Did I tell you Led Zep Girl's daughter left college a couple weeks into her first semester because of panic attacks, inability to live in the dorm, etc? Why this girl would rather come home and live with her mother, who is as far as I can see an absolute witch to her, I dunno. I myself would not be homesick for a parent who had absolutely no compassion towards or empathy for me. Nevertheless, she came home, got a part time retail job, and is going to transfer to a local college next semester. Led Zep Girl also has the kid doing copious amounts of housework for her in, I suppose, lieu of rent, but more so as punishment, because she is so pissed at her for coming home.
Today she went on and on about how the kid is sleeping till 3 pm, then rushing around to do the things she's supposed to be doing before she goes to work. Apparently some big blowout occurred because she then had laundry in the washer at some point where Led Zep Girl wanted to use it. First of all?--and I speak from experience here--when you are cohabiting with an adult child, if they are holding up their part of the contract and doing what they are supposed to do, you have no right to try to control and micromanage them into doing it your way, on your schedule. Secondly, when you are cohabiting with an adult child, you need to approach things with a bit of flexibility just as you would when living with any other adult. (Clue: LZG's been divorced *twice*.) If someone other than yourself is also doing laundry in your home, you must be prepared that sometimes they'll be doing it when you'd like to too. What is the big fucking deal? Chillax. It's better for your health.
The fact that *my* kid keeps sending me texts in the middle of the night so he doesn't forget to tell me whatever and then the tone invariably wakes me up? THAT is worth bitching about. Ha! (Not really. But has the current generation lost the ability to write a note on a piece of paper and stick it on the refrigerator? Is that a goddamn lost art or something? Sigh.)
xoxo
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
shmexxy
Here's a quote from Elsewhere. For context, this is a man in his early 40s whose wife is a former personal trainer who has "let herself go." She's 5'3 and now 165lbs. So, a little chubby, yeah, but not, y'know, Discovery Channel needs-to-be-cut-out-of-her-house fodder. Here's what her loving spouse has to say:
The hard part is giving compliments that are not true. She has talked to me about that. Wants be (sic) to tell her she is sexy, but that is hard to do. I tell her I love her all the time and that she is beautiful, but she has 42% bodyfat. I feel if I lie and say she is sexy, then she will think "Oh he is happy with me just like I am." Maybe I am wrong I don't know.
I honestly am perplexed. Is "sexy" totally determined by someone's looks, most specifically their body's looks, to this guy? To most guys? Is "hot" the only thing that equals sexy? I know all y'all are supposed to be visual creatures, but sexy has so many other components to me this does not compute.
Is a beautiful woman with whatever is your personal perfect body type still sexy if she never wants to have sex? What if she's willing to have sex but it's a very small and rigid set of things she'll do and she's never willing to try anything else? What if she's willing to have sex but she doesn't much care for it and is bored or passionless? What if she loves sex but she's selfish and it's all about what she likes, and your needs and likes are unimportant? Isn't sexiness more of an attitude than a look? Wouldn't you rather fuck an enthusiastic, generous, experimental, skilled "six" than an uptight, joyless, selfish "ten"? ARE THESE LEADING QUESTIONS (from a 6.5)? Ha!
Seriously, menfolk, tell me what's going on in your heads and penises. If your wife gained 40 pounds but you loved her and she was still the freakazoid she always was, would you not want to do her? Explain.
xoxo
The hard part is giving compliments that are not true. She has talked to me about that. Wants be (sic) to tell her she is sexy, but that is hard to do. I tell her I love her all the time and that she is beautiful, but she has 42% bodyfat. I feel if I lie and say she is sexy, then she will think "Oh he is happy with me just like I am." Maybe I am wrong I don't know.
I honestly am perplexed. Is "sexy" totally determined by someone's looks, most specifically their body's looks, to this guy? To most guys? Is "hot" the only thing that equals sexy? I know all y'all are supposed to be visual creatures, but sexy has so many other components to me this does not compute.
Is a beautiful woman with whatever is your personal perfect body type still sexy if she never wants to have sex? What if she's willing to have sex but it's a very small and rigid set of things she'll do and she's never willing to try anything else? What if she's willing to have sex but she doesn't much care for it and is bored or passionless? What if she loves sex but she's selfish and it's all about what she likes, and your needs and likes are unimportant? Isn't sexiness more of an attitude than a look? Wouldn't you rather fuck an enthusiastic, generous, experimental, skilled "six" than an uptight, joyless, selfish "ten"? ARE THESE LEADING QUESTIONS (from a 6.5)? Ha!
Seriously, menfolk, tell me what's going on in your heads and penises. If your wife gained 40 pounds but you loved her and she was still the freakazoid she always was, would you not want to do her? Explain.
xoxo
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
to reiterate
For those of you who don't read the comments (i.e. everyone), let me just say again that not only did frying my turkey not involve any visits to the ED or calls to the fire department, it also resulted in the most delicious turkey EVAH! How could I have doubted myself and/or all those people who gave this contraption five stars on amazon? It did take 45 minutes to drain and clean the damn thing, but even so, it was *still* worth it.
Other highlights of the day included being hustled at Scrabble. The Benevolent L: "Oh, okay, I'll play, but I'm not good at games, and you've got a much bigger vocabulary than me," followed by "Oh! I won? Really?" D enjoyed Scrabble with us as well, and lemme tell you, getting him to socialize and actually have fun? That made my day, above and beyond all the other pleasures. Oh, and we also watched Winter's Bone, an excellent movie that is not really up there in "uplifting holiday entertainment" but I guess it does make you thankful that you're not growing up in the Ozarks with a father who cooks crank and then goes missing and a mother who's so mentally ill she's almost catatonic, that you don't have an uncle named "Teardrop", and that you don't need to shoot and skin squirrels for dinner. So there is that! And the young actress who plays the lead is just transcendent. Highly recommended.
Hope you all are enjoying spending today digesting and/or contributing to WalMart's profits or something, whilst I work (boo!).
xoxo
Other highlights of the day included being hustled at Scrabble. The Benevolent L: "Oh, okay, I'll play, but I'm not good at games, and you've got a much bigger vocabulary than me," followed by "Oh! I won? Really?" D enjoyed Scrabble with us as well, and lemme tell you, getting him to socialize and actually have fun? That made my day, above and beyond all the other pleasures. Oh, and we also watched Winter's Bone, an excellent movie that is not really up there in "uplifting holiday entertainment" but I guess it does make you thankful that you're not growing up in the Ozarks with a father who cooks crank and then goes missing and a mother who's so mentally ill she's almost catatonic, that you don't have an uncle named "Teardrop", and that you don't need to shoot and skin squirrels for dinner. So there is that! And the young actress who plays the lead is just transcendent. Highly recommended.
