this

...is a very pretty old woman.

This



...is apparently a woman who started drinking early. There's been a lot of internet and other media opinion that this dress is ugly, in particular the color. Is it wrong that I myself would think it were awesome if it wasn't completely see-through? If I were invited to a major awards show, I might wear a gray gown. Gray! It's the color of hoodies!

This



...is a woman who is rumored to be wearing fingerless gloves in all her recent appearances because she's trying to hide her old lady hands. If I were invited to a major awards show, I might need to do the same. Naaahhhhh. Madonna, we all know how old you are. We can google it. Your silly gloves are silly.

I'm too tired to do more.

xoxo

people get paid for this writing

I mentioned how recently I've been getting a gazillion emails a day from retailers who wish to sell me their merchandise for the holidays? Well, I am on the email list of Spanx. You know, the "shapewear" (i.e. let's not call a girdle and controltop tights a girdle and controltop tights) people? And in my email box RIGHT NOW I have a missive entitled "It's the Most Wonderful Time for the Rear!"

R U Serious? Someone signed off on that groan-inducer?

I think this is one of those cases in which really bad advertising would actually deter me from buying what is in reality a good product. Especially when they go on to tell me that I should give myself "the ultimate gift of lift". Who the fuck thinks this is clever? I'm just...wow.

xoxo

P.S. I scared myself yesterday listing how behind I was on Christmas, so I went out and bought almost all my son's stocking stuffers. That's something, right?

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.

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

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

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

tiny little dewdrops of annoyance

Having complained to you all about my real problems earlier, let's now tackle the less serious ones.

1.) They have apparently discontinued making my favorite eyeliner. I looked for it in 3 different CVSes and Tarzhay, and it is no longer on the Revlon shelves. So in the past two weeks or so, I have bought(as of today) four other replacement eyeliners, the first three of which were not an adequate replacement for the one I like. Let's hope #4 is the charm. Number 4, however, came from Sephora and cost $22, so even if it turns out to be the perfect color and formula, it will still be inferior to the $10 one I can no longer get. Grrr. Also, I have probably spent close to, if not more than, $50 on eyeliner in the last two weeks in my futile search. You men have no idea how hard it is to be a woman. Thank god I haven't had my period in like three months and thus am saving on tampon money.

2.) I am reading this book on my kindle called The Passage. It's kind of a mashup of The Stand and 28 Days Later and The Walking Dead, etc: you know, virus wiping out Life as We Know It, people turning into vampire/zombie/inhuman killing machines, little girl who is probably the savior of humanity, blah blah. Not the most original concept, is what I'm saying, but well done and a good read and you know I like that shiz anyway. And I'm glad I've got it on the kindle, 'cause I've been reading and reading and reading, and I'm only 36% done, so obviously in hardcover this is one of those tendinitis books. My problem with it is in the beginning section of the book there are so many characters, most of whom are referred to only by their last name--scientists and feds and army guys--that it was impossible to remember who most of them are. So I had to just give up and keep reading and just roll with their deaths (spoiler! heh), not knowing who was who. Would it be so hard in a book with that many people in it to give them names that were distinctive enough to help differentiate them? You wouldn't think so. A colorful nickname or two wouldn't hurt. God.

3.) I was almost hit by cars twice today, crossing in the crosswalk with a walk light. Once in Salem, once in Back Bay. The first one, I was crossing and these two teenage kids were also crossing at the same time. They were on the outside and I was on the inside. We were directly in the middle of the street and the SUV that had rolled up to the red light...kept rolling. Into the crosswalk. Like two inches from the right side of my body. I smacked its hood with my hand and said, "WTF?" The two kids, who I suspect were probably stoned to judge from their previous walking-down-the-street conversation, started yelling at the SUV, "What the shit? I saw that! You hit her! It's okay, she's only paralyzed on one side!" and other such hilarity. Then later, I was crossing Dartmouth street in Copley, again, in the crosswalk with a walk light, behind a bunch of other people and a car *came around* the other driver who was waiting for the pedestrians to finish crossing to make the left from Boylston--and he wasn't slowly rolling, this one--and had to slam his breaks on to keep from hitting me. This one was too much. "Do you see the fucking walk light?" I yelled at his stupid face. "Do you?" he yelled back, totally nonsensically. "Yeah, I do, AND I HAVE ONE." What is wrong with people? Seriously. What is wrong with them?

