just stuff

I just got a new car! I'm so excited. It's the current version of the CR-V that I already drive, but I heart it. And it's not black, thank you very much... I branched out and got "pewter pearl." I'm excited about having a moonroof, I got a good trade-in and now I have an iPod hook-up! I'm really happy about this because now I can just play my iPod playlists through my speakers like they're regular CDs, instead of that crappy alternate method of trying to find a blank station on the dial for it to crackle through and then lose it five seconds later. But then when I got there today it turned out it was like $450 for this option. So in the midst of negotiating I got the car salesman to include it. My cutthroat negotiation technique consisted of, "I can only do that price if it includes the iPod," then looking at him with I-must-be-permitted-to-rock-out desperation in my eyes. WOO! (Or, as Ma'am would say, WOOT!)

Party Jen's roommate's friend lives next door to me (it must sound like my friends and I all live at Melrose Place, huh? well, WE DO) and he's grilling right now and it smells so yummy and happy and summery. We really lucked out with this weekend, huh? Perfect weather, friends, and saving cats from bloodthirsty toddlers.

The fact that it's so nice out is of course making me think about summer. And fittingly enough, I'm going out later with friends from Dirty Dancing, where I actually won't be going this year. Darn. But I'm optimistic that I will still have some fun summer travels to share with all of you. Possibly two different journeys. And, of course, a handful of weddings, lots of baseball, and plenty of time down the Cape.

Speaking of BASEBALL... it's about that time, suckas! In honor of the season starting (YEAH!) I must share this video with you of one of the greatest moments of all time. Maybe it sounds trite to say it was one of the best moments of my life, but it was certainly one of the most memorable; I don't think anyone who experienced it too (Subway? Carly?) would disagree. It came after weeks of hardly sleeping, and when this moment that you're about to watch happened, I was on my knees with my hands over my face, heart racing and not breathing, which is a state that I'm hardly ever reduced to. It took 86 years but I have to say, it may have been worth waiting for.

catfight

So today I notice that there's a cat on my patio, just hanging out in the sun, doing its cat thing. Then I see Tatertot come tottering along, wearing a purple velvet dress and, ironically, a pink halo.

She tries to pet the cat but he's nipping at her and hissing. How is this not scaring her? She goes back and forth with it several times before she retreats. I start to walk away but then notice her coming back with a handful of dirt that she proceeds to throw at the cat.

What the hell is she doing? The cat gets pissed. The two of them face off for a minute.

Tatertot finally gives up and walks away. Then she comes back with a rock. A pretty big rock. She's poised with it in her hand, ready to, what, KILL THE CAT?

I bang on the window. She looks over. "No, don't do that!" I yell through the glass. Apparently I'm more intimidating than the cat because she drops the rock and runs away. The would-be murder weapon is still sitting on my patio, right where the perp dropped it.

How does a little girl wearing a halo decide to attack a cat? And isn't the desire to bludgeon animals a sign that you'll grow up to be a serial killer?

The Red and Mark Show (take 1, 2, 3 and 4)

yum

Every experience is heightened when you're younger; it's why My Little Ponies used to be the most fantastic creatures on the planet and I could spend hours brushing their tails and arranging them in their stables (i.e. old shoeboxes) and writing stories about them, and now it's "Look at this dumb glittery fake horse; Jillian really wants one of these? OK..." When I was thirteen I knew every breath on every album by They Might Be Giants and Tori Amos; I still love music, obviously, but not with the fanaticism of a teenager. As you get older all the things you were obsessed with as a kid sort of get put in their proper place.

Except for one thing. My adoration of ONE THING has endured. Which is quite a feat for me, considering how ADD I am. I have had a massive crush on Eddie Vedder for, um, half my life. And the only reason I didn't have a crush on him for the first half is because I hadn't heard of him yet. And a fourteen year crush should be enough to call it a relationship, don't you think?

Okay fine, it's enough to call it a restraining order.

See, this is dicey because I seem to be younger by about five years than some of those in The Neighborhood, which would put you at enough of an age advantage to find this completely trite; you were old enough to poke fun at the irony of the grunge movement, while I just thought it was all WICKED COOL.

I've tried to break it down and understand it better. I've never been into bad boys, and definitely not into brooding musicians. He's good looking, but he's slight and definitely skinny. He had long, greasy hair for a long time. And yet he gives me the same goosebumps he did when I was fourteen. What he has, my friends, is a quality. He has the most ridiculously hot voice I've ever heard in my entire life. The song Porch is basically like sex to me; I can't listen to it without wanting to, I don't know, bite something or someone. He is, quite simply, the sexiest man on the freakin' PLANET. Can YOU explain this? Because I can't!

OK, I have to cool down, if not for your sake, then for mine.

Joe is a huge Pearl Jam fan so he always puts Eddie back on my brain when he tells me about getting tickets to their shows or downloading their new song. We were totally cracking ourselves up the other day talking about how Eddie was somehow angry as hell when he was like 27 and massively successful and selling out stadiums. Now that he's getting older and is a parent, he must only be more furious. Is he less amped up about bucking the establishment and now seething over having to cut his daughter's peanut butter sandwiches into triangles? What about when she gets older and she thinks he's unfair and too strict and "you're so lame, Dad, you don't understand anything!" I literally cannot imagine a world in which that conversation could take place.

So, yeah. This is my ridiculous, over-the-top, heart palpitation, breathless, sweaty, woozy, I'm sorry I'm really trying to calm down I swear...

Ahem. This is my crush. Big time. Who's yours?

a bunch of swatch dogs and diet coke heads

I literally don't know what to say about this. Except maybe that if you're pissed at someone you knew twelve years ago, don't send them an angry message via Friendster, of all things. Because you're only going to 1) confuse them, 2) scare them a little, and 3) end up in their blog. The funny thing is that I was so not one of those people that was mean in high school! So I consulted with someone who would know.

To: Peter
From: Red
I got a Friendster message from Guy I Sort of Used to Know telling me I was mean to him in high school. Oh my GOD! Can you think of how/why he'd tell me this? And now?

To: Red
From: Peter
That's all he said? Have you talked since high school besides this message? That is very weird. Did you respond to him?

To: Peter
From: Red
Not yet...I'm not really sure what to say. I didn't know him that well. He was two years behind us. His Brother (remember him? I think he was the same year as Your Brother) drove him to my house my junior year and he gave me a stuffed cow as a Christmas present. I wasn't really sure how to respond. Maybe this is all retribution for the unappreciated cow? Do you think I should write back?

To: Red
From: Peter
It sounds like he really liked you (cow) and obviously has been thinking about this enough to get in touch with you. I totally knew His Brother, he was friends with My Brother. It is pretty weird though. I wonder what he wants from you? Some kind of apology or something? Maybe he just had to get it off his chest. Did he ask you to write back or anything? Where does he
live now? Are you on myspace?

[Ha. I love Peter.]

To: Peter
From: Red
I don't think he likes me at all (cow notwithstanding). It would appear that he actually sort of hates me. I can't believe I offended him so much that he remembers it NOW. It actually sort of makes me feel terrible. And did I tell you that Boyfriend who Became a Woman dissed me in her blog? I just blogged about it! WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME? Sniff.
No, I'm not on myspace. It seems kind of depressing. Are you?

say my name

Some people have names that they don't like being changed into nicknames. Some Michaels hate Mike, Andrews hate Andy, or Elizabeths hate Liz. (I personally like all those nicknames, but that's neither here nor there.) Some people have names that they don't like being changed into nicknames because the nicknames are horrible; I once knew a Maggie who was technically Margaret and would sometimes get called MARGE... which should really only be followed by "how's your hip feeling today?"

And then sometimes you have a name that contains a variation that is arguably the Worst Nickname on the Planet. Such is the case with me. I don't go by my full name because the only time I've really ever been called it is when my dad was mad at me growing up (as in, "REDIFORD! Get in here!"). And there are basically two nicknames for my name; one is acceptable and is the one I've gone by all my life. I DO NOT go by the other one. Put it this way: It's the name of the girl being addressed in the song Baby Got Back, the one whose friend is complaining about "those rap guys' girlfriends," and in that moment it officially became not only the Worst Nickname on the Planet, but the Most Ghetto Valley Girl Name Ever Uttered.

And it's all MINE.

Except not. I don't go by that name. I loathe that name. I die a little inside anytime that anyone calls me by that name. It's hardly ever someone my age; it's almost always some random old person who mishears my name the first time, which makes me feel bad about correcting them; they probably lived through the Depression! Maybe the Civil War! What the hell do they care about changing a couple consonants around to keep me happy?

I work with this woman who is very sweet and maybe 96. She calls me by the Worst Nickname on the Planet. I really have no reason to interact with her that often, and yet she's always asking me stuff: How do I fix the printer? (Push the green button again.) Can I use your laptop to check my email? (Sure.) Where's a good place to go for Mexican? (Considering you're not willing to leave this town, I don't know; TACO BELL?) And every time she asks me something, she uses That Name. So this was me today:

Me: How do I MAKE HER STOP?
Work Friend: You should've just stopped her right away the first time she did it.
Me: I know. I KNOW!
WF: You could just be like, "Oh, I'm sorry, were you talking to me? I thought I heard you say Worst Nickname on the Planet. I prefer to be called Red."
Me: Do you really think I could pull that off? I'd end up being like, "What? What did you say? For the love of God, don't call me that!" And then I'd make her cry or something.
WF: Yeah, maybe you're just going to have to deal with it, then.

I know I should've nipped it in the bud, but I didn't and this can't go on. In case you couldn't tell, I seriously hate this nickname. (...and I cannot lie, you other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face...)

outside the city. way out.

Suburban bars get such a bad rap. Even if you could throw the same place down somewhere in Boston and it would seem right at home, so long as you're outbound it's like it doesn't count.

