As eHarmonious As Ever

To: Red
From: eHarmony
Subject: Red, We've Extended Your 60% Discount!

Dear Red,

Spring is definitely in the air! The response to our special 60% discount was incredible! And we don't want you to miss out, so we're giving you just a few more days to take advantage.

You're getting our ABSOLUTE LOWEST RATE AVAILABLE at a great time of year for starting a new relationship. So we urge you to seize this opportunity and continue getting to know your matches today.

Remember, it only takes one.

To: eHarmony
From: Red
Subject: I would prefer to discuss a refund

Dear eHarmony,

Fuck you so hard. No, seriously. Fuck you SO HARD. I can't put it more eloquently than that.

First of all? Or second of all, considering that swearing at you came first of all? My brief stint in office work taught me that 60% discounts on your services mean that your company is failing. And that makes me happy.

And you're right, it only takes one. It only takes ONE OF THE JACKASSES THAT YOU SET ME UP WITH TO MESS UP MY LIFE. I'm sorry. Was I yelling?

Clearly you're not familiar with my blog. Are you not aware of what your dating service did to me?

To be fair, I guess it really wasn't you. You were the conduit but not really the reason that I had to wear the sad grape bridesmaid dress, that I accidentally slept with a married guy (with kids!) after the reception, that I lost my best friend of ten years. I can't blame all that on you.

Or can I?

I shouldn't. But I do. A little bit.

Love,
Red

To: Red
From: Mail Delivery Subsystem
Subject: delivery problems encountered

A message (from Red) was received at 29 Mar 2007 3:25:23 +0000.

The following addresses had delivery problems:

Permanent Failure: 501_#5.1.1_bad_address_ehsupport@eharmony.com
Delivery last attempted at Thu, 29 Mar 2007 03:25:24 -0000

To: eHarmony
From: Red
Subject: delivery problems encountered

Dear eHarmony,

Your inability to hear me is somehow appropriate. Best wishes for continued success.

Love,
Red

Music!

If you're reading this (which you are) please leave a comment and tell me about a few of your favorite albums (or what you're enjoying a lot right now, if trying to come up with all-time favorites is enough to make your head explode). I'm trying to branch out from listening to my iPod on random all the time. Plus, someone pointed out that half the songs on my beloved Wigglemix are apparently from car commercials, so maybe I'm not getting my inspiration from the best sources. I love it anyway, but I want to know what you guys are listening to and loving or have listened to and loved. Genre doesn't really matter, but I'm kinda looking for stuff that holds up now... frex, I loved Flood by TMBG back in the day, but I wouldn't necessarily recommend it to someone today.

Here are a few of mine, not that you asked:

Ben Folds' first self-titled album (then Whatever and Ever Amen and Rockin' the Suburbs)
Beatles, especially Revolver, Abbey Road, and Let it Be
Little Earthquakes and Under the Pink by Tori Amos (I loved her when I was a wee lass, but these albums probably hold up)
Monster by R.E.M.
Fumbling Toward Ecstasy by Sarah McLachlan
More Adventurous by Rilo Kiley
Rabbit Fur Coat by Jenny Lewis

That's all I can think of right now. See why I need recommendations? Help me, internets.

Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car

I had some really messed up dreams on Friday night, like CSI crime scene grisly. So I did some googling (don't judge me, I'm a pursuer of subconscious knowledge!) and Sleeps.com told me "For years in our family [dreaming about death] has meant that someone in the family would soon be wed and the wedding would be beautiful." What wedding isn't beautiful? Weddings mean free dinner, chardonnay, dancing and cake.

Wait a second. On Friday night, Jen came over and copied a bunch of songs off my iTunes. She had a free dinner (I cooked), we drank chardonnay, at one point I put on a crappy bridesmaid dress from a wedding that we were both in a couple years ago and danced around to the music (I'm, uh, going to have to request no judgment from you again), AND we ate cake-flavored ice cream (Edy's Slow Churned Take The Cake, which has frosting and sprinkles in it and is nothing short of a religious experience. It's the best thing ever and it's low in points. AND it's an official blog dessert blessert because it came into my life on Nabbalicious's recommendation. The funniest thing is that it's a part of Edy's American Idol series. Five flavors are vying to be part of their regular line-up, people vote for their favorite one and the losers just go away. Faced with that terrifying possibility, Jen and I actually went to the damn Edy's website to make sure Take the Cake is winning. Thankfully, it is. Vote or die, people.)

