Sunday, May 30
Saturday, May 29
Friday, May 28
Thursday, May 27
Wednesday, May 26
Tuesday, May 25
Sunday, May 23
Saturday, May 22
Friday, May 21
Thursday, May 20
Wednesday, May 19
Monday, May 17
Sunday, May 16
Saturday, May 15
Friday, May 14
Thursday, May 13
Tuesday, May 11
Monday, May 10
Saturday, May 8
Friday, May 7
Thursday, May 6
Wednesday, May 5
Tuesday, May 4
Monday, May 3
Sunday, May 2
Searching...
For a bisexual tangerine? Well, you won't find one here.
God, I love search engines. What the fuck are people doing with their time?
posted @ 8:05 PM |
Not that I'm counting
Apparently, I haven't done any filing since July 2003. Consider this bad sign #832.
In other news, I watched a bazillion episodes of Freshman Diaries. (Not a good idea after attending commencement with 590 young chippies who made me feel really, really old.) Watching all those 18- and 19-year-olds, however, did make me really, really glad that I'm not drunk right now. Because that would be bad sign #833, and at that point, I'm just fucked.
posted @ 5:55 PM |
You can get what you want or you can just get old
It's an odd part of my job to attend graduation exercises year after year, and today was no different. Commencement speakers come and go, and they all more or less say the same thing. Overcome difficulties, take time to build your life, follow your dreams, take your setbacks, keep going, make a difference in the world. In a way, it's nice to be reminded of all of these things, to hear yet again that my life didn't end at 22, it just began. We're all used to hearing that the four years of college are the best years of our lives -- Toni Morrison wasn't having any of that. It's not that our college years are so remarkable, or even so wonderful (all-nighters, petty jealousies, the agony of being 19, frat parties), it's that they are so wonderfully, gloriously selfish. For the most part, college marked the last period of freedom in our lives, when all you worried about was you -- educating yourself, making friends, dating, learning how to hold your liquor. After graduation, there was so much more to concern yourself with: All of sudden, you needed to save the world, get a job, hold a job, not disappoint your boss, not disappoint your family, take care of yourself, take care of your family, pay your students loans, exercise, eat right, floss, and walk the dog. There's no time to debate what constitutes a sonnet, or the intricacies of biblical history, because there's the commute, and then there's the work day, and the return commute, and making dinner, and eating dinner, and catching the Sox game, and somehow, you have to go the grocery store.
So, yes, I know that college wasn't the best years of my life. And it wasn't the worst years either. Because adult life isn't measured in years, it's measured in moments. That may be the hardest lesson of growing up: Learning that life takes time and effort and patience. There's no finish line anymore.
posted @ 7:37 PM |
A page of my own
Biz is constantly talking me into crazy stuff. Like this whole 'blogging' idea. Now it's post pages -- or, in other words, each of my posts gets their own home, a page to call their very own. So they don't have to share with other, lesser posts no mo'.
Check it out, yo. I think I like it. But I could be wrong.
posted @ 1:46 PM |
And being alone is the best way to be
On the commute home tonight, some ass-clown in a Tahoe cuts me off just as I'm hitting the sweet spot of my acceleration, causing me to slam on my brakes. Which I hate to do. So, in typical Boston-driver fashion, I lay on my horn, flash some sign language, and then begin cursing him out loudly and ... quite creatively, to be honest with you. In fact, somehow my mouth starts going into detail about his, um, alleged shortcomings, and it's like my brain has no idea what's going on. The tirade was regretfully cut short by my laughter.
Yes, that's right, people. My own road rage cracked me up. It was good times. Wish you were there.
posted @ 4:46 PM |
Champagne taste, beer budget
Despite the fact that I reek of champagne, I have neither been to a wedding nor consumed a drop of the bubbly. I did, however, serve it to a bunch of seniors at their induction into the alumnae association here at Swelles.
Little tip: Don't hire me as a server. I spilled more of it on my hands than I got in the damn plastic flutes. It's kinda weird when your hands smell like a fine wine.
posted @ 4:32 PM |
I think this means we're all ants. Or something.
