[In my defense, the first post was really yesterday. It could have posted at 11:59 pm had I walked up the stairs faster.]
I knew this was going to be a comedy goldmine full of blogging potential. It's almost as good as riding the prison bus without earbuds in. Let's have a tutorial this afternoon on how to not win at internet dating! I'm sure none of all y'all need it because you have enough social skills not to NEED internet dating or you're all happily coupled up with the love muffin of your fondest dreams. Or both. But just in case some random person wanders through here, let's be instructive.
Tip #1 for not winning: send a woman you have never spoken to before an email in which you say, "I'm interested, but I need more pictures." Dude. No, you do not. I can guarantee you I am too hot for your 57 year old, balding ass, even with my rapidly atrophying vagina, and I do not intend to prove it to you photographically before you deign to speak to me. Besides, you don't know the difference between "seen" and "scene". Get someone who's not illiterate to proofread your profile, and while they are doing that, you can contemplate whether the reason you've never been married and/or found "that one special person" is that you are a clueless, and apparently entitled, dick.
Tip #2: send a woman you have never spoken to before an email in which you nicely ask how she is doing and then say that you are doing fine, except for the crushing loneliness. Leading off with a portrayal of yourself as incredibly needy and pathetic will not make chicks take pity on you or even give you points for honesty. Instead, it will make them fear that you will cling like Saran Wrap on Tupperware and that you have the potential to go full stalker mode if rejected.
Tip #3: send a woman you have never exchanged a word with a short email in which you suggest that since you live close together, you meet for coffee or a drink. When woman does not immediately reply with enthusiasm to go out with a complete stranger, wait a couple hours and email again, this time saying that you're now at your computer, not on your Blackberry, so you can write more. Tell woman that your compatibility score is in the upper 80s and it doesn't get much better than that. So you should go out for coffee or a drink. Hint: this is roughly equivalent to approaching a random attractive woman on the T and suggesting she go on a date with you because you are getting off at the same stop. And when she is not enthusiastic about the prospect, trying to convince her that since you've read that book she's carrying too, you really really need to go out.
Okay, and when all of the above are blissfully married by next year while I am still planning my LL Bean Sex Repelling wardrobe, you can tell me the reason that I am still single is that I'm a big bitch and that my advice is worthless. I will not argue with you.
xoxo
Thursday, September 29, 2011
tropical facial conditions
Don't say I don't deliver on my promises. Here it is--the hot flash post.
When I was telling y'all about my ill-advised boot buying Sunday, what I didn't mention was that, as I was out and about, running my errands, there I was in Marshalls, ripping off the thin cotton hoodie I had on over my t-shirt and mentally cussing them out. As in, "What the hell is wrong with these people? Why is the A/C not on in here?!!?? OMG, I'm gonna die!" Then, of course, I realized it wasn't them, it was me.
Yup. It may have happened a time or two this summer without my realizing what it was, but for the last two to three weeks, it's suddenly happening every day, multiple times a day. The sudden spreading warmth from my chest to my face, the flushing and wanting to rip my shirt off. Apparently my estrogen levels have suddenly dropped like the proverbial rock. It's the strangest feeling. It happened to me yesterday as I was putting a package of chicken breast into the freezer. There I was with freezer air blowing directly into my face, and I felt like I was in front of a furnace.
It's pretty bittersweet, of course, the acknowledgment that I'm getting closer to The End. Not that a person relishes having their period. It's messy and inconvenient and sometimes painful and, over a lifetime of buying pads and tampons and pantyliners, expensive and it has the propensity to stain your underwear and your sheets and to leave you depleted of iron. It's a big pain in the ass. But not having one ever again means, well, yeah, you're transitioning into a dried up little twig of a woman who is no longer full of youthful juices. The chronic annoying dry eyes for the past two years has pissed me off enough. I can't WAIT for it to start happening with my vagina. I mean, seriously? You do the reading and it's scary as hell. Vaginal atrophy? Once the chances of my popping out even a two headed baby have passed, Mother Nature doesn't want me having sex. Evolutionarily, what's the fucking point? I should crawl off and die and leave more resources for the people who can still procreate.
Luckily I don't have to go that far, since we are no longer living in Paleolithic times. No, I can just buy some of those I Never Want Sex Again clothes from LL Bean and start collecting cats.
I was thinking something along these lines:
But if you have links to anything dowdier, I'll consider them. No turtlenecks, though. Those are hard to rip off in the cereal aisle of the Stop & Shop when my upper body suddenly thinks it's in Delhi during monsoon season.
Addendum: And how's this for the first cat? Awwwwww...
xoxo
When I was telling y'all about my ill-advised boot buying Sunday, what I didn't mention was that, as I was out and about, running my errands, there I was in Marshalls, ripping off the thin cotton hoodie I had on over my t-shirt and mentally cussing them out. As in, "What the hell is wrong with these people? Why is the A/C not on in here?!!?? OMG, I'm gonna die!" Then, of course, I realized it wasn't them, it was me.
Yup. It may have happened a time or two this summer without my realizing what it was, but for the last two to three weeks, it's suddenly happening every day, multiple times a day. The sudden spreading warmth from my chest to my face, the flushing and wanting to rip my shirt off. Apparently my estrogen levels have suddenly dropped like the proverbial rock. It's the strangest feeling. It happened to me yesterday as I was putting a package of chicken breast into the freezer. There I was with freezer air blowing directly into my face, and I felt like I was in front of a furnace.
It's pretty bittersweet, of course, the acknowledgment that I'm getting closer to The End. Not that a person relishes having their period. It's messy and inconvenient and sometimes painful and, over a lifetime of buying pads and tampons and pantyliners, expensive and it has the propensity to stain your underwear and your sheets and to leave you depleted of iron. It's a big pain in the ass. But not having one ever again means, well, yeah, you're transitioning into a dried up little twig of a woman who is no longer full of youthful juices. The chronic annoying dry eyes for the past two years has pissed me off enough. I can't WAIT for it to start happening with my vagina. I mean, seriously? You do the reading and it's scary as hell. Vaginal atrophy? Once the chances of my popping out even a two headed baby have passed, Mother Nature doesn't want me having sex. Evolutionarily, what's the fucking point? I should crawl off and die and leave more resources for the people who can still procreate.
Luckily I don't have to go that far, since we are no longer living in Paleolithic times. No, I can just buy some of those I Never Want Sex Again clothes from LL Bean and start collecting cats.
I was thinking something along these lines:
But if you have links to anything dowdier, I'll consider them. No turtlenecks, though. Those are hard to rip off in the cereal aisle of the Stop & Shop when my upper body suddenly thinks it's in Delhi during monsoon season.
Addendum: And how's this for the first cat? Awwwwww...
xoxo
last baseball post of 2011
We have come not to bury the Red Sox but to praise Alfredo Aceves.
When he hit two of the first three batters he faced last night, I felt sick. I had to leave the room for awhile. This is it, I thought. It's his fourth day in a row pitching, after a season in which he has pitched more than he had ever done in his life. No matter what Jerry and Don told me the night before in tones of wonder and awe about his "rubber arm" and apparent inability to tire, he's reached his limit. They've asked too much of him.
But then he got out of the inning.
You, Mr Aceves, are my man. How many times this year were you called upon to pitch three and four innings because the stellar Sox starting pitchers couldn't get out of the third or fourth inning? How many times did you then come through for them? If it weren't for you, there would have been no shot at the wild card to blow with two outs in the 9th inning of the final game of the season. I don't know if you will be with the Sox next year, but if you are, I'ma cheer for you like I once cheered for Mikey Lowell or Jason Bay. Good job, dude.
xoxo
When he hit two of the first three batters he faced last night, I felt sick. I had to leave the room for awhile. This is it, I thought. It's his fourth day in a row pitching, after a season in which he has pitched more than he had ever done in his life. No matter what Jerry and Don told me the night before in tones of wonder and awe about his "rubber arm" and apparent inability to tire, he's reached his limit. They've asked too much of him.
But then he got out of the inning.
You, Mr Aceves, are my man. How many times this year were you called upon to pitch three and four innings because the stellar Sox starting pitchers couldn't get out of the third or fourth inning? How many times did you then come through for them? If it weren't for you, there would have been no shot at the wild card to blow with two outs in the 9th inning of the final game of the season. I don't know if you will be with the Sox next year, but if you are, I'ma cheer for you like I once cheered for Mikey Lowell or Jason Bay. Good job, dude.
xoxo
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
electronic CHAOS
Saturday in work, my Pelco video camera just decided to stop working for no apparent reason. I assumed it was a hardware, not software, problem because when you turn on the computer and the whole system boots up, the camera rotates, and it didn't. So yesterday we called clinical engineering and they sent over "Pierre". I'm not sure they have Pelco cameras in Haiti (is that cruel to say? racist? xenophobic? sorry, Pierre) but he knew about as much as what could be causing the problem as I did, which is nothing. Nevertheless, I logged him into my computer and he gamely took down as much information as he could about the video system and repaired back to his office to call the company that makes my system. You may or may not remember, but I could not do my job for weeks in July while the hospital and the company dicked around with replacing the computer part of my system. And then last month the monitor stopped working for reasons that were unclear, though clinical engineering did manage to fix that mysteriously at a time I was not here. My point being, I'm sick of things on this system just randomly failing. Well, Pierre called me back and asked if he could come take the system back to his office. Sure, no problem, I didn't have patients scheduled yesterday afternoon anyway. Cut to the chase, the company is sending us a whole new camera, but it missed the overnight deadline, so it'll come tomorrow while I'm not here. That's okay. Pierre and his cohorts will install it and I'll have video capability again by Thursday. RIGHT??!?