Ahem. Sleeps.com also believes that death in a dream can mean "a birth, the opposite of death." Did they just define birth for me? And if you think about it, when you're single, a birth kind of would be a death: death of dating prospects, social life, and bank account. And, interestingly, your ability to sleep at night. Am I overthinking this?

Then on Saturday night I dreamed that someone I love died (don't worry, it wasn't you). Ack. Short of making tearful phone calls at 5 AM, I turned to Sleeps, now my old faithful, later that morning. But then I noticed that it said that dreaming of a fork in the road means you'll soon have to make a decision and dreaming about macaroni means that you're in for various small losses. Uh-huh. We're breaking up, Sleeps.

I turn to Lifetimetv.com, surprisingly serious on the matter considering all they do is air reruns of Designing Women or movies about your seemingly nice neighbor turning out to be a serial killer who is holding the mailman and your tenth grade boyfriend hostage and whatever you end up doing about it, at some point it will involve running down a suburban tree-lined street in the middle of the night, your heart racing and button-down shirt askew.

The intuitive minds at Lifetimetv.com say that "In the Universal Language of Mind, death signifies a change from one state of being to another" (I'm always suspicious of superfluous capitalization) and that I should "Identify the change that has occurred in your life. This will be the heart of your dream message. Who or what has died in your dream will lend insight into the nature of the change you have experienced, and will assist in responding to this change joyfully instead of fearfully. Keep in mind the change symbolized by death in a dream can be followed by a resurrection of your consciousness. Reach for this elevated awareness." Thanks for the fortune cookie, but where's my crab rangoon?

Then I thought about how well my own dream decoding worked on Friday and decided to deconstruct my Saturday night: Dorie's kitchen, more wine... but a different brand than Friday. Is that the change they're referring to? I did respond to it joyfully, instead of fearfully, and I believe it did bring about an elevated awareness: richer friends buy more expensive wine.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

This post was inspired by Darren, who wrote about a few of his memorably crazy neighbors. He also typically quotes cooler songs in his entry titles than I do.

Until I was six, we lived next door to an Armenian family that I loved. The daughters were in high school and always talking about boys. They didn't really alter their conversations when I was around and I loved that. One morning I wanted pancakes and my parents said something to the effect of, "Um, no, you can have cereal." I was sitting on our porch steps for a few minutes pondering this injustice when the dad next door saw me and asked what was going on. I told him I wanted pancakes but my parents wouldn't make them for me. He said he would. In that brief and shining moment, I became a spoiled brat. Funny sidenote: Neighbor dad went to high school with Lola's mom.

Extreme sidenote: There's definite evidence of the Boston accent that I was starting to develop when we lived in that town. My dad taped a conversation between him and myself when I was about three. I listened to it again to get the actual transcript, so prepare to surrender a few moments of your life that you'll never get back. (The daughter in the family next door, Wendy, had a sprained knee at the time, or something.)

Me: You know what you have to tell me?
Dad: What?
Me: You have to tell me what noses [nurses] do, what they do to help in the doctah's [doctor's] office.
Dad: Well, they give people medicine.
Me: Yeah.
Dad: And they take people's temperature.
Me: Yeah.
Dad: And if you need a bandage, they help put the bandages on.
Me: What's bandages?
Dad: It's like a big Band-Aid.
Me: Do you know what bandages are?
Dad: What?
Me: Well, it's like a big, big... thing. Sometimes you weh [wear] it on ya knee like Wendy.
Dad: That's right.
Me: Well, that's what it is.
Dad: Oh, okay.
Me: [suddenly impassioned] And those things ah [are] HAHD [hard]! Theh [they're] really really hahd! Wendy's is hahd. It's hahd!

Gah. Like a knife in the heart. Luckily cassettes will be obsolete soon. Oh wait, I'm just now getting a live feed from the newsroom: They already are.

Anyway, our other neighbors in that crazy 'hood had a daughter, Kathy, who was in high school, worked as a waitress and babysat for me a lot because my parents were in their early 30s and still wanted a life or something. For a few years I decided that I also wanted to be a waitress named Kathy. I'm not sure I understood that jobs didn't give you the opportunity to change your name. I still see Kathy now and again, but she's really cynical and downtrodden and always rolling her eyes about everything. My mom thinks her six-year-old son is ugly anad periodically likes to discuss this with me. The conversation always goes the same way: "Mom, you can't just call him ugly. He's a child. That's brutal." "Well, he IS. Did you see that last Christmas card? He looks like a prisoner of war, Red! UG-LY."

