Random Halloween Memories

Being a redhead growing up in the 80s, I kept hearing that I should dress up as Pebbles Flinstone, so one Halloween I made it happen. I got all prehistoric and even glued a plastic bone to a hair clip. My hair defied gravity. And the only reaction I remember is a woman who looked at me and said, "Oh! You're a... cavewoman!"

I always forgot to ask for pennies to fill the Unicef box they handed out to us at school and I always got lectured the next day. What can I say, teach, I had candy on the brain, and let's face it, Ethiopian kids are probably getting used to not eating.

My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Redfern, played the movie Watcher in the Woods for the class on Halloween. Since it was put out by Disney, I'm sure she assumed it was harmless enough. Almost twenty years later, I'm still a little traumatized by it. It's the scariest movie I've ever seen, and I didn't even see the whole thing. She ended up having to turn it off halfway through because everyone got so upset. When I was in college, I told my friends this story and they insisted we rent it on Halloween. Even I assumed it would be more funny than scary, but that was not the case. Only a few were able to make it all the way through, and I wasn't one of them.

One time at a Halloween party I ended up hooking up with my friend's brother. In my defense, he was dressed as He-Man.

I only went to Salem on Halloween once, in college. I dressed up as a witch; I'm nothing if not creative. 98 Degrees was playing on a little stage. They were a new band and hadn't yet made the lasting impression on the landscape of pop music that they have today. (Give me just one night! Una noche!) They were trying to engage a mostly bored audience, and Drew Lachey asked me if I was a good bad witch or a bad bad witch. I wanted to play along, but it was such a weird question that I could only say, "What?" If only I had a time machine and could take advantage of my proximity to Nick Lachey that night, and tell him that I'm from the future and that he must not marry Jessica Simpson. Or waste another day trapped in the shadow of his mistakes.

In my early 20s I went to a friend's party dressed as an angel, and later on left my halo in the backseat of a cab. Doesn't that sound like a Bob Dylan lyric?

Also, my parents didn't start handing out full-size candy bars until after I didn't live with them anymore. What the hell?

Boo

The last load is in the dishwasher, I've washed off all the purple hair dye and glitter, and I'm grateful for the extra hour of sleep that I'll get tonight. The Halloween party was lots of fun, if I may say so myself... lit only by candles, a glow stick centerpiece, creepy music, and haunted house upstairs with elaborate plot lines and horror movie sequel quality acting. The final headcount was eighteen, which I think hit that middle ground between mellow and rowdy. But of course it's easy to have fun when you have the coolest friends ever. Every time I turned around, somebody was telling me how great somebody else was.

Greatest hits: Carly Flav wore a clock with her face on it and Joe came as Father Time, reminding us to turn our clocks back. I guess those two were just in the right place at the right... I mean, they were really in the nick of... all right, I'll let that one go. Melissa kept cracking me up with her editorial comments as I was trying to be the creepy haunted house tour guide, Kate dressed up as Angelina Jolie complete with huge wax lips and multicultural children, despite Kevin's claims that he came as Enthusiastic Vacation Guy I still maintain that he was striving to be Crazy Neighbor (minus the crazy, of course), Steve brought back the infamous Mad Hatter costume from Halloween shindigs of yesteryear, and Dave selflessly bartended all night long. Vying for most brilliant party foul of all time, Keith fell in a bush right before he was about to walk over and say hello to a friend he hadn't seen in years. And on the Tent-centric front, Party Jen told me that she met someone and they asked, "Are you in the blog?" That's straight up PR, kids, and I'll take it.

There's probably more, but I'm tired. Yay sugar rush!

Here's To Two Years Ago Today

For awhile (86 years, to be exact), it wasn't looking good.









And then... and THEN...









Go ahead and say it, New Yorkers. I eat your hate like love.

The Best Laid Plans

Melissa, Carly and I made plans to meet for dinner last night. I got there early and went to the Walgreens next door to stock up on Halloween booty for this weekend: glow sticks, candy corn, dum dums, spider rings, gummy bats. You know, everything you might need for a gathering of children adults.

