Thanks to those of you who emailed to tell me that this is on VH1 Friday night:
40 Most Soft-sational Soft Rock Songs
They're the titans of tenderness... the sultans of sensitivity... the monsters of mellow, and we're counting down 40 of their greatest songs. So dim that lava lamp, pour a chalice of white zin, and cuddle up...
And wouldn't you know, at the same time, the Sox will be playing the Yankees on NESN.
I'm faced with a dilemma of epic proportions. Lionel or Youk? Dear God, it's like Sophie's Choice. If Sophie could watch one live and DVR the other, that is.
That's called having your cake and eating Peter Cetera too. Or, uh, something like that.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
How The Public Schools Failed Me, or I'm So Dumb That It's Actually Kind of Frightening
The fifth graders have been participating in the state standardized testing for several weeks now. There were always bubbles to fill in, blue books to write in, and number two pencils to sharpen when I was in school, but it's much more extensive these days. I've been periodically sitting with my kids to help them with parts of it. I thought it was bad enough that I had to review fractions so that I had a clue going into the math portion, but today's test was social studies, or what will henceforth be referred to as the twenty six multiple choice questions that made me realize that I'm not the intelligent, functioning member of society that just this morning I believed myself to be.
When it comes to questions about historical events, you either know that shit or you don't. Turns out? I don't. On many, many more counts than I'm prepared to admit. The Aztecs? The Pequot War? Lewis and Clark? Not to mention the fact that the only reason I remember Thomas Jefferson's affiliation with the Louisiana Purchase is from a random memory of learning disabled Mallory Keaton, who, after studying for days on end for a history test, yelled in class, "THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE WAS DIFFICULT FOR THOMAS JEFFERSON!" I don't remember why it was so difficult. No discount? I do, however, remember that a guy named Skippy had a crush on her. If you did a scan of my brain the only thing you'd find is Kimberly Drummond and Mike Seaver playing Operation. People, I need to buy some history books and READ THEM.
Or maybe there's something I could learn by watching the History Channel. Or the Discovery Channel. Or VH1. Wait a second. Lindsay Lohan did WHAT to her hair?
When it comes to questions about historical events, you either know that shit or you don't. Turns out? I don't. On many, many more counts than I'm prepared to admit. The Aztecs? The Pequot War? Lewis and Clark? Not to mention the fact that the only reason I remember Thomas Jefferson's affiliation with the Louisiana Purchase is from a random memory of learning disabled Mallory Keaton, who, after studying for days on end for a history test, yelled in class, "THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE WAS DIFFICULT FOR THOMAS JEFFERSON!" I don't remember why it was so difficult. No discount? I do, however, remember that a guy named Skippy had a crush on her. If you did a scan of my brain the only thing you'd find is Kimberly Drummond and Mike Seaver playing Operation. People, I need to buy some history books and READ THEM.
Or maybe there's something I could learn by watching the History Channel. Or the Discovery Channel. Or VH1. Wait a second. Lindsay Lohan did WHAT to her hair?
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Years Go By, I'm Looking Through A Girly Magazine
I went to Store 24 for gum and Diet Pepsi and apparently lost my mind, because I came out with the gum, DP, Cosmo, People, Us Weekly and Allure. Why? Especially why COSMO? I don't know. I had just been thinking about how lame it is that I haven't made any time for reading this year when I have so freakin' many books that I want to get to. And... this is the solution?
I love this shit, though. Ricki Lake lost more than 100 pounds and Us listed a few days' worth of the food that she eats. One of her breakfasts was pastel frittata with shiitake mushrooms, Gruyere and fresh herbs. Uh. Yeah. Sounds just like the cereal bar that I eat in my car on the way to work. It should be easy to emulate her success strategies and work in a little PASTEL FRITTATA during my commute.
Allure and People are pretty straightforward, as always: summer products and lame human interest stories, respectively. But oh Cosmo, you glossy vixen. You almost feel bad for it, like the trampy girl in your freshman dorm who meant well but would've fucked your futon if it said she was pretty. Reading it now is how I felt reading Teen and YM when I was 13: Should I be laughing dismissively or frantically searching for my prom date?
Anyway, Cosmo taught me what his text messages really mean, and that when he texts "What are u up 2 L8R?" it means "Wanna meet up and go home together?" (It doesn't mean "What are you up to later?" I'm so naive.) They also taught me how to cuddle by using spoons to illustrate different positions for different moods. If you put your spoonhead on his spoonlap, it makes him feel manly.
Ashlee Simpson, who apparently brought a picture of her sister into the plastic surgeon and said "Please, as close as you can get me to this" is on the cover, along with the words "75 Sex Tricks: They're So Hot, This Magazine May Burst Into Flames." For the love of God, Cosmo, is there really anything left? I could understand if we were still in college with the requisite jar of honey dust in the top drawer, but do you really have close to 100 tricks to share with women in their 30s and beyond who give new meaning to been there, done that, bought the t-shirt?
But the article was actually quite entertaining because it was all tips from men. Call me childish, but the wording was the best part. Angelo, 31 enjoys the occasional "delicious thrill." Oscar, 20 talked about "nibbling at the swollen head." Earl, 26 enjoys the ocean because "the cresting waves add to the ecstasy." Andrew, 28 has a girlfriend with "hidden reserves of bone-crushing passion." And finally, Billy, 23, urges you to "Come to bed covered in baby oil. You'll be so slick, I won't know which way to do you first."
That's about when I closed the magazine and resolved that this will be the year that I finally finish Anna Karenina.
I love this shit, though. Ricki Lake lost more than 100 pounds and Us listed a few days' worth of the food that she eats. One of her breakfasts was pastel frittata with shiitake mushrooms, Gruyere and fresh herbs. Uh. Yeah. Sounds just like the cereal bar that I eat in my car on the way to work. It should be easy to emulate her success strategies and work in a little PASTEL FRITTATA during my commute.
Allure and People are pretty straightforward, as always: summer products and lame human interest stories, respectively. But oh Cosmo, you glossy vixen. You almost feel bad for it, like the trampy girl in your freshman dorm who meant well but would've fucked your futon if it said she was pretty. Reading it now is how I felt reading Teen and YM when I was 13: Should I be laughing dismissively or frantically searching for my prom date?
Anyway, Cosmo taught me what his text messages really mean, and that when he texts "What are u up 2 L8R?" it means "Wanna meet up and go home together?" (It doesn't mean "What are you up to later?" I'm so naive.) They also taught me how to cuddle by using spoons to illustrate different positions for different moods. If you put your spoonhead on his spoonlap, it makes him feel manly.
Ashlee Simpson, who apparently brought a picture of her sister into the plastic surgeon and said "Please, as close as you can get me to this" is on the cover, along with the words "75 Sex Tricks: They're So Hot, This Magazine May Burst Into Flames." For the love of God, Cosmo, is there really anything left? I could understand if we were still in college with the requisite jar of honey dust in the top drawer, but do you really have close to 100 tricks to share with women in their 30s and beyond who give new meaning to been there, done that, bought the t-shirt?
But the article was actually quite entertaining because it was all tips from men. Call me childish, but the wording was the best part. Angelo, 31 enjoys the occasional "delicious thrill." Oscar, 20 talked about "nibbling at the swollen head." Earl, 26 enjoys the ocean because "the cresting waves add to the ecstasy." Andrew, 28 has a girlfriend with "hidden reserves of bone-crushing passion." And finally, Billy, 23, urges you to "Come to bed covered in baby oil. You'll be so slick, I won't know which way to do you first."
That's about when I closed the magazine and resolved that this will be the year that I finally finish Anna Karenina.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Still Waiting on That Stereo, By the Way
On Saturday night Matt and I were at a black tie soiree in downtown Boston Stop and Shop buying Mother's Day cards. As usual, I went crazy with glee over the singing cards. The sound quality is so good! One of them plays Truly by Lionel Ritchie! Would someone please send me one of these cards already?!
Apparently I was a little too enthusiastic about them because as we were leaving some guy turned to Matt and said, "You need to buy her a stereo, pal." To which I believe Matt said something to the effect of, "Yeah, really."
Once it sank in that this guy had basically been making fun of us (well, me), Matt proceeded to spend the next two days revisiting this incident and crafting a more clever response. These gems ranged from "I'm not your PAL" to various puns related to musical equipment. The last version that I heard involved lighter fluid and physical violence. I tried to tell him that his actual response was fine in that anything more involved would have made me think he was CRAZY, but he was undaunted in his pursuit of the perfect airtight comeback.
Personally, I think great comebacks are overrated. You always remember the bad ones, anyway. For example, one time in high school I told my mom she was stupid, and she fired back with, "I'll stupid your head." Another favorite of mine was the time that Dave's dad yelled at him, "You're trying to fuck with fire, but fire don't fuck!"
Lesson learned: Next time some random stranger semi-insults you, instead of stewing for days about what you should have said, just tell them you'll [adjective] their head. Guaranteed they'll remember you forever.
Apparently I was a little too enthusiastic about them because as we were leaving some guy turned to Matt and said, "You need to buy her a stereo, pal." To which I believe Matt said something to the effect of, "Yeah, really."
Once it sank in that this guy had basically been making fun of us (well, me), Matt proceeded to spend the next two days revisiting this incident and crafting a more clever response. These gems ranged from "I'm not your PAL" to various puns related to musical equipment. The last version that I heard involved lighter fluid and physical violence. I tried to tell him that his actual response was fine in that anything more involved would have made me think he was CRAZY, but he was undaunted in his pursuit of the perfect airtight comeback.
Personally, I think great comebacks are overrated. You always remember the bad ones, anyway. For example, one time in high school I told my mom she was stupid, and she fired back with, "I'll stupid your head." Another favorite of mine was the time that Dave's dad yelled at him, "You're trying to fuck with fire, but fire don't fuck!"