Hope you all are enjoying spending today digesting and/or contributing to WalMart's profits or something, whilst I work (boo!).
xoxo
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
go hard or go home update
The backup (smaller) turkey breast has been roasted in the traditional manner and is ready for emergency usage if need be. Cranberry sauce is done and cooling. Cranberry cheddar is sliced. Cava and non-alcoholic beverages are chilling. Dining room table is set. Kitchen floor is scrubbed. The whole house is vacuumed. Guest bed is made up. Massage room is made up. Everything else is as clean as it's gonna get.
xoxo
xoxo
Monday, November 22, 2010
prison bus conversation on the non-prison bus
Picture this: 40ish, very tall, Irish-appearing guy, with that Frankenstein/Kevin McHale/Marfan's Syndrome look, construction worker/laborer, tattooed on the neck *and* the knuckles. Dude is deep in conversation with an older guy. I am paying them no attention till the following snippet catches my ear. "I said, 'That's not going in there, is it? You're taking it off my record, right?' Because I do NOT want that on my record. My next case, no matter what it's for, they'll see that and--"
Do you see my sticking point, boys and girls? There's no "if" in there. There's no "should I ever be arrested again..." Dude has no doubt that he'll be in front of a judge some day soon, and it could be for any number of different things. Rehabilitation, yur doin it rong!
But, I'll have you know, Bizarro McHale proved my point that many of these unrepentant miscreant felons have better manners than your supposed better class of guy. He was the one to get up and offer his seat to the woman with the two small children and a stroller, while the two or three other douchebag men sitting at the front of the bus kept their asses planted. He probably says thank you after he jacks your wallet.
So, what's the lesson to be learned here, people? Don't space out on public transportation or you'll never know what the hell was supposed to be expunged from record!
xoxo
Do you see my sticking point, boys and girls? There's no "if" in there. There's no "should I ever be arrested again..." Dude has no doubt that he'll be in front of a judge some day soon, and it could be for any number of different things. Rehabilitation, yur doin it rong!
But, I'll have you know, Bizarro McHale proved my point that many of these unrepentant miscreant felons have better manners than your supposed better class of guy. He was the one to get up and offer his seat to the woman with the two small children and a stroller, while the two or three other douchebag men sitting at the front of the bus kept their asses planted. He probably says thank you after he jacks your wallet.
So, what's the lesson to be learned here, people? Don't space out on public transportation or you'll never know what the hell was supposed to be expunged from record!
xoxo
various complaints and non-complaints
1.) I am at that point in the year where my skin starts to look really horrible. I have the incipient dry, flaky patches near my eyes, but when I try to head these off with moisturizer, my skin looks greasy all day. And believe me, I have tried many different types of moisturizer.
2.) Part of the problem is that as soon as it gets cold, I cannot keep myself hydrated enough. In the warm weather, I'm sucking down water and assorted beverages all day long. In the winter, that is torture. I've been trying to drink more cups of green or herbal tea, but that involves constantly making cups of tea. Impractical, especially at work. So not only does this contribute to the skin dryness, the circles under my eyes look a thousand times worse. Even after applying concealer (which is not the miracle product the cosmetic industry would like me to believe), today I look like I got punched in the face, basically. It's depressing.
3.) I was up bright and early, 6:45-ish, this morning, even though I did not have to be at work till 11, and despite that, and despite the fact that I have so much shit to do before Thanksgiving, I got exactly nothing accomplished between then and when I left for work. And I was running out of the house even then, no gym clothes with me, no lunch, no water. Oh, I did get the trashcans back in the garage after the garbage men came, so there is that. But I am so disgusted with this frittering away of time.
4.) My three week old iPod died over the weekend. Luckily, it was still under warranty (ya think?) and the nice man at the Apple store yesterday just reached in the drawer and gave me a new one. But I also wasted an inordinate amount of time and aggravation trying to restore the broken one myself on Saturday.
5.) I bought an indoor countertop turkey fryer, because Amazon spammed me with Thanksgiving bargains and I bit. There were like a gazillion 5 star reviews of this thing. Now, however, I am getting nervous that it won't work and my Thanksgiving will be ruined. So I'm going to go out and buy a back up turkey breast and cook it in a more conventional manner so there's a fail safe. I think this shows that I'm a pussy, because no guts, no glory. However it may instead show that I am always prepared, just like a boyscout. You be the judge.
6.) I did manage to get Trader Joe's pumpkin ice cream. Even if I fuck up two turkeys, you cannot argue with pumpkin ice cream, yo.
7.) Plus a nice cava. I should probably not start drinking it before I'm done fucking around with large amounts of very hot cooking oil, right? Boyscout or pussy? You be the judge.
I think that's it for now!
xoxo
2.) Part of the problem is that as soon as it gets cold, I cannot keep myself hydrated enough. In the warm weather, I'm sucking down water and assorted beverages all day long. In the winter, that is torture. I've been trying to drink more cups of green or herbal tea, but that involves constantly making cups of tea. Impractical, especially at work. So not only does this contribute to the skin dryness, the circles under my eyes look a thousand times worse. Even after applying concealer (which is not the miracle product the cosmetic industry would like me to believe), today I look like I got punched in the face, basically. It's depressing.
3.) I was up bright and early, 6:45-ish, this morning, even though I did not have to be at work till 11, and despite that, and despite the fact that I have so much shit to do before Thanksgiving, I got exactly nothing accomplished between then and when I left for work. And I was running out of the house even then, no gym clothes with me, no lunch, no water. Oh, I did get the trashcans back in the garage after the garbage men came, so there is that. But I am so disgusted with this frittering away of time.
4.) My three week old iPod died over the weekend. Luckily, it was still under warranty (ya think?) and the nice man at the Apple store yesterday just reached in the drawer and gave me a new one. But I also wasted an inordinate amount of time and aggravation trying to restore the broken one myself on Saturday.
5.) I bought an indoor countertop turkey fryer, because Amazon spammed me with Thanksgiving bargains and I bit. There were like a gazillion 5 star reviews of this thing. Now, however, I am getting nervous that it won't work and my Thanksgiving will be ruined. So I'm going to go out and buy a back up turkey breast and cook it in a more conventional manner so there's a fail safe. I think this shows that I'm a pussy, because no guts, no glory. However it may instead show that I am always prepared, just like a boyscout. You be the judge.
6.) I did manage to get Trader Joe's pumpkin ice cream. Even if I fuck up two turkeys, you cannot argue with pumpkin ice cream, yo.
7.) Plus a nice cava. I should probably not start drinking it before I'm done fucking around with large amounts of very hot cooking oil, right? Boyscout or pussy? You be the judge.
