Pete Bouchard?
Last night D fell asleep watching TV in his room, so at eleven when I was going upstairs I went in to wake him up to tell him to take his bedtime pills. This unfortunately coincided with Mr Bouchard appearing on D's television, where he proceeded to tell me that there's a storm forming out by Las Vegas which will be here by Sunday and could be OMFG! a major nor'easter, as bad as the one in October which OMFG! caused all those power outages! Oh and btw? All the computer models are showing it going south of us. BUT MAYBE THAT WON'T HAPPEN AND YOU WILL DIE!!!!!!!!! I mean, the jet stream would have to totally change but OMG! OMFG! START WORRYING NOW!!!! Just in case.
I can't even. I said some very bad words in the direction of the TV.
Mr Indemnity forwarded me an article yesterday, as is his wont, under the email subject line "France socializes the vagina." He's very lucky the coffee I spewed did not end up on my laptop keyboard. All I'm sayin'. He then told me I ought to blog about this development. Um, the socialized vaginas, not the coffee spewage. However, we the management of The Adventures do not take requests. Sorry! Besides, I can only get worked up about one thing at a time and today is Mr Bouchard's turn. Again.
xoxo
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
on your television tonight
Okay, on my television tonight. Tomato, tomahto, cucumber.
I realize I am going to type all this out and it will amuse no one but me--and it's already amused me so very very much--because most of the joke would need to be explained if you aren't me. Nevertheless, onward we plow.
First up, new episode of Hoarders. One of the stories is a lady who has had no plumbing in her house for three years. With predictable results. Well, predictable if you've ever watched Hoarders. Think a house chock full of bottles o' pee and piles of human poop. (No, that's not the funny part.) The woman is very glib in being able to attribute her dysfunction to all the trauma in her life, including being raped twelve times. Or maybe it was seventeen. (No, that's not the funny part either, but it does make my bullshit antenna go up.***) The part which made.me.die. is the little reveal at the end where the crew has made a new room for her to meditate in and she is shown chanting at her new altar. Remember when M2 took me to the Buddhist chanting and I found it a wee bit cult-like and not for me? Um, yeah. That's exactly the chanting poop lady was doing. I cannot wait till M2 sees this episode. She will.also.die.
Then Intervention comes on. I don't watch Intervention ever, but since it's not time for me to take my clothes out of the dryer, I catch the first few minutes. The apparent subject is showing off a room in her house to the camera crew. "This is our wine room," she says slurrily, pointing to some mostly empty racks. "As you can see, there's not much wine in it. I drank it all." Oh, the lulz. Oh, the fucking lulz. Then my clothes were done.
In totally non-television-related news, I've been hearing this loud beep in my house on and off for like 3 days and I thought I was going insane because I couldn't figure out what it is. Until now. It's my FIOS setup in the garage, telling me the battery in the battery backup needs to be replaced. Damn you, Verizon.
xoxo
***When Our Lil MILF came by a couple months ago and was telling us stories about her new job with the Commonwealth, one of them concerned one of her clients calling to tell her that her landlord had raped her. Understandably concerned but also puzzled why the woman was calling her, not, say, THE POLICE, she ran it by a co-worker. Co-worker rolled her eyes. "Again? She gets raped every three months. Ask her how many months behind in the rent she is." Answer: a few. But it's totally justified because the light is out in her hallway!
I realize I am going to type all this out and it will amuse no one but me--and it's already amused me so very very much--because most of the joke would need to be explained if you aren't me. Nevertheless, onward we plow.
First up, new episode of Hoarders. One of the stories is a lady who has had no plumbing in her house for three years. With predictable results. Well, predictable if you've ever watched Hoarders. Think a house chock full of bottles o' pee and piles of human poop. (No, that's not the funny part.) The woman is very glib in being able to attribute her dysfunction to all the trauma in her life, including being raped twelve times. Or maybe it was seventeen. (No, that's not the funny part either, but it does make my bullshit antenna go up.***) The part which made.me.die. is the little reveal at the end where the crew has made a new room for her to meditate in and she is shown chanting at her new altar. Remember when M2 took me to the Buddhist chanting and I found it a wee bit cult-like and not for me? Um, yeah. That's exactly the chanting poop lady was doing. I cannot wait till M2 sees this episode. She will.also.die.
Then Intervention comes on. I don't watch Intervention ever, but since it's not time for me to take my clothes out of the dryer, I catch the first few minutes. The apparent subject is showing off a room in her house to the camera crew. "This is our wine room," she says slurrily, pointing to some mostly empty racks. "As you can see, there's not much wine in it. I drank it all." Oh, the lulz. Oh, the fucking lulz. Then my clothes were done.
In totally non-television-related news, I've been hearing this loud beep in my house on and off for like 3 days and I thought I was going insane because I couldn't figure out what it is. Until now. It's my FIOS setup in the garage, telling me the battery in the battery backup needs to be replaced. Damn you, Verizon.
xoxo
***When Our Lil MILF came by a couple months ago and was telling us stories about her new job with the Commonwealth, one of them concerned one of her clients calling to tell her that her landlord had raped her. Understandably concerned but also puzzled why the woman was calling her, not, say, THE POLICE, she ran it by a co-worker. Co-worker rolled her eyes. "Again? She gets raped every three months. Ask her how many months behind in the rent she is." Answer: a few. But it's totally justified because the light is out in her hallway!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
damn you, internet
I can't find this online yet to share with you, but on CNN they just showed a clip from Conan O'Brien spoofing Herman Cain's latest ad.
Pic of Jimmy Carter. Pic of Jimmy and Roslyn. Voiceover: Jimmy Carter never cheated on his wife, and we had x% unemployment, and 7(?)% inflation. Pic of Bill Clinton, then pics of all his paramours. Voiceover: Bill Clinton cheated on his wife every chance he got, and we had (smaller)x% unemployment, 1% inflation, and a balanced budget. Pic of Herman Cain. Voiceover: Herman Cain. Because when presidents get laid, YOU get paid!
hahahahaha
I died. I am dead. I hope you can see this clip yourselves, and damn you, internet, why is this not on youtube immediately?
xoxo
Remember: when presidents get laid, YOU get paid!
Pic of Jimmy Carter. Pic of Jimmy and Roslyn. Voiceover: Jimmy Carter never cheated on his wife, and we had x% unemployment, and 7(?)% inflation. Pic of Bill Clinton, then pics of all his paramours. Voiceover: Bill Clinton cheated on his wife every chance he got, and we had (smaller)x% unemployment, 1% inflation, and a balanced budget. Pic of Herman Cain. Voiceover: Herman Cain. Because when presidents get laid, YOU get paid!
hahahahaha
I died. I am dead. I hope you can see this clip yourselves, and damn you, internet, why is this not on youtube immediately?
xoxo
Remember: when presidents get laid, YOU get paid!
Monday, October 31, 2011
more media ranting and other topics
On Saturday evening when I got home, 6:45-ish, it was just starting to change between rain and snow/sleet. I walked into the house, and D had channel 7 news on his TV, so I went to look at what the weather was saying. The douche on there (Pete Bouchard? I think)--who by the way, was the same douche who on the Sunday of the hurricane kept saying all morning and all afternoon, with a barely disguised glee under his veneer of concerned face, that NO MATTER HOW HOPEFUL IT LOOKED OUT THERE, don't be complacent, because a tree was still probably going to fall on your house, and here's why--was saying that this October storm was going to be as bad as the great ice storm of 2008 or Irene, and you, viewer, were going to probably lose your power, so this might well be the last TV weather report you'd be hearing, maybe for days. Seriously. And again, with this kind of barely-disguised sadistic glee, like wasn't this fun that you, viewer, were screwed, and he got to tell you about it. I can't even. I understand TV meteorologists being excited by big storms. Back in the good old days, Dicky Albert used to be like a five year old who got into the Halloween candy and followed it up with three Pepsis and maybe a Red Bull, but it was more, "Well, this model is telling us *this* and this model is telling us *that*, and OMFG, isn't it fascinating? let's see which way this baby goes!" Never, "Dudes, you're all probably gonna die, so start worrying now!" Sigh.
