the room that time forgot

Well, I finally got a wake-up call about organizing my damn office already, in the form of a puncture wound. This morning I stepped on the side of a plastic-and-metal Christmas Tree Shop box that was on the floor, along with everything else on the planet. The metal actually went through a piece of posterboard and into my foot and I had to pull it out. You know it's bad when a room in your home forces you to perform impromptu surgery. Everyone that I've told has had the same reaction, right down to their enunciation: "Oh my GOD, Red."

So to all those who have suffered this mess graciously, stepping over it instead of grabbing me by my shoulders and shaking some sense into me: Tomorrow, I am SO cleaning this mofo. And then we can all frolic in here happily once again, without needing a stitch or a tetanus shot afterwards.

but Scoob...

Steve: ...and he was saying that the one adjective in every Scooby Doo episode is "meddling." Remember that? "If it weren't for you meddling kids..."
Me: Yeah. Isn't that a verb, though?
Steve: Oh. Maybe.
Me: Is it questions like that that keep me from deriving any joy from life?

today I am one

Happy blogday to the tent. Here's to first words, emerging motor skills, and the slow but steady neurological formation of all my neuroses.

the empire claims another

So New York announces that it's stealing Johnny Damon right out from under our noses (AND making him shave so he more closely resembles a Jeter-bot) and at about the same time its residents are forced to walk miles to work in the (thank you Darren) BLISTERING cold. So okay, the two are basically unrelated, but the connection is there if you REALLY want to see it: You've gone too far this time, NYC, and shall suffer frostbite as a consequence. You're like the kindergarten bully that steals our snack as soon as we look away for a second. Apparently $52 million in the bank holds a slight advantage over hometown pride and Fenway franks. Fine, New York, I know you make more money and stay up later and okay maybe dress a little better than us, but for the love of God, stop buying our people! At least don't touch Big Papi, otherwise we'll be forced to put down our Sam Adams and rip your well-coiffed head right off.

if some guy sees you when you're sleeping and knows when you're awake, maybe close the blinds

You know it's Christmas when the joy and spirit of the season touches us all. Or when one of your relatives says dead seriously about one of your other relatives, "I'm sure I have some crap in the basement I can give her." Or when one of my students sings Jingle Bells in its entirety without taking a breath and then bursts into tears. Santa is like crack to 6-year-olds.

Or maybe you know it's officially the holidays when your sneak attack lyric contest at work, which has laid dormant for months, is reborn for the sake of Christmas songs. One of my esteemed colleagues was thisclose to winning when he asked me, "Do you hear what I hear?" It would have been his finest moment, tripping me up by using an actual song TITLE (you get extra points for that) but his delivery was a little too sing-songy and I suddenly remembered something about a star, a star, way up in the sky, little lamb. Not bad for a girl who dropped out of Sunday School when she was seven. But honestly, I can't lose my champion status because I accidentally agree with someone that the weather outside is frightful. Needless to say, tis the season to watch your step.

The only thing that sucks is that this time around some lamer people at work have caught on and are all like, "HEY RED, ARE YOU ROCKIN' AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE?" That's subtle, jackass. So glad you joined the game.

In any case, a very merry Whatever It Is You're Into to all, and to all a goodnight.

funkytown

I've been in a funk lately. And it's not just me... when I asked Hot Chocolate Guy how he was this morning, he told me without hesitation that he'd be lying if he said he was doing great, that he was just keeping it in neutral. Usually when people you don't really know answer you literally it's kind of annoying, but today I was glad to hear something different.

I keep hearing things like haven't heard from you, wondering what you've been up to, different versions of you're fucking up. I drove the wrong way down a one way street yesterday, and the opportunities for metaphor are painfully abundant. (If you put a disclaimer on a cliche, you get to use it and still act like you're being ironic about it, right?) I watched part of Jerry Maguire today and noticed "what if I'm not built like that?" I'm uncomfortable with all of it lately, in every direction that it's coming from. My office has become a landfill; I'm literally just not dealing with anything. It's a definite shift and not toward the positive.

Not sure what to do about this. I do know that I have no interest in becoming one of those serious bloggers who describe their issues in prose and their emotions in colors. Spare me. So no worries, next time we'll be back to stories of me fighting with Comcast or burning the roof of my mouth or something equally tentworthy.

can't say I didn't try

Department Receptionist: ...and don't forget you have the XYZ conference all day Friday.
Me: No thank you.
DR: What's that?
Me: I said, no thank you.
DR: Do you think you're going to get out of this by being courteous?
Me: Maybe?
DR: Sorry, no.
Me: It's too cold.
DR: To be at a conference that's indoors?
Me: Yes.
DR: I don't think so.
Me: I have jury duty again?
DR: See you Friday!

we the jury

My Tuesday started out with metal detectors, standing in line with disgruntled strangers, and watching a video that attempted to answer the age-old question "What IS a TRIAL?" That's right, kids, I had jury duty. Or, rather, sit-at-a-table-reading-my-book-next-to-people-slumped-over-their-coats-trying-to-nap duty.

I loved the video. They were basically like, "You may have heard the words TRIAL and COURTROOM before on TELEVISION. Or maybe you've been involved in a TRIAL before yourself." These are my choices? I've learned about the legal system from Ally McBeal, or I'm out robbing 7-11s and finding out about TRIALS firsthand?

The guy in the video really wanted us to understand that the legal system isn't like what you see on TV. He was about 100 years old, wearing a tweed coat, holding his lapels with both hands, and squinting at the camera over giant black glasses. All he needed was a pipe and I would've thought the legal system was like the board game Clue.

At one point we did get called into another room. There were about thirty of us and nobody was talking. If we'd all been in a room together at a bar the noise would've been deafening, but put a bunch of strangers in a room without alcohol before 11 AM and everyone checks their personality at the door. But I could tell this guy coming in was going to start talking, because he was one of those loud enter-a-roomers. He walked in, looked around, exhaled and said to nobody, "OKAY THEN!" Then he sat next to me, and he almost scared me when a few moments later:

Him: DO YOU EVER WATCH JUDGE JUDY?

Keep in mind the room is silent. Except for him. And now me.

Me: Um...I've seen it before, yeah.
Him: THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE HER HUSBAND.

Dear God, tell me he's not pointing to someone else in the room. I follow his gaze and realize he's referring to a painting on the wall, presumably of some judge. Then I realize that there's only one word with which to respond when a loose cannon who has just entered your life tells you that Some Guy on the Wall looks like Judge Judy's husband. And that word is "Oh."

HIM: I'M TRYING NOT TO LOOK AT YOU, JUDGE! I KEEP TRYING TO LOOK AWAY! BUT IT'S HARD!

He's addressing the painting, by the way.

When all the other panels had left us I looked around at my crew. Thanks to Lost, I now imagine how random assortments of people that I find myself amongst would fare in the jungle. I could take that guy, he's like 80. That guy's reading Faulkner, he'd probably burst into tears before I have a chance to karate chop him. Wait, what am I talking about? Am I really planning on offing my fellow jungle jurors one by one in order to achieve total island domination? Who ARE you, Red? I should be collecting sticks or berries or comforting that old lady or something; it's not Survivor, for God's sake.

Then I realized that I seemed to be the only woman under 50 in this group, and you know what that means: repopulating the species is now up to me. And my baby daddy prospects aren't looking good. Then I decide that this thinking is a sign of mental illness and it's time to start text messaging my friends, who are now starting to think that between snow days and fighting for justice, I don't seem to have an actual job anymore.

So I just sat there reading, secure in the knowledge that my very presence in that courthouse was causing cases to settle left and right, lest anyone in the legal profession have to sit in a room with me for the next several hours. I got to leave at 1:00. Is this the commonwealth's way of making amends for forcing me to take adult driver's ed? If so, I accept your apology.

feed the world, indeed

One of the most exciting things about being a rock star must be that at any given moment, somebody could ask you to participate in a group singalong to raise money for something. Just imagine being able to hold that giant headphone to your ear with one hand while you emote with the other. Although nowadays it would probably all be wireless, and that would be sad. You probably wouldn't even be able to get everyone in a big room together anymore, because they would all need to have their bodyguards and plastic surgeons there. I, however, remember a simpler time, when Spandau Ballet shared a stage with Paul McCartney for the wholesome purpose of saving the world.

So, yeah, there's We are the World, with lyrics that were life-affirming yet nonspecific enough that they could be applied to any humanitarian situation. "We all must lend a helping hand... you know, love is all we need..." They had to invent a lot of opportunities for this kind of cheerful ambiguity so that all those singers could put in their own two vague cents. And those people clearly don't tone down their shit for anyone. They're used to having their own song and this time around they only have a few seconds to be heard so they're going to make the most of it, harmony be damned. (I'm talking to you, Huey "But if you JUST BELIEVE!" Lewis.)

I think the Pointer Sisters sang on We are the World, actually. Granted, I'll bust a move to Jump (For My Love) any day of the week, mostly because I admire their use of parentheses, but they're really not the sort of band that had much staying power.

Who am I kidding? I'm doing the neutron dance as I write this.

Anyway, I had a point here, somewhere. This time of year we get to hear one of the best singalongs recorded... Do They Know It's Christmastime? by God Only Knows Who. I think I hear Bono in there thanking God it's THEM instead of YOU. My only memory of that show Pop-Up Video is when they responded to the song title with a pop-up that said something to the effect of, "Well, they probably don't care. Most Africans don't even celebrate Christmas." I love you, Pop-Up Video. Why should that stop us, though? Nobody can strongarm a holiday like Americans. "You WILL celebrate this because otherwise we won't drop any boxes of food down from helicopters. Now dance to the song we made for you, Ethiopia, DANCE!"