When I was paying for everything, the cashier asked me why I had nine glow sticks. "Oh, are they priced by the pair?" I asked. Nope, she was just curious. Turns out "grabbing a handful" was a foreign concept to her.

She also took a full minute to look through a circular and see if anything I was buying was discounted. Granted, it was nice of her, but sixty seconds is actually a long time to idly peruse coupons when you've got a line of people waiting. The guy behind me was just buying one thing and couldn't have been glaring at me any harder. I thought about throwing a quick apology at him, but he was sighing so dramatically that instead I left him to stew miserably in my peripheral vision.

I've been buying random crap very enthusiastically for my party gathering. Kate told me she picked up a few things too, one of which was fake cobwebs. I swear I could practically hear the collective intake of breath from everyone in the world who knows me. Fake cobwebs? In my home? To give the illusion of not having cleaned in months? Great! No, no, that's fine, really! I'll just pop a few Percocet and everything will be good.

Bad enough that I practically hit on my neighbor's cleaning people earlier today. They knocked on my door to ask where they should park. "Oh, that spot right there is fi...hey, is that a Dyson? What, um, what are you guys doing after this?"

Moment of silence for the Dyson. Steve dreams of the perfect Mustang, Elusive Jen dreams of the perfect Vera Wang dress, but I dream that someday that beautiful, complicated piece of machinery will be mine, all mine.

Anyway, where the hell was I? Right, meeting Melissa and Carly for dinner. So I walk next door to the restaurant, sit at the bar and order a glass of wine. You know you should've ordered beer when your options are either Kendall Jackson or the house chardonnay, but I digress.

The Globe is right there so I start reading it, which I never do now that I don't live with anyone who subscribes. I end up making my way through pretty much the entire thing: City & Region, Living Arts, Sports... although it did strike me that sitting alone at a bar reading the sports section felt a little bit like something a dating coach would tell you to do, along with drinking beer from the bottle and wearing a t-shirt that says "Not Really Looking For Anything Serious."

After awhile there were guys sitting on either side of me who were mildly entertaining. One of them used to own a bar in Palm Springs, and those spring breakers, man, they were crazy! "Did you ever go on spring break there?"

"No, I went to Florida."

"Key West?"

"Orlando." I'm not volunteering that it was Disney World. Let the world think I was a crazy partier in my day. Hey, we stayed off Disney property! If that's not living life, I don't know what is.

"Orlando! Well, it can get crazy there, too!"

I started to realize that it was closing on 45 minutes past when Melissa said she'd meet me, but I figured she got held up at work or in traffic or something. I debated calling, but then I thought, of course she knows she's running late, and does she need me to call her and clarify that point? So I called Carly, logically enough, even though she wasn't meeting up until later, but my call wouldn't go through because my reception was going in and out. Which of course meant that all my incoming calls were going straight to voice mail. I kept glancing over my shoulder to check out what I could see of the entrance area, but I didn't see anyone I knew.

I noticed that the guy on the other side of me was drinking vodka from a pint glass. I've seen strong drinks in my day, but what the hell? After a little bit more sparkling conversation, I happened to glance over my other shoulder. And saw Melissa and Carly sitting at a table.

I immediately said, "Oh my GOD." They didn't hear me, but vodka guy did and whipped around. Even though we hadn't discussed the fact that I was waiting for anyone, he immediately yelled, "THERE THEY ARE! HEY GUYS!" My poor friends, too used to random fools, stared wearily at him until they noticed me, at which point it all started to make sense. Melissa had been there for an hour, waiting for me in the entrance.

The funny thing is that when we had both arrived, it was early enough that the place was pretty empty and minimally staffed. I wonder if the host ever compared notes with the bartender: "Yeah, things are pretty slow. Just a girl sitting in the entrance waiting for her friend." "No kidding, I have a girl sitting at the bar waiting for a friend. Hey, what time's the game tonight?"

Oh, well. At least it gave both of us blog fodder.

