last thing for today, as far as you know

Did you see Delcarmen got traded to the Rockies? Did you? Do you see the implications of this? Do you know what it means?

He'll be blowing Ubaldo's leads, that's what.

Numero deciocho es tan deficil. Tan deficil. Dios mio.

Sigh.

xoxo

presented without comment

http://jezebel.com/5626507/dont-google-diseases-ever

Well, okay, one comment. At least I diagnose myself with interesting shit like, y'know, eye fungus, not your cliched "appendicitis." If you are going to be crazee, you should at least be crazee with an excellent imagination.

xoxo

small pleasures

I think yesterday was my blogoversary, and did any of you all send flowers? NO. What a bunch of friggin' slackers. Between that and the lack of commenting, one would think no one's enjoying my little missives about Ubaldo, the YMCA, and various TV shows you've probably never seen. God. I will have to come up with some new topics. (Wait till I start telling you about what the Buddhists think about sex. I bet you'll pay attention to that.)

But until then, I'm just going to tell you some things that make me happy for no reason.

Looking on the UPS website and seeing that my package is OUT FOR DELIVERY? That makes me happy.

Getting "my" treadmill at the gym, even though it's 4:30 pm on a weekday? That makes me happy.

Having Evil Kitty sleep with me all night, even though it isn't winter and even though she loves my son far, far more than she loves me? That makes me happy.

Leaving my garage door open for eight hours while I go to work (don't fucking ask, please) and coming home to find no one's stolen the nice snowblower or the crappy lawnmower? That makes me happy.

See, am I not all rainbows and kitten orgasms this morning even though I got NO blogoversary flowers? What's up with that? Must be leftover adorable redheaded twin baby hangover.

xoxo

news, views, and reviews, 'scuse

Have we had a numbered list in the last week or two? I dunno. I'll be arsed if I'ma go back and look. So we shall press on! Royal we, bitches.

1.) I met The Babies this weekend, finally, which is awesome and about time, since they just turned 3 months old. If you do not know of which babies I speak, it'll take too long to explain, but just roll with me...babies! Adorable redheaded twin girl babies! There is no drawback to anything in that sentence, yo. I got to hold and I got to feed and I got to talk absolute nonsense for ten straight minutes to a baby sitting in her swing, raptly looking at my face and smiling and cooing back at me, telling me an extremely long and involved story in Baby Language. If you think my poor almost-dried-up ovaries weren't twinging, you ain't been paying attention.

2.) I also bought this book: "Sex, Sin, and Zen: a Buddhist Exploration of Sex from Celibacy to Polyamory and Everything in Between," by Brad Warner. (Yes, that *does* mean I finally finished that Stephen King book that was giving me tendinitis.) I only read a tiny bit of it in bed last night, but so far, so interesting.

3.) I also bought Nike Free 3.0 shoes, which are those super-flexible, super-lightweight newfangled running shoes that are supposed to bridge the gap between regular running shoes and the whole "barefoot" movement. And they are supposed to be especially good for people like me who have high arches and supinate; we need flexible shoes. I cannot review them, because I haven't actually worn them yet, but I stuck them in my gym bag and brought them to work, and they're light enough to make a noticeable difference from my old shoes. Which is good, because that Stephen King book gave me tendinitis. Ha!

4.) I measured myself. I've very recently lost at least half an inch in my hips. This would explain my pants-fit problem that's been going on. NOT THAT I AM COMPLAINING AND THANK YOU, YMCA.

5.) My free lunch is not here yet but my 12:30 patient is. Goddamn it.

xoxo

five years ago

Yesterday's Katrina mention reminded me that I do in fact have a very vivid memory connected with it, which I shall get to shortly. That also made me reflect on how we all have those "where were you when you heard about..." kind of memories. I don't have any of those from my childhood. I was a baby when JFK was shot, and certainly too young to appreciate the significance of RFK or MLK or any of those seminal events of the 60s. I think the first memory like that I can identify is John Lennon's death, which was my freshman year of college. I had recently moved into the universe's most crappy student apartment in Allston, sharing a room with the Benevolent L's less-benevolent-but-more-crazee sister, and I had BCN on the radio as I was dressing for class in the morning. I remember feeling like, "What? WHAT?" I wasn't even a huge Beatles or Lennon fan, but the shock and sadness and momentousness of it was staggering.

I remember hearing about the Challenger disaster at work, in my office, pregnant with D. And then, as I've probably mentioned before, Chernoble when I was home on maternity leave, doing nothing but holding and nursing my newborn and watching TV 24/7 in between the 45 minutes at a time I was sleeping. That was particularly horrifying, not only because I was of course jacked on those postnatal hormone swings and apt to cry over anything and my empathy dial tuned to 11 with "oh those poor people", but also in a "what kind of world have I brought my baby into?" sort of way. Surprisingly, I remember less about hearing of Kurt Cobain's actual suicide than I do the first attempt the month before, with the radio (BCN again!) reporting of his "accidental overdose" on champagne and pills in Rome and how, instinctively, as a person pretty close to the suicidal ideation herself at the time, I knew with deep certainty it was only a matter of time for him.

But Katrina. Five years ago I was *just* about to start massage school, and it was, if I remember correctly, the very last Saturday I was going to have before I started working every single one. In honor of this, I met Mr Indemnity in the South End for brunch at Acquitaine, which was/is(?) one of the few places in Boston that serves brunch both weekend days, believe it or not. Acquitaine in an expensive-ish "French bistro" kind of place, but they have a dirt cheap prix fixe brunch, and at least when we went, it was good. FYI. In fact, part of this memory involves having what is probably the best glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice of my life, and I am not even an OJ fan. I rarely drink it. But it came with the brunch, and five years later, I can still remember how good it was. Anyway, Mr Indemnity and I ate our brunch in horror over Katrina. (I think there was news coverage on the TV over the bar, but maybe that's not true and I'm just inserting it into the memory.) We are both huge New Orleans lovers--though the lucky bastard has been way more times than I have--and we both were like, "What? Is it going to be gone? Is it going to be all gone? All that beautiful architecture? All those streets where you feel like you've stepped into another century or another world?" It was so sad and so scary and that was *before* the full tragedy of how many people died and how fucking mismanaged the whole disaster response was. It's hard to believe that it's five years. So much has happened in my life since then that it seems like it should be longer, but on the other hand, the terribleness of it is still fresh in my mind.