I think that's it for now!
xoxo
Friday, November 19, 2010
okay, okay, after this I really am done
As you may have heard, my boy Felix Hernandez, he of the summer-long Adventures suicide watch, had his season of crushing defeats and stellar pitching vindicated yesterday when he won the AL Cy Young despite his 13-12 record. And what did he say about his fellow Mariners, the ones I personally would have kneecapped in the clubhouse or at least punched repeatedly in a fit of rage? "They tried to do too much for me. I love my teammates."
And what did Roy Halladay, NL Cy Young award winner, say about the appropriateness of Felix winning? "Ultimately, you look at how guys are able to win games. Sometimes, you find a way to win games." Oh, fuck you, Halladay.
xoxo
And what did Roy Halladay, NL Cy Young award winner, say about the appropriateness of Felix winning? "Ultimately, you look at how guys are able to win games. Sometimes, you find a way to win games." Oh, fuck you, Halladay.
xoxo
Thursday, November 18, 2010
drink!
That's not a command, though if you choose to interpret it as one and pour yourself something, I won't dissuade you. No, Drink is a bar in the South Station/waterfront area where you go to have cocktails. Not that they won't serve you a beer or a glass of wine, but if that's what you choose to imbibe, you're missing the point. See, Drink has a conceit: they don't have a cocktail menu and their bartenders are mixologists. You inform them what you might be in the mood for or what sorts of things you usually like to drink, and they take their creativity and encyclopedic knowledge of alcohol and make you up something they think you are gonna like.
And so it came to be that I spent last evening imbibing various champagne cocktails, since it was my birthday eve and I wanted something celebratory. 3 and 1/2 variations of champagne cocktails, to be exact. (We'll get back to the half later.) The second one, which contained champagne and bourbon, is, I think, the one that got me wasted, despite my efforts to drink it slowly. There was a fuckload of alcohol in that thing. More alcohol than the delicious little finger foods they also serve could keep up with. I recommend the fancy grilled cheese that's served up in bite-sized pieces, and not just because I've been relatively carb-deprived the past few months. It was good. Also good were the cupcakes the bunch of girls down the bar, who were celebrating someone's 30th, shared with us. Don't you love the camaraderie of friendly drunken generous strangers when you're out on a mission to get annihilated? What's NOT to love?
But back to the half drink. Those of you who know me well, know that I am fairly clutzy. I have next to no hand-eye coordination, and it's a daily marvel to me that I manage to pull together enough fine motor skills to actually perform my job. So even under the best of circumstances, the chances of my dropping, spilling, tripping, etc, are not inconsiderable. When I'm drunk? All bets are off. And thus halfway through drink #3, whilst making an expansive hand gesture to punctuate my point in the conversation, I sent my flute flying off the end of the bar and onto the floor, where some poor peon had to come out with a flashlight and pick up shards of glass before any mixologists pierced their feet. I apologized profusely to my bartender, who said NBD, and that the lifespan of a glass in a bar is not a long one, generally. Then he said he'd like to make me another drink, to make up for that one. Imagine my surprise when the bill came and it was on there. I totally thought he was offering me a freebie!
But even a non-free drink did not harsh my buzz, because as you people also know, I am a very happy drunk. Also a hungry one. Mr Indemnity walked me to Haymarket to make sure I got on my bus home in my inebriated condition. (Who then got him home on the red line safely in his inebriated condition, I dunno. But he is alive today, so it happened somehow!) But on reaching Haymarket and finding I had twenty minutes till my bus, I insisted we run over to the North End and buy a cannoli. You would think this would be easily accomplished in twenty minutes, but we ended up cutting it very close and stuffing Italian pastry in our faces as we speedwalked back. There's some kind of white residue on my purse straps today. I can only assume it's powdered sugar, because, hey, the night didn't get *that* out of hand.
In summary: we give this evening two thumbs up even though my belleh understandably feels like crap today. That will not, however, keep me from eating birthday onion rings tonight. I'm tough like that!
xoxo
And so it came to be that I spent last evening imbibing various champagne cocktails, since it was my birthday eve and I wanted something celebratory. 3 and 1/2 variations of champagne cocktails, to be exact. (We'll get back to the half later.) The second one, which contained champagne and bourbon, is, I think, the one that got me wasted, despite my efforts to drink it slowly. There was a fuckload of alcohol in that thing. More alcohol than the delicious little finger foods they also serve could keep up with. I recommend the fancy grilled cheese that's served up in bite-sized pieces, and not just because I've been relatively carb-deprived the past few months. It was good. Also good were the cupcakes the bunch of girls down the bar, who were celebrating someone's 30th, shared with us. Don't you love the camaraderie of friendly drunken generous strangers when you're out on a mission to get annihilated? What's NOT to love?
But back to the half drink. Those of you who know me well, know that I am fairly clutzy. I have next to no hand-eye coordination, and it's a daily marvel to me that I manage to pull together enough fine motor skills to actually perform my job. So even under the best of circumstances, the chances of my dropping, spilling, tripping, etc, are not inconsiderable. When I'm drunk? All bets are off. And thus halfway through drink #3, whilst making an expansive hand gesture to punctuate my point in the conversation, I sent my flute flying off the end of the bar and onto the floor, where some poor peon had to come out with a flashlight and pick up shards of glass before any mixologists pierced their feet. I apologized profusely to my bartender, who said NBD, and that the lifespan of a glass in a bar is not a long one, generally. Then he said he'd like to make me another drink, to make up for that one. Imagine my surprise when the bill came and it was on there. I totally thought he was offering me a freebie!
But even a non-free drink did not harsh my buzz, because as you people also know, I am a very happy drunk. Also a hungry one. Mr Indemnity walked me to Haymarket to make sure I got on my bus home in my inebriated condition. (Who then got him home on the red line safely in his inebriated condition, I dunno. But he is alive today, so it happened somehow!) But on reaching Haymarket and finding I had twenty minutes till my bus, I insisted we run over to the North End and buy a cannoli. You would think this would be easily accomplished in twenty minutes, but we ended up cutting it very close and stuffing Italian pastry in our faces as we speedwalked back. There's some kind of white residue on my purse straps today. I can only assume it's powdered sugar, because, hey, the night didn't get *that* out of hand.