Ponder these things and get back to me. Muah.

xoxo

criminal and noncriminal celebs in the newz

We'll start with Cameron Diaz. She's the noncriminal. As far as I know. Unless someone's made fucking A-Rod a crime, WHICH IT SHOULD BE. Ahem.



This is a picture of Ms Diaz which appeared on gofugyourself yesterday. She was being taken to task for wearing that romper, which, um, yes. The return of the romper over the past couple years is a trend that can just go away now. However, disappointingly, Cammie was also mocked for her arms and neck. Not only is it disappointing because the Fug Girls do not generally bodysnark--it's the clothes they make fun of, not the bodies in them--except to occasionally suggest that some skinny actress who has suddenly become even more thin to the point of scariness should eat a sandwich or look into some carbs, it's disappointing because, oh man, her arms look AWESOME. A number of people took this position in the comments, which was reassuring to me. Also, Cammie's traps only look weird in that picture because of a.) the angle and b.) the neckline of that hideous romper.

Okay, now for the criminal. Whitey Bulger's capture was kinda anticlimactic, wasn't it? I think that's all I have to say about that. They captured an old man in an apartment building in Cali. How the hell can they spice that up when they make the movie?

Also criminal. Fuckin' Lackey. Do you know he has *four* more years on his contract? Do you know what they are paying him? Do you know he has the highest ERA in the league? Do you know my loathing for him has now surpassed that for Nancy and that he needs a disparaging nickname? Besides the appropriate "Fuckin' Lackey," 'cause that one can't be used in polite company. Which, believe it or not, I am occasionally in.

xoxo

ok! complaint time

Now that Justin is actually out back of my house with many power tools and bags of rock, and this whole sad, doomed project will indeed be completed today, I can move on to other areas of disgruntlement. Specifically, my inability to buy a pair of shorts.

If you've been paying attention, you will know that I bought a pair of shorts. Black, knee length cargo shorts to replace my favorite olive green knee length cargo shorts that I had to donate since they did not fit any longer. I am happy with my purchase. They are cute (in a lesbian massage therapist sorta way). They are comfortable. They fit perfectly. I've washed them a couple times and they do not appear to e prone to fading or shrinking. And since the old olive green pair always made my friend Mr Indemnity inappropriately comment on my ass--he just is unable to behave himself sometimes, even when it leads me to sticking forks in his arm in diners--I am assuming they have similar ass-flattering properties. So what is my problem?

My problem is that they just don't go with everything. Some of my foofy, boho, loose shirts need to be paired with a different sort of shorts for the proportions to look right. Denim shorts, more fitted to the leg, to be specific. And, because I am an old woman and old women do not under any circumstance belong in booty shorts no matter how freakin much they go to the gym, they should fall somewhere between mid-thigh and the knee. Do you think it is possible to find such a garment, even though I can picture it clearly in my head? The answer, surprisingly, would be "no."

I went to TJ Maxx and Target last night, to see what I could find. Here's my problem with that nice new TJ Maxx: they carry very few women's articles of clothing below a size 4. They had exactly 0 pairs of shorts in my size. I wandered over to the "juniors" department--i.e. the teenage girl clothes. There I found...booty shorts. What else? I managed to find two pairs of jeans shorts that were longer. Of course, I had *no* idea what size I wear in juniors. I held 'em up and decided on "5." Well, in the dressing room, one pair of size 5s, I couldn't even get up over my thighs. The other pair fit, even a touch loosely because they were stretchy, but had some truly ridiculous weird distressing on the backs of them. A little too close to the acid wash of 1988, thank you. So I bought a navy and gray striped maxi skirt instead, which is a departure because I never wear stripes and I never wear navy. It was only $15. And that's kinda like shorts, right? Shut up.

