update, as there is more

I totally forgot to mention this earlier, but I found yesterday unarguable proof of how ghetto (or, okay, ghetto-adjacent) my neighborhood is. Not a mile from my house, I saw something that I have never in my 48 years of life seen before. A tagged snowbank. Actually, two, on opposite corners. As I said to everyone I've already mentioned this to, least destructive vandals EVAH, yo.

My boss, who really appreciated the mental picture this conjured in his head, said I should have taken a picture. He's right. I'd suggest I go take one tomorrow, but, uh, it's gonna be covered up by fresh snow. I don't know if you've heard. Ahem.

In case you're interested and haven't heard the numbers yet, we've had 60 inches of snow officially so far, and the all time record is 107.6 in the winter of 1995-96. I remember it well. It was our first year living in this house and in early December I decided to, as seemed to be the norm for the new neighborhood, put some outside Christmas lights up, on the bush in front of my front window. A few days after I put those lights up, they were covered in heavy snowfall and we did not see them again until April. *That's* how much snow we had that year. I decided that was a sign from the universe that I was not meant to have outside Christmas lights and I never attempted that shit again.

Now I will stop talking about crappy winters and visualize myself at a resort in the Caribbean, being served fruity and highly alcoholic beverages by Raul, the handsome pool boy. You go visualize whatever the hell you want.

xoxo

take away my shoelaces, please

Because I'm on suicide watch.

My boss just cheerfully informed me there is going to be 4-6 inches of snow tomorrow, followed by either another foot+ of snow Wednesday or an ice storm that will probably leave us all shivering in the dark with downed trees in our driveways. I am not exaggerating when I tell you I cannot take anymore of this. It's a good thing that yesterday I a.) got my first pedicure since September [because I just could not take my gross feet anymore] and b.) got drunk on overly expensive cocktails, because a person really needs some kind of perks to keep themselves going in this shit [even if they cannot actually afford such.] I don't know about you, but I may not make it to April. Fucking global warming.

The downside of yesterday's festivities was brunch with what I can only characterize as the worst service I have encountered in a long, long time. Kid, I only hope you're working your way through college successfully, 'cause you ain't gonna have a career in the food service industry to fall back on. How long do you, dear reader, think it should take to procure a dessert menu after you've asked for one? Clue: the answer is NOT "ten minutes" in a half-full restaurant. Kudos to the pastry chef, though, 'cause the chocolate cherry bread pudding was freaking delicious when I finally got to order and then consume it.

Another upside, however, is that, after my flatiron just decided to stop heating up this past week--leading to two really bad hair days in a row--I replaced it with not another flatiron (I think I'm over that--it's so 2004) but with a very wide-barrelled curling iron, and after using it yesterday before I went out, I had the most floofy adorable hair ever. In fact I came back from the restaurant bathroom yesterday and remarked, "My hair looks awesome today. Just sayin'." It's a good thing my friends are used to me by now. Ha!

In the downside column, my kid has so successfully succeeded in plugging up the toilet in his bathroom with a massive dump, that two days of plunging and all the home remedies the internet has to offer (dish soap and hot water! vinegar and baking soda!) has not completely dislodged it. If I end up having to pay a plumber because of that boy's colon problems, I'm not going to be happy.

Okay, I think that is all I have to tell you/complain about. I will update if there is more.

xoxo

for the techies *and* the animal lovers in the crowd

You know which you are.



xoxo

sometimes a compliment is just a cigar

I recently bought myself this long flowy vest, purposely to wear over some things that otherwise are slightly too sheer or too floofy to wear to work. Well, today I am wearing it with the infamous wedding cake dress/top, leggings, and boots. As soon as Led Zep girl saw this ensemble this morning, she went nuts. She loves the shirt, she loves the vest, she loves the two of them together. And when Receptionist Without Colorful Nickname came in, she started telling her to go check out my outfit because it's so cute and stylish.

Apparently my boss overheard all this and so felt compelled to stick his head in my office and say deadpan, "I hear you're looking stylish today."

I gave him my wide-eyed disingenuous look and my most sincere voice. "I'm wearing my new vest."

Cut to later in the day. I was in the back room and he came in to get coffee. "Nice outfit, Andrea!" Because, much like this blog, in my office we never let a joke drop.

I smirked at him. "You wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't been told."

And so he started telling me that, yeah, his wife will go to the salon and come back with a slightly different hair color that he of course *won't* notice, and he is then subjected to many pointed remarks about how insensitive he is. I told him, yeah, it's unfortunate, but we women do many things we think will make us more attractive to our men, and it's always stuff yous people never notice. (Cleavage and a plate of cupcakes, amirite? I'll figure this shit out yet!)

He countered by saying that if you say "you look nice today," you are implying she doesn't look nice all the other days, so by saying nothing it means you always think she's beautiful. I said, "No, no, no. You say, 'you're looking particularly beautiful today.'" He was slightly awestruck and had to admit that was damn good. I suggested he go home and try it tonight. Uh uh. The response to that would be, like the response to spontaneous flowers, "Okay, WHAT have you done?"

His closing thesis statement was that you therefore cannot be nice, because nice is always equated with guilt. I wanted to rebut this, but I realized that in some relationships, it probably is. There has to be some kind of precedent set before you bust out the "you're looking particularly beautiful today" or someone's gonna assume you bought a motorcycle or fucked a flight attendant.

Cliff notes: Girls--provide boobs and pastry. Boys--set the precedent ASAP or you will suffer. That'll be $200. You're welcome. God, I should write a book.

xoxo

faithless promise breakers and concern trolls

No, not really. However, my neighbor who offered me the sweet plowing-for-parking deal, did not park in my yard last night and thus did not remove my snow. So I was forced to do it again myself with my Home Depot (not Big Lots, thankyouverymuch) shovel in order to come to work today. As I was plodding along (and having taken my down coat off I was so hot), my neighbor across the street popped over and said, "Andrea, my snowblower isn't working, but please don't try to do this all yourself." I reassured him I was doing just fine and thanked him for his concern.

