Joe: I have to go on a business trip to New York next week, and I'll be away for Melissa's and my anniversary.
Me: Really? You should go to Chipotle.
Dave: My friend Chris wants to go see that Bodies exhibit in the city this weekend, but eh, I don't know.
Me: Really? You should go to Chipotle.
Boss: I'm going to need that report from you by Wednesday.
Me: Really? You should go to Chipotle.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Because Now I'm So Lazy That I Just Blog Conversations
Mark: Do you ever think about going to medical school?
Me: What? No.
Mark: Oh, okay.
Me: Well. Maybe once or twice.
Mark: I knew it.
Me: I have to remember that it's not like Scrubs.
[I should mention that we're on my couch watching a Scrubs marathon.]
Mark: Or Grey's Anatomy.
Me: It's not like Grey's Anatomy? Forget it then.
Mark: Maybe it's a little like Grey's Anatomy.
Me: It's funny, actually, I was just talking to Melissa about wanting to be a doctor. Then two seconds later I missed my stop on the train.
Mark: Ha.
Me: But I was saying that I think I'm only interested because I could wear scrubs to work.
Mark: Yeah, really.
Me: No, really. That might be the deciding factor.
Mark: [looks at me]
Me: They're like pajamas! That you can wear all day!
Me: What? No.
Mark: Oh, okay.
Me: Well. Maybe once or twice.
Mark: I knew it.
Me: I have to remember that it's not like Scrubs.
[I should mention that we're on my couch watching a Scrubs marathon.]
Mark: Or Grey's Anatomy.
Me: It's not like Grey's Anatomy? Forget it then.
Mark: Maybe it's a little like Grey's Anatomy.
Me: It's funny, actually, I was just talking to Melissa about wanting to be a doctor. Then two seconds later I missed my stop on the train.
Mark: Ha.
Me: But I was saying that I think I'm only interested because I could wear scrubs to work.
Mark: Yeah, really.
Me: No, really. That might be the deciding factor.
Mark: [looks at me]
Me: They're like pajamas! That you can wear all day!
Friday, September 22, 2006
My Titanic Computer Game Was Called the Computer Game of Dreams. And It Was. It Really Was.
Me: Do you remember in college when Jared and I were obsessed with that Titanic game for an entire weekend?
Dave: Uh, yeah.
Me: That was the best weekend!
[pause]
Me: I'm pretty sad.
Dave: What was the deal with that game again?
Me: Oh, it was SO COOL. It was called Titanic: Adventure Out of Time.
Dave: Oh boy.
Me: So you're on the Titanic but you're an FBI agent, and you run around talking to people and finding stuff, and basically you have to save the world.
Dave: Okay.
Me: And if you do everything right, you can prevent World War II.
Dave: What happened to World War I?
Me: Oh. Okay, you could prevent World War I. And Hitler.
Dave: You stopped Hitler, too?
Me: Yup. And sometimes you could go to the restaurant and steal food off the bad guys' plates.
Dave: You're saving the world and they can't get you a free meal on the ship? You're a crimefighting hobo.
Me: I still have the game, you know.
Dave: Yeah, and it's, what, ten years old? I bet the technology is astounding.
Me: I think I'm going to call in sick to work tomorrow and play it all day.
Dave: You're going to call in sick two Fridays in a row?
Me: You just ruin everything.
Dave: Uh, yeah.
Me: That was the best weekend!
[pause]
Me: I'm pretty sad.
Dave: What was the deal with that game again?
Me: Oh, it was SO COOL. It was called Titanic: Adventure Out of Time.
Dave: Oh boy.
Me: So you're on the Titanic but you're an FBI agent, and you run around talking to people and finding stuff, and basically you have to save the world.
Dave: Okay.
Me: And if you do everything right, you can prevent World War II.
Dave: What happened to World War I?
Me: Oh. Okay, you could prevent World War I. And Hitler.
Dave: You stopped Hitler, too?
Me: Yup. And sometimes you could go to the restaurant and steal food off the bad guys' plates.
Dave: You're saving the world and they can't get you a free meal on the ship? You're a crimefighting hobo.
Me: I still have the game, you know.
Dave: Yeah, and it's, what, ten years old? I bet the technology is astounding.
Me: I think I'm going to call in sick to work tomorrow and play it all day.
Dave: You're going to call in sick two Fridays in a row?
Me: You just ruin everything.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
And I Couldn't Help But Wonder: When It Comes to the Men in New York, Does the Big Apple Fall Far From the Tree?
Dave and I were watching the tourist channel in my room at the cleverly named New Yorker, which is basically a Holiday Inn on a prime piece of real estate. Whatever city you're in, the tourist channel turns it into Disney World: San Francisco is one endless cable car ride, Boston is a beeah at Cheeahs, and I'm sure that Seattle is "brewing up something special for your trip!" Regardless of where you are, all these channels agree on one thing: You, my friend, are on the epicenter of a bustling metropolis with SO MUCH to DO! Culture AND restaurants! No, really, you can learn AND eat!
In this case we were hearing about their Sex and the City tour, which New Yorkers like to go on at the end of a hard day on Wall Street, presumably before doing a choreographed street dance with Annie and Daddy Warbucks.
Me: I wish there was a real Sex and the City tour.
Dave: Oh, yeah. They take you around the city and then make you go down on a UPS guy.
Me: Then they have transvestite prostitues throw eggs at you in the middle of the night.
Dave: You'd have to work in a lot of puns.
Me: And you'd have to have screaming fights with each other in the middle of the street for no good reason.
Dave: Oh, right, what episode did that happen in, again?
Me: I'd go on that tour.
Dave: Who wouldn't?
In this case we were hearing about their Sex and the City tour, which New Yorkers like to go on at the end of a hard day on Wall Street, presumably before doing a choreographed street dance with Annie and Daddy Warbucks.
Me: I wish there was a real Sex and the City tour.
Dave: Oh, yeah. They take you around the city and then make you go down on a UPS guy.
Me: Then they have transvestite prostitues throw eggs at you in the middle of the night.
Dave: You'd have to work in a lot of puns.
Me: And you'd have to have screaming fights with each other in the middle of the street for no good reason.
Dave: Oh, right, what episode did that happen in, again?
Me: I'd go on that tour.
Dave: Who wouldn't?
Sunday, September 17, 2006
My Weekend in New York, or If I Remember Correctly, I Think I May Have Serenaded Darren with "Faithfully" by Journey Within An Hour of Meeting Him
Did I tell you guys that this trip that my dad and I took was actually a bus tour? Or, no, not a bus tour. I'm not the Grateful Dead. What's the word I'm looking for? It was one of those travel club trips on a chartered bus. Yeah. That sounds a little bit less like a roof seat on a red sightseeing bus, right?
Honestly, I didn't think it would be corny at all. I didn't even think about it. As far as I was concerned, it was a reasonably priced opportunity for my dad and I to have the baseball weekend in New York that we've wanted to have for years... just a four-hour ride to and from the hotel and tickets to the games. And that's what it was, but at the same time... ha, all of a sudden I'm realizing that I'm writing this much more dramatically than I intended to: "And it was... it really was... until everything went horribly wrong..."
It started when we met up to catch the bus on Friday morning. Instead of it just being a group of people taking a bus to the same destination, it became like summer camp. It didn't help that I was the only one under fifty years old. There was a guy from the company who organized the trip (let's call him John) who came with us. He was probably a couple years younger than me and just the quintessential Boston guy. There's a million others around here just like him who tell stories like how they were "out the othah night with my buddies Matty and Sully and we weh sayin' that yeah Willy Mo's a wicked powah hittah but at the same time it's like, you know..." (And yes I'm painfully aware that I rock "wicked" and "like" a bit excessively myself.) If he'd only had scraggly hair, he would've had to play for the Sox himself or be Jim's new pal on The Office. He was nice enough, but damn if I didn't want to kick him in the neck by the end of the weekend. By the end of the first day, actually.
John walked that fine line between trying to entertain senior citizens and being a little bit too condescending. He'd get on his bus microphone (that's right) and give us itinerary information (ugh, and it was always crap like, "Okay, gang! Bathroom break, let's all meet back here in twenty minutes!") and then ask if anyone had questions. If no one did, he'd say with unbelievably irritating exuberance, "Great, you're ALL my favorite!" I swear, he came thisclose to just looking around at everyone, smiling and saying, "Damn, old people can be CUTE!"
Since I was the only one close to him in age, he tried to take me under his wing and get me to go out with him and his friends in Times Square (where else, right?). Thank God I could honestly say, "Oh, thanks, but I have plans." (My favorite John moment was after the game on Saturday when he blatantly picked up two female Yankees fans and brought them back to the hotel. On the bus! I was trying to imagine his pick-up line: "Hey girls, I don't mean to brag, but see that bus full of the cast from Cocoon? Yeah, I'm kind of like their leader. And you're BOTH my favorite!")
Baseball, okay, let's talk baseball. Friday night's game was rained out, which was karma for having called in sick to work that day, I'm convinced. The weather might have had something to do with it, too. We spent more than an hour in stop-and-go traffic to the Bronx on Friday night during rush hour, just in time to hear that the game had been called and then have to schlep back to Manhattan. It ended up working out okay, though, because my dad and I had a chance to go out to dinner instead of eating ballpark food, and I was able to meet up with Darren earlier than planned. Oh, did you want to hear about that?
The verdict is in, at least on my end: I liked both Darren and Miss Peach even more than I thought I would, which really isn't how meeting people from the internet is supposed to go, right? You always sort of think that they're going to wind up having a snaggletooth or a staring problem. So lucky me! In all seriousness, there's really no false advertising with the two of them... they're both that rare blend of blogarific AND so very funny, warm, and likeable in person. For all Darren's bemoaning about how awkward he is, he really isn't at all, so don't listen to him. I had a great time and was just thrilled to meet both of them.
Oh, and you know how I told Darren that I was guaranteed to vomit spontaneously or fall into a pile of raw sewage? I didn't, BUT while in his and Peach's company I did have a woman spill tequila on my head (oh yes, on my HEAD) and guess what else? I dropped my purse in a toilet. So, yeah. No false advertising with me either, folks. What you see is what you get, and what you get is someone doused in Jose Cuervo and, well, other people's pee, I'm sorry to have to complete that sentence. What can I say? I always try to bring my A game.
Back to baseball, for those of you who care, which is probably none of you: Saturday was sunny and warm, thankfully. My dad got to go back to Yankee Stadium for the first time in twenty years, and me for the first time ever. It was a fantastic game, and not just because THE SOX WON (!!!). There were so many Boston fans that a few times there was actually a Sox cheer going for awhile, until a deafening roar of rebuttal came up from the New Yorkers. Talk about waking the beast.
After we won the Saturday afternoon game (before we went on to lose that night), we were walking back to The Lame Bus and passed by a bunch of cocky drunken frat boy Sox fans spilling out of bars right near the stadium. Dear God, I hope they're all still alive! Don't be stupid, boys, we need you around to keep selling out our bleacher seats. I mean, I hear you, yay Sox, but New Yorkers have guns and shit!
Man, I'm watching the last game of the series as I'm writing this. Lots of good stuff going on (it's like Crisp just grew a bionic arm!), but where the hell was it in August, when it could've meant something? This is exactly why the Sox are the ultimate mindfuck... the season's all but over and they're back to being rock stars. (And ha, I can hear "let's go Red Sox" coming from the stands.)