Meanwhile my laptop at home, which has been limping along with no display for months and months and which I've had to keep connected to the TV in my room (which kinda defeats the purpose of a laptop), has of Sunday failed to register there's a battery in it. I guess the battery's time is up. I was kinda debating about whether I should buy a new battery for it or not, whether it was worth it. Then this morning the TV it is connected to lost video. I thought it was the computer, but no. If I turn the TV to DVD mode, I still don't get any display, just sound. So the freaking TV is broken? Seriously? It's not that old.
My point being in all this, I think it's ME. I must have some kind of electromagnetic field around my body that is killing electronic devices left and right. Or else all this cheap ass Chinese-made garbage is just coincidentally failing at once. I think it's me, though.
Sigh.
xoxo
Meanwhile my laptop at home, which has been limping along with no display for months and months and which I've had to keep connected to the TV in my room (which kinda defeats the purpose of a laptop), has of Sunday failed to register there's a battery in it. I guess the battery's time is up. I was kinda debating about whether I should buy a new battery for it or not, whether it was worth it. Then this morning the TV it is connected to lost video. I thought it was the computer, but no. If I turn the TV to DVD mode, I still don't get any display, just sound. So the freaking TV is broken? Seriously? It's not that old.
My point being in all this, I think it's ME. I must have some kind of electromagnetic field around my body that is killing electronic devices left and right. Or else all this cheap ass Chinese-made garbage is just coincidentally failing at once. I think it's me, though.
Sigh.
xoxo
Monday, September 26, 2011
true confessions
What do you think is the modern day equivalent of those '40s and '50s confessional magazines? Could it be...blogging??!?!!??
Not in my case, I hasten to add, because everything I tell you is 100% true. Mainly because, really, you can't make this shit up, as I remind you every freakin' week. The things I see, hear, and do are far stranger than most fiction***, and that's not even taking into consideration that I don't tell you people EVERYTHING. But, I digress. I'm here to unburden myself. Bless me, father, for I have sinned (against good taste and judgment)...
Yesterday was apparently National Bad Decision Day. I went to the gym, as I do almost every Sunday afternoon, it being my most favorite day to work out, and then I proceeded to do some errands. There were a few things I needed to pick up. My son needed minutes for his ghetto cell phone, and I prefer to buy an actual card, because I don't trust the Tracfone website. I also needed some mineral powder so that I can continue to look beautiful (ahem) and some conditioner (ditto, and also, ahem.) None of those errands would, on the surface, require a person to go to DSW, since, y'know, all they sell is shoes. Nevertheless, there I was.
You see where this is going, right? They had UGG sweater boots for $99.95, which is totally the universe telling me I should have them. (Plus, I never spent the hundred bucks I won for building my muskles, it's still sitting in my paypal account.) Not exactly the same ones I showed you; they don't have the fold-over with the buttons. Which, really? I think that's a plus because needless doodads like those buttons are the kind of thing that fall off when you least expect it. Also, they had that brown color and it doesn't look as nice in person. So I bought cream. Cream-colored sweater boots. Why, yes, I have lost my mind, thanks for asking. They're adorable. They're lined in sheepskin, so you can wear them without socks. (You may or may not know, but I dislike socks. And also, when I go to yoga, and you have to take your shoes off before entering the room, it'll save a step.) Let's just hope for a dry and snowless winter, so that I can wear these for more than the months of October and November.
I felt I needed to confess all this solely because if any of you all see me wearing these boots, I wouldn't want a little bell to go off in your brain (ding!) and have you say, "Um, Andrea, aren't those the UGG boots you made such a fucking big deal about NOT buying?" No, total transparency here, yo.
The next confession, however, is motivated entirely from some kind of base impulse to publicly humiliate myself. (Hey, it won me that hundred bucks, so don't knock it.) Well, that and the fact I think it is hilarious and I would like to brighten up the beginning of your work week. Because I love you all.
Luxuriating in my haze of bad decisions made and the afterglow of boot-buying, and also being in that state of tiredness last night where you are too exhausted to do anything useful and yet you can't sleep, and spurred by someone else's blog in which they mentioned the embarrassing way the met their future (and current, haha) husband, and having just last week discussed with Led Zep Girl how, shockingly, the old geezer dating sites want our business, I made myself a dating profile. NOT on an old geezer site, thanks very much, I hasten to add. The last time I did this kind of thing was in 2005, and it lead to my very brief but very bitterness-inducing acquaintance with The Lawyer, the only man whom I can honestly say I deeply regret fucking (and you all know my ex-husband, if only in theory, so you know that's saying something.) So, yeah, my track record with this kind of business is not, y'know, stellar. But neither is my track record in any kind of romantic shenanigans and I haven't become a nun yet, so why the hell learn from experience?
And so I had to choose a profile picture. Since the vast majority of the pictures I have of myself on my computer are underwear shots in which I am trying to ascertain whether my lats are growing quicker than my thighs are getting even fatter than they already are (short answer:no) and have all or most of my head cut off, I went with the same picture I use as my avatar on my other blog and on my weightlifting boards, the "delts in the mirror" shot. I like it 'cause it's kinda artsy, my shoulders look fabulous, and because I was concentrating on getting the angle of my delts right, I didn't do anything weird with my face in it. So, lo and behold, I got messaged by a gentleman who said it was the most surprisingly sexy picture he'd seen on the dating site, and the juxtaposition of my guns with my stern but pretty librarian look (wearing my glasses, all y'all) was, and I quote, yummy. Huh. Not surprised to hear I look yummy, because that's what you pick a picture you like for, nomimsayin, but stern? There you go. More proof positive that I have bitchface all the time and I don't even know it.
Okay, maybe I do know it. A few weeks ago, someone confided to me that she's having a torrid affair (is it an affair if you aren't married? she isn't, it's all legit) with a guy she met at her gym. I was like, "hey! how do you meet guys at the gym and I never do?" and then, immediately, "oh, wait, it's because I have my bitch face on all the time, right?" And thus, boys and girls, I am driven to the ignominy of internet dating. Where apparently bitchface is alluring.
Anyway, if I do actually blind date anyone, I'm sure my horrible evenings will make entertaining blog fodder. Sacrifice for art. I live to serve, y'all.
xoxo
Oh, for god's sake, I forgot the footnote.
***Any fiction writer will tell you that you can base a plot entirely on real life events and have an editor tell you it's not believeable. "But it really happened!" is not justification.
Not in my case, I hasten to add, because everything I tell you is 100% true. Mainly because, really, you can't make this shit up, as I remind you every freakin' week. The things I see, hear, and do are far stranger than most fiction***, and that's not even taking into consideration that I don't tell you people EVERYTHING. But, I digress. I'm here to unburden myself. Bless me, father, for I have sinned (against good taste and judgment)...
Yesterday was apparently National Bad Decision Day. I went to the gym, as I do almost every Sunday afternoon, it being my most favorite day to work out, and then I proceeded to do some errands. There were a few things I needed to pick up. My son needed minutes for his ghetto cell phone, and I prefer to buy an actual card, because I don't trust the Tracfone website. I also needed some mineral powder so that I can continue to look beautiful (ahem) and some conditioner (ditto, and also, ahem.) None of those errands would, on the surface, require a person to go to DSW, since, y'know, all they sell is shoes. Nevertheless, there I was.
You see where this is going, right? They had UGG sweater boots for $99.95, which is totally the universe telling me I should have them. (Plus, I never spent the hundred bucks I won for building my muskles, it's still sitting in my paypal account.) Not exactly the same ones I showed you; they don't have the fold-over with the buttons. Which, really? I think that's a plus because needless doodads like those buttons are the kind of thing that fall off when you least expect it. Also, they had that brown color and it doesn't look as nice in person. So I bought cream. Cream-colored sweater boots. Why, yes, I have lost my mind, thanks for asking. They're adorable. They're lined in sheepskin, so you can wear them without socks. (You may or may not know, but I dislike socks. And also, when I go to yoga, and you have to take your shoes off before entering the room, it'll save a step.) Let's just hope for a dry and snowless winter, so that I can wear these for more than the months of October and November.
I felt I needed to confess all this solely because if any of you all see me wearing these boots, I wouldn't want a little bell to go off in your brain (ding!) and have you say, "Um, Andrea, aren't those the UGG boots you made such a fucking big deal about NOT buying?" No, total transparency here, yo.
The next confession, however, is motivated entirely from some kind of base impulse to publicly humiliate myself. (Hey, it won me that hundred bucks, so don't knock it.) Well, that and the fact I think it is hilarious and I would like to brighten up the beginning of your work week. Because I love you all.