He went back to his side of the street to finish up, but later came over and started digging out the infamous mailbox! Then a guy from up the street (and his dog) wandered over and asked if I needed help with the muck the snowplows had piled up in the driveway. Oh, sure. His dog had fun exploring my garage, which I'm sure still smells like dead cat, and sniffing my crotch WHICH DOES NOT, in case you were gonna go for the easy joke, bitches. So once again the neighbors aren't being douchebags. However, across the street neighbor, who is nosy as hell, eventually came into my garage, showed me what was broken on my snowblower, opined on what I should do with some of my dad's shit that isn't out of there yet, and then quizzed/lectured me on where my main breaker is and my main water shutoff and what to do in case of emergency. (I did not tell him you people already gave me the tutorial about how to keep my pipes from freezing. I'm pretty sure he knows the word "tutorial" though.) And he said he just worries about me.

So, yeah, as I suspected, the neighbors are pretty sure I am incapable of fending for myself, husbandless and alone, and this is why they've been being nice: outta pity. I guess help offered due to the conviction that you are a helpless pathetic moron (which, yeah, I'm not denying--do I ask you all stupid questions, or what?) is better than no help at all! Got the snow done in two hours instead of three after all.

xoxo

Addendum: And now I come home to find the part of the sidewalk we didn't do, the part the DPW workers made a big snowpile on with their backhoe last week, has been cleared by someone with a mega snowblower. THAT had to be the guy next door; he leaves early and gets home early. So he is not a faithless promise breaker after all. I think he wants more cookies.

oh, andrea, you know better

Yes, I do. I really do. And yet I ventured out in public without the blessed shelter of my blaring iPod covering up the inanity of the workings of other people's minds, as expressed through their vocal apparatuses. <--(I was reading some David Foster Wallace today; shit's about to get wordy in here.*** Ha!)

Let me give you the set up here: at Haymarket this afternoon, there was a lady with a sandwich board about Jesus and burning in hell and such trying to pass out pamphlets. I have never seen her before, but I assumed she was filling in for the guy with the anti-abortion and burning in hell sandwich board--c'mon, if you ever set foot in the city of Boston, you know the dude I'm talking about--who probably was taking a sick day or something. I ignored her, as I ignore all religious zealots and people who are unfortunately off their antipsychotics, and got on my bus, whereupon I remove my kindle from my bag and resume the stylings of Mr Foster Wallace (or Mr Wallace, whichever is correct, I dunno.)

Guy sits behind me. I take little notice. Other guy boards and sits next to him. They know each other. Guy1 (later to be known in this story as Black Guy) says--at this point I'm thinking jokingly--something along the lines of "Man, there's lots of empty seats and you gotta sit next to me?" Guy2 (who will later be known as Gay Guy) says something mildly joking back and comments on Black Guy having taken a pamphlet from Jesus Lady. Black Guy says Gay Guy should have taken one too, as he probably needs it. Gay Guy says he goes to church every Sunday, and confirmation classes too. Black Guy asks, "And they don't say nothing about your sexual orientation?" Gay Guy says that's coming up in confirmation class next week. (We never covered that in mine, but I was 11.)

Black Guy says, "Aren't you ever gonna change that?" This goes completely over Gay Guy's head and he starts discussing how, no, he's Catholic and he's gonna stay Catholic. The two of them talk at cross purposes in a who's-on-first conversation, to the point I want to turn around and say, "You moron, he's asking you if you're ever gonna give up fucking men, and *you* moron, it's not something you give up, like smoking." It's at this point I decide the iPod's coming out of my bag and why the hell hasn't it sooner?

But before I can get sweet sweet musical relief from this uncomfortable conversation, Gay Guy finally catches on and comments that he knew Black Guy was uncomfortable around him, and that is why when they're picking partners at school (ah! that's where they know each other from!) Gay Guy never asks Black Guy to work with him. Black Guy doesn't deny his discomfort, but does protest they have been partnered. "I worked on you. I did your back!" (Wait...do they...are they...)

I have my earbuds in at this point and crank the volume to 11, because, really I am so uncomfortable and I'm not even part of the conversation. But apparently the rest of it doesn't go well as Gay Guy gets up and moves his seat. To the sideways seat at the front of the bus, where I see him immerse himself in circling things he wants to buy in the Massage fucking Warehouse catalog. Yup, they know each other from massage school and I'm sure it ain't the one I attended 'cause Black Guy woulda had the homophobia skeered outta him by day 3 by our 80% lesbian teaching staff or quit. Or been thrown out on his ass for showing any signs he was unwilling to work with a fellow student because of sex, orientation, ethnicity, whatev.

Which, frankly? I wouldn't want to see either of these dudes with an LMT after their names. One's an ignorant bigot and one's apparently got the IQ of cooked cereal. But you know how it is. Some of these "career colleges" they advertise during Judge Judy will take anyone who can get a student loan they'll later default on.

So says the woman who didn't have her iPod cranked to 11 *before* stepping onto public transportation. Sigh. Who's got the IQ of cooked cereal now?

xoxo

***you ever find yourself doing that? semi-consciously drifting into someone else's writing style after you've just been immersed in their work? David Foster Wallace (in case you don't know) writes very very long sentences with convoluted clauses.

civilization is probably ending but at least i'll be cozy

A major retailer of teenage girl clothing is selling this shirt and I am dying a little more inside every day. Just thought you'd want to know.




However, in far better clothing news, last night I bought online a clearance J Crew merino wool sweater with an additional 40% off, which brought the price to...wait for it...wait for it...keep waiting, it's worth it...$11.99, bitches. Now, it's a weird pink color that they call "light berry" and will probably look horrible with my complexion, but a marino wool sweater for 12 bucks? It had to be bought.

Also? Did you hear Jack LaLanne died? He was awesome. I saw him on an episode of Gilad the other day--I don't know what year it was from, but it couldn't have been that old--and Jack was cranking out pushups on the beach. I hope that's me in 40 years. Hey, by then I'll probably have mastered those pistol squats! Heh.

xoxo

more asspirational pictures

(Did you see what I did there? Ha!)

Now sit down. Maybe hold on to something. Okay. You ready? I'ma say something nice about my own body.

My calves are way better than this chick's.

Her butt does, however, rule.

Carry on.

xoxo

more humiliating admissions and a call for your help

What's with the long blog titles today? God.