City Slickers

I live in a condo that my dad owns. Trust me, I have my own demons about it. I'm quick to defer any compliments about my home by making it clear that I'm a good for nothing, freeloading daddy's girl slowly suffocating under the weight of my pathological Peter Pan syndrome. Can I get you a drink?

In all seriousness, I do have a certain amount of self-loathing about it. Actually, that's putting it too harshly, but it's definitely a topic over which someone could easily call me out and I'd just have to take it. No one in my life does that because, well, they're not evil bitches.

Having said all that, the place isn't swanky or anything. I like it a lot, but it's sort of delightfully tacky: I have a mirrored wall, lots of bleached hardwood, a "sunken" living room, and when I moved in, the downstairs bathroom was rocking the most garish, purple-blue-silver wallpaper you can imagine, which actually covered the back of the door. My friends called it the disco. And of course, this savory package comes with a family of 27 next door who are offended by the way I close windows, a little girl who tries to kill cats, and a pushing-50 whack job neighbor who stumbles over whenever I have friends over, and was best described, I think, by Melissa a few months ago:

We were well into our evening when Crazy Neighbor busted in all Kramer-like, sporting a trench over a blazer over a sweater topped by a neon orange baseball cap that said Jamaica on it. In his time with us, he wandered around marveling at the decor, recounted his dinner with a sketchy Sopranos-esque figure, told rambling tales about G. Gordon Liddy, reminded us several times that he oversees four mental health clinics and has 80 employees, tried to engage us in group therapy, told Red that each of us were people she would stay in touch with forever, and shared a green, leafy substance that turned my compatriots into zombies.

Anyway, I haven't changed much about the place (well, I got rid of that bathroom wallpaper). Of course, some of my neighbors have.

The other thing is that I live in a city that I couldn't afford to live in otherwise. I have to drive twenty minutes into another town to get to a grocery store that isn't Whole Foods. I like their sesame-crusted salmon and garlic green beans as much as the next person, but who can shop exclusively at a store that doesn't sell Diet Pepsi or Goldfish crackers? The first time Party Jen raided my cabinets for post-drinking snacks and found unsalted organic peanut butter ("and why is there LIQUID on top?") I knew I had gone too far and had to spend more time shopping at places that take coupons.

It's a tired, largely untrue stereotype that rich people are snobs... everywhere, that is, except for where I live. Of course, your paycheck-to-paycheck friend here can't count herself among their ranks, but I swear, it's a stereotype that most of these folks wear with pride. Or should I say a furrowed brow and a sigh over the fact that they have to push back their mani-pedi because the nanny is running late. I once watched a woman who probably lives in a three million dollar home berate a cashier at CVS because she couldn't give the woman the Globe at a discounted price despite the fact that it was missing some piddly style section that hadn't yet come out that day. Even the mall near me is kind of snooty and filled with 26-year-old stay-at-home moms lethargically pushing double strollers. The mall! Malls are supposed to be Gaps and Orange Juliuses! And I've told you about how out-of-control my gym is.

I'm not sure what it is. Maybe the proximity to Boston breeds young, new money families who aren't ready to forfeit their chicness and move to the suburbs, or commit to cranking it up a notch and take off for Manhattan. Instead of it keeping them young, there's something kind of sad about it... faded glory and whatnot. And as the least hip person on the planet, saying that I don't see eye to eye with many of those with whom I share a zip code is an understatement.

I'm not planning to move any time soon. I mentioned the free rent, right? But I will not ever, never, ever live here if I decide to raise children. And in case you're considering moving to the area and are interested in knowing where NOT to live, that'd be where I am, on the epicenter of aging, self-conscious hipsterdom. Excuse me while my four children and I push to the front of the line at Oishi (with a take-out container of edamame only). Hel-lo, we're running late for our 2:00 family hot stone massage.

Watch Out For That Dieing Gas

If you're looking for a spooky story to entertain your friends with this Halloween, I'm happy to share this gem that I wrote when I was eight.