And that's all I have to say about that!

xoxo

and, oh yeah, the best comment of the week

Last night on Rachel Maddow, they were doing a special show from New Orleans for the 5th anniversary of Katrina. She was talking to a youngish (in her 30s, maybe?) black woman. I'm not sure who this woman is--I was only half-paying attention at first--but I gathered she is some sort of activist. The woman was discussing how this, that, and the other thing are supposed to be improved, but really, not so much. And in expressing her disapproval of the school system and the job the schools are doing, she said, and I am quoting verbatim to the best of my recollection, "...but there are still a lot of stupid children running around." I did a spit-take, looked over at D who was also cracking up, and remarked that I could not believe she actually just said that on television. Rachel, bless her, did not even twitch.

"A lot of stupid children running around." I don't think this lady has a career in politics ahead of her, but I'd buy her a beer.

xoxo

i'm not the only one saying it

http://bleacherreport.com/articles/444335-the-top-10-mlb-players-on-last-place-teams#page/9

I'm especially fond of "for the sake of King Felix and humanity", because, really, it is a crime against us all.

Everyone pray to the baby Jesus for this boy's deliverance. Kthxbai.

xoxo

denial and discipline and such

I read a woman write that she thought never having to be hungry was ridiculous. For context, there are people on certain eating plans, like, often, Atkins, who say they are never hungry, because they are allowed to eat mass quantities of food, if needed, as long as it's the "right" food. Those people are also often in a ketogenic state that suppresses appetite as well, so the mass quantities *aren't* usually needed, but the point remains, they aren't hungry and they are happy to be not hungry. Well, this woman was against this on principle. Her statement was, "You can't just sleep any time you are tired, or have sex every time you are aroused, or start yelling every time you are angry. So why should you be able to eat every time you feel hunger?"

I was looking at that analytically, as you do, and I thought to myself, two of these things are not like the others. I would argue that, biologically, we ideally should be able to eat if and when we are hungry and sleep if and when we are tired. Not eating or sleeping when your body needs to does not lead to optimal performance and can be detrimental to your health in the long run. Of course, the way our society is structured, you aren't allowed to just take a nap every time you need one or turn your alarm clock off at 5:30 and sleep till 8 if you are still tired. But I would be all in favor of a "sleeping plan"--if such a thing existed--that facilitated people never being tired as much as I am in favor of eating plans that facilitate people not being hungry. Delaying one's sexual gratification, however, never harmed anyone (despite the claims of a million horny teenage males throughout history), and as much as I am theoretically in favor of the "well, I'm not getting up till I've fucked somebody" regimen, I do not think it necessary for continued good health over the long or short run. And anger shouldn't be in the comparison tally at all, 'cause yelling is not a biological imperative. So I think this woman's argument falls apart pretty quickly.

But I know where she is coming from. I myself pissed off a bunch of people--really, Andrea? you?--by voicing puzzlement at the abhorrence of "cravings." There is this fear and loathing of cravings. "Oh, I can't eat so and so because it gives me horrible cravings." "Oh, since I gave up [insert food here], I never have cravings anymore, so I can never eat it again." I expressed the opinion that, y'know, so what? So you crave some not-good-for-you food? So what? So don't eat it. There's nothing saying just because you want something, you need to eat it. We're not talking heroin here, we're talking fucking brownies. Well, all the "cravings" people immediately want to claim it *is* like heroin, and they are addicted to sugar or whatever. Yeah, yeah, way to shift personal responsibility away from yourself. I'm not buying it, though I wasn't so rude as to say so. I did say that I liked realizing that I craved something and being able to say "no" to it. It makes me feel in control of my eating and my body. And I like feeling in control of myself. I strive for it.

That made some pissed off woman call me a masochist. Duh. You don't make it through nine years of Catholic school without some fucked up ideas about self-denial, yo. (Do I need an irony alert tag here, or are we good? Good.) But, anyway, I am sure the "never being hungry is ridiculous" chick is operating out of the same place I am--being hungry and saying no to it until it's time to eat is what makes her feel in control of herself. Well and good. Just don't think everyone has to operate the same way against biological imperatives.

Am I being hypocritical here? Wouldn't be the first time.

xoxo

more later

The other thing I wanted to talk about was last night's episode of Mad Men. If you haven't seen it and you want to, unspoiled, don't read this. You have now been appropriately warned. So there.

Okay. In last night's episode, there's a big Sally storyline. Development number one is that, while at Don's house (being watched by a babysitter while he's out on a date), she cuts her own hair in the bathroom with predictable success. When Don brings her home to Betty, Betty smacks her right across the face. Um, harsh. Parenting is not one of Betty's skills. Development number two is that, while at a sleepover, Sally is caught (sorta unconsciously) masturbating to a hot actor on TV by her (sleeping) friend's mother and all hell breaks loose. Development number three is that, as a result of developments one and two, psychiatric treatment is deemed necessary for the poor kid.

Well, the interwebs are awash today with certain conspiracy theorists postulating that Sally will disclose to the kindly psychiatrist lady that she was molested by Grampa Gene. Or possibly Henry. And this is why she is acting out. The basis for this supposition for some people is that a ten year old masturbating is, whoa, unusual and a sign of abuse. This is countered by other people pointing out that, whoa, no, kids practically come out of the womb masturbating and it's not weird at all. I guess this age at which any one of us discovered our own genitalia highly influences where we stand on this issue! Too funny.

Anyway, I will be very very disappointed if Mad Men does unveil a molestation storyline, maybe even more than I was disappointed that they went with the "ooo, Don feels guilty so now he's paying whores to smack him around" plot point. Both of these tropes--masochism=guilt, child acting out=having been touched inappropriately--are so played out, it's lazy writing. Do either of those things happen in real life? Well, yeah, sometimes they do. Have we not seen them in bad TV and movies over and over enough now that they've become easy cliched shortcuts? Well, yeah, we have. I do not expect lazy writing from Mad Men. I hope they don't disappoint me again.