Subway: Where are you guys?
Me: We're nowhere. We're at Desmonds.
Subway: Oh, okay.

[later]

Me: This was the perfect night to not really go out.
Steve: Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.
Me: Poor Desmonds. I mean, there's nothing wrong with this place.
Steve: Well, there are some drunk girls over there getting thrown out by the bartender. They look nineteen.
Me: Okay, let's go.

ahh, young love

Here's a riddle for you: I lost my virginity to a woman, but I've never been gay (well, not in any way that really counts). So, figure that one out.

I'm referring, of course, to my old boyfriend who became a woman. I've eluded to this now and then, and Darren inadvertently inspired me, as he so often does, to tell the whole story.

Let's call him Chris, shall we? I feel like he deserves a pseudonym; it's bad enough that if you add an "e" to the end of his actual name, it makes a girl's name.

So I met Chris in eighth grade when he moved to Melonberry (Mark's nickname for my hometown) and was put in my lab group in science class. I was happy because he was cute and tall and new. I wrote in my diary, "I have a crush on the new boy. He's from New York." He liked one of my friends, who looked, no kidding, like a young Heidi Klum (and now just looks like Heidi Klum). And then, I don't know, eighth grade ended and I didn't really pay much attention to him again until junior year of high school, when we had a bunch of mutual friends. He was funny and smart and played football, which meant I was bound to have a crush on him sooner or later.

Now is probably a good time to tell you what most of my friends know all too well: I am ridiculously specific in what type of guy I'm attracted to. He has to be big. Not big-big, but Jason Varitek big. That's the best (albeit extremely Bostonian) example that I can give you. When I met Steve years ago, it was a good thing he liked me too because I probably would've had to climb on top of him regardless. Party Jen and I spent a couple nights in Mexico hanging out with the Armenian mafia (don't ask); I ended up getting paired off with one of them but I preferred his friend, whom they called Big Jack. He had no personality but he was perfect in his bigness. I actually tried to rationalize to Jen why it might be okay to ask my guy if he'd switch with his friend. If boy-swapping on vacation is wrong, then damn it, I don't want to be right!

My point is that Chris was big and very guy-ish (oh, the irony), so it was only a matter of time. He was dating one of my friends, who over the years had morphed into Drama McDepressington, pulling stunts like running out of school and down the street because someone had looked at her the wrong way. (I feel compelled to put in a disclaimer that she was probably legitimately depressed and I hope she's okay now, but at the time she was all over the place and it was more than any of us knew how to deal with.) Chris and I initially bonded over what was going on with her and how we could help, and then she started pulling away and becoming friends with weirdos from another town, and he and I just became friends in our own right. We had a radio show together at the school station on Thursday nights, he taught me how to drive on highways, and we just hung out all the time.

After graduation, he and Drama broke up, and then he and I were together. Even now I still have the wooziest, giddiest memories of that summer after senior year; I was just on a cloud the whole time. We thought this was IT, we decided we'd get married, the whole nine yards. Needless to say, I was ready to break up with him basically my first week into college. So began the cycle of dysfunction: He'd call and I'd be out and he'd get insecure, and then it was the old song and dance... the more needy and hurt he became, the more I pulled away. But then I'd come back to Melonberry on school breaks and he'd be there to occupy my time. I should've just ended it completely, but we went back and forth like that for the next two years.

Then I finally broke up with him during my junior year, in the parking lot of my dorm. I used a line from a song by Jackopierce, which of course he never knew, thank God, but how ridiculous is that? Then I went inside and basically had an impromptu party with my friends; tacky, I know, but it was a huge relief. He called me the next day and told me how everything that had gone wrong between us was his fault. I didn't want to even hear his voice; we just needed to leave each other alone for awhile.

Three or so months later, we reconnected and sort of became friends again. I knew he was over me when he explained to me how everything that had gone wrong between us had actually been MY fault. Hmmm. Anyway, we were never friends again like we used to be (nothing like a dysfunctional relationship to take the fun out of a friendship), but we still hung out sometimes.

Then I was home for the summer after my junior year, and I had dinner with a friend who had just graduated from high school. He told me that a girl in his class was getting a sex change as a graduation present from her parents. I vaguely remembered the girl and I'd never heard of anything like this. When I got home, I called Chris.

Me: You'll never believe this! I just had dinner with Jeff, and he told me that So-and-So is getting a sex change for a graduation present!
Chris: Oh.
Me: She's BECOMING a MAN!
Chris: Yeah.
Me: Is this not UNBELIEVABLE TO YOU?
Chris: I guess so.

After we hung up, I figured he was just being moody. Then he called me back.

Chris: There's a reason I didn't react to your telling me about So-and-So.
Me: There is?
Chris: It's because, well... I'm a transsexual.

Silence. About a YEAR of silence.

Me: What?
Chris: I'm a transsexual.
Me: What?
Chris: Yeah.
Me: What does... what?

So, yeah. What a way to find out, huh? I mean, what are the odds that I heard this random story and called him to revel in its weirdness, and it turned out to be his deepest, darkest secret?

This was eight years ago, and I can still hear him saying those words to me. Even my friend Dave, who never even met Chris, told me recently that my telling him "I just talked to Chris and he told me he's a transsexual" is permanently embedded in HIS brain.

We were still friends after that, but then he told me he wanted us to get back together, and... I don't know. This was someone I truly cared about and I don't doubt that this was a massive struggle for him and who knows where it all came from. The situation is altogether heartbreaking. But it was not for me to date.

And you know what's funny? A few months ago, when I didn't see him at our ten year reunion, I became compelled to find out what the hell had happened with him. I ended up finding his blog. And yeah, he's a she.

She posted something recently about a band that she was going to see and how the last time she'd heard them had been with me. I didn't remember and posted a comment asking her to refresh my memory. She commented back and told me that while we hadn't actually seen the band together, they were playing at a place near my college one time when she was visiting and she remembered hearing the music. Then she said that the day after, she drove home wondering who I was and what I'd done with her friend.

Seriously? Suddenly I remembered all the whiny voice mails and guilt trips from forever ago. I read that blog entry and then found myself saying out loud, "Fuck that shit."

Yup... we may be almost thirty, but turn up the Stone Temple Pilots, because this is definitely like being 17 all over again.

scarred for life

OK, so I'm clearly the world's biggest scaredy cat. The reason that there isn't a better term for it when it applies to adults is because adults shouldn't be as scared of dumb crap as I am. Someone once asked me why I see so many scary movies if I terrify so easily, and I really don't; in the past ten years, I've seen maybe four, but they made a HUGE impact, so much so that I think I've even mentioned them here before. Two of them aren't even considered scary by normal standards but still traumatized me (Scream and The Mothman Prophecies), one was debatable in its scariness (Blair Witch Project), and, of course, there was The Movie That Will Not Be Named, which actually ruined my life a little bit. Obviously I can't name names, but let's just say that Naomi Watts is permanently on my shit list.

Anyway, I've finally realized that the solution is to not see any movie that looks remotely scary. Easy enough. And I don't watch any of what I affectionately refer to as dead people shows, you know, Law and Homicide Crime Scene Victims Justice Unit. I used to watch Lost and even that would really scare me on occasion. Luckily Joe was almost always on instant messenger afterwards to calm my nerves.

My point here is that I don't often get paralyzed with fear in my bathroom at seven in the morning while drying my hair and brushing my teeth and getting ready for work (which I actually do try to go to now and then). I had the radio on, as I always do, and then there was a woman's voice: "I'm so addicted to my cell phone. All my friends have their own personalized rings. People say that my phone and I are attached at the ear! Ha, ha, ha." I'm vaguely assuming it's an ad for Cingular or something. And then: "Some people might think it's annoying, but I think it will come in handy..." Then her voice gets low and creepy. "...in helping the police figure out who murdered me last night." I gasped out loud and got full-body chills. I was so mad at my radio, I almost put on Imus.

My friends always make fun of what I think is scary, so tonight I figured telling Elusive Jen about it was a safe bet.

Me: "...in helping the police figure out WHO MURDERED ME LAST NIGHT."
EJ: WHAT!!!!!
Me: Yeah!
EJ; OH MY GOD! WHY DID YOU TELL ME ABOUT THAT? I JUST GOT CHILLS!
Me: Wait, so this is legitimately scary, then?
EJ: Um, YES.
Me: I just assumed it was only scary to me.
EJ: NO, it's not.
Me: Oh. Sorry.
EJ: My GOD.
Me: I'm so glad it's not just me!
EJ: I have to go, my cell phone is dying.
Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
EJ: I'll call you right back from home.
Me: CALL ME RIGHT BACK IMMEDIATELY RIGHT THIS SECOND NOW.

Yeah, maybe it's just me.

a new low

I didn't go to work today. I'm not sick; there are no sniffles to be had and the bird flu remains at bay. I'm not hungover; Ryan and I did hit up the Kinvara for awhile last night, but that's not the sort of place you'd pick to fall off the wagon of decency. I didn't have anything in particular to avoid at work; my Mondays are actually pretty mellow. But here's the thing: I didn't call in. I didn't call anyone. I just had stuff I wanted to get done outside of work and decided to not go or inform anyone that I wouldn't be there and see if I could get away with it without having it count as a sick day. Really, what the hell was I thinking? Who does that?

I took blatant, selfish, unprofessional advantage of the system. The system wherein there isn't an omnipresent boss to notice my absence; she appears now and then from "headquarters" when there's a crisis but is mostly a voice on the phone, like Charlie (which I suppose makes me an Angel). The system wherein everyone assumes that if they don't see me that I must be at a meeting or something. The system wherein I knew that my office wouldn't look empty and uninhabited because Supergirl would be there bright and early to open the door and turn on the light. I may have to contend with her tomorrow, but hopefully she's the only one.