In summary: we give this evening two thumbs up even though my belleh understandably feels like crap today. That will not, however, keep me from eating birthday onion rings tonight. I'm tough like that!
xoxo
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
my government speaks to me
So, as I guess many of us know, once you sign an online petition for something, you are then forever more inundated with requests to sign others in your inbox. I do so on rare occasions. And then I get like an automated response from Senator Kerry's office thanking me for me opinion or some such. Well, this past week I did get such. I also got a response from our other senator. This one seems to have been written by an actual human being. To wit:
Huh. Did I say Scott could call me Andrea? I don't remember doing so. Perhaps Ms. ______ would have been more appropriate when addressing someone whom you might need a vote from someday. Or perhaps this is part of the whole folksy pickup-driving, flannel-wearing shtick. I don't like it, Scotty. We're not close personal friends nor do I wish to be yours. And I'm sure you'll consider my point of view on this issue. Really hard.
| ||
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Huh. Did I say Scott could call me Andrea? I don't remember doing so. Perhaps Ms. ______ would have been more appropriate when addressing someone whom you might need a vote from someday. Or perhaps this is part of the whole folksy pickup-driving, flannel-wearing shtick. I don't like it, Scotty. We're not close personal friends nor do I wish to be yours. And I'm sure you'll consider my point of view on this issue. Really hard.
All of which is why signing these petitions are a waste of clicking, but hey, who says I'm not involved in the political process.
xoxo
And look at that! The guvmnt done fucked with my blog formatting!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
modern parenting
Townie Girl's daughter (and only biological child--she has a stepdaughter about D's age with whom she is very close) turns nine today. This nine year old is getting $130 Ugg boots, half of which are being paid for by her grandmother. Far be it for me to criticize a love of expensive shoes being instilled early, but I tend to think $130 boots belong on feet which have, y'know, stopped growing. And then I think of the $120 (in 1998 dollars, yet) Nikes my kid wore when he was 12 or so and I tell my brain to shut the fuck up. But, anyway, these expensive boots are not to be Townie Girl Jr's biggest and best birthday present. No. Townie Girl Jr is, like every other nine year old girl in America--or so I hear--enamored of one Justin Bieber. Guess who is playing at the Fleet/Banknorth/TD/Boston/Center/wtf/Garden tonight?!?
Townie Girl, in an absolute masterpiece of stealth, planning, and discretion, bought the tickets to this "concert" back around July and has successfully kept it a secret from her kiddo from now till then. I do not know at what point Townie Girl Jr is going to be informed of how she will be spending her birthday evening--hopefully before boarding the commuter rail, I'd think--but as of yesterday she didn't yet know. If it is possible for a tweenager to die of joy, you'll be reading about this in tomorrow's paper I'm sure.
Yesterday Townie Girl asked for the assistance of my awesome google-fu to help her find whether there was going to be an opening act, so as to plan what time they actually would arrive. (While we were dicking around unsuccessfully trying to find this info on the interwebs, Led Zep Girl called the venue and got the answer. God, that's so last millennium.) But, anyway, this led me to telling Townie Girl that she's a good mom. I know this is coming from a place of absolute love and generosity and a desire to make her kid the happiest child on the planet. But I dunno. Where do you go from there? Is this the kind of thing that makes someone look back with complete happiness and fondness and think "my parents really loved me" or is it the kind of thing that sets up an (unobtainable) expectation of some kind of unbelievably awesome surprise for every birthday or every occasion? I mean I'd still go with the former, because it *is* the best surprise a little girl could have, but nine is kind of young to have any perspective.
Meanwhile, I think this is the sort of thing that makes unenlightened people grouse about only children being overindulged and thus selfish. I have always called bullshit on that. As you know, I am an only child who was smothered with love and attention and I am less selfish than a lot of people. (We won't go into what neuroses it did engender, but selfishness wasn't one of them, thanks.) My son, another spoiled only child, has grown up into a very generous and, within the limits of his gender***, thoughtful person. So, yeah, bullshit. You can't make a kid feel *too* loved in their formative years.
And, finally, in a totally unrelated note, and at the risk of breaking my promise to be all done with the baseball talk till spring, did you see who the two Rookies of the Year were? Mr Buster Posey and Mr Neftali Feliz. I will point out that our Mr Barma had both of these gentlemen on his fantasy roster. Which begs the question of why the fuck *he* doesn't have Theo's job. Because I'm becoming totally convinced someone other than Theo should.
Ok! Philosophy and baseball talk ovah, bitches! Happy Bieber Day!
xoxo
I forgot the goddamned footnote again. Oh, perimenopause, I lurve you.
Footnote is supposed to say:
***So, remember how I told y'all that my dad insisted on doing dishes even though he couldn't see any more and thus I'd end up with unwashed plates in the cupboard and how it was a battle to wash them before he could and how it made him sulk and feel sad? Yeah. Well, since his passing, I have become aware that even the horrible job he did, the times he managed to do it despite me, was some sort of help, 'cause I've been feeling like there are always dirty dishes and I'm constantly doing them. A few weeks ago, I asked D if he would put away the clean dishes during his nocturnal waking hours. He did, and it felt like a big help to not have to put away clean dishes in order to do the dirty ones.
Okay, so I got in the habit of asking him to do this, and he would do it readily. But if I didn't ask, he wouldn't. So one day I pointed this out, laughing. I was like, "What? You put the dishes away for your mother if she asks but you don't if she doesn't, huh? It doesn't occur to you that, 'oh, my poor mom, she works so hard, I should put those dishes away so she doesn't have to do it!'" And ever since then, I've woken up every morning and it is done. And we are both happy. There's some kind of thoughtfulness block about this kind of thing on the Y chromosome, I'm positive. No offense, guys.
Townie Girl, in an absolute masterpiece of stealth, planning, and discretion, bought the tickets to this "concert" back around July and has successfully kept it a secret from her kiddo from now till then. I do not know at what point Townie Girl Jr is going to be informed of how she will be spending her birthday evening--hopefully before boarding the commuter rail, I'd think--but as of yesterday she didn't yet know. If it is possible for a tweenager to die of joy, you'll be reading about this in tomorrow's paper I'm sure.
Yesterday Townie Girl asked for the assistance of my awesome google-fu to help her find whether there was going to be an opening act, so as to plan what time they actually would arrive. (While we were dicking around unsuccessfully trying to find this info on the interwebs, Led Zep Girl called the venue and got the answer. God, that's so last millennium.) But, anyway, this led me to telling Townie Girl that she's a good mom. I know this is coming from a place of absolute love and generosity and a desire to make her kid the happiest child on the planet. But I dunno. Where do you go from there? Is this the kind of thing that makes someone look back with complete happiness and fondness and think "my parents really loved me" or is it the kind of thing that sets up an (unobtainable) expectation of some kind of unbelievably awesome surprise for every birthday or every occasion? I mean I'd still go with the former, because it *is* the best surprise a little girl could have, but nine is kind of young to have any perspective.