In our next house, the neighbors pretty much all had kids around my age. And the ones that didn't, well, who cared about them? I loved my bedroom... when I was in bed the window was right next to my head, which is still my ideal window location and I've never had it since. All I remember is playing all day, Garbage Pail Kids, charm necklaces, You Can't Do That On Television.

There were no real noteworthy neighbors in our next house, which is the one that my parents have now lived in for almost twenty years. I was in fifth grade by the time we moved there which meant less frenetic neighborhood play and more "my friends are coming over, please leave us alone." I lived there until I left for college, at which point Dorie and her husband moved in, so I guess they're officially my favorite neighbors that I've never really had for neighbors.

In college my neighbors included a girl who played Torn by Natalie Imbruglia so much that I still can't listen to the damn song, a guy named Ray who changed the default beep on my computer to the orgasming girl in that Rob Zombie song, and one guy who smelled so bad that you knew when his door was open without having to open your own.

My most favoritest neighbor in college was Ryan, of course. I wanted a single room for my junior year but I had a craptastic number in the housing lottery. It was the end of my sophomore year and I wasn't sure what I was going to do. As much as I loved my friends I just didn't want another year in a bunk bed (and yes, in case you're wondering, my college had a really bad housing situation... there weren't suites or apartments or anything like that).

So then one of my friends was dating this guy (Ryan) who was going to be an RA the following year, and the deal was that RAs could only pick a junior or senior to be their "singlemate" (i.e. you live in rooms separated by a door). Ryan was a year behind me and didn't know any soon-to-be juniors except for my friend, who was going to be an RA somewhere else. She introduced us and we awkwardly decided to shack up for the following year. It was either me or some stranger, and he probably figured that at least his girlfriend could vouch for me. I had no impression of him from that first meeting, and I wasn't overly excited about living next door to him. Come August, we were moving in and she had broken up with him, so it was basically like, "Hey, neighbor! I'm the friend of that girl who stomped on your heart!"

Although we were off to a weird start, it didn't last long. We immediately discovered our mutual birthdays and mutual everything else. We went to Fenway for a game, the first of many times we'd go. He was a Yankees fan, but the good-natured kind. This was around ten years ago when you could just show up and buy a bleachers seat for the game that night (for eight dollars!). Anyway, as time went on we decided we had a good thing and that we'd maintain our living situation until I graduated, which meant that senior year the housing gods finally smiled on me, because by then Ryan had been promoted to King of All RAs or some title like that and we got our pick of rooms in the best dorm. Of course, we chose ones next door to each other.

One time during that first year singlemating with Ryan, he and I were in his room watching Frasier (I'm sorry to tell you that was a very common occurrence) when a guy from down the hall came running breathlessly into the room. He said, "Hey Ry, do you... oh. Hi." Ryan, always the conscientious RA, got up to speak to him privately. (I would've likened him to Noel Crane, but my beloved Felicity didn't come on the air until the following year.) Then Ryan came back into the room, found a condom and gave it to the guy, who left. Not five minutes later, he was sauntering back down the hall and gave a quick wave as he went by Ryan's room. Oh, college boys. Does anyone really miss sleeping with them?

After college I lived in a tiny apartment on a little tree-lined street with a dive called the Busy B within walking distance. I loved it there. Our side of the street was all identical two family homes that had been cut in half and rented as apartments. Identical being the key word. A couple days after we moved in, I was in the backyard and my roommate ran out for something, assuming that I had my keys with me (because doesn't everyone, when they're in their backyard?) and I was locked out.

The funny thing is that our landlord, who owned most of the apartments on the street, apparently got tired of people calling him because they were locked out, especially since he didn't live in the neighborhood himself, so he kept copies of all of our keys behind the desk at the nursing home up the street. So on this and a couple other shameful occasions (at least I was sober that first time), I had to go to the nursing home, explain my predicament, and have the woman at the desk look me in the eye and say something immensely helpful like "HUH? You want a key to WHERE?" until she found someone else working who had once heard of the fact that some guy who owns some of those houses keeps copies of the keys somewhere in the vicinity of the front desk.