Okay, do you remember my telling you that over Thanksgiving D played scrabble with the Benevolent L and me, and really enjoyed himself, and then wanted to play it on Christmas and NYE? And how that really pleased me, because there's a definite difference in him when he's interested in things, and even better, interested in things that involve social interaction and not just being totally inward? Well, now he's at the point where he's asked me spontaneously to play a game with him. He also went down the cellar to see what other games we have from when he was a kid. This has, not incidentally, coincided with other positive developments like remembering to do those things around the house that I've made his job, making a few phone calls on his own (major!), and showering almost every day (not just when he has to go somewhere or someone's coming over or when I say, "yo, you're starting to stink, dude.") Again, not stuff that anyone else would find remarkable, but very heartening to me.

Well, Tuesday night he asked if I wanted to play scrabble. I was tired and at first I said no, but immediately changed my mind, because yeah, don't want to discourage any attempts to engage. So we started playing, and we were both having a crappy game. Our scores were pathetic. At the end I asked him if he wanted to go again and no. Both of us were just not feeling it. So then I suggested that instead he go pick out another game out of the others he'd found downstairs. Cool. And thus it came to be--here's the humiliating admission, get ready--GET READY--that two (chronologically) mature adults played a spirited game of Operation, with no grade school children in sight. We actually had a blast and laughed our asses off. It was really hard. In fact, the writer's cramp? That's impossible. Neither one of us could get that damn pencil out after about forty tries, so we ended the game with it still in the patient. I kept saying, "What's it say on the box? Ages six and up? There's no way in HELL a six year old has the fine motor coordination for this. Are they on drugs?"

Here's where I need your help, boys and girls. Does anyone have any suggestions for less embarrassing, but fun!, games for two players? Caveats as follows. We have Clue (which was D's fave as a kid) but that's impossible to play with two people, Trivial Pursuit which can be played with two people but is a lot more fun with more, Yahtzee which I like but D doesn't care for, Life and probably Monopoly but those take too damn long. Neither one of us knows how to play chess. I used to know how to play cribbage and backgammon when I was a teenager, but I totally forget after not having anyone to play them with for 30 years. D and I played many many games of crazy 8s when he was in the hospital (irony, we haz it) so while we've discussed how we should play cards again, I think the idea is a little bittersweet for both of us, frankly.

I was thinking Uno, which I vaguely remember as being fun, but is that more than a two-person game? Also, Boggle, but looking online, the new-fangled electronic versions seem to be given the thumbs down by people like me who remember the original. Then I was thinking, what's the game of world domination Kramer and Newman were playing in that episode of Seinfeld? We never had that one. What's it called and do they still make that? Basically, I'm just looking for suggestions, peeps. I know this would be easier if we just bought an XBox or Wii to play together, but for reasons I am completely unclear on, D is dead set against that.

I've played Operation. Help me before we devolve further to Connect 4 or Hungry Hungry Hippos!

xoxo

it's snowing again and some people are pleased

I thought I would list some positive things about that white stuff falling out of the sky.

1.) All the little eight year olds are happy they have the day off from school again and can go outside in the snow or play XBox all day

2.) All the fifteen year olds are happy they have the day off from school and that they called it last night by 10 pm so they didn't have to do their homework and in fact can ignore it till Sunday night

3.) Big dogs are happy because they like playing in the snow even more than your average eight year old**

4.) People who like to ski at Wachusett are happy***

5.) Guys who plow are happy, because KA-CHING****

You know how I feel about snow, so no, I am not filled with joy. I will, however, mention the one thing about it that makes me happy every single time--little teeny kitteh paw prints across a sidewalk of fresh snow. I don't know what it is about paw prints that is so endearing, but they just are.

xoxo

Thought I'd forget the footnotes again, didn't you, bitches? WRONG!

**Though those little purse dogs always look absolutely miserable when you see them out on a walk in their little twee sweaters when there's snow on the ground, which reinforces my belief those things aren't actually dogs

***Though in my opinion they should be content with the manmade snow OR with hoping NH gets whacked, not us, and just driving a little further

****Though one of my little flirtatious city workers yesterday was bitching that people think they're making a shit ton of money with the overtime but that, actually, it all goes in taxes, to which I did not reply "oh, boohoo" because, damn, he was shoveling for me

Addendum: do you ever spell a word so incorrectly that spellcheck has no idea what you mean? Isn't that humiliating?

future contractor second ex-husband update n related

Yesterday morning, Mr Indemnity sent me this link and suggested I better cut that shit out or I will never find the handsome-guy-with-big-truck of my dreams. The implication being that I'd be too intimidating, what with the big brain and the big muscles. And I said, "Dude, if I can both outsmart him and beat him up, how is that not in my favor?" (Mr Indemnity had to concede my point.) Because, boys and girls, I have decided after much rumination and careful thought that in my next serious relationship, we're gonna play by *my* rulez, bitches.

[Do I need to put an irony alert in here? Srsly? You do understand that I do not condone any form of domestic violence or threats thereof and that any suggestion of assaulting contractors is only a joke in very poor taste? We good? Okay.]

So, let's step back for a sec. Remember the tree that fell into my driveway? Well, as of Tuesday, the city still had not removed it. And when I called that afternoon to complain, the nice DPW lady made noises about how busy they've been. I pointed out it had been SIX days. She took down my info. This was perhaps 1:30 pm. At approximately 8 pm Tuesday we see flashing light outside and a DPW supervisor rings my bell. He apologizes profusely and says he had no idea it was so bad up our way. He says he's calling a crew in and they will remove it that night and I will have access to my sidewalk and driveway. Yay.

I go out yesterday to find that while they've removed some of it, they left a whole bunch too. But it's better. I didn't have time to mess with anything yesterday, but this morning as soon as I got up, I went out to clean up as much as I could. This is difficult because the rain yesterday has frozen the remaining branches in place. I am chiseling away slowly with my shovel when the woman next door comes by, walking her grandson to the school bus. She is incensed by the crappy job the city has done and says I should call the DPW again today, before it snows on top of this again Friday. In fact, she says, she's gonna call too. I am still chiseling away when, ten minutes after she's returned to her house, a city truck pulls up. Sweet mother of god, I have no idea what kind of pull she has, but I wish she had used it sooner.

