barma and I went out to see some music. He warned me in advance that the venue was bad, and not in a good way. In fact when we were eating dinner, he suggested that if I thought I was going to need to use the bathroom at any point during the evening I do it then. (And when I needed to go a second time during the evening, I took his keys and ran across the street and up the block to his condo and then came back. Swear to god.) We discussed that some places could be filthy and disgusting and that is part of the whole experience (See: The Rat), but this place last night had not earned the cred for that. It's just a poorly managed pit. Example? Mr Barma goes to the bar to get us a couple crappy beers ('cause they don't sell good beer, silly), the bartender takes the order, wanders off from behind the bar, comes back several minutes later empty handed and asks, "What was that you wanted again?" But what I would most like to convey to you all is the decor. There were all these water features, one of which was, no lie, a fountain spewing TidyBowl blue water. There were gogo cages sans any dancers. There were private booths with gem names over them: pearl, sapphire, diamond, etc. There were weird club chairs on wheels and tables covered with tablecloths last seen at a christening at the VFW. And, y'know, keep in mind the filthy floor and bathrooms. It came to me while Mr Barma was off taking ten minutes to buy two beers in a mostly empty bar. This was a Las Vegas ultralounge for people who have gone to hell. (Yeah, see, now at least I know what the nightlife is gonna look like in the afterlife for me.) Oh, and I have to mention the little Asian cocktail waitress who has SUBLIME tattooed across her back, begging the question: the band or the adjective? If it's the adjective, I gotta give her props. Most people don't have that kind of self-confidence!
3.) Finally, in the Metro today (or maybe yesterday, I just found it on a bench) there's a piece about one of Tiger Woods' mistresses saying he is cheap, and that all he ever bought her was a wrap from Subway on one occasion. The article then snarks that her problem is that she thinks he's the cheap one in that story. Excuse me? Slut-shaming, what? Leaving aside any personal feelings I have about women who fuck famous married guys and then kiss n' tell in order to land a book deal or 15 minutes of fame, that's just totally unnecessary. A multimillionaire who doesn't even provide his paramours with, say, a nice room service dinner, a good bottle of wine, effin' cab fare...that's just outrageously cheap, and bad manners. Just add it to the tally of Mr Woods' poor behavior, and don't use it as an excuse to take a shot at some woman because she's a "slut." Grr.
xoxo
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)