Spring is off to a lovely, if unmotivated, start.

other career options

Saturday morning I'm in the ladies of the company in NYC where Jason works. There's a woman at one of the sinks and we exchange hellos. Then she turns to me and asks brightly, "Are you one of the new document processing hires?" She's friendly, but there's a hint of condescension there; not the sort of tone you'd use with a 5-year-old, but maybe a 15-year-old.

Is it because I'm wearing jeans? The fact that I'm brushing my teeth? I spend the next several minutes obsessing over what about me, exactly, screams Document Processing Hire--HIRE, not coordinator or executive or even PERSON--when I'm standing in the law firm of Ginormous and McFancyton and would hope to most logically be mistaken for, oh I don't know, a lawyer? Preferably one who slams her first on a table and screams at no one in particular, "Damn it! Bring me the McKenzie file!"

It occurred to me to say "I'm the new partner" but instead I went with "Oh, no, my friend works here, I'm just visiting." What a wasted opportunity.

Beyond all that, document processing hires work on Saturday mornings? Yeah, thanks, not applying for that job.

A few minutes later, a guy from the mailroom hands me a package and asks me to put it on a table for him. In the time it took for him to pause in the doorway, ask me, and point out the location of the table, he could've walked the three steps to the table himself, put the package down, then jumped on top and serenaded me with Eternal Flame.

Data entry on the weekends and transporting packages across a room... I guess my work skills are better appreciated in Beantown.

integrity sprains take awhile to heal

Dirty Dancing* is so deep in the middle of nowhere that there isn't any cell phone reception (not that this is a problem for me; see previous entry). And it's so far north that the radio stations are all French-Canadian talk shows. Having the only music that I'd hear all week be from the six piece orchestra in the ballroom right underneath my room, instead of the incessant overplaying of Coldplay and Gwen Stefani, was always just another tiny detail of being up there that made it unique and lovable.

There was one show that my bedside radio could pick up now and then, and sometimes it would be on when I came back to my room for the night. For years, that was the only time that I ever heard the show, so I had this sweet little association. Lately I've heard it around these parts occasionally when I'm flipping the dial in my car on a random evening, which is so wrong... where's my big soft bed with the covers turned down, summer night, windows open, and the music drifting in from downstairs where people are still dancing?

Well, it turns out the show is Radio Delilah, and let's just say that hearing it in my car on a Tuesday night when I'm not on vacation causes it to lose everything that I once found endearing about it. Her tagline is "looove someone tonight," which is sung, naturally. A typical call: "Hahhh, Delilah. I laav your show. I have a problem, mah boyfriend and I had a faat, and he thinks ahh don't laav him, but ahh doo." Needless to say, she has a lot of Southern listeners. In fact, I'm sure they block Northeasterners from their switchboard altogether to avoid the rasied eyebrow snarkiness that we cold weather folk bring to the table. We may not prolong our vowels, but we can always be counted on to destroy pretty much anything that is still remotely pure and good and hopeful. (Incidentally, I simultaneously love and hate this, but that's a whole other can of worms.)

I caught part of the show tonight. Someone called up with a problem, and it became abundantly clear to me why Delilah has a nationally syndicated call-in advice radio show and I don't.

Suzy: Hahhh Delilah. This is Suzy.
Deliliah: Hi, Suzy. Who are you thinking about tonight? Who's on your mind? Who's left footprints on your heart?
Me: Hahhh Crazy.

Suzy: Ahh'm thinking about mah husband. Ahh did something wrong and ahh hate that I hurt him.
Delilah: What was it you did that caused his heart to ache, Suzy?
Me: Yeah, Suze, details.

Suzy: Well, ahh just realized that you never know how much ahh man's integrity means until you accidentally do something to hurt it.
Delilah: And what happened to injure your beloved's integrity?
Me: Huh?

Suzy: Ahh had only the best intentions but ahh'm afraid that I hurt his integrity and men can have such a hard time expressing their thoughts.
Delilah: I see. And you want nothing more than to regain his trust and true love?
Me: Huh?

Suzy: Ahh'm hoping you can play a song to let him know how I feel.
Delilah: Of course I will. I have just the song.
Me: Why don't you just call him and apologize, genius?

Delilah: And remember that God has a plan for you, Suzy, and if this is meant to work out then it will. You are worthy of love and happiness and all the best things in life.
Suzy: Thankuuue, Delilah. Thankuuue you so much.
Me: Who are you kidding, Delilah? You biblical whore.

I know, I'm going to hell. But have you heard this show? Because, really, you gotta. Or, actually, don't. Just find a friend, play a game of "who had the worst day" and crank the Celine Dion.

*The place I've spent a week every summer with my family since I was six. I sort of enjoy the pointlessness of calling it by its nickname but still including a link to the actual site. But see, they changed management, fired a lot of my friends, and eliminated the afternoon wine tastings, so I really have no loyalty anymore.

call waiting

I got a new cell phone this weekend. As some of you may know, I am not A Cell Phone Person. I'm part of a dying breed that really only owns one in case my car ever breaks down on a dark street or I'm trapped in an alley with ninjas. To be fair, I'll definitely use it if I'm on my way somewhere and need directions, or if I'm running late, or driving to the Cape (read: lots of time to kill on a long, straight road). But there are people who live and die by theirs (some of them are even people I know and love) and I'm not one of them. When these people are available, they can be yours within five seconds, and when they're busy, they still usually take a few seconds to tell you that they're busy. And if I actually make it to voice mail, half the time I get a call from them while I'm leaving a message. That's efficiency for you.

In any case, I'm probably the last person that a cell phone salesperson wants to deal with. The last time I got a new phone, it was two years ago and only because I had a StarTac that got me mocked at Radio Shack. I kid you not, an employee actually called the other employees over: "You have to see this girl's phone! I didn't even know they made these anymore!" Ouch. So I upgraded, two years went by, and then this one stopped working. So the phone guy asked me all the important questions to determine my wireless personality.

Him: So, what are you looking for in a phone?

You know, the usual... sense of humor, stability. How many times a day do you think they have to hear crapass jokes like that?

Me: Not much, to be honest with you. I'm only replacing this one because it's broken.
Him: Are you interested in bluetooth capabilities?
Me: And what are those, exactly?

My apologies to my dad and Jason, both of whom took the time to explain this phenomenon to me on separate occasions. During which I apparently tuned them out and started thinking about something else, like the sociopolitical landscape or what those feisty Gilmore Girls might be up to. So phone guy takes a stab at it.

Me: Oh, okay. I don't think I need all that, but I do want a headset.

He laughs at me.

Me: And I think I want a flip phone.
Him: Great! Here are some of your options.

At this point I realize that every phone in the store is a flip phone.

Him: Do you want a camera phone?
Me: Maybe. Are they expensive?
Him: No, this one has a camera, and this one, and they'd all be free to you with the rebate [and contract and mortgaging of your soul].
Me: Oh. Well then yeah, okay.
Him: Do you text a lot?

I texted everyone I know while I was at jury duty, and adult driver's ed, but I suspect that doesn't really count.

Me: No, not really.
Him: Do you ever find yourself going over your minutes?
Me: No, never.
Him: Right. Stupid question.

I considered the Razor, but it was very shiny and metallic, and overall just a little too much phone for this girl. Plus God knows when I'll trade up again, and the Razor will undoubtedly look reallllly dated in 2008, by which time everyone will have a cell phone brain implant and you'll be able to call someone just by thinking about them.

Yeah, that could be a bad thing. Like tonight, watching Armageddon, I would've been a little embarrassed if my brain suddenly called Steve Buscemi. I mean, I would've talked to him, but I would've felt bad if I interrupted his dinner or something.

it's a little warm here on the back burner

Mark: I have to cancel our plans for Sunday. I made plans with That Girl I Met Online.
Me: What?
Mark: Yeah. Sorry.
Me: What!
Mark: She's having an Oscar party.
Me: You're ditching me for a GIRL?
Mark: I'm going out with her beforehand to see if I want to go to her party.
Me: So she's pre-screening you?
Mark: I'm pre-screening her.
Me: You're a terrible person.
Mark: For pre-screening her?
Me: No, for blatantly ditching me.
Mark: I'm sorry.
Me: But we were going to have sushi [at my favorite sushi place which is in an obscure part of his neighborhood that I never get out to]!
Mark: I know. I'm not even sure I'm going to like her.
Me: You're ditching me for a girl that YOU'RE NOT EVEN SURE YOU LIKE!
Mark: Well, I MIGHT like her.
Me: I have never felt more special.
Mark: I'm sorry, Red. I still love you. You're still my best friend.
Me: I don't care about your friendship. I care about sushi.
Mark: We'll do it soon.
Me: You better marry her, is all I can say.
Mark: Yeah, I don't know about that.
Me: You better marry her, and then when I meet her, I can be like, "Oh, hello. I was going to have the spicy scallop maki that is like CRACK to me, but instead I gave you a husband." That's the only way this will be okay. And even then, it's a stretch.
Mark: Well, if we do get married, you can be the best woman. Groomsmaid?
Me: Goodbye. I loathe you.

friends don't let weird guys bike drunk

The problem with having people that you know in real life read your blog is that every now and then one of them will say, "Hey, you should really blog about that time that we..." and you want to be all, "I don't take requests, punk, what am I, your wedding DJ?" Except that you wouldn't really say that. Anyway, this is one story-by-request that was fun to write about and required very little prodding.

So my friend Tim and I are out way too late this past Monday, of all nights. I'm coming back from the ladies and I spot Drunk Guy talking to him. And by talking, I mean babbling while Tim avoids eye contact. He'd been at the bar for awhile and only made his approach when I was away. Hence, Tim was basically getting picked up. I loved this.