One day in a town called Socksbury there lived 2 beautiful maidens but they were no more lucky then dirty pigs in fact a wicked wicth had put them under a spell it was every time they reached the age 16 they would go back to the age of 7 1/2! So one day the little maidens turned back to 7 1/2 so the wicth made sure they stayed 7 1/2 for the rest of her life the prettey children were then slaved starting at the crack a don and working to 5:30 in the morning then they always tried to kill the wicth but with her truly powerful powers they were forced out and very terrefid. So one day while maiden Jessica was ironing and maiden Elizabeth [editor's note: ha] was scrubbing the steps they decided to sneakout at night. Meanwhile, the wicth was very sick because maidens had put dieing gas on her favorite chair so every time she went to sit down she would get sicker. Finlay, the maiden sprayed it all over her bedroom, quickly they ran away. Suddenly, they bumped into the wicked wicth herself. Wacth your way you brats said the wicth. I am going to bed there is a list of chores to do in the darkness room. Yes Mrs. Wicth they said. Suddenly a loud shot came form the wicth she burst out of the room and ran after the girls. Run Jessica cried Elizabeth. I will! shouted Jessica. Run your fastest you fools I am turning you both to chopped liver! Hocass pocass and...whats the rest thought the wicth. You brats tell me or you shall die! I'd love to see you try to kill us shouted Jessica. Yes sighed Elizabeth. Now the wictch had it she flew after the children as they ran faster and faster as the wicth came closer. Soon the wicth found out those beautiful maidens were not her children they wanted parents of there own. Suddenly the wicth decided to be no longer cruel! Then a crash bang came to the wicth it was Elizabeth. Elizabeth had fell dead tears run down Jessica's checcks tears ran down the wicth's balck skin the instant the wicth's hand touched Elizabeth's the wicth turned into a pair of people! Elizabeth woke up in a second. Our parents! They got a great big kiss they had parents. The End

And on the next page:

My braclets

20 rubber braclets
1 yellow braclet
1 curly braclet
2 blue thicky braclets
1 white solid braclet
1 heart braclet
1 shiny one
18 pipe cleaner braclets

I'm not sure what's scarier: the wicth or an 8-year-old covered in pipe cleaners.

Call Me

Supergirl enjoys customized ringtones. My opinion on the subject is that they're a cute idea, I guess, but not really worth paying any amount of money for since most phones already come with perfectly fine, minimally obnoxious ringtones (luckily we've moved on from the days of that nightmarish Nokia ring that everyone seemed to have on full volume for years).

Incidentally, it's fun when you're in a meeting at work and some random person's phone goes off and it's Tone Loc or the Golden Girls theme song or "HOW DOES IT FEEL WHEN IT'S LOVE? IT'S JUST SOMETHING YOU FEEL TOGETHER." Don't you love that moment when they're trying frantically to shut it off, but first they have to take it out of their bag, so for a couple seconds it gets really loud? It kinda makes you want to break it down a little bit, doesn't it? Bring out the funk and then get back to work.

Yeah, so anyway, I can just look at my caller ID and see who it is; I don't really need a song to represent the person. Which is not to say that I don't enjoy the fact that when I call Dave he has inexplicably chosen to have his phone play Check On It by Beyonce, and when I call Party Jen hers plays a song called What Happens in Mexico Stays in Mexico.

Although, actually, it would be sort of fun to have the ringtone fit the person. Wow, I stick to my guns pretty well. "I oppose this practice! Well, actually, it sounds kinda cool."

I'd want the whistle solo in Wind of Change by the Scorpions to play when Joe calls, because I laughed for about a month when he told me about giving the cassette single to a summer camp crush, hoping she'd feel the monumental significance of the song as much as he did. I'd have to use the Ghostbusters theme for Dave because he looks like a Ray Stantz-era Dan Aykroyd. Seriously, give him a proton pack full of ecto-something or other and it'll be all you can do to not think about the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. You're Beautiful by James Blunt for Melissa because no one does a better impersonation of that asshat. I Don't Want to Wait by Paula Cole for Mark because I sing him that "doo-doo-doo-doo" part from the Dawson's Creek credits when he's being a drama king. Shoop by Salt N Pepa for Party Jen because she can sing every word to it, and also because I wanna thank her mother for a butt like that. Stars are Blind for Carly, anything by Aaron Carter for Kate, and that CSI song for restricted numbers: whooo are you, who, who? I could do this all day.