Luxuriating in my haze of bad decisions made and the afterglow of boot-buying, and also being in that state of tiredness last night where you are too exhausted to do anything useful and yet you can't sleep, and spurred by someone else's blog in which they mentioned the embarrassing way the met their future (and current, haha) husband, and having just last week discussed with Led Zep Girl how, shockingly, the old geezer dating sites want our business, I made myself a dating profile. NOT on an old geezer site, thanks very much, I hasten to add. The last time I did this kind of thing was in 2005, and it lead to my very brief but very bitterness-inducing acquaintance with The Lawyer, the only man whom I can honestly say I deeply regret fucking (and you all know my ex-husband, if only in theory, so you know that's saying something.) So, yeah, my track record with this kind of business is not, y'know, stellar. But neither is my track record in any kind of romantic shenanigans and I haven't become a nun yet, so why the hell learn from experience?
And so I had to choose a profile picture. Since the vast majority of the pictures I have of myself on my computer are underwear shots in which I am trying to ascertain whether my lats are growing quicker than my thighs are getting even fatter than they already are (short answer:no) and have all or most of my head cut off, I went with the same picture I use as my avatar on my other blog and on my weightlifting boards, the "delts in the mirror" shot. I like it 'cause it's kinda artsy, my shoulders look fabulous, and because I was concentrating on getting the angle of my delts right, I didn't do anything weird with my face in it. So, lo and behold, I got messaged by a gentleman who said it was the most surprisingly sexy picture he'd seen on the dating site, and the juxtaposition of my guns with my stern but pretty librarian look (wearing my glasses, all y'all) was, and I quote, yummy. Huh. Not surprised to hear I look yummy, because that's what you pick a picture you like for, nomimsayin, but stern? There you go. More proof positive that I have bitchface all the time and I don't even know it.
Okay, maybe I do know it. A few weeks ago, someone confided to me that she's having a torrid affair (is it an affair if you aren't married? she isn't, it's all legit) with a guy she met at her gym. I was like, "hey! how do you meet guys at the gym and I never do?" and then, immediately, "oh, wait, it's because I have my bitch face on all the time, right?" And thus, boys and girls, I am driven to the ignominy of internet dating. Where apparently bitchface is alluring.
Anyway, if I do actually blind date anyone, I'm sure my horrible evenings will make entertaining blog fodder. Sacrifice for art. I live to serve, y'all.
xoxo
Oh, for god's sake, I forgot the footnote.
***Any fiction writer will tell you that you can base a plot entirely on real life events and have an editor tell you it's not believeable. "But it really happened!" is not justification.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
mostly it's a chick thing
Our cafeteria in work, which I have bitched about oh so very many times before, puts nutritional labels by some of the foods. This may in fact be one of the things I bitched about before, actually. They're pretty useless to me, because all they tell is the calories, the fat grams, and the sodium or something. I do not now and have not ever cared about how much fat or sodium I am consuming. When I was dieting, the carb counts would have been nice. And now that I'm bulking, I'd like to know the protein grams. But, no, they don't care to tell me either of those things.
But my bitching about that is apparently moot, because yesterday at the deli station that had turkey club rollups on special, and the nutritional info provided claimed that they were 800+ calories each. Um, yeah, okay. Let me tell you what they consisted of. Half a piece of lavash bread, maybe (to be generous) 4oz of deli turkey breast (but probably more like 3), two pieces of bacon, a lettuce leaf, a slice of tomato. No mayo, oil, or other condiments. That's it. This lead to a spirited discussion in line about how that couldn't possibly be correct. In fact, it's probably + or - 300 calories, so even if they were counting two halves as a serving (which most people don't get), it wouldn't be 800.
Similarly, earlier in the week, at the pizza station they had slices of cheese pizza listed as 350ish calories and slices of pepperoni as 700+. WTF? Go look up the nutrition facts for Pizza Hut or the like. A slice of cheese pizza and a slice of pepperoni pizza have almost the same calorie counts. Adding pepperoni does NOT double the calories. Obviously, those nutritional labels at the caf? They're just making them up out of thin air. They bear no resemblance to reality. So I'm glad they're not telling me how many grams of protein is in their slop. It'd be wrong anyway.
But what I thought was hilarious was that I and the three women directly behind me in the deli line yesterday all knew and were pissed that that sandwich nutritional label had to be wrong. I was thinking, would most guys know that? I don't think so. It's we chicks, most of whom have been on diets on and off since we were like 12 years old, who can tell you just by looking at something more or less how many calories are in it. It's kind of sad actually.
xoxo
But my bitching about that is apparently moot, because yesterday at the deli station that had turkey club rollups on special, and the nutritional info provided claimed that they were 800+ calories each. Um, yeah, okay. Let me tell you what they consisted of. Half a piece of lavash bread, maybe (to be generous) 4oz of deli turkey breast (but probably more like 3), two pieces of bacon, a lettuce leaf, a slice of tomato. No mayo, oil, or other condiments. That's it. This lead to a spirited discussion in line about how that couldn't possibly be correct. In fact, it's probably + or - 300 calories, so even if they were counting two halves as a serving (which most people don't get), it wouldn't be 800.
Similarly, earlier in the week, at the pizza station they had slices of cheese pizza listed as 350ish calories and slices of pepperoni as 700+. WTF? Go look up the nutrition facts for Pizza Hut or the like. A slice of cheese pizza and a slice of pepperoni pizza have almost the same calorie counts. Adding pepperoni does NOT double the calories. Obviously, those nutritional labels at the caf? They're just making them up out of thin air. They bear no resemblance to reality. So I'm glad they're not telling me how many grams of protein is in their slop. It'd be wrong anyway.
But what I thought was hilarious was that I and the three women directly behind me in the deli line yesterday all knew and were pissed that that sandwich nutritional label had to be wrong. I was thinking, would most guys know that? I don't think so. It's we chicks, most of whom have been on diets on and off since we were like 12 years old, who can tell you just by looking at something more or less how many calories are in it. It's kind of sad actually.
xoxo
Thursday, September 22, 2011
i'll take random for 400, alex
1.) Did I tell you I got new highlights? I got new highlights. I think they look good. The reason I got them is that I've been getting my roots done every four to five weeks and it's getting hella expensive to keep up. I figured if I got some lighter pieces in the front of my hair, which is where the gray pops out anyway, it would blend better and I could go longer without a touchup. So my next hair coloring appointment is in 6 1/2 weeks. We shall see if I'll feel the need to wear a hat for the last three weeks of that, won't we?
2.) Inertia saved me from myself. You probably don't remember my telling you, but I have always loved these UGG sweater boots since I first saw them a couple years ago.
Then I when I saw Natalie Portman wearing them in Black Swan, I loved them even more because they looked so cute on screen. However, I was aware that they are probably the most impractical shoe ever in eastern Massachusetts, because you can't wear them in the rain or snow. Then I saw last week on Zappos that they had them in the above color, which is a good color, on sale for $112. That did not make them any more practical, but it did make them very, very tempting. But, seeing as I am on a shopping moratorium (seriously, for realz), I didn't buy them. I kept the tab open on my computer at home and every day I would look at them to see if I still thought they were the cutest things ever, if they were still on sale, and if they still had my size. (In case you want to know because my 49th birthday is coming up in like six or seven weeks, that'd be size 7, yo.) And I told myself if all these conditions were met when payday came around, it would mean the universe wanted me to have them. Well, as of yesterday, my size was gone. Therefore I will not be wasting $112 on nonsense. The universe has spoken.
3.) Speaking of birthdays (ahem), my boss's wife's birthday has just passed. He was thinking of getting her new garage doors for her birthday. I am not kidding. You should have heard the conversation in which I, Led Zep Girl, and our nurse practitioner tried to convince him this was not a good idea, unless of course he meant to get her, like, garage doors *and* a day at the spa. Well, Monday he was telling us that she was really pissed at him because he didn't get her an iPad for her birthday. Apparently, several weeks ago she had said, "Oh, I would love to have an iPad," or similar words to that effect, and well, he didn't pay attention. His defense is that he had asked her what she wanted and she said "nothing." "You're supposed to listen to the clues and figure out what she wants. That's what women like. It makes us feel like you care about us," I said. "No, that's passive aggressive bullshit," he said. "Kinda," said Townie Girl. "But THAT'S WHAT WE LIKE." "How long have you been married and you haven't figured this out?" I asked. Oh, the lulz. You try and try, but some people just can't be helped.
4.) My last word on why Fuckin' Lackey's suckage is due to being unable to pitch any better, not due to not wanting to pitch any better, logic-wise. My contention is this: if you are a pitcher and you *can* get guys out, there is no advantage to you to NOT get guys out, no matter how lazy, unmotivated, or uninterested you are. My google fu failed me, but who needs google fu when you have minions? My minions informed me that in his 4 innings of pitching on Monday, Lackey threw 105 pitches before he was pulled. He didn't work any less hard than he would have if he had made it to the 8th and thrown 105 pitches. It's not as if they pulled him after 60 pitches or as if, had he been pitching well, they would have let him throw 130 pitches. So if he could have gotten guys out and had a respectable, non-humiliating outing, why wouldn't he have? There's no advantage to him to suck. The only advantage to him to suck is if he's actually throwing games. I probably hate him enough to believe that before the season started and the odds were all saying it was Red Sox/Phillies all the way this year, he bet heavily that the Sox *would not* make it into the playoffs and has done his best to ensure that. So if you wanna start that conspiracy theory, go ahead. However, I still think he just sucks because he fucking sucks. Fuckin' Lackey.
xoxo
2.) Inertia saved me from myself. You probably don't remember my telling you, but I have always loved these UGG sweater boots since I first saw them a couple years ago.