Drunk Guy said his sister thinks he drinks too much but that he'd only had 11 or 12 that night; I said he should call her right then and let me talk to her. He said he lived down the road and mentioned his cellar, and then said that if we brought beers we could all go there. What? We quickly declined, or as Tim put it, diffused that movie-of-the-week murder spectacular. He said he was 37 but he looked 57.

It actually reminded me of that girl from grad school that I didn't really like but that I felt guilty about not liking, until I had a reason to. Although, really, his being drunk and interrupting our conversation might have been enough of a reason in the first place, but I guess I was feeling pretty patient. Or was, until a few minutes went by and then he decided to sit down with us. He sat next to Tim; I was starting to feel like the poor guy would've been molested if I hadn't been there.

So, then Drunk Guy says something about "the Jews." Then he busts out with the n word. I thought I must have heard him wrong; this is 2006, right? And we're in the capital of arguably the most liberal state in the country, RIGHT? I asked him what he'd said, giving him the benefit of the alcoholic doubt. He repeated himself. I looked at Tim and shook my head. Not a "can you believe this guy?" shake, but a "NO NO NO absolutely no more of this" shake.

Then Tim said, "Could you excuse us?" Drunk Guy said sure, and then when he saw we weren't getting up, he figured out what that request meant and left. Left on his BIKE to ride home at least a mile in SUBZERO temperatures, because that's what you do on a Monday night.

So, yeah. It will always be the night that my (male) friend got hit on by a drunken, racist, anti-semitic, frostbitten bike rider, and for that I will always be grateful.

so I guess arranged marriages work, sometimes

At a department meeting today, Supergirl was in typical form. She was going a mile a minute but making a salient point, as she usually does while sucking in all the oxygen in the room. Someone we don't work with interrupted her mid-word by bursting out laughing: "Are you always like this? I don't know how Red does it! I think you'd annoy the hell out of me!"

It came off even harsher than it did in print. Supergirl's face fell. And I surprised myself by immediately and dead-seriously responding, "Hey, back off my wife."

odds are they won't put me in the brochure

[Picture removed, because all the tried-and-true tenters already had the schmantastic opportunity of seeing it, and also I HATE IT... on some level it's just a stupid picture of me from a long time ago and on another level it's adolesent discomfort captured on film forever. And on another level, who cares?]

Mark: This is the bitchiest looking picture I've ever seen of you.
Me: Holy shit.
Mark: When was this taken?
Me: I don't know, a zillion years ago?
Mark: What's wrong with you?
Me: I don't know. Maybe I read something on that paper that made me really mad.
Mark: Yeah, like, "Red, we like your ripped jeans."
Me: And I'm right in front of the sign, like the worst advertisement ever. "Come to this school and be miserable."
Mark: Seriously.
Me: This is so awful. I should blog it!

quiz

Which conversation happened between Elusive Jen and I, and which one happened during the first ten minutes of Grey's Anatomy?

Scenario #1:
Girl: What?
Other Girl: Nothing.
Girl: So I slept with him again. So I'm a big whore. I'm a big whore who can't get enough.

Scenario #2:
Girl: Good luck with your date.
Other Girl: Good luck with your sex.
Both, in unison: Thanks!

cutting to the chase: reviewing trailers

Lonesome Jim: Seems to have the same basic premise of Garden State, but with Casey Affleck, who is like Ben without the money and tanning booth. In other words, I like him. And I'll see any movie that contains the warning: "Be careful, because when you point a finger at somebody else, you're pointing three at yourself and a thumb at the sky."

Marie Antoinette: I can't decide if this will be bad (Kirsten Dunst) or good (Jason Schwartzman).

Firewall: This movie was specifically designed for my mother, who should have been medicated years ago for her obsession with Harrison Ford. She also loves any book, movie, or TV show that has to do was espionage, terrorism, or heists. When the warning about violence comes on before 24, I've heard her yell, "Violence! YES!"

Date Movie: The only thing worse than some of these movies the first time around is a parody of them that doesn't appear to be remotely funny. And P.S. jackasses, the parody of The Ring in Scary Movie was STILL SCARY, so thanks for that.

Film Geek: I'll need to see this.

Illusion: And maybe this.

Basic Instinct 2: Sad.

The Break-Up: Jennifer Aniston is a good straight man in Movies Like This. I can't explain it, but she just plays normal really well; I'd want her to play my girlfriend in a movie, too. The scene in the kitchen solidifies my massive crush on Vince Vaughn. Anyway, this movie could be good, or not. I clearly feel strongly about it.

Failure to Launch: Where would Matthew McConaughey's career be without all these please-fix-this-man movies to star in? He was at his best as Wooderson... can I get an amen?

Poseidon: I hate when people say, "Oh, blah-bitty-blah? Yeah, I liked it the first time when it was called whoozy-whazit! HA HA!" The person making this joke is inevitably lame. But I can't help it... I can't contain it... I apologize ahead of time... I liked this movie the first time around when it was called Titanic. (And by "liked" I mean, saw it, almost cried myself into a nervous breakdown, and then tried to regain my pride by mocking it.)

The Da Vinci Code: It'd be funny if the movie was like the book, and everyone became completely obsessed with it for two days and then forgot about it.

Lady in the Water: Leave it to M. Night Shyamalan to write a movie for his kids that still looks creepy. I like how they're calling it a bedtime story, though, and I'll see anything that Paul Giamatti is in. Speaking of M., how funny was that scene in Signs at the end of the movie when we finally see the alien, and it looked like it was wearing a $19.99 alien Halloween costume from Target?

Stay Alive: This could have been the next House of Wax, if only they'd thought to cast Paris Hilton. Who am I kidding, nothing will ever live up to that genius.

know your audience

The phone rings, and my caller ID says Big Brother. I thought he just watched; didn't realize he also called.

Me: Hello?
Her: Hi, I'm So-and-so calling from Big Brothers Big Sisters...

Ahh.

Her: ...and we're calling to ask you...

No, seriously, the only time that I'm not with or thinking about kids is when I'm sleeping. I'm sorry, but I'd sooner volunteer to do your books.

Her: ...if you have any clothing that you could donate.
Me: Oh yeah, I do, actually. Do you need adult clothing?
Her: Anything you have. We're doing pick-ups on Monday.
Me: Okay, great.

She verifies my address, and then, although I know I'll regret this:

Me: It's funny, you come up on caller ID as Big Brother.
Her: Excuse me?
Me: No, you just... my caller ID said Big Brother and I thought it was kind of funny.
Her: [silence]
Me: Like, Big Brother is watching?
Her: [silence]
Me: Right, so, Monday?

tag, I'm it

I was tagged by Grumpy Frump, which is great timing because I have a bad case of blogger's block.

What were you doing 10 years ago?
When I was little, I wrote a diary entry about what I thought it would be like to be in "colledge first grade." Once I got there I learned that it's actually called being a freshman in college. Anyway, that's what I was doing ten years ago.

What were you doing one year ago?
Pretty much what I'm doing now: Working, hanging out with my peoples, cupcake tenting, and deriving immense satisfaction from reruns of I Love the 80s on VH1.

Five snacks you enjoy:
1. Mini eggs.
2. Great.
3. Now, yet again,
4. I can't get them
5. out of my mind.

Five songs you know all the words to:
OK, I'm putting the iPod on random and picking the first five songs that I know by heart. This has the potential to be fairly embarrassing.
1. The Dangling Conversation by Simon and Garfunkel. I like this song, but I sort of hate the people in it. Somehow the two of them can't make their relationship work, even though they're clearly freakin' made for each other. "You read your Emily Dickinson, and I my Robert Frost," and yet you're incompatible? If I found two people who both enjoyed sitting around reading those poets, I'd force them to marry each other. I'd force them together the way Petey forced those two poor saps together on the log on Fat Camp.
2. Spin the Bottle by the Juliana Hatfield 3. Very high school song, from a very high school movie (Reality Bites), and I first heard about Juliana in a very high school way (Sassy magazine, R.I.P.).
3. I Don't Want to Wait by Paula Cole. Yes, the Dawson's Creek song. I knew my iPod would betray me. I used to annoy Mark by singing the beginning, the "doo doo doo doo" part whenever I thought he was being melodramatic.
4. Past the Mission by Tori Amos. No comment, really; what dysfunctional teenage girl didn't like Tori Amos?
5. The Lady is a Tramp by Ella Fitzgerald. I've always liked this song: "Social circles spin too fast for me; my hobohemia is the place to be. I get too hungry for dinner at eight, I like the theater but never come late, I never bother with people I hate..."

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. I suddenly feel like I've answered these questions before.
2. I'd get all the movie channels and never leave the house.
3. First I'd have to buy a house.
4. I'd buy a Ford Escape hybrid.
5. I'd quit my second job permanently, take a year off of my regular job, and travel everywhere.

Five bad habits:
1. Procrastination
2. Biting my nails
3. Chewing pen caps into OBLIVION
4. Not answering my cell phone, ever
5. I think Michael Ian Black is a little overly snarky. What do you think? (Can you tell I Love the 80s is on as I'm writing this?)

Five things you enjoy doing:
1. Being with my family and friends
2. Car dancing
3. Living room dancing
4. Reading
5. Buying products

Five things you would never wear:
1. A class ring
2. A top hat
3. The Scream mask
4. A dead monkey
5. A bonnet (Insert the picture of me in first grade dressed as a colonial person for Colonial Day at school, which involved more coloring in pictures of Thanksgiving food than killing Native Americans.)