And thus ends your TV critique for the day.

xoxo

i have been quiet

And also a weird mixture of busy (socializing and exercising and wasting time, not doing the shit I should be doing) and depressed (over shit that does not and will not matter in the long run). I must blog, however, to tell you I finally finished Rome! The last two episodes are Antony and Cleopatra in Egypt. I need not tell you *that* doesn't end well, huh? I already popped the DVD back in the mail without watching the extras, but I have to ask--how historically accurate is this? Were the royal Egyptians that debauched by 30-something BC? Lolling around smoking opium and playing target practice with slaves dressed up as deer, all eye liner and henna all the time, men and women both? If they showed this stuff in the school systems, kids would be more interested in World History, yo.

In baseball notes, was that a seven hour Sox game yesterday, like D told me? How many fans stuck it out to the bitter end? I woulda been at the Beer Works getting drunk somewhere around the second rain delay. Bad Andrea, bad. In other baseball news, Ubaldo cannot win another game, Felix Hernandez is off suicide watch, Bronson Arroyo continues to reward my faith in his old, mediocre ass, Ryan Howard came off the DL, god only knows who the Red Sox have on the DL--I can't even keep track anymore, and who we gonna root for in the postseason, Tampa Bay? My goodness.

Maybe more later. Bated breath, peeps, bated breath.

xoxo

when work is really boring

...like today and yet I don't want to take off early and waste up my ET even though there's a million things I could be doing at home, you know what that leads to, don't you? Useless things on the interwebs!

And so it came to pass that in the midst of reading about a million different things about how to best exercise, what kind of exercise to do, how often to do it, how long to do it, how intensely to do it, how and what to eat before, after, and when you aren't, etc etc etc (and believe me, there are a lot of etc's--this is a topic which is debated with a fervor and zealotry approaching or surpassing any of your major world religions), Andrea came across several different tools that claimed to estimate your body fat percentage by certain measurements along with your weight and age and height and sex. Different tools had different measurements, but in the majority of them I got 23 point something. One I got, like 12, so obviously their algorithm is screwed up, and in one, I got 31, which again...something definitely wrong there. But most of the others were in the 23 range with one slightly lower at 22. Of course, these are just guesstimates and not to be taken too seriously, but I was happy to now be in the "fitness" category. We'll take our positive reinforcement where we can get it, yo.

And speaking of which, I finished day 3 week 1 of c25k yesterday (on to week 2 tomorrow!), and for the first time I did it outside. Never fucking again if I can possibly help it. I know running/walking outside is supposed to be more difficult than running/walking on the treadmill anyway because your body has to make all these microcorrections due to slight unevenness in the terrain. But this was grim. When I'm doing it on the treadmill and the cue comes to run, I actually smile, 'cause that's the fun part. After the first couple intervals yesterday, it was more like, oh, fuck, no, it can't be time to run again. I think a large part of it is that without the treadmill to keep me on pace I both walk slower and run faster outside. I especially run faster when some guy who's *actually* running blows by me. Isn't that human nature? "Wait! Seriously, I can run faster than this! I'm just supposed to be pacing myself!" I didn't end up any sweatier or breathing any harder than I do on the treadmill, it just felt subjectively that much more difficult and unpleasant. But I made it through without any cheating, bitches! Cardio is so much easier than yoga. (Says the girl who falls out of tree pose every single time. But we all have our own strengths.)

xoxo

things i will never be able to do

I saw this kid at the gym yesterday--and by kid I mean "young man in his late teens/early 20s"--who was hanging off a bar, like a pull up bar, and jackknifing his legs up till he was in a V. Okay. This is very similar to the double leg lifts (one of the "five Tibetans") that I do when I do my Kundalini yoga video, which kick my ass and leave my abs and hip flexors sore for two days when I do them flat on my back on a friggin' yoga mat, never mind fighting gravity. I would have liked this young man to have lifted his shirt so I could see whether he has abs like The Situation, but there's no non-pervy way to ask someone to do that. (I hear they are doing a Jersey Shore spinoff with Korean kids, who apparently have their own Guido-like subculture. Maybe I coulda told the kid at the gym I was casting for the Dominican version? Sigh. Missed opportunity.) Also, I was surprised over his arms. Don't get me wrong, he had nice definition and muscle there, but he was not huge, like I would expect someone who could support themselves hanging off a bar while doing that crazy ab work to be.

And while we're on the topic, I have never in my life been able to do one pull up. Ever. The ironic thing is, for much of my childhood I had a pull up bar in my bedroom doorway. I really have no idea why, but I must have begged my parents for it at some point. Probably after the '72 Olympics when all us little girls thought we could be Olga Korbut. Needless to say, having that pull up bar in my room never led to any kind of Olympic glory, nor did it ever increase my upper body strength. I was weak like little girl when I was a little girl, and now, while I don't think I am exceptionally lacking in arm muscle, there's all that, um, lower body mass keeping me grounded. So to speak.

So I will not be replicating that very impressive gym move now or ever. Good thing they aren't planning a Jersey Shore for old Polish chicks.

xoxo

deja vu

Here's a blog comment blast from the past. Notice the date.

I think the point about Mr Favre is that here is a man *almost old enough to play football using a walker* who nevertheless is doing his best impression of a nineteen year old college girl in the "ohhhhh the drahhhhhma the drahhhhhhmmmmmaaaaa" sweepstakes. Conduct nonbecoming and so forth and so on. Please. You aren't that interesting, Brett.
August 20, 2009 12:22 PM

Now, let's examine yesterday's doings. Mr Favre shows up in Minnesota accompanied by his three BFF teammates who had flown to Mississippi to coax him to, y'know, come play football. If this is not *exactly* like some 19 year old college girl who has locked herself in the bathroom at a party in a drama fit and needs to be coaxed out by *her* three BFFs (even though she really wants to come out), I dunno what is. Mr Favre? Get the fuck over yourself. P.S. I hate you.

xoxo

more odds, more ends

Odd. So, you know how I mentioned that my disgruntlement with Morning Joe made me turn to VH1C yesterday morning? I came home from work and D had neither shut the TV off nor changed the channel in the intervening hours. Thus I was treated to a show on Def Leppard, the band famous for latterly having a one-armed drummer post his tragic car accident. (Keep that in some corner of your brain; you may need it to win at trivia some day.) What I remember best about Def Leppard, however, is that at some point in my misspent youth/college career, I used to sing various selections from Pyromania from on top my coffee table when I was very very drunk. Usually on Kahlua.*** Though there was a brief disastrous flirtation with Midori. Green liquor does not look good on its way back up and out. All I'm sayin'.