Anyway, on this particular day I got the key, walked back to my apartment and saw that the door was open. Gah, my roommate was already back; if I'd known she wouldn't be gone for long I could've just waited for a few minutes. Oh well. I walked in the front door and saw that our furniture had been moved. And replaced with all new furniture. And that there was a guy I didn't know sitting on the couch. How long had I been gone for? Of course, I had walked into my neighbor's apartment. The funny thing was that the guy on the couch was a friend of my neighbor, so he didn't know it was unusual for me to just walk in, and he looked at me and said, "Oh, hey, she's just in the other room." When you bust into a home that isn't yours, you would at least expect someone to leap up and say, "OH MY GOD! WHO ARE YOU?" Then my neighbor walked out of her bedroom, saw me standing there in total bewilderment and said, "Hey Red! Did you walk into the wrong apartment?"

Umm. Yes. Yes, I sure did.

Our other neighbors, with whom we shared the house, were about our age, a blond and a brunette, and affectionately nicknamed the Blond One and the Brown One. We preferred the Blond One because she would occasionally shovel the walk, but the Brown One was useless, and was mostly mentioned in the context of things like, "The Brown One took my motherfreakin' parking space again!"

Our neighbors on the other side of them had a sticker on their front door that said, "I can only please one person a day. Today isn't your day. Tomorrow doesn't look good either." Charming.

After two years there, I moved here. Here, where it's crazy neighbor central. But I believe that's already been well-documented. But considering some of the stuff that they must have seen me do (the least of which was being outside and handcuffed to a few of my friends on New Year's Eve) I'm really not one to point fingers.

(Also, new addition over in the sidebar: recipes!)

What a Doll

Since I scare way too easily, I don't watch scary movies or read scary books or watch scary TV shows. Works for me. You do what you have to do in order to live on the planet.

Some of my students scare easily too, but considering they're all between three and eleven years old, I try not to hold it against them. The only time it sucks is when I have to be the grown up. (Now there's my REAL essence sentence.)

It's not that I mind comforting a scared kid. I'm not made of stone, people. I mean, as long as they're not interrupting my lunch or my coffee break or my other coffee break. So long as I'm on the clock, I'm there for them. Children are beautiful.

The problem is that everyone who has ever watched a scary movie knows that the shit starts to go down as soon as some stupid character stupidly tells another stupid character something along the lines of: "There's nothing to be afraid of!" "There's no such thing as [scary thing]!" "It's all make believe!" Call me crazy (no, really, you probably should) but I don't like tempting fate. So you can imagine how much I love conversations like this one:

Kid: Is it true that you can't talk if you don't have a tongue?
Me: Um, yes.
Kid: So if someone rips out your tongue, you can't talk anymore?
Me: What are... oh, are you talking about that movie?
Kid: Yeah.
Me: Oh, sweetie, that's all make believe. [I hope.]
Kid: No, there's this really scary woman and she dies but she comes back...
Me: It's just a silly movie. None of it is real. [But I REALLY don't want to talk about it anymore.] Think about Cars: can cars talk in real life? That was pretend, too.
Kid: But the dolls come to life and kill all these people...
Me: It's all made up, I promise. Dolls aren't real. They're just dolls.

Gah. I'll be the first to turn up without a tongue. Or a head. Tell my family that I love them.

Soundtrack Of My Life

Inspired by Guinness Girl.



What's up world: Blinded by the Light by Manfred Mann's Earth Band

First song I knew all the words to and was encouraged to sing all the time despite the fact that I was three years old and the song contained the words "night time is the right time and we make love": Morning Train by Sheena Easton



Why yes I actually AM a superstar in my backyard wearing Underoos and singing into the hose, thank you for noticing: What a Feeling by Irene Cara



At that bus station, Alex P. Keaton and Ellen show the world what love (twoo wuv) really is: At This Moment by Billy Vera and the Beaters

Lip syncing and frenetically choreographed dances with my friends (where all the moves are literal, like when Whitney "wants to feel the heat with somebody," you have to fan yourself): True Blue by Madonna

Roller skating at birthday parties, waking up to ass bruises bigger than my fist: Heaven is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle



Dave, my sixth grade boyfriend: Some Kind of Wonderful by The Drifters (which, ahem, I only knew about because it was on the critically acclaimed More Dirty Dancing soundtrack)

Rocking out at bar/bat mitzvahs: Bust a Move by Young MC

Rocking out at middle school dances: The Electric Slide by (who knew?) Marcia Griffiths

What got my eighth grade friends and I gathered around the radio like a dirty tribute to what our grandparents must have done on D-Day: I Touch Myself by the Divinyls



Reading (the original) Sassy magazine: Sugar Free Jazz by Soul Coughing

Freshman year: Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants



Sophomore year: Porch by Pearl Jam

Junior year: Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog

Senior year: Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen

Song that I quoted in my senior yearbook, I'm sorry to tell you: Young and Innocent by Elefante (from the St. Elmo's Fire soundtrack)

Senior year summer and first love: Grey Cell Green by Ned's Atomic Dustbin



Dirty Dancing: She's Like the Wind by Patrick Swayze. Just kidding. It'd have to be Moonlight Serenade, played by their band.