I think of Pop-Up Video every time I sing along with the chorus which now just sounds like, "FEMA, who-oa...," which is really so much more timely. That song has a lot of levels, people.

no day but nine years ago

Okay, fine, I'll talk about Rent.

As is the case for most of us, my tolerance for drama and preference for the eclectic was much higher when I was younger. So back in the day, Rent came along at the perfect time. My friends and I were 19 and so were the characters. Naturally, I ran in Rent-loving circles; you probably did too. We played the soundtrack until it wore out. Literally... eventually I had to get a second copy.

I saw it several times; on Bostonway, not Broadway. So it became a Thing in My Life that I'd never be able to be objective about because "oh, Rent, I LOVED it when I was in college." I can never be too hard on it, just like I can never be too hard on Dave Matthews or Ben Folds or that stupid song Closing Time... it's the sentimental factor. For a lot of reasons, I wouldn't have liked it as much if I'd seen it today. So when the movie version comes out, with all the original Broadway actors, I'm in that gray area, negotiating with my college self.

It never should've been a musical. It would've been more compelling as a book, a movie, a series on HBO. Don't get me wrong; I know every breath of the songs on those CDs and like a lot of them. Wore out my first copy, remember. But honestly, the "lyrics" are essentially just dialogue set to music, often awkwardly. Plus any movie that features characters who randomly break into song immediately becomes such an easy target and often seems to lose more people than are willing to hang on for the ride.

Roger and Mimi make me crazy. I'm sorry, but have any two people prepared more to begin a relationship? They're not ready, you'll never truly understand me, but you just have to TRY, let's fight in the snow, come ON, this is your LIFE! Then they decide to give it a shot, but first they have to sing about their decision for twenty seven minutes. Great, no pressure there. Then Mimi almost dies and Roger starts frantically rhyming. Your eyes, as we said our goodbyes, what's the door prize, meaningful sighs, we're all going to dies. But it resuscitates her... never underestimate the potential healing power of wordplay.

I turned to my friend and asked her if you know you're old when you suddenly realize that Benny has some valid points. All my friends who loved Rent in their penniless, scrounging-for-alcohol days now have mortgages and kitchens lousy with Crate and Barrel. The Age of Rent seems to have ended, for us anyway.

Most ironic of all was seeing this movie about love and friendship with the Bride, who used to be my best friend and my original Renthead buddy before she sold her soul. I hadn't seen her in months and she insisted that we see it together. I forced myself to be a sport, but I hated being around her, and was mad at myself for being a sellout. Then I thought, how Rent-appropriate; it really wouldn't be right if I wasn't feeling overly emotional. So after all, Jonathan Larson has the last laugh.

365 days of misery

I just saw the He's Just Not That Into You day-by-day calendar. I'm trying to imagine this.

January 1st: Happy New Year! He doesn't like you.
February 11th: He really doesn't like you after finding you asleep on his doorstep.
March 17th: It's St. Patrick's Day, but lucky you, you've been inebriated for most of 2006. Has it helped him realize what he's missing?
April 1st: You know what? He changed his mind and he likes you. No, wait, April Fools.
May 29th: What are you doing for Memorial Day weekend? Really? That sounds like fun. He's probably having sex with someone else right this second.
June 18th: Happy Father's Day. You're never going to have his babies, by the way. But some other chick is, and she's probably way cuter than you and has a better job.
July 21st: How's your summer going? By the way, he saw you on the street and ran in the opposite direction.
August 12th: You're so smart and brave to go with this tough love approach. Why are you crying?
September 6th: Seriously, why are you still crying?
October 31st: Oh neat, you came dressed as a psycho. Oh, my mistake. Well, happy Halloween anyway!
November 23rd: Are you thankful that the pain hasn't killed you? Yet?
December 2th: He's forgotten your name. Good egg nog, though.

and THEN...

I heard this story from what I could have SWORN was a reliable source (she said it happened to someone she knew!) and then proceeded to tell everyone I know... and some of them told everyone they know. Turns out, I'm a spreader of lies. Finding out you inadvertently passed on an urban freakin' legend as a legit news story really does not help your credibility. What am I, The Onion? Have I been relying too much on Tina Fey and Jon Stewart for my world news?

Did you also hear about the time that I was unconscious in the bathtub and someone stole my kidneys?

peppermint patty

I love this time of year for many reasons, but one of them is the fact that I love all things peppermint. I love candy canes. I love even LOOKING at candy canes, which is why I have a jar of mini ones. I like the ones they have in the drugstore that are just like big rods, but there really wouldn't be any way to cavort about with one of those in public and still maintain any dignity, being 28 and all. (I'm a purist, by the way; none of this multicolored, chocolate-flavored candy cane shit. It's straight up red-and-white or not at all.) I lovelovelove peppermint ice cream; it makes me giddy with excitement. Bubble Yum makes perfect peppermint sugarless gum that you can't always find but you know it's a good day if you do. William Sonoma has peppermint bark, which is why I can't go in the store this time of year because they'd find me two hours later hiding among the stainless steel tea kettle section with five open bark boxes. And anyone who knows me knows that I eat peppermints constantly, and because when I eat one I have to offer it to the person I'm with (because that's the law), most of my friends have instituted a no-more-offering rule. Mark always says, "I'll just TELL YOU when I want one, OK?" which probably makes him sound slightly abusive to any stranger standing near us who doesn't know that I've been offering him mints every three seconds. Anyway, this time of year is great because my love for peppermint seems more festive than obsessive. It's the only time that I could, in theory, hang pieces of it all over my house. Imagine if heroin addicts had a holiday like that! Actually, stop imagining a syringe tree. That's weird.

in which I investigate why teenage girls with pink blogs subject themselves to this kind of barbaric cartoon scrutiny

They're called blogthings and they totally size you up. As usual, I'm game.

Your IQ Is 115

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Above Average Your General Knowledge is Exceptional

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

I love how they just come right out and tell me that my logical intelligence is below average. Girl, you might be able to string together a sentence, but you'll get lost driving around the block. That does sound like me, come to think of it. It's tough love, I get it. Bring me some Kleenex, I'm ready for more.

Your Personality Profile

You are dependable, popular, and observant. Deep and thoughtful, you are prone to moodiness. In fact, your emotions tend to influence everything you do. You are unique, creative, and expressive. You don't mind waving your freak flag every once and a while. And lucky for you, most people find your weird ways charming!

The World's Shortest Personality Test

While I'd really enjoy nothing more than to singularly own some of these characteristics, I have a sneaking suspicion that I maaaaay not be the only person on the planet influenced by their emotions. And I love how it's such a revelation: "In FACT, your heart even pumps BLOOD."

By the way, your right to burn your own freak flag is protected 100% by the Constitution.

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Cult Classic

Quirky, offbeat, and even a little campy - your life appeals to a select few. But if someone's obsessed with you, look out! Your fans are downright freaky. Your best movie matches: Office Space, Showgirls, The Big Lebowski

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

Why do I have a stalker if my life appeals to few? Whatever, I'm changing the locks.

You Are Likely A Forth Born

At your darkest moments, you feel angry. At work and school, you do best when your analyzing. When you love someone, you tend to be very giving. In friendship, you don't take the initiative in reaching out. Your ideal jobs are: factory jobs, comedy, and dentistry. You will leave your mark on the world with your own personal philosophy.

The Birth Order Predictor

What a surprise, I have Little Sister Syndrome; that much I knew. Only where the hell are my siblings? And can't I spell my own position in this imaginary family correctly?

Your Career Type: Social

You are helpful, friendly, and trustworthy. Your talents lie in teaching, nursing, giving information, and solving social problems. You would make an excellent: Counselor - Dental Hygienist - Librarian Nurse - Parole Officer - Personal Trainer Physical Therapist - Social Worker - Teacher The worst career options for you are realistic careers, like truck driver or farmer.

What's Your Ideal Career?

What kind of social problems could I solve... bad manners, poor form? As a parole officer, would I get a night stick? And not a good truck driver or farmer? Your doubt only fuels me to want to succeed in that "realistic career" field.

Your Ideal Relationship is Friends with Benefits

You're not looking for anything serious... just something hot! And you're little black book (or cell phone) always hooks you up. You want nothing more than friends with benefits. No strings. You also don't mind benefits without the friendship!

What's Your Ideal Relationship?

Gosh, express a few reservations about marriage to blogthings and suddenly you're a shameless whore hitting on her friends. How do they just keep hitting the nail right on the head like that?

Your Brain's Pattern

You're a simple thinker, and this is actually a very good thing. You don't complicate matters when you don't have to. You look for the simplest explanation or solution, and you go with that. As a result, your mind is uncluttered and free of stress.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

You're a simple girl, Red, laying in a simple field surrounded by simple flowers. Don't you remember us telling you that you have no logical intelligence? Why did you have to come back for more?!

You Are 30 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Huh?

Your Hidden Talent

You are both very knowledgeable and creative. You tend to be full of new ideas and potential - big potential. Ideas like yours could change the world, if you build them. As long as you don't stop working on your dreams, you'll get there.

What's Your Hidden Talent?