End. I went to the gym last night at 7:30-ish. When I signed up at the Y, the lady who gave me my tour--who is, coincidentally enough, the mother of one of my patients--told me that the most crowded times were 5-7am and 5-7pm, for all the people who go right before or right after work. I wanted to do day2 week 1 of c25k yesterday and I wanted to be able to do it on my favorite treadmill. (Yes, I have belonged to this gym for less than a week and yet I have a treadmill I consider "mine." Borderline crazee FTW.) So I figured I'd eat dinner, digest it a bit, and go late. It was a fine idea, amenities-wise. However, I had in the back of my mind the fact that my boss always goes to his gym after 8, and he's always bitching he's tired, because he can never get to sleep till after 1, being revved up from working out. Well, I enjoyed my exercise, was home around 9, washed my gym clothes, had a glass of wine, a snack, and a couple huge glasses of iced tea, and while I was waiting for the clothes to finish in the dryer, I was yawning. This was 10:30 or so. Good, I thought. I will have no trouble falling asleep and thus I will prove to myself that going to the gym after dinner works out just fine. I had to put the clothes back in for an extra ten minutes as they were a little dampish and meanwhile, I remembered I hadn't taken my Vit D. While I was in the Cabinet o' Supplements, I also--and here's my fatal mistake--grabbed my coconut oil caps. The MCTs kicked in just about as I was lying down in bed and then I was awake till all hours. Goddamn it.

Odd. So while I was awake till 1:30 in the fucking morning, I watched another episode and a half of Rome. Apparently we have now switched from gratuitous torture-y violence to gratuitous kinky sex. Okay then. How awkward must it be for a (mainstream) actor to mime vigorous thrusting, not to mention all the grunting and the O face? Do they give seminars on that in acting school or what?

End. Do you hate when you have a missed call on your phone from some number you do not recognize, and they do not leave a message? Just me then? I can spend hours worrying about it being something important, when in reality, if it were important whoever it was would have left a message. Obviously. But my brain doesn't work like that. Sigh.

Odd. Enjoy your Tuesday.

End.

xoxo

***For a brief, glorious period, various friends--by which I mean the bunch of stoner losers my future ex-husband hung around with who were always in my goddamn apartment--would buy me Kahlua every single Christmas. I would have a stockpile and thus almost never have to buy a bottle myself. It was the least they could do. Did I mention they were *always* in my goddamn apartment? Yeah.

show n' tell

I haven't done show n' tell for a while, have I?

I was enticed by the 7th million "this is our Final Sale, seriously, we mean it" email I got from jcrew last week, especially when they dangled the free shipping in front of me. I hardly ever buy anything from them at full price because their full price = fucking ridiculous, but I have to say some of the things I have bought from them over the years have turned out to be favorites. So, enticed, I bought me a few things wicked marked down, crossing my fingers they'd fit. And today my darling UPS man (whom I even forgive when he bypasses me and delivers shit to the people up the hill) brought me my package.

I bought:


They are all about the ruffles this year and I do not object. That's about the right level of ridiculous floofiness for me. Unfortunately, my floofy ruffle got smooshed in transit, so I think I need to wash it and hope it comes out of the dryer re-floofed.

Then I got jeans:



Two things about these jeans. They are skinny at the ankle like the jeans I wore in the 80s. I have faithfully worn bootcut jeans since they came back into style some time around 1997-98, because they balance out the bulgy Polish catcher's thighs, in my humble opinion and screw what Stacy and Clinton say. But those 80s style jeans *are* awfully cute--as long as they are not "jeggings" which I loathe (and apologies to all the jeggings-wearers who just read this, because every time I make a statement like that here in the Adventures, I offend someone). And the second thing about these jeans? They are non-stretch. Do you *know* how hard it has become to find non-stretch women's jeans over the last couple years? Next to impossible. So I caved and bought these. The issue me and jcrew have amongst us is that they do not cut their pants for woman with hips and (bulgy) thighs. They do not service the ethnic crowd and thus apparently tailor their clothes for a more straight up and down body shape. Careful perusal of the size chart led me to order the size I would have thought I am anyway. Can I tell you? These fit my ass and thighs perfectly. Perfectly. They're about an inch and a half too big in the waist. Which is why god invented belts, yo.

Finally, I bought this dress/shirt:


I plead temporary insanity. It kind of looks like I'm wearing a wedding cake when I put it on. Thank god I didn't get it in white. It's also completely see-through. Not so much in front because of the double of layer of fabric with the ruffles, but when I turned around to check out the rear view, not only could I clearly see what color underwear I'm wearing, I could see my butt through the underwear. I'm thinking this dress/shirt needs to go either over a bathing suit or a pair of very opaque leggings. And I kinda love it even though it's a completely insane garment. If you would be embarrassed to be seen with a chick wearing the sartorial equivalent of a wedding cake, shoot me an email and I'll try hard to remember not to wear it when I'm going out with you. No promises, though!

Okay, that is all.

xoxo

what is wrong with people? part # whatevah

1.) I was just watching Morning Joe over my coffee and I had to change to VH1C and Billy Joel with an afro, because I got so disgusted that apparently there is controversy about the president of this country remarking that, yes, there is freedom of religion in the USA, guaranteed by the constitution. And that includes Muslims, you fucking right wing racist gits. Um, that last part's mine, not Mr Obama's. He would never call anyone a fucking right wing racist git. As far as we know. But, seriously. I love the "patriots" that want to shit on the constitution and wipe their arses with it. Love. Smooch.