Then I when I saw Natalie Portman wearing them in Black Swan, I loved them even more because they looked so cute on screen. However, I was aware that they are probably the most impractical shoe ever in eastern Massachusetts, because you can't wear them in the rain or snow. Then I saw last week on Zappos that they had them in the above color, which is a good color, on sale for $112. That did not make them any more practical, but it did make them very, very tempting. But, seeing as I am on a shopping moratorium (seriously, for realz), I didn't buy them. I kept the tab open on my computer at home and every day I would look at them to see if I still thought they were the cutest things ever, if they were still on sale, and if they still had my size. (In case you want to know because my 49th birthday is coming up in like six or seven weeks, that'd be size 7, yo.) And I told myself if all these conditions were met when payday came around, it would mean the universe wanted me to have them. Well, as of yesterday, my size was gone. Therefore I will not be wasting $112 on nonsense. The universe has spoken.
3.) Speaking of birthdays (ahem), my boss's wife's birthday has just passed. He was thinking of getting her new garage doors for her birthday. I am not kidding. You should have heard the conversation in which I, Led Zep Girl, and our nurse practitioner tried to convince him this was not a good idea, unless of course he meant to get her, like, garage doors *and* a day at the spa. Well, Monday he was telling us that she was really pissed at him because he didn't get her an iPad for her birthday. Apparently, several weeks ago she had said, "Oh, I would love to have an iPad," or similar words to that effect, and well, he didn't pay attention. His defense is that he had asked her what she wanted and she said "nothing." "You're supposed to listen to the clues and figure out what she wants. That's what women like. It makes us feel like you care about us," I said. "No, that's passive aggressive bullshit," he said. "Kinda," said Townie Girl. "But THAT'S WHAT WE LIKE." "How long have you been married and you haven't figured this out?" I asked. Oh, the lulz. You try and try, but some people just can't be helped.
4.) My last word on why Fuckin' Lackey's suckage is due to being unable to pitch any better, not due to not wanting to pitch any better, logic-wise. My contention is this: if you are a pitcher and you *can* get guys out, there is no advantage to you to NOT get guys out, no matter how lazy, unmotivated, or uninterested you are. My google fu failed me, but who needs google fu when you have minions? My minions informed me that in his 4 innings of pitching on Monday, Lackey threw 105 pitches before he was pulled. He didn't work any less hard than he would have if he had made it to the 8th and thrown 105 pitches. It's not as if they pulled him after 60 pitches or as if, had he been pitching well, they would have let him throw 130 pitches. So if he could have gotten guys out and had a respectable, non-humiliating outing, why wouldn't he have? There's no advantage to him to suck. The only advantage to him to suck is if he's actually throwing games. I probably hate him enough to believe that before the season started and the odds were all saying it was Red Sox/Phillies all the way this year, he bet heavily that the Sox *would not* make it into the playoffs and has done his best to ensure that. So if you wanna start that conspiracy theory, go ahead. However, I still think he just sucks because he fucking sucks. Fuckin' Lackey.
xoxo
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
i'ma just leave this here
One of my favorite songs of all time.
Music really was better in the 90s. Sue me.
xoxo
Music really was better in the 90s. Sue me.
xoxo
postmortem
After Pap came in and blew the save, there was an immediate exodus from the stands. A young, presumably drunk, very loud and very loyal gentleman a few rows up from us screamed at the departing multitude, "Where you GOING??!!!??!!!" Which, seriously. We debated it amongst ourselves, our butts firmly in our seats. (Well, somebody else's seats. We moved for a better angle to home.) You're leaving in the middle of the 8th with your team only 2 runs behind? Your need to beat the traffic or make it to the T first is such that you don't want to stick around? Or is it that the fandom is so demoralized and so lacking in faith, they see no way the Sox are gonna come from behind in the two innings they have left? Never mind that they were fucking right. It's your team. Stick around to the bitter end. (Ed. note: applies to the whole effin' season; bail now if you want, but if you do, the next time they win a Series (2020?), don't you be telling me you're a Red Sox fan.)
Contrast it to the mood 2/3rds of an inning before, when they brought Papelbon in. Have you been through this at Fenway? The minute "Shipping Up to Boston" starts playing, the whole park is on its feet, screaming and cheering, singing along at the top of their lungs. (Side discussion ensued about how, when they give Bard Papelbon's job [though after the last month, maybe not], it's gonna suck; there'll be no iconic entrance song for us to all scream along to, no punky raw palate cleanser in the ninth after the nauseating treacle of Sweet Caroline in the eighth.) And from the first strike thrown, rhythmic clapping and chanting for every pitch, and every strike, the crowd to its feet again. Electric. You can go from that to, "oh, guess they lost this one, let's go, Maude" in ten minutes? Fuck you.
In the car, we caught Pap's post game remarks, in which he took full responsibility. "It's on me. It's all on me. I got one job, to come in and finish the game, and I didn't do my job. I don't wanna hear any stuff tomorrow about bringing guys in too early or guys not stepping up at the plate. It's on me." Then radio call-in assholes bitching about Tito apparently standing up for Fuckin' Lackey*** the night before. It makes me wonder what all the point of this postgame interviewing is. The fans want/need/like to hear the Papelbons of the world abase themselves and the Titos of the world publicly excoriate their players? Blame Must Be Placed and Shit Must Be Eaten? Do we really really in our hearts think they don't *care* that they're losing and in a humiliating fashion? Do we really think they're just cashing their paychecks and are content to roll around in piles of hundred dollar bills, Scrooge McDuck-style, and don't care that they've lost first place and are losing the wild card? Do we not think that if almost any of them were to get up and speak the true contents of their hearts, they'd say, "Yeah, we suck. All of a sudden, we suck so very very badly, and I can't tell you why or how to make it stop"?
I'm sure they are as perplexed as I am. I'm sure even Fuckin' Lackey would pitch better if only he could remember how.
xoxo
***Fuckin' is officially his first name in my house now. I have lost the ability to call him anything else.
Contrast it to the mood 2/3rds of an inning before, when they brought Papelbon in. Have you been through this at Fenway? The minute "Shipping Up to Boston" starts playing, the whole park is on its feet, screaming and cheering, singing along at the top of their lungs. (Side discussion ensued about how, when they give Bard Papelbon's job [though after the last month, maybe not], it's gonna suck; there'll be no iconic entrance song for us to all scream along to, no punky raw palate cleanser in the ninth after the nauseating treacle of Sweet Caroline in the eighth.) And from the first strike thrown, rhythmic clapping and chanting for every pitch, and every strike, the crowd to its feet again. Electric. You can go from that to, "oh, guess they lost this one, let's go, Maude" in ten minutes? Fuck you.
In the car, we caught Pap's post game remarks, in which he took full responsibility. "It's on me. It's all on me. I got one job, to come in and finish the game, and I didn't do my job. I don't wanna hear any stuff tomorrow about bringing guys in too early or guys not stepping up at the plate. It's on me." Then radio call-in assholes bitching about Tito apparently standing up for Fuckin' Lackey*** the night before. It makes me wonder what all the point of this postgame interviewing is. The fans want/need/like to hear the Papelbons of the world abase themselves and the Titos of the world publicly excoriate their players? Blame Must Be Placed and Shit Must Be Eaten? Do we really really in our hearts think they don't *care* that they're losing and in a humiliating fashion? Do we really think they're just cashing their paychecks and are content to roll around in piles of hundred dollar bills, Scrooge McDuck-style, and don't care that they've lost first place and are losing the wild card? Do we not think that if almost any of them were to get up and speak the true contents of their hearts, they'd say, "Yeah, we suck. All of a sudden, we suck so very very badly, and I can't tell you why or how to make it stop"?
I'm sure they are as perplexed as I am. I'm sure even Fuckin' Lackey would pitch better if only he could remember how.
xoxo
***Fuckin' is officially his first name in my house now. I have lost the ability to call him anything else.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
the stand
I remembered the other continuance, though in retrospect, I'm not sure it's a continuance. Did I tell you I was going to reread The Stand? If so, well, continuance! Bingo! If not, pretend I did, and still bingo!
I read this book when it first came out, which wikipedia tells me was 1978. I wasn't of the financial means to buy hardcover books in 1978 and I believe my branch library was temporarily (though later permanently) shuttered then, so I must have read it when it came out in paperback. So we'll say 1979. Sounds about right. I also watched the miniseries based on it, which wikipedia tells me was aired in 1994. Let us just say that I was going to be fine in rereading it, because I only had a very vague recollection of any plot details. In fact, I will tell you that while rereading it, there was one character I was absolutely sure I remembered as being the ultimate hero in the book, and he was killed off well before the denouement. So, yeah! Just like reading a book I'd never read before.