I've been at this blogging thing for awhile now. I've had my ups (this time last year, I blogged 3 to 4 times a day) and my downs (right about now). When I'm in a slow period, I always freak out just a little bit, think about chucking the whole deal, and retreating to a nice comfy spot to stick my head in the sand. I abandon these ideas, of course, because I love this stupid internet thing. It's addictive. It's funny. It's sad. It's smart. It's stupid. It's solitary. It's connected. In other words, it's everything and nothing at once.
I've made friends here, and I struggle with how to define them, or even describe them. I usually refer to them as "my blogger friends" in somewhat apologetic tones to my "real" friends. Some of them I've met, some of them I haven't. All of them I hope to meet someday. Because they've cheered me up when I needed it. Or made me think. Or made me laugh. Or just reminded me that I wasn't, after all, alone. I've been trying to tie this all in with the idea of our connected lives, but I'm not quite there yet.
If Biz were here, he would explain this better. He knows about ants.
posted @ 7:10 AM |
Like an old lover coming back for more
Oh, how I've missed women's basketball. The WNBA season started officially on Thursday (you may have noticed a few references around here), but the first televised game wasn't until yesterday. And the first televised game that I cared about wasn't until this afternoon, when the Liberty had their home opener against the Houston Comets.
Yesterday's much ballyhooed game saw UConn alum Diana Taurasi return to Connecticut playing for the other side (the Phoenix Mercury). The Connecticut Sun play at the Mohegan Sun casino/resort, which was packed with Taurasi fans, though they tried to support the Sun whenever they could. The game wasn't a particularly good one, which was unfortunate, since it was the one carried by ABC. Neither the Sun nor the Mercury looked great -- this early in the season, most teams are struggling to find their rhythm as a team, and none more so than these two teams, which are heavy with rookies or players new to the ball club. On the other hand, today's NY/Houston game was definitely professional basketball -- too bad it was only available on NBA TV. Tina Thompson had a career high 35 points, Becky Hammon poured in 22, and Elena Baranova got in done in a way I'd never seen before. There's nothing like seeing a 6'5 forward make a running jumper; she was also a monster on the glass with 14 boards. On the whole, this is a Liberty team I can get excited about -- and now that I've seen one of my friends off to New York for the summer, I've got a place to stay when I slip away to catch a game.
I spent most of my weekend watching sports -- a couple of good Sox games and the return of women's basketball to its usual place of importance in my life. It was glorious. If you want me this summer, better check the schedule first -- I may already be booked.
posted @ 7:37 PM |
Double decked
Jen and I got a new couch this morning (well, mostly Jen got it, as I slept through the whole endeavor). However, since I was sleeping, Jen left the old couch where it was and just put the new one in front of it. Now Jen is out and I am finally up, and our living room is stacked with three couches (a two-front, one-side arrangement). I feel like I should have a party. Or a sleep-over. Or a movie viewing. Until then, I'm having a good time watching TV from my new position in what has become the front row.
posted @ 11:11 AM |
Her smile was just a shadow
After I stood half-naked in front of my closet for a good ten minutes this morning and couldn't decide what to wear, I turned to my CD rack to try to decide what new music I wanted to listen to on the way to work (thinking, "Hey, maybe making one decision -- any decision -- will get me started"). I plucked out Rob Zombie's Hellbilly Deluxe. Then I went back to staring at my closet, attempting to make a suitable clothing option appear out of thin air.
I gave up on "suitable" and went for clean instead, and then I began the daily commute. Where I slipped the aforementioned Rob Zombie in, and suddenly life became far too clear for a Friday morning. "Living Dead Girl" is really not a song you want to identify with. After listening to it several times, I switched gears, switched lanes, and put on some Bob. Because after anger comes acceptance. Or is this denial?
posted @ 7:01 AM |
Perhaps, it is, after all, a bad sign
Things are crazy here in the house that Jen built. There is much writing (though only of the they-pay-me-for-this kind), and much ... I-don't-know-what-ing, but it's keeping me f-ing busy. So busy and so unsettled, perhaps, that I cried profusely at the bittersweet ending of Angel. I just kept repeating, "But you can't kill him. He's my favorite." Apparently, this holds no sway with the writers. Bastards.
posted @ 8:57 AM |
Decisions, decisions, decisions
BC grad Amber Jacobs made this season's Lynx roster.