2.) And on a less political note, there's this. I was kinda ranting about it yesterday, so I knew I had to blog it. You people know you adore when I get wound up. This is "what is wrong with men?" #46,392, actually. And it follows from the above, believe it or not, because one of the things that led to discussing the chick in question was a political discussion in which I maintained that you really can't expect much, 'cause the American public is stoopid and poorly educated. That led me to start going off about this woman who is a frequent poster on one of the weightloss forums I read. She's got a lot of internet friends because she's one of those "hugggzzzz, you go, girlfriend, love you, sistah" types and they are very popular on support boards. (That's neither here nor there, I suppose, but my point is that she doesn't apparently irritate anyone but me, go figure.) This woman has atrocious grammar. And it's not for effect, LIKE IT SOMETIMES IS IN THIS BLOG, BITCHES. She just cannot write or (apparently) speak without sounding like someone who dropped out of school round about sixth grade. Oh, so what, Andrea? Well. She likes to mention frequently that she is a librarian in the school system. Which, don't you have to have a Master's degree for that? Any institute of higher learning that would give a Master's degree in library science to someone who is unable to write a grammatically correct sentence in her native language, ever, needs to have its certification revoked, is what I'm saying. (<--like that sentence? I coulda written it correctly, but it was a choice, motherfuckers)

Okay, so that was my original rant. If people like this chicky are the ones teaching our impressionable children, of course Americans grow up to be stupid and ill-educated and are susceptible to that "birther" nonsense and so on. But I could not stop just there. There's more. This woman is in a long distance relationship with her husband, who lives and works in a different city than she does. She mentioned on the boards this weekend that they were fighting because of the stress of that, and one of her sistahs asked for the backstory of how this whole situation came to be. And thus it was revealed that Illiterate Librarian is on husband #3. After her divorce from husband #1, she met the current gentleman (on the internet, cough) and he moved to be with her. They lived in sin for a couple years and then she dumped him, because she felt as if she was missing out on playing the field. He moved away. She met and married husband #2. After *that* divorce, she reconnected with the current sucker--I mean, gentleman--and he proposed. But he couldn't immediately move to be with her, and is waiting until a comparable position in his company becomes open in her area and he can transfer there.

Oh, and when she mentioned they were fighting just now, one of her internet sistahs remarked that she herself was fortunate in that she and her husband never argued. Illiterate Librarian said that, oh, they fought a lot, mainly because *she* is a stubborn bitch. She didn't actually use the word "bitch", she just implied it. But oh, giggle giggle, isn't it cute that she's so difficult? You all know how much I love people who brag about how ill-behaved they are in their relationships, and are proud of their crappy behavior.

And, not to be a complete bitch myself, but it's important to my point--this woman posts lots of pictures of herself as she travels her weightloss/fitness journey. She was not a pretty morbidly obese woman, she is not a pretty slightly-overweight woman, and I predict she is not going to be a pretty thin woman. There is no stunning beauty there to blind one to any of her other characteristics.

So, let's review! This woman is not bright. She is not physically attractive. She is apparently a real bitch in her romantic relationships and she is, giggle giggle, immaturely proud of that. And yet, she's gotten three guys to marry her and pledge their undying love (unsuccessfully, but yeah), including the present one who came crawling back after she kicked him to the curb. What is wrong with men? And by that, you know I mean, in yet another existential crisis, what the fuck is wrong with *me* and what have I been doing wrong for the past 30 years? If I strive to be stupider, meaner, more immature, phonier, and frumpier, then will men be beating down my door, pledging their eternal devotion and wanting to install crown molding for me? Really?

Some day I will figure out the universe.

xoxo

andrea goes to the gym

So I finally took advantage of my shiny new Y membership yesterday after work. Can I tell you, late Saturday afternoon in August is a primo time to go to the gym. No lines, no waiting.

Do you remember, oh, a year and a half ago, when I was getting all these impulses to run when I was out walking, so I bought myself the heavy duty sports bra and was all psyched up to start jogging? And then I had the War With My Uterus and bled for two and a half months straight and got pretty severely anemic and weak like little girl? And then I was on hormones and super crazee and feeling like shite? And the running ambitions thus obviously never bore fruit? And then this spring, feeling all nice and healthy and strong again, I started looking at the couch to 5k and debating it? And the specter of double knee replacements made me go, "mmm, maybe sticking to yoga and weights would be better"? You remember all that, RIGHT?

Well, yesterday I took my heavy duty sports bra and my c25k podcast to the Y and did week 1 day 1 anyway and OMFG did it feel great. I will not tell you what speed I did the "run" intervals at on the treadmill because you will point and laugh, but baby steps, baby steps, and I was soaked with sweat and high on endorphins anyway. Plus, when I was done with the 1/2 hour podcast program, I did an additional ten minutes on the treadmill at a slower walk speed but a big incline to build my glutes, which also felt awesome. And now I remember why I loved the gym so much 20 years ago when I used to be obsessed with going.

When I need my knees replaced, you'll all come visit and bring soup and ice cream, right? (Because orthopedic surgery is totally like getting your wisdom teeth yanked, I'm sure.)

xoxo

the happy trail

Due (I'm sure) to hormonal upheaval, I developed one when I was pregnant and it stayed for a long time. Long after I gave birth, long after D was weaned, it hung on. I bet my kid was three before I finally lost it. And when I did, I was disappointed. I thought it was sexy as shit. It wasn't much--don't mistake me--just a thin line of dark peach fuzz down my belly to the pubes--but it was like an arrow pointing to my business. How can that not be sexy? Well. Go look it up on urban dictionary. Just about every definition includes the opinion that if a woman has one, it's gross. Kids these days. Sigh.

What brings this up, Andrea? Oh, according to Jezebel, Cosmo has an article this month about how pubic hair is back. Or, rather, as Cosmo says, "Untamed Va-jay-jays." The baby Jesus is weeping at that headline for many reasons. Don't tell me he isn't. And, anyway, it set me to reminiscing about the 80s when all our vulvas were as nature intended, and the full expression of that, which in my case was postnatal sexeh peach fuzz.