One funny thing is how articulate the New York t-shirts are compared to Boston's baseball attire. The New York shirts would have columns showing the number of their world series wins compared to Boston, with the slogan "Do the Math." Another one said, "It's Called the World Series But It's Usually Played Here." Contrast this to the fact that down the street from Fenway, there are vendors with shirts that say "Posada is a Little Bitch" and "Damon Throws Like a Girl." Why are we responding to things like "Well, Statistically Speaking, New York is Quite Simply Just a Better Team" with "Ha Ha All the Yankees Are Gay"? That's the best we've got? (Granted, I don't own any of those ghetto shirts myself, which I hope goes without saying.)
Okay, what else? I saw Dave on Saturday night after seven years of radio silence. Well, not total silence, but still. He was even more cool and funny than I remembered. It was so much fun to see him that I didn't let him go home until the next day.
And Kate! Man, I'm telling you, Kate was my rock. Not only did she come out on Friday night to hang with my blogfriends (and she enjoyed them as much as I did), but she also came out the next night to have dinner with my dad and I, and then came to a bar with us to watch that night's game. And when she saw me walking toward her on the street with a Sox hat on, she didn't shield her face and walk in the opposite direction; she calmly retrieved a Yankees hat from her bag. She shared in my horror slash fascination with the new Hilary Duff perfume. And when some woman asked me what the "B" on my hat stood for, Kate was quick to provide her with the information that I was too stunned to supply.
I'm not just complimenting these people because they read my blog, I swear! I just felt so fortunate to have been surrounded by awesomeness all weekend. I mean, really, what are the odds? And even the rained out game ended up having a silver lining: They postponed the game to Sunday and Kate graciously agreed to get rid of our tickets for us, since my dad and I had to be getting home (darn those jobs of ours). She ended up giving the tickets to a dad who had brought the wrong day's tickets for him and his little heartbroken, glove-toting son. Oh my, that just made my day (and made the endless ride to and from the Bronx on Friday seem a little more bearable in retrospect).
And rounding out the awesomeness? I went to Chipotle! I now officially pray at the altar of chips, guac, and green pepper Tabasco sauce. Nabbalicious, I got your exact order, and I feel like everything in the world makes so much more sense now.
At one point on Saturday night, I texted Carly and told her I was having so much fun but that I missed my BFCs (our nickname for her, Melissa, and myself). She texted me some love back. Who else but me would get a tiny bit homesick after a day and a half?
Anyway, I had an absolute blast this weekend. I can't believe that Darren and Miss Peach and Chipotle all lived up to the hype. I love Kate and Dave as much as ever. And, as always, I'm glad to be home, where the ballpark isn't quite as pretty, the t-shirts aren't nearly as articulate, and the burritos are woefully sub par.
Honestly, I didn't think it would be corny at all. I didn't even think about it. As far as I was concerned, it was a reasonably priced opportunity for my dad and I to have the baseball weekend in New York that we've wanted to have for years... just a four-hour ride to and from the hotel and tickets to the games. And that's what it was, but at the same time... ha, all of a sudden I'm realizing that I'm writing this much more dramatically than I intended to: "And it was... it really was... until everything went horribly wrong..."
It started when we met up to catch the bus on Friday morning. Instead of it just being a group of people taking a bus to the same destination, it became like summer camp. It didn't help that I was the only one under fifty years old. There was a guy from the company who organized the trip (let's call him John) who came with us. He was probably a couple years younger than me and just the quintessential Boston guy. There's a million others around here just like him who tell stories like how they were "out the othah night with my buddies Matty and Sully and we weh sayin' that yeah Willy Mo's a wicked powah hittah but at the same time it's like, you know..." (And yes I'm painfully aware that I rock "wicked" and "like" a bit excessively myself.) If he'd only had scraggly hair, he would've had to play for the Sox himself or be Jim's new pal on The Office. He was nice enough, but damn if I didn't want to kick him in the neck by the end of the weekend. By the end of the first day, actually.
John walked that fine line between trying to entertain senior citizens and being a little bit too condescending. He'd get on his bus microphone (that's right) and give us itinerary information (ugh, and it was always crap like, "Okay, gang! Bathroom break, let's all meet back here in twenty minutes!") and then ask if anyone had questions. If no one did, he'd say with unbelievably irritating exuberance, "Great, you're ALL my favorite!" I swear, he came thisclose to just looking around at everyone, smiling and saying, "Damn, old people can be CUTE!"
Since I was the only one close to him in age, he tried to take me under his wing and get me to go out with him and his friends in Times Square (where else, right?). Thank God I could honestly say, "Oh, thanks, but I have plans." (My favorite John moment was after the game on Saturday when he blatantly picked up two female Yankees fans and brought them back to the hotel. On the bus! I was trying to imagine his pick-up line: "Hey girls, I don't mean to brag, but see that bus full of the cast from Cocoon? Yeah, I'm kind of like their leader. And you're BOTH my favorite!")
Baseball, okay, let's talk baseball. Friday night's game was rained out, which was karma for having called in sick to work that day, I'm convinced. The weather might have had something to do with it, too. We spent more than an hour in stop-and-go traffic to the Bronx on Friday night during rush hour, just in time to hear that the game had been called and then have to schlep back to Manhattan. It ended up working out okay, though, because my dad and I had a chance to go out to dinner instead of eating ballpark food, and I was able to meet up with Darren earlier than planned. Oh, did you want to hear about that?
The verdict is in, at least on my end: I liked both Darren and Miss Peach even more than I thought I would, which really isn't how meeting people from the internet is supposed to go, right? You always sort of think that they're going to wind up having a snaggletooth or a staring problem. So lucky me! In all seriousness, there's really no false advertising with the two of them... they're both that rare blend of blogarific AND so very funny, warm, and likeable in person. For all Darren's bemoaning about how awkward he is, he really isn't at all, so don't listen to him. I had a great time and was just thrilled to meet both of them.
Oh, and you know how I told Darren that I was guaranteed to vomit spontaneously or fall into a pile of raw sewage? I didn't, BUT while in his and Peach's company I did have a woman spill tequila on my head (oh yes, on my HEAD) and guess what else? I dropped my purse in a toilet. So, yeah. No false advertising with me either, folks. What you see is what you get, and what you get is someone doused in Jose Cuervo and, well, other people's pee, I'm sorry to have to complete that sentence. What can I say? I always try to bring my A game.
Back to baseball, for those of you who care, which is probably none of you: Saturday was sunny and warm, thankfully. My dad got to go back to Yankee Stadium for the first time in twenty years, and me for the first time ever. It was a fantastic game, and not just because THE SOX WON (!!!). There were so many Boston fans that a few times there was actually a Sox cheer going for awhile, until a deafening roar of rebuttal came up from the New Yorkers. Talk about waking the beast.
After we won the Saturday afternoon game (before we went on to lose that night), we were walking back to The Lame Bus and passed by a bunch of cocky drunken frat boy Sox fans spilling out of bars right near the stadium. Dear God, I hope they're all still alive! Don't be stupid, boys, we need you around to keep selling out our bleacher seats. I mean, I hear you, yay Sox, but New Yorkers have guns and shit!
Man, I'm watching the last game of the series as I'm writing this. Lots of good stuff going on (it's like Crisp just grew a bionic arm!), but where the hell was it in August, when it could've meant something? This is exactly why the Sox are the ultimate mindfuck... the season's all but over and they're back to being rock stars. (And ha, I can hear "let's go Red Sox" coming from the stands.)
One funny thing is how articulate the New York t-shirts are compared to Boston's baseball attire. The New York shirts would have columns showing the number of their world series wins compared to Boston, with the slogan "Do the Math." Another one said, "It's Called the World Series But It's Usually Played Here." Contrast this to the fact that down the street from Fenway, there are vendors with shirts that say "Posada is a Little Bitch" and "Damon Throws Like a Girl." Why are we responding to things like "Well, Statistically Speaking, New York is Quite Simply Just a Better Team" with "Ha Ha All the Yankees Are Gay"? That's the best we've got? (Granted, I don't own any of those ghetto shirts myself, which I hope goes without saying.)
Okay, what else? I saw Dave on Saturday night after seven years of radio silence. Well, not total silence, but still. He was even more cool and funny than I remembered. It was so much fun to see him that I didn't let him go home until the next day.
And Kate! Man, I'm telling you, Kate was my rock. Not only did she come out on Friday night to hang with my blogfriends (and she enjoyed them as much as I did), but she also came out the next night to have dinner with my dad and I, and then came to a bar with us to watch that night's game. And when she saw me walking toward her on the street with a Sox hat on, she didn't shield her face and walk in the opposite direction; she calmly retrieved a Yankees hat from her bag. She shared in my horror slash fascination with the new Hilary Duff perfume. And when some woman asked me what the "B" on my hat stood for, Kate was quick to provide her with the information that I was too stunned to supply.
I'm not just complimenting these people because they read my blog, I swear! I just felt so fortunate to have been surrounded by awesomeness all weekend. I mean, really, what are the odds? And even the rained out game ended up having a silver lining: They postponed the game to Sunday and Kate graciously agreed to get rid of our tickets for us, since my dad and I had to be getting home (darn those jobs of ours). She ended up giving the tickets to a dad who had brought the wrong day's tickets for him and his little heartbroken, glove-toting son. Oh my, that just made my day (and made the endless ride to and from the Bronx on Friday seem a little more bearable in retrospect).
And rounding out the awesomeness? I went to Chipotle! I now officially pray at the altar of chips, guac, and green pepper Tabasco sauce. Nabbalicious, I got your exact order, and I feel like everything in the world makes so much more sense now.
At one point on Saturday night, I texted Carly and told her I was having so much fun but that I missed my BFCs (our nickname for her, Melissa, and myself). She texted me some love back. Who else but me would get a tiny bit homesick after a day and a half?
Anyway, I had an absolute blast this weekend. I can't believe that Darren and Miss Peach and Chipotle all lived up to the hype. I love Kate and Dave as much as ever. And, as always, I'm glad to be home, where the ballpark isn't quite as pretty, the t-shirts aren't nearly as articulate, and the burritos are woefully sub par.
Friday, September 15, 2006
If I Can Make it There, I'll Make it Because My Ghetto Bus Somehow Doesn't Break Down in Harlem
I'm going to New York today! Woo!
I sound like such a tourist. I guess I am a tourist. See you at the Olive Garden in Times Square! I'll be the one wearing the foam Statue of Liberty crown.
I'm going to the Friday night and Saturday afternoon Sox-Yankees games with my dad. I've never been to Yankee Stadium before... I'm hugely excited and a little intimidated. Everything about it will seem ass-backwards. Because, well, it is. Do they even play baseball there, or just dance around their piles of money?
Oh snap. I got plenty more junior high locker room trash talkin' where that came from.
I'm glad for my dad to get back to that ballpark. He hasn't been in years, and he's (as you may already know) a diehard Yankees fan. Thank God it's not something you can pass onto your children, because that would've been worse than fetal alcohol syndrome.
The other stuff that makes this trip resplendent with awesomeness is that I get to meet Darren, who made me feel like a rock star with his latest blog entry. I can't wait to hear the deafening collapse of your high expectations, my friend. And I also get to see Dave, Kate, and Jason! And maybe Miss Peach! And unfortunately not Nabbalicious this time, but she was kind enough to fix all my aforementioned blog issues, so yay for her, too!
