Sassy Sundry Thoughts

Sassy Sundry Thoughts Has Moved

2009-03-22T18:20:00.001-04:00

One of the things that happens when you have a lot of time on your hands is that you find time for projects you never thought you’d get around to doing. For me, one of those projects was revamping the look of my blog. I’d grown tired of my template a long time ago, but lacking true HTML skills, I wasn’t sure how to fix it. I tried new templates and thought about some basic customization, but I still wasn’t happy.

A couple of years ago, I registered for a Wordpress blog, but I hadn’t had the time make the conversion. Well, yesterday I found it. It’s still a work in progress, but you can find my latest post here:

http://sassysundry.wordpress.com

I’ve updated my links, but if I’ve mistakenly left your blog off, please let me know, and I’ll add it. If you would update your link for me, that would be lovely.

I hope you like the new and improved Sassy Sundry Thoughts!

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2009-03-20T10:00:00.002-04:00

Happy Spring! Yay! Winter is over! Woo hoo!

OK, enough of that. Been a bit of an up-and-down week for yours truly, and what better way to talk about it than with the Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical. Enjoy!

Wound up in Southie with my roommate for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade on Sunday. We got drunk in a dive bar and watched green bedazzled people make asses of themselves. I suppose I might have made an ass of myself too. Fun day, and now I can check “Went to Southie for the parade” off my Life Experience list. Plus Two

AIG bonuses. Holy fuck. I contributed to my company, and I lost my job. They ruined the economy and got gazillions for it? Something’s rotten in the state of Wall Street. It’s not a good sign that Tim Geithner knew about this. Minus 165,000,000

I don’t know if it was the lack of daytime company or what, but this week I realized that I need to figure out my next step. I spent some time thinking about what I want out of life and realized that I need to keep thinking. Ah, the joys of growing. Plus One

The Nazi Pope pontificates that condoms not only won’t stop the spread of AIDS in Africa, but that they will also increase “the problem.” Maybe if condom distributors denied the Holocaust he’d change his mind? That this happened the same week as AIDS activist Natasha Richardson died tragically only makes this asinine and dangerous position all the more galling. Minus Ten

Afternoon networking coffee meeting for the unemployed took a turn for the boozy. As the evening wore on and things got stranger and stranger, I kept shaking my head and saying, “I went out for coffee. I just went out for coffee!” Ah well. I managed to keep my sobriety pretty much intact, and none of us had to work in the morning anyway. Plus One

President Obama reaches out to Iran through a video address in an attempt to undo the Axis of Evil rhetoric and diffuse the tensions in the region. It’s a small step, but hopefully an important one. Plus One

Spring has sprung. Here’s to hope and cleaning! Plus Five

Total Plus: 10
Total Minus: 165,000,010

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -165,000,000

Last Week’s Total: +13

On Magic Tricks, Pine Furniture, Hairlice, Marketing, and Hybrid Bikes

2009-03-18T13:47:00.002-04:00

Today found me searching online for possible freelance jobs. While perusing the various advertisments, I happened upon a post looking for someone to write two five-hundred-word articles on each of the following topics:

Magic Tricks
Pine Furniture
Hairlice
Marketing
Hybrid Bikes

I am sorely tempted to respond, saying that I will write one kickass five-hundred-word article incorporating all five topics. In fact, I’ve already written it. It goes like this:

Bruno the Magician needed to improve his act. He had the magic trick—he could turn hybrid bikes into pine Barcaloungers with just a little eye of newt and some hairlice. However, he usually had to steal the hybrid bikes, and while Bruno wasn’t the most cleanly of magicians, he did not at the moment have hairlice. Somehow, he had to find a way to get the bikes and the lice in one place. He also required an audience, as what magician wants to perform such a feat with no one to watch.

Bruno, old boy, he thought to himself, you need to find a marketing consultant. So Bruno got in touch with the guy who sold his pine Barcaloungers and asked him about how he advertised his wares.

“Oh, I go ACME Marketing up the street,” he said. And so Bruno stole his last bike, bought some hairlice from his usual connection, and with his eye of newt went up the street to ACME Marketing. There, he told the marketing consultant of his woes and showed him the trick.

Upon viewing such a magical transformation, the marketing guru cried, “Genius! You simply must continue to transform hybrid bikes into pine furniture. If you will just sign here and give me $500, I will be able to provide you with a marketing plan.”

Now Bruno was not a rich man, but since he did not want to wind up in jail (the signs for missing hybrid bikes were clogging the telephone poles around town, and the cops were on the lookout for the mystery thief), he decided to sign the papers and fork over the money.

“Excellent,” the ACME Marketing consultant said. “Now here’s the secret: Recycling. You convince people who were about to trade in their hybrid bikes that they would rather recycle them instead of junk them. In return for the bike and a small fee, they get a pine Barcalounger, or they can get a percentage from the proceeds of the sale of said pine Barcalounger. That way, you won’t piss off your dealer friend, and you’ll still get some money.”

Bruno the Magician smiled, “Yes, yes,” he said. “That’s just the thing. Recycling. I wonder why I didn’t think of it. There’s just one more thing. Where do I get the hairlice?”

While the ACME Marketing consultant was tempted to charge Bruno more for the advice, he really liked the trick and decided to help the magician.

“I know. You perform you magic trick at a school. School children are filthy beasts, and one of them almost always has hairlice. So you get a group of hybrid bike owners ready to surrender their bikes, schedule a magic show, and presto! You’ll do your trick and stay out of jail!”

So happy was Bruno that he could have kissed the ACME Marketing consultant. “Perfect! I’ll start advertising today! How can I ever thank you?”

“Well,” the ACME Marketing consultant said, “I could always use a pine Barcalounger.”

I think I’ll send the man my story and see what he thinks. I could make fifty bucks!

Why I Owe My Existence to Saint Patrick and Green Beer

2009-03-17T09:05:00.005-04:00

Thirty-eight years ago today, friends dragged a young art-school dropout living in Hanover, New Hampshire, out to a Saint Patrick’s Day party. She didn’t want to go—drunken green-beer fests weren’t her thing—but as she didn’t have plans that evening, she reluctantly agreed. She chucked her body paints into the car, just in case the evening was really boring and she needed to spice things up a bit.

One of the party’s hosts was a man in his mid-twenties finishing up his duty to Uncle Sam by working in a lab. He’d come home from Vietnam relatively unscathed the year before and welcomed the cold regions lab work as an alternative to a war zone. He and his friends had invited everyone they knew and everyone everyone knew. They readied the green beer (this being America in the 70s and the hosts being not exactly sophisticated gentlemen, they assumed that this was how the Irish celebrated the day). “Let’s celebrate the luck of the Irish!” they said, as they turned on the music and friends began to arrive. Little did they know what kind of luck the evening would bring.

The party was well under way when the lass and her friends walked in the door. Oh dear, the woman thought. I’m not going to like this. Why did I let myself get dragged here? She also, however, notice a guy regaling his friends with a funny story. She also noticed the half-empty mug of green beer in his hands. Still, she thought he was cute, if a bit old. He must be one of the Army guys. His hair is too short.

As for the guy, well, he almost stopped telling the story when she walked in the room. Her long brown hair was in two braids, and she was wearing some kind of gauzy shirt with jeans. He thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

The party went along, as green-beer parties tend to do, and the guy finally worked up the courage to go talk to her. Funny and charming, the guy made the woman laugh, and her friends noticed that she liked him. He seemed too old for their friend, but the woman assured her friends that she’d asked, and he was only a few years older than she was (while she appeared to be about seventeen, she was actually twenty-two).

She learned that he had been to Vietnam, that he was from Philadelphia, and that before he got drafted, he’d studied to become an engineer. He already liked the Red Sox. In short, she learned that while she was a bit of a free spirit, he was shockingly normal. He was actually a grownup, too, even if he and his friends entertained themselves by throwing parties with green beer. For some reason, this appealed to her.

“I think I’m going to go get my body paints. He’s so normal. I bet it will shock him,” she told her friends, smiling. The party didn’t need spicing up, but she liked that guy and thought it would be amusing to see his reaction. If he could handle the body paint, then maybe he could handle her.

Out to the car she went, and she returned with her paints. And as she started painting on the man’s chest, he fell head over heels in love. The woman noticed and smiled a bit to herself. She liked him too, so when he asked her out for a date, she said yes. A while later, she and her friends left the party, and her friends tried to talk her out of going out with the old guy. She didn’t let them.

The rest, as they say, is history.

And that, dear readers, is how my parents met and why I owe my existence to Saint Patrick and green beer.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2009-03-13T11:43:00.001-04:00

Phew. What a strange week. I think that’s all I have to say about that. Without further ado, here are the Sassy Sundries, my (sort-of) weekly tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical.

My dad’s alive. My mom’s alive. They might drive me crazy sometimes, but I love my parents. Too Much Trauma to Rate

Can someone please tell me why one of the most intelligent and incisive interviews I’ve seen by an American was Jon Stewart’s grilling of CNBC’s Mad Money host Jim Cramer on the Daily Show? Stewart exposed how Cramer (and by extension, other financial reporters) had gotten into bed with Wall Street honchos, and in the process fucked the country. He did his research, that thing reporters are supposed to do, not guys who tell fart jokes. News networks, let this be a lesson to you. Plus Five

Date called it quits with me in what had to be the most honest, kindest way ever. We had a great time, but the magic just wasn’t there with us. I’ll miss what we had, but I’m looking forward to our friendship. Plus Five

In a GQ interview, Michael Steele admitted that he believed in a woman’s right choose abortion. He’s also compared quitting being gay to quitting being black—impossible. Conservatives railed against him for the break with their anti-choice, homophobic platform. Man, this head of the Republican Party is just walking in a shitstorm. Heh. Plus One

Bernie Madoff pled guilty to stealing from everyone from celebrities to little old me (my retirement plan had investments with Madoff). I’m happy that he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail, but I’d like my money back, please. Minus Two

This week we marked International Women’s Day. President Obama created an Interagency Task force on Women and Girls. This isn’t everything feminists wanted, but it sure as hell beats the eight-year assault on women’s rights by W & Co. We’re not there yet, Baby. Plus Three

Long, long ago, I won the top-seller award for my Girl Scout troop because my friend’s grandfather purchased two hundred boxes of Thin Mints. Would you believe he was a rail? Times have changed. An enterprising Girl Scout took to YouTube to boost her sales. Alas, Internet advertising is verboten for Girl Scout Cookies, and the young girl had to take the ad down. Honey, you just need to find my friend’s grandpa. You’ll do fine. Plus One

Total Plus 15
Total Minus 2
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +13
Last Week’s Total: -651,000

One of Those Moments When Everything Comes into Focus

2009-03-11T09:37:00.003-04:00

Sunday afternoon found me walking toward Inman Square from Union. The day was one of those days we New Englanders long for—sunny and in the 60s after a long, cold and snowy winter. Wearing a tee shirt and a light cotton sweater, I was bobbing my head and wearing a ridiculous grin on my face as I strolled. Yay! Winter won’t last forever!

I reached into my purse to grab my phone, as I thought I’d heard it ringing, and I saw that I had missed a call from my sister. My nephew’s first birthday was on Monday (my trip to Inman was to get his present), so I figured she had called about arrangements. I dialed called her back, and she answered.

“Hey, Sister! GORGEOUS day! Are you outside?”

“Um, Sassy, something’s happened. I just got off the phone with Mom. She thought she was dialing 911. Dad passed out while driving, and now he’s throwing up. I had to tell her how to get 911 where she was and then I called 911 too. Now she won’t pick up the phone.”

My heart sank.

My body started shaking.

Oh shit. My Dad is having a heart attack. I just talked to him this morning. How can he be dying?

“Oh my god. Dad’s having a heart attack,” I said to my sister.

“That’s what it sounds like to me, too,” she said.

“Shit.”

“Shit.”

Sister said, “I’m going to keep trying Mom, but I thought you should know.”

“OK. Call me if you hear anything. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I snapped the phone shut and turned around to head home. Then I turned back toward Inman. Then I turned back toward home. Then I turned around again and kept walking. You can hold it together if you keep walking. Just keep walking.

I kept walking.

Then I called my mom. She didn’t answer. I almost started to cry. Then I called again. This time she answered.

“Hi, Sassy. Yes. We’re in a snow field. The State Police are here, and so is an ambulance. We’re off 93 in Concord. Dad is conscious and talking, and he looks a little bit better. It might have been an issue with his blood sugar, but we don’t know. It doesn’t look like it was a heart attack, but we are going to Concord hospital. They won’t let me go with him. I have to get the car towed out of the snow field, and then I’m going to go. Pray. I have to go now, but keep calling. I’ll pick up.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Honey.”

I called my sister. She’d talked to Mom too. We were both relieved that he was alive at this point, but we were trying to figure out what had happened.

“Sassy, Mom took the wheel. She steered the car through THREE LANES of traffic on I-93. She did donuts in a field until Dad came too and hit the brake. She didn’t know how to dial 911 on a cell phone.”

“Oh my god.” Then, “We need to get her some First-Aid training. What happened?”

“Did you know his blood sugar was an issue? I didn’t.”

“You didn’t? I did, but I thought he was controlling it.”

We talked some more about how to talk to Mom and Dad about how they need to take better care of themselves before it dawned on us that we should go visit them. I had a phone interview early that evening, and even though I said I’d cancel it, my sister insisted that I take it.

We wrapped up the call, and I said, “OK. I’ll call Mom and let her know we’ll be there this evening.” I went in the toy store to catch my breath. I bought Nephew a present and walked back outside. Then I called Mom.

“Things are OK, Sassy. Dad walked to the ambulance. That made me feel better. I’m still here with the car. I’m so glad you’re coming. Don’t skip your interview. My god, that whole thing was so scary. Sassy, I did DONUTS! I don’t know how I did that. Will you call the hospital? I don’t know what is going on with Daddy. They didn’t let me go in the ambulance—those movie scenes are bullshit. Will you call the hospital?”

I called the hospital, and they actually let me speak to Dad. He sounded weak, but he knew what was going on, and he sounded OK. “I think they’ve ruled out heart attack. My blood sugar might have dropped. Or it could have been a reaction to some medication. Mom saved my life, you know.”

“I know, Dad. I’m really happy to talk to you. Sister and I will be there tonight.”

I went to a coffee shop in Union Square and finished making my phone calls while sitting outside in the sun.

On my way home, I called Date to cancel our plans for the evening. He came over and hugged me before my interview. The woman blew me off, which was just as well, as I doubt I would have made much sense. My sister came with Nephew, and we headed to Concord to visit my Dad.

After two days in the hospital, where doctors ran every test in the book, it was determined that he needed a lower dose on his new blood-pressure medication. He got a stern talking-to about losing weight, but his blood sugar was actually OK. Everything else was OK. More terrifying details about my mother’s driving feat came out, but she’s OK too. The first night, she told my sister and I that she was going to go in her room and cry for an hour, but after that, she seemed better. We had Nephew’s first birthday party at the hospital.

My god. My nerves are shot, but I am so so so so so happy that I still have parents. I might complain about them a lot, but I love them. They are OK. So am I.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2009-03-06T13:02:00.002-05:00

This morning I awoke to the sweet clang of the recycling truck. Today is Friday! I am so happy! I thought, singing my old Friday Song in my sleepy head. Or, I sang until I remembered that I had once again forgotten to take the recycling out. Then I started reciting “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out,” and envisioned waste overflowing the confines of my apartment and spilling onto the street below:

At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come out to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout said,
“OK, I’ll take the garbage out!”
But then, of course, it was to late…

— Shel Silverstein, from Where the Sidewalk Ends

Hrmph. Happy Friday indeed. Anyway, I thought today might be a good day to resurrect the Sassy Sundries, my occasional weekly roundup of things personal, political, and nonsensical. In a blatant ripoff of the Bean Counter in the Weekly Dig, I assign points to each item and then tally them up to reveal just how my week went.

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

The unemployment figures for February came out today. I am in good company—651,000 of us lost jobs last month. While personally, unemployment has treated me well, our economy has officially landed in Hell in our handbasket. Minus 651,000

Rush Limbaugh, the ignorant hypocritical prick, misquotes the Constitution he accused President Obama of bastardizing. At the beginning of his speech to the Conservative Political Action Conference, he bellowed, “We believe that the preamble to the Constitution contains an inarguable truth that we are all endowed by our creator with certain inalienable rights, among them life. Liberty. Freedom. And the pursuit of happiness.” In so speaking, he bastardized the Declaration of Independence. By making Rush the de facto leader of the Republican Party, the conservatives have given us an even bigger present than Sarah Palin. Minus Five for Rush, Plus Two for the future of the Democrats.

The International Criminal Court indicted Sudanese president Omar al-Bashir for war crimes. The government there then retaliated by ordering the expulsion of all aid workers. It’s unknown how the Court intends to follow through with the indictment, but right now many people are suffering. An old friend of mine is working there. Not Sure How to Rank

Earlier this week I met Date’s best friends. It went well. Tonight I meet more of his friends at a party. Plus Five

I never thought I’d hear Karl Kassel, of NPR fame, put his gravitas behind the news that a foot of snow fell in New Hampshire. Unless, of course, it happened in August. Less than a foot fell here, and you’d think that the flakes ushered in the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from all the national attention they received. Minus Two

This week marked fifty years of Barbie. For fifty years, girls have learned that their bodies would never be good enough. Oh, and how to make her get it on with Ken. One of these days, Barbie! Poof! Those boobs are going to sink to your knees. Minus Two

President Obama holds a healthcare summit yesterday to begin to address one of the issues that has gotten us into this catastrophe. Ted Kennedy (now an honorary knight) was able to make an appearance. I’m not sure if Obama will be able to pull off what others have tried and failed to achieve, but I am hopeful. Hope counts for something. Plus Two

Total Plus: 9
Total Minus: 651,009

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -651,000

No Bad Feelings or Regrets . . .

2009-03-03T16:40:00.005-05:00

Alpiner Kuntsverlag Hans Huber, Garmisch-Partenkirchen

Nothing warms the cockles of my heart so much as finding a kitschy treasure. I scour flea markets and bazaars for little pieces of tacky delight, and sometimes I find gold. One of my prized possessions is this postcard, sent in 1965 from the Netherlands to a certain Marty Shulman of the Bronx.

I bought the postcard for the sweet, drunken young blonde things in their Alpine splendor, but when I got home, I flipped the card over and realized that the true gem was the message from Joan and Martin to their friend Marty.

It reads as follows:

7/3/65

Dear Marty,

We are having a good time getting drunk every night on wine so that we can hardly get back to the pensione. However, there are no bad feelings or regrets in the morning, as we scourge ourselves of these sins by spending our days looking at everyone’s religious paintings.

Write + come to see us soon.

Joan and Martin

P.S. You can come now as we have rugs on the floor

I can add nothing further except to wish you all no bad feelings or regrets in the morning!

A Flake Falls in New England

2009-03-02T17:08:00.004-05:00

Sometime around 8:30 this morning, I rolled over and looked out the window. Or, rather, I looked at the snow piled up on my windowsill. I grabbed my phone off my desk and snapped a picture of it, thinking, Damn, maybe this really was the storm of the century the news folks hyped it up to be?

All day long yesterday, the media warned us about the Godzilla of snowstorms. Never mind the economy, war, and Barbie’s fiftieth birthday (may her knockers sink to her knees), it was going to snow! In New England! In March! Stock up on milk, candles, and bottled water, because we were going to die! I scoffed at the warnings. Judging from the view out my bedroom window, however, perhaps I should have bought some comestibles.

I got out of bed and wandered into the living room to check things out. Sigh. While snow drifts covered parts of my windows, the scene below revealed that it had snowed only a bit. In New England. The snow we’d had before had melted away, and so the snow isn’t even all that deep. Mabye six inches. I felt ashamed for having momentarily believed the hoopla.

Seriously, folks. I really do hope you enjoyed the snow day. There’s nothing better. But my god. This is New England. It snows here! Every winter! This isn’t news. Get out there, shovel the stairs. Dig out your car if you have one. Complain away. If you drive, don’t be an asshole. But with everything going on in the world right now, a few flakes falling in New England does not news make.

Looking on the Bright Side of Unemployment

2009-02-27T09:48:00.006-05:00

Earlier this week, Date forwarded me an article from the Boston Globe about people delighted to be among the newly unemployed. “We’re so fing cutting edge,” he wrote in the subject line. I suppose we are. He’s taken to calling unemployment Funemployment. I am in complete agreement.

The past couple of weeks of not having to work have left me positively giddy. My hellish commute? Gone. My should-I-stay-or-should-I-go dance I’d been doing with my job for the last couple of years? Over. Sitting in an office all day, doing someone else’s bidding? Nope. Not me. Aside from the still, small voice telling me that the money is going to run out sometime soon, I can’t remember a time in my adult life when I’ve been happier.

In the days that followed the layoff, I followed the advice those gurus offer the newly unemployed and got in touch with contacts and friends to share with them the news that I’d become a statistic. The results amazed me. Not only did people promise to be on the lookout for jobs, they also reached out to let me know that they cared for me and wanted the best for me. Those close by invited me over to their homes, or out for a meal or a drink. I’ve been in touch with old friends I haven’t talked to in years. My old coworkers pitched in and sent me a care package. However cheesy it may sound, knowing that people value me and my contributions to the world has been affirming.

My life has a natural rhythm to it these days. I get up without an alarm clock. I stay in my jammies long past when it is proper. The Great American Novel this blog ain’t, but these scribbles represent the first writing I have done in over a year. I’ve been cooking real food again, with joy instead of begrudging necessity. I made bread this week! Last week I cooked dinner for Date, and yesterday I had my sister and nephew over for lunch. Sure I also spent Tuesday working on my résumé and sending out applications (I can’t be completely impractical), but I’ve also spent a lot of time imagining how my life could be. Because if I am really honest with myself, if I could get away with it, I would never work in an office again.

Yesterday I went to the Pink Slip Coffee Meetup, and until Date showed up, I might have been the only one happy with my current lot. I know I am lucky, in that my severance was generous and that I have a little bit of time before I need to scramble, but I really talked up the upside of unemployment. It was the first time I’d admitted to anyone outside a few close friends that I do not want to rejoin the rat race. It felt really, really good.

What am I going to do? I don't know. I do need to figure out a way to make a living, and soon. But right now, in this moment, with the sun shining through my open window (it’s warm!), life is absolutely perfect.

I have to go now. I’m going to go to my favorite North End caffè and then to a wine bottega. After that, I will pick up some fruit, veg, and cheese at Haymarket before heading home to cook some more. Date is coming over this afternoon to watch Twin Peaks.

It’s Friday. And I don’t have to work.

Hash Wednesday and Why Sassy Is Going to the Bad Place

2009-02-26T08:12:00.006-05:00

This year I forgot all about Mardi Gras. Drat! I love dressing up in masks and beads and partying down. In times past, there was often a big party, and Mardi Gras was one of my favorite holidays.

No partying this year. So busy was I on Tuesday polishing up my résumé, applying for jobs, and following what was going on with Obama’s non-State-of-the-Union address that the whole whoopdepoop happened without me. Sigh. I not only missed the show, but also Obama has ruined the State of the Union drinking game. How are we going to get smashed without “nuke-u-ler”? Maybe by the time he gets around to delivering an actual State of the Union, we’ll have figured out some new rules. Every time Obama speaks in complete sentences, drink one shot. When the policies make sense and will do the country some good, drink two shots. Something like that.