It occurs to me that my perception of what is sexy is not shared by everyone of course. Mr Indemnity and I were talking the other day about married orthodox Jewish women covering their hair, and as I thought about it, I thought, hell, yeah, that's pretty hot. You know, to have your beautiful hair be for your husband's eyes alone. Like Angelina saying her new mystery tat was "just for Brad." There's something incredibly erotic about having something that is just for your spouse/lover alone. I was trying to articulate this to Mr Indemnity and he just didn't get it. So, yeah, we don't all share the same tastes. Maybe even in the 80s, there might have been someone who didn't think my peach fuzz road map was teh sex. I guess it's possible. But they would have been wrong.

xoxo

semi-exciting doings

I joined the Y yesterday. Decided against the expensive semi-scary personal training place and against the gym I used to belong to and went Old Skool. For $47 a month, I can use the gym, the pool, and take a whole bunch o' free classes, including yoga taught by people who work in other local yoga places that charge $10-15 a class. Is a bargain! If I go.

Yesterday I also went into my neighborhood meat store and bought some hamburger to make tacos. This is exciting because though the meat store has been there forever and I have lived in this neighborhood 15 years, I had never set foot inside. Isn't that weird? It took me 13 years of living here to start frequenting the neighborhood bakery and now I go there all the time (well, when I'm not off the sugar, that is.) I like the idea of supporting local businesses, I just tend to go to the supermarket out of habit. Oh, and can I say, the taco salad I made last night was ambrosial. I have no idea why it tasted that good--I'm not attributing it to the meat, haha--but it was the best thing I've eaten in months. And a good thing, too, 'cause I also noticed yesterday that the Mexican restaurant I like in Salem is now gone and replaced by some other Mediterranean (?) place. Boo. What am I supposed to do now when I'm in the mood for Mexican? Go all the way to Marblehead? Goddamn it.

And my relief pitchers got me a save *and* a win last night which was soopah, since Bronson Arroyo got whacked. Bronson pitched two shutouts in a row prior to that, so I'm not mad at him, though. Plus, I watched the highlights of his game on SportsCenter this morning before I left for work, and the at-bat in which he gave up the grand slam? Second pitch of that at-bat, the guy hit a foul ball to left that the left fielder *should* have caught if he were not pursuing it at a Nancy Drew-like pace. If that out had been made, woulda been a whole different game for Mr Arroyo. Anyway. I know yous people love when I talk fantasy baseball.

Peace, love, and understanding, bitches.

xoxo

hipster kitteh

Can't let hipster puppies have all the fun, right?

I'm particularly fond of "this band was better before they released music", "87 degrees? Let me get my scarf", "Went thrift shopping, bought my old clothes" and, y'know, the Steve Jobs one, OF COURSE.

xoxo

customer service thumbs up!

As you know, if you've been paying any attention whatsoever, I am a frequent rider of the MBTA. From the prison bus to the Green Line (where no one will move into the fucking train) to the hoity-toity commuter rail (ha!), I travel it all. And thus, I am extremely well versed with T employees. Much like humanity in general, they come in many flavors. Some are complete douchebags. Others, while not strictly assholes, wish to expend the least amount of effort possible and still get a paycheck. Then there are those who are absolutely lovely, pleasant, helpful, and kind, reaping good karma by the bucketload.

Let me tell you about the prison bus driver yesterday. A young man, walking, and not at a bus stop, saw the bus and waved, if not frantically, at least enthusiastically at it. Our bus driver saw and pulled over (not at a bus stop!) and waited for the kid to jog up. That's good deed number one. Many, many T drivers will not pick you up unless you are exactly in the bus stop. I have in fact been on a bus stopped at a traffic light 30 feet up from the bus stop and had the driver refuse to let on an erstwhile passenger who came running up and knocking on the closed doors. That little maneuver, my friends, is called "being a douchebag, squared."

Anyway, back to our story. The young man boarding the bus, it soon became apparent, knew only a very few words of English. The bus driver (good deed number two) tried to make sure the kid knew what bus he was getting on, and that it was the one he wanted. Many, many T drivers could really give a shit if the passenger doesn't know where they're going or how to get there. If you don't know what bus to take or what stop to get off at, too bad. All this kid could say was "Stop and Shop" and did not appear to understand the driver's explanation that the prison bus turns before that and therefore would not take him very close.

Now another kind person enters the mix. Another young man, sitting near the front and bilingual, starts translating (good deed number one for him) and between he and the bus driver figure out and explain to the kid what bus it is that he needs and what bus stop the driver is going to let him off at so he can wait for it. Good deeds numbers two and three, respectively. Meanwhile, the bus driver does not let the kid pay, because he doesn't have a Charlie card and if he boards the other bus, he'd have to pay twice. Good deed number four.

We reach the stop where the kid is to get off and wait for the next bus, and he thanks the other kid who translated and then shakes the bus driver's hand gratefully. He is obviously very happy and appreciative that someone bothered to try to help him (thank god he's here, not Arizona, yo), and even if he doesn't wait for the next bus and keeps walking, he's at least 3/4ths of a mile closer than he was before.

And now the capper. When he's off the bus, the driver turns around and says to the other kid, "Hey, man, thanks so much for your help. I really appreciate it." Good deed number five. Are we warm and fuzzy yet?

I want that bus driver's mom's phone number so I can call her up and tell her what a good job she did.

xoxo

let's talk about why felix hernandez cries himself to sleep at night

In his nine losses this year, his team has scored him 7 runs. Total.

He is clearly a better person than I, because I would have snapped by now and beaten one of my teammates to death with his own (ineffective) bat. I do not have the stat readily available to me on this, but trust me when I tell you that when the boy does manage to leave a game tied or ahead by a run, he can also pretty much count on his bullpen to give up two or three runs. Why he hasn't killed any of them in a fit of rage is also a mystery. Either he's an extremely mellow individual or he has that learned helplessness (<--is that the term I want?) thing going on that abused spouses and prisoners of war get.