...and in conclusion I'd just like to say, congratulations to the class of 1987! We did it! WOO! Kegger at Buffy's after sunset!

You Are Lemon Meringue Pie

You're the perfect combo of sassy and sweet Those who like you have well refined tastes

What Kind of Pie Are You?

I'm dessert and you're classy. It's a win-win, really.

what's your damage, Heather?

My theory is that you really can't get drunk at your high school reunion because everywhere you look, there's a buzzkill. And I don't even mean that in a bad way, for the most part... it's just that a reunion is kind of like work disguised as a night out. Finally, after hours, everyone is so cheek-kissed, one-arm-hugged, and "oh, hi!"ed out that when you're done, you're done. I got dressed, pre-boozed, arrived, left, analyzed, and fell asleep with two of my best childhood friends. It wasn't very stressful; for the most part my class consisted of a bunch of maladjusted rich kid hippies, with the occasional lacrosse player thrown in. Several people asked if I was still writing; two randomly asked if I had a blog. Along the way we ran into a group of people who graduated from our same school and were going to their 15 year reunion at the same bar... how delightful to know that I'll continue to be dragged back down memory lane every five years. I reconnected with the person I most wanted to see which was really worth the price of admission (which was $35, by the way). And no, no, NO DAMN IT ALL, I didn't find out if the infamous ex officially became a woman. Sigh.

So it was fun to spend a night in 1995, but better to be back to a world where I have a savings account, no curfew, and, as I learned tonight, a CVS photo guy who filed my pictures under "blond hair and glasses" instead of my name. I wasn't wearing glasses when I picked them up and I don't actually have blond hair, but a completely different employee somehow figured out they were mine. Sometimes it's not even worth asking, you know?

vroom

I'm in the market for a new set of wheels. I also just said that like the Popular Guy in any John Hughes movie, complete with a smirk and a leather jacket slung over the shoulder. Sorry about that. Please excuse me while I go make out with Molly Ringwald.

Anyway, I'm liking this particular hybrid SUV, but loving the irony of hybrid SUVs in general. This particular car won the best SUV award from some environmental agency, which is like being praised for destroying the planet only slightly less than bigger cars. Like giving Charles Manson an award for not being Hitler.

It used to be that a hybrid meant that its owner cared about the planet and conscientiously plugged in their car every night. Nowadays it doesn't mean anything quite that pure. "You know, it's just so much better for the environ...ooh, heated seats!"

gobble

Earlier tonight a complete stranger looked at me holding my bathtub-sized movie theater Diet Coke and told me that he didn't think I needed the caffeine. While the intervention meant a lot to me, sir, you must allow me my carbonation. I'm home with the family for the holiday and you should just be glad (in keeping with the spirit, perhaps even give thanks) that it's not a tub of gin.

turkey update

It's been suggested to me that perhaps I've become a little Seinfeldian of late with the tent (or, as Melissa put it, I'm in a "and WHAT is up with plane food?" phase), at the expense of talking about my actual life. So, for those of you who care, this has been what's actually happening while I'm busy pondering the inconsequential.

Much time spent at my favorite hot spot in suburbia, also known as Dorie's kitchen, dancing to Van Morrison with her kids (Bright Side of the Road, not I Wanna Roo You) and coming up with games like sock skiing that make them think I'm a creative genius. Adventures in DVR with Jen. Soup Factory with the other Jen. Movies and the pitter-pat of little embryos with Kelsey and Trent. Creepy low-voiced comedian with Steve. Getting conferenced in while Jason goes right to the source to determine the validity of the stolen penguin story (and is subsequently urged by their media person not to run the story, like he's freakin' CNN). Trying to temper Mark's overambitious gym tendencies, while spending a lot of time there myself. Continuing to nurture a union built on miscommunication and forced laughter with Supergirl. High school reunion this weekend, where I'll regale the masses with my story of inventing Post-Its and becoming a successful businesswoman, or maybe stay up late reminiscing about Stone Temple Pilots and Brian Krakow.

Now back to our regularly scheduled rambling commentary on crap that doesn't matter.

superawkward

Supergirl: I had a dream last night that you were really mad at me about something.
Me: That wasn't a dream, that was Friday.
[long pause]
Supergirl: What do you mean?
Me: I'm just kidding.
[long pause]
Me: I was completely kidding, Super. I'm not mad at you.
[long pause]
Supergirl: Oh. Okay.
[long pause]
Me: Remember that Friends episode where Rachel has a dream that she sleeps with Chandler, and Ross gets mad, and Chandler goes, "Oh, I'm sorry. I was very drunk, and it was someone else's subconscious."
[long pause]
Supergirl: I'm not sure I saw that one. What did he say?
Me: No, nothing, it just reminded me of that.
[long pause]
Supergirl: Seriously though, was there an issue on Friday, or...?
Me: No, no, no. I was totally kidding.
Supergirl: Because if there was, I'd definitely want you to tell me.
Me: So, um, what else happened in the dream?

if you read this, your crush will die

Like everyone, I hate e-mail forwards. I hate the five-alarm ones warning me not to stare at my popcorn while it's in the microwave because one time my brother's friend knew this guy who did that and the popcorn exploded in his face and then he totally DIED. And the ones frantically warning me that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES should I open any emails containing pictures from an anonymous source... seriously, are there still people left doing this? When you get an email from Patty Fuckleberry and a subject title like "check out these kool pix" are you going, "Oh, great! Are these from my cousin, of the whole family playing bocce ball together last fourth of July?" No, idiot. Delete.

I don't like the jokes. Blonds are dumb, Bush is dumb, and here are 101 things you could do to make your coworkers inch away from you in terror. They're never really funny enough to warrant the forward, are they? Sometimes you're not sure what your otherwise sane friend was thinking, sending this waste of time to everyone in their address book when you've heard them mumble funnier things in their sleep. And I hate the ones that are like women's rules for men, which always go from bland to depressing... put the seat down, learn to ask for directions, call when you say you will, stop hitting on my girlfriends, please don't make me cry anymore.

My least favorite of all time are the ones about friendship and how friends are like stars because even though you don't always notice them, you always know they're there, watching over you. What? And it's always sent to you by some schmuck you don't even like that much, and you're like, thanks, I don't recall inviting you to be a star in my freakin' solar system.

Some of these e-mails reveal themselves to have been meant for 12-year-olds because they conclude with, "If you send this to one person, your crush will notice you. If you send this to two people, your crush will talk to you. If you send this to three people, your crush will ask you out." And if you send it to everyone on the planet, your crush will give you herpes and then start stalking your best friend. Thankfully, most of them just end with that ominous threat about how you have to send it on to fifteen people in the next twenty seconds or else your great aunt will be killed within the next seventeen minutes. It may not be comforting, but at least you know the e-mail was meant for adults and not middle schoolers. After a certain age, dismemberment is just more socially acceptable than lusting after lacrosse players.

jungle boogie

"Lost" is losing me, pun intended. Let's start with the beeping box in the hatch and how they decided that they had to hit the button every hour and a half or else the world would blow up, without any real proof except for the testimonial of a hysterical Irish guy. How about you leave the crazy underground apartment and worry about actual problems like food and water and maybe put the magic world-saving button on the back burner for now?

The someone's-gonna-DIE episode was a frantic race to make Shannon relevant so that we'd care when Scowly McMeanington shot her. And as in real life, the best way to establish your identity is to have sex with a guy in a tank top. And then suddenly they were in love and making plans for being together off the island, like they're at summer camp: "So, do you think we'll keep in touch after we go home?" Um, you guys have plenty of time together, considering you're GOING TO DIE THERE. And then Shannon counters with, "You're just going to leave me, like every guy does after we get in a plane crash and land on an island full of cannibals." But Tank Top gets all DiCaprio-on-the-iceberg about it: "I will NEVER leave you." Didn't they just meet? I guess anyone starts to look good after you've been drinking sand for awhile.

The acting career of the guy who plays Walt's dad has been distilled to one line that he yells whenever there's more than half second of silence: "They took my son!" Sometimes he tries emphasizing different words to keep it fresh, but he's even starting to sound apathetic about it now.

And they found the elusive Others, but now it turns out those Others are scared of other Others. And they were all apparently on the plane together. Would this ever happen after an actual plane crash? I'm sorry, but look around next time you're flying Delta: No one on that flight is equipped to deal with life without their carry-on, much less form tribes and immediately become hardass jungle folk. Which leads me to think that were I in this situation, I would probably be worthy of induction into the hardcore Others group, except for the walking around barefoot part, because ow. We're walking on twigs and snakes here, people. They might need me for my footwear suggestions alone.

Most disconcerting is that JJ Abrams apparently only claims Alias as his other big success. I, however, remember him when. Actually, maybe he could reincarnate Felicity and help out our new friends. She could arrive on the island and say "oh...hey" to everyone and then talk about how weird and displaced and uncomfortable it feels being away from home but that she knows it's really important to grow from this and that ultimately it will make her a stronger person. Cue a Savage Garden song, and they could all hug in slow motion.

has Canada lost its freakin' mind?

I heard a radio ad for Canada encouraging us to go there. I always wonder who benefits from these commercials... it's like those TV ads for plastic or cotton. "I have an idea, let's drop millions of dollars to advertise something totally non-specific like 'the fabric of our lives.' We're sure to show...well, absolutely no direct gains from this, but everyone should know how GREAT these materials are."