I pretty much gave up watching the local news in the early 90s because every morning when I was getting dressed for work, it was a never ending parade of stories about horrific abuse cases, rapes, kidnappings, grisly murders--basically the more sordid, disgusting, and soul-killing the crime, the more they gleefully covered it, and it made me start every day off in a bad, bad mood. Apparently, this journalistic bent now applies to the weather forecast as well. Sensationalize it as much as you can and never look at the upside. If I was more of a conspiracy theorist, I'd suggest they're in cahoots with BigPharma to sell more antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs. But, really, the whole consumer culture we're living in is driven by various forms of anxiety, isn't it? People who are calm and content and at peace with themselves aren't the ones who can be convinced that they really need objects and services they don't really need.
And that's my smooth segue to asking all y'all how long a water heater usually lasts. Lulz. Just over the last week or so, my water isn't getting as hot and is running out sooner. Like, when I'm rinsing off dishes, usually if I have the hot water turned on all the way, it gets hot enough that it's difficult for me to keep my hands under it. Now, no. Or, if I try to take a bath, there isn't enough hot water to fill it up as deep as I want to the temperature I want, and that's never been a problem. So yesterday when I was down the basement cleaning and purging again, I took a look at the water heater, and while there was nothing visibly wrong with it, the sticker on it said it was installed in 1997. That's almost 15 years (yeah, I did the math for you--you're welcome). Do you think it's just reaching the end of its natural life and needs to be replaced? How much is that gonna run me? I don't remember how much it cost in 1997, yo. You'll be happy to know I'm conserving money by, as I resolved, not cracking and putting the heat on yet. It was 58 in the downstairs and 54 in the upstairs yesterday. Ha! (And, WTF, doesn't heat *rise*? Shouldn't the sun on the roof make the upstairs warmer, all other things considered?)
And finally, I did put out another metal chair with my trash this week, along with a couple plastic table thingies and an old lawn chair, but, alas, I slept too late this morning to see whether anyone collected any of it off my curb before the trash guys showed up.
Happy Halloween!
xoxo
I pretty much gave up watching the local news in the early 90s because every morning when I was getting dressed for work, it was a never ending parade of stories about horrific abuse cases, rapes, kidnappings, grisly murders--basically the more sordid, disgusting, and soul-killing the crime, the more they gleefully covered it, and it made me start every day off in a bad, bad mood. Apparently, this journalistic bent now applies to the weather forecast as well. Sensationalize it as much as you can and never look at the upside. If I was more of a conspiracy theorist, I'd suggest they're in cahoots with BigPharma to sell more antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs. But, really, the whole consumer culture we're living in is driven by various forms of anxiety, isn't it? People who are calm and content and at peace with themselves aren't the ones who can be convinced that they really need objects and services they don't really need.
And that's my smooth segue to asking all y'all how long a water heater usually lasts. Lulz. Just over the last week or so, my water isn't getting as hot and is running out sooner. Like, when I'm rinsing off dishes, usually if I have the hot water turned on all the way, it gets hot enough that it's difficult for me to keep my hands under it. Now, no. Or, if I try to take a bath, there isn't enough hot water to fill it up as deep as I want to the temperature I want, and that's never been a problem. So yesterday when I was down the basement cleaning and purging again, I took a look at the water heater, and while there was nothing visibly wrong with it, the sticker on it said it was installed in 1997. That's almost 15 years (yeah, I did the math for you--you're welcome). Do you think it's just reaching the end of its natural life and needs to be replaced? How much is that gonna run me? I don't remember how much it cost in 1997, yo. You'll be happy to know I'm conserving money by, as I resolved, not cracking and putting the heat on yet. It was 58 in the downstairs and 54 in the upstairs yesterday. Ha! (And, WTF, doesn't heat *rise*? Shouldn't the sun on the roof make the upstairs warmer, all other things considered?)
And finally, I did put out another metal chair with my trash this week, along with a couple plastic table thingies and an old lawn chair, but, alas, I slept too late this morning to see whether anyone collected any of it off my curb before the trash guys showed up.
Happy Halloween!
xoxo
Thursday, October 13, 2011
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
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
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
london calling
I must say, the rioting in England has taken me by surprise. This is mainly due to the fact that with my VAST knowledge of the modern UK gleaned mainly from watching lots of British sitcoms, scifi shows, and movies, I thought that a.) it was less...arduous...being poor there than it is here and b.) there is less racial tension.
Example of the latter? Let's take Dr Who and Rose and Mickey's relationship. That fact that theirs is an interracial relationship seems totally unremarked and unremarkable. In American TV, interracial relationships even in 2011 seem to be shown either To Make A Point or else to prove how hip and liberal the writers and producers are that they aren't making a point of it. Know what I mean? But Rose's boyfriend being a black kid seems to have no more relevance than if her boyfriend were a tall kid or a freckled kid or whatever. If Rose's mother dislikes him initially, it's because he's kind of a hapless slacker, not because he's a different race than her daughter. Also from Dr Who, we have Martha, beautiful black medical student/doctor from upper middle class family who saves the world. At least once. There is nothing about how her character is written that suggests her role couldn't have been cast with a white woman or an Asian woman. All of this, and many other examples, led me to believe (apparently wrongly) that race is much more of a non-issue in the UK than it is here.
Evidence for the former? Well, let's return to Rose and Mickey and the council estate they live in. Compare it to, oh, the projects in The Wire. Where would you rather live? I'm not saying that if you were Rose, you *wouldn't* jump at the chance to travel time and space with a mysterious man and his magical box/spaceship. I'm just saying you might be just fine living in her little apartment, fine enough that you wouldn't feel compelled to deal heroin and shoot people in order to maybe make it out of there. Pretty much any time they show where the "poor people" live in British TV or movies (the squat in Trsinsspotting being a notable exception), my reaction is the same. It's like, eh. Looks pretty nice. I could go fifteen minutes from my house right now and find you places that make those council estates look like luxury housing.
It's also sort of my impression from lots and lots of British media that it is possible to go on the dole there and stay on forever, and while I am quite sure that there is something very demoralizing and aimless about not having a job, having no prospects for ever having a job, or having no hope of ever having a satisfying, interesting job, the fact that there is a safety net in place and that you *will* always have at least a place to live and enough money to feed yourself and your family seems a lot better than here, where I think most of us Americans feel deep down in some corner of our souls that we are just one long period of unemployment or one devastating illness away from losing everything, and that if we don't/didn't have family to rescue us, we could be on the streets.
I hope this post doesn't come off as jokey about a very sad and serious situation, but honestly, I wanted to point out how ignorant of reality you (by which I mean me) can be when you form your impressions based solely on what the media presents to you and not on any real life experience or first-hand knowledge.
And just because I brought it up and you cannot argue with an absolute classic:
xoxo
Example of the latter? Let's take Dr Who and Rose and Mickey's relationship. That fact that theirs is an interracial relationship seems totally unremarked and unremarkable. In American TV, interracial relationships even in 2011 seem to be shown either To Make A Point or else to prove how hip and liberal the writers and producers are that they aren't making a point of it. Know what I mean? But Rose's boyfriend being a black kid seems to have no more relevance than if her boyfriend were a tall kid or a freckled kid or whatever. If Rose's mother dislikes him initially, it's because he's kind of a hapless slacker, not because he's a different race than her daughter. Also from Dr Who, we have Martha, beautiful black medical student/doctor from upper middle class family who saves the world. At least once. There is nothing about how her character is written that suggests her role couldn't have been cast with a white woman or an Asian woman. All of this, and many other examples, led me to believe (apparently wrongly) that race is much more of a non-issue in the UK than it is here.