College (sweaty dancing and drinking at basement parties): Naked Eye by Luscious Jackson

College (then winding down after sweaty dancing and drinking): Crush with Eyeliner by R.E.M.

College (then car dancing in the backseat on the way to get breakfast): Ladykillers by Lush

College (the first song that I heard my then-musical obsession play live): Missing the War by Ben Folds Five

College (technically I didn't cheat on you because technically we're broken up and anyway I have to go my roommate needs the phone): Call and Answer by Barenaked Ladies

College (lying around doing nothing with my roommates): Never Said by Liz Phair

College (sex): Prove My Love by the Violent Femmes or Say Goodbye by the Dave Matthews Band

College (my embracing the recent pop explosion is ironic, I swear, even if I do happen to be ironically dancing on a stage): Drive Me Crazy by Britney Spears

College (overall): Life in a Northern Town by Dream Academy

Post-college (sweaty dancing and drinking at clubs): One More Time by Daft Punk

Dancing in the living room with Dorie's kids: Bright Side of the Road by Van Morrison

What I heard right after I found out I got into grad school: Peace Train by Cat Stevens



Boozecations to the Bahamas and Cancun: Stays in Mexico by Toby Keith (and oh yes, that'd be the in-room liquor dispenser)



October 2004 (i.e. no one in and around Boston gets any sleep for a month, waiting for the Sox to finally win it all): Dreams by Van Halen

When I get down about dating: I Kicked a Boy by The Sundays

When I feel optimistic about dating: More Adventurous by Rilo Kiley

Still the best car dancing song: Kiss Me Deadly by Lita Ford

My friends: Tripping Billies by The Dave Matthews Band

Right now: 17 Again by the Eurythmics

I'm Not So Good With The Advice. Can I Interest You In A Sarcastic Comment?

My latest attempt to get healthy involves counting points, going to the gym, and sitting in the backseat of a friend's car announcing several times that I'm hungry and will need to eat within the next eight minutes. I think everyone in my life is starting to feel like they're on this diet (it's not a diet, it's a lifestyle change!) with me. The new Red Barbie comes with giant bottles of water, 100 calorie packs, and a scowl. Attitude upgrade sold separately.

In all seriousness, as much as I kind of dislike Weight Watchers because there's very little wiggle room and DAMN YOU, FLORINE MARK, I'M HUNGRY, it really does seem to be the best system for me. It's about normal portions and regular food, and I've never been meant to be breadless or have frozen prepackaged meals delivered to my door every morning.

As far as working out goes, let's just say that having a second job helps me pay for the gym. It's very nice and clean and just for women, which I never thought would be a major selling point, but it turns out I really like that aspect of it. They always have a stack of the latest Improper Bostonian. Even the lighting is good. It's quite a departure from the ghetto warehouse gym that I used to go to sporadically. It was cheap but full of sweaty equipment, fluorescent lighting, and grunting meatheads.

Speaking of? Although I hadn't been to the meathead gym for, um, more than a year, I was still paying for a membership until this month. I cringed every time I saw the $19 withdrawn from my checking account; it may not have been much but it was money lost due to sheer laziness. So I finally called a few weeks ago and learned that because I had stupidly and optimistically signed a two year (!) contract back in the day, I could only cancel if I was moving or for medical reasons. "Oh, well, I'm moving," I told them. "Where?" "Uh. New York." Then they said they'd need verification of my new digs: a copy of a lease, a bill sent to my new address, or verification from my new employer. Damn. Those people REALLY wanted my $19 every month. But whatever, I can play that game. So I called my new employer, conveniently located in Manhattan, who promptly faxed the meathead gym to inform them that as of March first, I was employed as a live-in nanny to her two beautiful children, Hector and Flores.

The new job's going well. She's really a terrible mother, though... hardly ever spends time with her fictional kids.