Meanwhile, I think this is the sort of thing that makes unenlightened people grouse about only children being overindulged and thus selfish. I have always called bullshit on that. As you know, I am an only child who was smothered with love and attention and I am less selfish than a lot of people. (We won't go into what neuroses it did engender, but selfishness wasn't one of them, thanks.) My son, another spoiled only child, has grown up into a very generous and, within the limits of his gender***, thoughtful person. So, yeah, bullshit. You can't make a kid feel *too* loved in their formative years.
And, finally, in a totally unrelated note, and at the risk of breaking my promise to be all done with the baseball talk till spring, did you see who the two Rookies of the Year were? Mr Buster Posey and Mr Neftali Feliz. I will point out that our Mr Barma had both of these gentlemen on his fantasy roster. Which begs the question of why the fuck *he* doesn't have Theo's job. Because I'm becoming totally convinced someone other than Theo should.
Ok! Philosophy and baseball talk ovah, bitches! Happy Bieber Day!
xoxo
I forgot the goddamned footnote again. Oh, perimenopause, I lurve you.
Footnote is supposed to say:
***So, remember how I told y'all that my dad insisted on doing dishes even though he couldn't see any more and thus I'd end up with unwashed plates in the cupboard and how it was a battle to wash them before he could and how it made him sulk and feel sad? Yeah. Well, since his passing, I have become aware that even the horrible job he did, the times he managed to do it despite me, was some sort of help, 'cause I've been feeling like there are always dirty dishes and I'm constantly doing them. A few weeks ago, I asked D if he would put away the clean dishes during his nocturnal waking hours. He did, and it felt like a big help to not have to put away clean dishes in order to do the dirty ones.
Okay, so I got in the habit of asking him to do this, and he would do it readily. But if I didn't ask, he wouldn't. So one day I pointed this out, laughing. I was like, "What? You put the dishes away for your mother if she asks but you don't if she doesn't, huh? It doesn't occur to you that, 'oh, my poor mom, she works so hard, I should put those dishes away so she doesn't have to do it!'" And ever since then, I've woken up every morning and it is done. And we are both happy. There's some kind of thoughtfulness block about this kind of thing on the Y chromosome, I'm positive. No offense, guys.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
new experiences every day
This is going to be one of those posts in which I have to tell you about two different, apparently unrelated things in order for them to converge at the end so that you understand my point, and after which you will say to yourselves, "Andrea, it was not worth my time reading all that nonsense for such little payoff." You've been warned. Bail if you must!
Okay, first thing! I don't know if I mentioned it here or not, but a while ago it sort of randomly occurred to me that, aside from my ex-husband who was a couch potato stoner when we were together, every guy I have been in a serious relationship with (and one or two who I've been in a non-serious relationship with) has been the "it's not really exercise unless it makes you want to puke" type. This is a slight exaggeration, but only slight. I don't know if this sort of person attracts me or if I attract them***, but in retrospect the pattern is clear. I've told you how Whatever He Was to Me and I had a mutual love of hiking, right?, and engaged in it frequently together. Except we had different definitions of hiking. My definition involved taking a strenuous but pleasant walk through some pretty woods. His involved finding the highest point in the surrounding three counties and climbing to the top of it.
You see the difference in philosophies? While I have always been an active person and have never been really out of shape (and, as you know, it pissed me off greatly when several people doubted my ability to complete the 20 mile Walk for Hunger last year just because I didn't look like some kind of scrawny marathon runner or something), I have always looked at exercise as something that felt good, not something that was more rewarding when it made you want to die afterwards.
Okay, second thing. When I was doing weights with Liz, we would do a whole body workout each time, circuit training style. This worked well in a group situation, plus it was supposed to be more cardio-like and geared to fat loss, which is what the chicks want, amirite? (Which is why Liz was so happy to work with me, being as I want to get muscles and lift heavy shit.) As Liz was graduating me and we were discussing how I might proceed, she said I could break up my workouts: lower body one day, upper the next, for example. Last week I tried this. Thus freed from having to do my whole body in like an hour's time, I added one more exercise to my lower body workout (6 rather than 5) and went up to 4 sets each instead of 3. Plus, because I was taking more rest time in between sets/exercises, I was able to go up on some of my weights. Last week I did lower Saturday, upper Sunday, rested Monday, lower Tuesday, upper Wednesday, lower Thursday, upper Friday, cardio Saturday. So I was in the gym 7 days out of 8. Killing it.
However, this week is my birthday week. (Still time for yous to look at my amazon wishlist, bitches. Overnight shipping n' all.) Anticipating that there will most likely be some excessive drinking and excessive eating taking place, I knew that realistically I will not be at the gym almost every day. So I figured today I would do a whole body workout, BUT I would keep the extra sets and the extra exercise or two and keep up the heavier weights. (In fact, today I progressed from using 20 lb dumbbells for my dumbbell rows to 25s. First time.)
And here is where this story converges, because after an hour and twenty minutes of whole body heavy lifting, I knew what it was to workout till you almost, but not quite, puke, boys and girls. OMG. The very last thing I was going to do was my preacher curls, but when I went over to the preacher curl bench, someone had left it adjusted for someone approximately 6'6. I was so stupid from physical exhaustion at that point, I spent about two minutes trying to figure out how to readjust it, until a gentleman who I always think of as, and who we will thus call, Kettlebell Guy****, came over and kindly asked me if I needed help. He fixed it for me and told me the secret. I did my curls and staggered out of there. In fact, I staggered over to the Gulu and got a latte and a blue cheese salad with chicken because my need for food at that point was beyond my ability to get home and prepare some and beyond what the organic food protein bar in my purse could quench. So, yes, this was the hardest I have ever voluntarily worked out***** and...yeah, I almost see the appeal. Huh.
Final only tangentially-related aside: when you eat out alone do you over-tip your server (assuming you're sitting at a table, not the bar, that is)? I do, and did today, because I feel as if I am taking up a space that two people would have otherwise been sitting at, and the server is thus losing the amount of the second diner's tip. And s/he's making just as many trips to the table. I dunno. I feel better leaving a generous amount, unless of course the service sucks.
xoxo
***I'm leaning heavily towards "I attract them" on the basis I have yet another one flirting heavily online with me right now. This guy's typical pleasant weekend morning is a 41 mile bike ride with a 2300 foot climb. Insane. Anyway, believe me, I am not encouraging this flirting because a.) he lives in Alabama and b.) being originally from NYC, he's a Yankees fan, and you know how I feel about mixed marriages and c.) I think he's religious and most importantly d.) he's not a contractor, so what the fuck good is he to me? I ask you.