Anyhow, yesterday I was in the Post Office to pick up a registered letter (I have learned that getting laid off involves tons of certified mail), when I noticed that the woman at the counter had a giant ink stain on her head. A dripping continent of ink. Gorbachev would have envied this inkblot. Given that postal workers work with ink pads and such, I figured she had had a mishap and thought I would be a nice person and tell her about it.

“Um, I’m sorry, but I think you have a little ink on your forehead.”

I saw her mentally roll her eyes at me. She replied flatly, “Religious holiday.”

Oh shit. It’s Hash Wednesday! “I’m so sorry,” I said, trying to recover, “I forgot all about Ash Wednesday.” Because I’m going to burn in the Bad Place. “My sister is Catholic,” I offered weakly in an attempt to redeem myself. At least I didn’t say Hash Wednesday?

I’m an asshole. Drink two shots.

Mmmmm Doggies! The 89 Bus to Outer Space!

2009-02-20T11:10:00.002-05:00

Yesterday evening, I caught the 89 bus to meet up with Date in Davis Square. As I tapped my card, the bus driver called out, “Good Evening! Thank you for riding the T! Doors are closing!”

Startled a bit, I said thanks and took a seat near the front. Another rider pressed the stop button, and even though the mechanical voice registered the request, she called out, “Stop coming! Woo hoo! We’re riding now!”

As she jerked the bus to a halt at the next stop, she thanked every rider. “Thank you, folks, for riding the T! Doors are closing! Mmmmm doggies! We’re riding now! Yahoo!”

I looked around the bus at the other riders. Many wore nervous smirks. Was this the bus to Davis Square, or an alien abduction? "Yes, indeed, folks! We are riding!"

“The bus driver is insane,” I texted to Date. Next text, “She keeps saying whoo doggies! And then she thanks us for taking the t.” I kept looking around. A few riders shrugged their shoulders. Language barriers tumbled down. Amusement registered everywhere.

The bus driver kept it up. “Mmmmm! Doggies! Yahoo! We’re riding. Eighty-nine to Davis Square! Thank you for riding the T! Next stop coming! Bus connections!”

A decided freak she was, but the thing is, people started responding kindly to her. A rider sitting next to me got off the bus at Winter Hill and thanked her for the ride. “My pleasure. People ain’t got no manners these days. I always say thank you. Thank you, folks, for riding the T! Mmmm doggies! Yes, we are moving now!”

She kept this up all the way Davis, where everyone thanked her profusely as they got off the bus. What a fun trip to outer space.

Disney, My Heart’s Devotion! Let It Sink Back in the Ocean!—Another Eavesdropping Story

2009-02-18T07:45:00.002-05:00

Last Friday evening, before Fresh Hell played “It’s Fun to Smoke Dust” (see post below), you could have found us at a packed bar in Union Square. There we had discussed, among other things, Florida. Specifically, how much we hate Florida. “See,” Fresh said, “when I think about Florida, I don’t feel so bad about global warming . . . Florida is just going to go away.”

I shook my head. “Ah, Fresh. You really do know how to push buttons, don’t you?”

“Come on, now!”

She had a point, I suppose. Maybe part of a point.

Anyhow, like I said, the bar was crowded. A birthday party had gathered at the end, and the hostess asked Fresh and me if we wouldn’t mind moving down, so we did. We talked some more, and then I had to go off to the loo.

Three women, friends, were already in the stalls when I arrived, and they were gushing about one of the friend’s upcoming vacation.

“Aren’t you excited about going to Disney?”

“Yes! It’s going to be so great. I know I haven’t been there in, like, ten years, but it’s going to be so great!”

“Oh yeah. There’s so much to do there as an adult.”

“Shops, restaurants.”

“It’s just so clean!”

They all flushed at the same time, and came out discussing Magic Mountain. Upstairs, they rejoined the birthday party.

Hmm . . . Maybe Fresh is onto something.

Fundamentalists Are Dope! Queen, Backward Masking, and Sassy’s Warped Education

2009-02-16T18:23:00.009-05:00

Friday night while driving me home from an evening out, Fresh Hell played Lobsterdust’s mashup “It’s Fun to Smoke Dust” (Queen vs. Pastor Gary Greenwald vs. Midfield General) from Best of Bootie 2008. Overlaid on Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” is Pastor Gary Greenwald’s passionate sermon about how the song contains an evil “backward masked” message, saying, “It’s fun to smoke marijuana!” (Thank you, Freddy, for stating the obvious via satanic technology). I’d heard the mashup before, courtesy of Date, but I hadn’t really listened to it. Now that I was listening, it sounded very familiar.

“Wait a minute! I’ve heard this before! Is this from Hell’s Bells: The Dangers of Rock and Roll? We had to watch this movie in high school!*”

Even though Fresh knows I was raised by fundamentalist Christians and had to go to fundamentalist school, sometimes my knowledge of such things still manages to surprise her. I thought perhaps it might surprise you. Here is a tale of an attempt to inoculate me and my fellow inmates against what fundies call “The World.”**

Sometime during my junior year in high school, our Christian Education teacher, who had also been our eighth and ninth grade history teacher (she had an associates in physical education), decided that my class had grown too worldly and that we needed to be aware of the dangers of backward masking and other messages hidden in rock and roll music (aka “Worldly Music”). To that end she had signed out the school’s VCR (usually reserved for showing anti-premarital sex videos) and told us that we were going to watch a movie during class. That movie was Hell’s Bells.

Oh, Hell’s Bells. Made in 1989 at the height of the satanic cult scare, it saw the Dark Lord’s sooty fingerprints everywhere. The early middle-aged narrator, still sporting a mullet (all the better to appeal to “the youth”), left no stone unturned. From the usual heavy metal suspects to the Bauhaus, XTC, and the Cure, according to him every genre had but one, singular goal. To turn young people into knights in Satan’s service (yeah, Gene Simmons. We’re onto you).

While degenerate rock musicians peddled messages of sex and drugs as a matter of course, far more insidious was the phenomenon known as backward masking. Hidden in certain rock and roll songs, were messages discernable only when the track was played backwards.*** The subject of these messages? Pure evil. Groups like the PMRC blamed backward masking for everything from suicide to Satan worship. Listen to rock? Become a zombie for the devil.

Most of the examples of backward masking in Hell’s Bells had to do with worshipping Satan, but Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” announced that it was fun to smoke dope. So I guess when I was bopping my head, skating around the roller rink, I should have been thinking about toking up instead of shooting the duck. Sigh. I’d always misheard lyrics.

Thing was, when mullet guy played the backward masked message to “Another One Bites the Dust,” it didn’t sound a bit like “It’s fun to smoke marijuana!” It sounded like this:

Eetssss nnn te kehhh erijNAH!

Excuse me? Don’t you think Satan would make himself a bit clearer? I was trying rather hard not to laugh, but some of my classmates couldn’t help it and started snickering. That pretty much did it for the effectiveness of Hell’s Bells. We weren’t going to be burning our Led Zeppelin albums and replacing them with Steven Cutis Chapman any time soon.

When our teacher left the room to return the video player, Queen was all we talked about. We tried to figure out what the heck was going on. “That didn’t sound anything like marijuana!”

A number of us tried, but the young Smokestack imitated the backward masking best. She’d grunt and yell, and then someone would follow with “Hey hey!” and we’d bop our heads to the tune in our head. At some point, someone (maybe it was me, but I don’t remember) realized that the backward message sounded a heck of a lot like “Another One Bites the Dust” written backward:

TSUDEHTSETIBENOREHTONA

That clears things up. Of course it says, “It’s fun to smoke marijuana!” Hail Satan! Pass the bong!

Among other oddities, Queen’s supposed backward masking has become a symbol of our warped education. So when I got back home after hearing Lobsterdust’s mashup, I immediately sent the following e-mail to Smokestack:

Run. Do not walk. Google directly "Best of Bootie 2008," and download the Queen song. You will laugh yourself peeless.

She replied with the suggestion that we use it as a theme song to our next reunion.

*The particular sermon in the mashup was not drawn from the documentary, but the message is the same.

**“The World”—To fundamentalist Christians, existence can be bifurcated into two groups, Christians (meaning born-again fundamentalists—no Catholics or “mainline” churches welcome) and everyone else. Everyone else = “The World.” The customs and music of the others are viewed by fundamentalists as the slippery slope leading directly to the Bad Place.

***It is indeed possible to add a “backward masked” message to an album track. The new wave band the Waitresses added a backward masked message on “I Could Rule the World if Only I Could Get the Parts,” and then slapped a warning label on it. I’d heard the story, and when I was in college, I convinced my computer science geek friend to feed it through his computer. The message? “Anyone who believes in backward masking is a fool.” Genius.

Oh, the Horror!

2009-02-13T13:23:00.002-05:00

Blood, guts, slasher gore, psycho clowns, fangs, ghouls, monsters—my childhood best friend lived for horror movies. The scarier the better. I, however, lived to avoid horror movies. My overactive imagination recreated the movies, altering the plot so that all the mayhem happened to me, in my room, at night, while I was trying to sleep.

“Chicken,” CBF would taunt when I tried to beg off watching the latest flick to come on HBO. In the bright light of day, I’d deny everything. “I’m not a chicken! I can watch anything you can watch. I just thought making cookies would be fun.” It never worked. Watch the movie I would. Then night would come and no amount of daytime bravado would save me from the terror.

For her tenth birthday party, we all watched Poltergeist. That clown. Oh my god that clown. Clowns still freak me out. Poor Mrs. CBF. She had a roomful of traumatized children. If my mother’s reaction was any indication, Mrs. CBF got an earful for allowing CBF to screen such fare at a birthday party.

But Poltergeist was the parent-sanctioned horror. That wasn’t the year that Valentine’s Day immediately followed Friday the 13th. That wasn’t the year that CBF had me watch My Bloody Valentine, immediately followed by the first Friday the 13th. That wasn’t the year I completely lost my shit.

That fateful Friday the 13th I slept over CBF’s house. All day at school she’d been talking about how her two favorite horror movies were going to be on cable that night and we were going to sneak downstairs and watch them while her parents were sleeping. “It’s going to be so scary!” she said. “Just you wait! It’s going to be great!”

I was quaking in my boots on the inside, but I just said, “Yeah!”

Later that night, as CBF’s parents snoozed away, we crept downstairs to the living room. We grabbed some cookies from the kitchen and some soda and settled in. The first one we watched was My Bloody Valentine. I’ve blocked out most of the carnage, but I do remember that this wasn’t the one that did me in. That mask certainly creeped me out, and there was a lot of blood, but I managed to hold it together. At least kind of. I knew I’d be up all night, but I figured it would be OK after that.

Then it was time for Friday the 13th. I’d heard of it. I heard it was the scariest movie ever made. It took place at a summer camp. I went to summer camp. All the counselors get killed in the woods. What if I got killed in the woods? These thoughts were racing through my brain as the opening scene started. What was that? “Kill kill kill”? “Ha ha ha”? Then something slashed those counselors to death. CBF was bouncing up and down, she was so excited. I was bouncing up and down because I was catatonic.

Kevin Bacon got a spike through his neck after having sex with one of the other counselors. Then a girl got an axe in her head. There was a creepy old guy warning everyone. More blood. More blood. More blood. AIEE! The mother showed up. “His name is Jason. He was my son. And today is his birthday.” AIEEEEEEE!!!!

Then the plucky girl cut Jason’s mother’s head off. And then Jason popped out of the water. That did it. I couldn’t even scream. His skin was falling off. And he was still there. In the water. What was I going to do?

All night, I kept hearing, “Kill her, Mommy! Kill her!” She was coming after me. So was the dead boy in the water. CBF slept soundly. I didn’t dare wake up her parents. CBF would get in big trouble, and I would forever be known as a wimp. I was eleven. And eleven year olds are supposed to be able to take it.

I sat up in bed. I pulled up the covers. I shrank away from the window. I listened to CBF breathe. I didn’t breathe. Every little noise made me die a little inside. We went to bed really late, but daylight never came. I kept hearing the voice hissing, “Kill kill kill! Ha ha ha!” I don’t mean I heard it in my head. I heard it. The streetlight reflected in the window was the glint of the blade. CBF rolled over. I nearly fell of the bed. When will morning come? I can’t see! They are going to get me! What am I going to do?

I stayed awake all night long. The next day, my mom asked me why I looked so tired. I just burst into tears. I didn’t rat out CBF, but I never watched another horror movie with her again. I also didn’t sleep for a month.

Epilogue: Somewhere in my late 20s, I finally figured out that the boogie man is not out to get me. I love horror movies now, and I love watching horror movies on Friday the 13th, especially when the next day is Valentine’s Day.

Riding the Rails

2009-02-11T14:40:00.001-05:00

Until I got laid off, I took the commuter rail to get to work. My train left North Station at an unholy hour. Between the early time and the reverse commute, there were not that many fellow riders. While I spent most of my time doing Sudoku, reading, or looking out the window, I did get to know some of them a bit. I’ve found myself thinking of them these past few days.

There was the woman who either slept right up through her stop or boarded the train in a rage, talking to someone named Patty on her cell phone. “Patty Patty Patty, I ain’t gonna fuckin’ talk to Mary no more. NO! Listen to me Patty. She’s such a fuckin’ bitch. . . .” I liked it better when she slept.

Then there was the tall Southern man who often regaled us with his cooking adventures (chili—it took a couple of days, or fried chicken) or his political opinions. We once had a fascinating conversation about funk. A man from my neighborhood, always sporting a golf hat and his iPod, and a business man whose fondness of jazz made me want to find more music. There was an autistic older man who mostly kept to himself, except when railing against the lack of air conditioning in the summer. He once yelled out “I can’t find a place of solitude!” I knew just how he felt. Apparently he worked with “Patty Patty Patty,” and sometimes muttered about her foul language.

There were the two schoolgirls, one a bit of a tomboy with a sense of humor past her years, and a beautiful young girl who I hope doesn’t move too fast. The conductor always teased them, and they always gave him the business.

A silent young man had an air of mystery about him.

Several of the riders worked in a factory, and one of them was a motherly figure who I think I will miss the most. Her white hair was always perfectly done, and while she was a bit gruff, she was also warm. She loved her grandkids and was always interested in my nephew. I can’t remember her name.

It’s funny. While being able to sleep past Satan’s Witching Hour has been the best part about unemployment, I do think of my fellow riders and wish them well.

The Tragic Lives of Porn Stars: An Eavesdropping Story

2009-02-09T11:11:00.004-05:00

An admission: I eavesdrop. A lot. Not because I’m particularly nosy, but because I find the random things people talk about when they think no one’s listening endlessly entertaining. OK, I guess that counts as nosy. Sue me. Sometimes it’s worth it.

Saturday afternoon found me in my favorite North End caffé, enjoying an espresso and reading. A late middle-aged couple sat next to me, ordered coffee and grappa, and began chatting. She sported short hair, dyed, and a vaguely athletic style, and was bit younger than he. He, dressed in a forest green shirt, a bit paunchy, with white, wavy hair, reminded me a bit of a character actor. The life and times of the over 50s are usually safe from my eavesdropping ministrations, but my ears perked right up when I heard what they were talking about.

“Yeah, it’s sad, really. Tragic. These poor people think they are going to break into the movie business, but they hardly ever do.”

“There was that one. The one in the [garbled] Titty [garbled].”

Titty? What on Earth are these two talking about?

“It’s true. She was in those horror flicks for a while. She could scream. But that hardly counts as success.”

“Yeah. The poor guy in . . .”

“Deep Throat.”

“Yeah, Deep Throat. That poor guy only ever wanted to be a real actor.”

“He was a real victim. He had no idea that he would be famous. Infamous.”

“Do you know of any others?”

“There are always a few who get some kind of role. Usually in slasher flicks. But then, there are so many people who think it’s going to be their big break, only to wind up with nothing.”

“Tragic.”

Just at that moment, I read a hilarious sentence in my book (the secret to all good eavesdropping is to multitask. I was still reading). I’d share it, but out of context, it just doesn’t make much sense. Anyhow, I burst out laughing. Hard. The couple looked stunned, and somewhat wounded.

“Oh,” I exclaimed. “My book is so funny.” It was really hard not to say, “I assure you, I’m not laughing about the tragic lives of porn stars. That would just be cruel. That said, I’m really impressed that you even know about this. I consider myself to be pretty open minded, but I’ve never heard of the porn starlet in the titty movie. Please do tell me more.”

Instead, I left it at my book, and the couple looked relieved. I turned away from their general direction and kept reading, but the moment was gone.

Tragic.

So When Will It Be THAT Bad?

2009-02-07T17:37:00.001-05:00

This will not become the Sassy’s Miserable Unemployment Blog, I swear, but this little tidbit seems worth sharing.

My dad is great, really, a kind man, and he’s always been good to me. However, the man is a true believer Republican. Although our political fights aren’t personal, you can imagine they get rather heated. My parents came down from New Hampshire on Thursday, to see me and my sister (and the very, very cute little nephew). And he offered up this little pearl of wisdom:

“The economy really isn’t that bad. People just need to realize that they’ve lost nothing until they sell the stocks.”

Excuse me?

“Dad,” I said, “your DAUGHTER just lost her job. Her date lost his job. Several of her friends are looking for work. Exactly when does it get to be THAT bad?”

Fuuuuuuuuck.

Then my mom decided to chime in with her two cents about the stimulus package and how Obama was bankrupting America.

Then snotty little me said, “Funny, I didn’t hear you saying anything at all about money when we spent all this money on unnecessary wars. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for the last eight years.”

Civility eventually returned, but the whole thing really turned my head.

Unemployed in Greenland

2009-02-03T18:23:00.000-05:00

Well, add another check mark on the life experience list. This morning I was laid off. I got the news, packed up my stuff, and, for the first time since 1999, joined the Legion of the Unemployed.

It feels very strange to be a statistic.

Bright side? Blogging is back on the agenda.

President Obama

2008-11-04T23:28:00.001-05:00

This country finally turned away from fear and embraced hope. We voted against the war and for a sane economic policy. We voted to rejoin the world. We just elected an African-American to our highest office—in a landslide. I am overjoyed.

I Need a Mister

2008-07-24T22:23:00.002-04:00

So the other day, I e-mailed a freelancer to see if he wanted some work. He lives in California, and thrives on impossibly hot weather. Yes, he replied, he wanted the work, but he needed a little bit more time, as he and his family were headed off on vacation in Palm Springs. “It’s going to be hot, really hot,” he wrote, “but there are lots of swimming pools and misters.”

The heat here must have gotten to me, because it took me a bit to figure out what he meant. Misters? Men make things cool? I had this picture of Venetian gondolier-like men, in their stripey outfits, rushing hither and fro, fanning the good people of Palm Springs. The image made me laugh. Then I got it. Oh. Mist. Water. It’s not stripey men—it’s water.”

I wrote back the freelancer, granting the extra time. By way of conversation, I added, “It’s hot here, too. I think I’ll need a mister.”

This is what I got back from him:

So when you said you might need a “mister,” I wasn’t sure what you meant. Was that some East Coast way of referring to a date (I need a date)? Then I realized I had said there are “misters” in Palm Springs . So I didn't know if you were saying it would be hot in Boston, too, or you were making a play on words. In any case, it gave me five minutes of amusement, which is always nice.

Yes, amusement is nice.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2008-07-17T21:39:00.002-04:00

Well, that’s better. Instead of reporting on six months’ worth of news, I only have to recount seven measly days. I think I can handle that.

Wow! Blogville remembered me! Thanks for the response to my resurrection posts. You all make me feel so loved. It’s been great to read about how you’ve all been faring since I dropped off the face of cyberspace. I’d like to do it more, but I’m afraid I still work for the Interweb Nazis. I can’t visit you all as much as I’d like, but I’m trying.

What a great night. As I type, a beautiful full moon fills the sky outside my window. It rose a beautiful pink (I don’t care what Nick Drake says, it’s not going to get me) and now shines a pale yellow. I grilled me up some veggies earlier this evening and hung out on the patio. This weekend’s shaping up to be filled with Shakespeare on the Common, Somerville’s Art Beat, the beach, a Haymarket adventure, and friends. No complaints here.

Enough blabbing already. It’s time for the Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical. It feels good to be doing this again.

The Obama campaign shows a complete lack of humor by trashing the New Yorker’s brilliant satirical cover. Man, we the readership are on your side. Relax already. Minus One

For the first time since the seventh grade, I have short hair. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I’ve received nothing but compliments. It’s done a lot to erase the memory of that old beauty-school student hack job. Plus One

Job hunting. It sucks. Figures I’m finally ready to move on during the worst economy in forever. If anyone has any advice, please e-mail me. Minus Two

The Red Sox scrape their way into first place before the All-Star break. J.D. Drew gets the MVP for the All Star game, and A-Rod is fending off rumors about Madonna. Heh. Plus Three

Dumbass W opens up lands to oil drilling. Will it solve our energy crisis? Nope. Will it give welfare to greedy corporations? Yep. Minus Five

Hardboiled Wonderland at the End of the World. What took me so long to read this? What was I thinking? Genius. Will write more when I’ve read more. Plus Three

Had my boy juju going last weekend. I have no idea what kind of cosmic alignment took place, but I had several young men making a point of letting me know they appreciated me. Must remember to wear sundress more often. Plus One

Total Plus: 8
Total Minus: 8

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: Even Steven

Coffee Bomb

2008-07-12T16:03:00.005-04:00

So the other day, my coworker got an e-mail from her roommate. They’d had a bomb scare at her office. Someone saw something that looked like a pipe bomb. They saw something, and they said something.

Police, evacuations, bomb squad—oh my!

The deadly cause of all this mayhem? A thermos full of coffee. From my coworker’s roommate: “The bomb squad guy opened it and poured the coffee into a planter. Ha.”

Ah, Boston. First there was Lite Brite Terror, and now the Coffee Bomb.

The Sassy Sundries: Six Months (?!) of My Life in Review

2008-07-09T22:05:00.004-04:00

I say, GODAMN! Six months, more, since I last tended this bloggy thing? Oh Holy Jesus. I can’t believe it.

Well, to tell you the truth, I do believe it. For one thing, Fresh Hell hasn’t let me forget it (see below for more about that fabulous lady). For another, even if you've forgotten all about me, I have thought about you denizens of Blogville a lot these last months. Robyn, I hadn’t checked that inbox in quite some time. Thanks for you concern—I am still alive, and all things considered, just fine and dandy. Dive, I miss you.

God, what a lot of pressure. The first post back has to be perfect. Or, at least that’s what I kept telling myself, which is why I haven’t posted for so long. Tonight, though, I say fuck it to that thought, because it’s high time I wrote something. And what better way for me to break back into blogging than with an extended version of the Sassy Sundries, my tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical. Without further ado, here are the Sassy Sundries for the last six months:

Call me Auntie Sassy. My sister had the cutest, coolest little boy on the planet back in March. Babies might not be my thing, but my goodness I love that little guy. He seems to dig me too. The last time he saw me, his face lit up, he smiled, and reached for me. He’s just great. I’ve dressed him up in homemade onesies with sayings like, “When two people love each other very much…” and “I ate, slept, and pooped today!” Styling baby, Nephew is. Plus Twenty

Now that Mom’s officially Grammy, she’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints that it’s high time for me to settle down. Had a bit of a rough visit this past weekend. I called her up tonight, though, and we seem to have sorted things out. Three cheers for therapy! Minus Two

Knudsen scares me. He predicted a McCain presidency way back when, and I hope to Everything that his prediction was only true for the nomination. Come on, Obama! We need you! Minus Two for the prediction; Plus Three for hoping we get us some change.