Me: What's your ringtone when Husband calls? Wicked Game? [They're notoriously lovey-dovey. She calls him her sweet baby. In public.]
Supergirl: It's Some Song by Some Band that's really significant for us because our wedding videographer filmed us walking out of the church and then on the video he had that song playing and it was the most beautiful moment and when we saw Some Band in concert I just bawled when they played that song so it's just really really special for us.
Me: That's a nice story. I wonder if I could find any Bel Biv DeVoe.

Non Sequiturs Abound

Blogs were invented for enhancing the public discourse, i.e. making exhaustive lists of the piddly things that irritate you, right? Of course, I'm far too sweet-natured and life-affirming for such negativity, so instead let's discuss Some Random Crap That's Currently Eating Away at the Fraying Fibers of my Rapidly Decaying Soul. I can feel that positive energy flowing already.

1. The driver who seems to end up in front of me every morning and appears to require an engraved invitation before she feels comfortable merging. To her, Route 9 is a black tie gala and she's hovering coyly on the sidelines waiting for one of the other motorists to ask her to dance. I can't think of any rational explanation for why a fully awake and cognitively intact human being would choose rush hour as the opportune time to sit and stare at the cars passing her by, when between each of them is a yawning black hole large enough to comfortably contain a medium-sized planet (what's up, Neptune).

2. The Pussycat Dolls. To be fair, I have a deep love for kitsch in all aspects of life, but that music is about as tacky as it gets. I'm not talking using the wrong fork and forgetting to send thank you notes tacky, more like not keeping up payments to your heroin dealer and calling INS on your baby daddy's new girlfriend tacky. I'd say it's music to strip to, but I think that's exactly what they're going for. So, okay, it's music to get gonorrhea and a gunshot wound to. It's the same sort of reason that I can't watch Desperate Housewives: it's trying to be over the top and in on the joke, but instead it IS the joke, and you just feel dirty and kind of sorry for them.

3. A manager at Bath and Body Works who immediately, to her credit, recognized me as a product whore and then tried to get Party Jen and I to work there, as all crazed retail managers try to do this time of year. I attempted to explain that I don't live in that town and I already have a job. Then she came at me with, "Thirty percent discount, baby girl!" Even Jen, who would be polite to an inanimate object, just walked away from her. I'm not aproning up for you, B&BW. You may have cornered the market on antibacterial soap, but you're no Beauty and Main. That's right, I said it. Baby girl.

4. When I'm stuck in traffic and some fun song comes on the radio and I can't properly sing along because there's another car right next to me, or there's a person walking down the street next to my car, and I don't want them to catch me belting out "DO YOU TAKE SUGAR, ONE LUMP OR TWO?" so I have to sit there and act reasonable and not like a person who car dances and then I miss the moment entirely.

5. People who state the obvious, even when it's well-intentioned, like it's a novel idea. "I just think that we need to support the troops, even if we don't support the war. You know what I mean?" Hmm, you've lost me, please elaborate. If it's already on a bumper sticker, no need to reiterate.

6. I decided to have a Halloween party... well, if we're being honest, Steve told me that he was thinking of having one, and I stole it from him. I made the compelling argument that most everyone he was inviting lives a lot closer to me (and some people on his guest list were "that friend of yours, what's-her-name"). I used pie charts and Power Point and I successfully partylifted the event. I guess I was just motivated by the power struggle because immediately afterwards I remembered that I hate parties. Awe-some.

Okay Folks, Let's All Stick Together and Remember: We're Going to Have F-U-N!