This particular Canada tourism ad was normal until about halfway through ("it's so close," "we have so much to do here") and then lost its mind and started talking about how you could come to Canada and bounce on moonbeams and such. I wish I remembered direct quotes, but it was enough to make me look down at my radio in disbelief, which is never a good sign... your brain has temporarily lost that connection that the radio voice you're hearing is actually not a person inside of your stereo, but for the moment you can only look down at it as though it's a human being that you must hold accountable for the lunacy you're hearing. (I've reacted to Jay Severin much the same way; who, by the way, has been off the air for awhile. Tell me he's not going national?)

So what's going on with Canada? I feel like it's the weird brother who lives in the attic (my map skills are very literal; Canada is "up") and keeps to himself but then every now and then you hear hysterical rambling and you go, "Crap, maybe I should go check on Canada." Then you climb halfway up the stairs and tentatively ask, "So, um, how's it going, buddy?" before getting hit in the face with a hockey puck. (I love cultural cliches... reminds me of being at Epcot.)

Never mind the fact that the last time I was in Canada, there was no one at the border telling me to stop and so I just drove across, and the strategy of the police to try and get me back was to run out of their little welcome-to-Canada hut and start frantically waving their arms. Now that's what I call border security.

sleeping with myself

A chick magazine has an article this month called "The Questions to Ask Before You Jump Into Bed." I decided to ask myself these questions to determine if I'm a suitable bed partner, or if I should be making myself sleep in the guest room until we're more serious. I mean, I don't want to rush into anything here.

1) What's the best compliment anyone could give you?
Dave's suggestion: "You have beautiful cuticles?", complete with question mark at the end. My response to that: "You just used 'beautiful' and 'cute' in a sentence about me and somehow managed to not compliment me at all."

2) What material thing will you never give up?
I'm partial to the clay larynx I made in grad school. I brought it home and baked it in the oven until it hardened. I used to keep it in my living room but I think it kind of grossed people out. Apparently a clay Yukon Cornelius is fine but a clay larynx is weird.

3) What's one thing you'll never do again?
I hope to never return to adult driver's ed.

4) What's your nickname?
Red, but only if you're a scary old man working at a drugstore.

5) What's the biggest misconception people have about you?
Probably that I like them. I'm quite polite. Or, as Mark put it in his blog: Red would be great on some reality TV dating show. She'd be the only girl who'd think that she'd go on and cut people down and tell everyone exactly what she thought of them, but when she got there she'd be on her cell phone with me telling me the truth, and then when she'd be on dates with a bunch of losers she'd be nice to them and lead them on even though she has no interest in them, and be afraid to be honest with them because of her polite social party upbringing at Dirty Dancing as a child. I'd be on my cell phone? Does he know me at all?

6) What embarrasses you?
Every time I trip and fall, it's like the first time.

7) What's your favorite curse word? Why?
Freakin', which sits in for "really," "very," and also pinch hits as an adjective. I only bring out the hard stuff for special occasions.

8) What's the best/worst quality you inherited from your parents?
Best/worst from mom - spunk/ADD
Best/worst from dad - sense of humor/the bump on my nose

9) What do you want to do before you die?
Go to sleep. Have we determined if I'm worthy to have in my bed yet?

10) Would you date yourself?
Definitely. We're really compatible.

Zach Braff wouldn't have been amused, but I was

This was the "coming up next" screen on HBO last night for a few blissful seconds:

9:00 Garden State

11:00 Atlantic City Hookers: It Ain't EZ Being a Ho

Nothing like fine cinema back-to-back. I just can't decide if I should enjoy it accompanied by a vegan soy Kabbalah latte or my baby daddy.

ow

My mom broke her shoulder, so last night I was in the hospital with her for hours. The ER, as you know, is a total mind fuck...everything takes forever and someone you love is in pain and you're in that tiny room and you just want to lose your mind. But anyway, she was getting her second dose of morphine (the Red women are never happy being only slightly drugged) and she looked at me and said, "Isn't morphine the drug that you steal?" Now, by "morphine" I think she meant "oxycontin" and by "you" I think she meant "crazy people I've seen on holding up pharmacies on the news," but still...a question like that makes the nurse look twice at you.

"And I Was Like, Huh?": a special Dirty Dancing edition

And we drank water and ate his peppermints and talked about our years at school and stuff. And at one point he mentioned that he schedules his classes early in the morning so that he can wait tables at a restaurant in Portsmouth at night. He does it five nights a week and he said it helps him keep up with the tuition bills. And I was just like, oh my God. I wanted to hug him for being so smart and - I don't know - ambitious doesn't seem like the right word - maybe focused? Anyway, I just respected him a lot for it. And he told me that he goes to school with some people who have a lot and still complain that they don't have more and that I'm not like that. And then he told me that he'd gotten my number at school off the College website and that he'd thought about calling me a lot. And I don't know if he felt obligated to say that or what but then he said that he wasn't sure if calling me would have put me in an awkward position so he had decided not to and that he would just see me this summer because he knew he'd be back working here again. And all of a sudden I was just thinking "uh oh" because I hardly thought about him all year and I didn't know if I was supposed to have been thinking about him or what. I mean, we did practically have sex.

(For any newbies or forgetfulbies: "And I Was Like, Huh?" is a series of vaguely mortifying glimpses of yours truly at 19-ish, courtesy of Dave, who was kind enough to save all my old journal entries. Here are one and two.)

(Also, if you're a little unsure about Dave's beard, don't worry, his friend Keith is too.)

when appliances decide you're lame

Apparently even my clock radio thinks that we have a dysfunctional relationship. I overslept by an hour today. No, overslept is too nice a way to put it. I kept hitting the snooze button...so, I guess I oversnoozed. (I blame the monsoon and accompanying gray skies for failing to rouse me, but that's really neither here nor there.) The radio would go off periodically, so I basically just elected to stay in that constantly interrupted state of consciousness, because it's such a great way to start the day...who needs breakfast when you can have a panic attack every eight minutes? And then, after an hour of this, my clock radio gave up on me and shut off altogether: "I freakin' TRIED. What is WRONG WITH YOU? It's almost SEVEN THIRTY. Don't you have BILLS TO PAY? Aren't songs about Kelly Clarkson's tormented love life ENOUGH TO GET YOU OUT OF YOUR COCOON?"

Ironically, it was the silence that woke me up. Sounds like the start of a Hemingway novel.

So I started the day late, and then after one of my morning meetings I announced that I was feeling crabby. I just get more professional every day.

why I love Mark's job

Because every now and then he has to learn a totally ridiculous song because one of his music students wants to learn to play or sing it. This keeps me incredibly entertained. So you can imagine my DELIGHT when he told me that he just had to learn the music and words to "I Didn't Steal Your Boyfriend" by Ashlee Simpson for an 11-year-old. Mark likes emo and was not amused. But I was! I freakin' love it! This song really exists, and that's really the title! He sent it to me and I LOVE IT. The lyrics are exactly what you'd expect. There's a line where she goes, all pissy, "Well I'm SORRY that he CALLED me, and that I answered the TELEPHONE." I'm hoping it's a part of a pop culture war with Hillary Duff or Lindsay Lohan or Paris Hilton and it better be on the soundtrack for House of Wax: the Sequel. I wish these teen girls would just release albums screaming at each other: "Hey That's My Popsicle," "I Totally DID Return Your Shoes, Didn't You Check Your Closet?", "Whatever, It's Not Like You Called Me on MY Birthday."

Kevin McNotHisRealNamington at work heard me being excited about this and immediately told me it couldn't be the new song for our Battle of the Snuck-In Lyrics. Like I would've even asked.

Fine, I might've.

Speaking of, we're auditioning new songs. I loved the idea of Power of Love by Huey Lewis, but on closer inspection none of the lyrics are really usable...I mean, "don't need no credit card to ride this train"? Although definite bonus points to anyone who could've pulled off, "I really like this report you wrote, Bob. In fact, you might say it's stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream." Can't Get Enough of Your Love by Barry White was a fun option but it would involve a little more verbal molestation of my colleagues than is typically socially acceptable. Plus you'd give youself away when you had to punctuate the whole thing with a baritone "baby." I mean, it's tough to pick just one song that works for all of us, because the world doesn't move to the beat of just one drum, and what might be right for me may not be right for some.

That was the Different Strokes theme song. I told you I'm good at this game.

Ideas, anyone?

how interesting

Guy I Knew in College drifted back into my orbit this weekend and reinforced why he's Guy I Knew in College and not Guy I Still Know. First it was "how have you BEEN?" and then he proceeded to get drunk and decide to re-create our non-relationship. He and I were barely friends six years ago. Barely Friends Six Years Ago means that our catching up with each other should consist of what are you up to/where are you living/that's a nice plasma TV. It should not consist of the following. I wish I could remember what we were talking about, but it was literally something as innocuous as pen caps, and then:

Him: You know what I don't get?
Me: What? [Thinking he's about to make a brilliant pen cap observation.]
Him: I don't understand why you'd act interested when you're not interested.
Me: What?
Him: Why you'd act interested when you're not interested. [Did he really think my "what?" meant "please repeat yourself, I didn't hear you"?]
Me: Interested?
Him: Well, YEAH. [Said with total attitude, which is funny because whatever point he was trying to make was lost on me but he was apparently very convinced of its merit.]
Me: When? [Lest you think I conjured up this clever one-word response immediately, it was actually preceded by a few seconds of dumbfounded silence.]
Him: At College.
Me: WHAT?
Him: Yeah.