And actually, in truth, it *was* a book I'd never read before, because the only version available for the kindle was the 1990 author's edition, in which, because Mr King was now so rich and famous he could do what the fuck he wanted, massive amounts of material that were cut from the original edition (because the bean counters thought the book was too long) were restored. The beauty of the kindle (besides being able to read "erotica" without public embarrassment and avoiding tendinitis) is that you can't really see how long these tendinitis-inducing books are, and thus are not daunted. No page numbers. No visual cue of a hardcover book that'd take up three inches on the ol' bookcase. Just a line on your home page that's longer than the lines for some of your other books. If this restored version is actually 1300 pages, you can't prove it by me. But it took me like a good ten days to read.
The Stand is considered by many people to be Stephen King's best book and/or an enduring classic. He mentions this in his foreword to the author's edition and says that, y'know, it's not his favorite book that he's written. I gotta agree with him. It certainly isn't the scariest of all his books, nor is it the best plotted. What surprised me reading it this time around is how good it is in certain key areas that apparently he got worse in as his writing career progressed. For instance, I always say that one of my major problems with his work is that his female characters suck. They tend to be far more one dimensional than his male characters and, as a chick, often read to me as if *he* thinks he understands how women think and react, which 1.) we don't all think and react the same way and 2.) he doesn't. He also tends to write women as victims of physical or sexual abuse and furthermore as abuse victims whose abuse colors their entire lives and psychology. I find it somewhat annoying. For just as, say, male combat victims don't all respond to the trauma they've sustained in the same way, female rape victims don't either. So it was with great pleasure that I found in The Stand several better rounded female characters, including two major ones, who had histories of (relatively, at least) healthy family and romantic relationships. It brings up the question of why an author's characterizations would get worse instead of better, and I can only attribute it to getting stuck in the mode of writing the same character over and over again.
N E Way, I was glad to reread this book, because the postapocalypic "disease has wiped out almost everyone and the survivors are fighting for their lives" genre is very big in books and movies now, though these days the virus generally turns you into a zombie of some sort, since zombies are big now. Nice to read one of the original bestsellers in the genre and see how it's influenced what came after.
xoxo
I read this book when it first came out, which wikipedia tells me was 1978. I wasn't of the financial means to buy hardcover books in 1978 and I believe my branch library was temporarily (though later permanently) shuttered then, so I must have read it when it came out in paperback. So we'll say 1979. Sounds about right. I also watched the miniseries based on it, which wikipedia tells me was aired in 1994. Let us just say that I was going to be fine in rereading it, because I only had a very vague recollection of any plot details. In fact, I will tell you that while rereading it, there was one character I was absolutely sure I remembered as being the ultimate hero in the book, and he was killed off well before the denouement. So, yeah! Just like reading a book I'd never read before.
And actually, in truth, it *was* a book I'd never read before, because the only version available for the kindle was the 1990 author's edition, in which, because Mr King was now so rich and famous he could do what the fuck he wanted, massive amounts of material that were cut from the original edition (because the bean counters thought the book was too long) were restored. The beauty of the kindle (besides being able to read "erotica" without public embarrassment and avoiding tendinitis) is that you can't really see how long these tendinitis-inducing books are, and thus are not daunted. No page numbers. No visual cue of a hardcover book that'd take up three inches on the ol' bookcase. Just a line on your home page that's longer than the lines for some of your other books. If this restored version is actually 1300 pages, you can't prove it by me. But it took me like a good ten days to read.
The Stand is considered by many people to be Stephen King's best book and/or an enduring classic. He mentions this in his foreword to the author's edition and says that, y'know, it's not his favorite book that he's written. I gotta agree with him. It certainly isn't the scariest of all his books, nor is it the best plotted. What surprised me reading it this time around is how good it is in certain key areas that apparently he got worse in as his writing career progressed. For instance, I always say that one of my major problems with his work is that his female characters suck. They tend to be far more one dimensional than his male characters and, as a chick, often read to me as if *he* thinks he understands how women think and react, which 1.) we don't all think and react the same way and 2.) he doesn't. He also tends to write women as victims of physical or sexual abuse and furthermore as abuse victims whose abuse colors their entire lives and psychology. I find it somewhat annoying. For just as, say, male combat victims don't all respond to the trauma they've sustained in the same way, female rape victims don't either. So it was with great pleasure that I found in The Stand several better rounded female characters, including two major ones, who had histories of (relatively, at least) healthy family and romantic relationships. It brings up the question of why an author's characterizations would get worse instead of better, and I can only attribute it to getting stuck in the mode of writing the same character over and over again.
N E Way, I was glad to reread this book, because the postapocalypic "disease has wiped out almost everyone and the survivors are fighting for their lives" genre is very big in books and movies now, though these days the virus generally turns you into a zombie of some sort, since zombies are big now. Nice to read one of the original bestsellers in the genre and see how it's influenced what came after.
xoxo
Monday, September 19, 2011
continuances
1.) So D has to go on thyroid medication after all, which will mean he will be on a grand total of...wait for it...wait for it...7 different drugs. Eight different prescriptions actually, since he gets one of them in two separate strengths. There's the atypical antipsychotic, the antidepressant, the antianxiety, the stuff that protects against the side effects of the atypical antipsychotic, the cholesterol lowering drug (needed due to the atypical antipsychotic fucking up one's metabolism), the protect against diabetes drug (ditto), and now the thyroid replacement. Which, if THAT isn't due to the atypical antipsychotic, I will eat my nonexistent hat. Townie Girl, who is on a similar number of drugs due to her autoimmune diseases and her crazee, shares my experience in that when we walk up to the pharmacy window, no one needs to ask our name anymore. I don't know what the point of sharing all this is, except to say that someday our descendents will look back on this like we look at witch doctors killing chickens to heal the patient. Because I am very sure medical science will advance such that the drugs that are saving your life on the one hand aren't also killing you on the other.
2.) Got the response to my second anxiety-producing bit of correspondence on Saturday and it is potentially very, very good financial news for me. I've got a little more work to do on it, but there may be a time in the not so distant future where I stop whining to you all that I don't have enough money to fix up my house and sell it.
3.) How about those Red Sox? Looking forward to tomorrow's game as one step closer to losing the wild card race. Beer will be consumed.
I can't remember the rest of what I was going to tell all y'all. As I mentioned previously, I am losing my freaking mind. Go, menopause, go!
xoxo
2.) Got the response to my second anxiety-producing bit of correspondence on Saturday and it is potentially very, very good financial news for me. I've got a little more work to do on it, but there may be a time in the not so distant future where I stop whining to you all that I don't have enough money to fix up my house and sell it.
3.) How about those Red Sox? Looking forward to tomorrow's game as one step closer to losing the wild card race. Beer will be consumed.
I can't remember the rest of what I was going to tell all y'all. As I mentioned previously, I am losing my freaking mind. Go, menopause, go!
xoxo
Saturday, September 17, 2011
peri-menopause brain strikes again
This is getting slightly scary, you guys.
Lately if I have to mail something, I've been mostly bringing it to work with me rather than putting it into the mailbox on my street. This because, with my bodymedia, I am now accutely aware of how much I sit on my ass at work and going to the mail slot in the hospital gives me an excuse to walk way over to the furthest building from mine and back at some point during my work day. So sometimes I'll throw whatever bills I have to pay into my bag, write the checks at work, and then mail them. Well, this month, anticipating the big bill from my electrician, I did not pay Sprint and NationalGrid at the same time, as I usually do, since those two bills always come within a few days of each other. No, I paid Sprint, and decided to hold off on the 'lectricity another week (and paycheck) and pay it with my AMTA renewal that's due the end of September. (Which, may I say, is ridiculously expensive, but it does give me liability insurance which I need to keep up my MA license and which I guess will protect me should I ever kill someone through, I dunno, arnica overdose or some shit.)
So Thursday (payday!) I made sure I took some checks and stamps with me to pay the AMTA and NationalGrid, the bills for which I was sure I had in my purse the last time I checked. But Thursday I was mega-busy in work and didn't get a chance. Yesterday afternoon, after my last appointment, I sat down to do it, and...well, the AMTA bill was in my bag, but no NationalGrid. Damn, why would I have taken that out? And, damn, it's due next week, so must mail Saturday.
This morning I remembered to grab the NationalGrid envelope from the pile of crap I'd cleaned out of my purse but not yet dealt with. A few minutes ago I took it out and looked at it. It's the bill stub. At some point, that I SWEAR I DO NOT REMEMBER AT ALL, I already paid it. I am completely serious. I remember thinking I wouldn't pay it until I paid the AMTA, but I guess I changed my mind. And the reason I took it out of my purse was because I was done with it.