Now comes the hard part. Which t-shirt do I buy in celebration? This one? Or this one? Or maybe this one? (Now may be the appropriate time to reveal that I squealed with glee when I realized that my cable line-up does indeed include NBA TV, which will be showing many WNBA games this summer. Yes. Squealed. Shut it.)
posted @ 6:10 AM |
Great day in the morning
Victory is ours!
posted @ 6:43 AM |
Let's get a few things clear, people
Point the first: Turkey hot dogs taste neither like turkey nor like hot dogs.
Point the second: I am not your rolling wheels. I am the highway.
Point the third: If you think that I could be forgiven, I wish you would.
posted @ 8:33 PM |
On being a girl
Today, I went to the hairdresser. Not unusual -- I'm a woman, and this stuff grows fast. Someone's got to keep it under control. Today, however, was different. Today was tantamount to surrender. I was taking my first steps toward true womanhood. I was ... dying my hair. I like my hair, for the most part, but I have accomplished a serious milestone and as a result, I decided to reward my appearance. (Normally, I reward my CD or DVD collection, because who gives a shit about how I look?) So I did it. I got the girly highlights. And I like them. Mostly it looks like I've spent serous time at the beach ... while simultaneously managing to not let a ray of sun hit my skin. (Okay, that's not true. I've already got the season's first crop of freckles. Meaning I'm a slightly darker shade of pale.)
After the hours spent at the salon, I hit the mall with my sisters. I didn't need anything, but my little sister needed summer clothes and my older sister is the best personal shopper ever. Somehow, with all the clothes flying madly about, I managed to buy something. A sweater twin set. Lightweight, for summer. Cute little spaghetti-strap tank. But here's the thing, people. And I really don't know how to say this other than to just come out with it. It's pink. This may be the first pink thing I've voluntarily purchased since I was 8. I'm sorry, I just had to -- it goes really well with my hair.
I came home late from all the festivities, and I had to take Sam out for a walk. (Like the good stepmom I am, I'm watching him while Jen's in the Big Apple for the weekend.) My mom had expressed concern about me walking alone at night, in the dark, in the city. I scoffed, and said that I was more worried about anyone who tried to accost me and my pit bull. But she had planted a seed. I don't know if the dye chemicals had gotten to my brain, or if I was overcome with pinkness, but all I could think was: Women aren't supposed to walk alone at night. It's not safe. And more importantly, it's not smart. And I always do the smart thing. I hate that I had to second-guess my actions because of my gender. I hate that I felt vulnerable walking around the block. And, at that moment, I almost hated being a girl.
But then I got home, and I caught site of my (let's face it) unbelievably cute hair, and my cute tank top, and I checked the WNBA stats for the night, and I knew I wouldn't change it for the world. I'm getting kind of good at this being a girl thing.
posted @ 8:16 PM |
Most of the time
I like being single. I enjoy doing things alone -- eating out, going to the movies, watching sports. I even like sleeping alone. You get the whole bed to yourself and no one steals the covers and no one puts their cold-ass feet against you and no one sleeps on your arm, leaving you without feeling in your limbs for hours. It's nice. Most of the time.
I got sick last night -- it came on pretty suddenly, while I was watching the season finale of ER. Do I blame ER and that shot of the woman being squished by a car? Kinda. The point is, whilst shivering and alone in my bed, I suddenly, desperately, wanted someone to share my misery. I wanted sympathy and a back rub and someone's body heat to steal.
I wanted comfort. Like when I used to fake a stomachache so I could sleep in my parents' room. (Don't tell my mom.) My dad would make me a blanket burrito on the floor, and my mom would let me sleep with her giant stuffed unicorn. (My mom's got a thing for unicorns, okay? Whimsy runs in the family.) I can't tell you how my dad made the blanket burrito, but it was the Best Thing Ever when I was 5 years old. Somehow I suspect it's still the Best Thing Ever. Even at 28.