Lesson learned: Next time some random stranger semi-insults you, instead of stewing for days about what you should have said, just tell them you'll [adjective] their head. Guaranteed they'll remember you forever.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Burn, Baby, Burn
In the pre-school today they were having a Mother's Day tea. Pink tablecloths, lilies in vases, little kids adoring their mommies, and me getting my goods seared off. Should I back up?
The plan was for the moms to order a few things off the "menu" and for the kids to bring them what they wanted. Not to sound like Dante from Clerks, but I wasn't even supposed to be there! I just stopped in to say hi! One of the adorably outfitted little girls brought her mom a cup of tea. The kids were only supposed to carry the iced tea, butwe weren't paying close enough attention she used Jedi mind tricks on us and picked up a cup of hot tea instead. Then she squeezed her way between me and a table, which I was crouching next to getting another little kid situated with a plate of fruit. Then she lost her grip on the cup and, well, let's just say, lemon zinger indeed.
People, I went DOWN. I couldn't help it. And it became my first true test as a teacher: That moment where you ABSOLUTELY MUST MOTHERFUCKING SWEAR and yet you can't because you're surrounded by the children that you work with and their parents at aflower-drenched portal to hell darling little teddy bear picnic come to life. Turns out that getting boiling water dumped on your business (granted, not a lot, but it doesn't take much) doesn't warrant merely a "shit." It warrants a, "Damn you, DAMN ALL OF YOU!" and angry pointing at no one in particular. Since I was at work, I settled for biting my lip and trying not to whip my pants off right then and there.
The school nurse doesn't get much staff in her office, but I guess it was her lucky day. I've known her for a few years and she's a total sweetheart, which I now believe even more because she insisted on holding an ice pack to my little lady for more time than I care to recall. I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to look at her in quite the same way again; our relationship has definitely moved to the next level. Call me?
The prognosis for my babymaker is good, thanks for asking. With a little time and Aquaphor, we should be back in business in no time. But the first one who calls me Firecrotch is in for it.
The plan was for the moms to order a few things off the "menu" and for the kids to bring them what they wanted. Not to sound like Dante from Clerks, but I wasn't even supposed to be there! I just stopped in to say hi! One of the adorably outfitted little girls brought her mom a cup of tea. The kids were only supposed to carry the iced tea, but
People, I went DOWN. I couldn't help it. And it became my first true test as a teacher: That moment where you ABSOLUTELY MUST MOTHERFUCKING SWEAR and yet you can't because you're surrounded by the children that you work with and their parents at a
The school nurse doesn't get much staff in her office, but I guess it was her lucky day. I've known her for a few years and she's a total sweetheart, which I now believe even more because she insisted on holding an ice pack to my little lady for more time than I care to recall. I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to look at her in quite the same way again; our relationship has definitely moved to the next level. Call me?
The prognosis for my babymaker is good, thanks for asking. With a little time and Aquaphor, we should be back in business in no time. But the first one who calls me Firecrotch is in for it.
Monday, May 07, 2007
I Told The Truth!
YouTube is a ginormous festering cesspool of copyright infringement, to which I say THANK GOD because they just reintroduced me to the most beloved commercial from my childhood. Does anyone remember this one? No one ever seems to, and I always thought it was hys-freakin-terical. Ahh, those wacky Mormon public service announcements. You laugh, but you know what else? You learn.
And, I mean, who can't relate? We all had the crotchety neighbor growing up who scolded us by singing opera.
And, I mean, who can't relate? We all had the crotchety neighbor growing up who scolded us by singing opera.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Class of 07 Forever! Never Change!
The fifth graders are starting to put their yearbook together. Each of the kids gets a half page and they say what they want to be when they grow up (lots of pro baseball or football players, teachers, and interestingly enough, one fisherman) and what their most memorable moment at school was. It's sort of like what I remember from high school yearbooks, when some people try to subtly work in how they lost their virginity in various cringe-worthy ways like "David, 2/14/94, ILY." But my students are still young enough that their memorable moments are hysterical, like "when Brian McCartney drank my milk" or "feeding bread to those ducks but then one died."
Speaking of yearbook scandal, my friend Katie's boyfriend at the time put something so nauseating and over-the-top in his senior quote that it's burned into my brain to this day: "Katie, my heart and soul are forever filled with the deepest and truest love for you and only you until the end of time. I love you so much." Not sure why he felt the need to drive the point home with that second sentence but oh, it made for yearbook gold. Granted, I quoted St. Elmo's Fire and My So-Called Life in mine, so who am I to talk? What did you guys put in yours? A bunch of initials and inside jokes that now mean nothing? Liz Phair/Dead Milkmen/Bryan Adams lyrics? Declarations of love for people you'd broken up with a month later? Inquiring minds want to know.
And speaking of high school, my friend and I are going to New York next weekend, where we'll each see a plethora of high school friends. Between the two of us we have four friends in the city and somehow all of them are having parties on Saturday night. What are the odds? As she said, we're going to be like Paris Hilton, minus the herpes and stuff.
Speaking of yearbook scandal, my friend Katie's boyfriend at the time put something so nauseating and over-the-top in his senior quote that it's burned into my brain to this day: "Katie, my heart and soul are forever filled with the deepest and truest love for you and only you until the end of time. I love you so much." Not sure why he felt the need to drive the point home with that second sentence but oh, it made for yearbook gold. Granted, I quoted St. Elmo's Fire and My So-Called Life in mine, so who am I to talk? What did you guys put in yours? A bunch of initials and inside jokes that now mean nothing? Liz Phair/Dead Milkmen/Bryan Adams lyrics? Declarations of love for people you'd broken up with a month later? Inquiring minds want to know.
And speaking of high school, my friend and I are going to New York next weekend, where we'll each see a plethora of high school friends. Between the two of us we have four friends in the city and somehow all of them are having parties on Saturday night. What are the odds? As she said, we're going to be like Paris Hilton, minus the herpes and stuff.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Anatomy of a Family Road Trip
Monday
I spent last night at my parents' in preparation for our, ahem, journey, but the power's out, rumor has it parts of 95 are closed, and everything seems touch and go on account of the monsoon. I'm sorry, but rain now counts as a nor'easter? Doesn't the fact that we're nor'easterners mean that we can brave precipitation? Are we just getting desperate for some inclement weather? I've so geared myself up for this road trip and at this point am of the mindset that if we're doing this, WE'RE DOING IT. We load the car, Dorie's daughter brings us some muffins, and I've taken two Excedrin before 10 AM. Along the way, my mom proceeds to exhibit her inexplicable weather competitiveness, wherein every place in the world that isn't her front yard doesn't know from bad weather, and my dad puts Rush Limbaugh on the radio. (He's also a Republican Yankees fan. Is there no end to my capacity to love?) Seven hours later, Dorie has called twice to mock me and suggest car games, I've read Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult, decided that since I didn't see any damn gardens that New Jersey should actually be called the Burnt Out Factory State, and learned that Pennsylvania puts fake tree branches on their cell towers. The hotel is pretty generic but has an adorable little wine bar in the lobby. We finally get to my grandma's (my dad's mom) and take her to dinner. Phew.
Tuesday
I take my grandma shopping for a new comforter. I foolishly assume it will be an easy task, since she just wants something simple and blue. I quickly learn that a down comforter with a duvet cover is "too puffy," cotton is "too wrinkly," quilts remind her of the one she started in high school but never finished, sateen feels weird and flannel is tacky (okay, agreed), and the rest are "just too funny-looking, Red, I couldn't put anything that silly on my bed." Meanwhile she has a fake bird on her coffee table that chirps when anyone walks by it, but okay. We leave with nothing but a detailed description of the comforter that she wants that I'm fairly certain doesn't exist. Next we try to find her a sofa bed. Mark calls during and I learn that while my cell phone doesn't work in my kitchen at home five miles outside of Boston, it works beautifully in a furniture store in Delaware. He asks if I want to go to a concert with him. "I'm in Delaware," I tell him in the flat tone that Mike Myers uses to deliver the same line in Wayne's World. "What? You're where?" "I know. It's ridiculous." Then I notice a store employee sitting on a couch nearby shooting me a look of death, presumably for mocking her hometown. I mouth "sorry" and she shrugs; it seems somehow appropriate. Later on I find that out of boredom/insanity, my mom has visited the gift shop at my grandma's place and purchased a bear dressed like an Italian chef that sings That's Amore. Back at the hotel, she decides we need a drink and buys a bottle of wine from the front desk, which she proceeds to drink in the lobby (with some help from yours truly, of course). The guy that I'm dating texts me updates of the game that night since I'm trapped in Phillies territory. The Sox lose to the Blue Jays, the stupidest freakin' team in baseball.
Wednesday
Did I mention where my grandma is living? It was actually the whole premise of this trip. She just moved to a retirement community that was started by a guy who didn't like the options available for his own aging parents. It's basically like a lovely (and huge) apartment complex for people over a certain age, and they have their own restaurants and shopping and clubs (like book clubs, not nightclubs... ha). It's like college, fifty years after the fact, with nicer accomodations and better food. And no pregnancy scares! Um, so anyway, it's a great arrangement for her. Also, her sister lives downstairs. I text Favorite Cousin that, no shit, this is the kind of place I want to live when I'm 80. He texts back that I need a drink. Temporarily unsupervised yet again, my mom purchases a trio of jungle animals that sing The Lion Sleeps Tonight. It's time to go home.
Thursday
Headed back, finally. I miss my friends, whom I love all the more for making me feel missed (via text, which I have subsisted on for the past few days). I miss my bed. I even miss work a little. Now that I'm home, the only thing I miss is my grandma. And Wawa, of course. When are we going to have those gems of convenience up north, already?