Anyway, the one good thing about Boston's crappy standings is that I'm not too worried about this:
I sound like such a tourist. I guess I am a tourist. See you at the Olive Garden in Times Square! I'll be the one wearing the foam Statue of Liberty crown.
I'm going to the Friday night and Saturday afternoon Sox-Yankees games with my dad. I've never been to Yankee Stadium before... I'm hugely excited and a little intimidated. Everything about it will seem ass-backwards. Because, well, it is. Do they even play baseball there, or just dance around their piles of money?
Oh snap. I got plenty more junior high locker room trash talkin' where that came from.
I'm glad for my dad to get back to that ballpark. He hasn't been in years, and he's (as you may already know) a diehard Yankees fan. Thank God it's not something you can pass onto your children, because that would've been worse than fetal alcohol syndrome.
The other stuff that makes this trip resplendent with awesomeness is that I get to meet Darren, who made me feel like a rock star with his latest blog entry. I can't wait to hear the deafening collapse of your high expectations, my friend. And I also get to see Dave, Kate, and Jason! And maybe Miss Peach! And unfortunately not Nabbalicious this time, but she was kind enough to fix all my aforementioned blog issues, so yay for her, too!
Anyway, the one good thing about Boston's crappy standings is that I'm not too worried about this:
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
can you become, can you become a new version of you?
I'll spare you the entire Felicity song. No, I won't!
Look at me! I'm all decked out in a pretty, pretty party dress. (If Darren was an 8-year-old girl, I'd like to think that would be his, or her, blog title.)
Lily sent me the template! Is she the best? I don't have her blog link, though, somehow. So comment on this, Lily, and I'll include your link to give you the props you deserve.
I lost all my comments in the move but I think it's worth it. Right?
Sidenote: We moved when I was six years old and my mom threw out my Barbie Dream House (with the elevator) because she hated it. She told me for years that the movers lost it. I still haven't fully recovered. This time I can say with certainty that the movers lost my comments. And I still miss my Barbie Dream House (with the elevator).
Question: The comma after the number of comments I have is making me suicidal, but I can't find the right place in the html to fix it. Also, any idea how I can make the date a smaller font than the entry title? Actually, I wouldn't mind deleting it altogether, since there's already a datestamp on the bottom, but I'm not sure how to do that either. Also, I wonder how I could make the picture a little smaller.
Also, could you get me a Diet Pepsi?
I guess I'm supposed to figure all this out on my own so that the finished product is a perfect spectacle, but I'm no Oz over here.
Look at me! I'm all decked out in a pretty, pretty party dress. (If Darren was an 8-year-old girl, I'd like to think that would be his, or her, blog title.)
Lily sent me the template! Is she the best? I don't have her blog link, though, somehow. So comment on this, Lily, and I'll include your link to give you the props you deserve.
I lost all my comments in the move but I think it's worth it. Right?
Sidenote: We moved when I was six years old and my mom threw out my Barbie Dream House (with the elevator) because she hated it. She told me for years that the movers lost it. I still haven't fully recovered. This time I can say with certainty that the movers lost my comments. And I still miss my Barbie Dream House (with the elevator).
Question: The comma after the number of comments I have is making me suicidal, but I can't find the right place in the html to fix it. Also, any idea how I can make the date a smaller font than the entry title? Actually, I wouldn't mind deleting it altogether, since there's already a datestamp on the bottom, but I'm not sure how to do that either. Also, I wonder how I could make the picture a little smaller.
Also, could you get me a Diet Pepsi?
I guess I'm supposed to figure all this out on my own so that the finished product is a perfect spectacle, but I'm no Oz over here.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
if you like pina coladas
You can't tell anything about a person from an online dating profile, maybe aside from whether or not they can spell and their aptitude for using the correct there/their/they're. Everyone thinks they're funny and intelligent and down-to-earth and rational and no game playing, please. Everyone says they want to be with someone who likes to get dressed up and go out, but also likes to wear jeans and a t-shirt and be low-key at home, all of which loosely translates to someone who owns clothes and sometimes enjoys leaving the house.
Crazy people never tell you they're crazy. They don't know they're crazy. Most of them think everyone else is crazy. Personality disorders seem to be largely undiagnosed. Hell, I'm probably rocking a couple of them myself. You can't tell much about a person by how they talk about past relationships or current relationships or family or friendships, because there's two sides to every story, and we all spin things to our advantage, even if we don't mean to.
You can usually assess physical compatability or friendability right off the bat, but of course relationshipability is harder, because foibles come out after the fact, and it's all about your, well, mutual foiblability. Some of the best couples that I know are actually quite different from each other and not people that I necessarily would've thought to fix up if they'd both been single friends of mine. There's really just no way to know. And sites like Match.com do their best, I suppose, by offering up deep dark information like whether or not your date would be open to someday owning a fish, or what their astrological sign is. You don't find out how that person communicates when they're angry, or how they interact with someone who is unkind or intolerant or less intelligent than they are. Whether they listen to you or wait for their chance to talk. Whether they think some people just have different opinions or if that means they're wrong. How they deal with stress. Whether or not they interact with you differently depending on who else is there. What they think is funny and not funny. Whether they're quirky or literal or where they fall in between. Whether they're sexually adventurous or a little more conservative (which, of course, is pretty subjective), or into things you have to Google (with maybe a couple of exceptions, run, run like the wind). How their loved ones speak of them, and not in a tribute speech at a milestone event, but in the kitchen over dirty dishes after everyone's gone home. How they speak of their loved ones, and who they love in general. Not in theory, but who they spend their time with. Who they let in and for what purpose. Who they keep out and who they keep at arm's length. What they spend the bulk of their time doing, despite what they say their interests are. What frustrates them, excites them, unnerves them, turns them on, embarrasses them, makes them pull back, makes them feel understood.
Wait, can you imagine if I sat someone down and asked them all this? I'd be reading about myself in someone else's dating blog. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to get all this detailed information about people I go out with. I'm just saying, there's no way to know right off the bat what you're dealing with or what the person's really like, which can be full of promise but also kind of sucks. They should force people to wear t-shirts that reveal their true selves, like "Will Appear Trustworthy for 3.2 Weeks But Am Actually Rotten to the Core." I'd buy them out of "Only Laughing On the Outside" and "Will Probably Write Crap About You on the Internet."
Contrary to how all this sounds, I'm actually pretty low-key (but sometimes I like to get dressed up and go out) about online dating, and dating in general. I'm just more open to random experiences right now, I guess. He's not potentially the right guy, he's my Tuesday night. Part of my Tuesday night, at that. It's the only way to date a lot without losing your mind, I think. Plus, I rarely have a bad time with someone (uh oh, now I've asked for it). I like some people more than others, obviously, but I find most people have at least a little something funny or interesting to offer.
It's been funny to be "back out there" and meeting and interacting with lots of new people, all of whom have opinions on me. You seem like the kind of person who, I get the sense that you're into, you didn't strike me as the type to. At this point it's all just theater, anecdotes, summaries. When we were kids we didn't analyze our playdates that much... I guess that's how I feel about dating. Fun and connection can exist on several levels, not just could-I-marry-him-and-when. We have plenty of emotional needs beyond that ultimate relationship. We may categorize them after the fact less crudely than "hurtin' for a squirtin,'" but no less honestly: potential, no potential, friend potential, emergency number potential. We all do/have done it, right?
And eventually I'll be interested in meeting someone outside of that last category. I swear!
Crazy people never tell you they're crazy. They don't know they're crazy. Most of them think everyone else is crazy. Personality disorders seem to be largely undiagnosed. Hell, I'm probably rocking a couple of them myself. You can't tell much about a person by how they talk about past relationships or current relationships or family or friendships, because there's two sides to every story, and we all spin things to our advantage, even if we don't mean to.
You can usually assess physical compatability or friendability right off the bat, but of course relationshipability is harder, because foibles come out after the fact, and it's all about your, well, mutual foiblability. Some of the best couples that I know are actually quite different from each other and not people that I necessarily would've thought to fix up if they'd both been single friends of mine. There's really just no way to know. And sites like Match.com do their best, I suppose, by offering up deep dark information like whether or not your date would be open to someday owning a fish, or what their astrological sign is. You don't find out how that person communicates when they're angry, or how they interact with someone who is unkind or intolerant or less intelligent than they are. Whether they listen to you or wait for their chance to talk. Whether they think some people just have different opinions or if that means they're wrong. How they deal with stress. Whether or not they interact with you differently depending on who else is there. What they think is funny and not funny. Whether they're quirky or literal or where they fall in between. Whether they're sexually adventurous or a little more conservative (which, of course, is pretty subjective), or into things you have to Google (with maybe a couple of exceptions, run, run like the wind). How their loved ones speak of them, and not in a tribute speech at a milestone event, but in the kitchen over dirty dishes after everyone's gone home. How they speak of their loved ones, and who they love in general. Not in theory, but who they spend their time with. Who they let in and for what purpose. Who they keep out and who they keep at arm's length. What they spend the bulk of their time doing, despite what they say their interests are. What frustrates them, excites them, unnerves them, turns them on, embarrasses them, makes them pull back, makes them feel understood.
Wait, can you imagine if I sat someone down and asked them all this? I'd be reading about myself in someone else's dating blog. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to get all this detailed information about people I go out with. I'm just saying, there's no way to know right off the bat what you're dealing with or what the person's really like, which can be full of promise but also kind of sucks. They should force people to wear t-shirts that reveal their true selves, like "Will Appear Trustworthy for 3.2 Weeks But Am Actually Rotten to the Core." I'd buy them out of "Only Laughing On the Outside" and "Will Probably Write Crap About You on the Internet."
Contrary to how all this sounds, I'm actually pretty low-key (but sometimes I like to get dressed up and go out) about online dating, and dating in general. I'm just more open to random experiences right now, I guess. He's not potentially the right guy, he's my Tuesday night. Part of my Tuesday night, at that. It's the only way to date a lot without losing your mind, I think. Plus, I rarely have a bad time with someone (uh oh, now I've asked for it). I like some people more than others, obviously, but I find most people have at least a little something funny or interesting to offer.
It's been funny to be "back out there" and meeting and interacting with lots of new people, all of whom have opinions on me. You seem like the kind of person who, I get the sense that you're into, you didn't strike me as the type to. At this point it's all just theater, anecdotes, summaries. When we were kids we didn't analyze our playdates that much... I guess that's how I feel about dating. Fun and connection can exist on several levels, not just could-I-marry-him-and-when. We have plenty of emotional needs beyond that ultimate relationship. We may categorize them after the fact less crudely than "hurtin' for a squirtin,'" but no less honestly: potential, no potential, friend potential, emergency number potential. We all do/have done it, right?
And eventually I'll be interested in meeting someone outside of that last category. I swear!
Thursday, September 07, 2006
livin' on the edge
Me: Do you want to see Little Miss Sunshine?
Mark: I was going to ask if you wanted to see How To Eat Fried Worms.
Me: That's cute. Why do you always want to see the dumbest movies?
Mark: Didn't you read that book when you were a kid?
Me: Yeah, I think so. Okay, let's pay to see Sunshine and then we'll sneak into yours.