Anyway, the only problem with the nice gym is that the members are snooty. If my gym were a man, it wouldn't call. If it were cat food, it would be Fancy Feast. If it were an actress, it would be Gwyneth Paltrow. If it were a band, it would be Coldplay. If it were a toddler, it would be Apple Martin. If it were a baby, it would be Sashqualah Jolie-Pitt.

All the women who go there have zero percent body fat, incredibly cute gym outfits, and they don't smile or say excuse me. Ever. They're maybe the opposite of me in every way. They've probably been hungry for years, come to think of it. Anyway, thanks to Nabbalicious, my blogfriend and virtual personal trainer blersonal blainer, I don't need to rely on any of those ice queens for moral support.

What I love most about the gym is the fact that they have an all-Friends channel. Two of the channels on the ellipticals are whatever DVDs they're playing that day, and one of them is always a random season of Friends. Now, THIS is the way to get me to exercise. If only they had a mojito and Cadbury mini egg dispenser set up next to me, I'd be all set. Yes, it might defeat the purpose of being there in the first place, but if you're going to fall off the wagon, might as well go down in flames.

Another one of the channels is an aerial view of the daycare center, presumably to monitor the well-being of the little tykes you may have left there. (Like they're not all off with the nannies, being pushed around Anthropologie or Restoration Hardware in strollers made of organic canvas and whole grains.) It's such grainy, documentary-like footage ("Is that a four-year-old or a giant wasp?") that sometimes I flip by expecting to see something crazy happen, like it's suddenly the hidden camera on To Catch a Predator. (Which is maybe the best show EVER, by the way. On the last episode I saw, one of the 'philes was in the chat room saying stuff like, "Damn! I hope this doesn't turn out to be a ruse and I end up on Dateline! lol" That, combined with the monotone announcer reading the chat transcripts? "I want to blank your blank all blanking night oh my god you make me so blank." It makes for good TV, my friends.)

Anyway, this incessant Friends-watching (even more than usual) has made me arrive at a startling conclusion: All this time I've identified with Monica, but I'm suddenly noticing that there's another character on the show who's a neurotic only child with relationship issues and always at the ready with a bad pun... and whom I believe also once had trouble getting out of a gym membership ("I wanna quit the gym!").

To sum up: I'm not Monica. I'm CHANDLER.

I Somehow Feel I've Sullied Your Good Name, Danny Pintauro. And For That I Am Sorry.

I don't know if you guys remember the sneak attack song lyric contest, nay, BATTLE TO THE DEAH at my humble place of employment. You can read about it here and here. (You guys actually had some great ideas for our second go at it, but yet again I've gone and somehow deleted all my old comments.)

It's become a thing of the past, because two of my coworkers who were my partners in pointlessness now work in other schools in the district, and the other one is working someplace else. You can imagine my disappointment that they missed this.

I'm eating lunch with some work friends, one of whom is planning her wedding and talking about readings for the ceremony. She wants something original and I don't blame her; I believe the point has been sufficiently drilled home that love is both patient and... wait for it... kind. Everyone's throwing their hats/favorite wedding-ish poems in the ring so I suggest a few verses that have always touched my heart:

"There's a time for love and a time for living. Take a chance and face the wind. There's an open road and a road that's hidden, a brand new life around the bend. There were times I lost a dream or two, but I found a trail and at the end was you. There's a path you take and a path not taken. The choice is up to you, my friend. Something-something but you're on your way to a brand new life, a brand new life around the bend."

I got a couple smirks but then came this from the blushing bride: "That's sweet! What's it from?"

Corinthians! Tell her Corinthians!

Me: I'm sorry. It's the Who's The Boss theme song.
WP: No, it's not. Is it?
Me: Yeah, it is.

What was I thinking? I should've told her I wrote it and encouraged her to have a loved one read it at the blessed event. I mean, it IS pretty original. Damn it, Red... always squandering opportunities to take it to the next level.

Anyone getting married anytime soon? I'm also available to do the theme from the A-Team.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Want to know what I did? Well, I'll tell you. I retemplated (hells yes it's a word) my blog and then I couldn't get the original template back. One minute Blogger welcomed it with open arms, and the next minute it was like, "I'm sorry, and you are?" You fickle free host, you. So I played around until I finally ended up with a version that I liked better. Whee, blog makeovers... blakeovers!