When they put me away in the home because I have early-onset Alzheimers, will you all come visit me? I mean, I'm sure I won't remember who you are and will probably think you're trying to steal my pudding, but it's good karma.
xoxo
Friday, September 16, 2011
wanna talk basebalI? the sequel
So! Having been selected to possibly buy ALDS tickets today, I logged on at 12:04 (purchases start at noon) and was ushered into the virtual waiting room, where I was two "seats" away from the "box office." This surprised me, because the last time I was in the virtual waiting room, I was at number 5 or 6 and in the four hours before I gave up, I never moved. My first thought was, "Oh, hahaha, nobody else thinks they're gonna make it to the ALDS either," but then I realized the more likely explanation was that they just hadn't allowed that many people the chance to buy tickets.
Approximately 12:38 I actually made it to the box office where I made what might have been my fatal mistake. The choices were game 1, game 2, or game 3 (if necessary). I picked game 1. The best available tickets were standing room only. Um, no. No thank you. I am not paying $35 per seat plus convenience fees (and may I say, fuck you, it's not so convenient) to stand for an entire game. I'll watch at home from my couch. And you don't get a second chance. I tried to go back and select another game, but it would not allow me to. Oh.well. These games aren't gonna happen anyway.
I am being recruited to become a Milwaukee Brewers fan. You never know. I might jump ship.
Oh, who are we kidding? I am brainwashed into Red Sox fandom and it ain't gonna go away, sans ECT or something. I'll just bitch, moan, and be bitter as hell.
xoxo
Approximately 12:38 I actually made it to the box office where I made what might have been my fatal mistake. The choices were game 1, game 2, or game 3 (if necessary). I picked game 1. The best available tickets were standing room only. Um, no. No thank you. I am not paying $35 per seat plus convenience fees (and may I say, fuck you, it's not so convenient) to stand for an entire game. I'll watch at home from my couch. And you don't get a second chance. I tried to go back and select another game, but it would not allow me to. Oh.well. These games aren't gonna happen anyway.
I am being recruited to become a Milwaukee Brewers fan. You never know. I might jump ship.
Oh, who are we kidding? I am brainwashed into Red Sox fandom and it ain't gonna go away, sans ECT or something. I'll just bitch, moan, and be bitter as hell.
xoxo
Thursday, September 15, 2011
wanna talk baseball?
Me neither. Two things, though.
I came home just about 8 pm tonight, said hi to D, unpacked my bags and put stuff away, walked through the living room where the game was on, saw the score was 1-0 Tampa Bay, went upstairs to pee, came down, and the score was now 4-0. In the time it took me to take a leak, the Red Sox gave up another 3 runs. That is emblematic of something.
Also? I got in my email the other day that I was selected for the chance to try to buy ALDS tickets tomorrow. Ha! Like they're gonna be in the ADLS. Whatever.
Mr Indemnity informed me the other day that the Sox collapse was good, because it transforms the Orioles game we're going to next week from a meaningless late season yawner to an important, exciting event. I said we're getting beers this time, no matter how many people we need to crawl over and elbow in the head getting out of seats 10 and 11, 'cause I have the feeling I'ma need alcohol.
Okay, that was three things. I'm done now.
xoxo
I came home just about 8 pm tonight, said hi to D, unpacked my bags and put stuff away, walked through the living room where the game was on, saw the score was 1-0 Tampa Bay, went upstairs to pee, came down, and the score was now 4-0. In the time it took me to take a leak, the Red Sox gave up another 3 runs. That is emblematic of something.
Also? I got in my email the other day that I was selected for the chance to try to buy ALDS tickets tomorrow. Ha! Like they're gonna be in the ADLS. Whatever.
Mr Indemnity informed me the other day that the Sox collapse was good, because it transforms the Orioles game we're going to next week from a meaningless late season yawner to an important, exciting event. I said we're getting beers this time, no matter how many people we need to crawl over and elbow in the head getting out of seats 10 and 11, 'cause I have the feeling I'ma need alcohol.
Okay, that was three things. I'm done now.
xoxo
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
the half empty, half full report
Since yesterday was such a downer, blog post-wise, today I'ma balance out every bad with at least one good.
1.) I just paid my electrician a crapload of money but
1a.) now I can use my oven without the house possibly going up in flames
1b.) which means I'm baking cranberry bread even as we speak and
1c.) having the electrician come was a good impetus to
1d.) almost completely finish cleaning my dad's shit out of that nasty garage and
1e.) start working on cleaning out the basement which I have neglected far too long and
1f.) I think my mega huge air purifier has finally taken the stench out of my downstairs caused by those nasty boxes from the basement in D's closet
2.) Since those little bastards CJ and Nick completely flaked out on me and stopped returning my emails and calls, I was forced to cut my own grass today in desperation but
2a.) I managed to get the mower started, which I wasn't sure I was going to be able to, and
2b.) even though it really doesn't cut very well
2c.) the yard still looks better now than it did an hour and a half ago and
2d.) I'm no longer in imminent danger of the neighbors calling the city on me so
2e.) I don't have to avoid them anymore and it's another weight off my mind and
2f.) incidentally, I noticed that I am so effin' strong now, I can start that mower on one pull (when I first started cutting the grass when it got too much for my dad, he had to start the mower for me every single time, I didn't have the arm strength) so
2g.) functional strength, bitches!
3.) no good news came in today's mail but
3a.) no bad news came in today's mail, either
How'm I doing?
xoxo
1.) I just paid my electrician a crapload of money but
1a.) now I can use my oven without the house possibly going up in flames
1b.) which means I'm baking cranberry bread even as we speak and
1c.) having the electrician come was a good impetus to
1d.) almost completely finish cleaning my dad's shit out of that nasty garage and
1e.) start working on cleaning out the basement which I have neglected far too long and
1f.) I think my mega huge air purifier has finally taken the stench out of my downstairs caused by those nasty boxes from the basement in D's closet
2.) Since those little bastards CJ and Nick completely flaked out on me and stopped returning my emails and calls, I was forced to cut my own grass today in desperation but
2a.) I managed to get the mower started, which I wasn't sure I was going to be able to, and
2b.) even though it really doesn't cut very well
2c.) the yard still looks better now than it did an hour and a half ago and
2d.) I'm no longer in imminent danger of the neighbors calling the city on me so
2e.) I don't have to avoid them anymore and it's another weight off my mind and
2f.) incidentally, I noticed that I am so effin' strong now, I can start that mower on one pull (when I first started cutting the grass when it got too much for my dad, he had to start the mower for me every single time, I didn't have the arm strength) so
2g.) functional strength, bitches!
3.) no good news came in today's mail but
3a.) no bad news came in today's mail, either
How'm I doing?
xoxo
Monday, September 12, 2011
one more celeb photo
Mr and Mrs Carter-Knowles out for a stroll in Tribeca.
It's not every pregnant woman who has leather booty shorts. Where do you even find such things in maternity size? I guess when you're Beyonce you just snap your fingers and say "make it so," sorta like Jean Luc Picard. Jay looks good. He's not a particularly handsome man, but he wears clothes very well. The plain white tee and jeans make a perfect backdrop for his wife's whackadoodle outfit, no?
xoxo
It's not every pregnant woman who has leather booty shorts. Where do you even find such things in maternity size? I guess when you're Beyonce you just snap your fingers and say "make it so," sorta like Jean Luc Picard. Jay looks good. He's not a particularly handsome man, but he wears clothes very well. The plain white tee and jeans make a perfect backdrop for his wife's whackadoodle outfit, no?
xoxo
insight into pathology
Mine, that is. I know it is very difficult for people who are normal to understand the brain workings of the crazee. Just think of this as an anthropological visit into a strange land. Listen and learn, I mean to say.
I have been procrastinating on a variety of things that make me very anxious. On the surface, this makes absolutely no sense, because the end result is more anxiety. Anxiety about the matter itself, and anxiety about the procrastination. Plus all the lovely self-shaming about how I should just get my shit together like a functional adult.
Well, one of these things was along the lines of "if y happens and I haven't taken care of x, the disaster of y will be magnified tenfold, but y hasn't happened and probably won't so, lalalala, ignore x as long as possible, because taking care of x will probably turn out to be some protracted ordeal where everything will go wrong and just the thought of how stressful that would be is giving me a panic attack now." Except when anxiety about y raised its ugly head to be worse than anxiety about doing x, I sat down, wrote the correspondence that needed to be done, and mailed it out a week or ten days ago. Relief and terror accompanied taking that letter to the post office. And in today's mail, there was a reply. All fixed. On the first try. No "provide us with more information", no "you must come to the office and sign this, this, and this", no "I'm sorry, but this nullifies the whole thing and we need to start from scratch", no mistakes, no extra charges, no agita. Just proof that everything was now as it should be, and if y happens, I don't have to worry.
I realize that all those other things that I am procrastinating on probably can be handled just as easily, even though I've had huge aggravations about D's MassHealth, the electrical work on my house, my parade of disappearing landscapers, the ongoing inability of CVS pharmacy to do their job properly, etc etc. Even though it *seems* like it, not every single thing always goes wrong. And the procrastination anxiety is probably worse than the "they will fuck this up" anxiety anyway. But that's just how my brain functions. Even on drugs.
I sent out another letter the same day as x. We'll see if any good comes from that one.
Are you wearing your underwear on your head today? If not, why not?
xoxo
I have been procrastinating on a variety of things that make me very anxious. On the surface, this makes absolutely no sense, because the end result is more anxiety. Anxiety about the matter itself, and anxiety about the procrastination. Plus all the lovely self-shaming about how I should just get my shit together like a functional adult.