I think we need to lobby the Red Sox to trade for him in the off season. This would be good for us, good for him, and most importantly, good for my fantasy team. Think of his mental health! Think of my stats! Okay? Now start writing letters to Theo! Kthxbai.

xoxo

frenemies

As you might suspect, Evil Kitty does not like other cats. (Hell, she only likes *us* because we do useful things like open the back door, purchase and serve Fancy Feast, and brush her on command.) There used to be a black and white cat in the neighborhood who we called "her enemy." They would occasionally fight, but more often stare each other down across another neighbor's driveway--the neutral zone in their territory war, I would imagine. The Enemy hasn't been around at all this year, so s/he has either moved or gone on to the Elysian Catnip Fields.

Meanwhile, however, there is a new kitteh in the hood. This one is gray and white and approximately 50% bigger than Evil Kitty. Evil Kitty is--in case it's not evident in her pics--like her owner, small but scrappy. She tops out at about 9 pounds. Recently we've seen EK and Gray-n-White Kitty doing the stare across the neighbor's yard thing to each other, so D and I figured s/he*** was the new enemy. Well, the other night 'round about 9pm, D went to the back door to see if EK was ready to come in for the night. And then started yelling.

"Mom! Mom! C'mere! The gray and white cat's on our porch!"

By the time I got there, Gray-n-White Kitty was sticking his head through the open back door and scent-marking our hallway. I reached down to pat him and he let me, purring, and then started taking another step forward into my house. D and I were amazed and laughing. Then we noticed that Evil Kitty was sitting on the far porch railing. I stepped out to get her and her enemy followed, whereupon they both started hissing and spitting at each other. So I scooped her up and brought her into the house before any bloodshed could occur.

So now we are confused. Are they in fact friends and hanging out on our back porch together, and EK just got pissed off when the other cat overstepped the bounds and tried to actually come in? Are they enemies who would have been fighting anyway if D hadn't gone out at that exact moment? D and I have decided to split the difference, so now we're referring to Gray-n-White Kitty (to EK) as Your Frenemy. Because you know we all have at least one, right?

xoxo

***The fact that both the old enemy and the new enemy didn't live in any of the immediately adjoining houses to ours makes it more than probable that they're both males. Male cats will have a much wider amount of territory they'll roam than a female. Because, y'know, they need to travel to get pussy. Stop groaning. I wrote you a whole footnote just so I could make that lame joke.

want to hear some weirdnesses? customer service rant # whatever

The other day I got a letter from Blue Medicare Rx, my dad's prescription plan, saying that Medicare had informed them of his demise, expressing condolences, saying that his plan was thus cancelled as of 7/31, and saying they would issue a refund check if he had one coming. Oh, how convenient, I thought. I don't need to call them to cancel. And I figured a letter from Medex, his Medicare supplement, would be forthcoming too. When I didn't get one, I figured I would call them today and make sure it was cancelled. Well, no, Medicare hadn't informed them he was dead, which...why? Why would the prescription plan know and not the health insurance? Anyway, the very nice lady I spoke with took care of it, cancelled it to 7/18, the day after his death, and said they would refund a prorated amount for the rest of the month. Wasn't expecting that. I figured if you paid the month and didn't use the rest of the month, too bad for you. I guess the evil health insurance companies are not TOTALLY evil. Also? The very first thing the nice lady did when I told her why I was calling was offer her condolences, and she did so again at the end of the call.

Let's contrast this with the phone call to my dad's pension plan. The first thing the young man who finally took my call did was ask to speak to him. I explained that was not possible because, y'know, he was dead. This flustered the gentleman, but he pulled himself together and started taking the info from me. He did not say, "oh, I'm sorry to hear that," but then, he was flustered. After taking all the information from me, he said that someone from "life events" would be calling me within 48 hours. I tried to ask whether they were going to need me to mail the death certificate or whether cancelling the pension could be done all over the phone, and whether I could just shred the check they just mailed him for August or whether they would need it back. He very politely told me he had no idea because he never worked in "life events". Fair enough. He just answers the phone and keys stuff into the computer, he doesn't know nothing about nothing. No problem. He ends the call by wishing me a nice day.

Can we compare customer service training here? I'm assuming that both the nice lady and the flustered gentleman are young people, probably fresh out of college or something, because who else staffs help lines, for the most part? I'm also assuming they make shit for money, which is why I was not surprised the flustered gentleman has no idea what happens in other departments. It's not his job to actually know anything; someone who knows something would need to be compensated for such. But do you not think that it would be basic customer service training to emphasize that when a customer (or customer representative) calls to report a death, the proper response is, "oh, I'm so sorry." You don't have to *be* sorry--it's a figure of speech, a normal bit of social etiquette. At least, please do not suggest to someone who is making phone calls to tie up the details of a deceased loved one's life that they have a nice day. I can assure you they probably are not.

Oh, and another customer service weirdness, non-death-related. I got a letter from Tufts Health Plan, my evil insurance company, the other day offering to enroll me in a new free service where I would get a nurse case manager "for people with complicated medical conditions." WTF, I thought. I do not have any complicated health problems. But then I thought, oh, I had a lot of doctor visits last year when I was at war with my uterus and my crazee, so maybe the computer kicked you onto this list when you had x number of claims. Yesterday I got a voicemail from a woman from Tufts asking I call her back. I assumed (rightly, it turns out) that it was about this same program, and ignored it. The same woman called me again today and this time I took the call. She started her spiel; I told her I already got the letter. She said that she didn't have access to my medical records, but that on her list, or whatever, it appeared I'm on a medication for lung problems. I assured her that no, I'm not, and that actually, I had been surprised to get the letter since I'm perfectly healthy, and my medical problems from last year (which never included my lungs) were all resolved. She apologized and said that perhaps a code had been entered into the computer wrong (!), noted in my file what we'd said, and said she'd send me some info in the mail anyway, just in case I ever did feel I needed their program. Fair enough. But should I be concerned someone at Tufts thinks I've got COPD or uncontrolled asthma or something? It's a little disturbing! Maybe they'll start sending me inhalers or something and I can sell them on the black market. <---(joke, just a joke, don't tell the DEA on me.)

xoxo

FitTv

Did you know I get this? Neither did I! I just watched Namaste Yoga and All Star Fitness. Watched, did not participate. I'm sure there's a special circle in hell reserved for people who watch exercise shows from their couch. That's "sloth", right?