I spent last night at my parents' in preparation for our, ahem, journey, but the power's out, rumor has it parts of 95 are closed, and everything seems touch and go on account of the monsoon. I'm sorry, but rain now counts as a nor'easter? Doesn't the fact that we're nor'easterners mean that we can brave precipitation? Are we just getting desperate for some inclement weather? I've so geared myself up for this road trip and at this point am of the mindset that if we're doing this, WE'RE DOING IT. We load the car, Dorie's daughter brings us some muffins, and I've taken two Excedrin before 10 AM. Along the way, my mom proceeds to exhibit her inexplicable weather competitiveness, wherein every place in the world that isn't her front yard doesn't know from bad weather, and my dad puts Rush Limbaugh on the radio. (He's also a Republican Yankees fan. Is there no end to my capacity to love?) Seven hours later, Dorie has called twice to mock me and suggest car games, I've read Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult, decided that since I didn't see any damn gardens that New Jersey should actually be called the Burnt Out Factory State, and learned that Pennsylvania puts fake tree branches on their cell towers. The hotel is pretty generic but has an adorable little wine bar in the lobby. We finally get to my grandma's (my dad's mom) and take her to dinner. Phew.
Tuesday
I take my grandma shopping for a new comforter. I foolishly assume it will be an easy task, since she just wants something simple and blue. I quickly learn that a down comforter with a duvet cover is "too puffy," cotton is "too wrinkly," quilts remind her of the one she started in high school but never finished, sateen feels weird and flannel is tacky (okay, agreed), and the rest are "just too funny-looking, Red, I couldn't put anything that silly on my bed." Meanwhile she has a fake bird on her coffee table that chirps when anyone walks by it, but okay. We leave with nothing but a detailed description of the comforter that she wants that I'm fairly certain doesn't exist. Next we try to find her a sofa bed. Mark calls during and I learn that while my cell phone doesn't work in my kitchen at home five miles outside of Boston, it works beautifully in a furniture store in Delaware. He asks if I want to go to a concert with him. "I'm in Delaware," I tell him in the flat tone that Mike Myers uses to deliver the same line in Wayne's World. "What? You're where?" "I know. It's ridiculous." Then I notice a store employee sitting on a couch nearby shooting me a look of death, presumably for mocking her hometown. I mouth "sorry" and she shrugs; it seems somehow appropriate. Later on I find that out of boredom/insanity, my mom has visited the gift shop at my grandma's place and purchased a bear dressed like an Italian chef that sings That's Amore. Back at the hotel, she decides we need a drink and buys a bottle of wine from the front desk, which she proceeds to drink in the lobby (with some help from yours truly, of course). The guy that I'm dating texts me updates of the game that night since I'm trapped in Phillies territory. The Sox lose to the Blue Jays, the stupidest freakin' team in baseball.
Wednesday
Did I mention where my grandma is living? It was actually the whole premise of this trip. She just moved to a retirement community that was started by a guy who didn't like the options available for his own aging parents. It's basically like a lovely (and huge) apartment complex for people over a certain age, and they have their own restaurants and shopping and clubs (like book clubs, not nightclubs... ha). It's like college, fifty years after the fact, with nicer accomodations and better food. And no pregnancy scares! Um, so anyway, it's a great arrangement for her. Also, her sister lives downstairs. I text Favorite Cousin that, no shit, this is the kind of place I want to live when I'm 80. He texts back that I need a drink. Temporarily unsupervised yet again, my mom purchases a trio of jungle animals that sing The Lion Sleeps Tonight. It's time to go home.
Thursday
Headed back, finally. I miss my friends, whom I love all the more for making me feel missed (via text, which I have subsisted on for the past few days). I miss my bed. I even miss work a little. Now that I'm home, the only thing I miss is my grandma. And Wawa, of course. When are we going to have those gems of convenience up north, already?
Friday, April 13, 2007
Life Is A Highway, Apparently
I'll be gone for a few days because I have the week off work and I'm going to Aruba. Oh, no wait, that's Supergirl. Me, I'm going to Pennsylvania. It gets better! My grandmother moved there in January and wanted me to come visit, so I told her I'd come down during my April vacation. When my mom and dad heard that, they decided to come too. So it's somehow turned into every road trip from my childhood, sitting in the backseat of my parents' car like I'm nine years old. Where's my Walkman? At least I'm staying in a hotel. They better have one stocked bar.
I may need to capture this journey in pictures: Here's me not finding my name (as usual, only crappy variations of it) on a wall display of personalized four-color pens inscribed with "Put the Pedal to the Metal on the New Jersey Turnpike!" Here's me and Petunia, who serves the best grilled cheese ever at the Flingin' Flangin' Diner in Hartford! Hell, that sandwich was worth being riddled with bullets from the drive-by. Love ya, 'Tunia! Never change!
Re: the new blog - thanks for your emails - I'm going to set it up once I'm back.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Today
Yeah, it's still a little colder than most of us would like around here, but you really can't beat a day that involves:
1. The home opener at Fenway! Obviously Boston is a baseball town, but it's still fun to see my kids at school glued to the TV during the opening ceremony (which I rationalized was okay to watch on the basis that it was, ahem, a historical event), cheering as enthusiastically for the pitching coach and team massage therapist (now there's a career option to consider) as they do for Youk and Big Papi. Plus there's the cute kindergartener who turned to me and said, "Miss Red, where's your boyfriend?" Yikes, where'd he hear that? I should probably correct him. "He's warming up in the bullpen, sweetie. And he's not my boyfriend. He's my husband."
2. And with baseball comes jumping on the T to Faneuil Hall to watch home games at the Ames Plow, Bell in Hand and even Cheers (I know, I know, but they have ginormous flatscreens and nice bartenders). I actually prefer to watch there rather than at bars on Yawkey because places like Beer Works are pink hat territory in season.
3. Getting the Barney's spring beauty catalog in the mail. Everything inside is totally unaffordable but oh, the heavy, glossy pages, the lotions, the potions, the silky purifying pore clarifying essence of it all. I need air. Or at least that Natura Bisse diamond cream, which can be mine, all mine if I conveniently lose my excise tax bill.
4. Making my most adventurous meal yet as part of my now fairly established Tuesday cooking-for-friends night: Chicken breasts stuffed with artichoke, lemon and goat cheese over rice pilaf, and carrot coins with maple-balsamic browned butter (Good Eatin' will be updated shortly).
That's a big yay, woo, sigh, and yum for the day.
1. The home opener at Fenway! Obviously Boston is a baseball town, but it's still fun to see my kids at school glued to the TV during the opening ceremony (which I rationalized was okay to watch on the basis that it was, ahem, a historical event), cheering as enthusiastically for the pitching coach and team massage therapist (now there's a career option to consider) as they do for Youk and Big Papi. Plus there's the cute kindergartener who turned to me and said, "Miss Red, where's your boyfriend?" Yikes, where'd he hear that? I should probably correct him. "He's warming up in the bullpen, sweetie. And he's not my boyfriend. He's my husband."
2. And with baseball comes jumping on the T to Faneuil Hall to watch home games at the Ames Plow, Bell in Hand and even Cheers (I know, I know, but they have ginormous flatscreens and nice bartenders). I actually prefer to watch there rather than at bars on Yawkey because places like Beer Works are pink hat territory in season.
3. Getting the Barney's spring beauty catalog in the mail. Everything inside is totally unaffordable but oh, the heavy, glossy pages, the lotions, the potions, the silky purifying pore clarifying essence of it all. I need air. Or at least that Natura Bisse diamond cream, which can be mine, all mine if I conveniently lose my excise tax bill.
4. Making my most adventurous meal yet as part of my now fairly established Tuesday cooking-for-friends night: Chicken breasts stuffed with artichoke, lemon and goat cheese over rice pilaf, and carrot coins with maple-balsamic browned butter (Good Eatin' will be updated shortly).
That's a big yay, woo, sigh, and yum for the day.
Monday, April 09, 2007
It's Always Something
I read the blog of a local woman in her 40s who has three children, one of whom has autism. It sounds like the sort of empty compliment you'd pay when introducing a motivational keynote speaker or something, but I really admire her candor. She talks about her difficulty connecting with other people, struggling to accept her body, her role in her family as her kids become more independent, and dealing with the minutiae of everyday life.
At the same time, she acts on issues that motivate her, is a self-proclaimed writer who actually writes, and seems to have an incredibly warm and happy relationship with her husband. There's no glossing things over, no melodrama, just the silliness and grittiness and mundaneness of a random Tuesday. Funny enough, I couldn't really imagine clicking with her in person, which in a weird way almost makes me like her more, because she doesn't pander.
I mostly read her blog because I like her perspective on being the parent of a child with special needs. She's open about the struggles and grief that have come with raising her son, but at the end of the day accepts him for who he is. She has educated herself and advocates to get him the services that he needs, but sees many of his behaviors as quirks, instead of acting like children should have their idiosyncracies therapied and medicated and hammered out of them, lest they not be athletic scholars who can play the piano and speak three languages. Basically, she wants him to lead the fullest life that he can, but she isn't trying to fix him. It sounds easy enough, maybe, but I think it's a pretty profound place to be when every day you look at your child and are reminded of what life could have been like for them, and for the rest of your family. She has a lot to teach anyone about accepting and eventually embracing a difficult path that your life can take. Anyone can pontificate about the meaning of life when theirs has mostly been a peach, but of course it means more coming from someone who has actually experienced something besides smooth sailing.
And the thing is that even people who have had mostly smooth sailing still have their own shit, and when you're in the middle of it, no one can tell you that it isn't that big a deal, that it'll work out and not to worry. There are periodically people around you who experience mind-bending tragedy and they provide that occasional contrast for you of what actually is and isn't a problem, but for the most part, you're just wrapped up in where you're at. You're worried you won't get into law school, worried about finding a job, worried about moving, worried that you won't get pregnant, worried you won't find the right partner, worried about getting married, worried about affording retirement, worried about making friends, worried about whether you're doing everything you can for your autistic son, and worried about what his life will be like when you're gone. Worried, as one of my best friends is right now, about your seven-year-old having to wear a heart monitor for a month, and what the outcome of a bunch of squiggly lines could mean.