Evidence for the former? Well, let's return to Rose and Mickey and the council estate they live in. Compare it to, oh, the projects in The Wire. Where would you rather live? I'm not saying that if you were Rose, you *wouldn't* jump at the chance to travel time and space with a mysterious man and his magical box/spaceship. I'm just saying you might be just fine living in her little apartment, fine enough that you wouldn't feel compelled to deal heroin and shoot people in order to maybe make it out of there. Pretty much any time they show where the "poor people" live in British TV or movies (the squat in Trsinsspotting being a notable exception), my reaction is the same. It's like, eh. Looks pretty nice. I could go fifteen minutes from my house right now and find you places that make those council estates look like luxury housing.
It's also sort of my impression from lots and lots of British media that it is possible to go on the dole there and stay on forever, and while I am quite sure that there is something very demoralizing and aimless about not having a job, having no prospects for ever having a job, or having no hope of ever having a satisfying, interesting job, the fact that there is a safety net in place and that you *will* always have at least a place to live and enough money to feed yourself and your family seems a lot better than here, where I think most of us Americans feel deep down in some corner of our souls that we are just one long period of unemployment or one devastating illness away from losing everything, and that if we don't/didn't have family to rescue us, we could be on the streets.
I hope this post doesn't come off as jokey about a very sad and serious situation, but honestly, I wanted to point out how ignorant of reality you (by which I mean me) can be when you form your impressions based solely on what the media presents to you and not on any real life experience or first-hand knowledge.
And just because I brought it up and you cannot argue with an absolute classic:
xoxo
Thursday, January 6, 2011
i used to be fat
Shut up. I'm not talking about myself. That's the title of this new reality show on MTV. D and I watched it last night.
I don't know what I thought it was going to be about--besides, y'know, the obvious--but it in fact is like The Biggest Loser, except each episode is one fat person getting thinner over the course of three months rather than twenty people getting thinner week by week over the course of the series. But the whole thing relies on, just like that mean woman Jillian Michaels, a personal trainer screaming at the dieter and making them do what looks like an inadvisable amount and intensity of exercise. Taking someone who is at least 90 pounds overweight and who has never exercised before and making them run until they puke does not seem like a good plan to me, but what do I know? I didn't buy a personal training certification off the internet.
Justin, the trainer in yesterday's episode? I turned to D and said, "I dunno if I'd want that guy training me. His body just looks weird." And my son said, "I was just thinking that!"
I scoured the internet trying to find a picture and this is the best I could come up with.
The side view doesn't make it as obvious, but the dude has this little skinny torso with big shoulders and arms hanging off of it. Very disproportionate and strange-looking. Put down the EZ Curl bar, bro, and back away slowly. (That's disregarding the gelled, spiked up hair last seen in 1993, which is supposed to cover the fact it's getting thin up there. That is only a fashion faux pas and a sign of being a douchebag, and has no bearing on his training qualifications. I just couldn't let it go without mentioning. Because I'm malevolent. And he was so annoying.) He also made some dubious statements like "frequent small meals rev up the metabolism." I was shouting "not true!" at the TV, which I'm *sure* made him reconsider his stance.
There were a few other head-scratchers, like the girl going out for Mexican food with a friend and ordering chicken fatijas, hold everything but the chicken. Honey, some peppers and onions aren't gonna impede your dieting goals. Did Justin give you some kind of bro-science explanation of why they would, or are you just kinda stupid? Oh, and her triumph at the end of the show? Going out dancing for Halloween in a slutty costume. If I had an 18 year old daughter, that's what I'd be encouraging her to shoot for! Head/desk, as they say.
(Don't roll your eyes at me. I already told you I read a book and a quarter yesterday. How much intellectual effort do you expect me to expend in one day? God.)
xoxo
P.S. I guess I didn't already tell you I read a book and a quarter yesterday. Oops. I thought I had discussed my Kindle in yesterday's court-related proceedings. But, yeah. I finished Keith Richards' book finally, and then I read the newest (?) Dennis Lehane. Jesus, do I love his writing. I mean, maybe the plotting not so much, though most mystery/suspense/detective fiction requires a big ol' helping of suspension of disbelief anyway, but the prose. I love his writing style. There were sentences and passages in that book yesterday that made me go, "Huh. I wish *I* had written that." It makes me feel marginally better about at least three of those Jersey Shore people coming out with books. Or "books." Because if I think too hard about what gets published these days, I die a little inside.
I don't know what I thought it was going to be about--besides, y'know, the obvious--but it in fact is like The Biggest Loser, except each episode is one fat person getting thinner over the course of three months rather than twenty people getting thinner week by week over the course of the series. But the whole thing relies on, just like that mean woman Jillian Michaels, a personal trainer screaming at the dieter and making them do what looks like an inadvisable amount and intensity of exercise. Taking someone who is at least 90 pounds overweight and who has never exercised before and making them run until they puke does not seem like a good plan to me, but what do I know? I didn't buy a personal training certification off the internet.
Justin, the trainer in yesterday's episode? I turned to D and said, "I dunno if I'd want that guy training me. His body just looks weird." And my son said, "I was just thinking that!"
I scoured the internet trying to find a picture and this is the best I could come up with.
The side view doesn't make it as obvious, but the dude has this little skinny torso with big shoulders and arms hanging off of it. Very disproportionate and strange-looking. Put down the EZ Curl bar, bro, and back away slowly. (That's disregarding the gelled, spiked up hair last seen in 1993, which is supposed to cover the fact it's getting thin up there. That is only a fashion faux pas and a sign of being a douchebag, and has no bearing on his training qualifications. I just couldn't let it go without mentioning. Because I'm malevolent. And he was so annoying.) He also made some dubious statements like "frequent small meals rev up the metabolism." I was shouting "not true!" at the TV, which I'm *sure* made him reconsider his stance.
There were a few other head-scratchers, like the girl going out for Mexican food with a friend and ordering chicken fatijas, hold everything but the chicken. Honey, some peppers and onions aren't gonna impede your dieting goals. Did Justin give you some kind of bro-science explanation of why they would, or are you just kinda stupid? Oh, and her triumph at the end of the show? Going out dancing for Halloween in a slutty costume. If I had an 18 year old daughter, that's what I'd be encouraging her to shoot for! Head/desk, as they say.
(Don't roll your eyes at me. I already told you I read a book and a quarter yesterday. How much intellectual effort do you expect me to expend in one day? God.)
xoxo
P.S. I guess I didn't already tell you I read a book and a quarter yesterday. Oops. I thought I had discussed my Kindle in yesterday's court-related proceedings. But, yeah. I finished Keith Richards' book finally, and then I read the newest (?) Dennis Lehane. Jesus, do I love his writing. I mean, maybe the plotting not so much, though most mystery/suspense/detective fiction requires a big ol' helping of suspension of disbelief anyway, but the prose. I love his writing style. There were sentences and passages in that book yesterday that made me go, "Huh. I wish *I* had written that." It makes me feel marginally better about at least three of those Jersey Shore people coming out with books. Or "books." Because if I think too hard about what gets published these days, I die a little inside.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
fox news 25 teaser
During the World Series. "Full body scan or a stranger's hand between your legs--why you'll have to choose!" (<---slightly paraphrased)
What's this "stranger" look like anyway? Is he hot? And how long has it been since I've gotten any? Is the scan gonna give me cancer? Are you sure? What does WebMD say about that?
I can't choose, Fox News morons, until you give me all the pertinent facts.
Oh, wait...
xoxo
What's this "stranger" look like anyway? Is he hot? And how long has it been since I've gotten any? Is the scan gonna give me cancer? Are you sure? What does WebMD say about that?
I can't choose, Fox News morons, until you give me all the pertinent facts.
Oh, wait...
xoxo
Monday, October 18, 2010
spoilerish
How about that Mad Men finale last night, huh? Sucked! I've been pretty disappointed with the whole season actually. Characters doing things that seemed out of character. Potentially interesting storylines picked up, then discarded. Not a whole lot of anything that really grabbed me.