Oohhhh, and then it came right back to me: He's not just a Barely Friends Six Years Ago; I didn't like this guy at ALL.

Me: You're drunk.
Him: Maybe.
Me: Nice to talk to you again.

Let it never be said that I'm not polite.

bring on the Power Point...and pig blood

Work has been giving me way too much Tent fodder lately. So I get in today and there's a flyer in my mailbox about an upcoming workshop. It sounds interesting...and then I read on to find out that it's being presented by me. It was the first I'd heard about it. There was even an outline of the agenda!

The best part is that there's a workshop the week before to talk about effective communication amongst the staff. Oh, the sweet, sweet irony of it all.

Also? A guy I don't know asked me today how many times I've been told that I look like Sissy Spacek. Um, NONE? And thank you, total stranger, for likening me to the demonic girl who scared me almost to tears when she stood on that stage covered in blood, whipping her head around with her eyes all wide and crazy, locking doors and starting fires with her mind. That's GREAT.

best wishes for continued success, fuckers

One of the reasons I left the corporate world was... well, okay, to be able to wear yoga pants to work. But the other reason was to escape words like "open dialogue," "implemented," and "logistics," all of which were penned by ME in an e-mail to some of my colleagues tonight, without a hint of irony. Why can't I escape this business-ese? Let's pow-wow and discuss...do you have a 1:00?

learning to love yourself... it is the greatest love of all

So, okay, I'm a little twisted. There's a place in my heart for bad music. Terrible music, really. And it's that age-old question of: am I making fun of it or do I really and truly like it? Did it begin with the former and slowly become the latter? The world may never know.

Are you wondering how bad we're talking here? Think of a bad song. A really bad one. No, Peter Cetera isn't bad enough. That's amateurish and you can do better. Got one? Okay, I've got that one on the iPod and worse. Way worse. AND I know them all by heart. What's up, Air Supply?

Are you about ready to tear me to shreds, you hipster? Well, I defy you to sing along to something on the freakin' Garden State soundtrack when you're road-tripping to Maine in the rain to see Dane (Cook) with your friends. No, you need "More Than a Feeling" and maybe a little Jovi. You might need a little Scorpions as well, but you might not admit to that after the fact. That might be something that remains a vehicular secret. Hey, you can have your weekend your way, and I'll have mine my way.

Anyway. So, you know my work involves the vague performance of non-specific tasks in the field of the education of the young amongst us. It's always nice when you can mix two of your passions... your work and your love for crappy music. And what better way to do this than to bring "Greatest Love of All" by Whitney Houston into the mix. Because I'm sure you believe, like I do, that the children are the future. (And the fact that this is even something that you can choose to believe or not believe is sort of funny; they may be snorting Playdoh now, but like it or not, today's five-year-olds are, indeed, the future.)

You know this song because it was on that tape with all the other songs you made up dances to with your friends when you were nine, or you know it because your sister or neighbor and her friends made up dances to it. This song is great for several reasons. One is that it's just total drama rock, God love it. Another reason is that it's apparently the product of two half-songs that accidentally got recorded as one. Whitney starts out all like, "Kids are important! Give them pride!" and then without warning launches into, "Don't you take my dignity. I love myself. It's all right here in me." Um, I thought we were talking about kids, but okay. And then? THEN?

She sings the song again. The song consists of her singing the same song twice. The actual song is, what, 58 seconds long? And then she sings it AGAIN. Why is this acceptable? If I'm at work giving a presentation and I run out of shit to say, do I just start over, verbatim, shushing everyone who tries to say, "Red, you just told us all of this two minutes ago"? No, I don't. And I bet you don't either. And yet we let this crack-addicted pop star get all repetitive on us. Unfair.

So, basically, what I'm saying is that anyway you slice it, THIS IS A GREAT SONG. And I've had a running contest with three people that I work with and the rules are as follows: You have to work one of the lyrics from this song into an otherwise serious conversation. The person on the receiving end of the lyrics has to not pick up on this and respond to your lyrical plagiarism as though it's your actual thoughts. It's harder than you'd think, which explains why it's been going on for awhile and why I personally thought there could never be a real winner. Witness a couple of failed attempts over the past year:

Me: ...and I told Parent how funny Her Kid is...
Brian: Right... children's laughter can remind us how we used to be.
Me: Nice try.

Lauren: ...and it's just that everybody's searching for a hero, and people need someone to look up to.
Kevin: Have you never found anyone to fulfill your needs?
Lauren: Damn it.

And then this week, after a particularly brutal meeting, Kevin is seething over a lawyer's (unjustified and pointless) dismemberment of his credentials. He's complaining to me and the others. We listen, wide-eyed, supportive. Then I take a shot that I'm sure won't work: "Well, you know, no matter what they take from you, they can't take away your dignity."

He responds: "I know, it's like..."

Oh, shit. All of us around the table immediately launch into what can only be described as SHRIEKING. I won! I won the Whitney Houston battle of the wits! And WHO ELSE is more deserving, I ask you?

cutting to the chase

Pondering the Amazing Race lately has got me thinking about these kind of shows in general. The reality genre is pretty tired, obviously, but it still amazes me that ANYONE on ANY of these shows gives a freakin' crap about anyone else on the show. Isn't the point to win the money or the job or a pretty, pretty pony or something like that? And isn't it like, what, a month of this manufactured reality and then you're back to your actual life? Why does anyone obsess over a perfect stranger's idiosyncracies and try to deconstruct their issues and get to the bottom of why they wander the streets at night shouting obscenities at parking meters? Who freakin' CARES? Maybe I wouldn't make such a great contestant on one of those shows because I just couldn't engage in that shit. I have enough crazy in my life from the people I love, let alone people I don't even know. People on these shows are pretty quick to get into screaming matches with other people, without stopping to think that it DOESN'T EVEN FREAKIN' MATTER. If Nancy and Bugaboo on the other team think that I'm [insert adjective here], I believe the correct reaction is a look of incredulity that they've even presumed to make eye contact, accompanied by of the following responses:

Why are you here?
Why are you talking?
Why do you exist?
Zip it, Brer Rabbit.

New Englanders having a conversation about lobster... what's next, the Kennedys?

Dear Red,

Do you just go around begging people to take the lobster out of the shell for you?

Hoodlum Waiter

***

Dear HW,

Yes.

Red

***

Red,

LAZY.

HW

***

HW,

I just consulted the Dirty Dancing website, and it says you're to be well-trained and smartly uniformed. It said nothing about belligerent.

Red

***

Red,

I think it also says that the guests are required to dress appropriately. You might want to think about that next year, before you pack.

HW

***

OH, IT'S ON, BITCH!

***

Bring it, Princess!

"ooh, careful, Red's getting emotional"

I cried at work today. Yeah, I did.

I don't cry that often, but I do cry easily. I cry if someone around me is crying. Happy tears, sad tears, it doesn't matter, I'm right there with you. If you're my friend and you start crying, my reaction crying time is like 1.6 seconds; for strangers, it's more like 2.8. I also cry when someone is mean to me. There, I said it. I don't have much in the way of a tough outer shell. Sometimes that's good, and sometimes it's to my detriment. You push me out of the sandbox, and I'm not in your face wagging my finger like a reality show diva...you're just gonna see some tears, plain and simple.

I happened to be in meetings all day that were pretty tense...lots of emotions and issues and messiness. (Not to mention the fact that I'm not supposed to even be in meetings on Thursdays, but the woman who does my schedule completely disregarded this and booked me all day and then I had to cancel all the kids I should have seen today. Boo.)

Everything went mostly fine except for one bullet at the end of the last meeting. I was on my way out and could FEEL the tears coming. So I turned and went up the stairs to go back to my office, hoping that Supergirl wouldn't be there. She wasn't, but the psychologist was, leaving me a note. How perfect was that? She deals with crazy people all day long. It went a little something like this:

Her: Red, I...are you okay?
Me: Hi! Yes.
Her: What's wrong?
Me: Well...[cries]

So that went on for about fifteen seconds but she didn't bat an eye and immediately made me feel better. I guess I'm going to have to work on upgrading my candy coating to a suit of armor. So start insulting me and throwing stuff. Really, it'll be character building.

ten years post Rydell High

Considering my recent forays into the past (because college was clearly the dark ages), you wouldn't think my upcoming ten year high school reunion would freak me out at all. And it doesn't, for the most part...it's just strange. If you had asked me at 17 who I thought I'd be at 28, I would've thought I'd be a completely different person. Not that I really wanted to be, it's just that at that age, ten years is such an unfathomable amount of time that I couldn't imagine who I might end up being on the other side of it. And I suppose I'm pretty much who I thought I'd be: I went to school, found my way to meaningful work, try to pay the bills on time, held onto some good friends and found some new ones, thought about getting married but didn't, basically got a life (instead of a so-called life...and let the mid-90s references begin!).