Mark: I'm not sneaking into a movie, Red. I'm thirty years old.
Me: Well, it's not like you're crawling through an air duct. You just walk out of one movie and walk into the other.
Mark: What if I get caught? Caught sneaking into a movie when I'm thirty years old.
Me: Then, I don't know, fake senility.
Mark: Uh-huh.
Me: Early onset senility.
Mark: Right.
Me: Look confused and bump into something. And then just run out. I'll be right behind you. Don't worry.
Mark: I don't think I want to go to movies with you anymore.
Mark: I was going to ask if you wanted to see How To Eat Fried Worms.
Me: That's cute. Why do you always want to see the dumbest movies?
Mark: Didn't you read that book when you were a kid?
Me: Yeah, I think so. Okay, let's pay to see Sunshine and then we'll sneak into yours.
Mark: I'm not sneaking into a movie, Red. I'm thirty years old.
Me: Well, it's not like you're crawling through an air duct. You just walk out of one movie and walk into the other.
Mark: What if I get caught? Caught sneaking into a movie when I'm thirty years old.
Me: Then, I don't know, fake senility.
Mark: Uh-huh.
Me: Early onset senility.
Mark: Right.
Me: Look confused and bump into something. And then just run out. I'll be right behind you. Don't worry.
Mark: I don't think I want to go to movies with you anymore.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
scatterbrain
Tonight at Fenway there were two drunk women sitting in front of me, maybe in their 40s. One of them knocked into the other one's beer and it spilled on me. Blech, but whatever, shit happens. At least I was wearing jeans. The one who was holding the beer immediately started rubbing the spill on my leg over and over. And over. All the while I was saying, "It's fine, I'm fine, don't worry." I didn't want to come out and say "stop rubbing me!" because, I don't know, I try not to ever yell that at anybody in public.
"I think she likes you," my dad finally said, as he and his friends just kind of stared at her. Then she tried to tell her friend that she had knocked her beer into me, and the friend just looked at me and said, very irritated, "What? How did THAT happen?" It seemed too complicated to get into the physics of how flailing elbows + double fisting expensive cheap beer = stranger behind you being pelted with Bud Light. But I did think it was funny that she was the one who seemed annoyed. I'm sorry, did my leg get in the way of your beer-flinging?
Anyway. I'm up too late, again, because I can't sleep. Damn my erratic summer sleeping schedule! My body is so confused now that I'm back to a normal work schedule. "It's 11 PM, Red, why aren't I on a bad date? What's this large, soft thing you've forced me into instead? I don't have to listen to questions like 'So what's something about you that I don't already know?' in here. Actually, it's kind of nice. Let's never get out."
All I can say about SuriGate is that I can't believe Vanity Fair punned so proudly on its cover ("Yes, Suri, She's Our Baby!" in case you live in a world where the procreation of Jerry Maguire and Joey Potter doesn't matter in the slightest). It struck me as funny that the first time you read the headline, it sounds like something a person would say if English wasn't their first language... you pretty much know what they're trying to convey, but it sounds a little off-kilter. Sort of like, "Suri Is Child That We Had, Yes?" Then a moment later you understand the clever, clever wordplay. It's a slippery slope, Vanity. First this, next thing you know it's Orlando Blooms Anew and Kate is Winsletting Us Go Where No Magazine Has Gone Before.
I had to spend all morning in a dumb workshop and I swear, I was practically at the head-jerking-forward-and-everyone-looking-at-me stage. I had to keep biting my tongue to stay awake. Dear God, I didn't realize how insane that sounded until I typed it. I should've gone with "had to keep pinching myself." I was doing that, too.
Best part, though? Beforehand I went to sign up for an afternoon workshop and realized that I was teaching one of them. Faaaantastic. Luckily I have the presentation down pat, but still, public schools are so organized. This isn't even the first time they've done this to me. It would've been funny if I'd been sitting in some workshop while people sat in another room, waiting for me at mine. I'm clearly a professional, through and through.
Not that there's any reason for you to do so, but in case you're wondering, the title of my workshop is Evaluation, Diagnosis and Treatment of Speech and Language Disorders in Elementary School Children. I did not come up with this title. Mine would've been Let's Shoot the Shit for an Hour and Then Go Get Some Quesadillas or Whatever. I wonder how many tongues were being bitten while I talked about assessment protocols.
So, to continue with the topic of not having a topic (I'm all over the place! I'm an animal!), I'm having very very very preliminary thoughts about getting my doctorate. I'd love to take more courses and enhance my dorkdom, but I sort of hate the idea of the dissertation. It would be interesting work, yeah, but it seems impractical... the whole point of my job right now is to get a lot of diverse experience, and a dissertation is basically a two year research project about something obscure that I'll never think about again, like the ramifications of some random neurological problem on cognitive-linguistic processing in 11-year-old females from Wisconsin with deviated septums and seasonal affective disorder.
I would maybe eventually like to have my own clinic (and not just because Crazy Neighbor tells me I should). I'd also like to teach grad school classes. I don't necessarily need a doctorate for either of those things, but, y'know... couldn't hurt. What a compelling argument. "Y'know, couldn't hurt" is going right at the top of the "pro" list. Maybe I'll just eliminate the middleman and try to get on the list for one of those honorary degrees that they hand out at graduations. Ooh, could I also give a speech? I'd love an opportunity to tell new grads to follow their hearts but don't go chasing waterfalls. Am I getting carried away?
Whatever, school is boring. You know who's cute and back from the dead, i.e. the DL? And like most of the other players he's utterly useless, which is evident based on our standings... at this point we'd have to lie, cheat, steal, sleep around, bark like a dog and wish on shooting stars to even have a shot in hell at the wild card. But still... it's Tek and he's back, woo!
I love whoever it was who said that most of the Sox players have a look about them that says if they weren't playing ball, they'd be working behind the counter at some crappy music store. So true.
"I think she likes you," my dad finally said, as he and his friends just kind of stared at her. Then she tried to tell her friend that she had knocked her beer into me, and the friend just looked at me and said, very irritated, "What? How did THAT happen?" It seemed too complicated to get into the physics of how flailing elbows + double fisting expensive cheap beer = stranger behind you being pelted with Bud Light. But I did think it was funny that she was the one who seemed annoyed. I'm sorry, did my leg get in the way of your beer-flinging?
Anyway. I'm up too late, again, because I can't sleep. Damn my erratic summer sleeping schedule! My body is so confused now that I'm back to a normal work schedule. "It's 11 PM, Red, why aren't I on a bad date? What's this large, soft thing you've forced me into instead? I don't have to listen to questions like 'So what's something about you that I don't already know?' in here. Actually, it's kind of nice. Let's never get out."
All I can say about SuriGate is that I can't believe Vanity Fair punned so proudly on its cover ("Yes, Suri, She's Our Baby!" in case you live in a world where the procreation of Jerry Maguire and Joey Potter doesn't matter in the slightest). It struck me as funny that the first time you read the headline, it sounds like something a person would say if English wasn't their first language... you pretty much know what they're trying to convey, but it sounds a little off-kilter. Sort of like, "Suri Is Child That We Had, Yes?" Then a moment later you understand the clever, clever wordplay. It's a slippery slope, Vanity. First this, next thing you know it's Orlando Blooms Anew and Kate is Winsletting Us Go Where No Magazine Has Gone Before.
I had to spend all morning in a dumb workshop and I swear, I was practically at the head-jerking-forward-and-everyone-looking-at-me stage. I had to keep biting my tongue to stay awake. Dear God, I didn't realize how insane that sounded until I typed it. I should've gone with "had to keep pinching myself." I was doing that, too.
Best part, though? Beforehand I went to sign up for an afternoon workshop and realized that I was teaching one of them. Faaaantastic. Luckily I have the presentation down pat, but still, public schools are so organized. This isn't even the first time they've done this to me. It would've been funny if I'd been sitting in some workshop while people sat in another room, waiting for me at mine. I'm clearly a professional, through and through.
Not that there's any reason for you to do so, but in case you're wondering, the title of my workshop is Evaluation, Diagnosis and Treatment of Speech and Language Disorders in Elementary School Children. I did not come up with this title. Mine would've been Let's Shoot the Shit for an Hour and Then Go Get Some Quesadillas or Whatever. I wonder how many tongues were being bitten while I talked about assessment protocols.
So, to continue with the topic of not having a topic (I'm all over the place! I'm an animal!), I'm having very very very preliminary thoughts about getting my doctorate. I'd love to take more courses and enhance my dorkdom, but I sort of hate the idea of the dissertation. It would be interesting work, yeah, but it seems impractical... the whole point of my job right now is to get a lot of diverse experience, and a dissertation is basically a two year research project about something obscure that I'll never think about again, like the ramifications of some random neurological problem on cognitive-linguistic processing in 11-year-old females from Wisconsin with deviated septums and seasonal affective disorder.
I would maybe eventually like to have my own clinic (and not just because Crazy Neighbor tells me I should). I'd also like to teach grad school classes. I don't necessarily need a doctorate for either of those things, but, y'know... couldn't hurt. What a compelling argument. "Y'know, couldn't hurt" is going right at the top of the "pro" list. Maybe I'll just eliminate the middleman and try to get on the list for one of those honorary degrees that they hand out at graduations. Ooh, could I also give a speech? I'd love an opportunity to tell new grads to follow their hearts but don't go chasing waterfalls. Am I getting carried away?
Whatever, school is boring. You know who's cute and back from the dead, i.e. the DL? And like most of the other players he's utterly useless, which is evident based on our standings... at this point we'd have to lie, cheat, steal, sleep around, bark like a dog and wish on shooting stars to even have a shot in hell at the wild card. But still... it's Tek and he's back, woo!
I love whoever it was who said that most of the Sox players have a look about them that says if they weren't playing ball, they'd be working behind the counter at some crappy music store. So true.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
20 Reasons Why You Probably Shouldn't Like Me
Another blogger (not a Neighborhooder) had a list of 20 things she doesn't like that everyone else does. I have a few of those myself, but let's cut right to the chase, shall we?
I present to you, in no particular order, twenty good reasons to delete me from your bookmarks immediately.
1. I don't like camping. As far as I'm concerned, Red Roof Inn is roughing it. No, I don't freakin' come out and say this if some nice person is excited about their upcoming camping trip. If that's your thing, then more power. But when a friend told me he slept on the beach when he went to Hawaii, believe you me I thought it sounded more homeless than romantic.
2. I don't like dogs. This is a big one. Who doesn't like dogs? Certainly not anyone worth knowing. Here's the thing... I like dogs in THEORY. I love the IDEA of having a dog. But in reality, they slobber and shed and kind of smell and I'm sorry, but their butts are just never that clean, and if there was one rolling around on my bed, that's all I'd be thinking about.
3. I don't like cats. I don't feel quite so bad about this one, because feline hatred is more socially acceptable. I hate how cats sit under a piece of furniture and stare at you. Seriously, why is that okay? If I sat in somebody's living room and stared at them, there'd be awkward conversations and restraining orders, not catnip and succulent chunks of Fancy Feast in a silver dish. And cats will just be hanging out, nice and mellow, and then suddenly they'll freakishly decide theyhavetobeintheotherroomRIGHTTHISSECOND!