Speaking of politics, what happened to our Democratic majority in Congress? I just checked the news, and they caved to Dumb W about warrantless wiretapping. Ever heard of the Fourth Amendment, people? And why are we still funding that illegal, pointless war? Minus Ten

Fresh Hell and I have become fast friends, proof that Blogville camaraderie can exist in reality. Love you, Lady. And, Andraste, the three of us are due for some beer! Plus Twenty

Blogging wasn’t the only thing I took a break from. Aside from the Australia Day Smooching Incident, and a wee little Irish fellow asking me, “Do you want to go home and fuck?” (priceless accent—but the line still didn’t work) after a night of heavy drinking with Fresh, I hadn’t had any hint of dating action since the holidays until last week. Alas, the "date" was a setup, and there was no chemistry whatsoever. Still, we made the best of it and us a fine old time, laughing about how we didn’t want to get into one another’s knickers. It might not have been a real date, but the seal’s broken, and I think I might be ready to risk my heart again. Even

So it only happened because Little Blue Peep finally bit the dust, but I’m still happy to say that I’ve reduced my carbon footprint. Now that I’m sans car, things take a little bit more planning to happen, but I’m managing just fine. My Sudoku skills have definitely improved. Plus Three

OK, so the Sox are in second place? There’s still time. And we’re not second to the Yankees. Even

Total Plus: 46
Total Minus: 14

TOTAL FOR THE LAST SIX MONTHS OF MY LIFE: +32

Please Excuse Sassy Sundry

2008-02-08T20:25:00.000-05:00

Dear Blogville,

Please excuse Sassy Sundry’s lack of posting of late. She has had a hard month.

It all started when her car’s windshield wipers failed on her during a snowstorm. Thankfully, she hadn’t gotten far, and so she was safe, but she had to fix them. She was hoping to get through the toughest part of winter with her old jalopy with the Peacemonger sticker on it before making the decision to go car-free. To do that, she needed to replace the wipers. Also, the headlight that had decided to die on her. So, she brought it to the shop. Turns out that it wasn’t just a simple repair, and it was going to cost her four hundred Benjamins to fix. Two hours after begrudgingly telling her mechanic to go ahead, her grease monkey called her. “The good news is that we made the repairs,” he said. “The bad news is that my next customer backed into your car and smashed the front end.”

For three long weeks, she endured endless commutes, becoming intimately familiar with the bus (she has not yet succeeded in securing employment that would make the car-free lifestyle manageable). She left every morning at Satan’s Witching Hour and returned home exhausted. Blogging about anything other than, “Tired. Grumpy. Wish to kill people” was untenable. When she finally got her car back, her joy was unfettered. At last, I can blog again!

Not so fast, the Technical Difficulties Banshees deemed, for that Saturday, her Internet connection (the free one) came to a bitter end. It took two weeks for the high speed (ha!) Internet people to save her from her plight. Now, at long last, she has the keys to the Information Superhighway once more. She hopes to get back up to speed with you all soon.

Please forgive her. The weather is cold, she is tired, and her heart is heavy. She misses you all dearly.

Signed,

Sassy’s Third Person

Life, Liberty, and ROUNDHOUSE for Jesus!

2008-01-03T23:40:00.000-05:00

Confession time. After seven long years of Dumb W’s war-mongering horror show and one long year of presidential debates, this political junkie finally overdosed on the whole thing. I just wasn't able to bring myself to obsess over the primaries.

For one thing, I didn’t really like any Democratic candidate. Hillary Clinton voted for the Iraq War and took a long time to back down from her support of it. I don’t think that Barack Obama has the experience necessary to lead the country. John Edwards doesn’t stand a chance in a national race. And, in addition to being a very late convert to a pro-choice position, Kucinich is a bit of a odd one. With choices like these, it was hard for me to get excited.

For another thing, I no longer live in New Hampshire. I figured that my primary vote will come too late to make much of a difference. Without much at stake with this vote, I thought that I may as well vote for a woman for president. It’s about time. That settled in my mind, I pretty much stopped paying close attention. I already knew that I'd vote for the Democratic nominee. It's their race to lose, right?

Maybe not. I might not have been obsessed with the primaries, but I wasn't completely out of the loop. In the last couple of months, Mike Huckabee caught my politically lazy eye and made me nervous. And damnit, if he didn’t win the Republican Iowa Caucus. Huckabee has charismatic charm reminiscent of another right-wing fascist fellow. Americans are suckers for charm, no matter what kind of anti-science, anti-choice, anti-secular society, anti-immigrant, anti-gay, anti-everything-that-we’re-supposed-to-stand-for face it masks. We had eight years of Reagan, and Dumb W rode on those coat tails. Huckabee is a problem.

Like I said, he got my attention. Among other things, I knew that he had been running some ads with Chuck Norris. I thought it was something of a joke, rather like that blender guy. But after watching Huckabee’s victory speech, I’m not so sure. Yes, that was CHUCK NORRIS standing right behind Huckabee when he gave his victory speech in Iowa—and it wasn’t a gag on Conan O’Brien. There was no lever. Does America really want a president, however charming he may be, who stands tall with Chuck Norris? Life, liberty, and ROUNDHOUSE for Jesus! Really?

Oh shit.

Travels with Fluff: Where in the Hell is Carmen, San Diego?

2008-01-02T22:28:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! Not much new here. Went out, drank too much, and spent New Year’s Day on the couch watching movies, thinking that it was about time I did my promised Fluff post. As some of you know, Little Sassy Schmoozer dragged me off to San Diego in November for a big conference. What a taskmaster! She had me glad-handing so many people, and she hardly let Fluff and me out of her sight to do the tourist thing. So, the pictures aren’t so good—and they’re all in the Gaslamp Quarter—but here they are.

Fluff went to Lee’s Café for breakfast one day. Lee’s Café is a rather amazing place. It’s a Chinese diner, meaning that they’ll do your eggs any way you like, or you can get Chinese food. You can also get cereal.

When Young Coworker and I followed Fluff into Lee’s, there were about ten men of various ages and backgrounds hunched silently over coffee and food. We knew we were in for a treat. It was fantastic.

An “Authentic Irish Pub” in San Diego. Because California is so like Ireland.

Yeah, yeah, Wyatt Earp.

Yikes! Fluff thought that maybe Fluff was illegal. We gave them the slip.

That’s it. I hate Little Sassy Schmoozer. She doesn’t let me have any fun. My Memphis friend and I are discussing taking a little trip somewhere exciting sometime soon, however, and LSS is not invited.

If you're new to Travels with Fluff, check out the link under Favorite Posts. Fluff gets around.

Tacky Holidays

2007-12-27T19:06:00.000-05:00

My family values the art of giving the boobie prize. Rather like participants in the Tacky Gift party (which, sadly, did not happen this year, due to my friend’s freak beauty parlor accident, requiring pins in her wrist—now that she’s recovered, I’m thinking about throwing a re-gifting extravaganza in January), members of my family relish obtaining something hideous, wraping it up beautifully, and bestowing it upon our loved ones.

This year, I went with the holiday food basket. On a run to the supermarket, I spied Spam with Bacon and just couldn’t resist. I got quite a few curious looks when I placed these fine items on the belt.

I then wrapped them up like this and placed my gift under the tree.

Since I often bring home the good food for the holidays, my parents didn’t suspect this basket. The pork rinds got an especially hearty laugh. The folks plan to re-gift the love by serving up these goodies without comment to my sister and brother-in-law when they celebrate late Christmas with them.

And, lest you think that we confine the fun to gifts, behold the Christmas Hand.

One year, my father gave my mother a hand cookie cutter in her stocking. The next year, she dutifully used it, and a hand appeared among the gingerbread people display. We now demand its presence. This year it looked especially creepy.

Aren’t you glad I don’t celebrate the holidays with you?

Merry Christmas and Happy (Early) Year of the Mouse!

2007-12-24T09:00:00.000-05:00

Received from a Chinese publisher. I love this.

Merry Christmas, and a Happy (early) Year of the Mouse!

Holiday Dating: Nice Dates with McAlmost and McGuyIUsedtoKnow

2007-12-22T12:08:00.000-05:00

One evening in early December I somehow managed to online chat with both of these guys at the same time—and had agreed to go out with each of them. Wistfully I thought if only I could somehow combine parts of them, say McAlmost’s hilarious sense of the absurd with a dash of McGuyIUsedtoKnow’s wonder at it all, I would hit romantic paydirt. Paydirt, alas, I did not hit, but I still had a good time on my dates with these guys, and here are the stories.

Dinner and a Walk with McAlmost
Have you ever had one of those dates where you had a great time but just didn’t feel that desire to become someone’s special friend? Well, that was me with McAlmost. I suppose anyone after the McWorstDate would have appeared to be Prince Charming, but I really did enjoy my date with McA. Witty, smart, and an actual grownup, McA was pretty darn close to the closest thing I have to a type. What’s more, I was apparently pretty darn close to being his type. I’m not sure what it is about audio/other-type-of-computer engineer musicians, but they leap out of the screen for me. As my sister says in her best commercial voice, “If you like being an audio engineer and a musician, you’ll LOVE Sassy.” I don’t know. I can’t explain it.

In any event, over a yummy Indian dinner in Davis Square, McA and I bandied about stories and anecdotes, talking so long that we shut the place down. We then went out for a wintry walk about town, chatting and laughing some more. It would have been perfect, except that we were missing that ever-elusive chemistry. We got to the T stop at the end of the night, and we proceeded to gab for another fifteen minutes or so, shared a brief hug, and then parted ways.

Very Late to My Date with McGuyIUsedtoKnow
McGuyIUsedtoKnow didn’t recognize me for my shorter hair when he sent me what had to be the sweetest initial message I’ve ever received from an online guy. That’s the thing about McGIUK—he’s really sweet. So sweet that he waited for forty-five minutes for me when the lovely MBTA bus let me down. Yes, I was horribly late for this date. On my way, I almost wish he’d told me to forget it. I wasn’t sure if I could go through with seeing him again.

Back in the day, I had aspired to be one of those lovely, airy, peace-loving women who do Yoga and run around fire circles to celebrate the full moon. I know, funny. I’ve since learned that I am not one of those women, that I have what I call “sharp elbows” in my personality, and I’m too much of a skeptic to run around a fire circle without rolling my eyes at least a little bit. My intentions can be a bit pointed. I had given the hippie woman the college try, though, and it was around the height of this experiment that I had met McGIUK.

I don’t know how else to describe McGIUK other than to say that he’s a male version of who I wanted to be. He’s (very) smart and an activist, but he’s also a sweet, airy, Reiki-practicing man who runs around fire circles to celebrate the full moon. I didn’t know him well, but he was loosely connected to a peace group I hung around with years ago, and we had talked a few times. When I saw that he’d checked out my profile, I had a feeling I knew who he was, and when he sent me a message saying that he sensed that I had an open mind and an open heart and that he’d love to know me, that confirmed it.

I replied to his message thanking him for being so sweet, and I told him that we used to know each other a few years back. He replied that he’d sensed a cosmic familiarity about me. Wasn’t it just regular familiarity? I thought somewhat meanly, and I turned it into a joke in my message back. When he initiated an online chat session, it was apparent that he did indeed remember me but hadn’t gotten the joke—but he was so sweet that he charmed me. Or, rather, there was something about my resistance to his charms that made me feel like a bad person (what’s wrong with me that I consider “sweetness” a character flaw?). I felt compelled to give it a try.

My friends know just how much I was dreading this date—some of them asked my why I was even going. “Well, we know each other, and he still knows a few of my friends. How can I be the bitch who turned him down for a date? Who wouldn’t want to date McGIUK? He’s so SWEET!”

Well, meet we did, forty minutes later than originally planned, and I’m glad that I went through with it. We had an interesting conversation about things I don’t normally talk about on dates. I don’t know too many people these days who still work in the nonprofit sector. The years and all of the crap going on in the world had altered his understanding of possible change, and he was seeking some kind of employment that would allow him to pay the rent, but his basic optimism remained undimmed. It was refreshing, and he made me think.

Unfortunately, our time together did not convince me that we would make a good couple, and I think perhaps he felt otherwise. Our goodbye was a bit awkward. I do sincerely wish him a lovely, peaceful woman who will run around fire circles with him to celebrate the full moon. He’s a wonderful guy, and he deserves to be happy.

Epilogue
I did have one more date this holiday season, but I don’t entirely know what the story is there yet, so I’m not going to jinx it. Suffice it to say that I panicked a bit, but I didn’t completely lose my mind this holiday season. Instead I took advantage of holiday dating to branch out (OK, too far in a couple of cases) and see what’s out there. This isn’t the time of year to find the perfect date—but it is a great time to experiment. And even if things don’t work out with the last date, January’s coming, and that’s often when I find a guy who’s just right.

Holiday Dating: My One Hour and Fifteen Minutes with McWorstDate

2007-12-18T08:09:00.000-05:00

Before he became McWorstDate, there were warning signs. McWD’s profile indicated that he was into polyamory (I’m not—in nursery school I declared, “Sharing is damn yucky stuff!” I’ve learned since then, but there are still some things I don’t share), and it didn’t look as though we had all that much in common. All the same, he seemed quirky and fun, and you just never know.

Now I know. Our date lasted one hour and fifteen minutes. We had agreed to meet for hot chocolate at a chocolatier’s in Harvard Square on a Sunday afternoon. McWD had arrived before I did, but didn’t snag a table before they filled up, and so we had to get our hot chocolate to go instead. We ordered, and I pulled out my wallet to make the obligatory gesture to pay for my drink. McWD let me pay for him too. We decided to wait for a few minutes by the candy counter to see if a table would open up. He wanted to talked about what a ripoff the high-quality chocolate was.

When it became obvious that we were going to strike out on the table front, we left. “I’m starving,” McWD said. “I really need a sandwich.” Then why didn’t you ask me to lunch? I thought. He led us into an Au bon Pain, not the big one in the square (bad enough), but a little hole in the wall next to a Bertucci’s. There I watched him eat a sandwich and drink a container of milk, as he told me about different people he’d dated from the web site. He then said, “I’m surprised my profile didn’t freak you out.”

I’m freaked out now, I thought but said something more polite. After he finished, we agreed to go to the Harvard Book store. “Where do you usually hang out in the bookstore?” he asked.

“Oh, usually the fiction section. Sometimes I check out criticism or poetry, but mostly I just stick to fiction.”

“Well, I really like the erotic section there,” my date said exactly thirty-five minutes into our first less-than-successful encounter. Not only did I find this comment to be a bit sketchy, but I also found it to be just plain odd. The erotic section in this store is one skinny little shelf, and so far as I can tell, it has mostly best-of collections. Odd pick, that one.

We wandered around the front of the store a bit before heading back to the fiction section. “Oh there’s your section,” I said to him, pointing out the little shelf right before the fiction.

“Did they move it?” he asked, surprised by its location.

“No.”

There, in the section, was a best-of gay men’s short fiction or something like that, featuring a ripped torso on the front cover with a book covering the goods. “Oh my god, that man is hot,” McWD said lustfully. “There is nothing like a really hot man’s chest.” Drool was practically dripping off his chin.

Excuse me? I know you are Mr. Polyamory Man, but you are out on a date with ME! I don’t want you talking about men. I don’t want you talking about other women. I want you to be talking about ME! Tell someone else about the bod!

“Yeah, that is one hot faceless torso,” I said and wandered into the fiction section. My date picked up a book, one I had actually enjoyed, and I said so. He found a damaged copy and decided to try to get a discount on it. “I used to work in a bookstore,” he said knowingly. Just then, his phone rang.

He answered it. Then he proceeded to talk for about fifteen minutes in the store. I nearly left, but for some reason, I didn’t. Instead, I wandered about the store pondering just how bad this date really was. He finished talking and then walked over to me and explained that a friend of his was contemplating dating her professor and she really needed advice. OK.

Next he went to the counter to try to procure a discount, only to be informed that discounts apply to the last copy only. “We have four available now,” I heard her say pointedly.

We left the store, and I informed him that I needed to go. He walked me to the T, gave me a weak hug, and then left to get his bike. I stayed down in the T station for about five minutes, walked back out and did some shopping. I got an e-mail from him saying that although the sparks didn’t fly that it was great to meet me. Yeah.

Next Post: Nice Dates with McAlmost and McGuyIUsedtoKnow

Holiday Dating—A Series of Panic-Induced Encounters

2007-12-16T13:29:00.000-05:00

Not to make a sweeping generalization or anything, but no one wants to be alone for the fall and early winter holidays. True, true, Valentine’s Day can suck, but at least one can disdain VD with impunity. No, there’s nothing like the dark days of November and December to strike terror in the heart of the singleton. Faced with yet another season of wandering through glittering parties alone, the object of pity and scorn, not to mention all of the questions from family, many lonely souls turn to the Internet to save the holidays.

Those of you who read this bloggy thing know that I am actually a big fan of online dating. It might not be the most romantic means to meet people, but it does have its advantages. After all, that adorable guy in the bar just might wind up trying to romance you with his Elliott Smith covers that he’s uploaded onto YouTube before sloppily kissing you in front of your friend. With the Internet at least you usually have a general idea of what you’re getting into. And right around the holidays, you stand a pretty good chance of someone wanting to (ahem) get into you. Unfortunately, while you are statistically more likely to get a date this time of year, you also run a greater risk of having a bad one.

I am attributing the fact that I have had arrangements for dates with a several suitors since Halloween to the annual holiday rush. And I’ll be honest. I think I’ve succumbed to the panic as well, as a couple of my dates passed my highly scientific selection process on a sliding scale. Over the next few posts, I will be regaling you with stories of my holiday dating life. Allow me to start with the tales of McNeighborBoy and McSleepyMcDorkwad.

Brief Fling with McNeighborBoy
In true postmodern fashion, I met my cute neighbor on the Internet, and we had our first “real life” meeting on Halloween. It went very well. We had ourselves a fine time for about a week or so, when we realized that we didn’t have all that much in common other than a mutual appreciation for each other’s (pardon the pun) bones. We decided to be neighbors instead, and that has worked out just fine. We chat every now and again when we see each other, and McNB shoveled out my car after last week’s storm. Now that's neighborly.

Stood Up by McSleepyMcDorkwad
About a week after McNeighborBoy and I decided to be plain-old neighbors, I signed on to check a message from what proved to be a disappointing lad. Sighing, I prepared to log back out again when I got an instant message from a more amusing character. We chatted for twenty minutes or so, and he seemed like a fun guy. He asked me if I was up for a drink sometime, and I said yes. The only problem was that the only night I had free between then and Thanksgiving was that night.

“Well, what about tonight?” he wrote.

“Why not?” I wrote back, and we agreed to meet up around ten at a decent watering hole in Union Square.

I got dressed, put on lipstick, and headed out into a rather cold evening excited for my spontaneous date. I arrived at the establishment, and he hadn't gotten there yet, so I stood outside and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited a bit longer until I realized that I had been stood up. What the hell? It was his idea to meet up! Why would he do that?

Ooooh, I was pissed, and I was even more pissed that I didn’t have his number to call him and tell him what-for. I had to console myself by going into the bar and having a drink anyway. I talked a bit with another guy and then left. I got home to an e-mail with the subject line, “So I fucked up big time :(” (yes, he used an emoticon). Turns out, McSMcD had gone down for a nap and slept until 10:45. He was deeply apologetic and asked if he could make it up to me after Thanksgiving. I wondered why he couldn't set an alarm, but I replied to McSMcD that I’d think about getting in touch with him after I got back.

I was bored the Saturday after the big T-day, so I sent McSMcD an e-mail saying that if he was up for it, I could meet him for a drink and gave him my number. I got a text message at 11:55 PM asking me if it was too late to meet up. I didn’t answer until the next morning. I know how to have a good time, but I’m not a booty call. I didn’t hear from him again until the following Saturday night when he sent me a text at 12:17 AM asking me out for a “light lunch” (WHAT is that?) on Sunday. No thanks, McSleepyMcDorkwad. I have to wash my hair.

Next post: My One Hour and Fifteen Minutes with McWorstDate

Seeing John Malkovich

2007-12-11T07:17:00.000-05:00

So on Sunday, I went to the Bazaar Bizarre, an annual alternative craft fair (I believe one of the mottos is “No cozies without irony!”) I’ve attended a few times over the years. At one of the booths, I moved in to look at a bizarre ware just as this guy swung around. He sort of bumped into me and muttered an apology. “Oh, no problem. Excuse me,” I said and looked up at him. The guy was John Malkovich. In our brief moment of eye contact, he saw the gears in my brain turn, and he shot me the biggest Don’t You Dare look. I shot him back a Don’t Worry look, eliciting a half-smirk from him before he went along his way.

A few minutes later, I spied him wandering about again, as did the crafters at the booth I was at. One of them observed, “Dude, that guy totally looks like John Malkovich.” His co-crafter said knowingly, “It IS John Malkovich. He lives in Boston.”

“Oh yeah. It’s him. He bumped into me,” I confirmed. For a moment, the crafters looked at me like I was the famous one. Don’t You Dare.

In other words, I got Malkoviched by Malkovich on a Sunday afternoon.

I Just Don’t Know What to Say

2007-11-28T07:55:00.000-05:00

Let it not be said that the Universe has lost the knack. It can still render us speechless, force us to ponder the wonder it all. Yesterday, I encountered such a gift from the Universe while checking packages as part of my “warehouse duty,” my parent company’s way of making sure that we all pitch in and help during the busy season. I reached into a box and pulled out this:

Words fail me, but I think we should all hum “Also Sprach Zarathustra.”

I’m Baaaaaack (Well, for about Ten More Minutes)

2007-11-21T10:32:00.000-05:00

Ugh. Little Sassy Schmoozer dragged me off to San Diego for a conference, and she didn’t let me go anywhere. I was able to fit in a few moments with Fluff in the Gaslamp Quarter, but that was it. What an exhausting trip. Successful, from LSS’s point of view, but exhausting for poor me.

My connector flight from Denver was delayed by over three hours, two of them spent on the plane. Originally, we were told that it was due to a mechanical problem, and we were grateful that the airline wouldn't send us hurtling through space in a broken tin can. Later, however, it came out that we were parked at the gate for hours because an unoccupied seat in first class was a bit “dirty.” Our pilot decided to pull a publicity stunt by delaying the flight until corporate headquarters cleaned it up. He handed out fliers and encouraged passengers to contact the media. If he’d handed one to me, I would have delivered this story, Don’t Fly United Airlines: They Suck. Thanks to a dirty seat, I was stuck next to a chatty real estate agent for nearly six hours. Fuck the dirty seat, I wanted to go home.

What that flight delay means for you is that you will have to wait for the few Fluff photos and the story of my brief fling with McNeighborBoy. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a rerun, the story of my freakshow Thanksgiving.

Off to New Hampshire, for a quiet (I hope) holiday. Happy Turkey, or as I call it, Happy Vegetable Pigout Day! Back soon.

Going to California: My Heart Aches

2007-11-15T08:43:00.000-05:00

OK, I’m awake and alive. Life went into whirlwind pattern again (shows, work, brief fling with a neighbor, etc.), and I just haven’t been able to get to this blog. And now Little Sassy Schmoozer is dragging me, kicking and screaming, to California. Truly, I have an aching in my heart. The good news is that Fluff will be joining us, and I think I can give Little Sassy Schmoozer the slip long enough to get some photos. Wish me luck. Miss you all! I'll be back just before Thanksgiving.

Woooooooooohooooooooooo!!!!!!!

2007-10-29T00:35:00.000-04:00

And how! My heart's still pounding from that close shave in the bottom of the ninth.

Sleep. Finally. Wooooohooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!