****What is the deal with those things anyway? I don't see anybody doing anything with them you couldn't do with a regular dumbbell. Is it just that they look cool or what?
*****The hardest I have ever involuntarily worked out was climbing that goddamned mountain in the Adirondacks which almost cost me two toenails and after which I literally almost could not walk for a day and a half. August 1998, the athletic peak of my life. Sigh.
Friday, November 12, 2010
these.are.words
Not completely sure what would be more satisfying to my reading audience (ha!), continuing to just post pictures of attractive people (I was gonna say "fuckable", but then I remembered Marilyn, and there will be NO necrophilia in this blog, thankyouverymuch) interspersed with the occasional photo of myself in zombie makeup and/or flexing, or actually writing an entry that contains, like, sentences and paragraphs and perhaps even an idea or, god forbid, a point. I know what's easier for me, and you all know I R lazy.
But, seriously? I've got nothing to say. I mean, I've got shit to say, but you've either heard it all before or it's of no interest to anyone but me or it involves other people and so cannot be broadcast here.
I will tell you a couple things M2 told me the other day (random blog is random.) 1.) Less than 1% of the American population is Buddhist and that's what's wrong with this country, and 2.) when I gave her her massage before she took the back pictures for me, she could tell I am a lot stronger--which I found interesting because I wasn't even trying to go particularly deep with her. The other M2 news is that, having long ago taken a hot stone seminar and having the equipment for it at her house, but rarely doing it 'cause she kind of hates it, she and I and hopefully (please, please) our friend G are going to get together next month and have a hot stone extravaganza wherein she teaches us everything she knows and reviews herself and we all play around with rocks on each other. The invitation to this event in my inbox was entitled "everybody must get stoned!" Heh. I suppose if I am actually ever going to add this to my repertoire, I'll eventually have to buy the equipment and then practice with it. This means I may need volunteers. In the winter, when it's cold, and hot stones feel good (<--selling point, so don't all y'all go telling me you're "too busy" or some such nonsense). Also, I promise not to burn you. More than first degree. Oh, I kid, I kid. Okay! How about "baby animals in clothing" to round out your Friday morning?
You squeed. Admit it.
Really, I will write something about something sometime soon. Really. Until then, namaste, bitches.
xoxo
But, seriously? I've got nothing to say. I mean, I've got shit to say, but you've either heard it all before or it's of no interest to anyone but me or it involves other people and so cannot be broadcast here.
I will tell you a couple things M2 told me the other day (random blog is random.) 1.) Less than 1% of the American population is Buddhist and that's what's wrong with this country, and 2.) when I gave her her massage before she took the back pictures for me, she could tell I am a lot stronger--which I found interesting because I wasn't even trying to go particularly deep with her. The other M2 news is that, having long ago taken a hot stone seminar and having the equipment for it at her house, but rarely doing it 'cause she kind of hates it, she and I and hopefully (please, please) our friend G are going to get together next month and have a hot stone extravaganza wherein she teaches us everything she knows and reviews herself and we all play around with rocks on each other. The invitation to this event in my inbox was entitled "everybody must get stoned!" Heh. I suppose if I am actually ever going to add this to my repertoire, I'll eventually have to buy the equipment and then practice with it. This means I may need volunteers. In the winter, when it's cold, and hot stones feel good (<--selling point, so don't all y'all go telling me you're "too busy" or some such nonsense). Also, I promise not to burn you. More than first degree. Oh, I kid, I kid. Okay! How about "baby animals in clothing" to round out your Friday morning?
You squeed. Admit it.
Really, I will write something about something sometime soon. Really. Until then, namaste, bitches.
xoxo
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
one more...
Maybe I should buy myself this poster of Marilyn bench pressing for my birthday. Cheaper than shoes, kindles, or a GoWearFit, and you must admit it's awesome.
Content will return to this blog any day now. Any.day.now.
xoxo
Content will return to this blog any day now. Any.day.now.
xoxo
more actual pretty people
I'd take Serena Williams' ass, too. But I don't think I could carry it off on my frame, even if I could through millions of squats and years of sprinting somehow develop it. So just enjoy the glute show. You're welcome.
xoxo
Monday, November 8, 2010
for ms crispix, T&A
Thighs and abs!
With a side of Joe Perry. Step away from the tea party, Joe!
xoxo
With a side of Joe Perry. Step away from the tea party, Joe!
xoxo
more conversational gambits
Yesterday M1 called a dear old friend of hers who is now living in Florida in a retirement community. This woman is into her eighties now, mind. When M1 called her, she expressed great joy at receiving the call, because something was wrong with her television. "It's not working?" M1 asked. Oh, no, it was working. It was working just fine. But the people on Fox News were...not the same. M1 gently and delicately explained that, well, it was Sunday, and so the regular weekday anchors probably would not in fact be on.
"I know it's Sunday," her friend explained indignantly. "But they're saying the wrong things." Oh. (Editor's note: this is the point at which in hearing this anecdote I started laughing so hard, I thought I might pee myself. Another point towards my going to hell, I'm sure.) Wrong things? Yes. And Obama caused it. By going to India.
Who knew? Barack leaves the country and the Fox News anchors are replaced by liberals. Or, possibly, robots.
M1, bless her, tried to diffuse this by putting Fox News on *her* TV, so they could compare. "Do you have a woman wearing a purple blouse on now?" No, hers was wearing *royal blue*! M1 started to get into TV monitor color variations but, I dunno, gave up and eventually got off the phone.
It makes me wonder if when I start getting demented, I'll go the conspiracy theory route. I'm still thinking I'll be more like the old woman with the too-much badly-applied blush and inappropriate sexy clothing, but you never know. The commie robots will probably have confiscated all our stretch pants by then.
xoxo
"I know it's Sunday," her friend explained indignantly. "But they're saying the wrong things." Oh. (Editor's note: this is the point at which in hearing this anecdote I started laughing so hard, I thought I might pee myself. Another point towards my going to hell, I'm sure.) Wrong things? Yes. And Obama caused it. By going to India.
Who knew? Barack leaves the country and the Fox News anchors are replaced by liberals. Or, possibly, robots.
M1, bless her, tried to diffuse this by putting Fox News on *her* TV, so they could compare. "Do you have a woman wearing a purple blouse on now?" No, hers was wearing *royal blue*! M1 started to get into TV monitor color variations but, I dunno, gave up and eventually got off the phone.