I will say this: fabulous to see Joan kept the baby and is planning to pass it off as hubby's. The fact that he's a *doctor* but obviously too stupid to figure out the dates is one of those things that is in character. I will also say, I think Faye is not the type of person to fuck around with and I hope the fact that she knows Don's secret means big trouble next season. Woman scorned n' all that. And Carla being gone? Gah. Just when you think Betty can't get any worse as a mother, there ya go!
And, as an aside, D and I decided to start watching that new zombie series they were shilling during the finale. At least we're gonna watch the first one and see if it's good. The previews made it look somewhat like a blatant ripoff of 28 Days Later, which is fine with me. All in all, it's *got* to be better than The Biggest Loser. (But wouldn't outrunning the living dead be a good way to lose weight and get fit? I see crossover potential.)
xoxo
I will say this: fabulous to see Joan kept the baby and is planning to pass it off as hubby's. The fact that he's a *doctor* but obviously too stupid to figure out the dates is one of those things that is in character. I will also say, I think Faye is not the type of person to fuck around with and I hope the fact that she knows Don's secret means big trouble next season. Woman scorned n' all that. And Carla being gone? Gah. Just when you think Betty can't get any worse as a mother, there ya go!
And, as an aside, D and I decided to start watching that new zombie series they were shilling during the finale. At least we're gonna watch the first one and see if it's good. The previews made it look somewhat like a blatant ripoff of 28 Days Later, which is fine with me. All in all, it's *got* to be better than The Biggest Loser. (But wouldn't outrunning the living dead be a good way to lose weight and get fit? I see crossover potential.)
xoxo
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
i squatted, bitches, PLUS bonus sundry
1.) Yes, yes, Liz taught me to squat today, in the rack or cage or whatever the hell you call it and everything. Okay, only the barbell, which is 45 pounds, but I'm a 47 year old 115 pound woman, WHAT MORE DO YOU EXPECT???? It's harder than you might think, because there are all these steps to remember to do it right: make sure the bar is centered, stick your butt out like you're going to sit, then squat, go at least to a 90 degree angle but don't go over your toes, and do it all in a fluid motion. I think I felt my balls growing even as I did it. (Have I mentioned lately that I crack myself the fuck up? No?) Maria esta muy macha! Then later when I was doing my dumbbell curls and standing shoulder presses, one of the big muscular regulars who was resting between sets of grunting over ridiculously big weights said to Liz (of me), "She's got good form already. I was watching her the other day." Liz said something along the lines of well, of course I do, because she's teaching me the right way. The guy says, "Yeah. Start 'em out light and correct." I wanted to say, "What are you calling 'light', pal? I'm a 47 year old 115 pound woman, WHAT MORE DO YOU EXPECT????" Heh. However, I did not, as I had dumbbells to lift. No time for chitchat, yo.
2.) So then I went to give M2 the massage I owed her that I could not give her last week. And, on the way there, what did I see on the train but a woman wearing my (in)famous autumn leaves coat! It's really weird owning a garment that is so distinctive that other people always remark on it, then seeing it on someone else, lemme tell you. However, the good part of it was that the other woman had to be my age or even a bit older, so I am somewhat reassured that this coat is in fact awesome on me rather than ridiculous. You know I worry about some of my more out-there fashion choices.
3.) D sucked me into watching The Biggest Loser last night. Two things. He was watching it while eating Oreos and drinking milk. I found this amusing. I went and put a bowl of blueberries on the coffee table, and told him that I thought you were supposed to be eating healthy snacks whilst watching 400 pound people losing weight. Secondly, this show pisses me off so much. The premise seems to be that these people are responsible for how much weight they are losing in the competition, which makes no sense. They're eating what they are given--there are no exposes of contestants sneaking out to eat HoHos or anything--and doing the workouts they are told to do. If they don't lose or don't lose "enough" by the ridiculous standards set forth, I think that's on whoever is figuring out their diet and exercise plans which ain't them. The show seems to get around that by convincing them, and supposedly us, that the people who lose the most each week are the ones who are putting in the most effort at their workouts. Bullshit. It doesn't work that way. I mean, if someone sneaks off and takes a nap instead of running on the treadmill, yeah, okay, but that's not what's happening. Someone who runs till they puke isn't gonna necessarily lose two more pounds than someone who runs until they *almost* puke. (Well, discounting the volume of the puke, I guess.) Secondly--and as someone who spent most of her summer working on losing weight, I know this--weight loss isn't linear. You can do the exact same things for three weeks, lose one week, lose nothing or even gain the next week, and then lose a crapload the third week. Your body lets go of the fat when it's good and ready to, and there's nothing you can do about it, but keep plugging away and wait for it to decide it's time to dump the fat. So, anyway, I was ranting at the TV. I much prefer D's other favorite show, Hell's Kitchen. The morons on there deserve Gordon Ramsey yelling at them.
Okay, that is all.
xoxo
2.) So then I went to give M2 the massage I owed her that I could not give her last week. And, on the way there, what did I see on the train but a woman wearing my (in)famous autumn leaves coat! It's really weird owning a garment that is so distinctive that other people always remark on it, then seeing it on someone else, lemme tell you. However, the good part of it was that the other woman had to be my age or even a bit older, so I am somewhat reassured that this coat is in fact awesome on me rather than ridiculous. You know I worry about some of my more out-there fashion choices.
3.) D sucked me into watching The Biggest Loser last night. Two things. He was watching it while eating Oreos and drinking milk. I found this amusing. I went and put a bowl of blueberries on the coffee table, and told him that I thought you were supposed to be eating healthy snacks whilst watching 400 pound people losing weight. Secondly, this show pisses me off so much. The premise seems to be that these people are responsible for how much weight they are losing in the competition, which makes no sense. They're eating what they are given--there are no exposes of contestants sneaking out to eat HoHos or anything--and doing the workouts they are told to do. If they don't lose or don't lose "enough" by the ridiculous standards set forth, I think that's on whoever is figuring out their diet and exercise plans which ain't them. The show seems to get around that by convincing them, and supposedly us, that the people who lose the most each week are the ones who are putting in the most effort at their workouts. Bullshit. It doesn't work that way. I mean, if someone sneaks off and takes a nap instead of running on the treadmill, yeah, okay, but that's not what's happening. Someone who runs till they puke isn't gonna necessarily lose two more pounds than someone who runs until they *almost* puke. (Well, discounting the volume of the puke, I guess.) Secondly--and as someone who spent most of her summer working on losing weight, I know this--weight loss isn't linear. You can do the exact same things for three weeks, lose one week, lose nothing or even gain the next week, and then lose a crapload the third week. Your body lets go of the fat when it's good and ready to, and there's nothing you can do about it, but keep plugging away and wait for it to decide it's time to dump the fat. So, anyway, I was ranting at the TV. I much prefer D's other favorite show, Hell's Kitchen. The morons on there deserve Gordon Ramsey yelling at them.
Okay, that is all.
xoxo
Monday, August 23, 2010
more later
The other thing I wanted to talk about was last night's episode of Mad Men. If you haven't seen it and you want to, unspoiled, don't read this. You have now been appropriately warned. So there.
Okay. In last night's episode, there's a big Sally storyline. Development number one is that, while at Don's house (being watched by a babysitter while he's out on a date), she cuts her own hair in the bathroom with predictable success. When Don brings her home to Betty, Betty smacks her right across the face. Um, harsh. Parenting is not one of Betty's skills. Development number two is that, while at a sleepover, Sally is caught (sorta unconsciously) masturbating to a hot actor on TV by her (sleeping) friend's mother and all hell breaks loose. Development number three is that, as a result of developments one and two, psychiatric treatment is deemed necessary for the poor kid.