Close One

2007-10-26T00:23:00.000-04:00

Holy shit, my nails are a ragged mess. I can’t believe we actually won that one. Curt Schilling’s politics be damned, he settled in and did some fine pitching in what might have been his last game wearing a Red Sox uniform. I heart Hideki Okajima and Jonathan Papelbon—way to pick off Holliday, Pap.

Thanks to Jacoby Ellsbury (Eddie Munster’s way cuter cousin) for winning America free tacos by stealing a base. Can I redeem mine at Taco Loco, please?

Oh, and Manuel, my Blog Friend in Belfast, you rock. Way to cheer on the Sox!

What Will They Think of Next?

2007-10-23T08:39:00.000-04:00

When I spy bizarre products, I often think about what it takes to get them to store shelves. Not only did someone think, Hey, garlic is a wonderful thing. It wards off colds—I bet it would help stave off hair loss. Let’s make shampoo! but they also convinced an entire group of people that it would be a good idea to produce it. The mad inventor successfully pitched the product idea to a company, who then went out and sourced “unscented garlic extract” and formulated Garlic Shampoo.

The company then turned the product loose to a marketing team, and they figured out a way to get desperate people to buy it. Judging from the spam I get in my inbox, the only thing worse than a tiny penis is a bald head, so I guess the balding population might be an easy target. (Why is a mystery to me, as bald can indeed be beautiful, provided that comb-overs aren’t involved.)

Marketing teams are comprised of professionals, but in case they need some help, I’ve envisioned a few snappy campaign ideas for them:

Toupee a little too obvious? Garlic is the answer! Don’t worry—it’s unscented! They’ll never know!
Hair Club for Men? Don’t be a joiner! Try Garlic!
Don’t have money for laser treatment? Try our Garlic Shampoo! Cheap and effective!
Garlic Shampoo: Have a Full Head of Hair AND Ward Off Pesky Vampires!

Do you have any new product ideas? I’m sure we could convince this company to go with them. They did make Garlic Shampoo.

Oh Hell Yeah!!!!!

2007-10-22T00:57:00.000-04:00

World Series, baby!

Wow, it was looking bad last week. All I can say is that the “triumvirate” (as Fresh Hell—baseball is her life, hee hee— put it) of Boston blog women must have worked some magic for our beloved Sox. Whatever it was, man, what a triad of games.

Scout, I did think of you when I saw the sad faces of the tribe. I’m sorry. They played some great baseball.

OK, off to collapse into bed.

Go Sox!!!!!

Do the Whirlwind

2007-10-17T22:53:00.000-04:00

It all started Friday night when Roommate had a date night so I went out to watch the Sox That all went fine until after the game when this guy kept buying me drinks I wound up making out with him a bit As I recall he wasn’t a good kisser I woke up the next morning with that feeling that it’s best that the details are hazy I had a killer headache Roommate laughed her ass off when I recounted the evening’s events in my little girl doesn’t feel good voice Had some water and prayed for death Rallied Made it out to the store to get a wedding gift for friend’s wedding the following day then went to the park so that I wouldn’t waste a beautiful day Bought a very cute dress for wedding as I have learned that looking good takes the sting out of spinsterhood Once shopping was completed I went home and collapsed on the couch for a time before rallying yet again to see Architecture in Helsinki Talk about a killer show Fun fun fun fun dance dance dance whirlwind blast Couldn’t stop smiling Got home Sox in bottom of the tenth Had bad feeling Collapsed into bed Woke up next morning to hear the score was thirteen to six What the fuck Got dressed and went to Friend’s wedding and had a genuinely delightful time I guess that can happen at weddings Caught up with old friends ate some food drank some wine came home Collapsed into bed Woke up and went to work Left work and drove to New Hampshire to see friend from England of original Fluff fame at her mom’s house Had wonderful time visiting with her and other friends That is until I found out the Sox lost yet again Drove home Collapsed into bed Woke up and went to work Long day Exhausted Got home and took off for hair appointment Ah the joy of having someone massage one’s head Exchanged drinking stories with hilarious and talented stylist Bought too many hair products Took train home Arrived just in time for the game to start Roommate and I swore at the television as the Sox lost yet again Collapsed into bed Got up and went to work where a monstrous index awaited my loving ministrations Long long day Got home Popped laundry in washer Fixed dinner Collapsed on couch and nearly fell asleep while watching the Grey’s spin off though I like it when Roommate came home We watched it together Put extra concert ticket up on Craigslist Sat down and typed this thing Will promptly collapse into bed Tomorrow am getting together with Fresh Hell and Andraste for beer and Sox Then off to Stars and then Vermont Sometime around Sunday I can get off this crazy thing for a bit Then it starts again Whilwind indeed

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-10-12T08:34:00.000-04:00

A week went by? Seriously? Yikes. Guess I was busy.

The calendar tells me that it’s time to do the Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical, and so behold, the Sassy Sundries:

The Red Sox swept the Angels. Watching Manny Ramirez launch the ball out of Fenway Park erased the shame of spending Friday night in front of the tube. And then the Yankees needed their hankies. It was a beautiful week for baseball. Tonight, it’s Scout vs. Sundry, as Robyn’s Indians and my beloved Sox face off for Game 1 of the ALCS. October rocks. Plus Five

W comes out against a Congressional resolution calling the Armenian genocide a genocide, saying that it will harm our relationship with Turkey, a “key ally in the War on Terror.” Would he call the Holocaust an unfortunate incident if Germany hadn’t recognized its past and supported the Iraq War? Minus Three

California became the first state in the nation to pass a law prohibiting landlords from acting as immigration officials. Let's hope the nation follows. Now before everyone goes off in my comments box, I strongly suggest two things. First, read up on US activity in the regions where most of the illegals come from. Just as the positive results of our actions endure, so do the consequences of our negative actions. Second, put your money where your mouth is and start supporting organizations that work to give people a reason to stay home. I support and can recommend several. Plus Three

British writer Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Not only does she deserve the honor, The Golden Notebook being one of the great novels of the last century, but her victory also upset the British bookies betting on the prize. For some reason, that last part makes me smile. Plus Three

The National put on an amazing show Saturday night at the Roxy. Music can take you to another place, and I’m still smiling over that performance. Plus Two

I made a new friend at the National show (not that kind of friend). Actually, I’ve been branching out a lot lately, and I’m enjoying my social life. There’s more to life than dating, and a woman needs friends. Plus Four

Hats off to Al Gore, for sharing the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to raise awareness about climate change. Plus Three

Total Plus: 17
Total Minus: 3
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +14

Last Week’s Total: +3

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-10-05T07:10:00.000-04:00

Goddamn, it’s still lovely out. It may feel like August outside, but it’s October, baby, and the Red Sox are playing some baseball! Life is good. Well, actually life could be better for me. I’ve been a bit down this week, but hey, with wonderful things afoot, things are bound to improve.

It’s that time again. Time for me to tally up the week’s events, personal, political, and nonsensical. Without any further ado, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

A little celebratory cake, surrounded by Chester A. Arthur memorabilia

A very Happy Birthday today to Chester A. Arthur, the Ultimate Blank Years President. Today also marks the anniversary of my first comment from Robyn. Glad to know you, Blog Pal. Plus One

Hypocritical homophobic Senator Larry Craig fails in his attempt to reverse his guilty plea to a charge that he solicited sex in an airport men’s room. He’s still determined to stay in the Senate until the end of his term in January 2009. Yeah, good luck with that, Senator. Minus One

The Boston Red Sox, with help from the scrappy Baltimore Oriels, win their division for the first time since 1995. There’s a long row to hoe, but the hometown team’s performance in Game One was a great way to start. Oh, and Satan's Minions lost their first game. Plus Five

Congress initiates legislation to hold American contractors operating in Iraq accountable in US courts after reports emerge in Septmeber that employees of Blackwater USA opened fire and killed Iraqi civilians under questionable circumstances. With the administration strongly opposed to the proposed legislation, I doubt anything will pass, but the effort counts for something. Even

W delivers on his promise and vetoed the S-CHIP bill, stating that it would lead to socialized health care. Oh, no! Not a healthcare system where everyone’s covered, people live longer, and the infant mortality rate goes down! There’s been some talk about how this bill would be funded, but the way I see it, if we didn’t have an illegal and unnecessary war draining billions and billions of dollars a year, coming up with $35 billion to insure children wouldn’t take much doing. Minus Five

I finally got to see the Mountain Goats Sunday night at the Middle East. Fantastic show. Am looking forward to the National this weekend and Architecture in Helsinki the next (other shows to follow). October isn’t just for baseball. Plus Three

Total Plus: 9
Total Minus: 6

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +3

Last Week’s Total: +4

You Might See a Ghost, Dummy

2007-10-02T20:39:00.000-04:00

Now that it’s October, our thoughts can turn to goblins and ghouls, to things that go bump in the night. And to more book proposals from people of questionable sanity. We recently received a two-thousand-page manuscript, in all caps, about spirits and ghosts. In case you didn’t know the difference, be enlightened:

DO NOT MISUNDERSTAND, SPIRITS THAT HAVE TRANSFERRED CORRECTLY MAY RETURN OF THEIR OWN ACCORD. THESE ARE NOT HAUNTINGS. DON’T CONFUSE THE TWO. A SPIRIT MAY COME AND GO TO CHECK ON LOVED ONES AND DO THEIR OWN BUSINESS HERE. A HAUNT IS THE EPHEREMAL AND PARANORMAL EQUIVALENT TO PSYCHOLOGICAL DISORDER IN HUMANS. THEY ARE STUCK WHERE THEY ARE, DON’T KNOW THEY ARE DEAD, AND ARE USUALLY TROUBLED IN SOME WAY. THEY NEED TO BE TOLD THEY ARE DEAD AND WHERE TO GO, OTHERWISE THEY WILL CAUSE INFLUENTIAL AND EMPATHICAL AFFECTS ON THOSE HUMANS WHO DWELL IN THE SAME OVERLAPPING DIMENSIONAL SPACE. HUH? I MEAN, YOU MIGHT SEE A GHOST, DUMMY. BOO.

Boo indeed. Beware of insane spirits. They turn into ghosts.

What the Fluff? Dispatch from the 2nd Annual Fluff Festival in Union Square, Somerville

2007-09-29T20:12:00.000-04:00

Fluff’s still giddy from Fluff’s adventures at the 2nd Annual What the Fluff? festival in Union Square, celebrating the 90th anniversary of the invention (should we say “discovery”?) of Fluff in Somerville, Massachusetts. Fluff was still talking about last year’s adventures at the fest, but this year just flipped Fluff’s little red lid.

Today, not only did Fluff get to consort with other Fluffs, but (insert favorite Fluff gender here) also got to meet Archibald Query, the man who brought the gooey marshmallow goodness to the masses.

Fluff really wanted one of those prizes for the cooking contest.

Fluff, however, really hoped that Fluff’s friends weren’t hurt in the Fluff bowling.

There were Fluffernutters, Ice Cream, and a “Fear Factor” wheel (where contestants had to eat something with Fluff).

Prospect Hill Tower (a local tower) was re-created in Rice Crispy Treats

Fluff checked out some music in front of the Independent, a watering hole with an excellent beer selection.

A little controversy broke out when some people called attention to the absence of Strawberry and Raspberry Fluff at the festivities. Was it possible that What the Fluff? wasn’t being inclusive? Oh no!

“I beg to differ,” Strawberry Flufferette said. With Fluff’s flavored friends represented, peace was restored.

Everyone ate “Fluffy things,” and a grand time was had by all.

Fluff's exhausted.

To catch up with Fluff’s other adventures, click on the “Travels with Fluff’ link under “Favorite Posts,” and start at the bottom. Fluff may be from Somerville, but Fluff gets around.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-09-28T08:23:00.000-04:00

Summer’s last hurrah continued to defy the crisp fall banshees, making it almost impossible to go into work this week. While the beach tempted me all week, I stayed away. This weather cannot last forever, and if I get back into summer mode, the cold weather will be that much more soul crushing.

So instead, I’m sitting inside (the sun has just begun to stream through my open window), tallying up the week’s events. Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (Warning: Contains Grey's spoilers):

Tuesday had me boozing it up with Andraste and Fresh Hell (missing her favorite TV show’s premiere), and we had ourselves a time. Old Knudsen and Dive, we so talked about you. We also shared stories of drink, music, baseball, men folk (I know what SPOUSE’s name is!), gabbing and gabbing until we were drowned out by the karaoke performers—and then we laughed. The rest of you Boston blog friends missed a great time. You know who you are. Plus Ten

Protests led by Buddhist monks challenging the military junta in Myanmar turned deadly, and things look like they’re going to get worse. Minus Five

The Red Sox pull their heads out of their asses (until last night, that is), preserving their lead over Satan’s Minions. Can they do it? Even

Grey’s Anatomy returns. I’m with Terroni—what was up with Bambi? And, worse for me, what was up with that pun at the end (Alex hands Cristina some money from his patient’s innards just as Meredith starts the voiceover with “Change…”)? Still, it’s a soap opera, I know it’s a soap opera, and M and I had a grand time watching our interns learn how to be residents and debating George’s love triangle (I'm for Izzy, M's for Callie). Who knew that George would be the stud of the show? Plus Two

W has no problem throwing billions and billions of dollars down the drain in Iraq but can’t bring himself to sign off on an extension of the S-CHIP program to cover uninsured children. Compassionate conservatism much? Minus Three

Avalon and Axis, two music/dancing venues that attracted drunken throngs of Boston’s music fans and club kids for decades, will be closing down to make way for a bigger music hall. Having spent a great deal of my misspent youth at Axis and a fair amount of my misspent adulthood checking out shows at Avalon, I feel a twinge of sadness. Minus One

One of the Jena Six students has been released on bail prior to his trial as a juvenile. Plus One

Total Plus: 13
Total Minus: 9

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +4

Last Week’s Total: -29

A Note about My (Lack of) Commenting: I’ve said this a couple of times, but I wanted all of you to know that my silence does not reflect my feelings for you. My place of employment has gone all Big Brother over internet usage, and I could get fired for blogging. Since I’m not much of a morning person, it’s either post or comment. So, sometimes I’ll post, sometimes I’ll comment. I will check out your blogs when I can, and please know that I still love each and every one of you.

Grey’s Anatomy Is Back!

2007-09-27T08:10:00.000-04:00

Warning to Irish fans: Contains “spoilers” from last season

Wow, it seems like only yesterday that my dearly departed (for the Promised Land of the West Coast) coworker Carissa, Friend M, and I gathered in M’s apartment for the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy.

What a blood bath! Burke leaves Christina, George’s love triangle came to a head and then the poor guy failed his board, Bailey fails to make chief resident, and McDreamy and Meredith appear to be “over, over, over.” Oh, and Alex realized too late that he loved Ava. And Meredith’s sister McSlutty turns out to be a new intern at Seattle Grace.

Now Burke’s gone, Addison’s gone, and Webber’s staying after McDreamy refused to take the chief job. Our favorite interns are now residents.

I’ve seen a couple of previews, but I have to admit that I’m at a loss for ideas as to what’s going to happen. Last season’s premiere required the plague and a dying baby to remind us that this is a “medical” drama. What will they need this time?

There’s really only one way to find out, and so tonight M and I will be sitting in my living room, possibly knitting (it is beastly hot out, so I don’t think I can bring myself to do it—maybe a condom cozy or something?) and heckling the TV. An evening of TV is just thing to help my convalescing liver after Tuesday night’s blog bonding.

Carissa, you will be missed.

Blog Friends and Beer: An Excellent Mix

2007-09-26T07:46:00.000-04:00

Now THAT was fun. Andraste, Fresh Hell, and I had a grand time over beers last night in Harvard Square. Fluff agrees.

Today, however, is going to be a long day.

I'm with the Folkie?

2007-09-25T07:57:00.000-04:00

I don’t normally pick up Stuff@Night, the “hip” little guide to Boston nightlife (the Dig’s Media Farm usually sums it up nicely), but I grabbed the “Welcome Back” issue on Saturday en route to Chinatown after I realized that I had somehow forgotten my book.

As I perused the contents, I spotted an article on thirty ways to shake up one’s nightlife routine. Being of the never-go-home-the-same-way-twice school of life, I decided to check it out. You can read the tips on how to get arrested and/or die of alcohol poisoning yourself, but I would like to focus on the advice for how to become a groupie for an evening.

Night 28: Become a groupie. Channel Kate Hudson and the Band-Aids in Almost Famous, then choose an up-and-coming local musician as the new object of your obsession. Arrive early to secure your front-row spot, and after the band’s set, flirt, schmooze, or buy your way backstage for a personal meet-and-greet with your new favorite. We suggest starting small at more intimate venues like the Paradise Lounge(969 Comm Ave, Boston, 617.562.8800), Johnny D’s (17 Holland Street, Somerville, 617.776.2004), or Club Passim [Ed: Click on the link] (47 Palmer Street, Cambridge, 617.492.7679); you’ll probably have more luck, and lesser-known artists will be more appreciative of your affection.

Now, I have nothing against getting up close and personal with the band. If that’s on your life-experience checklist, then go for it. As with risqué dancing in public, however, there is a place for everything. Somehow, I suspect that a venerable folk club where nary a word is spoken during a performance and where the strongest drink you are likely to get is a very virginal raspberry lemonade is not the best place unleash your inner Pamela Des Barres.

I realize that Stuff@Night probably did not intend to send its readers to the hospital after they binged on alcohol from brunch to dawn (see Night 17), and that many of these tips were given with toungue planted firmly in cheek. With this little gem, however, I wonder if Stuff@Night had other, more sinister, plans up its sleeve. I know that I for one would certainly pay good money to see befuddled folk musicians fending off throngs of tarted-up young things determined to seduce them.

At least, I hope that Stuff@Night is filming a comedy instead of just demonstrating complete and utter cluelessness.

In other local news, tonight Andraste, Fresh Hell, and I will be meeting up for drinks. Should be a great time.

And the Winner Is…

2007-09-24T07:56:00.000-04:00

My boss. For the most appallingly rude personal comment directed at me in years.

Here’s what happened. On Friday we received an outstanding résumé from a potential freelancer. It turned out that she had freelanced from us years about fifteen years ago and had since gotten her PhD. From the looks of things, she had not been able to find work in her field and was trying her hand again at freelancing. This is certainly common enough, and my boss, my coworker, and I were talking about the lack of work being a major deterrent to getting an advanced degree.

“I thought about getting a PhD after my master’s,” I said, “but I looked down that lonely road and saw years and years spent in my head, forming no real attachments and not having a real home, only to have to find a job outside the field. I decided that for me, it just wasn’t worth it.”

My boss looked at me and said sarcastically, “Well, you had all that time. Do you have any real attachments or a real home?”

Well, you know the answer to that one, Bitch. My life is completely meaningless, and I spend every night home alone with my fifty cats, eating ice cream out of the carton and plotting how to foil the neighborhood children.

I checked that reaction and used my schmoozer skills to take the “high road.” “Tell me when to stop,” I said, laughing and waving my fingers in the air. I then explained what I meant, which didn’t have anything to do at all with finding a man or buying a house but instead about living in a place and forming a community of my choosing. I didn’t love my subject enough to sacrifice the best years of my life for it—and that’s not to say that other people couldn’t decide to make those sacrifices and have it be the right decision for them. We joked for a few more moments, and then she went into her office.

And that’s when I started crying. I’d like to say that digs about my single life don’t hurt and that I’m just able to laugh them off, but they do. I know that I have a full life now, and I am enjoying it, but still. This isn’t my first pick. I really don’t need my boss’s judgment to remind me that it isn’t my first pick.

My young coworker, who was part of the conversation and was just as shocked as I was, offered a lot of support, and I managed to recover myself enough to enjoy my weekend anyway. In fact, I’m sure I had more fun. Single people get to go to parties and go off on their own adventures without any guilt whatsoever. Still, her words came to me this weekend, and I did think a lot about how this wasn't what I really wanted.

And now I have to go in today and face the winner of the prize for most appallingly rude personal comment directed at me in years. Wish me luck.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-09-21T07:40:00.000-04:00

Ah, how I cherish these last warm days before The End of Summer. One almost feels instant nostalgia for these last t-shirt days, when walking home after an evening out brings joy instead of the urge to flash the cabbie in order to make him stop and drive you away from the cold disaster of New England winter.

It is on one of these days that I sit here, beside an open window, tallying up the week’s Sassy Sundries (idea stolen from Boston's Weekly Dig). After I pound out this post, I’m going to forget why I’m happy, rather like my reaction after the first cold snap hits. Which should be any day now—we are all entirely too chipper in this part of the world.

Behold, the Sassy Sundries:

First things first. What the fuck is going on with the Red Sox? I mean, I know. I get it. I’ve lived here nearly all my life. I’m starting to fear that the curse was not reversed, but that instead we were allowed to finally win so that losing again would be that much more painful. I believe this and yet, like any true Sox fan, I still hope that our beloved team can pull it together and maintain their scant lead over Satan’s Minions for a few more days. Please! Minus Five

The Democrats in the Senate fail to restore Habeas Corpus rights after the Republican Senate voted last year to suspend them for “enemy combatants.” Joe Lieberman votes with the fascists, and Susan Collins of Maine shows why she’s still with the fascist party. Minus Five

The weather has been unbelievably lovely this week. It nearly takes the sting out of events of the world. And impending winter.Plus Three

Governor Deval Patrick comes out in favor of casino gambling in Massachusetts under the delusion that casinos will solve all financial woes. It’s not casino gambling that I have a problem with, as the Commonwealth already profits from lottery and Keno (available everywhere in my less-than-well-to-do neighborhood), and at least casinos require some travel and offer other entertainment. It’s that no one has the guts to say that running the government costs money and that taxes are required to fund it and then propose a tax structure that requires everyone, including the wealthy, to pay their fair share. Minus Five

OJ Simpson is in legal trouble again. The media eats it up, hoping for another gazillion-month show trial. Snore. Minus One

Reports of blatantly racist events in Jena, Louisiana, sound like they should be from another era. They’re not. The obvious motivation behind the charges against six black students reacting to nooses hung by white students from the “white tree” after a black student dared to sit under it only serves to expose the underlying racism that still plagues this country. Minus Ten

The Senate fails to pass a measure requiring that soldiers spend as much time at home as they do in Iraq or Afghanistan. Somehow supporting such a measure was cast as “anti-troop.” Although they know they don’t have the votes to pass it, Congress is taking up another measure to limit the war in Iraq. Frustrating. Minus Five

Total Plus: 3
Total Minus: 31

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -29

Last Week’s Total: +4

Out of the Mouths of Young Coworkers

2007-09-18T07:58:00.001-04:00

The other day, my young coworker announced that she had seen the strangest thing right outside our office.

“What was it?” I asked.

Full of breathy wonder my coworker proceeded to describe a bizarre anthropological phenomenon akin to a primitive religious ceremony, or the Monolith in 2001. “There was this truck, and it drove up really fast and parked in front of the building. A bunch of people gathered around it. And then! The silver flaps of the truck opened up, and there was food! And pizza! It was kind of like a miracle!” Her eyes dazzled as she contemplated the mystery of it all.

The miracle in question? The lunch truck that comes every day around noon. She’d never seen one before.

If you haven’t seen one before, the Miracle Truck (as it has come to be called) is something like an ice cream truck for adults. The Miracle Truck has all kinds of strange foods for sale, including Fluffernutter sandwiches and egg salad. We’re still trying to figure out why if Fluff is food, pizza is not. The pizza may or may not be a miraculous non-food, but for $1.25 a slice, it’s pretty damn good.

Ah, the joys of watching a young person learn about the working week.