I try to think of this kind of stuff when I get bogged down with something that isn't really a problem but feels like it in the moment, like when I'm on another date smiling into my salad but fantasizing about being home in bed reading and putting on cuticle cream, when I feel compelled to turn a discouraging evening into a funny story after the fact, like I need to put on a tophat and dance around instead of letting myself feel a little sad (okay, that mental image just kind of cracked me up... in that particular metaphor I think I'm tapdancing to the my little buttercup song from Three Amigos).
There's a tendency of some people to comfort themselves in their own imperfect lives by telling themselves that other people probably aren't as happy as they seem, but I hate that. I get discouraged by other people's misfortunes, about their relationships falling apart. When married men hit on me, it's not a rush of attention; it makes me want to scream because I imagine being the wife of a guy like that in fifteen years. I feel like the more happiness that I see around me, the more likely it is that I'll find it myself, when God knows what you end up with seems to be more of a crapshoot than the result of a well-executed plan.
And despite the shit that I know other people deal with, sometimes I find myself thinking that where I am right now is hard because I'm alone, because my choices don't get a lot of external validation, because dating means constantly auditioning my personality. Don't we all do that sometimes, tell ourselves that our own little foxhole is filled with the most shit? That's when I have to mentally kick my own ass and just get over myself, because life is just too short for the negativity. And trust me, I KNOW how Oprahfied that sounds. But it's true and it's been a pretty profound shift for me. Not that I was ever really an incessant bellyacher, but I try really hard to keep things in perspective, and more than that, I think now I'm starting to understand how important it is to do that, to recognize what I have and how great it is, and not obsess about what I don't have. That's actually been the best thing about getting older, I think, and in a way I'm glad I didn't get everything I wanted right when I wanted it, because I don't think I would have appreciated it.
I mean, don't get me wrong, I still want what I fucking want. I've got more than a little Veruca Salt running through my veins, I can't deny that.
At the same time, she acts on issues that motivate her, is a self-proclaimed writer who actually writes, and seems to have an incredibly warm and happy relationship with her husband. There's no glossing things over, no melodrama, just the silliness and grittiness and mundaneness of a random Tuesday. Funny enough, I couldn't really imagine clicking with her in person, which in a weird way almost makes me like her more, because she doesn't pander.
I mostly read her blog because I like her perspective on being the parent of a child with special needs. She's open about the struggles and grief that have come with raising her son, but at the end of the day accepts him for who he is. She has educated herself and advocates to get him the services that he needs, but sees many of his behaviors as quirks, instead of acting like children should have their idiosyncracies therapied and medicated and hammered out of them, lest they not be athletic scholars who can play the piano and speak three languages. Basically, she wants him to lead the fullest life that he can, but she isn't trying to fix him. It sounds easy enough, maybe, but I think it's a pretty profound place to be when every day you look at your child and are reminded of what life could have been like for them, and for the rest of your family. She has a lot to teach anyone about accepting and eventually embracing a difficult path that your life can take. Anyone can pontificate about the meaning of life when theirs has mostly been a peach, but of course it means more coming from someone who has actually experienced something besides smooth sailing.
And the thing is that even people who have had mostly smooth sailing still have their own shit, and when you're in the middle of it, no one can tell you that it isn't that big a deal, that it'll work out and not to worry. There are periodically people around you who experience mind-bending tragedy and they provide that occasional contrast for you of what actually is and isn't a problem, but for the most part, you're just wrapped up in where you're at. You're worried you won't get into law school, worried about finding a job, worried about moving, worried that you won't get pregnant, worried you won't find the right partner, worried about getting married, worried about affording retirement, worried about making friends, worried about whether you're doing everything you can for your autistic son, and worried about what his life will be like when you're gone. Worried, as one of my best friends is right now, about your seven-year-old having to wear a heart monitor for a month, and what the outcome of a bunch of squiggly lines could mean.
I try to think of this kind of stuff when I get bogged down with something that isn't really a problem but feels like it in the moment, like when I'm on another date smiling into my salad but fantasizing about being home in bed reading and putting on cuticle cream, when I feel compelled to turn a discouraging evening into a funny story after the fact, like I need to put on a tophat and dance around instead of letting myself feel a little sad (okay, that mental image just kind of cracked me up... in that particular metaphor I think I'm tapdancing to the my little buttercup song from Three Amigos).
There's a tendency of some people to comfort themselves in their own imperfect lives by telling themselves that other people probably aren't as happy as they seem, but I hate that. I get discouraged by other people's misfortunes, about their relationships falling apart. When married men hit on me, it's not a rush of attention; it makes me want to scream because I imagine being the wife of a guy like that in fifteen years. I feel like the more happiness that I see around me, the more likely it is that I'll find it myself, when God knows what you end up with seems to be more of a crapshoot than the result of a well-executed plan.
And despite the shit that I know other people deal with, sometimes I find myself thinking that where I am right now is hard because I'm alone, because my choices don't get a lot of external validation, because dating means constantly auditioning my personality. Don't we all do that sometimes, tell ourselves that our own little foxhole is filled with the most shit? That's when I have to mentally kick my own ass and just get over myself, because life is just too short for the negativity. And trust me, I KNOW how Oprahfied that sounds. But it's true and it's been a pretty profound shift for me. Not that I was ever really an incessant bellyacher, but I try really hard to keep things in perspective, and more than that, I think now I'm starting to understand how important it is to do that, to recognize what I have and how great it is, and not obsess about what I don't have. That's actually been the best thing about getting older, I think, and in a way I'm glad I didn't get everything I wanted right when I wanted it, because I don't think I would have appreciated it.
I mean, don't get me wrong, I still want what I fucking want. I've got more than a little Veruca Salt running through my veins, I can't deny that.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Bunnicula
My mom made Easter baskets for her godchildren across the street, customized for each kid with stuff like candy, crossword puzzles, games, and a plastic lizard that grows to three feet long once it's put in water. Which is actually kind of terrifying when you think about it.
She made one for me, too: lip gloss, Kiss My Face products, mints, Band-aids, a gift card for a couple pedicures, and a bottle of Simi chardonnay. Somebunny knows me pretty well, I'd say.
Hope you all had a good weekend, or as strangers say to one another in the religiously diverse city that I work in: Happy Easter!
She made one for me, too: lip gloss, Kiss My Face products, mints, Band-aids, a gift card for a couple pedicures, and a bottle of Simi chardonnay. Somebunny knows me pretty well, I'd say.
Hope you all had a good weekend, or as strangers say to one another in the religiously diverse city that I work in: Happy Easter!
Monday, April 02, 2007
Old School
Supergirl and I are under siege (siege, I tell you!) by the woman in the office next to us. She's a reading teacher and also happens to be a Purveyor of Utter Pointlessness. Some of you may have thought that title was already taken by me, but surprisingly, you'd be wrong.
Purveyor is about100 60 and doesn't know much about computers. She never married and doesn't have kids (oh hello, worst fear of my life, glad to see you're alive and well) and I think that's contributed to it, as singleist as that may sound. Obviously there are exceptions, but I just think that a lot of women of that generation seem to have become well-versed in computers because of their husbands and kids. For example, my mom knows about computers because my dad is techy and taught her everything, I'm sure waiting patiently while she sighed and swore and kickboxed the air around her out of frustration. And while she was really only motivated to get on email when I left for college, now she communicates with everyone that way and even runs her little volunteer organization online. So without the influence of my dad and I, I could imagine that she would be among those staring suspiciously at that glowing box in the corner wondering what it wanted from her and why it was looking at her that way.
Anyway, back to the Purveyor. She's really nice, just, well, overwhelmingly ditzy. First she asked me for computer advice and when I deferred to my dad, she came back and asked if she could trust his recommendation or if he only suggested it because he makes a tiny profit off of every Microsoft Office for Teachers that Amazon sells.
She'll wander into our office sometimes and just smile. Supergirl and I will take turns dealing with her depending which one of us is busier or unwilling at that moment to accept a world with the Purveyor in it. Then she'll ask a question like, "So if I want to write a letter on the computer, how would I do that?"
"Okay, well, you can just open a document and..."
"A document?"
The other day she told me she was having trouble sending an email. Turns out she wasn't in her email, she was online and typing in the email address where you type in a website. How was she planning to write the message? With her mind?
I don't mean to be impatient, but you cannot say, "Open that folder" without her saying something like, "You mean touch it twice, right? Or once? Or do you mean click?" I mean, I work with little children. This sort of thing shouldn't be infuriating to me. AND YET IT IS.
Today it was this, which came about because she was there and I'm making chicken marsala for the first time tomorrow night.
Me: Do you know what marsala wine is?
Her: What? Who?
Me: Marsala wine, for chicken marsala.
Her: Oh! I thought you were asking me about a student with the last name Marsala.
Me: No, well, I was just wondering if it's a cooking wine or a wine-wine.
Her: You're wondering if you need it to make chicken marsala? That would make sense. Marsala.
Me: Oh yeah, well, I do need it, as it turns out. It's in the recipe. I was just trying to figure out if I can buy it at the grocery store or if I need to go to a liquor store.
Her: That's a great question! You're so cute! You've probably never even been to a liquor store.
Me: I have, actually. I'm almost thirty.
Her: I love chicken marsala!
Purveyor is about
Anyway, back to the Purveyor. She's really nice, just, well, overwhelmingly ditzy. First she asked me for computer advice and when I deferred to my dad, she came back and asked if she could trust his recommendation or if he only suggested it because he makes a tiny profit off of every Microsoft Office for Teachers that Amazon sells.
She'll wander into our office sometimes and just smile. Supergirl and I will take turns dealing with her depending which one of us is busier or unwilling at that moment to accept a world with the Purveyor in it. Then she'll ask a question like, "So if I want to write a letter on the computer, how would I do that?"