So I went to Tarzhay, where ALL the denim shorts were booty shorts. And so bought a new $30 toilet brush holder for my bathroom. That's like shorts, right? I said, shut up.

Maybe at some point this week, I'll get to the mall, but I'm pretty discouraged.

xoxo

sucker born every minute, fashion edition, plus updates

Shall we do updates first?

Popeyes biscuits are indeed as good as I remembered. There is nothing in them of any conceivable nutritional value. In fact, they are so extremely full of everything bad for you that every bite probably takes 3.2 minutes off your life expectancy. It is worth it. Total mouthgasm. The spicy chicken was delish as well. I brought two pieces home for D, carrying them around in my purse for the whole of the ballgame (with the net effect that my purse will now smell like chicken probably forever, but oh well), predicting that he would like it, being predisposed by its presence in my breastmilk all those years ago. And he did!

Also, our seats were not behind a pole, we saw a vintage Wake pitching performance--not some minor leaguer's, it didn't rain, and we were out of the park by 11. That part of the weekend was just lovely.

Now let's talk about the less lovely aspects of the weekend. Friday afternoon my good friend "Justin" texts me to say that he is working late and will not be at my house to finish up the 1/3rd of my yard project that isn't complete. However, says "Justin" (I'm sorry, putting it in quotes is just cracking me up), this is actually good, because he can come over the weekend to finish it and that will afford him time to pick up the crushed stone I want, rather than come back and do that at a later date. Fine, I say. Just let me know when you will be coming, because I'm working Saturday morning and early afternoon, and Sunday I will only be home between 1 and 4:30 pm. (i.e. if you want to be paid when you are finished, make sure you are getting finished at a time I will be there). I hear nothing on Saturday. Quelle surprise. Not terribly upset by this, because it allowed me to go running after work on Saturday, since praise Jesus, not only didn't the world come to an end, it was a nice day! Sunday morning I hear nothing either. Quelle surprise, again. I figure my man "Justin" has overbooked himself again. I am not terribly upset. As I may have mentioned, the fact that the front looks presentable from the street and I do not have to duck the neighbors anymore is enough to keep me mollified till the work is complete. I decide to head into town earlier than planned so I can do an errand before the chicken and alcohol pregame festivities commence.

On my way (3:45ish) Justin texts me and says that perhaps he will come by and put the six bags of yard waste that he hasn't yet removed out at my curb for trash day, so that he will not have to charge me for removing them. Keep in mind, I specifically told him that a.) I absolutely was not going to be home after 4:30 and b.) that there is only one week this month that yard waste will be picked up by the city curbside and that week has come and gone. I text him back and say, don't bother, because I know that if those bags are identifiably branches, hedge clippings, etc--and they are--the trash guys will leave them on my curb. Fair enough, Justin texts back, he just thought it might be worth a try. (And here is where this devolves into me wanting to bang my head against something hard, or at least solid.) We'll "just go with the original plan" and he'll be by Monday at 2pm. Sweet jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. How that is the original plan, or anything close to the original plan, I do not fucking know. Sigh. I don't even.

Enough of that. Here's our fashion item.

I get emails from Madewell. Madewell is a division of Jcrew, I believe, and since I get email from them, I get email from Madewell, despite never having been been in a Madewell store. I never open these emails. I just delete them. This morning for reasons that are totally obscure, I actually did open the one in my inbox. Madewell is hawking chambray. I have nothing against chambray. In a twist of fate, I am even wearing my chambray cowgirl shirtdress today, over black leggings and a black beater. I look cute, even though this dress is kinda too big for me now. So, yeah, I am not a hater. However. This is one of the chambray items Madewell would like me to purchase. For $98, I might add.




