varied things, now a trilogy!

Seriously, guys, I wish I had something substantive to write about that would take up a whole post. Then I could stop just spewing the random contents of my brain at you. However, until that day comes, this is what you get.

1.) You can't expect me to be intelligent or clever today anyhow, because I had like three hours of sleep. Why did you have three hours of sleep, Andrea? Because I could hear it raining hard outside and I was afraid/paranoid/flipping out my basement was flooding again. I went down to look at 1 am and all was fine. I was wide awake at 6 am and all was still fine. None of that helped me to sleep. Sigh.

2.) Monday on the holiday I was out walking all over the city of Boston, drinking and eating crap, and incidentally getting my feet chewed up by my sandals. Tuesday I had a big weird blister on the bottom of my right foot. I put a blister bandaid on it and hobbled all day. Yesterday, however, not being in work, I wore my UGG sweater boots--without socks--and walked about in fleecy comfort. Four miles in fleecy comfort, to be exact. Today my bad foot is all better. Coincidence? I think not. Still trying to justify that expense? Shut up.

3.) If this offends anyone reading this, apologies in advance. Every time I write a post saying I disapprove of or mocking something, I find out my blog readers all run up the stairs at Porter Square station or some such shit, and I've just insulted them. It's not personal, I swear to god. If I make fun of something and you do it or like it, you are the only exception to the rule. Remember that, por favor.

Okay! Here goes.

3.) I have never approved of people naming their kids after themselves. You know, like John Smith, Jr. I, first of all, have a visceral reaction to it, like, "Give the kid his own name, don't make him share yours. Damn." That doesn't necessarily make any logical sense; it's just a visceral reaction. But secondly, it leads to the kinda thing where a friend of mine calls her (26 year old, for god's sake) grandson "Little Ronny." This is to distinguish him from his father, Ronny, and his grandfather, Ron. The lack of dignity grows all down the line. The chance of having a grownup name kinda depends on the forebears kicking off. Do you want to be referring to your child as "little So n So" or calling him Junior when he's a Supreme Court justice? C'mon now. (Though, I must say, I do know a [Dominican] kid or two whose legal name is Junior, the mom just liking the sound of it and it not necessarily having the same connotations to her if her native language isn't English. I suppose this is better than naming your child Apple or Blanket, especially if you don't have a fortune for them to inherit.)

But it just occurred to me the other day that there is another pitfall to naming your child the same first name as his father, from the mother's point of view. If your husband's name is Harry and your son's name is also Harry, does it not make it impossible to then gasp out, "Oh, Harry, fuck me harder!" at the appropriate moment? Wouldn't doing so kill the mood, like, irreparably? So, yeah, you'd have to train yourself to only call your spouse by a special nickname in those, uh, intimate moments or you'd be back to only ever thinking of, or referring to, your child as Junior or whatever. Am I off base here? Is it just me? (Bonus points for figuring out what brings this up, ahahaha.)

4.) I was watching ESPN news yesterday morning and they were talking to Nomar, who does a lot of work for them, about the story in the Globe alleging all that stuff about Tito being ineffective because of his marital separation and/or pain pill usage, and the starting pitchers drinking beer and eating takeout fried chicken in the clubhouse while their teammates were out there sucking, and all the rest. So Nomar says, "Well, first of all, I haven't read it, because I don't read tabloids." Ooooo, burn. I guess Nomar is still a wee bit bitter, huh?

5.) OMG, I'm so excited, you guys. Beauty and the Beast, the TV series from the 80s with Linda Hamilton, is on Netflix instant view now! I watched a couple episodes last night while I was having my insomnia. The 80s really really were a bad fashion decade. But I like Linda Hamilton, even without her metaphorical and literal guns. She should get some acting jobs again, now that she isn't married to whatshisface anymore. She'd probably need to get a little work done, though.



55 year old women aren't allowed to look like 55 year old women in Hollywood.

I think that's it for now. Kiss kiss.

xoxo