"Okay, well, you can just open a document and..."
"A document?"
The other day she told me she was having trouble sending an email. Turns out she wasn't in her email, she was online and typing in the email address where you type in a website. How was she planning to write the message? With her mind?
I don't mean to be impatient, but you cannot say, "Open that folder" without her saying something like, "You mean touch it twice, right? Or once? Or do you mean click?" I mean, I work with little children. This sort of thing shouldn't be infuriating to me. AND YET IT IS.
Today it was this, which came about because she was there and I'm making chicken marsala for the first time tomorrow night.
Me: Do you know what marsala wine is?
Her: What? Who?
Me: Marsala wine, for chicken marsala.
Her: Oh! I thought you were asking me about a student with the last name Marsala.
Me: No, well, I was just wondering if it's a cooking wine or a wine-wine.
Her: You're wondering if you need it to make chicken marsala? That would make sense. Marsala.
Me: Oh yeah, well, I do need it, as it turns out. It's in the recipe. I was just trying to figure out if I can buy it at the grocery store or if I need to go to a liquor store.
Her: That's a great question! You're so cute! You've probably never even been to a liquor store.
Me: I have, actually. I'm almost thirty.
Her: I love chicken marsala!
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Opening Day Eve
April! Spring has sprung, people are outside, baseball is starting. On Friday night Dorie and I got swept up in the awesomeness of the weather and then a few seconds later had to cave and run back inside where it was warm. It won't be long, though. Pretty soon it will be bare feet, barbecues, open windows, the Cape, and lazy afternoons/nights with friends. Well, that last one is a constant, regardless of the season.
Speaking of baseball, in honor (sort of) of the season kicking off tomorrow, here's someone doing the worst attempt at a Boston accent you will evah heah. It's pretty horrific but worth it, in my opinion, for "The only thing Boston sucks is a victory pipe."
Speaking of baseball, in honor (sort of) of the season kicking off tomorrow, here's someone doing the worst attempt at a Boston accent you will evah heah. It's pretty horrific but worth it, in my opinion, for "The only thing Boston sucks is a victory pipe."
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
As eHarmonious As Ever
To: Red
From: eHarmony
Subject: Red, We've Extended Your 60% Discount!
Dear Red,
Spring is definitely in the air! The response to our special 60% discount was incredible! And we don't want you to miss out, so we're giving you just a few more days to take advantage.
You're getting our ABSOLUTE LOWEST RATE AVAILABLE at a great time of year for starting a new relationship. So we urge you to seize this opportunity and continue getting to know your matches today.
Remember, it only takes one.
To: eHarmony
From: Red
Subject: I would prefer to discuss a refund
Dear eHarmony,
Fuck you so hard. No, seriously. Fuck you SO HARD. I can't put it more eloquently than that.
First of all? Or second of all, considering that swearing at you came first of all? My brief stint in office work taught me that 60% discounts on your services mean that your company is failing. And that makes me happy.
And you're right, it only takes one. It only takes ONE OF THE JACKASSES THAT YOU SET ME UP WITH TO MESS UP MY LIFE. I'm sorry. Was I yelling?
Clearly you're not familiar with my blog. Are you not aware of what your dating service did to me?
To be fair, I guess it really wasn't you. You were the conduit but not really the reason that I had to wear the sad grape bridesmaid dress, that I accidentally slept with a married guy (with kids!) after the reception, that I lost my best friend of ten years. I can't blame all that on you.
Or can I?
I shouldn't. But I do. A little bit.
Love,
Red
To: Red
From: Mail Delivery Subsystem
Subject: delivery problems encountered
A message (from Red) was received at 29 Mar 2007 3:25:23 +0000.
The following addresses had delivery problems:
Permanent Failure: 501_#5.1.1_bad_address_ehsupport@eharmony.com
Delivery last attempted at Thu, 29 Mar 2007 03:25:24 -0000
To: eHarmony
From: Red
Subject: delivery problems encountered
Dear eHarmony,
Your inability to hear me is somehow appropriate. Best wishes for continued success.
Love,
Red
From: eHarmony
Subject: Red, We've Extended Your 60% Discount!
Dear Red,
Spring is definitely in the air! The response to our special 60% discount was incredible! And we don't want you to miss out, so we're giving you just a few more days to take advantage.
You're getting our ABSOLUTE LOWEST RATE AVAILABLE at a great time of year for starting a new relationship. So we urge you to seize this opportunity and continue getting to know your matches today.
Remember, it only takes one.
To: eHarmony
From: Red
Subject: I would prefer to discuss a refund
Dear eHarmony,
Fuck you so hard. No, seriously. Fuck you SO HARD. I can't put it more eloquently than that.
First of all? Or second of all, considering that swearing at you came first of all? My brief stint in office work taught me that 60% discounts on your services mean that your company is failing. And that makes me happy.
And you're right, it only takes one. It only takes ONE OF THE JACKASSES THAT YOU SET ME UP WITH TO MESS UP MY LIFE. I'm sorry. Was I yelling?
Clearly you're not familiar with my blog. Are you not aware of what your dating service did to me?
To be fair, I guess it really wasn't you. You were the conduit but not really the reason that I had to wear the sad grape bridesmaid dress, that I accidentally slept with a married guy (with kids!) after the reception, that I lost my best friend of ten years. I can't blame all that on you.
Or can I?
I shouldn't. But I do. A little bit.
Love,
Red
To: Red
From: Mail Delivery Subsystem
Subject: delivery problems encountered
A message (from Red) was received at 29 Mar 2007 3:25:23 +0000.
The following addresses had delivery problems:
Permanent Failure: 501_#5.1.1_bad_address_ehsupport@eharmony.com
Delivery last attempted at Thu, 29 Mar 2007 03:25:24 -0000
To: eHarmony
From: Red
Subject: delivery problems encountered
Dear eHarmony,
Your inability to hear me is somehow appropriate. Best wishes for continued success.
Love,
Red
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Music!
If you're reading this (which you are) please leave a comment and tell me about a few of your favorite albums (or what you're enjoying a lot right now, if trying to come up with all-time favorites is enough to make your head explode). I'm trying to branch out from listening to my iPod on random all the time. Plus, someone pointed out that half the songs on my beloved Wigglemix are apparently from car commercials, so maybe I'm not getting my inspiration from the best sources. I love it anyway, but I want to know what you guys are listening to and loving or have listened to and loved. Genre doesn't really matter, but I'm kinda looking for stuff that holds up now... frex, I loved Flood by TMBG back in the day, but I wouldn't necessarily recommend it to someone today.
Here are a few of mine, not that you asked:
Ben Folds' first self-titled album (then Whatever and Ever Amen and Rockin' the Suburbs)
Beatles, especially Revolver, Abbey Road, and Let it Be
Little Earthquakes and Under the Pink by Tori Amos (I loved her when I was a wee lass, but these albums probably hold up)
Monster by R.E.M.
Fumbling Toward Ecstasy by Sarah McLachlan
More Adventurous by Rilo Kiley
Rabbit Fur Coat by Jenny Lewis
That's all I can think of right now. See why I need recommendations? Help me, internets.
Here are a few of mine, not that you asked:
Ben Folds' first self-titled album (then Whatever and Ever Amen and Rockin' the Suburbs)
Beatles, especially Revolver, Abbey Road, and Let it Be
Little Earthquakes and Under the Pink by Tori Amos (I loved her when I was a wee lass, but these albums probably hold up)
Monster by R.E.M.
Fumbling Toward Ecstasy by Sarah McLachlan
More Adventurous by Rilo Kiley
Rabbit Fur Coat by Jenny Lewis
That's all I can think of right now. See why I need recommendations? Help me, internets.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car
I had some really messed up dreams on Friday night, like CSI crime scene grisly. So I did some googling (don't judge me, I'm a pursuer of subconscious knowledge!) and Sleeps.com told me "For years in our family [dreaming about death] has meant that someone in the family would soon be wed and the wedding would be beautiful." What wedding isn't beautiful? Weddings mean free dinner, chardonnay, dancing and cake.
Wait a second. On Friday night, Jen came over and copied a bunch of songs off my iTunes. She had a free dinner (I cooked), we drank chardonnay, at one point I put on a crappy bridesmaid dress from a wedding that we were both in a couple years ago and danced around to the music (I'm, uh, going to have to request no judgment from you again), AND we ate cake-flavored ice cream (Edy's Slow Churned Take The Cake, which has frosting and sprinkles in it and is nothing short of a religious experience. It's the best thing ever and it's low in points. AND it's an officialblog dessert blessert because it came into my life on Nabbalicious's recommendation. The funniest thing is that it's a part of Edy's American Idol series. Five flavors are vying to be part of their regular line-up, people vote for their favorite one and the losers just go away. Faced with that terrifying possibility, Jen and I actually went to the damn Edy's website to make sure Take the Cake is winning. Thankfully, it is. Vote or die, people.)
Ahem. Sleeps.com also believes that death in a dream can mean "a birth, the opposite of death." Did they just define birth for me? And if you think about it, when you're single, a birth kind of would be a death: death of dating prospects, social life, and bank account. And, interestingly, your ability to sleep at night. Am I overthinking this?
Then on Saturday night I dreamed that someone I love died (don't worry, it wasn't you). Ack. Short of making tearful phone calls at 5 AM, I turned to Sleeps, now my old faithful, later that morning. But then I noticed that it said that dreaming of a fork in the road means you'll soon have to make a decision and dreaming about macaroni means that you're in for various small losses. Uh-huh. We're breaking up, Sleeps.
I turn to Lifetimetv.com, surprisingly serious on the matter considering all they do is air reruns of Designing Women or movies about your seemingly nice neighbor turning out to be a serial killer who is holding the mailman and your tenth grade boyfriend hostage and whatever you end up doing about it, at some point it will involve running down a suburban tree-lined street in the middle of the night, your heart racing and button-down shirt askew.