It makes me wonder if when I start getting demented, I'll go the conspiracy theory route. I'm still thinking I'll be more like the old woman with the too-much badly-applied blush and inappropriate sexy clothing, but you never know. The commie robots will probably have confiscated all our stretch pants by then.
xoxo
bad religion
I was, this very morning, subjected on the bus to a very loud, very evangelizing conversation. Not, mind you, on the prison bus. The felons, if they have indeed accepted Jesus Christ as their personal savior whilst in the pen, at least have the grace to shut the fuck up about it. No, this conversation started out as an innocent convo about football into which Ms Born Again inserted herself, discussing the moral failings of today's pro athletes and how she wouldn't pay to go see a game BUT how your average Pats fan wouldn't pay to see Jesus at Foxboro. It got better from there.
She started in on how hell is real, though people don't want to believe it. The gentleman whose conversation she had butted into said something about how Jesus judges you by what is in your heart. Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Ms Born Again was very adamant that good works mean nothing. You will only escape hell by accepting Jesus as your savior and admitting you are a sinner. Everything else is meaningless.
I think this explains a lot about all those scandals involving the bigshot Evangelical ministers, no? Being a shitty, shitty person is apparently okay. In fact, one would, if one were to use logic (I know, I know), extrapolate that being a shitty, shitty person is preferable because how can you admit you're a sinner if you aren't doing bad shite? I always joke about how confession is the Catholic get-out-of-jail-free card, because theoretically, you can do whatever the fuck you want as long as you get it all absolved before you kick off. But that's really not true. When you confess, you are supposed to be a.) actually sorry and b.) actually resolved to try to do better. You can't go to confession on Saturday afternoon and tell the priest you've been banging your neighbor's wife while you're meanwhile planning to head to her house on Tuesday for a little somethin' somethin'. OUR Jesus doesn't hold with that. But Born Again Jesus apparently is a-ok with keeping y'all out of hell no matter the sinning as long as you say, yo, Jesus, I'm bad but you're my savior, dude. No doing good things required!
Well, as you can probably imagine, I could stand only a little bit of this before I was moved to take my iPod out of my purse and try to drown it out with some Old Skool Aerosmith, which just happened to be what I was lifting to yesterday. Unfortunately, when the football guy asked Born Again Lady what she thought about 2012, the forthcoming exposition on the Rapture was lively enough that even Steven Tyler screaming in my ears about being back in the saddle couldn't block it from my hearing. I had to turn the volume all the way up. Not only am I going to hell, but I'll be fucking deaf when I get there. Sigh.
Born Again Lady also said that Jesus talked more about hell than anything else. I dunno. I am no Biblical scholar, and you know we (former or current) Catholics are weak on the bible, but I was forced to go to church enough in my youth that I've heard a whole lot of gospels-according-to. I remember Jesus talking about being your brother's keeper and not casting the first stone and how the rich man wasn't gonna easily pass into heaven and basically a lot of other stuff about love and forgiveness and social justice. Okay, it was the 70s and we had hippie nuns. But the priests were mostly old dudes. I'm sure they didn't just skip over the 95% of the New Testament Born Again Lady would have me believe is about burning in hell.
"Good works mean nothing." How do these people sleep at night? Yeah, I know, better than me, all smug and satisfied they've got it all figured out. I'll get back to you after I start the Church of Joe Perry's Leather Pants.***
xoxo
***Not really. Ever since I found out he's a conservative Republican, it's ruined his old-man hotness for me. I'm shallow like that.
She started in on how hell is real, though people don't want to believe it. The gentleman whose conversation she had butted into said something about how Jesus judges you by what is in your heart. Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Ms Born Again was very adamant that good works mean nothing. You will only escape hell by accepting Jesus as your savior and admitting you are a sinner. Everything else is meaningless.
I think this explains a lot about all those scandals involving the bigshot Evangelical ministers, no? Being a shitty, shitty person is apparently okay. In fact, one would, if one were to use logic (I know, I know), extrapolate that being a shitty, shitty person is preferable because how can you admit you're a sinner if you aren't doing bad shite? I always joke about how confession is the Catholic get-out-of-jail-free card, because theoretically, you can do whatever the fuck you want as long as you get it all absolved before you kick off. But that's really not true. When you confess, you are supposed to be a.) actually sorry and b.) actually resolved to try to do better. You can't go to confession on Saturday afternoon and tell the priest you've been banging your neighbor's wife while you're meanwhile planning to head to her house on Tuesday for a little somethin' somethin'. OUR Jesus doesn't hold with that. But Born Again Jesus apparently is a-ok with keeping y'all out of hell no matter the sinning as long as you say, yo, Jesus, I'm bad but you're my savior, dude. No doing good things required!
Well, as you can probably imagine, I could stand only a little bit of this before I was moved to take my iPod out of my purse and try to drown it out with some Old Skool Aerosmith, which just happened to be what I was lifting to yesterday. Unfortunately, when the football guy asked Born Again Lady what she thought about 2012, the forthcoming exposition on the Rapture was lively enough that even Steven Tyler screaming in my ears about being back in the saddle couldn't block it from my hearing. I had to turn the volume all the way up. Not only am I going to hell, but I'll be fucking deaf when I get there. Sigh.
Born Again Lady also said that Jesus talked more about hell than anything else. I dunno. I am no Biblical scholar, and you know we (former or current) Catholics are weak on the bible, but I was forced to go to church enough in my youth that I've heard a whole lot of gospels-according-to. I remember Jesus talking about being your brother's keeper and not casting the first stone and how the rich man wasn't gonna easily pass into heaven and basically a lot of other stuff about love and forgiveness and social justice. Okay, it was the 70s and we had hippie nuns. But the priests were mostly old dudes. I'm sure they didn't just skip over the 95% of the New Testament Born Again Lady would have me believe is about burning in hell.
"Good works mean nothing." How do these people sleep at night? Yeah, I know, better than me, all smug and satisfied they've got it all figured out. I'll get back to you after I start the Church of Joe Perry's Leather Pants.***
xoxo
***Not really. Ever since I found out he's a conservative Republican, it's ruined his old-man hotness for me. I'm shallow like that.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
more pretty pics
Here's another picture of everyone's favorite "sports reporter." I'm thinking her back and ass are absolutely perfect, but her arms could use a tiny bit more muscle and definition. There *may* be pictures of my back this week, so perhaps we'll see how close it's getting to this. My ass, talk to me in another 15 months of heavy squats. Or, y'know, never. Or time travel to 1979. Whatev.
And here's my other object of body envy. While I will never have those lovely breasts again, her perfect shoulders and just-right arms are within reach. (Uh, disregarding the age spots and old woman skin. Shut up.) No, seriously, I am so happy with how my arms are looking. I admire myself in the Y mirror doing my preacher curls just like the gym douchebags, and am only a little ashamed of it. What brings this photo eye candy extravaganza up? Oh, a poll on what body type men like best and what women aspire to. Want to see the original choices? Sure you do.