On the Road to Creativity

2007-09-17T08:04:00.000-04:00

I first heard about Jack Kerouac in high school. It was the thirtieth anniversary of On the Road, not that my high school celebrated it. I don’t really want to talk about that, suffice it to say that fundamentalists ran my school. Still, they couldn’t escape it. The syncopated clickety clack jazz beat of drifters and poets smoking cigarettes and marijuana and having sex with girls they met on the road and (gasp!) men ran counter to the idyllic fifties my school portrayed as the last hurrah of family values before the terrifying plunge into promiscuity and drugs that was the sixties. This was the twentieth anniversary of the Summer of Love too, and our leaders attempted to indoctrinate us against the era from which they all sprung. They were Jesus People after all. Perhaps the road to freedom didn’t tempt my fellow sheltered classmates, but the pull of intellectual freedom, of Nietzsche’s quest to become who you are was irresistible to me. I picked up On the Road at the library, but my mother found it under my bed and took it away and it was years before I finally read the book. By then I’d become tired of the imitators, of the lazy attempts to replicate cool. All those anniversaries of freedom howls merely highlighted my own generation’s lack of creativity. All the cool jeans and tee shirts or the hippie skirts we wore to stake our claim to individuality made me wistful for a time when we would break free and be original. I made myself avoid the Beats as an attempt to keep myself pure, but eventually I broke down and read the damn book. By then I’d already taken to the road, and like Kerouac I’d come back home. I am still wistful for a time that doesn’t exist, when I will have a creative voice all my own and won’t sit here with at a computer with its muted clickety clack and have something original to say.

The Sassy Sundries Return! My Week in Review

2007-09-14T08:32:00.000-04:00

Friday has graced us with its presence again. The realization that today is Friday triggers a foggy recollection about a weekly tally of events personal, political, and nonsensical. This memory is a pleasant one, so I’m singing my Friday Song (sing along!) as I add up the week.

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

Call me Auntie Sassy. My sister’s pregnant! Very excited. Very relieved that it’s her and not me. Plus Ten

W gave a speech on Iraq (I fell asleep on the couch and missed it, but I caught the replay). He announced that he’s bring home 5,700 soldiers (before Christmas!), failing to note that it’s time for those soldiers to come home. Remember when this surge was supposed to last six months? That safe place in Anbar where the sheik who aligned himself with the US forces was killed in a roadside bomb? Oops. W also announced his intention to leave an American presence in Iraq through the end of his presidency. Big shock there. Minus Five

David Ortiz (Big Papi) hit his first walk-off homerun of the season. Joy ensues. This makes me very happy that I don’t give a rat’s patootie about football. Shame on those Patriots, eh? Plus Two

David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus gave his report to Congress. He recommended starting to “draw down” US forces (but not a “precipitous withdrawal”—that would be bad), and he hailed the Iraqi’s government failure to meet all but three of its benchmarks as a limited success. When asked by Republican Senator John Warner if the continued surge would keep America safe, he said that he hadn’t thought about it. Why are we there again?Minus Five

I took back my birthday. Woo hoo! Plus, Smokestack came down last weekend, and we had a grand time gallivanting around Cambridge. Plus Ten

Had a bit of post-birthday letdown and felt a little lonely Wednesday evening. Roommate kindly listened to me cry in my beer. I’m feeling better. Even

Total Plus: 14
Total Minus: 10

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +4

Last Time’s Total: +23

Boston Blog Friends: Let’s do this meetup thing. I’m thinking midweek drinks somewhere (preferably somewhere where Rich, our non-drinking Blog Friend, will feel comfortable). My week’s fairly open next week and the week after that, so perhaps we could organize something? I have a few watering holes, and I’m open to suggestions. I have an e-mail link in my profile. E-mail me if you’re interested, and we’ll plan this thing!

Take Back the Birthday a Success

2007-09-12T17:24:00.000-04:00

Take Back the Birthday went exceedingly well, if I do say so myself. A few friends, red wine (including a bottle of Irony Pinot Noir—I’m keeping that bottle forever), good cheeses and other sundries, music, and Apples to Apples (a kickass game) make for a wonderful midweek impromptu birthday celebration. Had Take Back the Birthday been on a weekend night, I probably would have gone for a blowout, but perhaps it was a good thing to wade back into being happy about having a birthday. Good times.

The only thing that gives me pause about the whole birthday thing is that I’m now officially in my mid-thirties. There’s nothing “early” about thirty-four. I have one more year of the snappy twenty-eight to thirty-four age bracket, and then the long, slow slide begins.

The thought of aging has always freaked me out. My mother caught me weeping on the porch when I was three, and when she asked me what was wrong, I cried, “I don’t want my little beedes to get big! I want to stay a kid forever!” (This is one of her favorite stories to tell about me. It gets laughs.) Time passed, and I got over my “beedes” getting big, but the essential Peter Pan feeling has remained with me. I loved being young. I loved all the possibility. The choices. Thinking about all those potential paths disappearing breaks my heart.

Still, though the thought of thirty-four freaks me out a bit, I don’t feel so bad today. Maybe I’m finally figuring out that most of our limits are those we place on ourselves. I don’t know. It’s something to think about. But first I'm going to go outside and play. It's beautiful out.

Happy Birthday to Me

2007-09-11T07:53:00.000-04:00

Today’s my birthday. For the last six years, I’ve felt guilty for having a birthday at all. The only thing I can say about having a birthday on September 11th is that everyone remembers it now. Not that it mattered. I have not observed my birthday on my birthday since 2001. Whatever celebrating I did took place apologetically on the 10th or the 12th.

Last year and 2002 were the worst days to have a September 11th birthday. On my twenty-ninth birthday, the ground felt haunted. No one smiled all day, and who could blame them. The surreal memories of that day overwhelmed evereyone. Hardly a good day to whoop it up. And last year, I felt like this.

Today, though the day is gray and cool, I feel like it’s my birthday. This day will always mark a terrible event, but it is also a good day. I’m having a few local friends over to celebrate (the whole Tuesday thing made it necessary for Smokestack to come down last weekend, and my intrepid friend and I always celebrate our Virgohood together). I’m looking forward to it.

It’s my birthday! Woo hoo! OK, it still feels weird to say that on September 11th. It is also starting to feel right.

Jedi Mind Trick

2007-09-10T07:19:00.000-04:00

David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus just keep saying his name David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus the surge isn’t working David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus we’re in the middle of a civil war David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus George W. Bush has no idea what he’s doing but he’s determined to keep doing it David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus those benchmarks haven’t been met but we’re going to keep fighting anyway David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus if they keep repeating David Petraeus David Petraeus Congress won’t do a thing David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus I had no idea Jedi Mind Tricks really worked David Petraeus David Petraeus David Petraeus

Sassy Sundry Advises

2007-09-08T08:40:00.000-04:00

I’d like to do my civic duty and offer some advice to those inspired to do the bump and grind from behind at live shows. You know who you are, and I hope you take this advice in the spirit in which it is intended.

1. Observe your surroundings. There’s a time and a place for risqué dancing in public. If, with the exception of the drunk blonde girls at the bar, the audience is doing the collective head bob and sway, take the cue and save the gyrating for later.

2. Listen to the music. Chipper indie pop doesn’t move most people to do the slow grind and breast grab (let alone the rabbit jumping done later). Maybe it moves you in such a way, but like a yen for picking one’s nose and eating it, it’s something best indulged in private.

3. If you are going to ignore points 1 and 2 and go for the clothes-on screw-from-behind anyway, have a sense of rhythm. And make sure you stop when the song stops.

4. Last, but not least for it being somewhat shallow, if you are going to dance like that at a 7 PM indie pop show, please look hot doing it. Honestly, watching two ugly people old enough to know better (and seemingly sober) “dance” like that made my friends and me throw up a little.

Heads

2007-09-05T07:29:00.000-04:00

For some reason, the opening scene of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead* came to mind when I spied these displays at the flea market.

“Heads”

*If you haven’t seen this one, you really must. Time was, you had to send away to the UK to get the DVD (which I did) or score a bootleg copy from Asia (which a friend did for me), but no more. Now it is available in the US, and so you have no excuse. Once you see it, you’ll see that my photos have absolutely nothing to do with the opening scene, except they do.

What Would a Super Demon Do?

2007-08-30T07:45:00.000-04:00

I have a question for you. If you were an eight-foot-tall Super Demon, and you accosted some poor soul on a deserted snowy street and could demand anything you wanted of that soul, what would you require?

This question arises from a proposal we received last week at the office. My coworker fielded a phone call from a prospective author who felt compelled to pitch the story of his encounter with such a demon (how one determine the difference between a regular demon and a Super Demon is an outstanding question we have yet to answer). This prospective author encountered the SD while walking home late at night after failing to heed a warning that should he continue walking that route, he would encounter something that would “truly frighten” him.

Our foolhardy correspondent continued down the street and had just turned toward home when the SD appeared in front of a supermarket (see the connection?). Terribly frightening in his visage, this SD sized up our correspondent before making his demand. In a sinister, raspy voice, the SD said,

“Give me a quarter!”

Luckily for our correspondent, he just happened to have a quarter on him. He out his change and delicately crossed the SD’s palm with silver.

And, without a word, the SD closed his hand, turned, and flew through the supermarket window without breaking it. Because, it seems, even Super Demons with the power to pass through windows need to pay for their gumballs.

The SD’s booty has my coworker and I puzzled. Why a quarter? Does this coin posses secret powers we aren’t aware of? Did the SD show mercy (unlikely, as demons don’t truck in grace)? Was the SD merely cheap? Are SDs somehow limited in what they can demand?

We don’t know, and so I thought I would ask you for help. So, if you were a SD, what would you demand and why?

In other proposal news, we recently received this atop a manuscript. The lowercase “me” breaks my heart.

Time Slips Away

2007-08-28T07:10:00.000-04:00

In the words of Willie Nelson, “ain’t it funny how times slips away.” Today Sassy Sundry Thoughts turns one. What a great experiment. I know I have not posted much lately, and I’ve commented even less, but I am enjoying this immensely. Thank you for reading. Thank you for posting. This is a blast.

OK. Time for an update about the time that slipped away from me. Some of the time has slipped away in delightful ways, but mostly I’ve just been drifting, adjusting, and trying to figure things out. Here’s what I’ve been up to since last time.

First things first. I met Devin! Oh, the lovely, lovely Devin. She flew into Boston to go horseback riding with her wonderful friend C and suggested a meet-up before her equestrian adventure. When faced with Krappy Koffee as the only option at the airport, she and C had another adventure—driving to Sullivan Square to meet me at the T. They did great.

Devin and C with Fluff on Da Orange Line

When I met Devin, it was meeting an old friend. Hugs and smiles all around. From Sullivan, we went to Newbury Street (ladies who brunch must brunch on the fashionable street). There was much catching up and establishing the “real” details of our lives over mimosas and Bloody Marys (Devin—“See. My drink comes with salad). The only weird thing was that it wasn’t weird at all to be sitting there chatting away with someone I’ve known only in cyberspace. Devin has inspired me in her blog, and she is even more inspiring in person. She’s also hilarious. We laughed a lot.

After brunch, we wandered among the beautiful people (and savaging their outfits—clear bra straps be damned!) and into the public garden before heading back to the T. If meeting blog friends will always be this much fun, I’m game. Bostonian bloggers, I suggest a meet-up somewhere.

Fluff with Devin and I

As I mentioned, life got a little strange on me. The evening after meeting Devin found me at a watering hole (not one in my immediate locale—so don’t think I was doing this at one of the bars I’ve described here), having a couple of drinks while reading my novel. “Excuse me,” this adorable young man said, “Would you mind if I joined you?” Well, we got to chatting, and we really hit it off, despite the TEN-year age difference (he was the beauty). One thing led to another, and well… (*sheepish grin*) At least we didn’t make a scene in the bar.

How does one not crack up when someone says sincerely, “Wow. You really have your life together” upon waking up hungover on a Monday morning after scandalously little sleep with a boy one picked up in a bar in one’s bed? I’m crediting the hangover. I don’t think I have it together at all, but I really needed the distraction.

It didn’t last long. No sooner had I finished giggling over the “Boytoy Incident” with friends that I heard from McI. He invited me to his next gig. Now I’m sure that he was just being nice and friendly, and in a way I’m glad that he invited me, but you know. Seeing his name in my inbox threw me for a loop. A very painful loop. I didn’t respond, which might not have been the best thing, and I didn’t go, which definitely was the best thing, but both were really hard. I would like to be his friend someday, but I just can’t right now.

More time has slipped away with a few entertaining online-dating prospects. None of them have the butterflies fluttering. I hate this phase. It, too, will slip away someday, and someone will excite me.

In other news, I’m really enjoying having a roommate. She also lives for brunch, and we’ve had a great time checking out new spots. Last week, we espied this sign after particularly filling meal.

We vowed to work out more.

Roommate also plugged in the cable, and we spent a very hot Friday evening on the couch sucked into reality television. America’s Next Top Model is strangely hilarious, and inexplicably addictive when presented in marathon format. Now that I’ve connected with my culture, I’ll be very content to remain ignorant of it for the next several years.

So that’s how my time has slipped away. The world goes on around me. Rove’s gone. Gonzales is gone. I’m nearly thirty four. And my blog is now one.

August's Worst Blogger Award Goes to Sassy Sundry

2007-08-15T22:40:00.000-04:00

OK, I know. I suck. I haven’t posted for an aeon. I loved, loved, LOVED meeting Devin. I had a blast with her and her dear friend C, and I want to recount the whole adventure, but I’m in a weird space this week. More to follow.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-08-10T07:25:00.000-04:00

Well, this week featured resolution for me. I’m afraid that I did not pay attention to much else (including all of your blogs—part of this is due to a major crackdown on web usage at work, but mostly it’s because I’ve been in my own head—I’ll be back soon).

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical:

McOver. I’m disappointed that things didn’t work out with us, but I’m relieved to finally have things resolved. At least I’m not seething with anger over how the breakup took place (McAsshole doesn’t hold a candle to McI in the class department). I’m glad that I had the time that I did with McI, and I learned a lot about what I want and what I don’t want in a relationship. My friends and blogpals have supported me, and my therapist is worth her weight in gold. I have no idea how to rate this

I had a fantastic day at the beach with my friend Smokestack. We’ve both been going through some things the last couple of years, and it’s been a while since we had an all-fun-all-the-time day together. I think we both needed it. We’re still laughing over THAT’S NOT HEALTHY! Plus Ten

While writing about habits that freak me out, I remembered the best billboard ever. A couple of years ago, my sister and I were driving into NYC with friends to go to an art opening (she had a piece displayed). All of the sudden we looked up and say a billboard with this on it:

We couldn’t stop laughing for days. Maybe I’m feeling punchy, but this thing still cracks me up. I need to laugh, so I’m giving it a Plus Five

The War’s still going on, and W’s still an idiot. How can he stand there and express confidence in the Iraqi government? How can he say that the safety of Americans traveling on the roads isn’t worth five cents a gallon? Minus Five

Barry Bonds breaks* Hank Aaron’s homerun record. Baseball wishes he’d just go away. I don’t like A-Rod at all, but I have to admit that I’m looking forward to his breaking Bonds’s record. Just so long as it isn’t against the Red Sox. Minus Two

I’m going to have brunch with the Hangar Queen on Sunday! Look for Fluff pictures soon. Plus Ten

Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 2

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +23 (not counting McOver)

Last Week’s Total: -9

Does Your Routine Freak Others Out?

2007-08-09T07:40:00.000-04:00

She slept in the exact same position every night. Flat on her back, arms crossed over her chest, my sophomore roommate looked like she was preparing for entombment. Her blankets never creased.

In the morning, she would lift off the blankets and fold them over, swing her legs around, and sit straight up, ala a vampire arising from the casket. She’d stay there for a few moments before standing up. Then she’d turn ninety degrees to the left and walk over to her dresser. Grabbing her comb like a vice, she’d comb the right side of her short hair twice and then comb the left. She’d then grab her towel, throw it over her shoulder, and walk out of the room to the showers. She never said a word.

It freaked the everloving shit out of me.

I thought of her while laughing my ass off during the opening scenes of Shawn of the Dead, when the good people of London slept through their waking lives, completely unaware that they were already zombies.

And I’ve thought of her again this week while observing the habits of a certain neighbor of mine. See, now that I have a roommate, if I want to have a morning cigarette (I know, I know, but it really is better for me to smoke than hit the bottle in the wake of my McOverness), I have to go downstairs and sit on the stoop (I feel like such a townie doing it, and it makes me laugh). Apparently, I’ve been going down at the same time every morning, because every morning, I see the same guy.

Every day, he emerges from his building, dressed in khakis and a solid-color short-sleeved oxford. He slings his black messenger bag over his shoulder just so. He steps onto the sidewalk, furrows his brow and walks a few paces before crossing the street at the exact same spot (just before the tree). He walks diagonally across the street, and when he reaches the middle of the street, he furrows his brow again and then reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. Checking the screen for important 6:30 AM messages, he then shakes his head and puts his phone back into his pocket as he steps up on the curb. He turns the corner smartly, and then he’s gone.

He freaks me out, too, and has me thinking that I need to shake up my habits a bit. What about you? Do you do something in the exact same way every day that might make someone think you’re a zombie? Does that thought disturb you?

Flying Golf Balls!

2007-08-07T08:00:00.000-04:00

Smokestack and I cracked up laughing over this sign spotted at the beach on Saturday while waiting for our snack from the vendor. “Somehow, I think flying golf balls might disrupt the dunes,” I mused aloud, giggling. Perhaps it was the vodka punch, but the picture still makes me laugh.

Nothing, however, could compare with the guffaws after we overheard a woman shouting, “THAT’S NOT HEALTHY! STOP THAT! THAT’S NOT HEALTHY!” while waiting in line for the bathroom. We opted for the other loo.

Just thought I’d share.

McOver

2007-08-06T08:15:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning I woke up, and I realized that I was happy. I’d had a date Friday night—not a good date (the guy was really, really good looking— there was just nothing there)—but a date all the same. Saturday I’d headed up to Portland and had a wonderful day at the beach with my old friend Smokestack. Thirty years of inside jokes came roaring out of us, and we were laughing like fools. I had all these plans with friends set for the week. I had no plans with McI, and it occurred to me that it really didn’t bother me.

My poor roommate’s plan of her Sunday at the beach fell through, and we went to brunch instead. After that I headed home and hung out in the backyard with the paper. Then I broke my moratorium on sequels again and went to see the new Bourne flick (I know, I know, but when The New Yorker gives an action flick a decent review, I figure it’s OK). On my way home, I tried to decide if I was going to let McI know that I was moving on or just let him go. I went with just letting him go.

This morning I woke up to a message from him saying that he just wasn’t in a space where a relationship with me was something he could do but that he had enjoyed our time together and that he’d be happy to hear from me sometime in the future. I messaged back saying much the same thing.

So, it’s over. I’m sad, and I’m cursing the Timing Gods, for timing was the real issue here, but I’m going to be OK. The parts of this relationship that were good were really good, but I deserve something that is all good. It's hard to remain optimistic when I have to keep picking up the pieces of myself, but I'm a survivor because I have hope.

I’m probably going to be offline for a bit, but I will try to get back to commenting form soon.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week(ish) in Review

2007-08-03T08:01:00.000-04:00

Happy hazy, hot, and humid Friday! Summer finally made a comeback here on the East Coast. Not only that, but the heat’s going to last through the weekend, so I’ll be hitting the beach. Only eight hours of work to go.

Well, it’s that time again. Time for me to give my numerical tally of events transpiring over the last seven days. This time, however, I’m going to cheat and haul a few dusty items off the shelves of time. I’ve stolen this idea from the Weekly Dig’s Bean Counter column. The Dig finally got their new site up and running. I haven’t looked through it too much, but I’m a little disconcerted about the “User Login” at the top of the page. We shall see.

OK, shut up, Sassy, and start assigning points. Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

I now have a roommate. After the chaos of moving in (and a good therapy appointment), things have settled down. Although I would have preferred to live alone, it is really nice to have someone around to talk to. Plus Five

A bridge collapses in Minneapolis, killing at least five. A steam pipe explodes in Manhattan. Minneapolis and Manhattan join Boston for failed engineering projects. But none of these cities touch Japan, what with that little nuclear plant accident and all. Geeks are weeping. Minus Five

Tammy Faye has begun her mascara sales campaign in the afterlife. Angels and demons wage war over who has to take her, as she weeps tears of black tar. At least we don’t have to deal with her anymore. Even

I have a date tonight with a new guy. I’m pulling a Dive on remaining mum on the whole McI situation. As he says, it’s complicated. Think of the date as heart insurance. Even

W has maintained that he can do whatever he wants because he has Executive Privilege. Alberto Gonzales, our man in the Halls of Justice, lies on the stand. Congress seems powerless to stop them. Another couple of weeks in government. I have to say I miss the days when the most exciting thing going on in politics was a debate over whether or not blow jobs constitute sex. Minus Ten

Things have gotten all 1984 at the place of employment. Minus Two

Fare thee well, Igmar Bergman. Thank you for living and for making so many incredible films. Even

People in Blogland think I’m pretty. Good thing I didn’t post that other one. Plus Three

Total Plus: 8
Total Minus: 17

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -9

Last Time’s Total: -1

Kate's Blogville Challenge (via Dive)

2007-08-02T08:00:00.000-04:00

So Dive took up Kate’s challenge and thought that we should post pictures of ourselves to make a fake Photoshop image of the denizens of Blogland.

I’ve resisted posting pictures of myself on this thing, wishing to keep my anonymity, but what the hell. Here I am. Rocking you like a hurricane with Fluff in the background.

Happy, Dive?

Haze

2007-07-31T07:08:00.000-04:00

Through the morning haze I could see the sun. I stared at it for a long time through the clouds, a white disc, almost like a full moon against the trees. Eventually the filtered light made me look away. A pink and purple remainder followed my gaze around the neighborhood. When I looked back, the sun had disappeared.

I'm Alive

2007-07-24T08:08:00.001-04:00

Sigh… Don’t you just love it when life takes over everything? I’ll be back when my head’s a little clearer.

In Other Words: Reveal Your Belly

2007-07-18T12:40:00.000-04:00

I’d like to hand it to Underware, purveyor of fonts, for jazzing up the font purchasing experience. Also, a towel.

My Mind’s on Random: Thoughts Pinging through My Poor Brain (UPDATED)

2007-07-17T19:18:00.000-04:00

I have to pay my parking ticket or my registration’s going to be revoked. I think of this almost every day, and still I don’t seem to do it.
I have something in common with Barack Obama. Turns out when he was a student at Harvard, he lived in Somerville and had a number of unpaid parking tickets. He just paid his, and I just paid mine.

Yesterday I started crying when I got ready for work. I really didn’t want to go.
I’m taking Prudence’s advice and taking a couple of days off.

Today is David Hasselhoff’s birthday. KIT got him a Speedo. Also, a ticket to Japan.
Today is not David Hasselhoff’s birthday. It is a better day.

I looked up my birthday on IMDb too. I share a birthday with one Ugo Bologna.
I also share a birthday with Kristy McNichol. Ain't I cool?

“My Favourite Book” is my favorite song on In Our Bedroom after the War, the latest release from Stars. I feel a bit guilty about downloading it from iTunes months before it’s available on CD. It doesn’t give retailers much of a chance in this ever-shrinking music business. What will this world come to, I wonder.
B***** in Tokyo is another beauty. I got a snazzy speaker set up for my iPod, so now my downloaded music is no longer confined to little ear buds.