4. I don't like football. I can't tolerate even one second of it. I can't even deal with the Superbowl, even though the Pats always seem to win it. My family and friends always have a Superbowl party and I just lie on the floor eating dip and missing baseball so very much. But I still go to the party, because, duh, there's dip.
5. When it gets dark early in the winter, I don't mind. I don't mind it at ALL. I actually think it's cozy. In New England, this is practically grounds for public lynching.
6. I like Oprah magazine, but I can't make it all the way through Anna Karenina.
7. For about ten years, my favorite song has been You Get What You Give by the New Radicals.
8. A lot of the time, I'm not even listening to you.
9. No, I'm kidding. What'd you say?
10. Things I will defend until I'm blue in the face: the movie Cruel Intentions, the show Felicity, and Frank's Red Hot Sauce.
11. Steve Irwin's death is definitely sad, but there hasn't been such a rampant misuse of the word "ironic" since Alanis released that stupid song in the late 90s.
12. I think I need to tone this down a little. Even I'm starting to not like me. Steve Irvin was a goddamn Australian hero, Red! Show some freakin' respect! Crikey.
13. For awhile I was having a bunch of fiestas, so much so that it was looking like I was vying for the title of hostess with the mostest... but these days I just have friends over to drink wine and watch TV. It's an exciting life, people, but someone has to lead it. (But maybe I'll entertain the idea of getting back on the party train. When you're the hostess, you can wear things like glittery false eyelashes because everyone coming already knows you're a big freak... and if they're a friend of a friend, they've probably been sufficiently warned.)
14. I like terrible music. Does it get any better than iTunes' Party Hip-Hop collection? Go look it up. I'll wait here.
15. While on iTunes admiring their aforementioned Party Hip-Hop collection, I found that I liked Kyra Sedgwick and Kevin Bacon's sex song mix. Oh, also, why did Kyra Sedgwick and Kevin Bacon publish a sex song mix on iTunes?
16. I'm probably more like Sally (the one Harry met) than I'd like to admit, in that I'm the worst kind: high-maintenance but think I'm low-maintenance. This reality comes crashing down on me when I find myself around someone who actually IS low-maintenance. This person is usually camping, petting a dog, and enthusiastically reading Tolstoy.
17. I don't like violent TV shows... CSI, Law and Order, Dissecting the Corpse, Let's Watch a 7-Year-Old Get Stabbed in Slow Motion shows. I don't like even like 24, and nobody doesn't like 24. Jack Bauer can practically turn straight men gay, for cryin' out loud.
18. I have a touch of road rage. But only because the guy in the white Honda TOTALLY STARTED IT!
19. One time my old roommate and I were watching an episode of Jackass where two of the guys tried to race each other to drink a gallon of milk. They drank a whole bunch really fast and then both started throwing up milk everywhere. My roommate started gagging and ran to the bathroom and started throwing up herself. It suddenly seemed like the entire world was puking. I could not stop laughing. Eventually I helped peel her off the bathroom floor, but in the meantime, oh my, that was comedy at its most basic level.
20. For Halloween, I'm considering going as JonBenet If She'd Lived: too much mascara, at least one black eye, a track mark or two, and, of course, the cowgirl outfit. Yee-ha! May she rest in peace.
Thanks for your time. I'll show myself out.
I present to you, in no particular order, twenty good reasons to delete me from your bookmarks immediately.
1. I don't like camping. As far as I'm concerned, Red Roof Inn is roughing it. No, I don't freakin' come out and say this if some nice person is excited about their upcoming camping trip. If that's your thing, then more power. But when a friend told me he slept on the beach when he went to Hawaii, believe you me I thought it sounded more homeless than romantic.
2. I don't like dogs. This is a big one. Who doesn't like dogs? Certainly not anyone worth knowing. Here's the thing... I like dogs in THEORY. I love the IDEA of having a dog. But in reality, they slobber and shed and kind of smell and I'm sorry, but their butts are just never that clean, and if there was one rolling around on my bed, that's all I'd be thinking about.
3. I don't like cats. I don't feel quite so bad about this one, because feline hatred is more socially acceptable. I hate how cats sit under a piece of furniture and stare at you. Seriously, why is that okay? If I sat in somebody's living room and stared at them, there'd be awkward conversations and restraining orders, not catnip and succulent chunks of Fancy Feast in a silver dish. And cats will just be hanging out, nice and mellow, and then suddenly they'll freakishly decide theyhavetobeintheotherroomRIGHTTHISSECOND!
4. I don't like football. I can't tolerate even one second of it. I can't even deal with the Superbowl, even though the Pats always seem to win it. My family and friends always have a Superbowl party and I just lie on the floor eating dip and missing baseball so very much. But I still go to the party, because, duh, there's dip.
5. When it gets dark early in the winter, I don't mind. I don't mind it at ALL. I actually think it's cozy. In New England, this is practically grounds for public lynching.
6. I like Oprah magazine, but I can't make it all the way through Anna Karenina.
7. For about ten years, my favorite song has been You Get What You Give by the New Radicals.
8. A lot of the time, I'm not even listening to you.
9. No, I'm kidding. What'd you say?
10. Things I will defend until I'm blue in the face: the movie Cruel Intentions, the show Felicity, and Frank's Red Hot Sauce.
11. Steve Irwin's death is definitely sad, but there hasn't been such a rampant misuse of the word "ironic" since Alanis released that stupid song in the late 90s.
12. I think I need to tone this down a little. Even I'm starting to not like me. Steve Irvin was a goddamn Australian hero, Red! Show some freakin' respect! Crikey.
13. For awhile I was having a bunch of fiestas, so much so that it was looking like I was vying for the title of hostess with the mostest... but these days I just have friends over to drink wine and watch TV. It's an exciting life, people, but someone has to lead it. (But maybe I'll entertain the idea of getting back on the party train. When you're the hostess, you can wear things like glittery false eyelashes because everyone coming already knows you're a big freak... and if they're a friend of a friend, they've probably been sufficiently warned.)
14. I like terrible music. Does it get any better than iTunes' Party Hip-Hop collection? Go look it up. I'll wait here.
15. While on iTunes admiring their aforementioned Party Hip-Hop collection, I found that I liked Kyra Sedgwick and Kevin Bacon's sex song mix. Oh, also, why did Kyra Sedgwick and Kevin Bacon publish a sex song mix on iTunes?
16. I'm probably more like Sally (the one Harry met) than I'd like to admit, in that I'm the worst kind: high-maintenance but think I'm low-maintenance. This reality comes crashing down on me when I find myself around someone who actually IS low-maintenance. This person is usually camping, petting a dog, and enthusiastically reading Tolstoy.
17. I don't like violent TV shows... CSI, Law and Order, Dissecting the Corpse, Let's Watch a 7-Year-Old Get Stabbed in Slow Motion shows. I don't like even like 24, and nobody doesn't like 24. Jack Bauer can practically turn straight men gay, for cryin' out loud.
18. I have a touch of road rage. But only because the guy in the white Honda TOTALLY STARTED IT!
19. One time my old roommate and I were watching an episode of Jackass where two of the guys tried to race each other to drink a gallon of milk. They drank a whole bunch really fast and then both started throwing up milk everywhere. My roommate started gagging and ran to the bathroom and started throwing up herself. It suddenly seemed like the entire world was puking. I could not stop laughing. Eventually I helped peel her off the bathroom floor, but in the meantime, oh my, that was comedy at its most basic level.
20. For Halloween, I'm considering going as JonBenet If She'd Lived: too much mascara, at least one black eye, a track mark or two, and, of course, the cowgirl outfit. Yee-ha! May she rest in peace.
Thanks for your time. I'll show myself out.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
it's a dirty job, but someone has to be home watching TV on a Saturday night
My youngest cousin couldn't come to the Cape for the weekend because he just started college. He called me Saturday night around ten.
Me: Hi!
Youngest Cousin: Hey! What are you doing?
Me: We miss you.
YC: I miss you guys, too... what's up?
Me: We're watching Dirty Jobs.
YC: Who is?
Me: Me and Andrew [his brother].
YC: It's Saturday night.
Me: It's such a good episode. Mike is visiting this woman in South Africa who takes care of these monkeys, right?
Andrew: It's a monkey sanctuary!
Me: Yeah, so she and her husband live in a house in the middle of this field and the monkeys run around all wild and bite people.
Andrew: And they claw at the windows and try to get into the house.
Me: It's like the people are living in a cage!
Andrew: And there's the weird thing with the fruit.
Me: Yeah, this woman spends HOURS cutting up fruit just right to feed to the monkeys, even though it's like, who cares if it's perfect, they're monkeys, they're gonna eat it. And she has this totally great, bizarre dynamic with Mike. I wish he'd bring her everywhere he goes.
Andrew: She needs her own show.
YC: What are you watching again?
Me: Dirty Jobs.
Andrew: We can't stop watching. It's a marathon.
Me: Do you get the Discovery Channel at school?
YC: So I'm gonna let you go.
Me: Hi!
Youngest Cousin: Hey! What are you doing?
Me: We miss you.
YC: I miss you guys, too... what's up?
Me: We're watching Dirty Jobs.
YC: Who is?
Me: Me and Andrew [his brother].
YC: It's Saturday night.
Me: It's such a good episode. Mike is visiting this woman in South Africa who takes care of these monkeys, right?
Andrew: It's a monkey sanctuary!
Me: Yeah, so she and her husband live in a house in the middle of this field and the monkeys run around all wild and bite people.
Andrew: And they claw at the windows and try to get into the house.
Me: It's like the people are living in a cage!
Andrew: And there's the weird thing with the fruit.
Me: Yeah, this woman spends HOURS cutting up fruit just right to feed to the monkeys, even though it's like, who cares if it's perfect, they're monkeys, they're gonna eat it. And she has this totally great, bizarre dynamic with Mike. I wish he'd bring her everywhere he goes.
Andrew: She needs her own show.
YC: What are you watching again?
Me: Dirty Jobs.
Andrew: We can't stop watching. It's a marathon.
Me: Do you get the Discovery Channel at school?
YC: So I'm gonna let you go.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
finishing and beginning
Melissa, Carly and I went to Joe's graduation tonight. That smart boy done got his GED! Fine, MBA, whatever. The university president spoke about how it was just the beginning of the graduates' lifelong relationship with the school. I went to that same school myself and now my primary relationship with them consists of screening when I see their number come up on caller ID. I got no money for you, bitches, I went into education.
Then the commencement speaker talked about how inspiring it was for him to see "two obese women" make it to the top of a wall during an outward bound weekend. Yeah, I'm not sure what his point was, either.
Joe did it the hard way... worked during the day, went to school nights. I give him a lot of credit. I can pontificate about how education enhances your soul and blah blah, but I probably wouldn't have gone to grad school if it hadn't been required for my job. He complained in his blog (blogplained) a lot while going through the whole thing, so we made sure to taunt him endlessly: "Joe, I forget, was this entire process a pleasure for you?"
So, go Joe! Real American hero! Now go make money so Olivia can buy lots of crap at the mall someday.
Got home and went to Fugakyu with Katie. It was a perfect night, with just the beginning of fall in the air. Tomorrow is September first, of course, and Beacon Street is already lined with U-Haul trucks. Don't even want to think about what Comm Ave looks like. Mattresses and bureaus and fresh starts everywhere you look. Welcome to Boston... now stop double-parking or we'll stab you in the throat.