Most of my out of town friends happen to already be well-versed in Boston, so it's been awhile since I've had the opportunity to maximize my inner tour guide. Incidentally, she's a smaller, more hyperactive version of myself, armed with maps, a visor and sensible walking shoes.

Dave came for the weekend and since he really hadn't spent much time around these parts before, it gave me the chance to pull together an itinerary that fell somewhere in between "so, you know, this is the state capitol" and a full-blown recreation of the Revolutionary War starring myself, our Mormon governor, and the guy who drums on giant buckets outside Fenway after every game. And then I thought, why not copyright my tour and forcefeed it to the tourists? I'm still working out a title for it, but I'm already fairly certain that their "Browse Beantown By Bus!" isn't going to sell nearly as many tickets as my "Boston for Shameless Drunks."

Here's what I have so far:

We're not really going to do the Freedom Trail because we can't be constrained by painted lines on sidewalks, my friend, and you can only look at so many Old Churches that Paul Revere May or May Not Be Buried Next To. But it's a good jumping off point, because who doesn't love Boston Common in fall? Do your best to ignore the little hellraiser on the bike who bulldozes toward the gazebo and damn near runs over a tiny girl wearing pink, who immediately becomes inconsolable over her near-death experience. (Observing such an event goes a little something like this: "Awww, that's so swee... OH! MY GOD! WATCH OUT!"

We don't, under any circumstances, make eye contact with anyone giving or participating in a duck tour. Sometimes they quack at pedestrians. Try not to let it faze you and just move on. It's too late for them.

We don't really need to look at the beer menu. Maybe there's blueberry Wachusett. If you're in college, then maybe Harpoon. But really, there's just Sam Adams. You could ask for a Sammy, but reign that urge in. You're not from Southie. Neither is Matt Damon.

Okay, listen. We might go on the Fenway tour. Yes, I know. It sounds excessively touristy. And you know what? It is. But it's also the best way to show you The Most Beloved Ballpark in America during the off-season. And you know what else? I'm okay with that. Incidentally, I drew a big 07 in the center field sand with my foot. I'm hopeful, as always. Tomorrow is a new season.

Yeah yeah, Faneuil Hall. Tourists congregate here, and locals do too, but usually only if they're drunk. So while some of the places there are fun and have character, it's more of an off-hours adventure. Come Saturday by nightfall, you and I are back on the T headed outbound, because I cannot deal with masses of 22-year-old girls who totter along the cobblestone in uncomfortable shoes. Harvard Square is a safer bet.

The Museum of Science is always fun. The Aquarium is fun in theory. Sorry, but fish are kind of boring.

Salem, absolutely, just not this time of year. Doug lives there so we'll hang out with him. That's another bonus of my tour: You get to hang out with my friends. I know I'm a little biased, but really, you have no idea how lucky you are. I'm very picky.

Oh Jason, I'm not sure what I most appreciate you for bringing into my life: Dali or Kate. But for the purposes of the tour, right now we'll focus on Dali. Lovely place and employees, great tapas and sangria. We went there on Friday... it's now a staple on the tour.

Speaking of dinner, the North End! Or Newbury Street, but really only when entertaining female guests, although I do love me some Sonsie, and boys can get on board with that too. My next tour will include visiting their dreamy little wine room for dessert. That will be one hot date. Sign up now.

October on the Cape

Quiztastic

What is your current favorite song/album?
I'm predictably obsessed with that London Bridges song. I like to think of the chorus as a rhetorical question for the ages: how come indeed, Fergie. As for albums, right now I'm wearing out my copy of More Adventurous by Rilo Kiley.

What song do you currently hate?
Lips of an Angel by Hinder is the worst song I've heard in years. The first couple times that I heard it on the radio, I didn't realize it was new, I thought it was a crap 80s rock ballad by some Bon Jovi cover band.

What's the next album you're going to buy?
Pieces of the People We Love by the Rapture, Oh No by OK Go, Philadelphia Songs by Denison Witmer, Ta-Dah by the Scissors Sisters, and Sam's Town by the Killers. But I'm going to LimeWire them because I'm a bad person.