Seriously? A below-the-knee, full, button-front, *fucking pleats at the waist* skirt. This is not "equals parts laid-back and impossibly chic", Madewell. This is a garment that a nice 62 year old Methodist lady buys from LLBean to wear to her garden club meeting. You cannot fool me, despite your clever ad copy and your 17 year old 5'11 112lb model. This is (and all y'all may remember me referencing this type of garment before) clothing that shouts out "I do not ever want to have sex again." You cannot make that chic no matter how high a price tag you snap on it. Are people idiots?

Know what I did order online Friday? Not a hideous skirt. A statue for my garden that will go where my crushed rock is going (should Justin ever buy and spread it).



It will help me meditate when flaky landscapers and fraudulent fashion designers spike my blood pressure!

xoxo

disturbing developments

I'm not going to even touch the disturbing developments in the world or the country, though there are plenty o' them. No, let's just keep this to smaller, more personal disturbing elements. Believe me, there are enough of those to fill a blog post.

1.) How bad does your team have to be for a pinch runner to make a fatal base running mistake? Think about it. You make the decision--a really bad decision--to put someone in to do one very specific task and they not only fail, they FAIL. That, my friends, is a sign. A bad bad sign. Want to start a pool on when Tito loses his job?

2.) I don't know if I have mentioned it, but I am watching American Idol with D this year. Some years I pay attention to it and others I do not and this is a pay-attention year. So, for those of you who are blissfully ignorant about how it works, at this point in the competition, the show is on two nights a week. One show is the performances and the second is the results, on which someone is kicked off. To fill out the results show--which, frankly, could actually last all of three minutes, because really Ryan Seacrest just needs to tell someone, "hey, you got the least votes, see ya, bye"--they have musical guests performing. By which I mean to say, they have people who are pimping their new releases and/or Idol alumni performing. In the results shows I have seen this season, these "guests" have been uniformly bad, almost to the point of painful. We got P Diddy or what-the-fuck-ever he calls himself these days. We got The Black Eyed Peas doing some new single which would make you change the radio station should it come on. We got the guy who won last year; we got Fantasia. A cavalcade of boring-to-awful performances.

So when my son asked me last night was I planning on watching, I said no. Y'know, just tell me later who got kicked off (hopefully Stefano, 'cause that boy's gotta go). Then I went about my evening business, doing other shit. Well, I happened to come downstairs while the show was in progress to switch my laundry over and make tea, and while I was sitting in the kitchen waiting for my water to heat, I hear them announce the next musical guest. In honor of Rock & Roll Hall of Fame week on Idol, they have special guest...Iggy Pop. Holy fuck. An actual musician? I go into the living room to watch. And the disconnect is powerful. Iggy Pop? On Idol? I suppose I would have an even more visceral reaction to this sellout if "Lust for Life" (a song about doing heroin, yo) wasn't already indelibly linked in my mind with Carnival Cruises. Sigh. Punk is dead, right?

3.) And, finally, did you hear it's going to be in the 70s--possibly 80!--by Monday? That is not so much disturbing as it is delightful, but it does cause me a certain problem. If I want to celebrate this fact by, I dunno, wearing a skirt to work on Monday sans tights and boots--and keep in mind I have only lately put skirts with tights and boots back into the rotation, because from late December to March the chances of me dressing like a girl are very very small--I will need to do something about my legs. Like (again I dunno), shave them? Put on some self-tanner and hope it doesn't streak? This whole change of seasons thing is work, lemme tell you.

So you all have a lovely Friday, Adventurers. Try to keep our own disturbing developments to the bare minimum.

xoxo

some updates and then something new

Don't you all love when I give you updates about shite you didn't care about to begin with? I mean, seriously. It's like self-absorption taken to a whole other level! Full service blog right here.

So, first update. Do you want to know how long it has been since I bought shoes? I haven't bought shoes in so long that in this morning's email I got a nice missive from Piperlime saying, "We've missed you! and here's a code $15 off $75, so please buy something." Well, okay, they didn't literally say "please buy something" but, god, some poor warehouse worker with five children and an elderly dog to support is probably about to be laid off because of me and my responsible fiscal behavior.

