Radio, Man
Have you heard those ads that are all over the radio lately? Which ads? Well, the ones seemingly meant to dissuade you from going to satellite radio or tuning out the radio entirely and listening to your iPod. You hear a voiceover of a musical "artist" (quotes intended) going through a repertoire of his/her hits, and saying "before" all of them was one thing: RADIO.
Here are the "artists" (quotes intended) who I have heard do one of these ads thus far:
-- Hoobastank
-- Averil Lavigne
-- Nelly
Now, am I the only one who finds this a bit ironic? I mean, I have it on good authority that one of Boston's most popular radio stations was, for a time, considering going to an All-Hoobastank's-"The Reason"-All-The-Time Format. In fact, they may very well have. Who can tell?
I'm not sure that the Hoobastank, Averil Lavigne, and Nelly fans are really the ones you have to worry about "crossing over" to satellite radio. I mean, why would they? Is there ever a time you can turn on the radio and NOT hear Hoobastanks's uber-whiny moaning about "YIIIIIOOOOOOO"? Or just switch your station for a moving rendition of li'l Miss Averil imploring, from the depths of her soul: "Did ya think that I was gonna give it up to you?"
(Nelly, man, no offense to you--YOU can come shake a tail feather at my place anytime).
Now, if they could get someone on there who didn't suck, or who didn't get massive radio play, that might make more sense. But then they'd have to play them, I suppose. And therein lies the rub: we all know that there is legislation somewhere decreeing that Boston Radio MUST SUCK AT ALL POSSIBLE TIMES.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Friday, January 28, 2005
Leftover Night
Did you ever have that when you were a kid? You would have macaroni and cheese with roast beef, your brother would have fried chicken and steamed carrots, your mom would have a pork chop and a half serving of spaghetti, and your dad would have a frozen Mr. P's Pizza. The fridge? Cleaned out.
STUFF THAT ANNOYS ME ABOUT THE SNOW:
Having some asshat leave a note virtually dripping with the oil of sarcasm on my windshield "thanking" me for taking "her" parking space that she had "shoveled out for 2 hours". Firstly, what kind of person takes 2 hours to shovel out a car? What the hell was she using, a melon baller? There wasn't that much snow. I mean, it was a helluva lot, but not 2 hours' worth. Secondly, do you think I really wanted to park all the way down the street at your house? No. I did so because someone else had taken the spot that I (Ok, Sean) shoveled out. Cry me a river. I don't care. C'est la vie in the city--if you're not a fan of that, I say move to Southie and get some metal folding chairs.
Have the plows even touched half of the streets? I mean really, people!
Is there some reason that only about 50% of the people in my neighborhood see fit to follow the "You Must Shovel Off Your Sidewalk" law? Because, you know, Sean and I are kind of spoiled and everything, but it's not convenient to WALK IN THE FUCKING MIDDLE OF THE ROAD DURING A FUCKING SNOWSTORM.
My toes? Cold.
BANDS WHOSE LIVE PERFORMANCE TOTALLY MADE OR BROKE MY OPINION OF THEM:
-- The Yeah Yeah Yeahs Hello. Karen O.? You were way too chubby to be running around in that teenie little shirt. And please stop your incessant screaming. Screaming? Not music. Who do you think you are, Courtney Love?
-- Ben Folds I had never been a huge Ben Folds fan until I saw him live with Guster and Rufus Wainwright--then, all of a sudden, I knew all the words to all his songs and was screaming them at the top of my lungs. And anyone who can rock out on a piano is cool in my book.
-- The Smashing Pumpkins This was years and years ago, like 1994 or something. They were so gawdawful at Lollapalooza (Remember Lollapalooza?) that Billy Corrigan actually apologized, saying "Sorry we suck so much today!" Billy? You did.
-- The Beastie Boys At the same Lollapalooza where headliners The Smashing Pumpkins were reaching new Heights of Suck, The Beasties stepped up and rocked the house. I had previously been unconvinced of their coolness.