On Friday I went to Nashua, New Hampshire with my friends. Ironically, we drove an hour across state lines to go to a place called Boston Billiards. I don't really play pool but it turns out I AM open to several shots of patron silver. Yeah, I was 22 again for a night. A full day later, I dimly recalled trying to make a compelling argument for why Joe is a pickle. The only bad part of the place was that they had a dance floor but it wasn't open, so I was not able to demonstrate that this ain't a scene, it's a GODDAMN ARMS RACE! What, I said I was 22. Getting down to Fall Out Boy is not only acceptable, it's encouraged. The best part of the whole night was the premise of the evening: Lo had a date and we all decided to go with her. What a sport that guy was. I enjoyed his friend, too, until he dry humped me in the parking lot of a Denny's several hours later. Ahh, New Hampshire. Good times, good times.

Also, I'm very happy about a CD that I made called Wigglemix '07 (named for what it makes you do). The songs on it are below. I've been rocking out to it every day, my friends. If you want to as well, shoot me an email and I'll send you the songs. I mean, encourage you to get them on iTunes.

Grace Kelly (Mika)
Flathead (The Fratellis)
Don Gon Do It (The Rapture)
Read My Mind (The Killers)
Do You Want To (Franz Ferdinand)
We Used To Be Friends (Dandy Warhols)
Disconnect The Dots (Of Montreal)
Here It Goes Again (OK Go)
We Will Become Silhouettes (The Postal Service)
Turn On Me (The Shins)
On The Radio (The Concretes)
Time Bomb (The Format)
Music Is My Hot Hot Sex (CSS)
The Way We Get By (Spoon)
Ruby (Kaiser Chiefs)
Nth Degree (Morningwood)
Another Sunny Day (Belle & Sebastian)
I Still Remember (Bloc Party)
Wraith Pinned To The Mist and Other Games (Of Montreal)
Jenny, You're Barely Alive (Rilo Kiley)

Look familiar, Greg? Did I do good?

Karamu, Fiesta, Forever, Come On and Sing Along...

When I was in third grade I started reading the Sweet Valley High books. I've talked about them here before. Actually, Mark's one guest entry was about the magic that is Sweet Valley High. The SVH books were all numbered, and being the inflexible taskmaster that I am, of course I had to read them in order. By the time I was a devoted fan there were already a bunch of them out. Unlike the Sweet Valley Twins series (same twins, only younger); I'd eagerly look for the latest Twins book every time I went into Evergreen Books. I can still remember the JOY!!! I'd feel rounding the corner and seeing a new one. What color would it be? What would the picture on the front be? Oh my gosh! This one's about Elizabeth and how she's helping someone! And it's PURPLE!

Back to Sweet Valley High. I don't know why my parents let me read a book that was blatantly about high schoolers when I was a child, but whatever, maybe you're just happy your kid is reading. Anyway, I finished number four (Power Play, if you're interested) and was ready for number five (All Night Long, shown above). My dad and I were at the bookstore. I picked it off the shelf. He read the title, saw the man (!) with the mustache embracing the high school girl and that was it. It was a no go. I can't blame the guy, but I was stricken. I had to skip number five and move straight on to number six (Dangerous Love). Which was not really that dangerous, as it was about that vanilla kiss-ass Elizabeth.

I never really moved past All Night Long. It became my obsession. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep... no, just kidding. I was eight. I was probably distracted by something shiny and forgot about it two seconds later. But still. I never found out if Jessica stayed out all night long, or if she was as grown up as she thought she was. And I wanted to know.

Which is why I was delighted to go through the pile of rejected books donated for my school's used book fair today. The librarian pointed me in the direction of books that didn't make the cut. Turns out censorship can be really fun! There was a book about a horse being dissected (?!) and... All Night Long! Had my dad gone through the stack and taken this one out, still trying to protect me from it?

Thinking this would be a hilarious anecdote from my childhood, I called my dad at work.

Dad: [First name, last name] [By the way, this is a totally unfriendly way to answer your phone.]
Me: [First name, same last name]
Dad: Hi.
Me: What's up?
Dad: I don't know. [I love my dad. He ALWAYS answers "what's up?" with "I don't know." It's because he's waiting for ME to tell HIM what's up. I can't explain why it amuses me, but it does.]
Me: Guess what I found in my school library!
Dad: What?
Me: Remember that book you wouldn't let me read? The Sweet Valley high book?
Dad: You had all of them.
Me: I had all but ONE. It was called All Night Long and you decided it was too scandalous. You wouldn't let me buy it. Remember?
Dad: No.
Me: Oh. Well, this isn't quite as special a moment as I had hoped.