So these two guys are a riot. And full of sympathy for me. And totally agreeing that if they don't get that stuff out of our street before it snows tomorrow, it'll be there till May. So they're on their walkie-talkies trying to convince someone to send a backhoe over, with which they will remove all the branches, the snow banks and much of the frozen snow in my driveway. Meanwhile while they wait, they flirt with me. One of them takes my shovel away from me, saying, "You're killing me here." I tell him I work out and am not as puny as I look. He tells me I have the wrong tool, and then they make fun of my snow shovel, asking if I got it at Big Lots. No, Home Depot. "Maybe. It is orange." Despite my crappy, not-to-their-standards shovel, the one who's holding it shovels out a crapload of hard snow for me fairly quickly. His partner asks me if I have ice melt. I go get some. I ask him what he suggests I do with it--I though he wanted me to put it on the ice his buddy was working on or something--and he wises off that maybe I should put it, y'know, on the path to my front door. Then he criticizes my technique and says I should throw it like I'm bowling. He demonstrates. I am cracking up. "Oh! I get the ice melt tutorial!" "That's too big a word."

Finally we have done what we can, they're waiting for their reinforcements, and I need to go take a shower and go to work. I thank them profusely and go in. (And when I leave for work, progress is being made. I'm crossing my fingers it'll be perfect tonight when I get home.)

But to tie this all together, these guys obviously thought I was cute as a button even though I had on a down coat obscuring my boobs, no makeup, and my pajamas tucked into my boots. I think this is proof positive that I can snag me a manly man with a big truck at Home Depot if I fix up a little. I won't scare them off. (I do, however, now know that I'm not marrying anyone who doesn't know the word tutorial. There will be a vocab test.)

xoxo

breaking medical news

Did you know that some people with severe food allergies (dairy, peanuts) are so sensitive they cannot ingest their partners', um, bodily fluids if their partners don't abstain from the allergens too? And I mean, like, totally abstain? I didn't either!

If if came down to the choice of a.) no blowjobs ever or b.) no cheese ever or c.) dumping said partner, which would YOU choose? (Clue: if you would give up either blowjobs OR cheese, it must be twue luv. In the immortal words of Ms Carter-Knowles, put a ring on it! Stat!)

xoxo

iou and overdue

It occurs to me that since I have now finally seen both of the holiday season movies that I really wanted to see, I owe you all some reviews. However, since they've been out 6 weeks at this point and thus you've already read the reviews and/or have seen them yourselves, that would be a waste of all our time. So lets do just a few brief Andrea-type observations, shall we?

The Fighter. I had read somewhere before the film actually came out that Amy Adams had just given birth when they started filming and so was not at her prepregnancy weight. Sure enough, there she was bartending in her little crop top with a wee bit of belly chub showing. She looked adorable and sexy, of course, and actually it added to the verisimilitude. I am not the first to say it by any means, but it is a problem in Hollywood movies that female starring roles are always played by women who often look too good, too perfect, for the actual role. Would a townie girl bartender with a hint of a drinking problem look like an actress who hasn't touched a non-vegetable carb or a gram of fat in the past six years and who does two hours of Pilates 7 days a week? No, she would not. So yay for a tiny bit of belly chub. Now on to the male belly chub, a whole different other problem. I wouldn't have even registered this that much if I hadn't have been lifting weights. In the couple scenes where Mr Wahlberg has fallen into depression and temporarily given up fighting, he's gotten fat, In fact he is shown with his shirt off to prove the point. Well. In his fighting scenes, when he is ripped and lean, I'm guessing he's down to 9-11% bodyfat. And in his getting-fat scenes, with no abs at all any longer visible, he's probably 20% bodyfat. And I'm thinking how many weeks apart did they shoot those scenes, 'cause it'd take a serious amount of eating, drinking, and sitting on your ass to raise your body fat 10%? If they hadn't shown him with his shirt off, they coulda finessed it with clothing, but I don't think that was a fake torso. Or maybe it was. Maybe they have awesome makeup artists.

Black Swan. What a freaky movie. I have to say I could relate to her little breakdown in some ways (without the weird quasi-incestuous mother situation, the starvation, or the pressure of a starring role in anything) but if I *were* going to finally go all the way off the deep end from *my* pressure, you people know it would involve repeatedly checking my strange rash in the mirror, imagining it bleeding, thinking something was happening to it... When I've been in a real panic episode, it's had that flavor. Heh. My other comment on that film? I want all her practice clothes, all the little shrugs and wrap sweaters and layered camis and leg warmers and those sweater UGGs (which are the most impractical shoes ever and UGGly, but I still heart them.) Those dance clothes are adorable.

xoxo

but enough about me...

Let's do some links!

From the Yur Definitely Doin It Rong files, I give you a headline you don't see every day. If your partners' usual reactions to you cannot be easily differentiated from that of, y'know, a corpse, you probably should work some on your technique. After you're out of jail.

From the This Makes Me Stabby files, I give you douchebaggery in Idaho. You know what? If you have a problem dispensing certain drugs, don't become a pharmacist. Or, at least, get a job working in a hospital pharmacy making up IV solutions. That there are "conscience protection" laws for people in health care in the first place infuriates me. If part of the job you are hired for is morally distasteful to you, then you shouldn't have taken that job. I saw someone use a good analogy in discussing this case. She's a vegan (for ethical, not health, reasons) and she said it would be like her taking a job waiting tables, then refusing to serve people burgers. OMG, get the legislature right on that and make sure vegan restaurant workers aren't forced to be complicit in the serving of meat and vegan clothing store employees can make their customers take their leather jackets to another register! Oh, it doesn't work like that? The only moral qualm protected by law is refusal to dispense Plan B and oral contraceptives over the CVS counter? I forgot, we only respect the morals of right wing Christians in this country. Silly me.

xoxo

post storm misc n such

I know you love the snappy blog titles. Admit it.

Well, despite our dire predictions, some time during the night, the city got the tree out of the middle of the road, which is a blessing for everyone who lives up the hill and was planning on driving to work this morning. Unfortunately, they did not actually remove it yet, so my yard and driveway is still full o' tree. Lucky I take the prison bus, huh? Hoping when I go home tonight it'll be gone, but not holding my breath. I suppose I can spend most of the morning at work tomorrow calling the DPW if necessary! Also, the tree is blocking the (blog-famous) community mailbox, so not sure anyone on my street is getting any mail till it's gone.