Well, the interwebs are awash today with certain conspiracy theorists postulating that Sally will disclose to the kindly psychiatrist lady that she was molested by Grampa Gene. Or possibly Henry. And this is why she is acting out. The basis for this supposition for some people is that a ten year old masturbating is, whoa, unusual and a sign of abuse. This is countered by other people pointing out that, whoa, no, kids practically come out of the womb masturbating and it's not weird at all. I guess this age at which any one of us discovered our own genitalia highly influences where we stand on this issue! Too funny.
Anyway, I will be very very disappointed if Mad Men does unveil a molestation storyline, maybe even more than I was disappointed that they went with the "ooo, Don feels guilty so now he's paying whores to smack him around" plot point. Both of these tropes--masochism=guilt, child acting out=having been touched inappropriately--are so played out, it's lazy writing. Do either of those things happen in real life? Well, yeah, sometimes they do. Have we not seen them in bad TV and movies over and over enough now that they've become easy cliched shortcuts? Well, yeah, we have. I do not expect lazy writing from Mad Men. I hope they don't disappoint me again.
And thus ends your TV critique for the day.
xoxo
Okay. In last night's episode, there's a big Sally storyline. Development number one is that, while at Don's house (being watched by a babysitter while he's out on a date), she cuts her own hair in the bathroom with predictable success. When Don brings her home to Betty, Betty smacks her right across the face. Um, harsh. Parenting is not one of Betty's skills. Development number two is that, while at a sleepover, Sally is caught (sorta unconsciously) masturbating to a hot actor on TV by her (sleeping) friend's mother and all hell breaks loose. Development number three is that, as a result of developments one and two, psychiatric treatment is deemed necessary for the poor kid.
Well, the interwebs are awash today with certain conspiracy theorists postulating that Sally will disclose to the kindly psychiatrist lady that she was molested by Grampa Gene. Or possibly Henry. And this is why she is acting out. The basis for this supposition for some people is that a ten year old masturbating is, whoa, unusual and a sign of abuse. This is countered by other people pointing out that, whoa, no, kids practically come out of the womb masturbating and it's not weird at all. I guess this age at which any one of us discovered our own genitalia highly influences where we stand on this issue! Too funny.
Anyway, I will be very very disappointed if Mad Men does unveil a molestation storyline, maybe even more than I was disappointed that they went with the "ooo, Don feels guilty so now he's paying whores to smack him around" plot point. Both of these tropes--masochism=guilt, child acting out=having been touched inappropriately--are so played out, it's lazy writing. Do either of those things happen in real life? Well, yeah, sometimes they do. Have we not seen them in bad TV and movies over and over enough now that they've become easy cliched shortcuts? Well, yeah, we have. I do not expect lazy writing from Mad Men. I hope they don't disappoint me again.
And thus ends your TV critique for the day.
xoxo
i have been quiet
And also a weird mixture of busy (socializing and exercising and wasting time, not doing the shit I should be doing) and depressed (over shit that does not and will not matter in the long run). I must blog, however, to tell you I finally finished Rome! The last two episodes are Antony and Cleopatra in Egypt. I need not tell you *that* doesn't end well, huh? I already popped the DVD back in the mail without watching the extras, but I have to ask--how historically accurate is this? Were the royal Egyptians that debauched by 30-something BC? Lolling around smoking opium and playing target practice with slaves dressed up as deer, all eye liner and henna all the time, men and women both? If they showed this stuff in the school systems, kids would be more interested in World History, yo.
In baseball notes, was that a seven hour Sox game yesterday, like D told me? How many fans stuck it out to the bitter end? I woulda been at the Beer Works getting drunk somewhere around the second rain delay. Bad Andrea, bad. In other baseball news, Ubaldo cannot win another game, Felix Hernandez is off suicide watch, Bronson Arroyo continues to reward my faith in his old, mediocre ass, Ryan Howard came off the DL, god only knows who the Red Sox have on the DL--I can't even keep track anymore, and who we gonna root for in the postseason, Tampa Bay? My goodness.
Maybe more later. Bated breath, peeps, bated breath.
xoxo
In baseball notes, was that a seven hour Sox game yesterday, like D told me? How many fans stuck it out to the bitter end? I woulda been at the Beer Works getting drunk somewhere around the second rain delay. Bad Andrea, bad. In other baseball news, Ubaldo cannot win another game, Felix Hernandez is off suicide watch, Bronson Arroyo continues to reward my faith in his old, mediocre ass, Ryan Howard came off the DL, god only knows who the Red Sox have on the DL--I can't even keep track anymore, and who we gonna root for in the postseason, Tampa Bay? My goodness.
Maybe more later. Bated breath, peeps, bated breath.
xoxo
Sunday, August 1, 2010
more things that must be said
1.) Did you see that Carlos Gonzalez of the Colorado Rockies hit for the cycle yesterday, and his HR was a walk-off? How awesome is that? Man, I wish I had him. Red Sox game ended in a satisfactory fashion as well! I love me a nice walk-off.
2.) So, as you might remember, I've been reading and sometimes posting in some weight loss/fitness forums since I've been on my program, 'cause it saves yous people from having to hear too much about it. And yesterday I was joking around about not having had the ovaries to actually weigh myself on my own scale since my little post-funeral carb up, even though I got weighed at the GYN this week (and was not unhappy with the number), and how ridiculous that was. Well, one of the guys on the forum who I've become buddies with said to me: "No, I won't say, 'Grow a set, will ya?' because I think you already have a reliable backbone." I have to tell you, I thought that was one of the nicest compliments I've ever gotten from an almost complete stranger. It kinda made my day.
3.) I'm watching the second season of Rome from netflix right now, not because I enjoyed the first season all that much, but because I've run out of TV shows. Not that it's a bad show, it just doesn't grab me that much, perhaps because with so many of the characters being actual historical personages, I already know what's gonna happen with them. Anyway, the actual how-people-lived and yeah-weren't-they-decadent parts are fun. In the first episode of season 2, Atia (his lover) is trying to get Antony to get his ass out of bed on the day of Caesar's funeral. She's all keyed up with "this is an important day" and he's all "ooo, I've never fucked a woman in a funeral dress before." After she tells him that, no, this isn't gonna be the first time either, he says "well, I'm not getting up til I've fucked somebody." So, with a big sigh, she tells one of her servants, "Oh, fine. Send for that German slut from the kitchens." Ha! (Then she snaps at one of the other slaves who's fussing with the hem of her mourning gown that if she doesn't get it right this time, *she's* next for "king of the goats." Considering what the guy who plays Antony looks like, I'm thinking this isn't the most heinous punishment she could come up with, but what do I know?) Anyway, be serious, guys (and ladies). Wouldn't it be nice to have "I'm not getting up til I've fucked somebody" as a serious option? What a life! Of course, the constant threat of being stabbed, poisoned, or otherwise assassinated probably wasn't all that fun, but as long as you stayed out of politics? It was probably pretty cool being an upper class Roman.
xoxo
2.) So, as you might remember, I've been reading and sometimes posting in some weight loss/fitness forums since I've been on my program, 'cause it saves yous people from having to hear too much about it. And yesterday I was joking around about not having had the ovaries to actually weigh myself on my own scale since my little post-funeral carb up, even though I got weighed at the GYN this week (and was not unhappy with the number), and how ridiculous that was. Well, one of the guys on the forum who I've become buddies with said to me: "No, I won't say, 'Grow a set, will ya?' because I think you already have a reliable backbone." I have to tell you, I thought that was one of the nicest compliments I've ever gotten from an almost complete stranger. It kinda made my day.