The Adventure Continues

More memorable moments in online dating last week:

An email from a guy who told me he can wash himself. Does this not go without saying? Maybe I should rewrite the "what I'm looking for" section.

An email from a guy who said: "Tommy Lee and I have something in common, no I don’t play the drums, or get Married Pam Anderson, or in a hardcore rock band. (Think LONG and HARD about this one)." Juvenile AND unable to write a coherent sentence? Where do I sign up?

An email from a guy whose "biggest dating pet peeve" is women who don't feel comfortable getting in his car on the first date just because they met him online. Gah, those uptight, life-valuing bitches. Also, in a world with people who take off their wedding rings before approaching you or think kissing involves licking the roof of your mouth, THIS is your biggest pet peeve, Ted Bundy?

An email from a guy who lives in Rhode Island, asking me what my favorite places in Providence are. My actual response: I've never really been to Providence. Is it fun? The response I wanted to send: PROVIDENCE? Why in hell would I ever hang out in PROVIDENCE? I don't know why anyone would spend a night in the festering cesspool that is Rhode Island, let alone live there. Okay, maybe I shouldn't overreact, but... blech. (Sidenote: In college I lived close to Rhode Island and we got their news stations instead of Boston's. Oh, how I missed WCVB and Natalie Jacobson. The Island would let any homeless crack addict get on the air and read news, and there would always be hilarious soundbites like "Rhode Island can lead the country into the 21st century!" from then governor Lincoln Almond. Okay, fine, Rhodey has Newport, which I love, and Brown, whose booming student population is an enigma to me because everyone I know who ever applied there didn't get in. Oh wait, Andrea Marr went there.)

I say something in my profile about my affinity for bad 80s soft rock. I got an email from a guy who said he has some Air Supply on his iPod but he's not proud. Hello, did you just say AIR SUPPLY? That's like top shelf soft rock. That's the soft rock that even other soft rock won't sit with at lunch. One time the bartender at my friends' and my favorite bar gave us his iPod to control the music for the night and they ended up taking it away from me when I played Hall and Oates. And this guy is putting Air Supply on the table! The downside? Um, his name is Yoda. True story. Instead of this repelling me, I really should just sigh, square my shoulders and accept the inevitable truth: Of COURSE if I meet someone great, his name will end up being freakin' Yoda. Not Dan. Not Jeff. YODA. Marry him I might. Happy day it will be.

This Pen Is Mightier Than My Mouth

I chew pen caps. It's a gross habit, I know. For awhile I was buying those generic ballpoint pens, but it was becoming an expensive habit because I would just eat them. I'd chew away distractedly at the cap, eventually notice what I'd done, and throw it away, disgusted. Then I'd eat another. Better Bic than crack, I suppose, but still!

I eventually came to realize that I cannot be rehabilitated. If I'd ever hit rock bottom (a trashcan full of Papermate corpses!) and checked myself into Promises, I'm sure I'd have busted out within twenty minutets or so, just like Britney, sobbing and bald. So imagine my delight when I recently found a pen that I thought I could refrain from consuming. It's the Staples Xeno retractable ballpoint pen and it will be my savior, oh yes. The tip is metal, and even though I still put it in my mouth, being a mere human I cannot chew metal. So, basically, I lick it incessantly. This may not be much of a solution, now that I think about it.

I went into Staples today to buy more (not because I've licked the original pack that I bought into oblivion, but because I want a million of them to replace every pen I ever need in every facet of my life). While hunting for it, one of the perky red-shirted employees asked if I needed help.

"I'm just looking for this pen that I like."

"What pen?"

At the time I didn't know the name of it, so I told him I'd know it when I saw it. And indeed I did. He told me it was their bestseller. "And it's your favorite too, huh?"

"Yeah," I said, and then I elected to overshare. "I like them because when I get regular pens, I chew on the caps all the time. And I don't chew these."

His smile faded a little. Until then I had probably seemed so normal. "Oh, well, whatever works for you!"

Come on buddy, you can't judge me. Your store sells the ultimate mindfuck... the easy button. I understand it's their cutesy little marketing thingy, but why do they sell it? Who would buy this? Nothing happens when you push it! If it transported you to Staples or at least placed a call to a 24 hour pen guy hotline, I could understand, but so far as I can tell, it does nothing but take up space and piss off the world. And by the world I mean me.

In case you're interested, here's the pen that changed my life. I think we'll be very happy together. We're registered at OfficeMax.