Why did I take so long to pick up The Wind Up Bird Chronicle? Talk about addictive reading.
What is going on with this guy? He’s having psychic sex and hanging out in the bottom of a well with a portal to a hotel? I want whatever drugs he’s taking.

I finally went to an IKEA store. It was completely overwhelming. I’ve never seen so many shovey people jockeying for Swedish meatballs in my life.
The flies on the wall were laughing their arses off watching me attempt to assemble my clothes rack. I felt like a high school boy—If I just shove it a little harder, this thing will get in there!

There’s a ton of my useless crap in my future roommate’s room, and I have to get it out of the room by Friday. Ordinarily I wouldn’t balk at such a task, but since the last time I schlepped stuff up and down stairs, I couldn’t walk for a month, I’m not eager to try it again.
It’s out of her room and all over the apartment. Hence, the days off.

I’m sick of being an adult. I want summer vacation.
Unchanged. Will probably remain unchanged for the rest of my life.

Fifteen more minutes, and I get to go home.
Sigh… More than that.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-07-13T07:11:00.000-04:00

Ah, Summer. Hours, minutes, drift by, and it seems as though we have all the time in the world. I’m rather surprised to discover that Friday is already upon us.

It is, I guess, and so here are the Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical:

About a quarter-mile up the street from me, people wake up to find a dead body wrapped in a sheet. Police have revealed few details. Freaky. Minus Three

Summer weather. The really hot stuff didn’t last that long, but it’s still been lovely. Plus Two

Sometimes I find myself envying W’s rose-colored glasses. If he has not had someone enchant them for him, I want the address of the company that makes them. How else can he stand up and say that the damning progress report on his surge means that things are looking up? It’s got to be the glasses. I don’t think Congress has the wherewithal to rip them off him, but the House did pass a bill calling for troops to be out of Iraq by April 2008. Minus Five

Speaking of envy, I want me some executive privilege (actually, what I’d really like is some vice presidential privilege—that’s some amazing stuff). I want to be able to defy Congress, break the law (not backing up official e-mails), and get away with it. Bush tells former White House aide Sara Taylor not to testify, and Harriet Miers doesn’t even show up. Congress might hold Miers in contempt, but they don’t seem to have the follow-through to stop the White House. Minus Five

I had a number of adventures this week, with friends and alone. I’m really enjoying this whole urban experiment. Plus Ten

Oh. I have a new roommate. She’s a friend of mine, and she’ll be moving in at the end of the month. I’m a little nervous about living with someone again after so many years on my own, but mostly I’m excited. I think it will be fun. Plus Five

Testimony from the former US Surgeon General reveals the extent of White House tampering with scientific judgment for political purposes. Ted Kennedy introduces a bill to make the position more independent. The new nominee once wrote a paper calling male homosexuality a pathology and unnatural. He might toe the line a bit more. This whole country is going down the tubes. Minus Five

Lady Bird Johnson died. Her husband’s disastrous involvement in Vietnam has all but obscured his domestic achievements (Voting Rights Act, anyone?), but I’d like to say that I admire her stance against segregation and her work to get the country to give a hoot and not pollute. Even

Total Plus: 17
Total Minus: 18

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -1

Last Week’s Total: +6

UPDATE: I knew I should have done this later. Two Buck Chuck, the crappy Chardonnay available at Trader Joe's won a prize for best California Chardonnay. Wine snobs everywhere are groaning. I think the week is now in positive territory, don't you?

Dinner Theater

2007-07-11T08:53:00.000-04:00

On my way home from work yesterday evening, I decided to go out to dinner. Nothing I could think of to cook sounded all that exciting to me, and I felt up for little exploring. I began to mull over my options.

Chinatown? I thought and quickly dismissed it. I’ve hung out there quite a bit, sampling a lot of the Vietnamese offerings there (as a vegetarian, Chinese food can be a little tricky—if you want a laugh, check out Andraste’s cautionary tale).

Oh, I could try a new Thai place and check out a different part of the city. That sounded tempting, and I decided that’s what I would do as I turned the corner onto Broadway and toward home. That was when I saw Fasika’s Ethiopian Restaurant again. I have not had a lot of Ethiopian food, but what I’ve had I’ve loved. Oh god, it is tasty stuff. When I noticed Fasika’s during my move, I was so excited. That was before I peeked inside.

East Somerville has loads of character, and some wonderful eating options (Taco Loco makes some kickass burritos, and the restaurant in the back of Vinny’s Superette is amazing). It also features a slew of dive bars—the kind that have drunk people outside smoking at ten in the morning, staring at their losing Keno tickets. Fasika’s Ethiopian Restaurant is attached to one such bar.

When I first got here, I had decided to try Fasika’s but turned around and walked out when I saw all the drunk people and the Keno sign. Last night, however, I felt adventurous enough to brave it. Why the hell not? I thought. So I went.

I walked into the restaurant side, checked out the tacky décor, and smiled. A young Ethiopian woman smiled at me and told me to sit where I’d like. I sat at one of the mesobs, and she handed me a menu. A divider partially blocked the view of the bar, where a number of late-middle-aged white people were knocking back Budweiser drafts and providing loud commentary on the evening news. Over the divider, I could see the bartender, sporting a teased, bleach-blonde do, serving her patrons without once changing her facial expression.

I turned to the menu, which had a vegetarian section with lots of tempting options. A lentil dish and a vegetable curry caught my eye, and I decided to ask the server what she recommended. The menu also listed a number of Ethiopian wines, and so I decided to try one of those. When she came to take my order, she recommended the curry but promised to include a bit of the lentil dish for me to try. She suggested the honey wine for the food, so I went with that.

My wine arrived in a little bottle resembling an oil cruet (but without the spout), and the server explained that this was the traditional glass (I don’t think I’d had wine the few times I’d had Ethiopian food). “Great,” I said, and took a sip. The wine tasted different from the mead I’d had before but was no less delicious. I had just settled in with my glass when a song blared out of the juke box in the bar. It was some classic rock song I didn’t recognize (and considering that I grew up in New Hampshire, land of classic rock lovers, that is saying something). The fat guy who played it certainly did. The bar was suddenly transformed into his living room, and he started singing at the top of his lungs.

Then he started banging on the bar for emphasis.

Now I’ve seen this kind of thing before (and, have probably done something similar in my youth), but I’ve never seen so many people take it in stride. There was this guy, shouting to the music and banging on the bar, and nobody reacted. They just kicked back their beers and continued to watch the TV.

The song ended and my food arrived. I tore off some of the bread and dove into the curry. Yeah, that’s some really good food. True to her word, the server had made sure that there were some lentils on my plate, and I sopped some up with more bread. She was right—the curry was better, but I wouldn’t have been disappointed in the lentils. I ate happily, enjoying my adventure.

About half-way through my meal, a group of four white yuppies peeked in the restaurant side, observed the bar scene, and boldly decided to try it too. They sat down at the mesob next to me, and laughed at their intrepidness. The server brought them menus, and they started going over their options.

“I told you,” one of the women said, “This place is attached to a divey bar, but I keep hearing that the food is good.” The other woman turned to look at me eating, and I said to her, “The food IS really good.”

“What an atmosphere,” one of the men said, laughing.

“Oh, you missed the drunken singing.”

“No! Maybe it’ll happen again.”

“One can only hope,” I replied laughing.

The couples ordered as I finished my dinner. I had a little of the wine left, so I sipped it while I waited for the check.

And that was when the Bon Jovi came on. The guy started up again, screaming and banging about being wanted dead or alive. Howling, the couples stood up for a better view. I did, too. Once again, the bar patrons didn’t bat an eye.

“Dinner theater,” one of the men proclaimed, nodding.

“You can say that again,” I said. Another Bon Jovi hit came on, and the guy kept going.

“Did you like Bon Jovi?” One of the women asked me.

“Oh, for about two weeks in seventh grade,” I replied.

She sighed. “I liked them for longer than that. I had a poster.”

The check came, I paid up, and, bidding goodbye to the giggling yuppies, left for home.

Summer

2007-07-09T19:49:00.000-04:00

Yesterday afternoon found me sitting in a window seat at the North End’s Caffé Graffiti, enjoying a Campari and soda after a day of wandering about in the sultry heat. I was casually reading my book on Buddhism in America, but mostly I just stared out the window at the people walking by. My “artist” friend was out on the street, and he stared at me like he knew me for a bit before he rode off on his bicycle. Oh well. He wouldn’t have approved of my choice of reading material anyway.

Although I had dressed for the weather in a tank top and loose skirt, the muggy afternoon did its sweaty work. My skirt clung to my legs. Other caffé patrons fanned themselves, and people walked around outside dazed by the sun stupids. Ah, I thought, sipping my drink, Summer.

Summer comes to me in moments, moments where my present fuses with all of those Summer moments of the past. It’s a lazy and shocking realization, if that makes sense.

My most powerful Summer moment, and the one that I was suddenly in, happened in time six or seven years ago while swimming in a lake in New Hampshire.

After a night out at a Portsmouth bar, listening to a band and dancing, my friends and I had driven out in my best friend’s convertible to friends’ place—an old summer camp transformed into a sort-of commune—to go skinny dipping at the lake. We often wound up there on hot summer nights.

Among the usual group, we had a guy with us, a guy my best friend had a crush on. He’d asked me to dance with him at the bar, and I had, thinking that he would dance with all the women. He hadn’t; I think I was the only one he’d asked. Although he was originally from the area, he lived in Chile most of the year, leading mountaineering groups in the Andes. This exotic adventurous spirit combined with his intense brown eyes made us all a little bit in love with him, but friendship is friendship, and my friend had met him first. The rest of us just joked with him in the car and smiled knowingly at our friend.

Heart’s Dreamboat Annie blared in her car stereo, and we sang along badly at the top of our lungs into the hot late-July night on the half-hour drive out to the lake. Upon arrival, we piled out of the car and tromped loudly down to the beach where we proceeded to strip. Most of us did this matter-of-factly (skinny dipping was nothing in this group), but my best friend had been a little shy, and that was when I remembered the guy with us. I mischievously wondered if something would happen with him and my friend.

Laughing, we all ran and dove into the water. That summer had been hot, and, even at night, the lake was just barely cooler than the air. I dove under the water and came up to see a fire cracker explode in the moonlit sky from a camp across the lake. Grinning, I swam out toward the middle of the small lake as another one went off. About fifty yards from shore, I stopped swimming and turned on my back, looking out toward the opposite shore and letting my feet rise above the surface. I could hear my friends, splashing and laughing near the beach, but around me, everything was still.

I heard someone coming, and I turned around to see the guy. I stayed where I was, treading water. He swam toward me until he was a foot or so away and stopped. “Hi,” he said.

“Hey,” I answered. He was staring at me, smiling.

I stared back.

We stayed like that, treading water and staring at each other, and in that moment, it was Summer. We had always been like that, swimming close together and naked on a hot summer night, and we always would be. Neither of us spoke and we made no move to touch each other. We just smiled and stared at each other, both of us experiencing Summer.

My best friend called out, trying to locate everyone. I remembered her crush, and looking away from the guy, I started swimming toward shore.

I didn’t see him again that summer or the next one when he was home. Later on, I heard that he’d moved back to the States and had gotten married. And now he’s dead. He’d been living out West and had hurdled to the Earth in a hang-gliding accident. My friend e-mailed me to tell me the news. She’d asked me if I remembered him, that guy she’d had a little thing for a few years back. I replied that yes, I remembered him. I didn’t tell her that part of me is sharing Summer with him, swimming naked in a lake on a hot July night.

Just as quickly as I was in that moment, Summer passed. A marching band started playing on the next block, and a crowd of people carrying at statue of the Virgin Mary stopped by each restaurant and caffé, demanding money. People clapped, showered the Madonna with cash, and had a fine old time. Just as they passed Caffé Graffiti, the wind picked up and the sky darkened. In another instant, rain began to fall. I finished my drink and walked out into the street, breathing in the metallic rain.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-07-06T15:41:00.000-04:00

Phew! That was a week. Well, it’s time to return to the Sassy Sundries, my on-again, off-again weekly tally of events personal, political, and nonsensical. It’s a stolen idea, and I’d point you to the Dig’s web site, but they are going all Office Space on it right now. One hopes that the new incarnation will load faster and bear no resemblance to their ghastly new glossy covers.

Without further ado, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

WTF!!?? W, who as governor of Texas wouldn’t commute the death sentence of a man whose public defender SLEPT through his trial, and who supported the execution of the mentally retarded, and in some cases, the innocent (exculpatory evidence be damned!) thinks that a few years in the clink for a guy who lied about a matter of, I don’t know, national security, is too much? I wish that the brazenness of this Administration still shocked me, but it doesn’t. Minus Five

It’s W’s birthday today—an insult to good Cancer folk everywhere. The New Yorker has several illustrations for your enjoyment. I remember hearing somewhere that Morrissey sends the Queen dead vegetables on her birthday. Perhaps we need a similar tradition here. In any event, I’d like to wish W a very unhappy birthday. Minus Two

Anyone who has been reading this bloggy thing knows that my personal life has been one big, scary rollercoaster of late. I’m hanging on. You all have my gratitude for your support. Even for situation/Plus Ten for friendship

It looks like Rupert Murdoch will get his hands on the Wall Street Journal. The paper’s conservative editorial page is about to go fascist. Aren’t free-market conservatives supposed to resist monopolies? Here’s to hoping that something will intervene to stop the deal. Minus Four

BBC reporter Alan Johnson freed. World rejoices. Plus Five

It’s been twenty years since the Beastie Boys released License to Ill. I don’t think I can stay awake until Brooklyn anymore. But I’m still crafty. Even

OK, this is overdue, but the Roberts Court ended its disastrous first term, overturning precedent after precedent with Orwellian glee (racial integration is racist!). W has a legacy after all. Help us. Minus Five

Attempted suicide bombings in the UK set everyone on edge. Minus Five

Fourth of July a bit of a snoozeroo with the miserable weather and all. The big excitement came from being able to watch the Boston fireworks in bed. Plus Two

Thought I lost my all-time favorite travel mug. I found it sitting on the kitchen table and laughing at me. Not having to give up my attachment fills me with relief, but I have much to think about with new mantras from blog pals. Plus Ten

Total Plus: 27
Total Minus: 21
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: + 6

Last Time’s Total: + 18

Zen and the Art of Letting Go of Travel Mugs

2007-07-05T12:31:00.000-04:00

UPDATE: Oh hurrah! Oh joy! I found my mug! Phew. I really wasn't feeling all that Zen.

Rainy, sticky, bleak sadness—today feels just like a Monday (sorry, Dive, not all of us carry a Freak Flag for Mondays). Even worse, because I’m convinced that I lost my favorite travel mug to stupidity. Part of me holds out hope that I just left my mug on the kitchen table, but deep down I’m certain that I left my faithful friend on the roof of my car and drove off without it. My efforts to be Zen about this and realize that attachment to material possessions leads to suffering have me rolling my eyes at myself. Gimme my damn mug back, Universe!

If I have indeed lost my dear mug, it will be the end of an era for me. In my rant about Starbucks (see earlier link), I shared that my travel mug came from Coffee Connection, the late, mourned Boston coffee roaster taken over by Starbucks in the early 90s. I’d never really held onto a travel mug before, but I kept that one as a symbol of my resolve to resist the McDonaldization of coffee. Until coffee permeated its plastic pores, I used the mug for everything from coffee to booze to water to life itself. That mug was my appendage as a graduate student—people rarely saw me without it. Even my inspirational Nietzsche mug failed to displace its prominence in my life. That mug traveled with me to Montana and came home with me again. I’ve taken the mug to rock shows, anti-globalization rallies, and peace vigils. It made the transition from backpack to brief case, allowing me to start my work morning with something other than bland, flavorless, inorganic colored water. Although Fluff has accompanied me on my exotic travels, my travel mug has been my faithful friend through the drudgery of day-to-day life.

Over the years, the Coffee Connection logo faded from washing, and the handle for the lid chipped off. The lid has scratch marks galore, and I prefer to ignore those studies about the linings of travel mugs as terrariums for unknown life forms. Ugly as it became, my mug is my friend. Its heft and feel are as familiar to me as my own hand. And so although I know that I shouldn’t form attachments to material things, I have a very strong attachment to my travel mug. I want it back. I want to go home and find it sitting on my kitchen table, laughing at me. Or, at least find it, unharmed, close to where I parked my car. Alas, I fear I may have to accept that I finally lost it, find a new mug, and start a new chapter.

Anyone know any good mantras?

The Talk

2007-07-02T08:20:00.001-04:00

At long last, McI and I had our overdue conversation. It went much better than I had expected. Things came to a head on Friday, when he didn’t bother to contact me to cancel tentative plans. He’d never done that before, and so I sent him a text telling him that we needed to talk (meaning whatever it is people who aren’t a couple do to “break up”).

I heard back from him, with an apology, saying that he needed to go hide and that he understood that the writing was on the wall. We wound up texting into the wee hours of the morning about where and when we’d meet and settled on the Charles St. T Saturday morning. I got about two hours of sleep, and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes (I know, I know, but given my self-destructive tendencies when I’m hurt, my choices were getting hammered or smoking, and I chose having a clearer head).

Throughout the night, I tried to figure out what I might say. I settled on being honest, and telling him how I felt and what I wanted—and what I didn’t want. I’ve never really done that before, and I was going to regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t tell him. As best as I could, I prepared myself for hearing the likely truth that we didn’t want the same things. I resolved to remain calm, not to cry, and not to attack. I wasn’t going to be Little Sassy Schmoozer, but I was going to employ some of her communication skills. The Little One sets people at ease, and allows for people to respond calmly (and honestly), not defensively. I needed her.

That morning before we met was one of the longer mornings of my life. How do you really prepare yourself to say goodbye to someone you love and want to be with? How do you prepare to do it without reading rejection as a reflection on you and your worth? Although I have learned to value myself on my own, I think perhaps that meeting with McArtsyPants couldn’t have been more timely. Someone who’d dated me and treated me less-than well had just expressed regret that he hadn’t recognized what he’d had when he had it. That gave me some external strength, and I needed it.

I walked to the T a little early, preparing myself along the way. I looked at my watch and told myself that it would all be over in an hour. I just needed to get through this hour. I hadn’t really talked to myself like that since I took my Master’s exam. Like the exam, it would be OK. I’d live, even if I didn’t “pass” this one (I passed my exam with flying colors, even though I was convinced I’d flunk).

The train arrived and deposited me at Downtown Crossing. Just as I’d sat down to wait for the Red Line, in walked McI. We laughed at our punctuality, and he sat beside me. “Come here often?” I joked. We had an easy chat, interrupted at times by uncomfortable silences. We got on the train, and I learned why he had wanted to hide. His life isn’t for broadcast on this blog, but I will say that I would have run home to hide myself. But that doesn’t make it OK.

We got off at Charles St. and walked to the Esplanade. I’d thought that it would make a good spot to chat. Pretty, public enough to discourage a scene, and with plenty of exits. We chatted as we walked along before sitting down on a bench. I took a deep breath and started.

“I really like you, McI,” I said (OK, I didn’t say “love,” but Little Sassy Schmoozer knows how not to freak people out). “I’d really like to keep dating you. But I can’t have you blowing me off, even for good reasons, and I don’t like the way I’ve often wondered if you’d just disappeared. You’ve always had good reasons for doing this kind of stuff, which is why I’ve been understanding, but I can’t do it anymore. It hurts. I need to know if you still want to know me.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry,” and he proceeded to tell me how he felt. We’re not in the same place, but he doesn’t want me out of his life. I learned a little more about why he’s been hesitant about getting more involved with me—things that have nothing to do with me. Things that in time could be resolved (like I said, his life isn’t for broadcast, so although this part of the story is incomplete, you’ll have to trust me that it wasn’t hopeless). I asked him if he thought that he could be better about communicating with me.

“Definitely,” he said without hesitation.

We talked some more, and we left it that we’d work on getting to know each other better. We agreed that there’s something there with us that would be sad to lose. It was really nice to hear that he likes me, and not matter what happens to with us romantically, he’d hate to lose my friendship. That might sound strange, but I’ve often struggled with feelings that I’m not worth knowing and that guys only want me for sex. That’s not to say that we didn’t talk about that—we laughed when we talked about how good other aspects of our relationship are. In general the conversation was calm, honest, and kind. The setting provided ample opportunity for diversions when things got a bit uncomfortable.

For now we’re both free to date other people. I know this sounds weird, but that’s fine with me. He’s a busy guy, and I’ve wanted a little more company. I like knowing that I can have some without feeling like I’m sneaking around. He also knows that I’m not going to wait forever and that I’m going to live my life. We’ll see what happens, but things are no longer on his terms exclusively.

“Well,” I sighed. “THAT was somewhat unpleasant. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I know you weren’t looking forward to this conversation.”

“Yeah, I know. These things are never fun, but we needed to do it, and I’m glad you said something.”

All in all, we talked for about an hour, and then we parted company with a hug. “I’ll be in touch, and I won’t disappear,” he said, smiling. He went his way, and I went to the North End for a coffee.

I’m proud of myself. I was able to say what I wanted and to express what I didn’t want honestly and in a way that didn’t put him on the defensive. I found out where we stand, and I realized that things weren’t as dark as I’d thought. He agreed to communicate with me more, and ultimately, this was what I really wanted. And the thing is, even if he doesn’t follow through with that, and even if things don’t (and there’s every possibility that they won’t) work out with us, it won’t be because I didn’t say anything. I don’t have to live with that regret.

This concludes the blogging I’m doing about my dating life for a while. Things are fucked up enough in this world these days that a good ol’ political rant is in order soon.

A Surprising Evening

2007-06-29T08:36:00.000-04:00

“So, I’m dying to know,” I said, fiddling with the lemon twist atop my summer ale, “What on Earth made you call me?”

McArtsyPants and I had met up at a fun little bar and grill in Central Square and had slipped into the old silliness, making circle patterns with our beer glasses on the soapstone tables and giggling. He was clearly very happy to see me, and we’d been exchanging updates from the last year or so of our lives, when I posed my question.

“I’m not sure if it was anything on Earth,” he said, giving me a half-kidding look. McAP can be a little spiritual sometimes, but he’s also quite the kidder. I went with that.

“So what alien life form told you that you had to call me?”

At first, he appeared ready to come up with a humorous answer to that question, but then his face turned serious. “You came into my head one day, and I wanted to get in touch with you. I always really liked you, and, I don’t know, the timing was off for me. I wound up getting back together with my ex for a bit after I was with you. I realized that I’d been a jerk to you, because I didn’t know what I wanted. So I went and found the e-mail where you gave me your phone number and decided to get in touch with you.”

This surprised me. I’ve often wondered if my exes ever thought about me, particularly the ones who jerked me around a lot, unsure of what they wanted from me. Did they regret letting me go? Did they feel badly about how they’d behaved? Did they just think of me and smile? McAP, it seems, had.

From the look on his face, it was clear that he had a glimmer of hope that I’d take him back, and I didn’t want to encourage that. “You were a bit of a jerk to me,” I said. “But I got over it and moved on, and honestly, I’ve always thought of you fondly. I knew you meant well, really. It was just one of those things.”

Our food arrived, and we ate and chatted about other things, bands, how hot it was outside, various other topics. After dinner, we decided to take a walk along the Charles. He talked about his new car, where he was hoping to live, and I talked about my move and the view from the river. We laughed a lot, but there was no spark, at least from me.