Five favorite toys/games:
1. Moods, but no one will play it with me.
2. Taboo
3. The running game that came with the old school Nintendo. Remember the mat?
4. Drink whenever Carrie Bradshaw makes you embarrassed to be a woman.
5. The fast money round on Family Feud. I would LOVE to be on this show, but I know I'd be mean to my family. I wouldn't be like, "Good answer, sweetie!" when the question was, "Name a famous John" and some dumbass relative of mine ruined everything with, "Uhhh... John... son and Johnson? Yeah! Johnson and Johnson! Baby powder!" No, I wouldn't be patient; this is my moment on the Feud, people. I'd be like Monica on the Friends episode where they bet their apartment playing that trivia game: "RACHEL! USE YOUR HEAD!"

girl power

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not exactly a girly girl. But I'm also not one to necessarily dislike girly girls; I definitely have friends who rock their girliness. It's just not my thing.

The one girly thing that I can't get on board with is showers. No, hello, I bathe. I'm the product queen, remember? That actually flies in the face of my anti-girliness, but that's beside the point. I'm talking about wedding and baby showers.

It's a touchy subject, because almost every woman has one or both at some point. And it's further touchy because I'm single, so not liking these events gives the impression of bitterness. It's a fair assumption, but you'll have to take me on my word that that's not it.

Once I went to a baby shower for a friend who was extremely sensitive about how big she was getting. However unwarranted her concerns (you're not fat; you're growing a person!), she was upset about it. I walked into her shower and was handed a piece of ribbon by her mother; if mine was closest to matching the mom-to-be's actual circumference, I'd win a prize. What, making her cry?

At the last wedding shower that I went to, everyone wrote down marital advice for the bride on little pieces of paper that she read as she unwrapped presents. Grown women gave advice like, "Remember, if you want him to do X, tell him Y!" and giggled knowingly like co-conspirators in man-taming. God knows that I believe in seeing the humor in anything you can, but comments like that makes me feel alienated from my own gender. I don't know who these people are involved with, but I've never been in a relationship with anyone with whom I had to play games in order to communicate, and I never want to be.

So, my new thing is that I only go to showers for friends. And by friend I don't mean someone I work with that I've never seen beyond the parking lot, or an acquaintance that I haven't talked to in four years. If I'm invited to a non-friend shower, I'll send my regrets and a great gift. Can't really complain about that, right? And I certainly don't share my anti-shower sentiments with them; I save that for you.

And now to contradict everything that I just said about not being girly, here's an incredibly girly story. Feel free to stop reading now if it'll girl you out too much; trust me, it's my story and it tends to over-girlify me. (It may also be enough personal information to appease the always-entertaining Jaek, who thinks I'm dead inside.)

I know Connecticut from college, and my relationship with her has changed since she met her fiancee. That's usually what happens, to an extent, but she went from being a woman who was scared of never meeting someone to being a woman who was sort of self-righteous and condescending once she did. Recently we went a couple months without talking and she sent a long email telling me she feels that I'm not interested in our friendship. It's hard to justify that argument when neither of us were really making an effort, but, okay, it must have been bothering her if she decided to bring it up. So I apologized and we talked about it and then I asked if she wanted to make plans to get together (even though, despite our conversation, I just didn't really want to). And I added, "You can bring Fiancee if you want; you know I really like him," which I do. She replied, "Well, you can't have him." I know she was trying to be funny, but still... ugh.

This is just one example of how she and I communicate lately. I usually judge a friendship by how I feel after spending time with the person: Do I more often leave their company saying, "Gee, I love so-and-so," or, "Gee, why didn't I stay home and watch Ashley Parker Angel neglect his newborn son on There and Back?" If I start thinking the latter more often, there's a problem (a huge problem, actually, because that also happens to be a terrible show). And that's how I feel with Connecticut. Friend-dumping is a delicate thing and I don't take it lightly. I adore my friends and I'm truly blessed to have some really good ones, and if I were to find that I'd been a bad, negligent friend to any of them it would devastate me. But I'm also not willing to tug around dead weight, that is, put time and effort into a friendship with someone who hasn't done anything but annoy, insult, and guilt trip me in a long time.

Long story short, I RSVPed no to her shower, and may do the same to her wedding. And I know that, on some level, there'll be hell to pay; we have mutuals who will say mean, uninformed things about my decision. But I'm not sure I care. Well, obviously I still do care because I think about it and I'm writing about it; any of my friends know how much this has gotten under my skin. I'm just not sure that I should care.

As I get older (ahem, closer to 30), I just find that I'm less and less capable of bullshit. It's not that I'm trying to send a message by not going; it's literally that I don't want to waste my time being around people who don't make me happy anymore. I don't settle when it comes to relationships and every so often I'm reminded that I shouldn't settle when it comes to friendships, either. Of course, these words are easy to type and a little harder to live.

how you know your waiter is good

Me: Wow. I'm not sure why, but I kind of love him.
Heterosexual Guy Friend: Me too.
Me: Seriously?
HGF: Is that weird?
Me: No.
HGF: Good.
[pause]
Me: Maybe a little bit weird.
HGF: Yeah, maybe a little bit.

Timeline

1977. First words spoken about me, by a doctor, immediately following my entrance into the world: "Look at the shoulders on this kid, he's going to play football. Oh, it's a girl!"

1978. I say my first words, "mama" and "dada," not because they're the people who feed me, but because they're early emerging consonant sounds paired with vowels, which are basically formed by opening your mouth and making noise. My apologies to parents everywhere.

1979. My parents decide to start trying for another kid, and are told by the doctor that my mom would have to spend her entire pregnancy in the hospital, because I almost killed her in utero. (Was this the same doctor who thought I was a boy? Maybe get a second opinion.) They decide not to have anymore children, thus placing all of their expectations on my man shoulders.

1980. I have a little panda toy on wheels that I push around everywhere. I distinctly remember fantasizing about being able to climb down into it and have it open up into a place much like the house that I live in, only without anyone else there. Years later I realize that I was wishing for my own apartment as a toddler.

1981. When my dad pours himself a beer, he lets me drink the foam off the top, which I enjoy. It was probably just a convenient way for him to get rid of the head. I wonder what child protective services would've had to say about that.

1982. I wonder where babies come from, but I'm too nervous to ask because I intuitively know it's dirty. In the meantime I continue rubbing Barbie and Ken together until they both start to chafe.

1983. I get a project done before everyone else in my class and am told that I'm "the star of first grade." As a reward I get to hold the Bus #10 sign at dismissal. I almost pass out from happiness.

1984. I keep a short-lived food journal, and on January 20th report that my breakfast consisted of waffles, orange juice, and "starwberry yougert," which I proudly, however misinformed-ly, note underneath as containing "no calories!" I was SEVEN. And the day before I wrote down that I had tuna fish and Fritos for dinner. Was anyone watching me?

1985. I am absent on the day that we learn how to do cursive capital Js, which is inconvenient because my last name starts with one. My Js will continue to look a little off until that summer, when I decide to adopt the J from the Julio Inglesias record in my grandmother's living room. For the next several years, my Latin-influenced Js are quite dramatically big and swirly.

1986. I live in the perfect neighborhood for a kid: one of my best friends lives across the street and one of them lives a street away; both are named Katie. The rest of the street is filled with kids from school to play with, with all of us having dinnertime as our curfew. Garbage Pail Kids, scratch and sniff stickers and charm necklaces are our currency. The only one who doesn't play with us is this kid Stephen who always goes right home after school, despite living in The Funnest Neighborhood Ever. I'll know him peripherally until the end of high school, and always wonder what his deal was.

1987. I turn ten, which feels anticlimactic, as all my friends are about to turn eleven. This will continue to vex me until many of them start turning thirty.

1988. I become a godmother to my newborn cousin Chris. I will spend the next 18 years imparting my wisdom, which he will ignore.

1989. I am going to marry Joey McIntyre. You know this because of the giant pin bearing his face that's affixed to my jean jacket, and the poster of him over my hamper, and the interview with him in Big Bopper that's ripped out and thumbtacked to my bulletin board.

1990. While my friends and I amuse ourselves with terrorizing and being terrorized by neighborhood boys during sleepovers, I hear that someone in my class is having sex and am shocked. I search their face for signs of it and don't find any, but am sure that they now possess a new sense of maturity and worldliness. In reality, they probably possess chlamydia.

1991. I start high school and retire my hypercolor t-shirt.

1992. They Might Be Giants are my favorite band, and they come to play in my high school auditorium. I am paralyzed with joy.

1993. I spend lots of time at Newbury Comics, wear big black boots, and almost always have some crappy faded plaid shirt tied around my waist. If you're not one of my friends or Eddie Vedder then shut up because you don't know anything.

1994. I've taken all of the English classes at my high school, so I start doing an independent study on Freud because that means I can recycle a paper that I wrote for my psychology class the previous year. My laziness is mistaken for ambition, and is actually rewarded when the teacher overseeing my independent study writes a recommendation letter for me to the college that I want to go to, praising my non-existent initiative and work ethic.

1995. At graduation, my mom takes a picture of my then-boyfriend Justin getting his diploma. Six years later I'll meet Steve and it will turn out that he had been at my high school graduation because he was dating a girl in my class. I found the picture of Justin from that day, and there's Steve standing in the background. I will continue to check this picture whenever I start dating someone to see if they're in there, too.

1996. I start consuming solid food again after having spent the better part of the previous year eating sugar-free Jell-O, break off my "engagement" to Justin, and discover that the guys down the hall from me have an extra room in their suite that they've basically made into an opium den. I like college.

1997. I turn twenty the night that Live ER premieres. There's a picture of me watching it, either riveted or high, on the floor of my dorm room with two of my friends. I guess it's a rockin' birthday when there's a picture of you watching television.

1998. I go on my first real spring break WOOOOOO!!! trip and have fun, but am secretly glad that I'm graduating soon so I won't be doing it again.

1999. First real job, first apartment, first bloodcurdling scream after seeing a mouse run under my bedroom door and into my closet.