Tomorrow I'm headed to Cape for the long weekend with family, including cousins, and a few friends. Next week I'm back to the three-foot-tall loves of my life. Working in a school keeps you on that academic schedule, so September is still about sharpened pencils and shiny notebooks.
I love fall, more than I can put into words. Pumpkins, leaves, all the oranges and browns and burgundys, like perpetual sunset everywhere you look. That perfect crispness in the air that makes everything feel clean and recharged. Hot chocolate, cider, apples. Needing a blanket on your bed but still sleeping with the windows open.
That's right, windows open. Deal with it, crazy.
Then the commencement speaker talked about how inspiring it was for him to see "two obese women" make it to the top of a wall during an outward bound weekend. Yeah, I'm not sure what his point was, either.
Joe did it the hard way... worked during the day, went to school nights. I give him a lot of credit. I can pontificate about how education enhances your soul and blah blah, but I probably wouldn't have gone to grad school if it hadn't been required for my job. He complained in his blog (blogplained) a lot while going through the whole thing, so we made sure to taunt him endlessly: "Joe, I forget, was this entire process a pleasure for you?"
So, go Joe! Real American hero! Now go make money so Olivia can buy lots of crap at the mall someday.
Got home and went to Fugakyu with Katie. It was a perfect night, with just the beginning of fall in the air. Tomorrow is September first, of course, and Beacon Street is already lined with U-Haul trucks. Don't even want to think about what Comm Ave looks like. Mattresses and bureaus and fresh starts everywhere you look. Welcome to Boston... now stop double-parking or we'll stab you in the throat.
Tomorrow I'm headed to Cape for the long weekend with family, including cousins, and a few friends. Next week I'm back to the three-foot-tall loves of my life. Working in a school keeps you on that academic schedule, so September is still about sharpened pencils and shiny notebooks.
I love fall, more than I can put into words. Pumpkins, leaves, all the oranges and browns and burgundys, like perpetual sunset everywhere you look. That perfect crispness in the air that makes everything feel clean and recharged. Hot chocolate, cider, apples. Needing a blanket on your bed but still sleeping with the windows open.
That's right, windows open. Deal with it, crazy.
no dip idioms are coming to mind
Me: Oh, fun dip! Sweet.
Dave: I used to eat the white thing and use my fingers.
Me: What white thing?
Dave: The stick that comes with it.
Me: Oh. Maybe I don't actually know what fun dip is.
Dave: Really?
Me: I was thinking it was the hard shell they put on ice cream for you sometimes at the parlor.
Dave: That's magic shell.
Me: The parlor? Where am I eating ice cream, 1812?
Dave: The country was at war when you were enjoying your ice cream.
Me: I was in a petticoat partaking in a frozen treat.
Dave: Trying to keep cool.
Me: I mean, I don't want to pick sides. Let's all get along.
Dave: Don't catch a case of the vapors.
Me: The vapors?
Dave: I think people were afraid to catch the vapors in 1812.
Me: Well, aren't you packed with knowledge. You're a treat for my eyes AND my brain.
Dave: I used to eat the white thing and use my fingers.
Me: What white thing?
Dave: The stick that comes with it.
Me: Oh. Maybe I don't actually know what fun dip is.
Dave: Really?
Me: I was thinking it was the hard shell they put on ice cream for you sometimes at the parlor.
Dave: That's magic shell.
Me: The parlor? Where am I eating ice cream, 1812?
Dave: The country was at war when you were enjoying your ice cream.
Me: I was in a petticoat partaking in a frozen treat.
Dave: Trying to keep cool.
Me: I mean, I don't want to pick sides. Let's all get along.
Dave: Don't catch a case of the vapors.
Me: The vapors?
Dave: I think people were afraid to catch the vapors in 1812.
Me: Well, aren't you packed with knowledge. You're a treat for my eyes AND my brain.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
children are the future, or whatever
So I'm on the T reading this. Okay fine, it's closed and sitting in my lap, because I'm distracted by my own reflection, if you must know. When we're underground the Red in the window looks pensive. Above ground, whimsical. Pensive. Whimsical!
The guy next to me says, "Is that good?"
My reflection? Hello, it's versatile and awesome. Oh, the book.
"Yeah, it's pretty good. It's for work, so, you know…"
"What's it about?"
Uh, well, Harry and his friends get into a whole bunch of trouble, you see, and... "Well, I'm a—" (sometimes I think better of it and don’t bother giving my fairly weird, million question-inducing job title, short of wearing this incredibly random t-shirt) "—teacher. So it's about working with kids."
Why do people always try to compliment you when you tell them you work with kids? I suppose it's just to have something to say, but it's always stuff like, "Wow, that's really admirable," or, "You must be an extremely giving person." The word "noble" comes up, which is a word that never comes up, unless you're discussing a monarch or something. And the right person, some kindhearted soul who imparts her wisdom to the young, wears a vest covered with holiday-appropriate images, and has never spoken a swear word or a grammatically incorrect sentence, would have the right kind of response, something like, "Well, just seeing their little faces every morning makes it all worthwhile..."
This guy said, "You must really love your job."
And I said, "Well, considering I haven't had to go to it since June, yeah, I really do."
Yes folks, I truly am black on the inside. But you already knew that.
The guy next to me says, "Is that good?"
My reflection? Hello, it's versatile and awesome. Oh, the book.
"Yeah, it's pretty good. It's for work, so, you know…"
"What's it about?"
Uh, well, Harry and his friends get into a whole bunch of trouble, you see, and... "Well, I'm a—" (sometimes I think better of it and don’t bother giving my fairly weird, million question-inducing job title, short of wearing this incredibly random t-shirt) "—teacher. So it's about working with kids."
Why do people always try to compliment you when you tell them you work with kids? I suppose it's just to have something to say, but it's always stuff like, "Wow, that's really admirable," or, "You must be an extremely giving person." The word "noble" comes up, which is a word that never comes up, unless you're discussing a monarch or something. And the right person, some kindhearted soul who imparts her wisdom to the young, wears a vest covered with holiday-appropriate images, and has never spoken a swear word or a grammatically incorrect sentence, would have the right kind of response, something like, "Well, just seeing their little faces every morning makes it all worthwhile..."
This guy said, "You must really love your job."
And I said, "Well, considering I haven't had to go to it since June, yeah, I really do."
Yes folks, I truly am black on the inside. But you already knew that.
Monday, August 28, 2006
for better or worse
You know how sometimes you just can't predict ahead of time whether or not a wedding is going to suck?
I mean whether or not it's going to suck for me, the selfish guest. It's pretty likely that the wedding will not suck for the people getting married (although I've been to a couple of those, come to think of it).
When college or high school friends or family members get married, you know at least half the people there. I've gone to a jillion of these weddings, as we all have. When it's the wedding of someone that you didn't get all edumacated or share DNA with, it's harder to know what's in store for you at the blessed event.
My friend Jeff is two years younger than me and we've known each other since we were kids. Actually, his parents used to work with my parents (yes, back in the day, my parents met at work) and they've all been friends since their 20s. Jeff's parents were thinking about having a baby (read: him) and they came over one day when I was hanging out and drinking some orange juice and thought I didn't seem so bad, so as they tell the story, his dad agreed to knock up his mom. So when I say that Jeff is my friend, what I really mean is that the man quite literally owes me his life. But we won't dwell on that.
So, yeah. Jeff met A Girl, who is lovely and smart and once dressed up as Ms. Pac Man for Halloween, and over the weekend she became his New Wife. Of course, my parents were at the wedding. Don't get me wrong, I adore my parents. Big fan. Love their work. But the only wedding that I ever want to attend with them is my own, and that's simply because it's the only event that won't lead my mom to ask questions like, "So! Who was that young man you were dancing with? He seems nice! Is he single? What, I'm just wondering!"
Even better is the fact that my parents and I were seated at separate tables (God love you, New Wife) but my mom was really concerned about this. "How are the people at your table? Are they nice? Are they easy to talk to?" I tried to tell her that I actually function in the world and converse with people on a daily basis, but she wasn't buying it.
Predictably, I love dancing at weddings, or anywhere, for that matter (would you judge me if I told you that I did Dance Dance Revolution for like two hours today?). Places where you can dance are getting fewer and further between, because clubs are for drunk 24-year-olds and sometimes your friends don't like it when you get freaky in their kitchen, for whatever reason. Weddings can be funny because they loosen people up, sometimes in a bad way. It's so great how some relatives (and we all have them in our families, let's face it) are either totally buttoned-up or they're grinding with bridesmaids on the dance floor with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a piece of cake in the other. I love people who have no reasonable middle ground. I want more of them in my life immediately.
I also love the high drama factor of the songs that you end up dancing to with random men. "Oh wow, hi! Of course I remember you! So-and-so's bonfire, I know, a million years ago! How have things been? Where are you living now?" and then suddenly you're dancing with him to Unchained Melody or How Do I Live Without You. Nice to see you again, and incidentally, were we ever drowning in the Atlantic, would you let me float on the door while you froze to death in the water?
I ended up knowing a few people there after all, one of whom I met years ago and really liked but had forgotten all about. She lives in DC and, well, she liked to get funky, I'm not going to lie to you. Honestly, I'm a fan of any event that goes right from hava nagila to SexyBack.
By the way, we're so hava nagilaing at my wedding. I don't care if I marry anyone Jewish, or actually, I don't care if I even get married. We're doing it at my 30th birthday party next year (next year, dear God! I'll be the one sobbing in the corner about how I should have made different choices).
I mean whether or not it's going to suck for me, the selfish guest. It's pretty likely that the wedding will not suck for the people getting married (although I've been to a couple of those, come to think of it).
When college or high school friends or family members get married, you know at least half the people there. I've gone to a jillion of these weddings, as we all have. When it's the wedding of someone that you didn't get all edumacated or share DNA with, it's harder to know what's in store for you at the blessed event.
My friend Jeff is two years younger than me and we've known each other since we were kids. Actually, his parents used to work with my parents (yes, back in the day, my parents met at work) and they've all been friends since their 20s. Jeff's parents were thinking about having a baby (read: him) and they came over one day when I was hanging out and drinking some orange juice and thought I didn't seem so bad, so as they tell the story, his dad agreed to knock up his mom. So when I say that Jeff is my friend, what I really mean is that the man quite literally owes me his life. But we won't dwell on that.
So, yeah. Jeff met A Girl, who is lovely and smart and once dressed up as Ms. Pac Man for Halloween, and over the weekend she became his New Wife. Of course, my parents were at the wedding. Don't get me wrong, I adore my parents. Big fan. Love their work. But the only wedding that I ever want to attend with them is my own, and that's simply because it's the only event that won't lead my mom to ask questions like, "So! Who was that young man you were dancing with? He seems nice! Is he single? What, I'm just wondering!"
Even better is the fact that my parents and I were seated at separate tables (God love you, New Wife) but my mom was really concerned about this. "How are the people at your table? Are they nice? Are they easy to talk to?" I tried to tell her that I actually function in the world and converse with people on a daily basis, but she wasn't buying it.