Second update. Here's an example of the depths of crazeeness that fantasy baseball is capable of driving one to when one is firmly entrenched in "not horrible!" the first week of the season. And, y'know, "one" is me. Shut up. I was online-following the last few innings of the Texas/Seattle game last night, and at one point when my boy Napoli was up, I was trying to figure out mathematically (don't you effin' say anything, Mr Indemnity) whether it would be better for me for him to get a couple RBIs, since I am just one RBI behind the league leader, OR whether it would be better for him *not* to, so Texas wouldn't get too far ahead and therefore when Neftali came in, it would finally get me an actual save from all his stellar pitching. The depths of geekery I have descended to make even me shake my head.

Third update. I ordered D's birthday present.

And now for something new, and completely unrelated. You know I hardly ever say anything about political or social issues in here, other than when I make fun of Scott Brown, whom I completely irrationally dislike, or when there's some kind of wingnut anti-women law being passed, or trying to be passed, somewhere. But I am going to break with that tradition and probably alienate most of you. Here goes.

It really really really pissed me off when General Whatshisface (I'm sorry, I can't spell it and my almost fatal Too Lazy to Google It Syndrome is acting up) apologized to Afghanistan for that fruitloop burning the Koran. Since when do governments apologize to other governments publicly for the actions of private citizens that they have no control over? Is there a precedent for this? That's point number one. Point number two--has the government of Afghanistan or any other Muslim state ever apologized to us for their imams calling *us* all infidels or putting out fatwahs on private Western citizens for not following an Islamic belief? Because that's just as religiously offensive as burning a Koran. Answer: I do not think so.

It really infuriates me that we ass-kiss and placate these people who are going to fucking hate Americans no matter *what* we do, as if we are afraid of them. It looks weak. It is weak. Knock it off.

Alright. I am done. Catch you later, bitches.

xoxo

P.S. Yes, I do realize one's credibility when speaking about world issues is somewhat undermined when one calls people General Whatshisface. Deal.

fashion news

Here are some shoes I like. For different occasions, obviously.

In other fashion news, I tried on my vintage dress that I was feeling really sad would not fit me this year, considering it fit absolutely perfectly ten pounds ago. Well, it is a little looser at the top then it really should be, but I think I can probably make it work. I'm sure you'll all sleep easier tonight, knowing that.

You see? Told you I was in a funk. Didn't do one damn useful thing tonight either. I ought to just go to bed before I actually buy shoes.

xoxo

what's new, pussycat?

Can I just tell you, I went to the new TJMaxx yesterday and bought a very cute shirt, which I am wearing even as I type, and a pair of jeans that depressed me highly? Just keep your comments about why a person would buy pants that depress them to yourselves please. Anyway, the thing is/was that I didn't have a pair of tight jeans anymore, suitable for going out and so forth. All my jeans that I wear day-to-day that fit are kinda loose, which is fine for the supermarket or the mall, but not for when you want to get dressed up. All my male readers are now going, "What is this concept of dressy 'going out' jeans you speak of?" (Except perhaps Mr Indemnity, because I think in all our years of friendship and my advising him on his wardrobe, I finally indoctrinated him in this.) Just take it on faith, male persons: a girl needs going out jeans.

These jeans I ended up buying are very silly and I should probably be embarrassed to wear them in any case. They are very low waisted, which is okay since I've got no muffin top, bitches, but not so okay in that, one wrong move, and underwear exposure or butt crack. They also have bling on the back pockets. You people know I have an unnatural affinity for bling. It's almost a sickness. They were also pretty damn cheap in comparison to what I usually pay for my jeans. But what made me sad, so sad, is that while these jeans look awesome from the front and okay from the side, from the back it is apparent that my saddlebag goo is still in full force. It's very discouraging. I cannot afford to lose any more weight. I have been working hard in the gym for seven months. That the backs of my legs still look that bad makes me want to cry, because I can't see what I could possibly be doing better. I'm keeping them as inspiration pants, with the hope that someday I'll actually look sexeh in them. Like I said, I'm out of ideas on how I'm gonna accomplish that, but whatever.