My five year reunion was pretty anti-climatic. All the guys were investment bankers and all the girls were in marketing. Actually, it's funny how some stuff comes rushing back to you when you see someone that you literally haven't thought of since the last time you laid eyes on them, probably at some bonfire during senior week. There's this kid Paul that lived next door to my friend Katie, and we spent all of elementary school and junior high terrorizing each other. I slept over Katie's house all the time, and he and his friend Brian would sneak over and throw stuff at the windows or make weird noises outside and then, for whatever reason, it was ON. They'd chase us around the yard and I don't even know what the goal was, because one time one of them tackled me but then neither of us were sure what to do next, so we just got up and kept running. I remember Paul's most ingenious hiding place was taking a huge branch from the woods behind the house and impersonating a tree. Anyway, we saw each other at our five year reunion and went, "Oh, my God! Barnyard Commandos!" Because that was, um, what we called ourselves. There was this kid Scott who told me that whenever our teachers read examples of good writing aloud, it was always something that he or I had written, and apparently he felt like he was always vying with me to be the best writer. (Maybe he could start The Sticky Bun Tent and we could have a blog-off.) And then there was Billy MySameLastName; we discussed the pain of separation after being next to each other for every alphabetically-ordered event throughout twelve years of school. There are so many random people that you feel like don't even exist outside of the one tiny memory you have of them...how can Barnyard Commando be a corporate lawyer?

And I'm happy to have an excuse to see my high school friends, because no matter how long I go without seeing them, hanging out with them again is always like no time has passed. I guess it's just like that with people that you've known for so long and spent so much time with. They're not a part of my everyday life anymore, but I'm excited to have a built-in reason for us all to go out together again.

I guess it's on my brain today because I just got this email from Peter:

...Anyway, so apparently if we want to go, we have to send So-and-So our $35 by October 15th. Which isn't that far away. I want to go, but it won't be any fun if you guys aren't there too, so i just want to see if you have your outfit picked out yet and have marked off your calendar. I mean, i'm sure there's no way you would miss it, but if you're even considering that, please let me know ASAP. We can have a pre-party/drinkup somewhere to help numb ourselves in preparation...

And, of course, the big question: Will I finally find out if the ex-boyfriend ever got the sex change? Haven't I waited long enough?

pettiness brings me great joy

So there's this annoying girl with an annoying blog. Apparently she's sort of famous. If the world of blogs were high school, she'd be the class president and I'd be outside on the jungle gym smoking Marlboro Lights and possibly wearing smudged eyeliner. In other words, it's my duty to mock her and point out that she writes the most contrived, patronizing shit I've ever read. I don't fault her for being serious sometimes, but she writes about her life with a somberness of Tori Amos proportions. She always has 47 comments tearfully praising her supposed eloquence. So here's my tribute to her. It'd be funnier if you knew who I was writing about, but you'll just have to take my word on it. Besides, her drama club friends would totally kick my ass.

The laminator jammed today. I had put together a nice little autumn activity for my students: pumpkins, apples, red and yellow leaves, assembled with love and rubber cement, edges trimmed just so. The laminator didn't do the right thing. Instead of coating my work with a transparent seal, it choked and swallowed and spit it out. I unplugged it and that was that.

It made me think of you. You, who always wanted everything just so. I wanted to be perfect for you. I tried to keep everything smooth, creaseless. Edges trimmed just so. But it was just a glossy version of myself, a Kodak. Maybe I wasn't doing the right thing by deceiving you, by not being transparent. I think of you when nothing around me is perfect and I just want to pull the plug. You and the surfaces we were never able to smooth over.

"And I Was Like, Huh?" and other insights from the dorm

Where were YOU eight years ago today?

10/3/97
So I'm officially twenty. I'm so old. The Bride, Googleable Name, Josh and Girl with Bunny took me out to dinner and it was so fun and they gave me presents and we took pictures and then we came back here. And then we went out on the balcony and these three guys came out and one of them was a sophomore and two of them were friends of his who didn't go here so they hung out with us for a bit and one of them started telling me that Jim Morrison walked on a balcony once and he wasn't scared at all but he scared everyone around him real bad because I guess they thought he was going to fall. And I listened but I was sort of like, huh? And then I gave Josh some of the candy my parents sent me and he accidentally threw his keys off the balcony so we went down and looked for them and that was pretty much a buzzkill.

baseball or physics?

Anyone who knows me knows that I inherited my love of baseball from my dad. But much to his dismay, I did not inherit his love for the Yankees, and instead chose to go toward the light. So...this is a big weekend. And this is his explanation of it all, which made my brain hurt:

If the Yankees and Red Sox end up tied, the Yankees win the division, because they will have won the season series 10-9.

The only way there is a Yankee-Red Sox playoff game Monday is if the Yankees, Red Sox, and the Indians are all tied. That can only happen if the Red Sox and Yankees split the final two games, and the Indians win their last two games.

so....

If the Red Sox win Saturday AND Sunday, they win.
If the Yankees win Saturday OR Sunday, they win.

The only exception is if the Red Sox and Yankees each win 1, and Cleveland wins 2, leading to a Red Sox-Yankee playoff Monday.

his boy Elroy

Condo meeting the other night. There should've been a two drink minimum. I hadn't met the guy who was hosting before, but I'm always curious to see the other apartments in the complex because we all have the exact same layout. Keep this in mind when I tell you that Mr. Silk Shirt and Jeans took me on a tour of his place and proceeded to trash everything that was there originally: He got rid of the "God awful" bleached hardwood floor, which is still all over my downstairs. He gutted the "terrible" kitchen; I've done no such gutting. He got rid of "that horrible thing" in the doorway between the kitchen and living room; I affectionately refer to my odd countertop extension as the peninsula. But he was kind of one of those people who thinks they've made the place hip and modern, but it's really just a robot maid away from being the Jetson house. Clusters of tiny silver lights suspended from the ceiling by thread-like wires that look like they belong on the inside of a control panel sure say home to me, after all. Then he moved onto the artwork.

"These are all original Bowies," he said, with that mixture of casualness and pride that only a guy in a silk shirt and jeans can muster.

Bowies? I'm probably going to regret this coming out of my mouth, but, "David?"

Turns out, I'm right. Then he points to a ginormous one over the fireplace, all bright red except for a big blue-green circle in the middle. "That one, too. That's his eyeball."

I tried to smile. Of course it's not a Monet or a picture of little girls running through a field of wheat. No, it's David Bowie's eyeball enlarged 10,000 times, because I live in a freakin' funhouse.

it's okay to hate a toddler, right?

My new neighbors apparently have 37 kids. The mom warned me when they were moving in: "We REALLY have kids." I wasn't sure how to interpret this. Was she thinking I wouldn't believe her? Have there been incidents of her fabricating offspring in the past? Apparently she was just trying to tell me that they're kind of loud. They do run around like lunatics, but I'm used to being around kids so it doesn't faze me. No, it's other things that faze me and make me quiver with hate. So I'm about to drive off and their youngest, she's probably barely three, was rolling around on the trunk of their car like she's Daisy Duke. In an effort to be able to see where she is and thus not run her over, I said to her, "Sweetie, I'm going to pull out, so can you go stand on the grass for a minute?" She looks at me and replies, "No, because this is my car." My thoughts went like this: 1) That was a good sentence for a three-year-old. 2) What an uppity bitch. 3) You can't think a three-year-old is an uppity bitch. 4) Seriously though, what an obnoxious little tatertot.

So, we'll see how the newbies work out. As long as they don't walk up to my open window and start randomly talking to me, like some other neighborhood gems, then we're good.

lost and found

You're all going to be really proud. Actually, you probably won't care. Ha, either way, you're reading this so you're mine and it doesn't matter if you care or not. What was Steve's line in his first and only blog entry? "Right now I own you because I'm doing the thinking for you"? Yeah, something like that. His delivery was better, I'm sure. Dating him was the only time I've ever had to play the straight man.

Anyway, I finally have a TV show that I'm going to watch every week! I made the strategic decision to become a fan of Lost. Conveniently, before the second season premiere tonight they had an hour long recap of the first season. It was actually the perfect way to watch a suspenseful show, because it was all the good stuff cut together, and when something happened they'd explain it all immediately, but if I'd watched the whole season it would've taken weeks to get all the answers.

Actually, maybe I'll just wait and watch the second season recap in a year before the third season premiere. Hmmm.

I also watched The Office and liked that, too! It's an exciting new TV world for me! It's motivating me to get DVR already. (Or is it a DVR? Subscribe to DVR? I don't even know. I feel like my mom when she calls her portable music device her "pod.")

Except once again customer service monkeys stand between me and technology. I had to get a new modem over the weekend because my old one died and when I called Comcast to hook me back up and I asked the guy about DVR, he very snootily replied that he works for the COMPUTER division of Comcast and that every customer service person couldn't possibly know EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING. Jeez, apparently.

And then I said, "Well, I didn't mean to IMPLY that you should..." at which point my dad, who was under my computer desk installing the modem, looked up at me in disbelief as if to say, "Are you seriously fighting with the Comcast guy that you JUST got on the phone with?"

Anyway, Lost is scary. I don't usually like things that are scary, creepy, whatever. I don't like those ads for that new show about aliens: "Mommy, you smell different." UGH! That's because she's a fucking ALIEN DEMON BEAST WOMAN who is going to suck your brain out through a straw and then the forensics team will come in and take pictures and shake their heads and go back to headquarters and look at the cells under microscopes which they somehow can see perfectly even though all their offices are practically pitch black in order to create a more intense lighting environment for dramatic reaction shots!

OK, so clearly Jen has made me watch CSI a few times lately, and I HATE THAT SHOW. This is how she ropes me in: "...and we can cook dinner and make that CD and watch CSI and have ice cream and you're pretty." OK, not a direct quote, but you get the jist. Mind tricks, people. And then just plain bullying: She puts it on and goes, "Oh, we don't have to watch it if you don't have to," so I reach over and change the channel. Then she changes it back. Then I change it. Then I cry a little because I know she could beat me up. She's been working out a lot lately.