posted @ 8:46 PM |
Talk is cheap (One tall caramel macchiato for $3.95, please)
I was reading about the new film, Coffee and Cigarettes, in Premiere the other night. Mostly I thought, "Eh, black and white, overly artistic, not likely." Then on the drive home yesterday, Nik mentioned the movie and how excited he was about it. He almost made me want to see it -- that's how much I love Nik. But, really, I wasn't thinking about the actual movie anymore, I was thinking about how coffee and cigarettes seen to indicate conversation. It's cultural shorthand. "You want to go grab a cup of coffee?" really means: Let's go somewhere and absently sip a beverage while we talk for a long time. (What it really means to me is "You're free to drink coffee if you want, but no way in hell am I drinking that swill." Much like "Let's get a beer" means "You're free to drink that if you want, but no way in hell am I drinking that swill.") Why do we need to drink while we talk? Because our throats get dry from all the conversation? So we have something to do with our hands? And why do we always want something to do with our hands?
I don't know, really. You want to get a drink and talk it over?
posted @ 5:27 AM |
Exercising my blogging muscles
So, I'm exercising tonight, and let me establish this right now: I hate it. I hate exercise. It sucks. (You know that endorphin rush crazy-runner-types rave about? They're nuts. Don't listen to them. You're bored, you're sweaty, it sucks.) So, to initiate the complete dorkdom, I'm reading Wired magazine whilst riding the bike. Enough geekery for anyone (and I keep noticing how much the magazine design looks like web design. And then I keep reminding myself that it's supposed to). Not for a second while reading the magazine do I forget that I am simultaneously peddling up and down imaginary hills, on imaginary trails that do not exist. I am not going anywhere, and I'd rather be on the couch watching the post-game show.
The mind wanders (as mine in particular is so wont to do), and I start thinking about redesigning my site. Setting up a test site, what I want to change, what I want to keep, and as I'm laying things out in my head, I forget that I'm exercising. For several glorious moments, I completely forget. I've discovered the key to a healthy lifestyle: distraction via blog. I should write an article: How Blogging Saved My Health. Maybe if I got one of those nifty machines with the computer and internet all built in, I could become the Buffest Woman Alive. Or, at least, the Buffest Woman Alive Who Also Drinks Way Too Much Mountain Dew.
posted @ 8:04 PM |
The R-word
Now that Blogger has gotten all fancy on my ass, I'm going to have to redesign. Like I have time to take advantage of all the fun new features! I'm a busy woman, people! I am looking forward to using the built-in comments, archive by post, etc. When I get around to it. Until then, check out the fanciness over at Stone's palace.
Oh, wait, don't leave yet. Check out my swank Blogger profile. Man, these are good times to be a blogger. Unlike, you know, 873 BC. Blogging was tough back then.
posted @ 5:36 AM |
Thanks, Mom
Look at what you did.
posted @ 9:01 PM |
Shopping revelations
Jen and I took off for a shopping trip to Copley/Prudential this afternoon. (I've lived here how long? Because I still call that entire area "Copley." Starting at Mass Ave. and going down practically to the Common -- it's all Copley to me.) We both were determined to inject a little color into our wardrobes, and I'd heard there was a new Krispy Kreme there.
We hit the Gap first, where I convinced Jen to buy the cutest striped tank top. I don't know what it is about sunshine, but spring gives me a major jones for stripes. While trying things on, Jen and I share a dressing room. Sure, the 17-year-old working the Gap line raised a brow, but it saves time this way. While in the dressing room, a tiny cubicle with a built-in bench along one wall, I discovered that I was indeed short enough to fit comfortably on the bench -- lengthwise. Inappropriate.
Next, we stopped at J. Jill to check out a skirt that we've both had our eye on since we saw it in the catalog weeks ago. It, too, was striped. It was also very popular, so the nice sales clerk had to dig out back to get us the appropriate sizes. We both grabbed the same coordinating boatneck tank in a sweet shade of tangerine. And since the J. Jill dressing rooms are lovely and spacious (I highly recommend), we shared again. We both don our skirts and tangerine tops, turn, look in the mirror, and simultaneously realize that we both look horrible in this outfit. Tangerine is not my color. I repeat: Tangerine is not my color. Jen could do the orange better than I, but I could pull off the skirt more easily. Put us together and you've got an outfit.