-- Fischerspooner Ok, I still retain the right to blast the fuck out of Emerge whenever I want to, because I'm a sucker for mediocre techno. But throwing a temper tantrum onstage and claiming the audience was not "fucking it up enough" is not the way to endear yourself to me. Besides, I don't really care if you can't wait to have sodomy all night long.
-- Nine Days Not exactly my favorite kind of music, but they put on such a great show that I had to at least give 'em props for that. Except they took up too much time and pre-empted Guster. For that, I have not entirely forgiven them.
-- Sean Lennon What are you doing? Stop. Please.
-- Green Day I will forever have a soft spot in my heart for them for starting the big Mud-Throwing Extravaganza at Woodstock 2004.
-- Primus Ditto.
OVERHEARD ON THE BUS:
(As told to me by Sean)
LITTLE GIRL: Tell me a story!
FATHER (Who, it seems, brings books and reads them to his 4-year-old-ish daughter on the bus every day): Why do I always have to tell the story? I think you should tell me a story!
LITTLE GIRL: I don't know any stories!
FATHER: That's Ok, you just make one up and tell it to me!
LITTLE GIRL: Ok. Once upon a time, there was a Daddy. With a PENIS.
FATHER: No, no, we don't use potty words on the bus.
LITTLE GIRL: What? All I said was "PENIS."
FATHER: There is going to be a time-out if you don't stop. No potty words on the bus. Now, tell a story without potty words.
LITTLE GIRL: But I only know stories about PENISES!!!!
*Bus erupts into badly-concealed snickers.*
That little conversation (which I think is fucking hilarious) brings me to the recent issue of people freaking out over blog content involving kids and anything remotely sexual. For instance, finslippy's entry about her son discovering his penis, dooce's picture of her daughter holding a book titled "Sensational Orgasms", etc.
This shit kills me. I love how people have this completely ridiculous concept that kids don't come with a natural, albeit immature, sexual urge. Why do you think our species propagates? Because fucking is fucking great. Duh. Hell, I remember being a toddler and humping my inflatable doll mattress in the middle of the living room floor until my mother came in and said, rather awkwardly: "Honey, why don't you go and do that in your bedroom?" (I know, it's disturbing--an inflatable doll mattress???)
You leave kids alone and don't teach them socially-induced body shame, they'll be running around naked poking at things with their penises in no time. Not that that's necessarily appropriate, mind you. Poking at things with one's penis, much like humping an inflatable doll mattress, is best left to the bedroom.
Also, kids who are too young to read? They're rather unlikely to be scarred in any way by the word "orgasm". So all ya'll haters? I can't wait to meet up with you when/if I one day spawn a young 'un. It will be fun.
IN OTHER NEWS, IT IS FRIDAY!!!!
And my boss brought in Dunkin Donuts Munchkins today. Bitch.
Did you ever have that when you were a kid? You would have macaroni and cheese with roast beef, your brother would have fried chicken and steamed carrots, your mom would have a pork chop and a half serving of spaghetti, and your dad would have a frozen Mr. P's Pizza. The fridge? Cleaned out.
STUFF THAT ANNOYS ME ABOUT THE SNOW:
Having some asshat leave a note virtually dripping with the oil of sarcasm on my windshield "thanking" me for taking "her" parking space that she had "shoveled out for 2 hours". Firstly, what kind of person takes 2 hours to shovel out a car? What the hell was she using, a melon baller? There wasn't that much snow. I mean, it was a helluva lot, but not 2 hours' worth. Secondly, do you think I really wanted to park all the way down the street at your house? No. I did so because someone else had taken the spot that I (Ok, Sean) shoveled out. Cry me a river. I don't care. C'est la vie in the city--if you're not a fan of that, I say move to Southie and get some metal folding chairs.
Have the plows even touched half of the streets? I mean really, people!
Is there some reason that only about 50% of the people in my neighborhood see fit to follow the "You Must Shovel Off Your Sidewalk" law? Because, you know, Sean and I are kind of spoiled and everything, but it's not convenient to WALK IN THE FUCKING MIDDLE OF THE ROAD DURING A FUCKING SNOWSTORM.