3.) I'm watching the second season of Rome from netflix right now, not because I enjoyed the first season all that much, but because I've run out of TV shows. Not that it's a bad show, it just doesn't grab me that much, perhaps because with so many of the characters being actual historical personages, I already know what's gonna happen with them. Anyway, the actual how-people-lived and yeah-weren't-they-decadent parts are fun. In the first episode of season 2, Atia (his lover) is trying to get Antony to get his ass out of bed on the day of Caesar's funeral. She's all keyed up with "this is an important day" and he's all "ooo, I've never fucked a woman in a funeral dress before." After she tells him that, no, this isn't gonna be the first time either, he says "well, I'm not getting up til I've fucked somebody." So, with a big sigh, she tells one of her servants, "Oh, fine. Send for that German slut from the kitchens." Ha! (Then she snaps at one of the other slaves who's fussing with the hem of her mourning gown that if she doesn't get it right this time, *she's* next for "king of the goats." Considering what the guy who plays Antony looks like, I'm thinking this isn't the most heinous punishment she could come up with, but what do I know?) Anyway, be serious, guys (and ladies). Wouldn't it be nice to have "I'm not getting up til I've fucked somebody" as a serious option? What a life! Of course, the constant threat of being stabbed, poisoned, or otherwise assassinated probably wasn't all that fun, but as long as you stayed out of politics? It was probably pretty cool being an upper class Roman.
xoxo
Monday, July 26, 2010
here's something you may or may not know
...about me! I am, if not easily amused, then at least easily satisfied. It doesn't take a hell of a lot to make me happy. I know, you would think by the amount of bitching, pissing, and moaning that goes on in here that I am never happy, but that is not true. As easily as I am irritated, I am placated.
And so it came to pass that when I stopped by my tiny lil neighborhood liquor store this afternoon to buy my week's bottle of wine (livin' large, livin' large), I saw that they are now carrying a new product. Gnarly Head pinot grigio! Now, up to this point they have had Gnarly Head cab, merlot, pinot noir, and my usual, old vine zin. All reds! Now there is a Gnarly Head white. Isn't that exciting? (It is too, shut up.) And the only thing that kept me from buying it was that it would need to be chilled, and I was not sure I could wait for that. What if I wanted a glass with dinner, not after dinner? What then?!?
Anyway, so now I have something to look forward to. Take that as you will.
In the disappointment column, however, I wasn't really feeling the Mad Men season 4 premier last night. Kinda slow, kinda flat. Not enough Joan, not enough Pete Campbell. And Don in the sad divorced-guy apartment, getting slapped around by hookers? That's not right.
xoxo
And so it came to pass that when I stopped by my tiny lil neighborhood liquor store this afternoon to buy my week's bottle of wine (livin' large, livin' large), I saw that they are now carrying a new product. Gnarly Head pinot grigio! Now, up to this point they have had Gnarly Head cab, merlot, pinot noir, and my usual, old vine zin. All reds! Now there is a Gnarly Head white. Isn't that exciting? (It is too, shut up.) And the only thing that kept me from buying it was that it would need to be chilled, and I was not sure I could wait for that. What if I wanted a glass with dinner, not after dinner? What then?!?
Anyway, so now I have something to look forward to. Take that as you will.
In the disappointment column, however, I wasn't really feeling the Mad Men season 4 premier last night. Kinda slow, kinda flat. Not enough Joan, not enough Pete Campbell. And Don in the sad divorced-guy apartment, getting slapped around by hookers? That's not right.
xoxo
Saturday, July 10, 2010
i'll stop talking about baseball soon
Like, in November. Be patient.
Did anyone see any of that Red Sox game last night? I came home in the midst of that third inning. At first it was gratifying. But soon enough I started feeling sad for the Toronto pitchers who just could not get anyone out. When your team goes ahead 5-0, you feel good. It's a comfortable lead. The night's looking promising. When your team is leading 9-0, and an inning is just going on and on and on, it starts to be less pleasurable. That's not a comfortable lead; that's a pile-on. It may be my excess supply of empathy, but I hate to see anyone humiliated. Except for A-Rod and possibly That Bastard Lackey. (I'd probably add JD "Nancy" Drew to that list, but do we think he's capable of caring about anything enough to *be* humiliated? I seriously doubt it. Anyone who sits out a game because of neck stiffness on the same day Pedroia is filmed fielding grounders from his knees 'cause he can't put weight on his broken foot but wants to keep his hands sharp, and while about six other important players on his team are on the DL has no shame. Obviously. They've got trainers and massage therapists available to work on your poor widdle neck, Nancy. Look into it.)
N E Way, yes, I felt sorry for the Toronto pitching staff. It also made for a boring game, such that eventually D put some show about alien abductions on. ( Did you know that's pretty much all that's on the Learning Channel these days? Alien abductions and Big Foot. Learning, my ass.) If I had been smart, I'd have gone upstairs, 'cause I've got the first DVD of the second season of True Blood waiting, and that, my friends, is a not-so-guilty pleasure. Instead, as usual, I didn't start watching it till 10:30 and promptly fell asleep before there was even one sex scene. What good does that do me? I ask you.
In summary, I recommend closer sporting contests and more perverted vampire sex. You heard it here first.
xoxo
Did anyone see any of that Red Sox game last night? I came home in the midst of that third inning. At first it was gratifying. But soon enough I started feeling sad for the Toronto pitchers who just could not get anyone out. When your team goes ahead 5-0, you feel good. It's a comfortable lead. The night's looking promising. When your team is leading 9-0, and an inning is just going on and on and on, it starts to be less pleasurable. That's not a comfortable lead; that's a pile-on. It may be my excess supply of empathy, but I hate to see anyone humiliated. Except for A-Rod and possibly That Bastard Lackey. (I'd probably add JD "Nancy" Drew to that list, but do we think he's capable of caring about anything enough to *be* humiliated? I seriously doubt it. Anyone who sits out a game because of neck stiffness on the same day Pedroia is filmed fielding grounders from his knees 'cause he can't put weight on his broken foot but wants to keep his hands sharp, and while about six other important players on his team are on the DL has no shame. Obviously. They've got trainers and massage therapists available to work on your poor widdle neck, Nancy. Look into it.)
N E Way, yes, I felt sorry for the Toronto pitching staff. It also made for a boring game, such that eventually D put some show about alien abductions on. ( Did you know that's pretty much all that's on the Learning Channel these days? Alien abductions and Big Foot. Learning, my ass.) If I had been smart, I'd have gone upstairs, 'cause I've got the first DVD of the second season of True Blood waiting, and that, my friends, is a not-so-guilty pleasure. Instead, as usual, I didn't start watching it till 10:30 and promptly fell asleep before there was even one sex scene. What good does that do me? I ask you.
In summary, I recommend closer sporting contests and more perverted vampire sex. You heard it here first.
xoxo
Monday, June 21, 2010
things I feel compelled to tell you
1.) I was up really late last night, having watched the end of the Sox game (and why did a 2-0 game take approximately three and a half hours? because it was a national broadcast, silly), and so it came to pass that D put on CNN and I got to see (and you *can't* unsee it) the Larry King show. It must have been a repeat because they mentioned "June" as if that were some time in the future. But, in any case, his guest for the whole show was Mick Jagger. Now, you may or may not remember, but a couple years ago I saw that Stones concert movie in IMAX, and the prospect of Mick's face, not to mention Keith's for god's sake, sixty feet high was a little frightening, but I lived through it. Can I say? Mick has either gotten work done since then or, perhaps, put on twenty pounds, because his face on Larry King looked twenty years younger. He looked *really* good, such that I could remember why exactly I found him incredibly sexy when I was 18. But if that is due to plastic surgery, I don't know. I mean, he's Mick fucking Jagger. That seems beneath him. Also, listening to him be interviewed for 45 minutes, it really struck me that he seems like an extremely smart guy. Not just smart-for-a-celeb, but really smart. So, I guess the moral of this story is that I've come back around again, and if the opportunity arose, I'd do him. If he wore like three condoms.
2.) D had a psych appointment this morning which meant, of course, that we also went to the ghetto Shaws market. And I saw something I have never seen before. The woman ahead of us, having shopped for half a cart full of food, and having ran it through the checkout line, and having had it rung up and bagged, then decided that the total was too much and that she wasn't buying *any* of it. So she told the cashier, thanks but no thanks, abandoned the cart there ahead of us, and walked out. Wow. Just...wow.