Anyway, after one episode of CSI I had a dream that I killed a bunch of people and someone else was blamed for it and I went to look at real estate, and while I was walking through this empty house with Jennifer Love Hewitt, I realized that I was going to have to turn myself in and how much that was going to suck. Does this suggest something disturbing about me? I mean, beyond the dream acquaintance with the Party of Five she-devil.

on People Who Respond to the Question "How Are You?" Literally

I'm a pretty freakin' nice person. I'm not one of those big-eyed, big-toothed, salesperson types who offers a chirpy "How ARE you?" that sounds like it should be served on top of waffles when they really mean, "I happen to be walking by you and can't very well just IGNORE you, can I?"

No, I'm pretty freakin' sincere. Right? I care. If you're my friend, and you call me and I say, "how are you?", I want to know. If you're a friend of a friend that I met once at some random place and I thought your name started with a P instead of a B, and you call me and I say, "how are you?", I want to know. If you're reading my blog, and you somehow get my number and you call me and I say, "how are you?", I'm simultaneously calling the police on my cell, but that's beside the point.

But there are times when "how are you?" does not warrant much of a response. When you're at work and you're walking by a colleague and you say, "Hi John, how are you?" The correct response is any of the following:

"Good, Red, how are you?"
"Good thanks, and you?"
"Fine, you?"
"Doing OK, thanks."

The correct response does NOT begin with "well..." It especially does NOT begin with a big sigh and then a "well..." It also does not begin with "actually...," "let's put it this way...," or "to be honest..."

You get my point. But there's a guy at the Place I Work who does not understand the rules. The first time I experienced his rambling and apparent lack of social cues, it was only the second time I ever met him. We were passing briefly in the hall and I quickly said, "Hi, What's-His-Name, how are you?" The encounter lasted just long enough for a "good," "fine," or an "OK." Maybe even an opportunity for him to inquire the same of me and for me to reply quickly. But no. I got the "well..." And not just the "well," but the "well, Red..." He welled me AND named me, and I immediately knew I was in it for the long haul.

You can imagine my horror when he walked into my office the other day and started talking. What the hell could I do? I could've been stuck there all day. I wished for Supergirl to breeze in, thinking the two of them might be a match made in heaven: He loves to talk, and she LOVES EVERYTHING! What could be better?

But no, I was alone. For the most part, if you wander into my office and I'm not busy and your overall presence doesn't make me want to die, I'm all for seeing you. But it's just not that simple with this guy. So eventually I did that mostly-stare-at-my-laptop-screen-and-say-"uh-huh"-a-lot until he went away. Yes, it's shitty. But what can you do? I hate ramblers, especially when they make you feel like you don't even need to be there. They just want to talk, and talking to oneself is still considered socially unacceptable in most circles. I'm casting my vote for making it A-OK, if only to help unload people like this from my life.

life lessons from driver's ed

It was a combination of Clerks ("I'm not even supposed to be here today!") and The Breakfast Club ("You just bought yourself another Saturday! Instead of coming to prison, you'll come here!"). It was a preview of my life if I don't change my hoodlum, law-breaking, illegal U-turning ways. It was eight and a half hours of sitting at a table in a small room on a beautiful day, filling out endless reproachful questionnaires intended to determine why I'm such a leech on civilized society. I will now be driving like a little old lady for the rest of my life.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

to sum(mer) up

Ugh, I hate puns. Why did I just do that? There's nothing less funny than puns, is there? Same goes for and-THEN-I-accidentally-said-the-wrong-thing stories. I was at a wedding this summer where we got talking about waitressing and this crazy-looking girl started telling this story about how one time she was telling the specials to an old couple and instead of saying scrod, she said scrotum. Har har. It's like Everybody Loves Raymond humor. And who says the word scrotum, anyway? How does that slip out?

Um...anyway. So, I'm ready for fall. As soon as school starts back up, I'm ready for long sleeves and sleeping with the windows open. As soon as Bath and Body Works is ready with their fall candles, I'm ready too. So in an effort to hurry things along (pumpkins! foliage! cider!), here's What I Did on My Summer Vacation (imagine it written in second-grader scrawl):

- Spent LOTS of time on the Cape: 4th of July with the family, where I watched my cousins ingest a lot of meat and women; a fun waffle cone weekend with Melissa and Joe; and several days of parasite recovery, during which I lost weight but not my mojo.

- Spent my usual week at Dirty Dancing. Dealt with Hoodlum Waiter's friend who climbed on top of a gazebo and wouldn't come down and gave the event its own theme song by whispering the lyrics to "Such Great Heights," which was actually a little creepy, now that I think about it.

- Saw the following movies: Wedding Crashers, Must Love Dogs, 13 Going on 30, and Under the Tuscan Sun. I know, how girly of me. I loved them all. I saw Wedding Crashers twice because it was freakin' hilarious. ("Yeah, it could've been the soft mattress. Or the midnight rape.")

- Survived several weddings, including the Bride's. Attempted to squelch panic at the fact that my Safety Friend is now married. But lost any remaining respect for her when, while discussing Connecticut's upcoming wedding, she said, "I mean, I don't want HER to wear a strapless dress because I wore a strapless dress, you know?"

- Went to Mexico with Jenico. Pantalones optional, mojitos required.

- Pulled off Jen's surprise birthday party, with out-of-state guests to boot!

- Started planning the parents' 30th anniversary party with Dorie, who talks like this: "Yeah, I totally think that...RYAN, THAT WAS A VERY BAD THING YOU JUST DID! GO SIT ON THE STAIRS!...think that it's a great idea if we..."

- Went to lots of Sox games...and we have one more tonight (which we are going into four games up from the Yankees...and my dad text-messaged me "CU 2nite @ 6" which scared me until he told me that he has a program that turns his English into teenager IM-speak) and one more in October...the last one of the regular season, and against GUESS WHO!

- Mourned the trade of Swing and a Miss Bellhorn. Just kidding! Have fun with him, New York!

- Made more Yankees jabs in one blog entry than in the past year.

- Read some good books.

- Cut my HAIR. Phew.

And here's my summery playlist:

Magic - Cars
Steppin' Out - Joe Jackson
Love Will Come Through - Travis
You're Beautiful - James Blunt
Hot Child in the City - Bay City Rollers
Everybody's Changing - Keane
Electrical Storm - U2
Sparks - Coldplay
Love You Madly - Cake
The One I Love - David Gray
Brighter than Sunshine - Aqualung

Considering I'm kicking off fall at Bad Driver School, this season will have to work pretty hard to live up to the summer. Get your ass in gear, autumn.

for better or for worse

Every so often I find myself as a date at a wedding where I don't know anyone. It's sort of entertaining to be a fly on the wall of other people's lives. Look, there are people you never would've met, who have their own friends and spouses and parents and jokes! It's like a TV show because everyone is a character: Mother of the Bride in the Glittery Pants Suit, Grandfather of the Groom Who Makes a Vaguely Incoherent but Touching Speech About How the Bride and Groom Have Been Given a Garden of Eden.

Mark's friend, the groom, is a guy who I sorta-kinda knew in college. He used to date a girl who lived on my floor and I'd had a few conversations with him over the years. If I'd ever run into him at a reunion or a bar or something, we would've had the "Oh, yeah! How are you?" moment and then after the job-marriage-where-are-you-living-now catch-up game, would've promptly forgotten the other one existed. Very nice guy, but you know how it is with Totally Random Acquaintances. I never imagined I'd see this Totally Random Acquaintance almost shaking with emotion as he kissed his new wife during their first dance; I found myself wishing I'd at least had lunch with the guy a few times before I was allowed to witness such an intimate moment.

(And more hazards of attending a life event of a Totally Random Acquaintance: About a week ago, I said to Mark, "So how long have Groom and Liz been dating now, anyway?" He said, "Liz? You mean Sarah?" Oh, God. "Who's Sarah?" "The BRIDE." "Oh. He's not marrying Liz So-and-so?" "Um, NO, they broke up in college." "Oh." Silence. "Well, I'm sure he and Sarah will be really happy together.")

We were seated at one of the college tables. We realized we were old when they took the alumni picture for the quarterly (third time this summer I've posed for the quarterly picture) and realized we were the oldest alumni there. Neither of us had had that experience before—there's always someone there who's a little older and drunker and bitter about life to make you feel young and vibrant and sober. And we weren't older by decades or anything, thankfully—Mark is 29 and I'm 27 (fine, I'll be 28 in less than a month), and these guys were in their early 20s. But it does make a difference.

One girl at the table had just turned 23 and her boyfriend Steve was the best man. (It occurred to me that I was also at a summer wedding when I was 23 and my boyfriend Steve was the best man, but that's really neither here nor there.) I was telling her that her boyfriend seemed really nice and did a great job with his speech (having been her, I know she'd heard him practice it 1,000 times), and she started telling me about how his ex-girlfriend used to be her friend but now they don't speak because when she asked her if it was okay if she went out with him, her friend was like OK but then just dropped out of her life and then she put this away message up on IM, right? And then the girl totally IMed her because she thought they had broken up but they hadn't, but the other girl was only with him for ten months and this one had been with him for over a year so whatever, she already beat her.