2000. I have my first and last gin and tonic at a wedding where the bartender informs us that he is only allowed to make drinks that contain two or less ingredients. Despite never having had a G&T, it's the first thing that comes to mind. Well, right after, "That's freakin' ridiculous." I was not yet a wine drinker and wasn't able to stomach beer, since at that point I still associated it not as a beverage but as the sticky stuff all over my bathroom floor in college (I lived with boys, remember).

2001. The little stick tells me that I'm pregnant. I panic, and then sort of accept it. When I find out I'm not, I'm actually surprised. Then I throw up. (If I had been knocked up, there's a good chance I would've been married with a kindergartener right now. But let's not go there.)

2002. I move into a new place with a living room that has a mirrored wall.

2003. I start writing a blog. The world begins anew.

2004. I finish graduate school. I neglected to mention starting but, needless to say, the finishing was the most important part.

2005. I make the unfortunate discovery that the only thing worse than John Mayer is James Blunt.

2006. I find an unopened Nature Valley granola bar in my bag that's smashed beyond all recognition. I throw it away, feeling wasteful, but really, I'm just not going to eat that.

small candy, big obsession

It's official... from now until April 16th, CVS is enemy territory. Cadbury mini eggs are on the shelves. Cadbury mini eggs, my sugar shell-coated nemesis. When I was in Sunday School, they never told me that someday Easter would come down to simply this: my favorite candy on the planet, taunting me from its perfect purple bag of goodness for two months out of the year.

My friend planned an intervention for me once. One year he decided that the way to deal with this was not to avoid the mini eggs entirely, which only led to thinking about them everyday, knowing they were out there. He decided the solution was to bring a bag into our home and just enjoy it and get it out of my system. It was a pure, simple, optimistic plan, and it didn't work. I wanted to eat the whole thing, so I made him parcel it out to me daily and hide it from me and not tell me where it was NO MATTER WHAT and that if I started going through this things he was to call campus security immediately and give them permission to taser me.

Ahh, mini eggs. Not to be confused with Cadbury creme eggs. Remember the commercials for them with the bunny pretending to be a chicken? I was so confused by that when I was little. I thought it was a real egg, and why would you want to freakin' eat that? I asked my mom what the deal was and she told me it was for adults, which was another way of saying, not for you. So for awhile I thought that adults must like raw eggs dipped in chocolate and hatched by creepy bunny-chickens. Yet another reason that adults made no sense.

flower girl

Here are my other two cents about Valentine's Day. By now most men are onto the fact that sending flowers to her place of business is a move that will pay for itself several times over. Despite the fact that it's ultimately not a gesture that really attests to your love or anything like that... when I was at Shrinkage, this woman had an complete jerk of a boyfriend who yelled at her at the Christmas party and always sent the biggest bouquet, presumably the "I'm Wicked Sorry Baby" arrangement.

But when it comes to flowers, step it up and send them to her at work on some random day, and it will pay for itself a thousand times over. Trust me, this will make your life better. Do it now, in fact. Go on, I'll wait here. Actually, do it in a few days, otherwise it will seem like you're trying to make up for her being the only flowerless girl in the cube farm on V-Day. Do it on some Tuesday in March. Then come back here for more advice on the ladies. And try to imagine that that last sentence came out much more Barry White-ish than I was able to type it.

Damn, I'm good. I'd make some needy, overanalytical woman very happy.

You know what's funny, though? There's even a loophole when it comes to sending flowers to a woman at work, and I, of course, somehow managed to live it. It was several years ago and I had just started dating this guy and I wasn't completely sure how I felt about things yet; not in a bad way, just in a new way. I did end up liking him a lot and dating him for awhile. But he sent me flowers at work on a random day, which forces you to suddenly come up with the exact right response to "WHO sent you THESE?!" Turns out that "oh, just a friend" sounds too coy and "oh, just this guy" makes you sound like a whore. It's like being forced to wear a sign that says, "Hey, random coworker that I've never really talked about anything much with besides that latest brochure copy and the weather! You're standing right here at my desk staring at the damn flowers, so why don't you ask me who I just started sleeping with!"

Maybe I'll send some to myself at work and then yell that at the top of my lungs. That'd probably be worse than drinking the powdered apple cider mix, huh?

candy hearts

Let's have a look into the highlights of my stash and see what the kids are giving for valentines these days, shall we?

Puns are still big. There's a lion telling you You're a Top Cat. A basketball player thinks You're a Slam Dunk. Newsflash: Little Kids Still Like Craptastic Humor! (One of my favorite Onion headlines was Study Shows Babies Are Dumb.)

I received one with a cartoon girl that I can only assume is a prostitute. She looks like Barbie's ho bag cousin. "Have a stylin' Valentine's Day!"

Another prostitute, with slightly less make-up and sans fuck me heels, which is nice considering she's probably supposed to be under ten years old. "Show your style, Valentine."

Hot Wheels! You know this kid forgot about his valentine cards until last night and his dad had some of these leftover from 1985. "Start revvin' your engine--it's Valentine's Day!" I love how even at five years old, boys are Such Boys.

"Love the Nerd You're With" with a box of nerds. Junior high is gonna be tough for this kid.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Who would've thought they had staying power? "It's so easy being green on Valentine's Day." Yeah, not catchy. But I still remember the idiotic "heroes on a halfshell... turtle power!" so I guess they can get away with anything.

The female Incredible with long, rubbery fingers. "If it's not much of a stretch, will you be my Valentine?" But I'm thinking this girl's sentiment isn't exactly genuine, since she put her name in both the to and from slot.

One of them gave me a Wonka cherry-yum-diddly fun dip. What?

So, that's what Valentine's Day is looking like from the kindergarten front these days. Idolizing whores, dredging up the worst cartoon icons from twenty years ago, and giving out candy that sounds like it needs an NC-17 rating. Sounds about right.

snow day

The Blizzard of 2006... call now for the commemorative plates! Next month it'll be Oh, Um, The Other Blizzard of 2006. And then in April, The Blizzard of This One Really Just Hit Boston Because You Guys Have The Worst Freakin' Snow Luck on the Planet, But Great Lobster You Guys, Really.

I just don't feel like it can truly be a blizzard when everything is up and running the very next day. That's a snowstorm. A blizzard is when cars are stuck on the highway and people can't leave work and taxi drivers are delivering babies and Bing Crosby is somewhere in the background, providing a soundtrack for it all. Regardless of how much we're getting, we know the weatherpeople are taking it seriously when they're all in sweaters. It's a snow emergency, get me my J. Crew! There's no time for cuff links, for the love of God, DON'T YOU SEE? THE SNOW IS FALLING!

We used to pull that kind of ridiculousness in college; whenever there was a big storm, we'd all be at the dining hall in our pajamas. Why? Our clothes were indoors, as they were every other day of the year, and whatever kind of weather we were having didn't really make dressing oneself anymore difficult. And yet there we were, snow day after snow day, filling up mugs with hot chocolate and half-dressed like crazy people. Maybe it's a regional thing. I don't imagine that students at UCLA didn't fully dress themselves during a heavy rainstorm, as a way of somehow paying homage to the rain.

Yeah, New Englanders are a little bit insane. The weather does something to us. But it really makes us appreciate those eleven minutes of spring all the more.

still sick, and no less inappropriate

Coworker: I can't believe you drank that powdered apple cider mix.
Me: If there was a powdered version of you that I could make into a hot drink right now, I'd probably drink that too.
Coworker: Would that be like ashes?
Me: Well, no. I wouldn't take you out of your urn. That would be disrespectful.
Coworker: And probably not very tasty.
Another Coworker: What the hell are you guys talking about?

I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell

So, I seem to be on the tail end of some form of the flu. Not entirely surprising, given what I do for a living, but still kind of weird considering that I don't even get colds that often. There's those couple requisite days of rehydration after a tropical vacation, mostly because of too little sleep and too much of everything else, but other than that, I'm just not a cold-getter.

I would've blogged over the weekend, but I was having difficulty with being anything but horizontal, and thus may have also been challenged to write much more than "need more juice" and "gummy stars rainbow hiccup." Yeah, decided to spare you all that. Anyway, as it turns out, this is how you know you're sick, even when you're A Person Who Doesn't Get Sick:

1. When you mix up your pronouns. Yesterday, I said several variations on, "They... she... I mean, he said..." and "I thought that she was going to go with him... I mean, that you were going to go with her."
2. When you can't explain what the hell your problem is. I was clearly wheezing but announced to anyone who was interested that my coughs were going into my brain.
3. When you're not so much sleeping as hallucinating. When I'm sick and trying to sleep, it's like I become the project manager of all these imaginary dream jobs, because I'm dreaming that I need to get some kind of extremely pressing work done, and I keep waking up worrying that I'm not done yet, and I'm actually pretty stressed about accomplishing these imaginary tasks, and then in my half-awake state I tell myself, "Hey, don't worry, it'll all get done! Oh wait, these are all make-believe problems. Go back to SLEEP." This is your brain on cough medicine.
4. When you suddenly don't care that it's Superbowl Sunday... oh, no wait, I never care that it's Superbowl Sunday. The only good thing about Superbowl Sunday is the apps, none of which I could eat this time around because the only thing that looked good to me was orange juice, and also the fact that it means we're that much closer to baseball season. (Ryan was cute, though: "I have a question about all the backs. So there's quarterbacks and Hasselbacks and running backs...")

The other thing that I realized is that your temperature doesn't matter unless you're a kid. Okay, maybe it matters if you're really really sick and in the hospital, but when you're just sick in a normal way and your mom asks you if you have a temperature, you realize that the whole point of having a temperature is for it to be high enough for her to let you stay home from school ("Please, please, let it be in the hundreds, let it be in the hundreds... 100.6! Yes! I'm SICK! I'm going to watch The Price is Right! Have fun in earth science, suckas!"). Once you reach a certain age those numbers just don't have the same significance.

turn it up

Let's discuss something serious, shall we? I don't think that Janet Jackson is always singing "oh, you nasty boys"; sometimes it's a distinct "ode to nasty boys." This theory of mine is not well received around these parts. Nor was my thinking that it was time to rock the cash bar, or that when it comes to Billie Jean, you should be careful what you do because a life becomes of you. But I stand behind my Janet theory, even though it's caused me to be called Ye Olde Red and subjected to questioning about how much Keats I actually read in college and how it irrevocably tainted my brain.