Also new? I actually have been writing for real again! I dug out a story that has been unfinished for literally years and over the past week wrote 3300 new words. That's the good news. The bad news is I still don't know what happens in the end. It'll come to me!

And also new? My national certification in massage therapy, which is good for 4 years at a time, was due to be up this month. M2 and G did their recerts in January after we all took a cheap online ethics course (because of your required CEUs, six have to be ethics ::insert eyeroll here::) I got my stuff together and mailed my recert stuff in February. Basically they want a list of your CEUs, which I had all in one nice folder which I knew exactly where it was--I bet you are surprised, aren't you, bitches?, and they wanted to know how many massages you've done per year in the last four years and where. You are supposed to keep track of that. Let us just say, I have not. But after a couple of days of going through calendars, old emails, and a notebook I had when I worked for the evil massage place, I was able to make a good honest guess. You do not have to provide any proof with your application unless you are selected to be audited. Then they want logs with clients' names blacked out, plus a letter from any place you worked at, testifying to that fact.

Well, you know I immediately freaked out when I saw the random audit threat. While I could recreate logs of all the massages I have done on my own--and if I made a mistake with a date here or there, who'd know?--I could never get a letter from those evil massage bastards (who hopefully are in federal prison by now) and while I have a list of most of my clients there, I have no idea what dates they were seen. M2 assured me that she thinks the random audit threat is just a threat and that she thinks no one gets audited unless they've also filled out the section asking if you've been arrested or sued. Or if your check doesn't clear. She's far less freaked out by this kind of thing than I am. So, anyway, I asked her the last time I saw her how long it took her to get a response, because I had, at that point, probably mailed my stuff in 10 days prior. She said that it took longer than that and not to worry. Well. What did I get in my email this morning, but confirmation that they had received my packet and that, unless they need further info from me, I should get my new certificate in the mail in three to four weeks. Cross your fingers I do NOT hear anything from them till my certificate arrives. And, btw? Apparently they do not move swiftly. It's gotta be a month now since I mailed that stuff.

Okay, I am sure this was all very fascinating. Carry on.

xoxo

i figured it out my ownself

This was going to be a nostalgia/TMI/Boston-peeps-help-me-out post, but since the answer to my question spontaneously popped into my head while I was bathing, I don't need yous people. So we are left with nostalgia and TMI. Weigh carefully the balance of listening to yet another excruciating story about my life with the promise that we're gonna mention seks, and proceed at your own risk!

On jezebel yesterday, there was a post about bodysuits coming back into fashion, and how the author was firmly saying NO to this. Bodysuits being those leotard-like shirts that snapped at the crotch that were extremely popular and fashionable in the early-mid 90s, in case my male readers are unclear on the terminology. After I had to explain "romper" I take nothing for granted, all y'all. The comments were full of nostalgic fondness mixed with loathing. People who were in college during the said period remembered with horror the difficulty of using the facilities in a bodysuit when you were out drinking beers and women of all ages who ever wore one remembered the aggrevation of your bodysuit spontaneously coming unsnapped and the semi-panic of finding a restroom or other place that you could resnap before the damn thing worked its way up out of your pants or skirt. Plus, people had stories about particularly fugly examples that they at the time thought were the shit, but face it, anytime we ladies discuss what we wore for fashion, there will be those. But one commenter brought up how certain bodysuits with particularly irritating snaps combined with the tight, high-waisted jeans of the period led to a couple of days of needed recovery for one's labia after the wearing. Ha! And thus Andrea went down memory lane.