Predictably, I love dancing at weddings, or anywhere, for that matter (would you judge me if I told you that I did Dance Dance Revolution for like two hours today?). Places where you can dance are getting fewer and further between, because clubs are for drunk 24-year-olds and sometimes your friends don't like it when you get freaky in their kitchen, for whatever reason. Weddings can be funny because they loosen people up, sometimes in a bad way. It's so great how some relatives (and we all have them in our families, let's face it) are either totally buttoned-up or they're grinding with bridesmaids on the dance floor with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a piece of cake in the other. I love people who have no reasonable middle ground. I want more of them in my life immediately.
I also love the high drama factor of the songs that you end up dancing to with random men. "Oh wow, hi! Of course I remember you! So-and-so's bonfire, I know, a million years ago! How have things been? Where are you living now?" and then suddenly you're dancing with him to Unchained Melody or How Do I Live Without You. Nice to see you again, and incidentally, were we ever drowning in the Atlantic, would you let me float on the door while you froze to death in the water?
I ended up knowing a few people there after all, one of whom I met years ago and really liked but had forgotten all about. She lives in DC and, well, she liked to get funky, I'm not going to lie to you. Honestly, I'm a fan of any event that goes right from hava nagila to SexyBack.
By the way, we're so hava nagilaing at my wedding. I don't care if I marry anyone Jewish, or actually, I don't care if I even get married. We're doing it at my 30th birthday party next year (next year, dear God! I'll be the one sobbing in the corner about how I should have made different choices).
Saturday, August 26, 2006
windowpain
In the grand tradition of next door neighbors, one of mine and I are presently engaged in entirely pointless yet unrelenting psychological warfare.
Am I referring to Crazy Neighbor, the middle-aged guy who smokes in the dark and wanders over to my apartment with wine whenever he sees I have friends over? No, not even. This is an entirely different neighbor. The one with all the freakin' kids. The one with Tatertot.
I actually do have another neighbor who is quite lovely. She's never home, though, because she always travels. Good thing, because she's about Crazy's age and would inevitably fall prey to his dizzying intellect and highly evolved seduction techniques. So that leaves me to contend with this motley crew (I accidentally spelled it like the band name the first time around, because I'm just that metal).
On weekend mornings, the Tatertot clan enjoys having breakfast together on their patio together at about 6:30 AM. This breakfast presumably involves food, but mostly yelling. Not angry yelling, but the inexplicable need to screech in whatever language they all prefer to English when they're together.
So I usually wake up, curse them, then close my window and go back to sleep. But one afternoon Mama Tatertot said to me (and keep in mind she calls me by The Nickname I Detest More Than Life Itself), "Reddy, I heard you close your window this morning. Did we wake you up?"
Were I truly balls out, I would've said, "Yes, you inconsiderate, highly fertile monster, and next time I'll be hanging out the window like a sniper with a rifle, waiting to pick off whichever of your loud-ass offspring has slower reflexes."
Instead I said, "Oh, it's okay. I just closed my window and went back to sleep."
She looked at me like I had no idea how the world works. "Well, when the weather is so nice, we don't like to be stuck in the house all day. The kids like to be outside, and Husband works all week..."
I'm not sure what to do with all this irrelevant information. "Right, no big deal. I just close my window."
"It's just that when you close your window, the kids hear it, and they feel bad. They feel like they've disturbed you, and then they want to go inside."
Is she trying to make me feel bad for closing my window after they wake me up in the morning, as though I should lie there gleefully basking in their noise? The nerve of me! "Well, they shouldn't feel bad. Once I close my window I can't hear you anymore."
"It's just that when they hear your window slam, they feel bad, like they've made you mad. They really like you."
"Slam" feels like the word she's trying to work in here. What kind of Jedi mind tricks are these? Am I closing my window too hard, and thus disrespectfully? "Honestly, this all happens when I'm half-asleep. I don't even pay that much attention."
"Well, we'll try to keep it down."
"Don't worry about it. I'll try to close my window... um, quieter."
We both laughed a little. Then, this morning: The Louds were louder than ever; must've had a lot to say about those Grape Nuts. I closed the window. And later on today I was sitting on my patio, on the phone, and she walked over. Of course she'd be the kind of person who sees that I'm on the phone but just starts right in talking to me like I'm not.
"It happened again," she said.
"Um, hold on a sec..." I covered the mouthpiece and looked up at her. "I'm sorry?"
"The kids just feel so bad when they wake you up."
I used to have a roommate who was comprised entirely of muscles, nerves, and passive-aggression, and several times I found that, if she was annoyed by something I had done, she'd dance around the issue to such an extent that I would finally have to say to her, "Tell me exactly what the problem is," and then somewhere in the flood of words that would follow were the few that answered my question... It's your turn to clean the kitchen. Your boyfriend sleeps over too much. I don't like when you leave twelve towels in the bathroom. Okay then. I just hate the dance. Use your words and let's move on.
Anyway, I wanted to say something along those lines to Mama Tatertot, but at the same time, not really. I don't play my music too loud. I never have more than a few friends over at a time. So if the problem is my window-shutting, which is in direct response to her family's loudness, then, by God, there is simply no issue here. And besides that, I'm on the phone.
So I just shrugged. "They shouldn't feel bad. It's really not a big deal at all."
She smiled, clearly wanting to say something else, I can't fathom what. I smiled back and returned to my conversation. And on some level I think we both know: this is on now, bitch.
Am I referring to Crazy Neighbor, the middle-aged guy who smokes in the dark and wanders over to my apartment with wine whenever he sees I have friends over? No, not even. This is an entirely different neighbor. The one with all the freakin' kids. The one with Tatertot.
I actually do have another neighbor who is quite lovely. She's never home, though, because she always travels. Good thing, because she's about Crazy's age and would inevitably fall prey to his dizzying intellect and highly evolved seduction techniques. So that leaves me to contend with this motley crew (I accidentally spelled it like the band name the first time around, because I'm just that metal).
On weekend mornings, the Tatertot clan enjoys having breakfast together on their patio together at about 6:30 AM. This breakfast presumably involves food, but mostly yelling. Not angry yelling, but the inexplicable need to screech in whatever language they all prefer to English when they're together.
So I usually wake up, curse them, then close my window and go back to sleep. But one afternoon Mama Tatertot said to me (and keep in mind she calls me by The Nickname I Detest More Than Life Itself), "Reddy, I heard you close your window this morning. Did we wake you up?"
Were I truly balls out, I would've said, "Yes, you inconsiderate, highly fertile monster, and next time I'll be hanging out the window like a sniper with a rifle, waiting to pick off whichever of your loud-ass offspring has slower reflexes."
Instead I said, "Oh, it's okay. I just closed my window and went back to sleep."
She looked at me like I had no idea how the world works. "Well, when the weather is so nice, we don't like to be stuck in the house all day. The kids like to be outside, and Husband works all week..."
I'm not sure what to do with all this irrelevant information. "Right, no big deal. I just close my window."
"It's just that when you close your window, the kids hear it, and they feel bad. They feel like they've disturbed you, and then they want to go inside."
Is she trying to make me feel bad for closing my window after they wake me up in the morning, as though I should lie there gleefully basking in their noise? The nerve of me! "Well, they shouldn't feel bad. Once I close my window I can't hear you anymore."
"It's just that when they hear your window slam, they feel bad, like they've made you mad. They really like you."
"Slam" feels like the word she's trying to work in here. What kind of Jedi mind tricks are these? Am I closing my window too hard, and thus disrespectfully? "Honestly, this all happens when I'm half-asleep. I don't even pay that much attention."
"Well, we'll try to keep it down."
"Don't worry about it. I'll try to close my window... um, quieter."
We both laughed a little. Then, this morning: The Louds were louder than ever; must've had a lot to say about those Grape Nuts. I closed the window. And later on today I was sitting on my patio, on the phone, and she walked over. Of course she'd be the kind of person who sees that I'm on the phone but just starts right in talking to me like I'm not.
"It happened again," she said.
"Um, hold on a sec..." I covered the mouthpiece and looked up at her. "I'm sorry?"
"The kids just feel so bad when they wake you up."
I used to have a roommate who was comprised entirely of muscles, nerves, and passive-aggression, and several times I found that, if she was annoyed by something I had done, she'd dance around the issue to such an extent that I would finally have to say to her, "Tell me exactly what the problem is," and then somewhere in the flood of words that would follow were the few that answered my question... It's your turn to clean the kitchen. Your boyfriend sleeps over too much. I don't like when you leave twelve towels in the bathroom. Okay then. I just hate the dance. Use your words and let's move on.
Anyway, I wanted to say something along those lines to Mama Tatertot, but at the same time, not really. I don't play my music too loud. I never have more than a few friends over at a time. So if the problem is my window-shutting, which is in direct response to her family's loudness, then, by God, there is simply no issue here. And besides that, I'm on the phone.
So I just shrugged. "They shouldn't feel bad. It's really not a big deal at all."
She smiled, clearly wanting to say something else, I can't fathom what. I smiled back and returned to my conversation. And on some level I think we both know: this is on now, bitch.
Friday, August 25, 2006
high five
Top Five Dream Jobs
1. Woman of leisure
2. Opinionated socialite
3. Heavily medicated socialite
4. My current job, only more money
5. The most popular girl on Laguna Beach. How badly do I want to remake the opening credits with my own friends in it?
Top Five Places I'd Like To Visit
1. Spain
2. Italy
3. Ireland
4. Iceland
5. Greece
Secret answer: Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
Top Five Crushes
1. Jason Varitek
2. Vince Vaughn
3. Ben Affleck, circa Armageddon
4. John Cusack, Paul Rudd, same difference
5. Ron King, this guy I used to work with a hundred years ago (oh whatever, if he ever were to find this he should only be flattered)
Secret answer: That guy from the movie Step Up
Top Five Movies I Want to See
1. The Puffy Chair
2. The Last Kiss
3. Sherrybaby
4. The Oh in Ohio
5. The Pursuit of Happiness
Secret answer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Top Five Underrated Movies
1. Kissing Jessica Stein
2. Vanilla Sky
3. Leo and Clarie's Romeo & Juliet
4. Contact
5. Bruce Almighty
Top Five Movies That I Wanted to Die During
1. Meet Joe Black
2. Bounce
3. Sleepless in Seattle
4. The English Patient
5. Ghost
Top Five Movies That I Know Every Word To
1. Labyrinth
2. Heathers
3. Clerks
4. Reality Bites
5. Speed
Top Five Beverages
1. Diet Pepsi
2. Water
3. Orange juice
4. Chardonnay (red stains my teeth. yesitdoes.)
5. Wachusett blueberry beer
Secret answer: I put flavored sparkling water in wine. Only at home, of course. It's still tacky. I basically create my own wine coolers. Why does anyone still talk to me?
Top Five Opportunities For Awkward Conversations
1. When you apologize to the person coming out of the public bathroom for shaking the door while they were in there, because you didn't know if it was a one-person stall or if the door was just sticking. And you're also sorry for trying it a second time about thirty seconds after you first tried it because you weren't completely convinced that it wasn't just sticking.
2. You're in an elevator and someone gets on and says "nice day" and you say "isn't it?" and then you ride up 3,000 floors together agonizingly slowly in total silence because weather small talk can only get you so far on a beautiful day.
3. On hold with a customer service rep who says, "It'll just be a moment, our computers are slow today" and you both just sit there breathing.
4. When someone's telling a joke, and you smile halfway through, and they say, "Oh, you know this one?" and you feel kind of bad for letting on but then they stop telling it and look kind of defeated and then you feel really bad.