Whatever she's babbling about, it's impossible not to car dance when it comes on. It's one of the select few songs that you can't even stop rocking out to when you pass another driver and you want to appear reasonable. I sort of hate it when strangers in the next lane catch me singing about Tommy and Gina, but when it comes to Ms. Jackson if you're nasty, well, I just can't contain that.

ambivalence at first sight

A friend was telling me how she got an instant message from a random acquaintance from college that she doesn't really like that much, and, naturally, a little bit of e-awkwardness ensued. This reminded me of one of my favorite random acquaintance stories from a few years ago.

You know how it goes sometimes: You meet some person, and they're fine, and they're suddenly in your life in some way and you kind of want to like them because they're nice enough and you can't think of A Major Reason not to, forgetting, of course, that you don't really need A Major Reason. You find yourself saying, "Well, there's nothing wrong with them." You forget that while you'll lose a date's number if you don't feel anything, you'll somehow make yourself feel bad for not feeling anything with a potential friend. Suddenly I forget that all of my friends, different though they may be, are people that I instantly liked, if not adored. You need friend chemistry, there's just no way around it. And I felt zip with Random.

She was a classmate of mine in grad school. She always wanted to hang out, and to make matters worse she was new to the city and didn't know many people and so I felt extra guilty about being vague and put-offish about making plans. I tried to keep it to school-related stuff but she kept asking me to go to dinner. And then I told myself, "Well, for God's sake, I can have a meal with the girl." So I called for back-up in the form of Elusive Jen. I did a bad sell job. I think it went something like: "So I have to go out with this girl from school that I don't really like and her roommate is coming too and it might be terrible so would you come with me?" She came. You would too. If it ends up being fun, then great, and if not then it's comedy after the fact and fodder during the drinks that you go out for after you ditch the losers.

I'm sounding like a terrible person right now, I know. Stay with me for a minute.

Unsurprisingly, we ended up with comedy after the fact. The dinner was a bit of a blur: Her roommate was like a 80-year-old humorless man in a 24-year-old woman's body, who told stupid stories about brief encounters with obscure celebrities. It was funny that it came off so badly because both Elusive and I enjoy a good obscure celebrity story, but it just didn't work; instead of seeing the funny, roommate was boastful about the encounters, as though accidentally brushing against Chris O'Donnell's elbow is something to dangle over the heads of those who have had no such elbow-on-elbow contact. The other thing is that she was the kind of person who, after some harmless, not-even-especially-funny comment was thrown out, she'd stare right at you and say, "What do you mean?" as though her command of the language was so literal that she would need you to translate idioms for her. And then there was Random, who acted so nervous around me that it made me uncomfortable. When her roommate went to sit next to me, Random glared at her and then roommate jumped up and said, "Oh, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to sit between you." Elusive's eyebrows went up. The weird vibe continued. Later on in the ladies Elusive said, delicately, "Any chance she thinks you two are on a date?" I wasn't entirely sure. And I'm not a fan of dating without knowing it.

Anyway, I attributed that experience to her nightmare roommate, for the most part, and continued to see Random for occasional post-class lunches and study sessions, and continued not really liking her, but still feeling somewhat guilty about it. Then one night I was driving her home from class and she was telling me some story about her parents. She referred to them as Mommy and Daddy. Not even, "my Mommy and Daddy," not that that would've been acceptable. No, she just said, "Mommy and Daddy." Like, "Well, Mommy said..." Dear God.

Then she told me about the guy that her sister was dating, and how it was going to be a big problem because he's not Jewish. "AND he's black." I asked her if that was a problem. She replied, "Well, YEAH," as though I was right there with her on the twisted little Southern plantation in her head. I was actually kind of relieved. Now I had a reason not to like her. Mommy, Daddy, AND racist? Score!

Elusive brings it up now and then, especially when I'm talking her into coming with me somewhere and she says, "Oh yeah, like that night with those two people. Who the hell were they?" My thoughts exactly. What the world needs is more people trusting their initial instinct toward a person when it pushes them in the direction of blind hatred.

where you're coming from - January

It's the end of the month, which means it's time for the first ever monthly review of my favorite wacky things people inputed into search engines to reach me. It's short because I just figured out how to do this a few days ago, thanks to Darren.

"schmoo conference"
When is it? Where is it? Who's the keynote speaker? Just so long as it's not at the Radisson again, because those clowns don't validate parking.

"learning to love yourself"
I thought this was maybe because I teach my readers how to love the pants off themselves. But no... it was just a lyric from the Whitney Houston song that I used to win the sneak attack song lyric contest at work. Sigh. The funny thing is that when you do a search for this, the tent is sandwiched between sites that are actually there for the purpose of talking you down from the ledge, whereas I'm just babbling about how the children are our future and not at all concerning myself with your well-being. I apologize.

"November Rain video how did bride die?"
I KNOW! I wondered this when I was like 14 and never figured it out, so I'm sure I was of no help to this person. I DO know that Stephanie Seymour bitchslapped that woman right off her bar stool without knocking Axl over, even though he was sitting between them. That's a badass supermodel move.

"No no no, you fix that wall before my dad gets home for work! He's gonna beat me with a belt!"
I hope this was a search for a Dane quote and not a cry for help.

next time, order in

Restaurants are great places until they think you're trying to steal their crap. It turns out that if you go to lunch with a friend to a place that gives out those buzzy light-uppy things in order for the host/ess to tell you when your table is ready, and then you decide to go to Barnes and Noble for five seconds because it's right next door and the wait at the restaurant is forty five minutes at 2 PM on a Sunday, the aforementioned buzzy light-uppy thing will not necessarily just beep to let you know you're out of range... oh, no. A simple beep does not always suffice. Because you might not just be at Barnes and Noble for five seconds; you might be trying to make off with their buzzy light-uppy thing, perhaps to use as a prototype to open your own Buzzy Light-Uppy Thing store.

So instead of a hey-where'd-you-get-to courtesy beep, the bastard busts out with the "whennnnnn the moon hits your eye like a big-a pizza pie, that's amore..." song. No lyrics, mind you, because God must not completely hate me. So I hear this deafening monstrosity and start laughing because it's not coming from me. Then Steve says it's coming from me. But no, it can't be, my cell phone isn't even... oh, shit. And we're about a mile from the exit, which means walking past 3,000 people, all of whom are glaring at me because they think I have the Lady and the Tramp song as my ridiculously loud ringtone. But ultimately the restaurant got its way; we were back in there in about 3.2 seconds and proceeded to wait dutifully like kids at detention. When our table was ready the buzzy light-uppy thing simply blinked red and vibrated a few times, apparently having made the decision to communicate with us in a rational way, not in a way that makes me want to knock over a self-help display and scream, "WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME? WHAT IS IT THAT YOU NEED?"

They're onto something, though; Best Buy should put the full-volume amore song on all of their merchandise, and nobody would ever steal anything. That thief would get five steps out the door and then run back in, apologizing for swiping those iPods and begging the staff to take them back and make that godforsaken song stop. And then later, they'd have an inexplicable craving for Italian.

randomness

1. What would be your first purchase after winning the lottery?
A house with a Sephora and Origins in the basement. Wait, did I just buy a mall? OK, never mind. I'd buy a house and a hybrid. Then I'd travel all over Europe and pay for my friends to come with me because I'm rich and they're lucky.

2. What have you always wanted to have/do/be, but know is forever out of reach?
I've always loved the idea of running a bed and breakfast, in a big sunny house with breezy curtains and fresh flowers in every room. But then I realized that would mean strangers sleeping in my home, so it'll just never happen. Some of them could bring dead demon children with them, you never know.

3. Who in your family are you most like?
My mom is extremely emotional, sometimes irrationally so, and my dad is extremely laid-back, sometimes irrationally so. I'd say I somehow fall somewhere in between those two ridiculous extremes.

4. How long would you last on Fear Factor?
I wouldn't go on that lame ass show. Wait, they'll pay me how much to eat sauteed porcupine brain?

5. Describe your sense of humor.
Deconstruction of pop culture, basically.

6. T/F: All I need to know I learned in kindergarten?
True in that cutesy way, but don't drop out afterwards.

7. Religion or politics?
To what, blog about? I prefer to write about movies and bubble gum and cute boys.

8. What’s your favorite word?
Cognizant.

9. Can you macarena?
Ugh, I think so. But that dance isn't even fun in a kitschy way. I wouldn't do it, and I'm a girl that's been known to bust out the Electricslide with little to no shame. (Why did I capitalize the E? Out of respect?)

10. “Is it true that if you don’t use it, you lose it?”
You better have a big trunk, because I'm putting my bike in it.

11. Why do you fill out online surveys like this?
I get my inspiration from Subway.

12. What are you most afraid to do, but have always wanted to try?
Skydiving

13. What is the funniest joke you’ve heard?
Here's a random Dane moment because I can't pick just one: "Remember those Kool Aid commercials, where that big talking bowl of punch would come crashing through the fucking wall in your living room? 'OH YEAH! OH YEAH!' And the little kids were all excited: 'Yes, yes!' And then they would drink out of him, after debris fell in his open dumb head. He would pour himself. 'OH YEAH! OH YEAH!' Him and his crazy tights. I don't like that. I don't like when juice wears tights. That's a horrible combination, a bowl of juice wearing tights. And they're fucking drinking out of him. If that was me I'd be like, 'No no no, you fix that wall before my dad gets home from work. He's gonna beat me with a belt, he's not gonna believe a talking bowl of fruit punch came in here.'"