Well, one of these things was along the lines of "if y happens and I haven't taken care of x, the disaster of y will be magnified tenfold, but y hasn't happened and probably won't so, lalalala, ignore x as long as possible, because taking care of x will probably turn out to be some protracted ordeal where everything will go wrong and just the thought of how stressful that would be is giving me a panic attack now." Except when anxiety about y raised its ugly head to be worse than anxiety about doing x, I sat down, wrote the correspondence that needed to be done, and mailed it out a week or ten days ago. Relief and terror accompanied taking that letter to the post office. And in today's mail, there was a reply. All fixed. On the first try. No "provide us with more information", no "you must come to the office and sign this, this, and this", no "I'm sorry, but this nullifies the whole thing and we need to start from scratch", no mistakes, no extra charges, no agita. Just proof that everything was now as it should be, and if y happens, I don't have to worry.
I realize that all those other things that I am procrastinating on probably can be handled just as easily, even though I've had huge aggravations about D's MassHealth, the electrical work on my house, my parade of disappearing landscapers, the ongoing inability of CVS pharmacy to do their job properly, etc etc. Even though it *seems* like it, not every single thing always goes wrong. And the procrastination anxiety is probably worse than the "they will fuck this up" anxiety anyway. But that's just how my brain functions. Even on drugs.
I sent out another letter the same day as x. We'll see if any good comes from that one.
Are you wearing your underwear on your head today? If not, why not?
xoxo
Sunday, September 11, 2011
praise the lord
You all may or may not remember me telling you about the closed car dealership I go by every day of my life whose proposed transformation into a methadone clinic was squelched by the neighbors and/or other town citizens. The last few weeks there has been a flurry of activity there, indicating that it was being transformed into something. Today I noticed the sign. The car dealership is now a "Christian Fellowship." Oh.
What I'm about to say is deeply unfair, I'm sure, since it's not as if the church put a kibosh on the clinic in order to get the building. Uh, as far as I know. But I can't help but think that if Jesus were alive, he'd be more interested in helping the junkies than in a bunch of people sitting around on a Sunday congratulating themselves on how moral and superior they are for believing in him. But what do I know? I'm a heathen.
In completely unrelated news, but as a further exemplar of how klassy the area in which I live and work is, I just saw a woman wearing a tube top over a bra. I don't mean a strapless bra. I mean, she had a tube top on over a regular bra such that the bra straps and the part of the cup that attaches to the straps were showing. Um, I am sorry, but they are called undergarments for a reason. Maybe tomorrow we should all wear our underpants on our heads or something.
What I'm about to say is deeply unfair, I'm sure, since it's not as if the church put a kibosh on the clinic in order to get the building. Uh, as far as I know. But I can't help but think that if Jesus were alive, he'd be more interested in helping the junkies than in a bunch of people sitting around on a Sunday congratulating themselves on how moral and superior they are for believing in him. But what do I know? I'm a heathen.
In completely unrelated news, but as a further exemplar of how klassy the area in which I live and work is, I just saw a woman wearing a tube top over a bra. I don't mean a strapless bra. I mean, she had a tube top on over a regular bra such that the bra straps and the part of the cup that attaches to the straps were showing. Um, I am sorry, but they are called undergarments for a reason. Maybe tomorrow we should all wear our underpants on our heads or something.
Jesus, in his new car dealership home, wept.
xoxo
xoxo
Friday, September 9, 2011
time to look at...
what Andrea's favorite celebs have been up to!
1.) Having already told all y'all that Mr and Mrs Carter-Knowles are expecting, I would be remiss not to let you in on who else is looking forward to a little bundle of joy: Mr and Mrs Sarkozy! Our friend Carla is a little elderly to be popping out her first bebe, but good for her. Let's hope it looks like mommy, not daddy, eh?
2.) My other girl-crush Rihanna is now the new face of Armani. She is apparently blond in the ads. Not sure I am in favor of this development (the blond hair/presumed wig, not her endorsement deal--make all the money you can whilst those breasts still look like that, darlin'!) but her face is so pretty she can pull off whatever they (or she) do to her coif.
3.) My boytoy Anthony and his friend Flea have a new album out. Back in July, the Benevolent L and I were in her car with the radio on (which is basically the only time I ever listen to the radio these days) and a song came on. "Is this the Chili Peppers?" L asked. "Yeah," I said. "Is this a new song or an old song?" "Old, I think." Then the DJ helpfully told us that it was the single from the new album. Then a couple weeks ago, Mr Indemnity sent me a thing where you could download the album on iTunes for free. "Did you listen to it? Is it good?" he asked. "It sounds like a Chili Peppers album," I said. My point being, the new songs sound like the old songs and the new album is not a groundbreaking piece of musical innovation. They have a niche and they are filling it. I have no problem with that. I do, however, have a problem with this moustache. Dear god, Anthony, don't muck up your pretty face with the pr0n star 'stache. You look like a homeless guy. And maybe you should get Carla's plastic surgeon on speed dial.
I think that's it for now. If I remember anything else, I'll let you all know.
xoxo
1.) Having already told all y'all that Mr and Mrs Carter-Knowles are expecting, I would be remiss not to let you in on who else is looking forward to a little bundle of joy: Mr and Mrs Sarkozy! Our friend Carla is a little elderly to be popping out her first bebe, but good for her. Let's hope it looks like mommy, not daddy, eh?
2.) My other girl-crush Rihanna is now the new face of Armani. She is apparently blond in the ads. Not sure I am in favor of this development (the blond hair/presumed wig, not her endorsement deal--make all the money you can whilst those breasts still look like that, darlin'!) but her face is so pretty she can pull off whatever they (or she) do to her coif.
3.) My boytoy Anthony and his friend Flea have a new album out. Back in July, the Benevolent L and I were in her car with the radio on (which is basically the only time I ever listen to the radio these days) and a song came on. "Is this the Chili Peppers?" L asked. "Yeah," I said. "Is this a new song or an old song?" "Old, I think." Then the DJ helpfully told us that it was the single from the new album. Then a couple weeks ago, Mr Indemnity sent me a thing where you could download the album on iTunes for free. "Did you listen to it? Is it good?" he asked. "It sounds like a Chili Peppers album," I said. My point being, the new songs sound like the old songs and the new album is not a groundbreaking piece of musical innovation. They have a niche and they are filling it. I have no problem with that. I do, however, have a problem with this moustache. Dear god, Anthony, don't muck up your pretty face with the pr0n star 'stache. You look like a homeless guy. And maybe you should get Carla's plastic surgeon on speed dial.
I think that's it for now. If I remember anything else, I'll let you all know.
xoxo
Thursday, September 8, 2011
speaking of things that look pathetic
How about those Red Sox??!?! [insert hysterical laughter and/or sobbing here]
As the eighth inning unfolded, I said to D, and I quote, "I do NOT know why I am watching this, because I am not enjoying it." Maybe it was like one of those eleven car pileups that you just can't take your eyes off of, even though you suspect a decapitated head may come rolling out of that overturned pickup truck any time now. I am beginning to think that this season may just end without #200 ever coming and that will be a travesty and a desecration.
But then, even with #200 blown last night, those bastards still had a chance to tie and win the game. Only, did you see that final out? The fuck was that? R U kidding me? Do you think you're Dave Roberts? Because you, sir, are no Dave Roberts. So how about you stay on first base where you fucking belong and let the miracle come from behind win happen without your heroics.
Not that I'm bitter or anything. God.
xoxo
As the eighth inning unfolded, I said to D, and I quote, "I do NOT know why I am watching this, because I am not enjoying it." Maybe it was like one of those eleven car pileups that you just can't take your eyes off of, even though you suspect a decapitated head may come rolling out of that overturned pickup truck any time now. I am beginning to think that this season may just end without #200 ever coming and that will be a travesty and a desecration.
But then, even with #200 blown last night, those bastards still had a chance to tie and win the game. Only, did you see that final out? The fuck was that? R U kidding me? Do you think you're Dave Roberts? Because you, sir, are no Dave Roberts. So how about you stay on first base where you fucking belong and let the miracle come from behind win happen without your heroics.
Not that I'm bitter or anything. God.
xoxo
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
why are they lying to meeeee?
The weather on my google homepage is telling me that it is a "light rain mist", as reported from a location approximately 1/4 mile from my house. However, outside my particular house, it is pouring. This is pissing me off, because I would like to leave and go get some shit done, but I would like to do so in a light rain mist as opposed to "looking like I took a shower in my clothes again" weather. And when my shopping moratorium is over, I should break down and buy rain boots like I have been threatening to do for 3 years, because I am sick of getting my shoes and/or feet wet.
In non-meteorological bitching, my electrician would like to come and do my work next Tuesday morning, which means I'll have to take off work. However, I am not going to refuse, because being able to cook on more than one burner and use my oven is, y'know, important. D and I were laughing last night about all the food we are going to make Tuesday night. Lesson: you do not fully appreciate what you have until you cannot use it. Ooooo, deep. Apply that to your own life.