Final destination: Krispy Kreme. For some reason, this place o' heavenly doughnuts and even more heavenly smells is directly across from Sephora, home to 2,000 perfumes intermingling with weird make-up smell -- all in all, a place I usually avoid. I braved Sephora and the extensive line to get myself an original glazed doughnut as a reward for all the hideous clothes shopping. And, oh sweet mother of god, it was worth it. There is nothing better than one of those confections. Nothing. Well, maybe the Sox winning the penant. Maybe.
posted @ 8:20 PM |
You had me at hello
Before the end of the theme song, Jen was crying. I was pretty much washed up by the 45-minute mark.
It's almost as sad as when TNG ended.
posted @ 5:39 AM |
The exams in life
I went to Cafe Algiers with some college buddies last night, mainly to check out the new boy in my friend's life. I give him the thumbs up, but I'm not yet convinced that he's right for her. The big revelation of the night, however, was how cool the cafe was and how I couldn't believe I've lived here for so long and had never been. Perhaps it was smart of me to stay away from the enticing vats of yummy hummus, but no more. If I abruptly stop blogging, you'll know where to find me.
I don't know what it is about hanging out with friends you've had since you were but a wee first-year in college, but it leads to some ugly philosophizing and an even uglier examination of your life. The only conclusion Jen and I could come to safely was this: We are an old married couple. No sex, and a lot of arguing about which is the fastest route to the T.
posted @ 7:02 AM |
You never can tell
I walked into town today to run some errands, and I don't know what kind of plague had been released upon the slumbering village of Wellesley, but there were kids everywhere. Really annoying ones. You know, not quite teenagers, not quite children, just old enough so you don't feel bad when you are overcome with the desire to smack 'em around. It was like locusts had descended upon the sidewalks, except without all the beauty and environmental benefits.
After trudging through hordes of tweens, I hit the post office, where I was confronted with something else I wasn't quite prepared for: the friendly postal worker. She was nice, and helpful, and then ... she tried to sell me more post-office stuff. I've never had someone push postal products on me before. I was helpless before her, and before I knew it, I'd gotten priority mail with delivery confirmation and a book of stamps. None of which I needed. It's just ... she was so nice. I was completely thrown off my guard. I was, in a word, dismantled.
posted @ 9:54 AM |
Full disclosure
I am a godless bisexual feminist, a pro-choice, bleeding-heart liberal, straight-Democratic-ticket-voting party-liner, a meat-eating, Dew-loving, 'rita-swilling, blog-whoring, introspective, introverted, narcissistic, sarcastic total bad-ass softie. I cry at the national anthem and at cheesy movies, and, sometimes, at sporting events, when my team shows up BIG, well, I get misty then too. I can't stand the heat, so I stay out of the South, except I love their writers and Texas (even though I've never been). I'll watch TV given the chance to do almost anything else, I'd eat out rather than cook, and I'd live in my jeans if possible. I dig peace but recognize the necessity of war. I love the Sox and the Patriots and women's basketball -- BC trumps all, but after that I take Pat Summit and Tennessee any day because that woman is FIERCE. I'll listen to anything including but not limited to Eminem and Tool and Barbra Streisand and Billy Joel and Bob Dylan and Rob Zombie, but classical or opera kills me. I hate that I don't like math, but I can't understand the concept of a plane no matter how hard I try. I love gays, homos, fags, and dykes -- but bitches most of all, because they are my people. I give money to the American Diabetes Association, and the Jimmy Fund, and AIDS Action, and Wellesley, and sometimes random people on the street. I often think that the thing I most need to do in this world is just SHUT THE FUCK UP but when I do everyone wants to know what's wrong. Everything is wrong, most of all me most of the time, but I am searching for the one thing that makes it all click, and when I find it, I'll let you know.
posted @ 5:39 AM |
Nothing else to say
It's not right. That's all.
posted @ 8:46 AM |
I swear by all flowers
When in doubt, post a picture of flowers. Ahh, spring, when a young girl's fancy turns to thoughts of ... blogging.
Today was one of my favorite kinds of days -- it clouded up fairly early, the wind picked up, and a few showers fell leisurely. And I just looked out my window and watched the storm roll in. Looked at the world through the greening branches of the trees and tried not to think of anything. A friend called and just the sound of his voice reminded me that the world, though a foul and unlovable place, sometimes has its charms.
posted @ 3:59 PM |