So, yesterday evening while I was out shoveling a path from my door to the sidewalk and the sidewalk to the neighbor's driveway so we weren't completely trapped in the house, the older son next door (the one with the kids) came over and started helping me shovel. He thanked me for the cookies, said that they were delish and they scarfed them all down, and that he wasn't the one that cleared my snow that day. Oops. Now I don't know who did, but I am forced to admit there's someone else on my street who's not a douchebag. And possibly send them cookies! It's a mystery! Anyway, we had a nice little chat, and during it, he asked me if on snow days, he could park in my driveway, since they really don't have room for all the vehicles of everyone who lives in his house. In return, he will happily remove all my snow. Do you think I hesitated to accept this offer immediately, boys and girls? If you do, you haven't been paying attention. (I also did not point out that if he had been parked where he proposes to park on Wednesday morning, he'd have had a tree on top of his truck. But that point is moot now anyway. Heh.)

There's one problem out of the way. So then I was thinking about how we didn't have power for six hours yesterday and how what if they hadn't gotten it back on? My house would have gotten so cold--would it have made my pipes freeze? And I realized I do not know what you are supposed to do to avoid that. Was I supposed to shut off my main water valve or something in that eventuality? Well, I googled, as you do, and found something about letting the faucets drip. So if the power goes out for, like, over a day or something in the winter, if I just turned on the water a tiny bit in all my sinks, tubs, and showers and shut off the valve to the washing machine, that would work? Or am I wrong? Honestly, this has never happened and I have lived in this house since 1995, but yesterday scared me.

So the other thing about having no power is that when I was talking to the neighbor (who I will keep calling that, because embarrassingly, I don't know his first name; I know his youngest brother's 'cause it's the same as my son's which is the only way I would remember it) he said he was just getting ready to hook up his generator when the power came back on. I kinda investigated that online today too, because I guess having emergency power would keep me n' my pipes from freezing, but besides the expense and the complicated-ness (<--new word, just made it up) of this, you need to place them outside when they are running, and I can't figure out where I could do that when everything is covered with snow. Because I would assume it would need to be somewhere close to where my electrical box in the garage is? Correct me if I'm wrong; you know I am a stupid woman about this shit. I don't even know how to keep my pipes from freezing. Sigh.

So THEN I started thinking that the solution to a.) not freezing without power and b.) not paying the outrageous amount of money I'm paying for heat is to suck it up and use that damn woodstove that no one has used since my mom died. Can't do that this winter now, because I didn't have the chimney cleaned. And then there's the problem that I don't know how to make a fire. I googled that too. There's youtube video. Of course. I also internet-investigated the possibility of converting it to a pellet stove, but apparently pellet stoves use electricity. Go figure. That's why they're not a pain in the ass to use.

Anyway, that's what my employer's been paying me to do for the past two hours. I'm sure I'm worth every penny.

In other completely unrelated news, I also just read something from a 28 year old woman who is putting her *60* year old mother into a nursing home. If I had to go into a nursing home at age 60, I would just kill myself first. I am completely serious. The woman doesn't even have dementia either, just a lot of medical problems. That's very scary to contemplate, that like twelve years from now I'd be unable to care for myself. (Everyone who's sitting there going, "Uh, yeah, you can't take care of yourself now, dude, you don't even know how to keep the pipes from freezing," can just STFU, okay?) But I'm pretty sure my future contractor second ex-husband won't put me in a home. If we're still married. And I am definitely sure he'd know how to hook up an emergency generator. Where'd I put my cocktail dress again?

xoxo

snow update, oh FUCK edition

Tree from across the street that fell into my driveway and is blocking the road:

Utility pole next door snapped:


Closeup of my driveway:

Tree in front of my yard still upright, with downed power lines through it:

Tree next door that hasn't fallen on my roof yet:

And I still have electricity and internet!

xoxo

PS. I'm scared!

snow day youtube and fitness roundup

Seeing as I can't do much right at the moment other than sit in my bed with the laptop and my coffee, praying the power doesn't go out and/or Verizon FIOS stops working (having already lost satellite tv, yo), I'm just sorta following links and looking at videos and pretending like I'm learning shit that will help me at the gym and whatnot. I mean, I could be doing laundry, but what if the power goes out when I've got a load in the middle of washing? That would suck.

Anyway, I give you this first:

Skip ahead to about 4:40 and watch the feet in the freakin' shrubbery. I have no words It's surreal. But this is what happens when anyone with a cheap video camera can decide they are a.) an expert on whatever and b.) a filmmaker. Dollars to donuts, this guy has watched too much Namaste Yoga on FitTV (that's the one where, ooo, their mats are on the beach! and then, ooo, now their mats are in an atmospheric warehouse! and now, ooo! their mats are in an English garden, etc) and thought demoing pushups shirtless on his freakin' lanai would bring the viewers. Which, doh, *I* watched it, didn't I? Adulation, mockery, it's all the same in 2011.

Next, in more actual educational mode, I give you this chart from the website of Mr Bret Contreras, aka The Glute Guy. Mr Contreras is a well-known trainer and fitness writer who has an actual math and science background, and who has done EMG experiments on which muscles are really most activated during various exercises. In other words, he actually *is* an expert and not just some meathead.


Despite my embarrassment about being a weak puny 48 year old woman who can only use puny little weights, I am heartened that I am at least in the intermediate category for everything that I actually do, and advanced on a couple of things. This is what led to me searching for pushup instructional video, btw. I can do 8 or 10 pushups, not of the girly variety, but I'm suspicious they might not count, because I may not go all the way down enough. I can't do them to the point where my boobs touch the floor. I also have no idea if I can do a single pullup, because I haven't tried, and I'm not trying at the Y and embarrassing myself. D has one of those pullup things that hang off the door frame somehow that he used to use in high school, but it is not attached to the door any longer and when I asked him if he remembered how it goes, he said no. So my ability to practice at home till I'm at the point of not humiliating myself in front of 17 year old Dominican boys is on hold.

Okay, now I must go and resume my "studies." But you can be sure that if I find something else hilarious or self-aggrandizing, I'll be blogging more. I'm stuck at home, you people suffer. That's how it goes.

xoxo

why is success success?

I don't know if any of you have seen this or heard any of the backlash against it, including I guess the author apparently backpedaling on TV, but it's made me think. The last time I saw Mr Indemnity we were having this discussion of what local towns had "good" school systems and I opined that I honestly did not see the obsession with this. I mean, obviously, you would prefer not to live where there's a crappy crappy school system if you can't afford private school for your children, but "good" as defined by how many high school graduates they send to the Ivy League or some such shit? No. So I said to Mr Indemnity (with my disingenuous face on) "Well, you and I didn't go to Good Schools, and we turned out okay." And he said something about, well, yeah, but he doesn't have a PhD from Harvard. I pointed out that even if he had gone to good schools, he wouldn't have a PhD from Harvard, 'cause he doesn't have that kind of drive (NOT an insult, I don't have that kind of drive either) plus would he be any more happy right now if he did have that Ivy League PhD?