Also? How about those Red Sox? (Do you need the ol' irony alert? Okay, then.)
And, finally, in the non-complaint department, I was going to reply to a post of someone's poor cat with a shaved leg from dental surgery with the comment, "Oh, poor kitteh. They look so pathetic when they're shaved." Then I realized how else that could be taken. And then I realized that I probably don't know them well enough to insert a juvenile, off-color joke into their thread, purposely or not. So my sympathy for their cat was not relayed. But, seriously, don't they look sad when they're shaved?
I don't hear it pouring anymore. Maybe I can make a break for it soon. Oh, yeah, now google's telling me it's raining. Very good.
xoxo
Oh, P.S. did you hear about the Eastern Bank scam? D got the call over the weekend, didn't tell me about it, but then was freaking out because he couldn't find his bank statement. So I showed him how to call 1-800-eastern and see that all his money is still in his bank account where it belongs. When we did that, they had a recording on there about the scam and an option to push if you had fallen for it. *Then* he told me he'd gotten the call, not that he was stupid/naive enough to fall for it and enter his account info, but that was what got him panicking. Which, I swear, he's been like that from the time he could talk--he would never ever come forward with whatever was upsetting him or worrying him without my having to pry it out of him with a crowbar. Anyway, Townie Girl also got the scam call and, because she does online banking, Eastern Bank emailed her about the scam too. I don't know why I am impressed by their handling of this, but I am so used to people bitching about the absolutely horrendous things their banks do, I guess I appreciate their minimal standards of customer service. I will be sad the day they get swallowed up. End digression.
In non-meteorological bitching, my electrician would like to come and do my work next Tuesday morning, which means I'll have to take off work. However, I am not going to refuse, because being able to cook on more than one burner and use my oven is, y'know, important. D and I were laughing last night about all the food we are going to make Tuesday night. Lesson: you do not fully appreciate what you have until you cannot use it. Ooooo, deep. Apply that to your own life.
Also? How about those Red Sox? (Do you need the ol' irony alert? Okay, then.)
And, finally, in the non-complaint department, I was going to reply to a post of someone's poor cat with a shaved leg from dental surgery with the comment, "Oh, poor kitteh. They look so pathetic when they're shaved." Then I realized how else that could be taken. And then I realized that I probably don't know them well enough to insert a juvenile, off-color joke into their thread, purposely or not. So my sympathy for their cat was not relayed. But, seriously, don't they look sad when they're shaved?
I don't hear it pouring anymore. Maybe I can make a break for it soon. Oh, yeah, now google's telling me it's raining. Very good.
xoxo
Oh, P.S. did you hear about the Eastern Bank scam? D got the call over the weekend, didn't tell me about it, but then was freaking out because he couldn't find his bank statement. So I showed him how to call 1-800-eastern and see that all his money is still in his bank account where it belongs. When we did that, they had a recording on there about the scam and an option to push if you had fallen for it. *Then* he told me he'd gotten the call, not that he was stupid/naive enough to fall for it and enter his account info, but that was what got him panicking. Which, I swear, he's been like that from the time he could talk--he would never ever come forward with whatever was upsetting him or worrying him without my having to pry it out of him with a crowbar. Anyway, Townie Girl also got the scam call and, because she does online banking, Eastern Bank emailed her about the scam too. I don't know why I am impressed by their handling of this, but I am so used to people bitching about the absolutely horrendous things their banks do, I guess I appreciate their minimal standards of customer service. I will be sad the day they get swallowed up. End digression.
Monday, September 5, 2011
boot madness
If I were NOT on a shopping moratorium, I could have bought these almost $500 Frye boots today for $200, in either red with black or black with red. (This picture is the closest thing I could find. Obviously, the ones marked down 60% in Marshalls are past season and so were slightly different in colors.)
I have almost physical pain that I passed up a $500 pair of Frye boots (made in freakin' Spain, too, not some 3rd world country by slave children) for $200, but my self-control was great. And don't you go telling me that people on shopping moratoriums should not be out window shopping anyway. I relish the opportunity to torture and deny myself.
xoxo
I have almost physical pain that I passed up a $500 pair of Frye boots (made in freakin' Spain, too, not some 3rd world country by slave children) for $200, but my self-control was great. And don't you go telling me that people on shopping moratoriums should not be out window shopping anyway. I relish the opportunity to torture and deny myself.
xoxo
Sunday, September 4, 2011
more things i am good at
Besides telling you how to get wherever it is you think you are going on the MBTA, having a good eye for design even though I can't draw, paint, sculpt, or otherwise produce any art, breastfeeding, dumbbell rows (PR yesterday, bitches: 45x5x5, with 40x8x1 thrown in for the lulz [my back is strong as fuck, yet my lats will not grow; it is a mystery and an enigma]) and panicking, that is. I am good at shopping. That is one of my other superpowers. Oh, I am not my mother. I cannot get $200 worth of groceries for $42.97 nor can I go into a Building 19/Big Lots/etc and find in amongst the piles and piles of cheap crap the two things that really are great quality and a good bargain. (I attribute this to the fact that I was really supposed to have been born independently wealthy and someone screwed the fuck up.)
No, what I am good at, as far as shopping goes, is finding the place out of all the myriad of options, online and off, that has exactly the [whatever] that you, or I, really want. Since some of my friends are aware of this (and you know who you are), I occasionally am called in for consultation. And thus it came to pass that google ads really really really now thinks I want a new laptop bag. Sorry, omniscient google, but no, I am not looking for any luggage or purse-type options at the moment. You can go back to trying to sell me expensive yoga pants, even though that messes with my self image. (I broke down and bought the Lululemon shorts, btw, and have worn them at least twice a week since I got them. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the gym mirror with them on, I think, "Who's that hot old broad?" so you know they were worth every ridiculous penny. Miracle fabric spun by fairies or something, all y'all. And the parentheticals will stop any.time.now.)
But having spent ridiculous money on shorts and generally TOO MUCH MONEY in July and August, I am now on a shopping moratorium. I broke it, or y'know, just didn't start it yet, by purchasing a big ass air purifier this week. I will spare you the sad story of why I think I need one, but it involves cleaning out the basement, D finding a cardboard box of brand new t shirts down there that he bought in some past manic episode, putting the box of mildew-y t shirts in his walk-in closet, and now even after the shirts have been washed and the box banished to the garage till trash day, my whole downstairs stinks and my allergies are kicking into overdrive. My HEPA air filter assures me it will take care of my mold spores ASAP, but trash day can't come soon enough. And I guess I didn't spare you the story after all! The weird thing is, my allergies did not bother me ever going into the basement or when we were cleaning it and it didn't smell that bad. It's just after stirring shit up or something. I dunno. I probably need to get some extra money somewhere and buy a couple more giant ass air purifiers. Once my review at work goes through, my awesome 2% raise will kick in and I'll get whatever they owe me retroactively. That'll probably be $20. Bad economy, FTW.
I wish some of my superpowers came with money-making properties. "Will dumbbell row for cash." If you see a woman sitting outside the Y with a (non-stinky) cardboard sign that says that and a tin cup, that'll be me. Throw a couple quarters in, willya?
xoxo
No, what I am good at, as far as shopping goes, is finding the place out of all the myriad of options, online and off, that has exactly the [whatever] that you, or I, really want. Since some of my friends are aware of this (and you know who you are), I occasionally am called in for consultation. And thus it came to pass that google ads really really really now thinks I want a new laptop bag. Sorry, omniscient google, but no, I am not looking for any luggage or purse-type options at the moment. You can go back to trying to sell me expensive yoga pants, even though that messes with my self image. (I broke down and bought the Lululemon shorts, btw, and have worn them at least twice a week since I got them. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the gym mirror with them on, I think, "Who's that hot old broad?" so you know they were worth every ridiculous penny. Miracle fabric spun by fairies or something, all y'all. And the parentheticals will stop any.time.now.)
But having spent ridiculous money on shorts and generally TOO MUCH MONEY in July and August, I am now on a shopping moratorium. I broke it, or y'know, just didn't start it yet, by purchasing a big ass air purifier this week. I will spare you the sad story of why I think I need one, but it involves cleaning out the basement, D finding a cardboard box of brand new t shirts down there that he bought in some past manic episode, putting the box of mildew-y t shirts in his walk-in closet, and now even after the shirts have been washed and the box banished to the garage till trash day, my whole downstairs stinks and my allergies are kicking into overdrive. My HEPA air filter assures me it will take care of my mold spores ASAP, but trash day can't come soon enough. And I guess I didn't spare you the story after all! The weird thing is, my allergies did not bother me ever going into the basement or when we were cleaning it and it didn't smell that bad. It's just after stirring shit up or something. I dunno. I probably need to get some extra money somewhere and buy a couple more giant ass air purifiers. Once my review at work goes through, my awesome 2% raise will kick in and I'll get whatever they owe me retroactively. That'll probably be $20. Bad economy, FTW.
I wish some of my superpowers came with money-making properties. "Will dumbbell row for cash." If you see a woman sitting outside the Y with a (non-stinky) cardboard sign that says that and a tin cup, that'll be me. Throw a couple quarters in, willya?
xoxo
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