14. How many “where were you when...?” moments do you have?
The Challenger explosion (watching in on TV with my class in the school library)
OJ verdict (the day after my 18th birthday, eating leftover cake in my dorm room with the Bride and Girl With Bunny)
9/11 (at my apartment watching the Today Show)
Red Sox winning the world series (watching it with my dad and Party Jen, literally delirious with joy and sleeplessness)

15. What is the most memorable offhand remark you’ve heard/said?
In the last year, it was, "What time is it? What are you doing? Isn't he married? Get back here!"

16. What is the average air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
Quite speedy, I'd imagine. Also, shut up.

monkey business

I've never been a big supporter of grown women who enjoy feature length animated movies when they're not in the company of children. In my mind, these are the same women who call their dogs their wittle angels and have never missed an episode of 7th Heaven. So it's with some reservation that I tell you that the new Curious George movie looks totally adorable!

And along those lines, sort of, they're coming out with Bambi II. Talk about a delayed sequel. And honestly, why? So that our kids can be traumatized by it, too? It also seems that Bambi hasn't grown at all. May want to see the vet or forest ranger or deer developmental specialist about that, little guy.

I don't remember being really upset by Bambi. It was sad, but it's always been the scary things that get me. My grandfather took me to see ET and when it got to the scene in the cornfield where they all scream, I became inconsolable and we had to leave. Everyone had a scene in ET that freaked them out. Someone told me theirs was when ET was dying and turned white, and somebody else didn't like when the scientist astronaut FBI policemen crashed into the windows of the house when it was all wrapped in plastic or something. Maybe I need to see that movie again. I might have missed some key plot points while I was having a crush on Ell-ee-ot.

And I think it was my parents who took me to see Annie, which I would come to obsessively love later, but the first time that I saw it I was horrified by the scene where the bad guys chase Annie up the ladder and big surprise, I became inconsolable and we had to leave. I hate chase scenes. I used to have dreams where the bad guys were chasing me and I'd just sit down and cry and wait for them to get me because I didn't want to have to deal with the stress of running away and prolonging the inevitable. Not sure what that says about me, but I'm guessing I wouldn't be the one you'd want around if we found ourselves having to escape from psycho killers. Save yourself, because I have to sit down now.

On Halloween in fifth grade, my teacher rented Watcher in the Woods for us. She had to shut it off when we were all screaming in terror, and nobody wanted her to turn it back on, even the class badass, whose name was Jesse, which is a great fifth grade badass name.

I still scare way too easily. Even the movies I'm not supposed to admit to being scared by (Scream, Blair Witch) were quite upsetting for me. When I saw The Mothman Prophecies, I lived in an itty bitty apartment that contained me, my boyfriend, my roommate, and my roommate's boyfriend, and I was still too scared to sleep.

When I saw The Movie Which Will Not Be Named That Rhymes With The Swing, I should have left as soon as the first person that they killed off had the same name as me, and her friend whispered up the stairs: "Red...Red...are you okay?" That movie impacted my sleep for months afterward. I still can't talk about it. I'm uncomfortable typing about it. I'm not even kidding! That's the sad thing. Nothing is scarier than dead demon children. NOTHING.

The other night on the news they were saying that some guy knocked over a bunch of headstones, "some of which were on the graves of children, dating back as far as the early 1900s." Hollllllly crap. That guy is SCREWED.

utter vocal pointlessness

wicked cold cah

As a general rule, car doors never freeze on Saturday morning. It's always, always something that happens when you have to get to work. Like getting pulled over for speeding, or running into a neighbor who decides to give a really long and thoughtful response to "hey, how's it going?"

Tatertot's mom was packing her eleventeen children into her van (which I'm pretty sure is the same one that the Libyans used in Back to the Future) when I realized that my car was a big useless ice pop. She wished me luck before she peeled out. Thanks, lady. The next time you're going out for the night and you tell your kids to come over to my place in case they "need anything," I'm putting a sign on my door that says, "Call 911. Good luck!"

I checked all the doors and realized that my trunk wasn't frozen. This was clearly just my car's way of mocking me. I waited for the tatertots to leave and then did the shameful thing that I've had to do once before: I crawled through my trunk to get to the front seat and start the car. Yes, it crossed my mind that a UPS guy could happen to come along at any moment and see me tunneling through my backseat like Inspector Gadget, but I feel like they've probably seen crazier stuff than that, don't you? Well, maybe not. I may not be very dignified, but at least I'm resourceful.

So I made it to the front seat, which felt sort of victorious, but I still had to perform some extensive defrosting (imagine if I made it to work but was then trapped INSIDE my car?). No two ways about it, I was going to be late. And on my meeting day, of course. And on a meeting day that I have to present on, of course. You're only forced to crawl through the underbelly of your frozen car when you're late for a meeting at which you have to present.

So I call work. Schmoo gets on the line.

Schmoo: Hey Red. Are you going to make the meeting?
Red: I think so, but maybe you could start without me.
Schmoo: Start without you?
Me: Yeah, you could just walk them through the beginning of the report and I'll be there probably ten minutes into it--
Schmoo: I don't know.

Schmoo has been doing this job for, oh, ten years. She's read, oh, fifteen thousand of my reports. And I'm never late for these meetings, ever. She's bright and competent and has been doing this for much longer than I have, yet in the course of this conversation she's suddenly become a malnourished kitten hanging from a tree branch in the dead of winter.

Schmoo: I mean, they don't want to hear from me. I'm administration. I'm the enemy.
Me: Ten minutes. That's it.
Schmoo: I know, but...
Me: You could get Supergirl to pinch hit for a few minutes if you're really concerned about it.
Schmoo: Maybe we'll just conference you in.
Me: Ugh.
Schmoo: Okay?
Me: Yeah, okay. I'll call in at 8:30.
Schmoo: Okay.
Me: Actually, why don't you "just conference me in" every Tuesday from now on and I can do this from bed.
Schmoo: See you at 8:40!

Anyway, I made it in, finally, and later on was telling somebody about my trunk diving adventure. She told me that once she sat behind a line of cars and beeped at them for not moving. She said she was there for a solid five minutes before she realized that they were parked. I immediately felt better.

And I know that I'm not really one to judge after what I did today, but... a solid five minutes? How does that happen?

party girl, or not

Last year a work friend came to a Sox game with me and my peoples because I had an extra ticket and she's a huge fan. Sometime during that night she apparently got the impression that I lead a wild and crazy life, because every so often she alludes to all the debauchery that I must be up to. I'm always like, "I don't know what you're talking about, Work Friend," but she seems to think that I'm being coy rather than honest. Recently we were trying to figure out a day to go for a beer and apps after work, and while comparing our day planners she said, "Well, we definitely can't do it on a Friday, because knowing you, you're doing something far more exciting." What, at four in the afternoon? Then she turned to the person with us and said, "This girl is always up to something!"

To prove to her that my Fridays are not just for heroin binges and bank robbing, we went out this afternoon. At one point she asked what my big weekend plans were. I told her I was babysitting my godsiblings, and now I know what they mean when they refer to someone's face falling. She looked like a six-year-old who just found out there's no Santa. Or Disney World.

I don't know that she'll ever look at me with the same misplaced reverence again, but I'm a little relieved. It's kind of exhausting to be so scandalous in someone else's imagination.

lather, rinse, repeat

I'm somewhat offended by a sign that's been put up at work. No, traumatized.

It's in the women's bathroom and it says, "Did You Wash Your Hands?" I never realized that a sign could be patronizing. At first I thought it must be left over after putting them up in the kids' bathrooms, and someone put it up in ours to be funny. But then I read it and realized that it's really not meant for kids. If it was for kids it would say something like, "The last person who didn't wash their hands after going to the bathroom got cooties and extra homework for a week and their GameCube exploded and they had to eat lunch with the smelly kid for the rest of the year." No, the language on this one was for adults... it actually had instructions on how and why to do it.

I wanted to write underneath it, "Not only do I KNOW ENOUGH TO WASH MY HANDS, but I also happen to be the one who supplies the GOOD SOAP out of the GOODNESS OF MY HEART because I don't want to use the blue crap that smells like Windex that comes out of the dispenser on the wall."

I thought restaurant bathrooms with "Employees Must Wash Hands" signs were bad enough; apparently my place of work is already going on the assumption that we're not doing it and need to be chastised ahead of time.

I mean, what's next? "Did You Pull Up Your Pants?" It's a slippery slope.

what we have here is a failure to communicate

Me: Hi.
Dorie: Do you have call waiting?
Me: What?
Dorie: You have call waiting, right?
Me: Yeah.
Dorie: That's so great.
Me: I guess. I hate the beep, though.
Dorie: What beep?
Me: The... beep. You know. The disruptive beep.
Dorie: I don't have it. I didn't know it beeps.
Me: You don't have it?
Dorie: No, but I need to get it. I hate never knowing who's calling.
Me: Do you mean caller ID?
Dorie: What?

impulsive? me?

My First Boyfriend posted an anecdote about high school in his blog so of course I had to post a comment, because his anecdotes and mine are basically the same. Then we started commenting back and forth and at one point, in the context of a story from long ago, he mentioned that I'd never had great impulse control. I immediately wanted to reply, "WELL THAT MAY BE TRUE, BUT YOU BECAME A WOMAN!" but I think that would've just proved his point.

Her point.

nice play, but why's the field all bloody?

Here's part of the sports report that I saw on the news tonight: "Guy McFootballington, whose wife stabbed him the night before, ran the ball whatever number of yards..."

They said "stabbed" with all the casualness of "cooked him lasagna" or "bought him a new shirt." I'll never again say that football is boring.