It's not only the tightness or the high-waisted-ness of early 90s jeans. It's the fact that there was no such thing as stretch denim in those days, and the fact that the denim was usually of a much heavier weight than today's fabric. I hear women these days commenting often about how much more comfortable jeans are these days and how they would never go back to non-stretch denim, but they are missing one important point, to my mind. Those heavy-weight, non-stretch, tight early 90s jeans had crotch seams that were capable of rubbing and pressing upon one's, um, special lady places in a most delightful manner, a manner that could liven up one's dull day when one was in such a mood to appreciate it. The snaps on a bodysuit were too low placed to directly contact that area, but yes, they could rub on one's labia, and if not actually strangling one's crotch, add to the party in one's pants. (Guys, admit it. You had NO idea about any of this, huh?)

And thus we finally come to our story. The question I was going to pose was, "OMG, what was the name of the bookstore that used to be on the corner of Exeter and Newbury in the 90s?" but: Waterstones! I loved Waterstones. I think it was the first bookstore that I was aware of that had the comfy chairs scattered around in which you could plunk yourself down and waste a good portion of a Sunday afternoon that your kid was with his father reading a book you had absolutely no intention of buying. Ahem. And so it was that one Sunday, in delightfully crotch-seamed jeans and perhaps a bodysuit beneath my flannel (shut up, just shut up) I came across a book that I will not mention the name of, but which I will tell you is a famous piece of absolute pornography written under a pseudonym by a well-known author of non-pornography. I had heard about this book, like unicorns, but didn't expect to find it right out there on the shelf of a lovely store where people bought, y'know, literature.

As further background, let's just remind you all that the early 90s were a sad, sad time for Andrea's sex life. Andrea was split up with D's dad and while she would occasionally and regrettably find herself making out with him, that was as far as it went, and she was not yet dating Whatever He Was to Me, or anyone else. Andrea was that other c-word, celibate. The horror! Let's just say Andrea appreciated crotch seams rather more than most people and leave it at that.

So on that fateful day, I took this piece of absolute disgusting filthy smut to a comfy Waterstones' chair and proceeded to have, with the help of, god bless 'em, my crotch-centric 90s garments, the first public and no-hands orgasm of my life. In fact, first and only! I was very sad when that store burned down and was turned into a fucking chain restaurant, lemme tell you.

I will not be buying any bodysuits this time around.

The end.

xoxo

Addendum: Okay, it was a chain restaurant, then Waterstones, then a school (?!?), then another chain restaurant, I believe. But the emotion still holds.

the world's most perfect garment

It's a red hoodie dress, with ruffled pockets. I saw someone wearing it on her blog (where it looked even cuter than in the above [sales] photo, because it was a bit more fitted on the blogger) and immediately googled the maker to see where I myself might buy such a wondrous piece of clothing. Only to find that the world's cutest hoodie dress costs $230. Oh. It's organic cotton and made in the USA, though. I could feel good about wearing it, as well as wicked sassy.

However, I probably would not feel good about not being able to pay the electric bill.

Sigh. WHY IS LIFE SO HARD? (Do we need an irony alert? No? Good.)

xoxo

show n tell

Still working on the Christmas gift cards, I did some online bargain shopping today.

First I bought a new bathing suit, because I realized in the locker room yesterday that the one piece I wear into the Y pool and steam room is too big and makes me look like shit. So I bought a new tankini from Athleta, $20 each piece!

Here is the top:

Here is the back of the top. Aren't the ties cute as hell? (And look at her lat spread. Athleta actually uses models who look like they are athletes.)


And here are the bottoms:


Then I went to jcrew to see what they had on clearance. And I bought another pair of pants just like the two I already have. Again, for twenty bucks. Can't beat that with a stick. This color is called shadow. I hope it's actually some shade of gray, as it appears on my monitor. But even if it is some weird funky color, for $20, I will work with it.



And finally at jcrew I got this long sleeved tshirt for $15. I also already have one of these in a sorta terracotta color. I thought this color was nice too.


So, to review, I got a bathing suit, a pair of pants, and a shirt for $75. Plus shipping. And it was all Xmas money. Go, me.

xoxo

sometimes a compliment is just a cigar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo

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

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




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

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

xoxo

iou and overdue

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

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

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

xoxo