My toes? Cold.
BANDS WHOSE LIVE PERFORMANCE TOTALLY MADE OR BROKE MY OPINION OF THEM:
-- The Yeah Yeah Yeahs Hello. Karen O.? You were way too chubby to be running around in that teenie little shirt. And please stop your incessant screaming. Screaming? Not music. Who do you think you are, Courtney Love?
-- Ben Folds I had never been a huge Ben Folds fan until I saw him live with Guster and Rufus Wainwright--then, all of a sudden, I knew all the words to all his songs and was screaming them at the top of my lungs. And anyone who can rock out on a piano is cool in my book.
-- The Smashing Pumpkins This was years and years ago, like 1994 or something. They were so gawdawful at Lollapalooza (Remember Lollapalooza?) that Billy Corrigan actually apologized, saying "Sorry we suck so much today!" Billy? You did.
-- The Beastie Boys At the same Lollapalooza where headliners The Smashing Pumpkins were reaching new Heights of Suck, The Beasties stepped up and rocked the house. I had previously been unconvinced of their coolness.
-- Fischerspooner Ok, I still retain the right to blast the fuck out of Emerge whenever I want to, because I'm a sucker for mediocre techno. But throwing a temper tantrum onstage and claiming the audience was not "fucking it up enough" is not the way to endear yourself to me. Besides, I don't really care if you can't wait to have sodomy all night long.
-- Nine Days Not exactly my favorite kind of music, but they put on such a great show that I had to at least give 'em props for that. Except they took up too much time and pre-empted Guster. For that, I have not entirely forgiven them.
-- Sean Lennon What are you doing? Stop. Please.
-- Green Day I will forever have a soft spot in my heart for them for starting the big Mud-Throwing Extravaganza at Woodstock 2004.
-- Primus Ditto.
OVERHEARD ON THE BUS:
(As told to me by Sean)
LITTLE GIRL: Tell me a story!
FATHER (Who, it seems, brings books and reads them to his 4-year-old-ish daughter on the bus every day): Why do I always have to tell the story? I think you should tell me a story!
LITTLE GIRL: I don't know any stories!
FATHER: That's Ok, you just make one up and tell it to me!
LITTLE GIRL: Ok. Once upon a time, there was a Daddy. With a PENIS.
FATHER: No, no, we don't use potty words on the bus.
LITTLE GIRL: What? All I said was "PENIS."
FATHER: There is going to be a time-out if you don't stop. No potty words on the bus. Now, tell a story without potty words.
LITTLE GIRL: But I only know stories about PENISES!!!!
*Bus erupts into badly-concealed snickers.*
That little conversation (which I think is fucking hilarious) brings me to the recent issue of people freaking out over blog content involving kids and anything remotely sexual. For instance, finslippy's entry about her son discovering his penis, dooce's picture of her daughter holding a book titled "Sensational Orgasms", etc.
This shit kills me. I love how people have this completely ridiculous concept that kids don't come with a natural, albeit immature, sexual urge. Why do you think our species propagates? Because fucking is fucking great. Duh. Hell, I remember being a toddler and humping my inflatable doll mattress in the middle of the living room floor until my mother came in and said, rather awkwardly: "Honey, why don't you go and do that in your bedroom?" (I know, it's disturbing--an inflatable doll mattress???)
You leave kids alone and don't teach them socially-induced body shame, they'll be running around naked poking at things with their penises in no time. Not that that's necessarily appropriate, mind you. Poking at things with one's penis, much like humping an inflatable doll mattress, is best left to the bedroom.
Also, kids who are too young to read? They're rather unlikely to be scarred in any way by the word "orgasm". So all ya'll haters? I can't wait to meet up with you when/if I one day spawn a young 'un. It will be fun.
IN OTHER NEWS, IT IS FRIDAY!!!!