I realize that I don't value so much of what is considered success in this country. Which is probably one reason why I was such a crappy mother and raised a slacker, but that's besides the point. Having a prestigious diploma is good, I guess, if it allows you to do what you want in life, but so is a non-prestigious diploma or none at all if ditto. If what you really really want to do is eventually become a partner at one of the top law firms in the country, a Harvard law degree will probably help you. If you really really want to do legal aid work, the law degree from Suffolk night school is probably just as good. (And I'd tell you which of those things I think makes you more of a success in my terms, but that would just be my class rage showing. Dennis Lehane had a nice bon mot about class rage in that book I just read! He's probably a fellow sufferer!)

So why is that mother in the article so proud of making her kids be musical prodigies and straight A students anyway? Who says that's the end-all, be-all? Plus, I could myself tell you a lil story about how when mothers make their daughters think they're supposed to be perfect, it fucks them up royally and sometimes even backfires. Let's just say mommy isn't happy when colleges are dropped out of and scholarships are thrown away and girl moves in with no-account boyfriend and eventually completes mommy's spiral of shame (after graduating from less prestigious college, though) by becoming pregnant out of wedlock. And turns out to be a nice person with awesome triceps and a very entertaining blog. Ahem. But not a success.

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

xoxo

Here's the quote from Mr Lehane: "'You think you're wearing that nice suit, but all I see you wearing is class rage. It's draped over you.'"

solo moderadamente triste

I am out of peanut butter! And almond butter too! As I said to my son half an hour ago, "What am I supposed to have for my second dinner now??!!?" Luckily I solved that problem with a bowl of kashi go lean crunch and (whole) milk. I'm also still drinking the glass of red wine I started with my first dinner (steak, broccoli and carrots, if you must know). I have never had cereal and wine together before. It's not as disgusting as you might think!

But, anyway, this is just a segue for me to discuss an article I read today dissecting that Special K diet that those sleazy corporate purveyors-of-fake-food motherfuckers are trying especially hard in January to foist upon the wimmins of America and Britain. Someone did the math. If you eat their suggested meal plan, you wanna know how many calories you'll ingest for the entire day? Less than 900. The majority of them from cardboard-like food substances drenched in HFCS. Yum! Dudes, I lost 20 pounds eating CHEESE and drinking the occasional beer. I pick my way.

And yet women have this crap shoved into their minds constantly. Do you know how many chicks think it's perfectly reasonable to subsist on 1200 calories a day? Not when they're dieting, mind, but every freaking day of their lives? Okay, that *is* muy triste.

Food is good. You heard it here first.

xoxo

i used to be fat

Shut up. I'm not talking about myself. That's the title of this new reality show on MTV. D and I watched it last night.

I don't know what I thought it was going to be about--besides, y'know, the obvious--but it in fact is like The Biggest Loser, except each episode is one fat person getting thinner over the course of three months rather than twenty people getting thinner week by week over the course of the series. But the whole thing relies on, just like that mean woman Jillian Michaels, a personal trainer screaming at the dieter and making them do what looks like an inadvisable amount and intensity of exercise. Taking someone who is at least 90 pounds overweight and who has never exercised before and making them run until they puke does not seem like a good plan to me, but what do I know? I didn't buy a personal training certification off the internet.

Justin, the trainer in yesterday's episode? I turned to D and said, "I dunno if I'd want that guy training me. His body just looks weird." And my son said, "I was just thinking that!"

I scoured the internet trying to find a picture and this is the best I could come up with.

The side view doesn't make it as obvious, but the dude has this little skinny torso with big shoulders and arms hanging off of it. Very disproportionate and strange-looking. Put down the EZ Curl bar, bro, and back away slowly. (That's disregarding the gelled, spiked up hair last seen in 1993, which is supposed to cover the fact it's getting thin up there. That is only a fashion faux pas and a sign of being a douchebag, and has no bearing on his training qualifications. I just couldn't let it go without mentioning. Because I'm malevolent. And he was so annoying.) He also made some dubious statements like "frequent small meals rev up the metabolism." I was shouting "not true!" at the TV, which I'm *sure* made him reconsider his stance.

There were a few other head-scratchers, like the girl going out for Mexican food with a friend and ordering chicken fatijas, hold everything but the chicken. Honey, some peppers and onions aren't gonna impede your dieting goals. Did Justin give you some kind of bro-science explanation of why they would, or are you just kinda stupid? Oh, and her triumph at the end of the show? Going out dancing for Halloween in a slutty costume. If I had an 18 year old daughter, that's what I'd be encouraging her to shoot for! Head/desk, as they say.

(Don't roll your eyes at me. I already told you I read a book and a quarter yesterday. How much intellectual effort do you expect me to expend in one day? God.)

xoxo

P.S. I guess I didn't already tell you I read a book and a quarter yesterday. Oops. I thought I had discussed my Kindle in yesterday's court-related proceedings. But, yeah. I finished Keith Richards' book finally, and then I read the newest (?) Dennis Lehane. Jesus, do I love his writing. I mean, maybe the plotting not so much, though most mystery/suspense/detective fiction requires a big ol' helping of suspension of disbelief anyway, but the prose. I love his writing style. There were sentences and passages in that book yesterday that made me go, "Huh. I wish *I* had written that." It makes me feel marginally better about at least three of those Jersey Shore people coming out with books. Or "books." Because if I think too hard about what gets published these days, I die a little inside.

omg, you guys

Not only did I have to go to jury duty today, I was almost impaneled on a MURDER TRIAL. Holy shit. I *told* all y'all that I knew they'd have cases to try after the holidays. And switching my court location to Salem Superior for the commuting ease? Um, apparently this is where all the excitement happens, what with all the drug dealing and the gang violence in the immediate environs. (Though I was originally slated for Haverhill, which I'm sure is just as bad, just hella far away.) Luckily, the judge excused me from an estimated one month trial when I told him my adult son was handicapped and relied on me to accompany him to doctor's appointments and so forth. I may have even used the "s" word. This may have been very slightly overstating the case--since D *could* go to an appointment alone if he really really had to--but it certainly wasn't a lie. I'm not one of those douchebags who raised their hands and pretended to have "prejudices"that would keep them from fairly considering the evidence. You know they were all just looking for a way out.