5. At the Cherry Tree, when a guy that Party Jen hooked up with a few weeks ago walks by and says hello and suddenly three grown people realize that they have absolutely nothing to say to each other.
Top Five Famous People That I'd Like to be Swallowed Into the Fiery Depths of Hell
1. Carson Daly
2. James Blunt
3. John Mayer
4. Jewel
5. Carson Daly, again, just to make sure he's good and dead
Top Five Respones to "Is It True What They Say About Redheads?"
1. Uh-huh.
2. Mmm-hmm.
3. Yeah.
4. Sure.
5. No hablo ingles.
Top Five Song Titles That Are Popular According to iTunes But Also Sound Like Text Messages I've Sent Recently
Call Me When You're Sober
SOS
Crazy Bitch
Where's Your Head At?
What Was I Thinkin'?
Top Five (Well, Four) Songs That I Sang To Mark Yesterday in the Car While We Were Stuck in Traffic Even Though He Didn't Really Like It Because He Wanted Me To Stop and Focus on Helping Him Think About Where to Get Food But I Mean When These Songs Come on the Radio You Can't Not Rock Out a Little Bit
Let's Stay Together by Al Green
This Is How We Do It by Montell Jordan (see the world's been good to me, ever since I was a lowercase g, but now I'm a big G, the girls see I got the money, got the dollar billz, y'all)
I Could Not Ask For More by Edwin McCain (smilin' just to see the smile upon your fay-a-yace)
As I Lay Me Down by Sophie B. Hawkins (this would have been my song if I had been a dead serious, unsmiling a capella girl in college... best part is the background singers continuously and inexplicably belting out "uno gato"... one cat!)
1. Woman of leisure
2. Opinionated socialite
3. Heavily medicated socialite
4. My current job, only more money
5. The most popular girl on Laguna Beach. How badly do I want to remake the opening credits with my own friends in it?
Top Five Places I'd Like To Visit
1. Spain
2. Italy
3. Ireland
4. Iceland
5. Greece
Secret answer: Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
Top Five Crushes
1. Jason Varitek
2. Vince Vaughn
3. Ben Affleck, circa Armageddon
4. John Cusack, Paul Rudd, same difference
5. Ron King, this guy I used to work with a hundred years ago (oh whatever, if he ever were to find this he should only be flattered)
Secret answer: That guy from the movie Step Up
Top Five Movies I Want to See
1. The Puffy Chair
2. The Last Kiss
3. Sherrybaby
4. The Oh in Ohio
5. The Pursuit of Happiness
Secret answer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Top Five Underrated Movies
1. Kissing Jessica Stein
2. Vanilla Sky
3. Leo and Clarie's Romeo & Juliet
4. Contact
5. Bruce Almighty
Top Five Movies That I Wanted to Die During
1. Meet Joe Black
2. Bounce
3. Sleepless in Seattle
4. The English Patient
5. Ghost
Top Five Movies That I Know Every Word To
1. Labyrinth
2. Heathers
3. Clerks
4. Reality Bites
5. Speed
Top Five Beverages
1. Diet Pepsi
2. Water
3. Orange juice
4. Chardonnay (red stains my teeth. yesitdoes.)
5. Wachusett blueberry beer
Secret answer: I put flavored sparkling water in wine. Only at home, of course. It's still tacky. I basically create my own wine coolers. Why does anyone still talk to me?
Top Five Opportunities For Awkward Conversations
1. When you apologize to the person coming out of the public bathroom for shaking the door while they were in there, because you didn't know if it was a one-person stall or if the door was just sticking. And you're also sorry for trying it a second time about thirty seconds after you first tried it because you weren't completely convinced that it wasn't just sticking.
2. You're in an elevator and someone gets on and says "nice day" and you say "isn't it?" and then you ride up 3,000 floors together agonizingly slowly in total silence because weather small talk can only get you so far on a beautiful day.
3. On hold with a customer service rep who says, "It'll just be a moment, our computers are slow today" and you both just sit there breathing.
4. When someone's telling a joke, and you smile halfway through, and they say, "Oh, you know this one?" and you feel kind of bad for letting on but then they stop telling it and look kind of defeated and then you feel really bad.
5. At the Cherry Tree, when a guy that Party Jen hooked up with a few weeks ago walks by and says hello and suddenly three grown people realize that they have absolutely nothing to say to each other.
Top Five Famous People That I'd Like to be Swallowed Into the Fiery Depths of Hell
1. Carson Daly
2. James Blunt
3. John Mayer
4. Jewel
5. Carson Daly, again, just to make sure he's good and dead
Top Five Respones to "Is It True What They Say About Redheads?"
1. Uh-huh.
2. Mmm-hmm.
3. Yeah.
4. Sure.
5. No hablo ingles.
Top Five Song Titles That Are Popular According to iTunes But Also Sound Like Text Messages I've Sent Recently
Call Me When You're Sober
SOS
Crazy Bitch
Where's Your Head At?
What Was I Thinkin'?
Top Five (Well, Four) Songs That I Sang To Mark Yesterday in the Car While We Were Stuck in Traffic Even Though He Didn't Really Like It Because He Wanted Me To Stop and Focus on Helping Him Think About Where to Get Food But I Mean When These Songs Come on the Radio You Can't Not Rock Out a Little Bit
Let's Stay Together by Al Green
This Is How We Do It by Montell Jordan (see the world's been good to me, ever since I was a lowercase g, but now I'm a big G, the girls see I got the money, got the dollar billz, y'all)
I Could Not Ask For More by Edwin McCain (smilin' just to see the smile upon your fay-a-yace)
As I Lay Me Down by Sophie B. Hawkins (this would have been my song if I had been a dead serious, unsmiling a capella girl in college... best part is the background singers continuously and inexplicably belting out "uno gato"... one cat!)
Saturday, August 19, 2006
have you never been mellow
Usually when I'm on the Cape it's a full house, especially in season, but right now it's quiet, for the most part and until tomorrow, when things pick up around here and at night we all head to Chillingsworth, the most sublime food experience you could ever hope to have, around these parts anyway. Is it wrong to look forward to a meal all weekend? If you knew this place, you'd feel the same way, I swear. Anyway, this is pretty much what I've been up to in the meantime...
Wake up around 9, think about how much I love outdoor showers, but there isn't one here so take an indoor shower (products? I'm so glad you asked... Clinique sparkle skin body exfoliating cream, NARS body serum)
Wet hair, flip flops, shorts, bottle of water, sunblock to prevent me from certain death, book, deck
Lunch at the Dolphin with mom and her friend... oysters, Portuguese sweet bread, and continue to allow the Sox to rip my still-beating heart out of my chest
Shopping and art galleries in Barnstable... buy earrings with "moonstones" in them at a "magical" shop and am handed a pamphlet telling me about their healing powers (I just say thanks because "thanks, crazy" seems like an insensitive response)
No one wants to go to the whaling museum in Nantucket with me unless it involves drinking at the Club Car; I dismiss everyone I know as ignorant and alcoholic
Turn on cell to see what's going on with my peoples at home (I know, the point is to have it on all the time. I'm getting there...)
Bring iPod to New Seabury beach (Zero 7, thank you Greg)
Stop at grocery store for lemons, peaches and corn on the cob; raw bar at Popponesset for lobster; make dinner at home
Sunset boat ride on Waquoit Bay with dad; lovely but not as romantic as it sounds. He tells me he'll go to the whaling museum with me... whee!
A couple neighbors are over, a glass of wine or three, everyone's barefoot
Stop at the Roo Bar with neighbor from back home who's working on Cape for the summer... I used to babysit him and now he's applying to law school, which is disturbing on many levels... also, the Sox are ruining my life and I cannot discuss them any further without swearing and flailing
Peppermint tea with raw honey, several rounds of dirty texting
Jacuzzi with Philosophy's Falling in Love bubble bath, Creme de La Mer, read my book in bed
Wake up around 9, think about how much I love outdoor showers, but there isn't one here so take an indoor shower (products? I'm so glad you asked... Clinique sparkle skin body exfoliating cream, NARS body serum)
Wet hair, flip flops, shorts, bottle of water, sunblock to prevent me from certain death, book, deck
Lunch at the Dolphin with mom and her friend... oysters, Portuguese sweet bread, and continue to allow the Sox to rip my still-beating heart out of my chest
Shopping and art galleries in Barnstable... buy earrings with "moonstones" in them at a "magical" shop and am handed a pamphlet telling me about their healing powers (I just say thanks because "thanks, crazy" seems like an insensitive response)
No one wants to go to the whaling museum in Nantucket with me unless it involves drinking at the Club Car; I dismiss everyone I know as ignorant and alcoholic
Turn on cell to see what's going on with my peoples at home (I know, the point is to have it on all the time. I'm getting there...)
Bring iPod to New Seabury beach (Zero 7, thank you Greg)
Stop at grocery store for lemons, peaches and corn on the cob; raw bar at Popponesset for lobster; make dinner at home
Sunset boat ride on Waquoit Bay with dad; lovely but not as romantic as it sounds. He tells me he'll go to the whaling museum with me... whee!
A couple neighbors are over, a glass of wine or three, everyone's barefoot
Stop at the Roo Bar with neighbor from back home who's working on Cape for the summer... I used to babysit him and now he's applying to law school, which is disturbing on many levels... also, the Sox are ruining my life and I cannot discuss them any further without swearing and flailing
Peppermint tea with raw honey, several rounds of dirty texting
Jacuzzi with Philosophy's Falling in Love bubble bath, Creme de La Mer, read my book in bed
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
why online dating is not for the faint of heart
I was going to meet this guy for a drink, and then he called to confirm the when/where. This is what I heard coming out of my phone:
"So you seem really nice and cute and you live in [same city as him] and you're a redhead and the way I see it is just let's get together and see if we have a connection physical or otherwise and if so then great! What I'm saying is yay!"
Yay?
"I have three dealbreakers. Do you want to hear my dealbreakers? Wait hold on that's my call waiting. Red? Red? That's my son calling. I told you I have a son, right? Can you hold on?"
Uh-huh.
"Red? Red? Hey, I'm back. Yeah, that was my son. He's only three and a half, so obviously SHE put him on the phone. That's fine though. I pre-pay the minutes and I prefer to use them to talk to the girls I'm courting. You know?"
I suddenly became very, very busy. Packed schedule. Booked for infinity.
I told some friends, naturally, and one said, "He's a loser. Who pre-pays for minutes?" I guess everyone has their own dealbreakers.
"So you seem really nice and cute and you live in [same city as him] and you're a redhead and the way I see it is just let's get together and see if we have a connection physical or otherwise and if so then great! What I'm saying is yay!"
Yay?
"I have three dealbreakers. Do you want to hear my dealbreakers? Wait hold on that's my call waiting. Red? Red? That's my son calling. I told you I have a son, right? Can you hold on?"
Uh-huh.
"Red? Red? Hey, I'm back. Yeah, that was my son. He's only three and a half, so obviously SHE put him on the phone. That's fine though. I pre-pay the minutes and I prefer to use them to talk to the girls I'm courting. You know?"
I suddenly became very, very busy. Packed schedule. Booked for infinity.
I told some friends, naturally, and one said, "He's a loser. Who pre-pays for minutes?" I guess everyone has their own dealbreakers.
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