3.) I recently had an appointment with one of my patients who is D's age, but whom I have known since she was probably five or six. I see her just once a year these days. She is at least severely learning disabled, and may perhaps be technically classified as mildly retarded, but frankly, she presents as no less bright than many of the people you and I deal with every day. She also has some psychiatric issues. Like all these kids we've seen forever and whom I only see annually or so at this point, it's always nice to see her come in and hear how she's doing. Today I was extremely surprised, because she had a whole new hair color. A natural blond, she is now dark auburn. I asked her what made her decide to become a redhead. She told me that the cat she'd had most of her life had had to be put down, and that she didn't take it very well. In fact, she became quite depressed over it. So she told me she went dark with her hair "to match her mood." Does that sound like someone whose IQ is in the retarded range? I think not. There's a certain level of insight there. I dunno. Sometimes I think a lot of neuropsych testing is complete crap. (D had some the first time he was hospitalized his senior year which drew some conclusions that were fairly laughable. I really don't know how they get away with calling it a science.)
4.) Are you all getting ready to see Ubaldo kick some Red Sox butt on Wednesday? Lackey's pitching! Excuse me while I laugh hysterically.
Happy official first day of summer and/or Monday, whichever you prefer to celebrate.
xoxo
Addendum: Did you SEE my Freudian slip before I fixed it? Ha!
2.) D had a psych appointment this morning which meant, of course, that we also went to the ghetto Shaws market. And I saw something I have never seen before. The woman ahead of us, having shopped for half a cart full of food, and having ran it through the checkout line, and having had it rung up and bagged, then decided that the total was too much and that she wasn't buying *any* of it. So she told the cashier, thanks but no thanks, abandoned the cart there ahead of us, and walked out. Wow. Just...wow.
3.) I recently had an appointment with one of my patients who is D's age, but whom I have known since she was probably five or six. I see her just once a year these days. She is at least severely learning disabled, and may perhaps be technically classified as mildly retarded, but frankly, she presents as no less bright than many of the people you and I deal with every day. She also has some psychiatric issues. Like all these kids we've seen forever and whom I only see annually or so at this point, it's always nice to see her come in and hear how she's doing. Today I was extremely surprised, because she had a whole new hair color. A natural blond, she is now dark auburn. I asked her what made her decide to become a redhead. She told me that the cat she'd had most of her life had had to be put down, and that she didn't take it very well. In fact, she became quite depressed over it. So she told me she went dark with her hair "to match her mood." Does that sound like someone whose IQ is in the retarded range? I think not. There's a certain level of insight there. I dunno. Sometimes I think a lot of neuropsych testing is complete crap. (D had some the first time he was hospitalized his senior year which drew some conclusions that were fairly laughable. I really don't know how they get away with calling it a science.)
4.) Are you all getting ready to see Ubaldo kick some Red Sox butt on Wednesday? Lackey's pitching! Excuse me while I laugh hysterically.
Happy official first day of summer and/or Monday, whichever you prefer to celebrate.
xoxo
Addendum: Did you SEE my Freudian slip before I fixed it? Ha!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
que pasa, bitches?
Some day soon I will write a post of substance, a post of coherence, a post with a point that actually makes a point. Today, however, is not that day. Today you get, yet again, the random spewings of my brain. Though fear not! There will be no more links to vaguely upsetting pictures of anyone's senator. (You must admit, when you inflict that upon your reading public, there's nowhere to go but up. There's a plan in everything I do.)
First of all I want to tell you one more time how much I love google. Not an hour ago, Led Zep Girl and Townie Girl were having a discussion of MTV back in the day, and while Led Zep Girl could name most of the original VJs, she was stuck on one. "Tall goofy guy with spiky hair..." TG had no idea, and I'll be damned if I did either when they pulled me into this. But I googled and in ten seconds or less my amazing google-fu presented: Alan Hunter. Ten years ago this would have been one of those questions where your brain hurt and the answer popped randomly into your head at 3 am and you'd have to resist from calling the person you'd been debating it with and waking them up.
Second of all, I'd like to tell you the good, the bad, and the torture-Andrea points of trivia last night. I was a good little low carb girl and decided that I would allow myself one, and just one, beer. So I sipped my delicious IPA with very tiny little girly sips (and immense self-discipline) all night and made it last. On the bad side of the equation, the answer to the halftime question was the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I did *not* get it on the first clue because I didn't know what their original band name was. (Anthony, I'm sorry, baby. I will study the facts of your life with more diligence and not get distracted by how much I would like to lick every one of your tattoos. Pinky swear.) Torture Andrea? The host played "No More No More" by Aerosmith and so I was moved to lip synch it, as you do, to Mr Barma, who then asked with amusement if I were wasted on the quarter of an IPA that I had consumed up until that point. I said NO, I just liked that album--Toys in the Attic, you philistines--and did he know how many times I listened to it in high school? To which he replied, "How many times on your back?" Oh, everyone is a comedian. You write one little tiny post about what music you used to have sex to as a teenager and you never hear the end of it. God.
Thirdly, I am finally reading "Julie and Julia" because I plan on renting the DVD of the movie and I always like to read the book first, so the movie will suck in comparison. I kid, I kid. But actually, I am on that kick again of reading people's humorous autobiographical opuses that started out as blogs and turned into a book deal, 'cause Jesus Christ, man, doesn't the whole world need to know what music I fucked to in high school in print? Keep hope alive n' all.
And last, what do we think of these sandals and similar styles? I find the whole ankle-cuff thing very fresh and kinda intriguing, but I fear I am too old and/or too short for that crap and that while Our Lil MILF could get away with such things, I would look ridic. (Plus I have to admit I don't need any more flat sandals. I'm supposed to be looking for shoes for work. This is the kind of thing that leads me to buy yet another pair of jeans when I go out looking for work clothes. Sigh. I want a lifestyle in which I can wear jeans and funky sandals every day. Like blogger-turned-highly-paid-author! That'd work.)
xoxo
First of all I want to tell you one more time how much I love google. Not an hour ago, Led Zep Girl and Townie Girl were having a discussion of MTV back in the day, and while Led Zep Girl could name most of the original VJs, she was stuck on one. "Tall goofy guy with spiky hair..." TG had no idea, and I'll be damned if I did either when they pulled me into this. But I googled and in ten seconds or less my amazing google-fu presented: Alan Hunter. Ten years ago this would have been one of those questions where your brain hurt and the answer popped randomly into your head at 3 am and you'd have to resist from calling the person you'd been debating it with and waking them up.
Second of all, I'd like to tell you the good, the bad, and the torture-Andrea points of trivia last night. I was a good little low carb girl and decided that I would allow myself one, and just one, beer. So I sipped my delicious IPA with very tiny little girly sips (and immense self-discipline) all night and made it last. On the bad side of the equation, the answer to the halftime question was the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I did *not* get it on the first clue because I didn't know what their original band name was. (Anthony, I'm sorry, baby. I will study the facts of your life with more diligence and not get distracted by how much I would like to lick every one of your tattoos. Pinky swear.) Torture Andrea? The host played "No More No More" by Aerosmith and so I was moved to lip synch it, as you do, to Mr Barma, who then asked with amusement if I were wasted on the quarter of an IPA that I had consumed up until that point. I said NO, I just liked that album--Toys in the Attic, you philistines--and did he know how many times I listened to it in high school? To which he replied, "How many times on your back?" Oh, everyone is a comedian. You write one little tiny post about what music you used to have sex to as a teenager and you never hear the end of it. God.
Thirdly, I am finally reading "Julie and Julia" because I plan on renting the DVD of the movie and I always like to read the book first, so the movie will suck in comparison. I kid, I kid. But actually, I am on that kick again of reading people's humorous autobiographical opuses that started out as blogs and turned into a book deal, 'cause Jesus Christ, man, doesn't the whole world need to know what music I fucked to in high school in print? Keep hope alive n' all.