Speaking of which? Jury of your peers? Whitest fucking room ever. There were about sixty people in the pool and one of them was a young Asian woman. Considering the demographics in our little slice of lower Essex County, you'd have expected some Asians, some black people, and if all was really fair and proportionate, a whole bunch of Latinos. I guess they all escape jury duty by reason of either non-citizenship or, possibly, pretending not to speak as much English as they really do. But, man, I could not believe the total lack of diversity.

Anyway, the whole thing was very scary. Of things I would like to do, serving on a jury for an alleged gang-related shooting is not one of them. I will spare you the rest of this story about how I was two minutes late arriving to court and I was so panicked about that (unlike the people who strolled in unconcerned at 8:15) that I almost tripped down the stairs and kept setting off the metal detector. Sigh. No dignity. I almost tripped coming back into the courthouse too. The hell with wearing my glasses to look intelligent; they probably had me pegged as a drunk or something.

Forgive any typos in this. I'm having trouble with the laptop again and it's hard to see what I've typed, plus it was a tough day. I had to buy myself a really carb-laden lunch when they finally let me go and then come home and take a bath. Really, my nerves were shot. But I am done for at least three years. Next time I'm requesting a hardship transfer to Newburyport. Does any crime happen up there? I don't think so!

xoxo

clothing, plans, and an important physics question

Since no one could be arsed to care about my crucially important lunch question last week, I have little faith you people will explain physics to me, but I just thought I would ask. Here's the thing. I have this cheap travel mug I found in my kitchen cabinets. I have no idea where it came from, but I was looking for something big to drink my green tea out of, since that has proven to be my solution to this winter's hydration problem. I put two teabags in this (16 ounce?) mug and I get 32 ounces of tea out of that. (Yes, I reuse teabags like my old Polish grandmother who lived through the depression. God.) Anyway, the mug is metal with a plastic bottom and when I wash it, water gets trapped in between the metal and the plastic. You can hear it swooshing around in there, but there's no way to get it out. No way to get it out, that is, until you pour hot water into the mug to make tea, at which point the trapped room temperature water comes flooding out of the bottom of the cup all over my counter. WHY DOES IT DO THAT?

I'm sure I would know the answer to this, but (ask the Benevolent L about this!) our 30-ish high school physics teacher who was also our senior class advisor spent at least nine out of ten classes either discussing senior class business or regaling us with tales of his semi-misspent youth in Nahant. Which was cool with me. I had him last period and he would generally let me go home early if I asked, with the caveat that if I got caught, he knew nothing. But we did not learn a lot of physics. (Though the Benevolent L says I used to do really good lab reports with excellent diagrams, which she would copy, but I really don't remember that.) So, c'mon, help a sister out and explain this to me.

In other news, my posting of that cyooote outfit on Sunday inspired me to dig out my short green cowboy boots that I wore all the damn time last spring and wear them yesterday. They are very cute and I have no idea why I hadn't yet worn them this fall or winter. Well, I do suspect there's a deep psychological reason, because unconscious motivations and associations are powerful. Ask Freud. Ha! But anyway, they are super cute boots and I should be wearing them more. I get into a rut and start wearing the same things over and over, even though I have plenty of cute clothes and shoes. Not as many as I did, say, ten years ago when I use to shop a lot more--that was before I blew my life savings on massage school, all y'all--and I will admit I am limited in the number of pair of pants I have that actually fit me now. I only have 4 pairs of jeans, 3 pairs of cords, and one pair of stretchy black yoga pants that can pass as work pants. Oh, and three pairs of black leggings, but YES I KNOW, leggings are not pants. Everything else is actually gym clothes and cannot pass as anything else, and the odds of my wearing a skirt to work once it's down coat weather are very small. So, my bottom options are limited, but that doesn't mean I can't mix it up with different shirts and shoes. The reason I don't is that I am lazy.

So it occurs to me that if I, like many fashion bloggers do, posted pictures of myself in my outfit every day, it would motivate me to wear different combinations of my clothes and to actually put some thought into it. I think that's a fine plan, but I'm not really going to subject you guys to it. Not, at least, until I get a new camera. But it might happen. Stay tuned.

Oh! and speaking of outfits, I need to figure out what to wear to jury duty tomorrow, in the event I actually have to go, which I won't know until late this afternoon. I'm thinking that I want to look intelligent, because I think that no one actually wants an intelligent person on their jury and thus if it comes down to it, I won't be picked. So at the very least, I shall be wearing my glasses. Because they make me look smart. Or at least like a hot librarian. Who is also smart. Should I wear a dress? Would that make me more likely to be picked or not? Maybe I should just rehearse some obnoxious opinions to voice! I'm sure if I went on a spiel about how the judicial system in this country is a travesty, they'd send me on my way. Oh, so much to think about.

xoxo

some fitness/body/athletic topics

Let's do these in least-involving-bodily-fluids to most- order, so those of you who are squeamish can bail when things are making you go "ewww", knowing it'll only get worse. I am so considerate of your sensibilities, Adventurers.

First of all, I said (okay, wrote) the following today: no matter what the magazines on the newsstand tell you, eating 1200 calories a day is a recipe for skinny fat or just skinny, *not* a nice body. Then I was really disappointed in myself. Really, I thought I had come further in my mental kindness to bodies, my own and other people's, than that. All bodies are nice bodies. What I meant to say was *not* the kind of fit and healthy-looking body most of us are aspiring to, not "a nice body." I almost went back after the fact and edited it to the above, complete with explanation, but since no one gives a shit about my struggles with bodily image but me, I ended up not bothering. That doesn't, however, save *you* from hearing about it. You know what you're in for when you visit here.