The intuitive minds at Lifetimetv.com say that "In the Universal Language of Mind, death signifies a change from one state of being to another" (I'm always suspicious of superfluous capitalization) and that I should "Identify the change that has occurred in your life. This will be the heart of your dream message. Who or what has died in your dream will lend insight into the nature of the change you have experienced, and will assist in responding to this change joyfully instead of fearfully. Keep in mind the change symbolized by death in a dream can be followed by a resurrection of your consciousness. Reach for this elevated awareness." Thanks for the fortune cookie, but where's my crab rangoon?
Then I thought about how well my own dream decoding worked on Friday and decided to deconstruct my Saturday night: Dorie's kitchen, more wine... but a different brand than Friday. Is that the change they're referring to? I did respond to it joyfully, instead of fearfully, and I believe it did bring about an elevated awareness: richer friends buy more expensive wine.
Wait a second. On Friday night, Jen came over and copied a bunch of songs off my iTunes. She had a free dinner (I cooked), we drank chardonnay, at one point I put on a crappy bridesmaid dress from a wedding that we were both in a couple years ago and danced around to the music (I'm, uh, going to have to request no judgment from you again), AND we ate cake-flavored ice cream (Edy's Slow Churned Take The Cake, which has frosting and sprinkles in it and is nothing short of a religious experience. It's the best thing ever and it's low in points. AND it's an official
Ahem. Sleeps.com also believes that death in a dream can mean "a birth, the opposite of death." Did they just define birth for me? And if you think about it, when you're single, a birth kind of would be a death: death of dating prospects, social life, and bank account. And, interestingly, your ability to sleep at night. Am I overthinking this?
Then on Saturday night I dreamed that someone I love died (don't worry, it wasn't you). Ack. Short of making tearful phone calls at 5 AM, I turned to Sleeps, now my old faithful, later that morning. But then I noticed that it said that dreaming of a fork in the road means you'll soon have to make a decision and dreaming about macaroni means that you're in for various small losses. Uh-huh. We're breaking up, Sleeps.
I turn to Lifetimetv.com, surprisingly serious on the matter considering all they do is air reruns of Designing Women or movies about your seemingly nice neighbor turning out to be a serial killer who is holding the mailman and your tenth grade boyfriend hostage and whatever you end up doing about it, at some point it will involve running down a suburban tree-lined street in the middle of the night, your heart racing and button-down shirt askew.
The intuitive minds at Lifetimetv.com say that "In the Universal Language of Mind, death signifies a change from one state of being to another" (I'm always suspicious of superfluous capitalization) and that I should "Identify the change that has occurred in your life. This will be the heart of your dream message. Who or what has died in your dream will lend insight into the nature of the change you have experienced, and will assist in responding to this change joyfully instead of fearfully. Keep in mind the change symbolized by death in a dream can be followed by a resurrection of your consciousness. Reach for this elevated awareness." Thanks for the fortune cookie, but where's my crab rangoon?
Then I thought about how well my own dream decoding worked on Friday and decided to deconstruct my Saturday night: Dorie's kitchen, more wine... but a different brand than Friday. Is that the change they're referring to? I did respond to it joyfully, instead of fearfully, and I believe it did bring about an elevated awareness: richer friends buy more expensive wine.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
This post was inspired by Darren, who wrote about a few of his memorably crazy neighbors. He also typically quotes cooler songs in his entry titles than I do.
Until I was six, we lived next door to an Armenian family that I loved. The daughters were in high school and always talking about boys. They didn't really alter their conversations when I was around and I loved that. One morning I wanted pancakes and my parents said something to the effect of, "Um, no, you can have cereal." I was sitting on our porch steps for a few minutes pondering this injustice when the dad next door saw me and asked what was going on. I told him I wanted pancakes but my parents wouldn't make them for me. He said he would. In that brief and shining moment, I became a spoiled brat. Funny sidenote: Neighbor dad went to high school with Lola's mom.
Extreme sidenote: There's definite evidence of the Boston accent that I was starting to develop when we lived in that town. My dad taped a conversation between him and myself when I was about three. I listened to it again to get the actual transcript, so prepare to surrender a few moments of your life that you'll never get back. (The daughter in the family next door, Wendy, had a sprained knee at the time, or something.)
Me: You know what you have to tell me?
Dad: What?
Me: You have to tell me what noses [nurses] do, what they do to help in the doctah's [doctor's] office.
Dad: Well, they give people medicine.
Me: Yeah.
Dad: And they take people's temperature.
Me: Yeah.
Dad: And if you need a bandage, they help put the bandages on.
Me: What's bandages?
Dad: It's like a big Band-Aid.
Me: Do you know what bandages are?
Dad: What?
Me: Well, it's like a big, big... thing. Sometimes you weh [wear] it on ya knee like Wendy.
Dad: That's right.
Me: Well, that's what it is.
Dad: Oh, okay.
Me: [suddenly impassioned] And those things ah [are] HAHD [hard]! Theh [they're] really really hahd! Wendy's is hahd. It's hahd!
Gah. Like a knife in the heart. Luckily cassettes will be obsolete soon. Oh wait, I'm just now getting a live feed from the newsroom: They already are.
Anyway, our other neighbors in that crazy 'hood had a daughter, Kathy, who was in high school, worked as a waitress and babysat for me a lot because my parents were in their early 30s and still wanted a life or something. For a few years I decided that I also wanted to be a waitress named Kathy. I'm not sure I understood that jobs didn't give you the opportunity to change your name. I still see Kathy now and again, but she's really cynical and downtrodden and always rolling her eyes about everything. My mom thinks her six-year-old son is ugly anad periodically likes to discuss this with me. The conversation always goes the same way: "Mom, you can't just call him ugly. He's a child. That's brutal." "Well, he IS. Did you see that last Christmas card? He looks like a prisoner of war, Red! UG-LY."
In our next house, the neighbors pretty much all had kids around my age. And the ones that didn't, well, who cared about them? I loved my bedroom... when I was in bed the window was right next to my head, which is still my ideal window location and I've never had it since. All I remember is playing all day, Garbage Pail Kids, charm necklaces, You Can't Do That On Television.
There were no real noteworthy neighbors in our next house, which is the one that my parents have now lived in for almost twenty years. I was in fifth grade by the time we moved there which meant less frenetic neighborhood play and more "my friends are coming over, please leave us alone." I lived there until I left for college, at which point Dorie and her husband moved in, so I guess they're officially my favorite neighbors that I've never really had for neighbors.
In college my neighbors included a girl who played Torn by Natalie Imbruglia so much that I still can't listen to the damn song, a guy named Ray who changed the default beep on my computer to the orgasming girl in that Rob Zombie song, and one guy who smelled so bad that you knew when his door was open without having to open your own.
My most favoritest neighbor in college was Ryan, of course. I wanted a single room for my junior year but I had a craptastic number in the housing lottery. It was the end of my sophomore year and I wasn't sure what I was going to do. As much as I loved my friends I just didn't want another year in a bunk bed (and yes, in case you're wondering, my college had a really bad housing situation... there weren't suites or apartments or anything like that).
So then one of my friends was dating this guy (Ryan) who was going to be an RA the following year, and the deal was that RAs could only pick a junior or senior to be their "singlemate" (i.e. you live in rooms separated by a door). Ryan was a year behind me and didn't know any soon-to-be juniors except for my friend, who was going to be an RA somewhere else. She introduced us and we awkwardly decided to shack up for the following year. It was either me or some stranger, and he probably figured that at least his girlfriend could vouch for me. I had no impression of him from that first meeting, and I wasn't overly excited about living next door to him. Come August, we were moving in and she had broken up with him, so it was basically like, "Hey, neighbor! I'm the friend of that girl who stomped on your heart!"
Although we were off to a weird start, it didn't last long. We immediately discovered our mutual birthdays and mutual everything else. We went to Fenway for a game, the first of many times we'd go. He was a Yankees fan, but the good-natured kind. This was around ten years ago when you could just show up and buy a bleachers seat for the game that night (for eight dollars!). Anyway, as time went on we decided we had a good thing and that we'd maintain our living situation until I graduated, which meant that senior year the housing gods finally smiled on me, because by then Ryan had been promoted to King of All RAs or some title like that and we got our pick of rooms in the best dorm. Of course, we chose ones next door to each other.
One time during that first year singlemating with Ryan, he and I were in his room watching Frasier (I'm sorry to tell you that was a very common occurrence) when a guy from down the hall came running breathlessly into the room. He said, "Hey Ry, do you... oh. Hi." Ryan, always the conscientious RA, got up to speak to him privately. (I would've likened him to Noel Crane, but my beloved Felicity didn't come on the air until the following year.) Then Ryan came back into the room, found a condom and gave it to the guy, who left. Not five minutes later, he was sauntering back down the hall and gave a quick wave as he went by Ryan's room. Oh, college boys. Does anyone really miss sleeping with them?
After college I lived in a tiny apartment on a little tree-lined street with a dive called the Busy B within walking distance. I loved it there. Our side of the street was all identical two family homes that had been cut in half and rented as apartments. Identical being the key word. A couple days after we moved in, I was in the backyard and my roommate ran out for something, assuming that I had my keys with me (because doesn't everyone, when they're in their backyard?) and I was locked out.
The funny thing is that our landlord, who owned most of the apartments on the street, apparently got tired of people calling him because they were locked out, especially since he didn't live in the neighborhood himself, so he kept copies of all of our keys behind the desk at the nursing home up the street. So on this and a couple other shameful occasions (at least I was sober that first time), I had to go to the nursing home, explain my predicament, and have the woman at the desk look me in the eye and say something immensely helpful like "HUH? You want a key to WHERE?" until she found someone else working who had once heard of the fact that some guy who owns some of those houses keeps copies of the keys somewhere in the vicinity of the front desk.