We stopped about a half-mile down the path and looked at the Red Line train cross the bridge against the lights of the John Hancock and the Pru. I thought about how romantic the spot could be, if only I was there with someone else. It had occurred to me that perhaps I would see McAP and, despite my better judgment, want to be with him again, but I didn’t. It was over, and while I was happy to be with him in that moment and happy to hear that he still thought about me, I didn’t want to go back.

McAP walked me back to the train, and gave me his old look that said he wanted to kiss me, but I just said, “It was great to see you again, McAP. Thanks for getting in touch.” He hugged me and said he’d call again. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.

Unlike CraigslistGuy, I didn’t cry when I got home from our date. I felt better. Meeting up with McAP gave me outside confirmation that I am worthy of good treatment. It’s given me something to think about.

Quandary

2007-06-27T07:16:00.000-04:00

Yes, the confusement will pass. And it will be replaced by a quandary.

On Saturday, I had plans to get together with McArtsyPants. In addition making a Craigslist date, I’d also contacted McAP, figuring that he would make a nice no-strings distraction for the weekend. Saturday morning had me feeling rather poorly, but with coffee and a shower (and OK, a few cigarettes—for the stress of it all), I rallied and was prepared to see McAP.

I wasn’t thrilled, but I figured that it was better than sitting at home. Plus, if I went through with my scheduled outing with Mc(m)I(a) on Sunday, the date with McAP would see me achieve the Dating Trifecta. The Trifecta is three dates (no scams—“friend dates”), with three different guys, in three days (or less). This has been a long-standing goal of my intrepid friend and I, but since I’m a date-one-guy-at-a-time kind of gal, I’ve rarely come close. The last time was last spring, the weekend of my first date with McAsshole. Come to think of it, I think my third date was supposed to be McAP.

Well, McAP called Saturday around noon and wanted to know if I wanted to go on a boat ride with him. Now I said I’d rallied. I didn’t say that I was prepared to be tossed about on the open seas. Nor was I prepared to be trapped with McAP and his friends. I tried to talk him out of the boat ride and into lunch, but he really wanted to go, so we agreed to see each other during the week.

Honestly, it was for the best. My rally didn’t last all that long. I spent most of the day milling around my neighborhood’s community-building block party (=one really good band+ mediocre food+ entirely too many little girls dancing like call girls [that was disturbing]) and then went to bed.

Sunday saw me in a much better frame of mind. My emotions are very strong, overpoweringly so, but they are short-lived. I can deal with turmoil for only so long, and then it just doesn’t seem so important anymore. It can be a problem, because it’s not as though I deal with why I was so upset, I just stop caring about it. Healthy or no, I still felt relieved. My head was clear, and I felt lighter. That’s not to say that I was happy, but I felt like I was going to be OK, no matter what happened. McI got in touch with me around one, and we made arrangements to meet that evening. It was a beautiful day, and I headed into the North End to sit at a caffé for a while.

I had just settled in with a Campari and soda and my book (Oracle Night, by Paul Auster) to enjoy the lovely weather when an artist came in. I say “artist” because he was wearing black clothes spattered with different colors of paint, and he did not appear to be the type to mess around with walls. Definitely a hot ticket, even if he was getting on in years, when he moved across the room and women’s eyes followed. He sat down next to his friends at the table next to me, and I looked down at my book lightning fast.

Alas, not fast enough. I could feel him looking me over, and I tried not to notice. God knows why, but the song “Car Wash” came on just then. The artist started clapping along with the beginning, and then I saw an arm snaking into my field of vision. I looked up to find him staring at me intently, far more intently than the “Car Wash” should inspire. He then started dancing, daring me to join him. So I did. I think I shocked him. His dare turned into a grin and we did a few moves, and I took a bow before going back to my book. He laughed.

“How come you’re reading? How can you read with this music on?” His accent was Italian.

“I’m literate, and I have amazing powers of concentration,” I replied.

His eyebrows arched, and he grinned wickedly. “Why? I like my women illiterate.” He was kidding, sure, but there was an undercurrent of disapproval in his voice.

“Good luck with that,” I said, taking a sip of my drink and winking at him. I read a bit longer, and then it was time to meet McI.

I had no idea what to make of this meeting. We were getting together to hang out and then check out a movie. I didn’t know if I would talk to him or not. I didn’t know if it was worth it to talk to him or not. Like I said, the storm had passed.

We met up, kissed, exchanged pleasantries, and proceeded to have a fine time. I found out why he hadn’t called. I’m not OK with it, and I’m still going out with McArtsyPants, but if I had McI’s communication skills, I wouldn’t have called me either. In fact, even with my communication skills, I might not have called me. If there ever was an excuse to disappear, he had it. That doesn't mean that I'm cool with it.

I think he sensed this, because I’ve heard from him since, and he suggested getting together this week. He wanted to know if Thursday would work, and I let him know that I had plans, so we might do tonight, and we might do the weekend. I checked my online dating messages last night. There’s no one out there I really want to date right now, but I’ve decided that until I talk to McI that I’m dating “tapas style” (thanks, Andraste).

So I’m still in a bit of a quandary where all of this is concerned, but at least I’m not bogged down by confusement.

"Confusement"

2007-06-25T22:20:00.000-04:00

Some years back, I had my palm read by an old Indian woman who lived a dingy flight up in New York’s Chinatown. My intrepid friend and I saw the sign and decided that we had to check it out, if for no other reason than to say that we had our palms read by an old Indian woman who lived a dingy flight up in New York’s Chinatown.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

We also were in need of some guidance in the love arena, and we hoped that our palms would reveal something. So up the smelly stairs we went. We knocked on the door and were let in by a young girl who called out for her grandmother. Other children were eating in the kitchen, and a woman was standing over the stove. The whole place smelled like an earthy curry. Out came the friendly—yet decidedly mysterious—old woman, and she promptly ushered us into a little hallway, decorated ornately with draped lamps and Indian cushions.

“It is ten for fifteen minutes, OK?” and she took my hand.

Aside from her flatly stating one eerily specific, alarmingly accurate, thing about my life that she would have had no way of knowing or guessing (seriously—my friend and I are both skeptics, and our mouths dropped open when she said it), the only thing I really remember is a word she used, confusement. “Ah,” she’d say, “I see some confusement here. You need to make a decision.” “This confusement will resolve itself in time.”

My friend and I were both very taken with the term, and we’ve since used it to describe tricky romantic situations. Well, I have to say that I have confusement up the whazoo. I’m feeling better than I did about everything on Saturday, but that could just be because my hangover disappeared. Who’s to say?

So most of the day on Friday, I sat around and got madder and madder at McI for not calling me. I was absolutely convinced that he’d just split and that I would never hear from him again. However Zen I may have been on Thursday, I was anti-Zen on Friday. I cried as I got ready for my date with CraigslistGuy and then I got mad. Fuck it, I said to myself, I’m going out with this guy, and I’m going to have a good time. Someday this is all going to hurt a lot less, but let’s just focus on getting through tonight. I made myself presentable, and waltzed out the door.

En route to the T, I got a text message from McI. He’d had a terrible week, hoped I was doing well, and wanted to see if I’d get together with him on Sunday. Perhaps it was weakness on my part that I didn’t say no, but I didn’t. And I was happy. Of course, I was also on my way to meet a guy I didn’t want to meet for a date I didn’t want to have.

Too late to back out now, I thought as I headed to the bar. The guy was late, and I thought about leaving, but I didn’t. When he showed up, I realized that he was just what the doctor ordered—cute but not too cute, and while appealing, not someone I was going to fall for. Perfect for an evening out on the town.

He joined me at the bar, and we proceeded to talk and drink. And drink and talk. The conversation was easy, nothing too interesting, as we didn’t have much in common, but interesting enough. There was a certain attraction. The time came, and we headed over to the show.

Listening to the National is like that last sip between tipsy and drunk. The world is clear and hazy, full of hope and impending sadness. Matt Berninger's baritone lulls you, tempts you, makes you think that something might be OK, even when you know it won’t be. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always translate well in a live set. The band’s amazing, all of them incredibly talented, especially the drummer, but I’m in it for the voice. And I couldn’t really hear it.

Still, the show proved to be very good, and on a whim, I kissed Craigslist guy. It was nice. He asked me about the chances of it happening again, and I told him rather good. When the show was over, he got us backstage, and we met a couple of the band members. I didn’t say much, and we left soon afterwards for his place. In the cab, I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him, and he said that was fine. We’d just hang out.

“So,” he said, while we were drinking water in his kitchen, “why did you have an extra ticket? You obviously aren’t available.”

I grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’m really not. I was mad at someone, and so I posted the ticket instead of asking him.”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am, but I really don’t think it’s going to happen. We haven’t made any promises or anything, so it’s not even like I’m cheating on him.”

“OK,” he said. And with that, we went to bed. We fooled around a bit, but in the middle of it, all I could think about was McI, and so I stopped. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“That’s OK. I know how you feel. I’ve done the same thing.”

When we woke up early the next morning, we were both still a bit tipsy, so we hung out for a bit to collect our wits. We talked about his ex, my situation, we laughed ruefully over our fates. He found me a bus, gave me a hug, and I left.

I laughed to myself on the bus. I must have been a fright. I didn’t have my brush with me, and I’m sure I didn’t smell all that nice. I’m getting a bit old for the bus ride of shame, I mused. Oh well. I’ll live.

As soon as I got home, I started to sob. I knew what I wanted. I knew that it was unlikely that I was going to get it. I felt confusement. I smiled. The confusement would resolve itself in time, I supposed.

More to come…

Craigslist Date: A Recipe

2007-06-23T10:46:00.000-04:00

Mix:

1 Part Feeling Pissed Off at Certain Someone
1 Part Moxie (the nerves kind—not the drink)
1 Part Killer Band
1 Part Willing Guy
1 Part Hearing from Certain Someone Right before Date
Several Parts Alcohol
1 Part Getting Backstage after Show
1 Part Cab Ride
1 Part Honest Discussion of Why Date Is Taking Place
1 Part Fooling Around (not THAT)
1 Part Amusing Discussion this Morning
1 Part Getting Home
1 Part Hearing from Guy to Make Sure I Got Home (he really is very sweet)
1 Part Realizing that I Am in Love with Certain Someone and Not Wanting It to End
10 Parts Feeling Incredibly Guilty and Like I Made a Huge Mistake
1 Part Not Feeling Guilty
1 Part Crying Jag
1 Part Giggle

Shake and Serve. Might cause confusion.

How Not to Respond to a Personals Ad

2007-06-22T10:03:00.000-04:00

There’s a first time for everything. Yesterday I posted a personals ad on Craigslist. It wasn’t a big deal—I just said that I had an extra ticket to see The National for tonight and that if a guy was interested in seeing a show with a smart, cute, and funny woman to e-mail me through the site. I didn’t post a picture, and I made no mention of hanky panky.

Turns out that the first guy to answer the ad was the winner. His response was direct, just flirty enough, and expressed an interest in the band. He seems sane (we spoke on the phone) and decent, and he has a sense of humor and adventure. Oh, and he’s cute, which, let’s face it, if you’re going to date your way through a messy situation, is essential. I can’t really see wanting to date him on a regular basis, but he’ll do nicely for tonight.

A few of the responses I received were just sick and wrong. One guy complimented my tits—I really don’t like the idea of psychics using Craigslist. Another guy said that he didn’t like the band but thought that we’d be a perfect match. And then, there was this guy:

I'm a con-man. I seduce rich women out of their fortunes. I love my work, and the hours are good, so my friends would describe me as laid-back.

Are you the smart, beautiful woman with great taste that I will partner up with? We both have to think quick and cover our sociopathic tendencies?

Be sharp in every way -- I'm picky. And I deal in face-to-face scams so you must include a picture.

He posted a picture. Here’s the thing, straight men. This kind of crap doesn’t work on any woman with half a brain cell in her head, but if you are going to try it, do be devastatingly handsome.

My First Setup

2007-06-19T08:58:00.000-04:00

Poor Dive. His well-meaning relations and friends keep trying to set him up with ugly, American-fat women with “lovely personalities,” and he wishes that they would just stop. His tale of woe reminded me of the first time someone tried to marry me off. It happened when I was barely fifteen.

My mother had a friend named Katherine. Katherine was from the Old Country, and she loved me. She would go on and on about my hair and how beautiful it was. Once for a school project I interviewed her and her husband on tape about how they escaped the Nazis and then the Soviets in Poland before they came to America. In the middle of the interview, she cried, “You haf beauuuuutiful hair. You washen?” When I had to play the tape for the class, pandemonium ensued. Everyone asked me if I washed my hair on a daily basis for the rest of the year.

Well, since I was so beautiful, Katherine was absolutely horrified when she learned that my mother had not yet arranged a marriage for me. Not wanting me to become a spinster (good thing she’s passed on—she’d be horrified to know that I’m still single), she had decided to take matters into her own hands. First, she invited me over to give me cooking lessons. Under her gruff tutelage, I learned to make tea cakes and other niceties for the table. I liked to bake, so these lessons were fun for me. “You haf tu cook to pleaze a man!” she’d say. I giggled, thinking to myself that I had tu cook to pleaze my belly.

Satisfied that I had the proper skills, she decided to start making inquiries (without telling my mother—or me—of course). When she had found an eligible man, she called my mother and asked her to send me to her house for coffee. I tromped on up the hill to her house, and when I got there, I noticed that she’d gotten out the good china and had set a table for two. “Oh! Are we having fancy coffee, Katherine?” I asked. Katherine smiled.

There was a knock on the door, and in walked a man in his late fifties, dressed in a suit and tie. He was also Polish, and he smiled at me approvingly. “Sit! Sit!” Katherine barked at me. I sat. So did the man. Katherine poured the coffee and set out the cakes. “She isth very good cook!” Katherine told the man.

“I didn’t make these,” I explained to the man. After Katherine had set us up, she left for the kitchen. This is weird, I thought, but didn’t make much of it. Apparently she wanted me to have coffee with the guy. Maybe he wanted to talk about college. We had a little chat, drank our coffee, and ate the cakes. The man kept smiling at me in a very strange way, but I just chatted away.

The snack done, I told Katherine that I had to go. “I have dancing lessons in an hour,” I explained. “See!” She said to the man, “She danz. She talented!” The man smiled again, and I said goodbye and tromped back down the hill to my house.

No sooner had I arrived home when the phone rang. My mother answered. It was Katherine. My mother listened to what she had to say, shot me a very quizzical look, and sternly explained to Katherine that she didn’t think it was a good idea. I could hear Katherine saying, “But they talken! They laughen! It ist a good match!” My mom’s face started to wrinkle and she was starting to laugh, but she kept her voice firm. “No, Katherine. I don’t think that she’s ready for that” and hung up the phone. Then she collapsed into peals of laughter.

“Katherine tried to set you up with a geezer!” She gasped. “That man! That man you met wants to marry you! You’re fifteen!” She barely got the words out.

“What????” I said. “Eeeew. She wanted me to marry him? He’s older than Daddy!” I felt funny.

My mom continued to laugh, “Oh my!” she’d say, wiping her eyes. “Oh dear! Oh hee hee hee!”

Katherine, on the other hand, thought my mother was insane and didn’t recover quickly from the slight. My mother decided that I wasn’t to go to Katherine’s without supervision. Eventually, however, Katherine tried again. This time she called my mother.

“I haf another man for yur daughter. He tall. He smart, he handsome, he young. He going to be doktor.”

“No, Katherine,” my mother said gently. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I know you mean well, but we don’t do things like that here.” And with that, Katherine gave up.

Katherine died when I was in college, and I couldn’t make it home for the funeral. My mother called me afterwards, very apologetic. “Oh, Honey. I think I blew it. You know that last guy Katherine wanted to set you up with? Well, I met him. He was young, tall, and handsome. He is in medical school. He’s really nice. He also has a girlfriend. I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should have listened to her.”

Oh well. I guess I shouldn’t complain about being single.

A Different Approach to Family Weddings

2007-06-18T07:13:00.000-04:00

Friday morning I looked at what I wrote about going to a family wedding, wrinkled my nose, and thought, That doesn’t sound like someone who has spent thousands of dollars on therapy.

My family’s judgment and pity, no matter how well-intentioned it might be, is indeed hostile, but I don’t have to buy into it. Upon reflection, I realized that I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of for being single. In fact, I’ve enjoyed many experiences and opportunities that most of them have not, precisely because I have not had a husband and children to think about. So why should I give into to their belief that my life has been a meaningless preamble to that time when a man takes me off their hands?

I decided that instead of dreading the wedding and their questions that I was going to hold my head up high and show them that there is more than one acceptable way to live one’s life.

Since I had taken the day off, I had the morning and a good bit of the afternoon to myself. I headed into town, and wandered around the North End, stopping for a cappuccino at my favorite caffé. While there, I surreptitiously spied on a table of old men playing cards and speaking Italian and resolved to get back to my Italian studies in order to hone my multilingual eavesdropping skills. After a leisurely stay at the caffé, I popped into an Italian grocer and procured some bread and cheeses before going to Haymarket for some produce and heading home.

Once home, I assembled a plate of bread, cheeses, olives, fava bean pods, and a little pool of a little pool of acacia honey; poured myself a glass of wine; and went out to the patio for a divine repast. I chuckled to myself at the thought of pulling off a day like this with a red-blooded, American husband.

Then it was time to get ready, and I surveyed my closet. My original plan was to wear any old thing and to look, well, nice. That would not do with my new plan. I was going to make sure that when my family said things like, Sassy, you’re so pretty why has no one scooped you up? they were going to mean it.

Aha! Here’s the thing! I had recently picked up a dress appropriate for a moderately fancy occasion, like a really good dinner, or say, a wedding. This dress also happens to show off my tits and assets in a most becoming way. Perfect. I got ready for this wedding like I get ready for a date. When I was done, I looked in the mirror, shot myself a devilish little smile, and headed out the door.

It is most helpful for one’s confidence when a young man flirts with one for twenty miles in stop-and-go traffic, while one listens to lively music and pretends that one is not noticing that a guy ten years one’s junior keeps checking one out. Thank you, young man, you helped me out immensely.

I got to the church just as the ceremony started (bad traffic, you know?), so I didn’t have to meander about, encountering family with nothing better to do than to grill me about my single status. I sat next to my parents, and my mother said, My God, Sassy, you look so beautiful! She always says stuff like that, but as other family members noticed that I had decided to join them, they all mouthed, You look great! Heh. I did.

The wedding started, and we sat down, stood up, kneeled down, and whatever doo-dah is involved in Catholic weddings (this is a renegade scion of our Protestant family), and Presto-Chango! my cousin’s son (big age differences in the family—Cousin’s Son might be young, but not that young, as Cousin is in his late forties) became a married man.

After the ceremony, we milled outside to socialize. This was when I brought out Little Sassy Schmoozer to my advantage. Instead of mumbling some excuse as to why my life was so pathetic that I hadn’t managed to snag a man, I charmed the pants off of all of them, telling them about my exciting life. Oh, I’m living in the city now, and I’ve been traveling and doing all sorts of exciting things, Relative BusyBody. And, Auntie Homophobe, while I would be proud to be a lesbian if I happened to be one, I am in fact dating a great guy at the moment and having a grand time. Instead of pity, I got admiration from my impressed relatives.

My sister, brother-in-law, and I rode with my uncle in his restored Model A to the reception (Sister and Brother-in-Law rode in the rumble seat), waving at everyone like we were in a parade. The reception wound up being a lot of fun, and my sister and I learned that one of my aunts can still cut a rug like you wouldn’t believe, so the three of us showed our stuff on the dance floor. I talked to almost everyone, and actually enjoyed myself. I didn’t think that my cousin’s children remembered me, but apparently I was always known as the cool older cousin, and they were delighted to see me. Heh. The youngins’ think I’m cool. And that’s because I am.

So that’s how I survived the family wedding. I think I’ll try it again at the next function. Beats the hell out of swilling cheap booze and trying to be invisible.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-06-15T07:49:00.000-04:00

Ah… A Friday off. Of course, it’s for a family wedding, which means one thing for this single woman in her thirties.

With that in mind, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (WARNING: Grey’s news ahead):

Today I will be Bridget Jones, my spinsterhood on display as a cautionary tale. Everyone will ask me (or worse, my mother) what happened. You are such a pretty girl, Sassy. Why has no one scooped you up? (Answer: Why, RandomBusybodyRelative, that would put a real dent in my orgy schedule, now wouldn’t it?) I’m sure I’ll hear Lesbian staged whispered more than once (Answer: Oh, Auntie Homophobe, we’re in Massachusetts. If I were a lesbian, my sweet, loving wife would be right here at my side in this Catholic church! ) Someone is almost certain to try to fix me up.Sassy, I have a young man I’d like you to meet. Well, he isn’t so young anymore, and he’s fat and doesn’t have all of his own teeth, but he isn’t afraid of a single, educated working girl like you. Why don’t I introduce you? (Answer: Well, there is no answer. I’ll probably wind up meeting the feller and smiling wanly at his jokes in the name of politeness.) While I wish that everyone would just leave me alone, I suppose all this concern is my family’s way of saying that they love me and want to see me happy. Sigh… Minus Three

Speaking of Auntie Homophobe, she’s pissed, and I’m pleased as punch. The Massachusetts legislature refused to put discrimination to a vote. Gay marriage will stand in Massachusetts for the foreseeable future. Deval Patrick actually did something right in getting behind this fight. Plus Five

James K. Seale, a former member of the KKK, was convicted in the 1964 murder of two black teenagers. He got to live almost his entire life as a free man, but justice has finally been served in this Civil Rights era case. Plus Four

Realized that I have better options now than I did when I was dating McArtsyPants. Plus Five

Republicans in the Senate rally to support an Attorney General who takes advantage of the sick and possibly dying to reauthorize an illegal wire-tapping program. Yeah, they are the party of morals. Disgusting. Minus Two

I had a fantastic weekend last weekend. Great date, great visit from a friend, creepy conversation with Lawnmoah Man, what more can anyone ask for? Plus Ten

It’s looking more and more like Scooter Libby will really go to the clink. Too bad he needs a pardon from W to avoid it. If it were up to the Republicans in Congress, he’d probably get it. Plus Two

Bye, bye, Dr. Burke. Isaiah Washington’s big mouth and volatile temper get him canned from Grey’s. It’s not exactly shocking news, but there it is. I can’t say as I’m sorry. He did cajole Christina into getting her eyebrows removed, only to jilt her at the altar. Even

The Red Sox are in a slump. Still, they are 7.5 games ahead of the evil Yankees. Minus Two

Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 7

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +18

Last Week’s Total: -4

Six O’clock Already…

2007-06-11T16:43:00.000-04:00

I was just in the middle of a dream, I thought when the alarm went off this morning. OK, well, it was more like, Shut up! Stupid thing! No one likes you! followed by a slam, but hey, that’s not the point. The point is that I had a lovely weekend, and I was sad that it was over.

My date with McIntriguing on Friday went great, as always. The little black dress was a definite hit. As for the jazz, however, it was a bit of a mixed bag. While there were some very nice moments, the five players seemed a bit too much at odds with each other. It was hard not to giggle after we both observed that one of the saxophone players bore a strong resemblance to a dirty pigeon and that a woman in the audience was wearing a hat that demanded twinkling Christmas lights. We left during the second set and headed to a funky local bar for gin and tonics and conversation. Somehow (not intentionally, honest), we wound up talking around the issue of relationships. Although we weren’t talking about whatever it is we’re doing, we did have similar ideas about how things should go. An interesting conversation, that.