Secondly, you would think the Y would have been crowded today, flooded with all those people who exercise for one month out of the year, but it was not. Perhaps New Years Resolutions don't kick in until Monday. (BTW, did I tell you what my resolution is? To wear a cocktail dress to the Home Depot at least once a month, because I have it on good authority that when one does, men ask one out. And you know my future contractor second ex-husband is out there somewhere, just waiting to be seduced. It's good to have a plan.) Where was I? Oh, yeah. The Y was surprisingly deserted, but it was incredibly hot. I kind of had plans for afterwards, but I forewent them because when I was stretching at the end of my workout, I realized I had, uh, sweat through the entire crotch area of my leggings. And even though my shirt covered that, you really cannot go anywhere but home when you've sweat through your crotch and it looks vaguely like you've peed yourself. I hope they get the temperature adjusted in there because if it is both crowded *and* hot the next time I go, I will not be happy.

Did that gross you out enough or would you like to keep going? Okay! I learned something today I never, ever knew before, and I wonder if any of you know it too. Apparently it is fairly common for endurance athletes like marathoners and triathletes to, uh, poop themselves in the midst of a race/competition. It's apparently something that everyone in any way involved knows, but nobody much talks about. I have absolutely no desire to ever run 26 miles for any reason anyway, but this knowledge seals the deal. It happens in other sports, too. Like to football linemen. Here's a really interesting article about it, including the science of why.

And, now, in totally unrelated subject matter, completely non-poop-related, I must show you something fabulous from the interwebs. Specifically from a style and body-image blog called alreadypretty.com, the reading of which I highly recommend.



Isn't that the cutest outfit ever worn? (The sweater's a hoodie, too, in case you couldn't tell.) Wouldn't I look adorable in that? Doesn't it look like something I would wear? I kinda have a skirt like that. I just need the hoodie, the tights, and the Fluevog boots. Ahem. But, seriously, I am in lurve with that outfit. It might even help me seduce a contractor. I'm *sure* contractors like Fluevog boots.

Namaste, bitches.

xoxo

happy new year, adventurers!

Do y'all wish to be called "Adventures"? Of course you do. It's 2011. We all need new identities. Let this be your virtual witness protection program.

After a whole lifetime of having mediocre to crappy to absolutely horrendous New Year's Eves, I decided to kiss the suckitude that was 2010 off in a proactive manner and have myself a good one. Even though I am not supposed to be spending money on non-necessities, I decided someone had to be nice to me, and that if no one else was stepping up to the plate, well, goddamnit, I'd just have to do it myself. Originally I thought I would try to get a pedi yesterday--something I don't ever do in the winter--but my nice Russian aesthetician lady was not working on feet yesterday and I didn't feel like taking a chance with one of her colleagues. I considered getting a facial or body wrap or massage at this same spa, but really, their prices are insane, and they didn't have massage openings anyway. That idea implanted, however, I decided to get a massage somewhere else.

Now, boys and girls, getting a massage from someone new and different is fraught with difficulties for me. It's almost impossible to turn off my inner therapist and relax. Either I'm inner-critiquing the whole time ("I wouldn't do that *that* way...") or I'm picking up tips ("Oh! That felt good! Was that her elbow?") And paying for one when I get fabulous work from M2 in trade molests my inner cheapskate. But I wanted to do something nice for myself and there is not much nicer than one can do for oneself than get bodywork. So late Wednesday night I used the miracle of online scheduling to book a massage at one of the two "big" places in downtown Salem for Friday afternoon.

I went to the gym beforehand, in another attempt to do something fun and pleasant--slightly foiled by the fact they were closing early for the holiday and thus were ridiculously packed. I had to skip some of my leg routine because people wouldn't get off the machines I wanted in a timely fashion, and I needed to leave by a certain time to be able to eat before my massage. I didn't let this aggravate me, however. I did what I could, then I took myself out for some extremely good chicken salad and a gingerbread latte (<--holiday-like). So, New Year's Eve Day, so far so good.

I go to this place (which I've never been to before) for my massage, and I am immediately impressed by their setup and decor. It may be silly to you, but aesthetics are important to me. (I didn't spend all that time getting my massage room at home to look just the way I want it to for nothin'.) I fill out my paperwork by about ten minutes prior to my appointment time and the receptionist tells me my therapist is finishing up with her previous client. I ask to use the restroom, and when I come out, my therapist is waiting to usher me into the room...so early. I am again impressed. I am also delighted and amused to see, when I get into the room, that they have the same hot towel cabi I do. (My therapist uses the hot towels throughout, occasionally in ways I wouldn't have thought of, so, yeah! picked up some ideas, and OMFG, they felt fabulous.) I start the treatment out totally in my head as expected ("Eh, this is okay, but she's no M2") but completely surprisingly, at some point, I let go, and by the time she flips me, I am just jello. My stomach is gurgling 'cause my parasympathetic nervous system has kicked in full force, and I'm doing that not-quite-asleep-but-floaty thing. When I stagger out to reception afterwards, I see by the time that she probably gave me an extra 10-15 minutes on my hour, which, score! I give her a nice big cash tip and leave very relaxed and happy.

Then I stop at Tarzhay and buy myself a couple cheap camis (Converse One Star, highly recommend) and another pair of their six dollar leggings, which I also highly recommend since they are identical to, if not better than, the $20 Hue ones from Macys. And I go to Shaws to get a couple things. I ponder buying a couple lobsters, but decide I've blown my discretionary spending for the week. So I return home, drink a glass of wine, and decide to make meatloaf. I know lobster-->meatloaf sounds like a huge comedown, but my meatloaf is delish, y'all, and we hadn't had it for a long time.

After a late and relaxed dinner, I ask D if he wants to play scrabble and he is all into it. This pleases me, not only because hey, I wanted to play scrabble, but because--it's hard for me to quantify this for you here, but--there are times when he is just plain more interested in things, in life, than others, and that's when I know he's doing well, and with the combination of the cat dying plus the time of year, the fact that he's NOT depressed is fabulous. My son is really fun to play scrabble with. He's not competitive, he could care less about what his score is, he just chortles when he gets what he feels like is a good word (not by point value, but by if he thinks he's being clever) and can't slap it down on the board fast enough. We end up playing three games and having a really good time all night. Eventually after midnight I go to bed and finish watching The Usual Suspects, which I've been falling asleep on all week. (I've seen it before, I knew who Keyser Soze is, I just couldn't remember how the plot shakes out and I was getting frustrated not making it to the end.)

So that was my very lovely Happy New Year, and today I am going out for a mac n cheese and beer carb-up and to watch some football game I hear is taking place. Which I don't really care about as long as there's beer. And cheese.

Here's to a better 2011.

xoxo