Anyway, Namaste Yoga is a trip. Very artistically done with weird camera angles, like, for example, from above. Not sure how seeing what I would look like if you were peering down at me from the ceiling would help me follow along with the poses, but it does make things more interesting when you're watching *from your couch.* They've probably done the stats on this and found out that 60% of viewers aren't actually working out while watching, or something. Also, Namaste Yoga has the funky settings. Look! They have their mats on the beach! Look! They have their mats on concrete in some kind of warehouse, with water trickling down the walls! Lovely. But then there's the problem with the commercial breaks. Am I supposed to hang out in child's pose for two minutes while they try to sell me a bowflex or some diet meals delivered to my door? Or do they assume everyone's tivoing this shit?

Anyway, it's always good to see exactly what it is that I'm paying my satellite provider for every month! Namaste! (bitches!)

xoxo

more reportage

Because I know you want to know what I'm up to when I'm not taking pictures of various parts of my body.

This evening I spent a long bus ride listening to the conversation, in person and on cell, of the young couple sitting behind me. They were on their way home from work: him in a suit, her in a nice dress. And, oh, they are getting married, apparently *this weekend*. The bride-to-be is a little, um, tense. She's panicking because she doesn't have the hairdresser's cell number and the salon owner will not give it to her. Oh, the hairdresser has *her* cell number and she has the directions and she has confirmed that she knows where and when. But what if she doesn't come??? Oh, she knows she's just being crazee, but...what if she doesn't come? She can do her own hair--she's good at hair--but what about the bridesmaids? Who will help them? Who? And she knows she's being crazee, because a few days ago she was like this about the DJ. But, still. What if she doesn't come?

I wanted to turn around, pat her neurotic little head, and say sympathetically, "Oh, darlin', you sound like me planning a funeral. Doesn't it suck when you have to depend on a bunch of other people doing what they're supposed to do? Aren't the possibilities for them to fuck something up endless? I feel ya." Or, y'know, give her an Ativan. One of the two.

Meanwhile, remember how I told you about how Rome was making me yearn for a villa and some servants of my own? Holy fucking god, that was until I hit episodes 3 and 4 of season two. I was not prepared for the, shall we say, graphic violence. Of the torture-y variety. I am not horribly squeamish. I've seen a bunch of horror movies, including a couple of those Saw flicks, not to mention some of that really twisted Korean shit. But you go into that knowing what you're getting. Last night I'm watching a nice, albeit "realistic", historical drama and suddenly there's a well-dressed upperclass middle-aged woman rather nonchalantly ordering her henchman *to cut her rival's face off*. That's after the rape and horrendous beating, of course, 'cause one has to work their way up to that. I guess. Anyway, I take it all back. I'm glad I live in 2010, even if I can't refuse to get up til I've fucked somebody. Sexual frustration and going to work every day is better than getting your face cut off.

And, finally, I bought the new Stephen King book. It has 1074 pages. Even in trade paperback, it is a heavy mofo. Mr Indemnity and I were discussing the pros and cons of getting a Kindle the other day, since he says the new one is coming out very soon. We will put Mr King's opus squarely on the pro side. On the other hand, my biceps and delts are feeling like I worked out today and I'm only on page 128. So getting a Kindle might be anti-physical fitness. That would be a con. Decisions, decisions.

xoxo

public humiliation photos

The good news: my bathing suit bottoms are too big for me now. See the waistband sagging out? (Well, actually, it isn't that good, because I love that bathing suit.)

The bad news: my stomach is still all saggy and wrinkly. I don't think that skin's coming back, yo.



Here's a close up, for extra horrification.




Since you people never take up a collection to buy me shoes when I post my lustful shoe pics on here, I suppose buying me a tummy tuck is out of the question? Yeah, thought so.

xoxo

more things that must be said

1.) Did you see that Carlos Gonzalez of the Colorado Rockies hit for the cycle yesterday, and his HR was a walk-off? How awesome is that? Man, I wish I had him. Red Sox game ended in a satisfactory fashion as well! I love me a nice walk-off.

2.) So, as you might remember, I've been reading and sometimes posting in some weight loss/fitness forums since I've been on my program, 'cause it saves yous people from having to hear too much about it. And yesterday I was joking around about not having had the ovaries to actually weigh myself on my own scale since my little post-funeral carb up, even though I got weighed at the GYN this week (and was not unhappy with the number), and how ridiculous that was. Well, one of the guys on the forum who I've become buddies with said to me: "No, I won't say, 'Grow a set, will ya?' because I think you already have a reliable backbone." I have to tell you, I thought that was one of the nicest compliments I've ever gotten from an almost complete stranger. It kinda made my day.

3.) I'm watching the second season of Rome from netflix right now, not because I enjoyed the first season all that much, but because I've run out of TV shows. Not that it's a bad show, it just doesn't grab me that much, perhaps because with so many of the characters being actual historical personages, I already know what's gonna happen with them. Anyway, the actual how-people-lived and yeah-weren't-they-decadent parts are fun. In the first episode of season 2, Atia (his lover) is trying to get Antony to get his ass out of bed on the day of Caesar's funeral. She's all keyed up with "this is an important day" and he's all "ooo, I've never fucked a woman in a funeral dress before." After she tells him that, no, this isn't gonna be the first time either, he says "well, I'm not getting up til I've fucked somebody." So, with a big sigh, she tells one of her servants, "Oh, fine. Send for that German slut from the kitchens." Ha! (Then she snaps at one of the other slaves who's fussing with the hem of her mourning gown that if she doesn't get it right this time, *she's* next for "king of the goats." Considering what the guy who plays Antony looks like, I'm thinking this isn't the most heinous punishment she could come up with, but what do I know?) Anyway, be serious, guys (and ladies). Wouldn't it be nice to have "I'm not getting up til I've fucked somebody" as a serious option? What a life! Of course, the constant threat of being stabbed, poisoned, or otherwise assassinated probably wasn't all that fun, but as long as you stayed out of politics? It was probably pretty cool being an upper class Roman.

xoxo