What's the best advice ever given to you?
Don't steal music. And anything Greg says is good advice.

What are your nicknames?
Bec. No one really calls me Red. Actually, Tim does.

If you were born a member of the opposite sex, what would your name be?
Apparently my name would've been David.

In the situation above, what would you want your name to be?
Hmm, let's see, I've always been a fan of Who Cares, I Ended Up Being a Girl.

If you had a choice, would you drop your last name?
Drop it like it's hot? Or like I'm Cher?

What heritage does your last name imply?
Utter genericness. Vacant smiles and government mind control.

What's your facial structure like?
Seriously?

What do you think of redheads?
Better red than dead, as Cartman said.

Can you touch your nose with your tongue?
No. Can you bite your elbow?

Toy you always wanted but never got as a child?
I wanted the Barbie pool, a sit and spin, and all the Little Golden Books.

Luke Skywalker or Han Solo?
I always liked Luke and hated Han. He was the original Mr. Big.

Top three celebrities you wanna do?
I suddenly have a sneaking suspicion that this survey was written by a 15-year-old. But okay. Jason Varitek, obviously, Indiana Jones, and the guy from Felicity with all the inventions. I stand by my choices.

Who is popular that you hate?
I love philosophical quandaries. What's the meaning of life, and who is popular that you hate? I'm sure the correct answer is some kid at the next lunch table, but I have to go with John Mayer.

What's the last movie you saw that scared you?
The Grudge 2 commercials are not making my life better.

You're sentenced to death and it's the morning of your lethal injection. What will your last meal be?
Really good pizza. Also, what did I do?

What's something that most people do that you've never done?
Drink an entire cup of coffee.

Before you die, where do you want to go?
All over Europe.

What's something you'd really like to do but probably won't ever do?
Land that guy on Felicity with all the inventions.

If you had to marry someone at the age of 12, who would it be?
I'm 12 years old and I have to get married? Fine, Joey McIntyre. I would've died of happiness and promptly dropped out of middle school to tour with him.

What's something most people don't know about you?
In person, I'm actually quite serious. Dead serious.

What's a weapon to suit your personality, habits, and abilities?
All I need is my blade.

What makes an awesome party?
Aaron Carter.

What's your favorite TV show?
I don't know if it's my favorite, but Lost is the one that I have to watch every week. It's becoming a parody of itself, but it's just so suspenseful and entertaining and ridiculous. JACK! WALT! KATE! NO! Oh, but I guess my favorite show is The Office. Will Pam and Big Tuna ever make it work?

What's your favorite quote?
I have a jillion, but my favorite quote lately came from my mom. She heard a story about a friend who is likely cheating on her husband, and she said, "How does she do it? I don't have the time or the underwear for an affair."

What's your material obsession?
My iBook and iPod.

What's the next holiday that you'll celebrate?
Columbus Day, or We're Sorry For Canonizing the Guy Who Killed All the Native Americans Day.

What's something most people would consider an insult but you don't mind having said about/to you?
"Is that your real hair color?" Although it does concern me a little that maybe my hair looks like a bad dye job. That would so be my luck.

What's your favorite thing about where you live?
The seasons (yes, even winter), the wicked nice people, the history, Fenway, the Cape, the endless things to do, and of course the fact that most of my family and friends are close by.

What's your least favorite thing about where you live?
I do mostly like the winter, but I could live without that gray, sludgy stretch of weather from January till April. I wish the streets were numbered and that the T (subway) was everywhere, like in New York. And of course, I'd like to never again have to hear anything about pahking ya cah in Hahvahd yahd.

You suddenly have to flee the country and adopt an alias. What is it?
For about ten years my alias has been Brittany Fairchild. It was established before we knew about Britney Spears, thankyouverymuch.

Pick one state in the U.S. to get rid of permanently.
Florida. But I wouldn't get rid of it permanently, maybe just make them start over and do a better job next time.

Where are you right now?
The Cape.