And my boss brought in Dunkin Donuts Munchkins today. Bitch.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Things to Do in Boston When You're Snowed In
1. Watch Stepmom
2. Make Shepherd's Pie (with turkey burger and garlic and leeks!)
3. Watch Miss Congeniality
4. Consume hefty chunks of Shepherd's Pie (with turkey burger and garlic and leeks!)
5. Play a rousing game of Mad Libs.
6. Play a rousing game of Scattergories
7. Have another chunk of Shepherd's Pie.
8. Watch Desperate Housewives
9. Go to bed early. Read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
11. Wake up late. Check snow. There's lots.
12. Go back to bed till 10.
13. Wake up. Make raspberry scones and turkey bacon.
14. Go outside. Take pictures of 7-ft snowdrift against next-door-neighbor's house.
Take pictures of Sean shoveling snow. Take pictures of car covered in snow. Take
pictures of the place Sean's car used to be before it was towed.
15. Come back inside. It's freakin' COLD out there.
16. Take shower.
17. Answer call from Sean's boss telling him he's off tomorrow.
18. Make pear cake.
19. Suggest making soft pretzels.
20. Make soft pretzels.
21. Watch Novacaine.
22. Turn on Patriots--Steelers game.
23. Eat soft pretzels.
24. Drink beer.
25. Yay.
1. Watch Stepmom
2. Make Shepherd's Pie (with turkey burger and garlic and leeks!)
3. Watch Miss Congeniality
4. Consume hefty chunks of Shepherd's Pie (with turkey burger and garlic and leeks!)
5. Play a rousing game of Mad Libs.
6. Play a rousing game of Scattergories
7. Have another chunk of Shepherd's Pie.
8. Watch Desperate Housewives
9. Go to bed early. Read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
11. Wake up late. Check snow. There's lots.
12. Go back to bed till 10.
13. Wake up. Make raspberry scones and turkey bacon.
14. Go outside. Take pictures of 7-ft snowdrift against next-door-neighbor's house.
Take pictures of Sean shoveling snow. Take pictures of car covered in snow. Take
pictures of the place Sean's car used to be before it was towed.
15. Come back inside. It's freakin' COLD out there.
16. Take shower.
17. Answer call from Sean's boss telling him he's off tomorrow.
18. Make pear cake.
19. Suggest making soft pretzels.
20. Make soft pretzels.
21. Watch Novacaine.
22. Turn on Patriots--Steelers game.
23. Eat soft pretzels.
24. Drink beer.
25. Yay.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
You Shouldn't Fuck with Redpanda's Dreams
Sean happened to mention to me last night that Melatonin is known to cause very vivid, disturbing dreams. In fact, apparently someone we all know and love, whose name shall not be mentioned, once reported having a dream in which rats were eating him. That was his first and last melatonin experience.
I bring this up because it relates to an experience I had the other night, one in which something wonderful was completely and utterly RUINED for me, probably due to the influence of melatonin. Fucking melatonin.
We had both taken one before retiring, which is probably not all that unusual. If one of us takes one and the other doesn't, than the person who has opted to go substance-free is usually subjected to the deep, throaty snozzling snores of the melatonin-taker. Since this is kind of an unpleasant experience, we usually opt to avoid it entirely by arranging, via the magic of melatonin, to be knocked unconscious simultaneously. Plus, you know, we're so all in love and stuff that we couldn't bear it if one of us experienced something the other didn't. This is why when I stub my toe, I immediately hit Sean's with a hammer.
Well, I was having a wonderous, perhaps melatonin-induced dream. There was a hamburger. It was the biggest, juiciest, meatiest, most delicious hamburger ever to be beheld and it was mine. I smiled down at it, and began my standard Hamburger Eating Preparations. I picked up the big, fluffy, kaiser bun and spread it with mayo. (Hey, this was a dream! I bet it wasn't even LOWFAT!) I lifted up the brilliant green lettuce leaves and the crisp crimson tomato, and liberally applied barbeque sauce to the covering of bright orange melted cheddar cheese, which covered all but a glimpse of the salty bacon and sauteed mushrooms I could see peeking out below it. Mmmm. The burger was just how I like it, giant and goopy. I took my knife and cut it in half, as I typically do with giant restaurant-issue sandwiches. Smiling in my sleep, I took the burger half closest to myself and lifted it, feeling its mighty hamburger heft, towards my mouth.