Anyway, on this particular day I got the key, walked back to my apartment and saw that the door was open. Gah, my roommate was already back; if I'd known she wouldn't be gone for long I could've just waited for a few minutes. Oh well. I walked in the front door and saw that our furniture had been moved. And replaced with all new furniture. And that there was a guy I didn't know sitting on the couch. How long had I been gone for? Of course, I had walked into my neighbor's apartment. The funny thing was that the guy on the couch was a friend of my neighbor, so he didn't know it was unusual for me to just walk in, and he looked at me and said, "Oh, hey, she's just in the other room." When you bust into a home that isn't yours, you would at least expect someone to leap up and say, "OH MY GOD! WHO ARE YOU?" Then my neighbor walked out of her bedroom, saw me standing there in total bewilderment and said, "Hey Red! Did you walk into the wrong apartment?"
Umm. Yes. Yes, I sure did.
Our other neighbors, with whom we shared the house, were about our age, a blond and a brunette, and affectionately nicknamed the Blond One and the Brown One. We preferred the Blond One because she would occasionally shovel the walk, but the Brown One was useless, and was mostly mentioned in the context of things like, "The Brown One took my motherfreakin' parking space again!"
Our neighbors on the other side of them had a sticker on their front door that said, "I can only please one person a day. Today isn't your day. Tomorrow doesn't look good either." Charming.
After two years there, I moved here. Here, where it's crazy neighbor central. But I believe that's already been well-documented. But considering some of the stuff that they must have seen me do (the least of which was being outside and handcuffed to a few of my friends on New Year's Eve) I'm really not one to point fingers.
(Also, new addition over in the sidebar: recipes!)
Until I was six, we lived next door to an Armenian family that I loved. The daughters were in high school and always talking about boys. They didn't really alter their conversations when I was around and I loved that. One morning I wanted pancakes and my parents said something to the effect of, "Um, no, you can have cereal." I was sitting on our porch steps for a few minutes pondering this injustice when the dad next door saw me and asked what was going on. I told him I wanted pancakes but my parents wouldn't make them for me. He said he would. In that brief and shining moment, I became a spoiled brat. Funny sidenote: Neighbor dad went to high school with Lola's mom.
Extreme sidenote: There's definite evidence of the Boston accent that I was starting to develop when we lived in that town. My dad taped a conversation between him and myself when I was about three. I listened to it again to get the actual transcript, so prepare to surrender a few moments of your life that you'll never get back. (The daughter in the family next door, Wendy, had a sprained knee at the time, or something.)
Me: You know what you have to tell me?
Dad: What?
Me: You have to tell me what noses [nurses] do, what they do to help in the doctah's [doctor's] office.
Dad: Well, they give people medicine.
Me: Yeah.
Dad: And they take people's temperature.
Me: Yeah.
Dad: And if you need a bandage, they help put the bandages on.
Me: What's bandages?
Dad: It's like a big Band-Aid.
Me: Do you know what bandages are?
Dad: What?
Me: Well, it's like a big, big... thing. Sometimes you weh [wear] it on ya knee like Wendy.
Dad: That's right.
Me: Well, that's what it is.
Dad: Oh, okay.
Me: [suddenly impassioned] And those things ah [are] HAHD [hard]! Theh [they're] really really hahd! Wendy's is hahd. It's hahd!
Gah. Like a knife in the heart. Luckily cassettes will be obsolete soon. Oh wait, I'm just now getting a live feed from the newsroom: They already are.
Anyway, our other neighbors in that crazy 'hood had a daughter, Kathy, who was in high school, worked as a waitress and babysat for me a lot because my parents were in their early 30s and still wanted a life or something. For a few years I decided that I also wanted to be a waitress named Kathy. I'm not sure I understood that jobs didn't give you the opportunity to change your name. I still see Kathy now and again, but she's really cynical and downtrodden and always rolling her eyes about everything. My mom thinks her six-year-old son is ugly anad periodically likes to discuss this with me. The conversation always goes the same way: "Mom, you can't just call him ugly. He's a child. That's brutal." "Well, he IS. Did you see that last Christmas card? He looks like a prisoner of war, Red! UG-LY."
In our next house, the neighbors pretty much all had kids around my age. And the ones that didn't, well, who cared about them? I loved my bedroom... when I was in bed the window was right next to my head, which is still my ideal window location and I've never had it since. All I remember is playing all day, Garbage Pail Kids, charm necklaces, You Can't Do That On Television.
There were no real noteworthy neighbors in our next house, which is the one that my parents have now lived in for almost twenty years. I was in fifth grade by the time we moved there which meant less frenetic neighborhood play and more "my friends are coming over, please leave us alone." I lived there until I left for college, at which point Dorie and her husband moved in, so I guess they're officially my favorite neighbors that I've never really had for neighbors.
In college my neighbors included a girl who played Torn by Natalie Imbruglia so much that I still can't listen to the damn song, a guy named Ray who changed the default beep on my computer to the orgasming girl in that Rob Zombie song, and one guy who smelled so bad that you knew when his door was open without having to open your own.
My most favoritest neighbor in college was Ryan, of course. I wanted a single room for my junior year but I had a craptastic number in the housing lottery. It was the end of my sophomore year and I wasn't sure what I was going to do. As much as I loved my friends I just didn't want another year in a bunk bed (and yes, in case you're wondering, my college had a really bad housing situation... there weren't suites or apartments or anything like that).
So then one of my friends was dating this guy (Ryan) who was going to be an RA the following year, and the deal was that RAs could only pick a junior or senior to be their "singlemate" (i.e. you live in rooms separated by a door). Ryan was a year behind me and didn't know any soon-to-be juniors except for my friend, who was going to be an RA somewhere else. She introduced us and we awkwardly decided to shack up for the following year. It was either me or some stranger, and he probably figured that at least his girlfriend could vouch for me. I had no impression of him from that first meeting, and I wasn't overly excited about living next door to him. Come August, we were moving in and she had broken up with him, so it was basically like, "Hey, neighbor! I'm the friend of that girl who stomped on your heart!"
Although we were off to a weird start, it didn't last long. We immediately discovered our mutual birthdays and mutual everything else. We went to Fenway for a game, the first of many times we'd go. He was a Yankees fan, but the good-natured kind. This was around ten years ago when you could just show up and buy a bleachers seat for the game that night (for eight dollars!). Anyway, as time went on we decided we had a good thing and that we'd maintain our living situation until I graduated, which meant that senior year the housing gods finally smiled on me, because by then Ryan had been promoted to King of All RAs or some title like that and we got our pick of rooms in the best dorm. Of course, we chose ones next door to each other.
One time during that first year singlemating with Ryan, he and I were in his room watching Frasier (I'm sorry to tell you that was a very common occurrence) when a guy from down the hall came running breathlessly into the room. He said, "Hey Ry, do you... oh. Hi." Ryan, always the conscientious RA, got up to speak to him privately. (I would've likened him to Noel Crane, but my beloved Felicity didn't come on the air until the following year.) Then Ryan came back into the room, found a condom and gave it to the guy, who left. Not five minutes later, he was sauntering back down the hall and gave a quick wave as he went by Ryan's room. Oh, college boys. Does anyone really miss sleeping with them?
After college I lived in a tiny apartment on a little tree-lined street with a dive called the Busy B within walking distance. I loved it there. Our side of the street was all identical two family homes that had been cut in half and rented as apartments. Identical being the key word. A couple days after we moved in, I was in the backyard and my roommate ran out for something, assuming that I had my keys with me (because doesn't everyone, when they're in their backyard?) and I was locked out.
The funny thing is that our landlord, who owned most of the apartments on the street, apparently got tired of people calling him because they were locked out, especially since he didn't live in the neighborhood himself, so he kept copies of all of our keys behind the desk at the nursing home up the street. So on this and a couple other shameful occasions (at least I was sober that first time), I had to go to the nursing home, explain my predicament, and have the woman at the desk look me in the eye and say something immensely helpful like "HUH? You want a key to WHERE?" until she found someone else working who had once heard of the fact that some guy who owns some of those houses keeps copies of the keys somewhere in the vicinity of the front desk.
Anyway, on this particular day I got the key, walked back to my apartment and saw that the door was open. Gah, my roommate was already back; if I'd known she wouldn't be gone for long I could've just waited for a few minutes. Oh well. I walked in the front door and saw that our furniture had been moved. And replaced with all new furniture. And that there was a guy I didn't know sitting on the couch. How long had I been gone for? Of course, I had walked into my neighbor's apartment. The funny thing was that the guy on the couch was a friend of my neighbor, so he didn't know it was unusual for me to just walk in, and he looked at me and said, "Oh, hey, she's just in the other room." When you bust into a home that isn't yours, you would at least expect someone to leap up and say, "OH MY GOD! WHO ARE YOU?" Then my neighbor walked out of her bedroom, saw me standing there in total bewilderment and said, "Hey Red! Did you walk into the wrong apartment?"
Umm. Yes. Yes, I sure did.
Our other neighbors, with whom we shared the house, were about our age, a blond and a brunette, and affectionately nicknamed the Blond One and the Brown One. We preferred the Blond One because she would occasionally shovel the walk, but the Brown One was useless, and was mostly mentioned in the context of things like, "The Brown One took my motherfreakin' parking space again!"
Our neighbors on the other side of them had a sticker on their front door that said, "I can only please one person a day. Today isn't your day. Tomorrow doesn't look good either." Charming.
After two years there, I moved here. Here, where it's crazy neighbor central. But I believe that's already been well-documented. But considering some of the stuff that they must have seen me do (the least of which was being outside and handcuffed to a few of my friends on New Year's Eve) I'm really not one to point fingers.
(Also, new addition over in the sidebar: recipes!)
Monday, March 19, 2007
What a Doll
Since I scare way too easily, I don't watch scary movies or read scary books or watch scary TV shows. Works for me. You do what you have to do in order to live on the planet.