Saturday afternoon my friend Smokestack (an old nickname, and I suppose for fairness’ sake, I should say that my nickname at the time was Chimney) graced me with her presence, and we spent the afternoon and evening gallivanting around Boston. The weather wasn’t overly cooperative, but we managed just fine. She crashed at my place that night, and we went to brunch and did a little more shopping before she left to head back to Portland in the afternoon. It was great to see her.

After Smokestack left, I was feeling a bit sleepy, so I took to the backyard with my book and a glass of wine to hang out on the patio. Someone, I assumed the landlord, had cut the grass that morning. While I was relaxing in the sunshine, my neighbor, the Lawnmoah Man (see this post if you don’t know who he is), went down the stairs to his backyard.

In looking back on that previous post, I realized that I had neglected to mention how I met Lawnmoah Man. I had mentioned a while back that I had gone to Casey’s during the Week of Wrecked Plans and that I had fended off the advances of a man who couldn’t pronounce the title of my book but drunkenly claimed to be fascinated by cultural anthropology. Well, that was Lawnmoah Man. That evening, Lawnmoah Man was very, very drunk. He made me a little nervous (he’s a big guy, with a shaved head and a lot of tattoos), but I let him chat me up for a bit. That is until he said, “Well, yer kinda cute, Sassy. Whatcha doin’ latah?” which prompted me to say, “I have to go now. Bye,” and leave. I felt a bit bad about responding that way, but given his condition, I was worried about how he’d react to being turned down. I’ve since learned that he’s basically a nice and harmless, if a little dim, man. But he’s still not my cup of tea.

A boy of about ten soon joined Lawnmoah Man in the backyard, calling LM “Dad.” They were playing with a remote-control car. Lawnmoah Man sauntered over to the fence and said hello. “I mowed yer lawn this mornin’,” he said, beaming.

“That was you?” I said, surprised. “I assumed it was my landlord. Well, thank you. That was nice of you.” Please go away now, I was thinking, along with, Oh shit. Why would he mow my lawn? We chatted for a couple of seconds, and his son called out to him to see what he was doing with the car.

Phew, I thought, and went back to my book.

There was a little commotion near our fence, and I saw Lawnmoah Man with the controls of the car, trying to get through a little gap in the fence. He eventually got the car through, and it headed down the little path, through a bush, and landed at my feet. Oh double shit! What is going on here? I mean, come on, he saw me with McI that time. What is he doing?

“Heh, heh. I just wanted to see if it would work,” Lawnmoah Man said. “How are ya doin’?”

“I’m fine, I said. It looks as though it did work, didn’t it?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just sat there, looking down at the freshly mown grass.

He said a few more things, and then got the car out of my yard. I went back to my book and the sunshine. After the sun went down, I went back upstairs. Smokestack called me to let me know that she got home OK, and we chuckled about Lawnmoah Man. I then listened to some music, and went to sleep.

And now I'm at the end of another Manic Monday.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-06-08T10:46:00.000-04:00

Time keeps going faster and faster, it seems. Here we are at another Friday, and a beautiful one at that. The sun is shining, flowers are in bloom, and it’s time to tally up the week’s events. What a mindfuck of a week it’s been, too. Overall, I’m in a fine mood, but when W is unleashed on the world, it’s time to be scared. Oh, that and Oprah and Paris Hilton.

Behold, the week’s Sassy Sundries:

Oprah picked Middlesex for her book club. What the hell? Why, why, why does she have to go and ruin every good book? It’s bad enough that you can’t get a copy of The Virgin Suicides without a picture of Kirsten Dunst on it, but now we have to have the dreaded “O” business on the cover of Middlesex? Why couldn’t Jeffrey Eugenides be like Jonathan Franzen and tell Oprah to stick it where the sun don’t shine? Gah! Minus Five

Have hot date tonight with McI. The fashion gods smiled upon me, and I found the sexiest little black dress for an evening of jazz and… No, Dive. No pictures. Plus Ten

Scooter Libby gets 2.5 years in the slammer for lying about the leak in the Valerie Plame case. Now we just need to get Rove and Cheney behind bars. Plus Five

Speaking of prison, Paris Hilton took up residence in her new digs and then decided that she didn’t like clink. And guess what? They let her out! The LA Sheriff allowed the repeat drunk driver out of jail for a “medical problem.” I hope the law takes pity on the poor kid arrested with a joint, but somehow I doubt it. It’s not like they let Martha Stewart out because her uniform clashed with her towel. Makes me sick, I tell you. Minus Ten
Update: She's going back to the slammer. Poor thing cried. Hee hee.

Have potential new career as a private eye. Will begin scouring stores at once for 30s noir dresses, and will come up with new hair style. Can anyone tell me how to sound like Lauren Bacall? Craigslist is fun. Plus Two

My parents saw the new bachelorette pad, and my mother didn’t make one condescending comment. Plus Three

George W. Bush blows hot air about global warming. What can you expect from an oil man? I’m glad he got a tummy ache. Too bad he didn’t barf all over some world leader like his old man did. Minus Ten

My friend Smokestack is coming to visit me tomorrow afternoon. A grand time shall be had. Plus Five

What the hell is going on with the rhetoric between Bush and Putin? Are we back to the Cold War or something? Note to George: Using the word “hyperventilating” to describe a touchy situation isn’t very diplomatic. Please don’t get me nuked. I’d really like to live to see thirty-four. Minus Five

Things are looking up on the roommate front. I have two possible candidates who would do just fine. Plus Four

Have potential stalker problem on my hands, in the form of Neighbor’s ex-boyfriend. Minus Three

Total Plus: 29
Total Minus: 33
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -4

Last Week’s Total: +14

More Fun with Craigslist

2007-06-05T08:49:00.000-04:00

This time around, my roommate search on Craigslist seems to be going better. I have two people coming to see the apartment this week, and both of them seem like they would make good roommates. I have received a couple of crazy responses, like the one from a fifty-seven-year old woman currently residing in a hostel. She'd like to have "friends" over. Overall, however, things are looking better, and so I’ve had to seek out Craigslist entertainment from other sources.

Instead of perusing the personals, this time I’ve checked out the employment ads. The following are from the “writing/editing” section.

Private Eyes—They’re Watching You
Established private investigative agency seeking full time or part time Admin Assistant to proof and edit reports, provide support to field investigators etc. Position can have flex hours, and opportunity for advancement in investigations and related job descriptions. Fun and interesting enviroment.

Can you just imagine the reports that I would proofread for this outfit? Skullduggery galore. I’d get to edit reports drawn up for husbands, convinced that the lady of the house is no lady. Or, those created for desperate wives, seeking proof that their husbands are off banging the secretary. I wonder if they’d let me edit the photo captions? “Subject, in throes of passion with secretary. Note the hickey on her left breast.”

Perhaps I’d even get to edit reports on corporate malfeasance. I wonder if they work for the Mob (the Post Office, perhaps)? A fun and interesting “enviroment” indeed.

I’m a Blogger—I Know Hip
HerFabLife is the Internet's newest lifestyle community for young urban women who are interested in the latest fashion styles, newest restaurants, nightlife, stores, and events in and around where they live. These young urban women want to be in the know of the hippest styles to wear, trendiest restaurants, bars, events to go to with their friends.

We're looking for a few freelance writers who can contribute on a weekly basis to the editorial success of HerFabLife. The target audience is young urban women between 18-25 year old who resides in a major metropolitan area. The topic of interest that you're writing must be relevant to this target audience. This position is ideal for part-time/freelance writers, bloggers, stay at home moms, students, working professionals who want to earn extra pocket money. Please browse around the site before applying so that you get a sense of who we’re trying to target.

I checked out the site, and I think I’m going to apply for the job. I know when the next Harry Potter movie is coming out. I know when H&M has sales. Justin Timberlake may have already graced us with our presence, but I think I can come up with a few other pop stars to titillate this young, fab woman. I might not be a stay-at-home mom, but I am a blogger. Trendy is my middle name. I wonder if they’d be interested in private investigative pieces.

This Blog May Be Moving

2007-06-02T08:46:00.001-04:00

I am toying with the idea of moving this bloggy thingy over to Wordpress. If anyone using Wordpress has any advice and would be willing to share it with me, I'd be very appreciative.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-06-01T12:30:00.000-04:00

Well here we are again—another lovely Friday. It’s time once again for me to tally up the events of my week. If you’ve never checked out Boston’s Weekly Dig before, you should. There’s a link on my sidebar. I’ve copied their Bean Counter column.

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

It was forty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play. This was one of my favorite records as a little girl. I scratched it beyond recognition, having learned how to use the record player almost before I could walk. I would stare at the cover for hours, making up names for all the famous people on the cover (I always knew who John, Paul, George, and Ringo were, though). Enjoy the show! Plus Five

Amazing weather (for once) on a long holiday weekend. Emerged on Tuesday relaxed and happy, instead of bleary eyed and pukey. Plus Four

May marks one of the deadliest months in Iraq. The administration keeps saying the name “David Petraeus” over and over again in an attempt to pull a Jedi mind trick over on the American people. Minus Five

I miss having Grey’s to look forward to on Thursdays. Perhaps I’ll start going to the Institute of Contemporary Art’s free evenings instead. Even

In the news of the truly bizarre, the Creation Museum has opened to throngs of illiterate fundamentalists. In this museum, dinosaurs (all vegetarians!) are shown cavorting about with Adam and Eve, both celebrating their creation on the sixth day. The Grand Canyon? Formed by Noah’s flood. Science? The work of Satan. Minus Three

My effing leg’s on the mend. Last night I went to dinner in Chinatown and had me a fun walk about before picking up a book of Alice Munro stories and heading home. I realized on the way home that it wasn’t hurting me to walk. I smiled. Plus Ten

Video of kidnapped BBC reporter Alan Johnston surfaces. The video was undated, and there has been no other sign of him since he was kidnapped in Gaza, but this is something.Plus Three

Feeling better about the whole McI situation. I’m pleased with myself for waiting for the right moment to have “the chat.” Plus Three

Idiot boards planes with a virulent, drug-resistant form of tuberculosis, endangering the lives of hundreds. I don’t know about you, but his pleas for forgiveness would be falling on my deaf ears, had he been sitting next to me. Minus Three

Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 11

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +14

Last Week’s Total: -5

Contraband!

2007-05-30T07:19:00.000-04:00

Every now and again, we get some fascinating mail where I work. Yesterday, we received a missive exhorting us to sue the Department of Homeland Security for $500,000,000. For the warrantless wiretapping program? Nope. For abuses under the Patriot Act? Hardly. No, Homeland Security deserves to be slapped with a lawsuit because they have outlawed “regular can openers.”

Look! I have contraband! Soon the G-men will bust into my apartment, riffle through my kitchen drawers, and arrest me for possession of a regular can opener. I will be hauled before Congress to confess my crimes and turn in my neighbors. Then they will leave me to rot in a secret CIA prison. “But I just needed to open some cans!” I’ll cry hoarsely from my cell, as I scratch out the days and years I’ve been in the cell.

I gotta sign onto that lawsuit. I need to open cans.

Enquiring Minds Want to Know

2007-05-29T06:59:00.000-04:00

Rod Stewart may tell us that “tonight’s the night,” but there are other proverbs, too. A particularly wise sage told us that “timing is everything.” And well… Friday was just not the right time for my chat with McI.

He’d had a very rough week and kept talking about how nice it was to just hang out outside and enjoy himself with me. One look at him told me that he couldn’t handle yet another thing on his mind at that particular moment. Attempting “the chat” would have been an exercise in bad timing.

He’d made a real effort to make time to be with me (he had to work this past weekend—criminal on such a wonderful holiday weekend). That effort spoke volumes, and I decided that was enough. Instead we had a long, wandering conversation about various and sundry things while reveling in the summer weather.

We also met some of my more interesting Somervillian neighbors (I love how “Somerville” is pronounced “Soumervle” by natives—it sounds like they have a mouth full of rocks), enjoying their backyards too. One philosophically interesting phrase that made McI and I laugh really hard after the guy went inside—“I’m a lawnmoah” (I wanted to photograph the stocky man, his fat head shaved, and caption it, “Ceci n’est pas un lawnmoah”).

Then went upstairs to watch a movie (before we got a wee bit distracted). It was a great date.

Part of me still thinks that I just chickened out, but a much larger part of me realizes that I did the right thing. One of the reasons why I can be such a good schmoozer is because I read people well. Friday night, I read a guy who just wanted to relax with someone he likes to be with. So relax we did. I’d really rather broach the subject sometime when we’re both relaxed and happy and when we aren’t distracted by big issues in life.

So that’s what happened. Your good vibes were felt, and perhaps they also helped me to see the wisdom in picking the right moment.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-05-25T12:03:00.000-04:00

Happy Friday! It’s a holiday weekend here, and I’m off soon to frolic in the hot sunny weather. Before I do that, I thought that I’d bestow upon you my review of the week.

Behold! The Sassy Sundries:

Thirty years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Star Wars debuted in US theaters. Ah, the memories of light saber tag with flashlights in the backyard… Star Wars is the first movie I remember seeing in the theater. I went running down the aisle at the end of the movie to have a chat with Luke Skywalker. Although the prequels nearly ruined the original trilogy for me (if you want to read a hilarious, if slightly blasphemous review of the last Star Wars movie, check out this old New Yorker review), I still have a deep and abiding love for Star Wars. On this day, May the Force Be with You. Plus Five

So the American people elected a Democratic majority to Congress to express their displeasure with the Iraq War. Initially the Democrats flexed their muscles and voted for timetables. But when the president, his approval ratings in the proverbial toilet, stamps his feet and demands that he be given supreme authority, Congress caves. I’m disgusted. Minus Five

Got together with a friend from the Week of Wrecked plans, and it was fun. Went a long way toward making me feel like less of a pariah. Plus Five

So Frist is going to replace Wolfowitz at the World Bank? The former Senate Majority Leader who insisted that poor Terri Schiavo’s brain was fully functioning and who wasted valuable legislative time grandstanding on a “life” issue? Doesn’t running an international organization require a functioning brain? Minus Two

Carissa, my dear friend and former coworker is leaving for Seattle. I will miss her. Minus Five

Monica Goodling’s testimony in front of the House Judiciary Committee casts further doubt on Gonzales’s leadership. Goodling testified that she screened candidates improperly for their neocon credentials and that she might have been coached by Gonzales before being called before the committee. Despite all the mounting and damning testimony surrounding Gonzales, I think he’s going to stay in power, because that’s what this administration does. Minus Three

In the words of Rod Stewart, tonight’s the night for my big chat with McI. I don’t think I could have asked for better weather for an outdoor celebration of the start of Memorial Day Weekend. Any and all good vibes would be appreciated. Oh, I don’t know how to rank this

Total Plus: 10
Total Minus: 15

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -5

Last Week’s total: +9

GAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-05-19T16:29:00.000-04:00

This sucks! I moved out of Smalltownland in order to get my life back. No sooner do I move here, I fucking tore a fucking muscle, resulting in my basically having to spend every fucking night at home for fucking weeks. My leg’s still not better, but this past week, I have been walking well enough that I made tons of plans. With the exception of a very fun Grey’s evening with Carissa and another new friend, every single fucking plan fell through. Here’s my week:

Casual date with McI Tuesday—Cancelled on account of illness. Poor guy is still sick.
Dinner with friend—Double booked.
Drinks with another friend Friday night—Sister had her baby.
Saturday night/Sunday with out-of-town friend—Forgot she had made other plans.
Backup plan to go to art museum with sister today—Poor girl got a nasty allergy attack.

Result—Wind up in Casey’s last night chit-chatting with the middle-aged ladies and gently fending off the advance of a late-middle-aged guy and some other poor soul who couldn’t pronounce the title of the book I was reading while claiming to be really interested in the subject. I love Casey’s. It’s a great bar. Wonderfully close by, casual, comfortable, chock full of some of the most amazing characters. It’s a people watching extravaganza. They have good pizza, and they give you free popcorn. It’s a genuine townie bar—an endangered species these days. But it isn’t where I want to be on a Friday night.

Today I’ve done my best to amuse myself. I hung out at a café, had a late breakfast in a fantastic diner, went to a used bookshop and a couple of vintage clothing stores, and read. I’ll probably wind up going to some foreign film tonight.

I’m OK with doing things by myself. I enjoy it a lot of the time. But right now I’m so fucking frustrated that I feel like collapsing into a puddle of tears.

Oh, did I mention that it’s freezing cold and raining and it has been since Wednesday?

Or that Carissa, my dear co-worker and fellow Grey's addict, is leaving me for the Promised Land of Seattle?

GAH!!!!!!!!!

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-05-18T08:43:00.000-04:00

It’s Friday again? This week flew by for me. Here’s my numerical tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical. I stole the idea from Boston’s Weekly Dig. Imitation is the best form of flattery.

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (WARNING: This post contains a Grey’s spoiler):

You know you’re in the midst of strange days when John Ashcroft comes off looking like a defender of liberty. Testimony from the former deputy attorney general reveals that Alberto Gonzales attempted to take advantage of the gravely ill Ashcroft back in 2004 to authorize the illegal domestic wire tapping program. Who know where this will end up, but these revelations have caused more Republican senators to call for Gonzales to resign. Plus Three

Holy McCrap! Grey’s season finale might not have had dead bodies, but it still unfolded in a most Shakespearian fashion. Poor Christina. Loses her eyebrows and her man. And George. Poor, poor George. WTF about Callie getting chief resident? Oh, and Meredith’s half-sister is the McSlut (thanks, Conortje) who hit on McDreamy (OK, I’ll back off a bit from McJackass—he’s still self-absorbed, but at least he still loves Mer)? I thought last season ended “dramatically.” Now we have to wait how long to find out what happens? Even

I’m not going to assign points for the death of the racist, homophobic, sexist, intolerant, and generally reprehensible Jerry Falwell, but I will assign points for some excellent coverage of his demise. This article from Salon.com nearly made me wee. For more serious coverage on Falwell’s racist past, see this article from the Nation. I’ve written a bit about the role of race in the rise of the religious right and the Republican party too. Plus Five

This week marked the one-month anniversary of my effing leg injury. My effing leg is much, much better, but I’m still among the walking wounded. Minus Two

Bye bye, Sugar Daddy. Wolfowitz resigned as president of the World Bank. He manages to get some concessions from the executive board (it’s such a wretched institution that I’m not surprised), but he’s outta there. Plus Three

So things with McI are going well, but I need to figure out how to talk to him about what we’re doing. I suck at this. I’m terrified. I was going to talk to him on Tuesday, but the poor guy is sick (for real—I’ve talked to him). The healthy part of me is fairly certain that this will go just fine, but the uncertainty has me in a bit of a tizzy. Minus Two

Total Plus: 13
Total Minus: 4
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: Plus 9

Last Time’s Total: Plus 7

The McJackass of Grey’s Anatomy

2007-05-16T17:25:00.000-04:00

Let’s talk about the McJackass that is Derek Shepherd. I mean, seriously. What is he thinking treating Meredith this way?

To wit: Meredith is the woman who forgave him for forgetting to mention that he had, a, I don’t know, um, WIFE, and then for choosing said wife over her. She said, “Pick me” for crapssake! Then, when Derek was free, Meredith walked away from a good thing with Finn, only to have McJackass waffle over being with her. It’s only when she was nearly in the arms of McSteamy that he came to his senses.

THEN… Meredith’s nightmare of a mother comes to her senses for a day and says horrible things to Meredith. This leads to Meredith nearly drowning, because who wants to live in a world where your own mother doesn’t love you?

THEN… “Miraculously” (OK, ridiculously—I’ve already talked about how that whole triad of episodes crossed the International Cheese Line) Meredith comes back from the great operating room in the sky, and her nightmare mother is dead. And Derek takes this and makes it all about him and his nastiness with McSteamy. When it looks like he won’t be made chief because of Meredith, McJackass starts to think that he shouldn’t be with her.

THEN… Meredith’s fake mother dies, and Meredith’s father, the guy she was just beginning to know, blames her. He not only slaps her in the face after she tearfully tells him the news, but he also comes back before the funeral to tell her off again. Who’s this about? McJackass of course. He’s all upset that Meredith won’t leap into his arms and tell him all her problems. He’s so ego driven that all it takes is one slutty girl to come onto him in a bar, and he’s all ready to jump McShip.

Seriously.

Meredith should get it on with McSteamy just to put McJackass in his place. He doesn’t deserve her.

If I had my way, that’s how the season would end.

The View from Here

2007-05-16T07:58:00.000-04:00

One of these days, Fluff will be making a pilgrimage around Fluff's hometown (Somerville is the birthplace of Fluff). Until my leg is all better, though, I will leave you with photos of my view from my front window.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

2007-05-04T15:26:00.000-04:00

Happy Friday! It’s time once again for me to give my weekly tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical (idea stolen from the Bean Counter column in Boston’s Weekly Dig).

Here are this week’s Sassy Sundries:

My effing leg caused me to miss Grey’s Anatomy last night. One of these days, I should become a real American and get cable. Don’t tell me what happened. I’ll watch it online tonight, Friday night, while in bed with an ice pack on my appendage. Hrmph. Minus Ten

Congress hands Bush the Iraq War spending bill with a timetable for withdrawal on the fourth anniversary of the Mission Accomplished speech—a very nice bit of timing, allowing everyone the chance to snicker at the image of W in his flight suit. Plus Five

Bush vetoes the Iraq War spending bill, saying that he’s “the Commander Guy” (I thought he was “the Decider”) and that we can’t set a deadline for failure. Ummm… didn’t failure already happen about four years ago? Veto sustained in Congress, but message still sent that the American people are no longer behind this war. Minus Three

Before the return of the leg injury, got to do some dancing with McI. Plus Ten

Things just keep getting worse at the halls of justice. That Monica Goodling. No wonder she pled the fifth. It might work, too. In exchange for her testimony, she may avoid prosecution. Minus Two

Have discovered Casey’s, a most excellent local watering hole and contender for my favorite alternate parallel universe. Expect a post about Casey’s soon. Plus Three

Former CIA chief George Tenet tries to explain his actions in the days leading up to the Iraq War. While anyone paying attention knows that the White House was hell-bent on going to war with Iraq with or without the “slam dunk” quote, Tenet still comes off sounding self-serving and disingenuous (and not a little crazy). Even

Sometimes, wonderful things arrive through the mail. While I fear for the little old ladies of the world, I really needed the laugh. Plus Ten

Total Plus: 28
Total Minus: 15

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: Plus 7

Last Week’s Total: Minus 25,000,000,005

The Power of the Paper Prayer Rug

2007-05-03T20:01:00.000-04:00

Something good is about to happen!

My leg will be healed, because I received a paper prayer rug in the mail.

If I return it in a special envelope, my leg will get better, I’ll get $46,000, AND a new car.

Here’s how it works.

I take this paper prayer rug, on LOAN to me from St. Matthew’s Churches of Tulsa, Oklahoma, and stare at the purple picture of Jesus. His eyes appear to be closed, but as you stare intently into the picture, they open and start looking at you. It’s true! They do open. And it isn’t an optical illusion; it’s the power of the paper prayer rug.

After you see Jesus’ eyes, you go and kneel on the prayer rug, being careful to touch both knees to it. I’m afraid I can’t kneel right now, but I’m hoping that by sitting in a chair and holding the paper prayer rug up to my knees it will still work.

Then, I need to fold up the prayer rug and return it in a special envelope, along with a sheet of paper detailing my prayer requests and how much I’d like to donate. I will receive a free spiritual blessing in return.

Remember! This is the next morning!

Oh dear. I broke the seal on my prophecy before I returned the prayer rug. Do you think my leg will still get better? Maybe I’ll only get $23,000 and a Yugo. Help me, paper prayer rug!