It was pretty much a tie between two and three, with many people saying somewhere in between the two, and then people posting their own candidates for perfect female body. Alas, on this particular forum you need a certain number of posts to upload pictures, so I can only share my googling of Ms Sainz and Ms Rihanna with you guys. And you already know my feelings. But you know you like looking at pretty chicks, so quit your bitchin. (I also saw some more hot futbol player thigh pics today. If you're nice, I'll post those too.)
xoxo
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
important shoe questions
Does the logo tag on these shoes spoil them? If not, what color would you go for? Should I buy them for myself for my birthday even though they are very expensive, keeping in mind that a.) I have just spent about $1500 on vet bills but b.) they are lined in shearling so very toasty and have rubber heels so very comfy?
Oh, and in case you're looking to buy me something to celebrate my turning 48 and supplying you with all these semi-entertaining blog posts, I put a whole bunch of shit in my amazon wishlist yesterday so D could surprise me. You could surprise me too, bitches! Alcohol's good too.
Smooches.
xoxo
Oh, and in case you're looking to buy me something to celebrate my turning 48 and supplying you with all these semi-entertaining blog posts, I put a whole bunch of shit in my amazon wishlist yesterday so D could surprise me. You could surprise me too, bitches! Alcohol's good too.
Smooches.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
ghost of halloween future
As much as I was pleased with how Zombie Andrea turned out, especially considering my utter lack of thought and preparation, I do know I could have stepped up my game. I didn't have any rotting (latex) skin. There should have been blood continuing onto my neck and chest, zombies being messy eaters n' all, but I didn't want to take the chance of ruining my lolcats shirt. But in viewing other people's Halloween costumes on the interwebz, I found what was perhaps my biggest impediment to an above-and-beyond fabulous costume. I should have been Zombie Somebody Else, rather than Zombie Andrea.
Someone dressing up as a zombie? Okay. Somebody dressing up as a famous person or fictional character? Okay. Somebody dressing up as the zombie version of a famous person or fictional character? Brilliant! Zombie Shari Lewis (w/ Zombie Lambchop!)? Zombie Amelia Earhart? Zombie Joan Holloway? Zombie Sarah Palin? Now we're talking creativity!
I guess I now have one full year to plan this. Which means all y'all will be expecting better than what a person who was googling makeup tutorials online the Friday before Halloween can reasonably be expected to provide. You can help by suggesting to me what famous person or character you'd like to see zombified for shits n' giggles. I will give public props and probably leftover Halloween candy to anyone whose idea I choose to purloin next year, of course. Kthxbai!
xoxo
Someone dressing up as a zombie? Okay. Somebody dressing up as a famous person or fictional character? Okay. Somebody dressing up as the zombie version of a famous person or fictional character? Brilliant! Zombie Shari Lewis (w/ Zombie Lambchop!)? Zombie Amelia Earhart? Zombie Joan Holloway? Zombie Sarah Palin? Now we're talking creativity!
I guess I now have one full year to plan this. Which means all y'all will be expecting better than what a person who was googling makeup tutorials online the Friday before Halloween can reasonably be expected to provide. You can help by suggesting to me what famous person or character you'd like to see zombified for shits n' giggles. I will give public props and probably leftover Halloween candy to anyone whose idea I choose to purloin next year, of course. Kthxbai!
xoxo
Monday, November 1, 2010
than never to have
The other day a twenty-ish kid posted a simple question: how many times have you been in love? Seems he's been once, from age 16-19, and reading between the lines, thinks it will never happen again. Awww, they're so cute at that age. Anyway, a woman of 35 (who's apparently been stewing in bitterness for 11 years or so) answered thusly:
Once. It started when I was 21 and lasted for three years. It was like a roller coaster: admiration, confusion, guilt, passion, desire, love, sex, hate. Since then I've decided never ever again! It is much better to be loved.
Discuss! (Heh.)
No, seriously. I found this fascinating, even with smilies attached. Maybe she's on to something. I mean, *obviously*, as you all know and judging from my bitter shriveled heart*** and sad romantic history, I have no idea how to facilitate this. I don't inspire love, at least not in the long term. Once they're no longer fascinated with my cunt and my big rack, the rest of me is apparently too weird and annoying to deal with. (Until they wake up from their near-death experiences and realize they've been wrong all along. Ha! [I'm sorry, but that will never stop being both funny and horrifying. Which is probably another reason I'm unlovable!])
But, y'know, on the other hand? I guess even if I could facilitate it, I really wouldn't want it. To be loved and not love back, that is. Obviously the first rush of infatuation is a chemical soup of pheromones and endorphins ("love is the drug and I need to score"--Brian Ferry) that beats out a lot of other drugs in the rush department.**** But the love that comes after that? The real love? The experience of that is so life-affirming, even if and when it ultimately breaks your heart. We exist to think, but we also exist to feel. Don't ever want to not feel.
(Twenty-ish weightlifting bro? You'll love again; don't listen to bitter older chicks.)*****
xoxo
***Do you need an irony alert? Really? Really?
****Not that I ever have used non-lawfully prescribed drugs. Ahem.
*****The parentheticals are out of friggin' control in this post. Deal!
Once. It started when I was 21 and lasted for three years. It was like a roller coaster: admiration, confusion, guilt, passion, desire, love, sex, hate. Since then I've decided never ever again! It is much better to be loved.
Discuss! (Heh.)
No, seriously. I found this fascinating, even with smilies attached. Maybe she's on to something. I mean, *obviously*, as you all know and judging from my bitter shriveled heart*** and sad romantic history, I have no idea how to facilitate this. I don't inspire love, at least not in the long term. Once they're no longer fascinated with my cunt and my big rack, the rest of me is apparently too weird and annoying to deal with. (Until they wake up from their near-death experiences and realize they've been wrong all along. Ha! [I'm sorry, but that will never stop being both funny and horrifying. Which is probably another reason I'm unlovable!])
But, y'know, on the other hand? I guess even if I could facilitate it, I really wouldn't want it. To be loved and not love back, that is. Obviously the first rush of infatuation is a chemical soup of pheromones and endorphins ("love is the drug and I need to score"--Brian Ferry) that beats out a lot of other drugs in the rush department.**** But the love that comes after that? The real love? The experience of that is so life-affirming, even if and when it ultimately breaks your heart. We exist to think, but we also exist to feel. Don't ever want to not feel.
(Twenty-ish weightlifting bro? You'll love again; don't listen to bitter older chicks.)*****
xoxo
***Do you need an irony alert? Really? Really?
****Not that I ever have used non-lawfully prescribed drugs. Ahem.
*****The parentheticals are out of friggin' control in this post. Deal!
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