Some of my students scare easily too, but considering they're all between three and eleven years old, I try not to hold it against them. The only time it sucks is when I have to be the grown up. (Now there's my REAL essence sentence.)
It's not that I mind comforting a scared kid. I'm not made of stone, people. I mean, as long as they're not interrupting my lunch or my coffee break or my other coffee break. So long as I'm on the clock, I'm there for them. Children are beautiful.
The problem is that everyone who has ever watched a scary movie knows that the shit starts to go down as soon as some stupid character stupidly tells another stupid character something along the lines of: "There's nothing to be afraid of!" "There's no such thing as [scary thing]!" "It's all make believe!" Call me crazy (no, really, you probably should) but I don't like tempting fate. So you can imagine how much I love conversations like this one:
Kid: Is it true that you can't talk if you don't have a tongue?
Me: Um, yes.
Kid: So if someone rips out your tongue, you can't talk anymore?
Me: What are... oh, are you talking about that movie?
Kid: Yeah.
Me: Oh, sweetie, that's all make believe. [I hope.]
Kid: No, there's this really scary woman and she dies but she comes back...
Me: It's just a silly movie. None of it is real. [But I REALLY don't want to talk about it anymore.] Think about Cars: can cars talk in real life? That was pretend, too.
Kid: But the dolls come to life and kill all these people...
Me: It's all made up, I promise. Dolls aren't real. They're just dolls.
Gah. I'll be the first to turn up without a tongue. Or a head. Tell my family that I love them.
Some of my students scare easily too, but considering they're all between three and eleven years old, I try not to hold it against them. The only time it sucks is when I have to be the grown up. (Now there's my REAL essence sentence.)
It's not that I mind comforting a scared kid. I'm not made of stone, people. I mean, as long as they're not interrupting my lunch or my coffee break or my other coffee break. So long as I'm on the clock, I'm there for them. Children are beautiful.
The problem is that everyone who has ever watched a scary movie knows that the shit starts to go down as soon as some stupid character stupidly tells another stupid character something along the lines of: "There's nothing to be afraid of!" "There's no such thing as [scary thing]!" "It's all make believe!" Call me crazy (no, really, you probably should) but I don't like tempting fate. So you can imagine how much I love conversations like this one:
Kid: Is it true that you can't talk if you don't have a tongue?
Me: Um, yes.
Kid: So if someone rips out your tongue, you can't talk anymore?
Me: What are... oh, are you talking about that movie?
Kid: Yeah.
Me: Oh, sweetie, that's all make believe. [I hope.]
Kid: No, there's this really scary woman and she dies but she comes back...
Me: It's just a silly movie. None of it is real. [But I REALLY don't want to talk about it anymore.] Think about Cars: can cars talk in real life? That was pretend, too.
Kid: But the dolls come to life and kill all these people...
Me: It's all made up, I promise. Dolls aren't real. They're just dolls.
Gah. I'll be the first to turn up without a tongue. Or a head. Tell my family that I love them.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Soundtrack Of My Life
Inspired by Guinness Girl.
What's up world: Blinded by the Light by Manfred Mann's Earth Band
First song I knew all the words to and was encouraged to sing all the time despite the fact that I was three years old and the song contained the words "night time is the right time and we make love": Morning Train by Sheena Easton
Why yes I actually AM a superstar in my backyard wearing Underoos and singing into the hose, thank you for noticing: What a Feeling by Irene Cara
At that bus station, Alex P. Keaton and Ellen show the world what love (twoo wuv) really is: At This Moment by Billy Vera and the Beaters
Lip syncing and frenetically choreographed dances with my friends (where all the moves are literal, like when Whitney "wants to feel the heat with somebody," you have to fan yourself): True Blue by Madonna
Roller skating at birthday parties, waking up to ass bruises bigger than my fist: Heaven is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle
Dave, my sixth grade boyfriend: Some Kind of Wonderful by The Drifters (which, ahem, I only knew about because it was on the critically acclaimed More Dirty Dancing soundtrack)
Rocking out at bar/bat mitzvahs: Bust a Move by Young MC
Rocking out at middle school dances: The Electric Slide by (who knew?) Marcia Griffiths
What got my eighth grade friends and I gathered around the radio like a dirty tribute to what our grandparents must have done on D-Day: I Touch Myself by the Divinyls
Reading (the original) Sassy magazine: Sugar Free Jazz by Soul Coughing
Freshman year: Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants
Sophomore year: Porch by Pearl Jam
Junior year: Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog
Senior year: Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen
Song that I quoted in my senior yearbook, I'm sorry to tell you: Young and Innocent by Elefante (from the St. Elmo's Fire soundtrack)
Senior year summer and first love: Grey Cell Green by Ned's Atomic Dustbin
Dirty Dancing: She's Like the Wind by Patrick Swayze. Just kidding. It'd have to be Moonlight Serenade, played by their band.
College (sweaty dancing and drinking at basement parties): Naked Eye by Luscious Jackson
College (then winding down after sweaty dancing and drinking): Crush with Eyeliner by R.E.M.
College (then car dancing in the backseat on the way to get breakfast): Ladykillers by Lush
College (the first song that I heard my then-musical obsession play live): Missing the War by Ben Folds Five
College (technically I didn't cheat on you because technically we're broken up and anyway I have to go my roommate needs the phone): Call and Answer by Barenaked Ladies
College (lying around doing nothing with my roommates): Never Said by Liz Phair
College (sex): Prove My Love by the Violent Femmes or Say Goodbye by the Dave Matthews Band
College (my embracing the recent pop explosion is ironic, I swear, even if I do happen to be ironically dancing on a stage): Drive Me Crazy by Britney Spears
College (overall): Life in a Northern Town by Dream Academy
Post-college (sweaty dancing and drinking at clubs): One More Time by Daft Punk
Dancing in the living room with Dorie's kids: Bright Side of the Road by Van Morrison
What I heard right after I found out I got into grad school: Peace Train by Cat Stevens
Boozecations to the Bahamas and Cancun: Stays in Mexico by Toby Keith (and oh yes, that'd be the in-room liquor dispenser)
October 2004 (i.e. no one in and around Boston gets any sleep for a month, waiting for the Sox to finally win it all): Dreams by Van Halen
When I get down about dating: I Kicked a Boy by The Sundays
When I feel optimistic about dating: More Adventurous by Rilo Kiley
Still the best car dancing song: Kiss Me Deadly by Lita Ford
My friends: Tripping Billies by The Dave Matthews Band
Right now: 17 Again by the Eurythmics
What's up world: Blinded by the Light by Manfred Mann's Earth Band
First song I knew all the words to and was encouraged to sing all the time despite the fact that I was three years old and the song contained the words "night time is the right time and we make love": Morning Train by Sheena Easton
Why yes I actually AM a superstar in my backyard wearing Underoos and singing into the hose, thank you for noticing: What a Feeling by Irene Cara
At that bus station, Alex P. Keaton and Ellen show the world what love (twoo wuv) really is: At This Moment by Billy Vera and the Beaters
Lip syncing and frenetically choreographed dances with my friends (where all the moves are literal, like when Whitney "wants to feel the heat with somebody," you have to fan yourself): True Blue by Madonna
Roller skating at birthday parties, waking up to ass bruises bigger than my fist: Heaven is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle
Dave, my sixth grade boyfriend: Some Kind of Wonderful by The Drifters (which, ahem, I only knew about because it was on the critically acclaimed More Dirty Dancing soundtrack)
Rocking out at bar/bat mitzvahs: Bust a Move by Young MC
Rocking out at middle school dances: The Electric Slide by (who knew?) Marcia Griffiths
What got my eighth grade friends and I gathered around the radio like a dirty tribute to what our grandparents must have done on D-Day: I Touch Myself by the Divinyls
Reading (the original) Sassy magazine: Sugar Free Jazz by Soul Coughing
Freshman year: Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants
Sophomore year: Porch by Pearl Jam
Junior year: Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog
Senior year: Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen
Song that I quoted in my senior yearbook, I'm sorry to tell you: Young and Innocent by Elefante (from the St. Elmo's Fire soundtrack)
Senior year summer and first love: Grey Cell Green by Ned's Atomic Dustbin
Dirty Dancing: She's Like the Wind by Patrick Swayze. Just kidding. It'd have to be Moonlight Serenade, played by their band.
College (sweaty dancing and drinking at basement parties): Naked Eye by Luscious Jackson
College (then winding down after sweaty dancing and drinking): Crush with Eyeliner by R.E.M.
College (then car dancing in the backseat on the way to get breakfast): Ladykillers by Lush
College (the first song that I heard my then-musical obsession play live): Missing the War by Ben Folds Five
College (technically I didn't cheat on you because technically we're broken up and anyway I have to go my roommate needs the phone): Call and Answer by Barenaked Ladies
College (lying around doing nothing with my roommates): Never Said by Liz Phair
College (sex): Prove My Love by the Violent Femmes or Say Goodbye by the Dave Matthews Band
College (my embracing the recent pop explosion is ironic, I swear, even if I do happen to be ironically dancing on a stage): Drive Me Crazy by Britney Spears
College (overall): Life in a Northern Town by Dream Academy
Post-college (sweaty dancing and drinking at clubs): One More Time by Daft Punk
Dancing in the living room with Dorie's kids: Bright Side of the Road by Van Morrison
What I heard right after I found out I got into grad school: Peace Train by Cat Stevens
Boozecations to the Bahamas and Cancun: Stays in Mexico by Toby Keith (and oh yes, that'd be the in-room liquor dispenser)
October 2004 (i.e. no one in and around Boston gets any sleep for a month, waiting for the Sox to finally win it all): Dreams by Van Halen
When I get down about dating: I Kicked a Boy by The Sundays
When I feel optimistic about dating: More Adventurous by Rilo Kiley
Still the best car dancing song: Kiss Me Deadly by Lita Ford
My friends: Tripping Billies by The Dave Matthews Band
Right now: 17 Again by the Eurythmics
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