What did you do last night?
Had dinner at a neat restaurant that used to be a church. It's also a B&B, but I'd be too scared to stay there because I bet it's haunted by angry religious ghosts. I mean, there's a bar where the altar used to be, and the restrooms are marked Adam and Eve. The words "weakened" and "afflicted" were carved into the wall right above my head. Sounds about right. I had the lobster, pinot grigio, and repented for no sins. Oh yeah, and the other thing I did last night was delight in the Yankees blowing their postseason. Whee!

If you had to pick one of these three jobs, would you be a policeman, fireman, or serial killer?
How well does serial killing pay? Probably policewoman. But firemen, oh my. It's like they created this occupation specifically for my enjoyment. And also to put out fires and save families and kittens and whatnot.

Would you be a doctor, surgeon, or solider?
Doctor.

Would you be a banker, lawyer, or writer?
Writer.

Would you be a pilot, forensic scientist, or ninja?
Ninja! Actually, ninja is my answer to the previous three questions, too.

29

On this day in 1535, Jacques Cartier discovered Montreal, Canada. In 1935, Italy invaded Ethiopia (here's hoping they left a meatball or two behind). In 1958, Guinea declared itself independent from France. Where's Guinea? Maybe you should've rode those coattails a little longer for PR purposes, my friends. Or maybe I should look at a map. Man, I love the random trivia that Wikipedia brings into our lives.

Anyway, my whole pointless point is that on this day in 1977, my always understated, extremely softspoken mother was experiencing the tail end of "NINE months with my head in a toilet, THIRTEEN hours in labor, for THIS." (But, of course, because of her slight Boston accent: "Fah THIS.") I heard these words approximately 15 jillion times growing up, my very own tailor-made Irish-Catholic guilt trip, usually accompanied by some sort of sweeping hand gesture to represent the unspeakable madness that I'd brought into her life by not cleaning my room/not studying for a math test/not calling and telling her where I was when I KNOW how she worries.

On kind of a whim, I sent her flowers, to be delivered today. I know it's my birthday and all, but I did break her coccyx bone with my giant head almost thirty years ago. And nothing says "hey, sorry for destroying your ass" like a lovely arrangement from Winston's.

Plus, you have to be The Nicest Person on the Freakin' Planet to send someone else flowers on your birthday, right? If I weren't already an only child, this would've just upped my inheritance big time. I would've scored the Cape house AND my dad's floating magnetic pen. That crazy thing is suspended in midair!

Anyway, the weekend was good (it feels weird to write that because I feel like I don't usually do weekend updates here, but it's my birthday so everything I say is interesting). Went to what was officially my last game of the season at Fenway on Friday night with not-a-midget Mark, who turned out to be a remarkably good date... great seats, bought me beer, and insisted on giving me his jacket when I was cold. I've decided to exclusively date family and friends from now on for these perks. Saturday afternoon, which was delicious in its autumnness, I met up with my friend Doug and his lovely new girlfriend Tina in Somerville for lunch, and afterwards we happened upon the fluff festival. It seems that fluff (yes, of the marshmallow variety) was invented right there in Union Square. Who knew? Spent Saturday night with four fantastical friends, best known to you as the first four links over there on the right. Sunday night, dinner at Sonsie with the people who created me. And tonight, dinner with the Jens, both Party and Elusive... which I guess means it'll be a great time that's hard to locate. I'm birthdayed out and loving it.

Also, I knew it was time to age a year because I like to be on the cutting edge of the blogosphere (i.e. the blutting bledge) and really, how trendy are birthdays getting? "Oh, it's kind of a blirthday thing. I guess you wouldn't understand." [fake smile]

Incidentally, here are some other people who got all borned today: Sting, Gandhi, Tiffany, and my beloved former roommate Ryan. I've only had the opportunity to sing "ber ner ner ner ner ner, you say it's your birthday, ber ner ner ner ner ner, it's my birthday too, yeah" to the last person on that list, but believe you me, if I ever cross paths with the Tiffster, she's getting an earful. Gandhi too, but first he's getting a sandwich.