And last, what do we think of these sandals and similar styles? I find the whole ankle-cuff thing very fresh and kinda intriguing, but I fear I am too old and/or too short for that crap and that while Our Lil MILF could get away with such things, I would look ridic. (Plus I have to admit I don't need any more flat sandals. I'm supposed to be looking for shoes for work. This is the kind of thing that leads me to buy yet another pair of jeans when I go out looking for work clothes. Sigh. I want a lifestyle in which I can wear jeans and funky sandals every day. Like blogger-turned-highly-paid-author! That'd work.)
xoxo
Friday, May 7, 2010
friday randomosity
I forgot to mention that after the other night, That Asshole Lackey has been upgraded to That Bastard Lackey. He'll get on my good side yet. You watch. "Stop talking about baseball, Andrea." Okay!
I just started watching the second season of Californication from Netflix, and in the first episode, David Duchovny is getting a vasectomy. His urologist's assistant comes on to him in the hallway afterwards and tells him he has a nice-looking cock. Well, of course in my rich and full fantasy life, he DOES, because--as we've recently gone over--he's one of my celebrity make-believe boyfriends. Be that as it may, I found my suspension of disbelief sorely tested. I'd say that even in Los Angeles, medical care cannot be *that* unprofessional, but then I did see in the news that one of the big university hospitals out there is in big trouble because the staff were giving each other French manicures and eyebrow waxes in the NICU. If my sick little baby's neonatalogist had enough fingernail to *get* a French manicure, I'm pretty sure I'd demand a new doctor. I don't even want to think about what I'd do if I found out she got it on top of a transport incubator while she was on duty. So, yeah, I guess I should be more charitable about TV writing that suggests urologist's nurses size up (see what I did there?) the patients' equipment and ask out the ones that measure up. (See what I--oh, never mind.)
In other news, I cut my "lawn" for the second time this year last night. Every time I do it, I ponder how I could get rid of it completely. Who invented the concept of a lawn? Someone with servants, I'll bet! There's a house on Mr Indemnity's street whose whole front yard is covered in, instead of grass, a huge patch of lily of the valley. I'm sure it looks like hell 50 weeks out of the year, but right now it looks and smells incredible. I picked some the other night whilst Mr Indemnity pretended not to know me and I accused him of being chicken-shit. (Yeah, yeah, I know, it's much easier to commit garden larceny when it's not *your* neighbors.) But seriously. They have a whole front yard full. I admire their nonconformity even as I steal a few flowers.
Okay. That'll do for now. Namaste, bitches.
xoxo
I just started watching the second season of Californication from Netflix, and in the first episode, David Duchovny is getting a vasectomy. His urologist's assistant comes on to him in the hallway afterwards and tells him he has a nice-looking cock. Well, of course in my rich and full fantasy life, he DOES, because--as we've recently gone over--he's one of my celebrity make-believe boyfriends. Be that as it may, I found my suspension of disbelief sorely tested. I'd say that even in Los Angeles, medical care cannot be *that* unprofessional, but then I did see in the news that one of the big university hospitals out there is in big trouble because the staff were giving each other French manicures and eyebrow waxes in the NICU. If my sick little baby's neonatalogist had enough fingernail to *get* a French manicure, I'm pretty sure I'd demand a new doctor. I don't even want to think about what I'd do if I found out she got it on top of a transport incubator while she was on duty. So, yeah, I guess I should be more charitable about TV writing that suggests urologist's nurses size up (see what I did there?) the patients' equipment and ask out the ones that measure up. (See what I--oh, never mind.)
In other news, I cut my "lawn" for the second time this year last night. Every time I do it, I ponder how I could get rid of it completely. Who invented the concept of a lawn? Someone with servants, I'll bet! There's a house on Mr Indemnity's street whose whole front yard is covered in, instead of grass, a huge patch of lily of the valley. I'm sure it looks like hell 50 weeks out of the year, but right now it looks and smells incredible. I picked some the other night whilst Mr Indemnity pretended not to know me and I accused him of being chicken-shit. (Yeah, yeah, I know, it's much easier to commit garden larceny when it's not *your* neighbors.) But seriously. They have a whole front yard full. I admire their nonconformity even as I steal a few flowers.
Okay. That'll do for now. Namaste, bitches.
xoxo
Sunday, April 25, 2010
epic
I never watch SNL anymore because a.)it usually sucks b.)I get up at 5:45am on Saturdays and so have very little motivation and ability to stay awake that late and c.)if I read or hear from anyone that there was anything on it that would have amused me, it pretty much always ends up on youtube for my viewing pleasure. HOWEVER. Next week? I am led to understand that they will be featuring Betty White and Jay-Z. That I will stay up for.
New topic. Did you watch the Sox game last night? WTF do we think is wrong with Papelbon? I think I would prefer my ace closer to just save the game, not "make it interesting" then save the game. That asshole Lackey, as I like to fondly refer to him, is on my fantasy team--don't blame me, I inherited him--and, despite his mediocre-to-crappy performance, did at least get me a win. So there is that. Also, Jones' HR was good for me. Was it good for you too? (Oh, I crack myself up.)
And one more thing. I slaved in the yard for another two hours yesterday after work, which is a sad state of affairs lemme tell you, and that makes eleven hours total this week in case you're counting, which I am. I am still not done. I may not even be 2/3rds done. But at least I don't quite feel like crying when I look at it anymore. Also, Friday night I spent an hour or so assembling my "bistro set" for the deck and it looks very cute. I don't think I was quite expecting two chairs and a table to arrive in one box (i.e. in lots and lots of pieces, yo) but I suppose that is what one gets for buying patio furniture that costs $170 as opposed to patio furniture that costs $450. (I was really shocked at how much this shite costs when I started looking at it.) Anyway, if any of you all want to come have a drink on my deck (um, one at a time, I said "two chairs"), you are invited, and I promise I tightened those bolts pretty good so the chair probably will not collapse. Probably.
xoxo
New topic. Did you watch the Sox game last night? WTF do we think is wrong with Papelbon? I think I would prefer my ace closer to just save the game, not "make it interesting" then save the game. That asshole Lackey, as I like to fondly refer to him, is on my fantasy team--don't blame me, I inherited him--and, despite his mediocre-to-crappy performance, did at least get me a win. So there is that. Also, Jones' HR was good for me. Was it good for you too? (Oh, I crack myself up.)
And one more thing. I slaved in the yard for another two hours yesterday after work, which is a sad state of affairs lemme tell you, and that makes eleven hours total this week in case you're counting, which I am. I am still not done. I may not even be 2/3rds done. But at least I don't quite feel like crying when I look at it anymore. Also, Friday night I spent an hour or so assembling my "bistro set" for the deck and it looks very cute. I don't think I was quite expecting two chairs and a table to arrive in one box (i.e. in lots and lots of pieces, yo) but I suppose that is what one gets for buying patio furniture that costs $170 as opposed to patio furniture that costs $450. (I was really shocked at how much this shite costs when I started looking at it.) Anyway, if any of you all want to come have a drink on my deck (um, one at a time, I said "two chairs"), you are invited, and I promise I tightened those bolts pretty good so the chair probably will not collapse. Probably.
xoxo
Sunday, March 21, 2010
topical, sorta; funny, definitely
I was telling Mr Indemnity that when I was (power)walking at the beach yesterday, "Super Freak" came on my iPod, which naturally made me think, "I'm Rick James, bitch!" which naturally led me to musing how The Chapelle Show was probably the funniest program ever put on TV which naturally made me want to look up the racial draft skit on youtube. Because it's hilarious and it, y'know, features Mr Tiger Woods prominently.
Mr Indemnity said he'd never seen it, so I told him I'd send him the link. But then I thought, Andrea! share with the whole class!
I'm not Rick James, bitch, but namaste anyway.
xoxo
Mr Indemnity said he'd never seen it, so I told him I'd send him the link. But then I thought, Andrea! share with the whole class!
I'm not Rick James, bitch, but namaste anyway.
xoxo
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