"Yeah," Mark said. "A year is more than ten months. You totally win." God, does he sometimes just say stuff so that I can blog it later?

"Yeah, I win!" she reiterates triumphantly.

Maybe being the oldest ones at the college table isn't so bad after all.

could you walk a little faster, my GOD

I had a Tylenol PM dream last night that I was walking around Central Park and I kept getting into fights with these packs of girls. Then I realized that I was walking like I drive, cutting in front of them like a lunatic. Maybe that's what all Boston drivers should have to do...spend a day walking like they drive and see how well it works out. I think they even knocked me down at one point. Clearly, you don't want to mess with New York girls when you come from the land of wicked good chowda.

I think I won't be telling this story during share time at driver retraining school.

will this be on the test?

I got my driver's license right after I turned 17, and I had a perfect driving record for the next eight years. I got hit a couple times but neither one was my fault, and both times the insurance company paid for the rental that I had to drive while my car was being fixed. Then in grad school I did the white-knuckled drive during a snowstorm to class one night. I made it to the parking lot and as I pulled into a space, I scraped against the car next to me (yes, ironic that I made it through the snow and then hit a car in the indoor parking lot). I got out and looked to see if there was damage. I didn't really see any but I left a note anyway, because it seemed like the right thing to do. The owner of the car called me; she turned out to be a professor, and she praised me up and down for leaving a note and told me that I restored her faith in humanity. Then she put in some ridiculous claim and my insurance went up. A lot. So much for being a nice person.

Okay, so there was that...technically an accident, but not REALLY. Then a few months after that, I got pulled over for the first time...no ticket. About a year later, I got pulled over again...my first ticket. Then came the day not long ago when I picked up sheet music for Mark and got pulled over for making an illegal U-turn AND got a fine for not having renewed my registration.

When it's all in one paragraph, maybe it starts to sound like a lot. But it's really not...it all took place over three years, following my aforementioned eight years of driving sainthood.

But guess what? Five offenses in three years apparently mean that you have to go to DRIVER RETRAINING SCHOOL. I kid you not. I got the notice when I got home from the Cape last week. And if I don't do it, they'll suspend my license. I'm sorry, WHAT? Isn't that more appropriate for...I don't know, NOT ME?

So today I called to sign up and pay my $100 for the honor and glory of spending eight hours on a Saturday learning how to signal and stop for pedestrians. I'm already picturing walking into the Welcome Back Kotter classroom and crying silently in the corner while the mean kids in the back throw stuff at me.

When the woman was done signing me up, she asked me if I had any questions, and just to further perpetuate my new role as a deadbeat, I asked if there was a test at the end. I'm imagining my learning permit test all over again. And my actual license test was really easy...the guy made me do a three-point turn and then asked where my dad and I were going for lunch. How many feet do you stay back from a school bus? And I still can't parallel park!

"There's a 10-question true or false test at the end," she told me.

True or false? How about, if I don't pass this test, I won't be able to drive to work and I'll lose my job: TRUE.

Dave reminded me today that I backed into his car once, after fully acknowleding that it was there and then promptly forgetting. (So much for driving sainthood, come to think of it.) He had a big dent the exact size and shape of my spare tire on his passenger door. Luckily he didn't sue me or anything, or else I would've had to go to driver retraining sleepaway camp or something.

short

In my effort to keep my blog semi-anonymous, I eventually took the advice to stop posting pictures of me or containing me (thank you, counsel). So you'll have to take my word on this: the hair is short now, people. I've participated in the wonderfulness that is Locks of Love a few times, but this time I had to go much shorter than normal in order to have the required ten inches. (Who gets to open all those envelopes containing severed ponytails, I wonder?) I've known my hairdresser since I was a kid, and she was sort of freaking out as she was cutting it. "Oh Red, this is SO SHORT. This is SO DIFFERENT for you." When your hairdresser is panicking, that's never a great sign. But it would've been pointless to cut off eight inches and have to waste it just so I could not look like a soccer mom for the next month, right?

So for now, the hair is above the shoulders. Well above it. My shoulders haven't been so visible to the world since I was born (or since the last time I wore my hair back, which was yesterday and every day before it, pretty much). But anyway. It's for a good cause, and my hair will grow back fast like the weed that it is. (Right?)

the vomit reference is important to the integrity of the story...not unlike Katie Holmes' nudity in "The Gift"

According to my doctor, I have a parasite. Mexico tried to kill me. "Their standards of cleanliness are different," he told me. "You just never know what you could be dealing with." Oh God, don't tell this to a girl who keeps a bottle of 409 in pretty much every room of her home, who was one of the first to start enthusiastically using "swif" as a real verb. Don't tell me anything else about how no one south of the border washes their hands, just tell me I'll feel better soon. Apparently my cheap vacation wanted me to pay a little more than I anticipated.

And, PARASITE? What a way to put it. Way more dramatic than FLU. Nothing like the threat of a little bodily invasion to make you want to drive off a cliff. Of course, it's provided me with hours of amusement, as I've been going around telling my loved ones, "Red's not here anymore...the parasite is here now" in my best Tony-from-The-Shining voice.

When the obvious was suggested to me (toast, tea, rice), I countered that I might as well just eat waffle cones all day because it doesn't matter, I'm just going to throw up anyway. Billy promptly asked me if I'd seen Starved, that new show on FX, that I might really like it. Point taken.

"Swear? Swear on our relationship?" and other reasons why I love Laguna Beach

I now wholeheartedly believe that everyone in America should have MTV cameras following them around during their senior year of high school, because it makes for FREAKIN' GREAT TELEVISION. There's this one girl? Who, like, doesn't totally trust her boyfriend? And so she asks him pretty much every day if he's lying to her about something? "Are you lying?" No. "Swear?" Yes. "Swear on our relationship?" Yes. This is officially my new way of asking questions of my friends.

Now, think about it...if there'd been a camera following you and YOUR friends during your senior year of high school, they would've gotten some pretty good stuff. I'd get into it, but I'm a little high schooled out from my playlist entry from last week. Okay, fine, I've already walked into it...

So you have a crush on your best friend's boyfriend, well actually, you've had a bit of a crush on him from the time he moved to town in eighth grade and he walked into your science class and Mr. Martinson put him in your lab group and that night you wrote in your diary, "I have a crush on the new boy. He's from Buffalo." OK but now you're back in high school and your best friend is dating him. So best friend decides she hates all of you preppy assholes and wants to work at a ghetto fabric store in the next town with high school dropouts, and you try to sympathize with her working class aspirations but of course it's just pushing you and her alienated boyfriend closer together, so you both listen to too much appropriately gut-wrenching music in your bedrooms and you didn't so much as hug him until after best friend broke up with him but she accused you of sleeping with him even though you wouldn't do that until much later, and then she said she was a lesbian even though right after that she started dating that kid Eric. Meanwhile there's all your wacky friends like Rob who lives around the corner and makes you laugh until you can't breathe and he's got a thing for Alison who follows Phish around and smokes up almost every day in her bedroom because her mom doesn't have a sense of smell. And there's Kevin who makes extra money working at the supermarket and lies around with you contemplating relationships and he says he'll never, ever, ever understand what girls want and he's probably married with four kids now. And there's Katie who is dealing with a stalker ex-boyfriend who wrote "my love for you always and forever is as deep as the deep blue sea" or some such shit in his senior quote and now he won't leave her alone. And there's Tara who walks that very thin line between being delightfully candid and totally pretentious and then Jane Pratt writes a book about her.

I'm sure your senior year story reads with different names and only slightly different scenarios. Come on, that's good TV, right?

Swear? Swear on our relationship?

Plate-o

So I get down the Cape and notice that, in the dining room, there's a plate sitting in one of those plate display holders, because apparently when you hit a certain age you decide plates are worth displaying. Then I look closer and see that it's a dinner plate from Dirty Dancing.

Me: Mom, why do you have a plate from Dirty Dancing?
Mom: What? Oh.
Me: Do they sell these?
Mom: [pause] Well, no.
Me: Why do you have it?
Mom: [You really have to know my mom to appreciate this next part.] Well, you know, Red...sometimes you just pick things up along the way in life.
Me: Thank you, Plato. Did you steal a plate from Dirty Dancing?
Mom: No! Well, not exactly.
Me: You stole a plate!
Mom: You see, what happened is that Hoodlum Waiter...
Me: Oh dear God. [Hoodlum Waiter is a friend from Dirty Dancing with whom I have playdates while I'm there, but he also has this weird bond with my mom.] You realize that no good can come from a story that starts with, "what happened is that Hoodlum Waiter..."
Mom: That's true. But he knew I always really liked those plates...
Me: Mom!
Mom: I thought he told you we did it!
Me: I thought you guys were KIDDING.
Mom: No.
Me: You stole a plate from a restaurant, basically.
Mom: Yup.
Me: How did you get it out of the dining room?
Mom: It wasn't easy! But Hoodlum Waiter wrapped it...
Me: Oh dear GOD.
Mom: Yeah, you can pretty much figure out the rest.

what made me laugh all weekend

Me: I just remember the feeling of UTTER JOY when you'd open a present you really, really wanted when you were a kid.
Mark: Yeah, totally.
Me: Like when I'd open a new Cabbage Patch Kid, I would almost start crying.
Mark: That's nothing. When I was eight my parents gave me the Star Wars Dagobah playset and I was so excited that I passed out.