The burger then began screaming at me. Screaming. Screaming hamburger. SHUT UP AND LET ME EAT YOU, STUPID SCREAMING HAMBURGER!
The screaming woke me up, and I rolled over, confused, to see Sean screaming in his sleep. Poor baby. (I'm sure it was a very manly scream, sounding of motor oil, football, and shameless tit shots.) I shook him gently, saying "Honey. Honey. Wake up. You were screaming. Honey? Are you Ok? You fucking bastard. You took my calorie-free, cholesterol-free hamburger from me. I fucking hate you right now. Don't scream, honey. Wake up. It's Ok. Except for the fucking hamburger. Wake up, sweetie. I have to get back to sleep. And get my hamburger."
He finally gaped at me, confused. "Wha?" I rolled him over and he went back to sleep.
I never did get to eat my hamburger. My fucking delicious melatonin-induced hamburger. How I long for you, hamburger.
Sean happened to mention to me last night that Melatonin is known to cause very vivid, disturbing dreams. In fact, apparently someone we all know and love, whose name shall not be mentioned, once reported having a dream in which rats were eating him. That was his first and last melatonin experience.
I bring this up because it relates to an experience I had the other night, one in which something wonderful was completely and utterly RUINED for me, probably due to the influence of melatonin. Fucking melatonin.
We had both taken one before retiring, which is probably not all that unusual. If one of us takes one and the other doesn't, than the person who has opted to go substance-free is usually subjected to the deep, throaty snozzling snores of the melatonin-taker. Since this is kind of an unpleasant experience, we usually opt to avoid it entirely by arranging, via the magic of melatonin, to be knocked unconscious simultaneously. Plus, you know, we're so all in love and stuff that we couldn't bear it if one of us experienced something the other didn't. This is why when I stub my toe, I immediately hit Sean's with a hammer.
Well, I was having a wonderous, perhaps melatonin-induced dream. There was a hamburger. It was the biggest, juiciest, meatiest, most delicious hamburger ever to be beheld and it was mine. I smiled down at it, and began my standard Hamburger Eating Preparations. I picked up the big, fluffy, kaiser bun and spread it with mayo. (Hey, this was a dream! I bet it wasn't even LOWFAT!) I lifted up the brilliant green lettuce leaves and the crisp crimson tomato, and liberally applied barbeque sauce to the covering of bright orange melted cheddar cheese, which covered all but a glimpse of the salty bacon and sauteed mushrooms I could see peeking out below it. Mmmm. The burger was just how I like it, giant and goopy. I took my knife and cut it in half, as I typically do with giant restaurant-issue sandwiches. Smiling in my sleep, I took the burger half closest to myself and lifted it, feeling its mighty hamburger heft, towards my mouth.
The burger then began screaming at me. Screaming. Screaming hamburger. SHUT UP AND LET ME EAT YOU, STUPID SCREAMING HAMBURGER!
The screaming woke me up, and I rolled over, confused, to see Sean screaming in his sleep. Poor baby. (I'm sure it was a very manly scream, sounding of motor oil, football, and shameless tit shots.) I shook him gently, saying "Honey. Honey. Wake up. You were screaming. Honey? Are you Ok? You fucking bastard. You took my calorie-free, cholesterol-free hamburger from me. I fucking hate you right now. Don't scream, honey. Wake up. It's Ok. Except for the fucking hamburger. Wake up, sweetie. I have to get back to sleep. And get my hamburger."
He finally gaped at me, confused. "Wha?" I rolled him over and he went back to sleep.
I never did get to eat my hamburger. My fucking delicious melatonin-induced hamburger. How I long for you, hamburger.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
I Am Totally Going to Talk About It
Last night was Project Runway night. This is integral to my very existence. In fact, I'm quite certain that the world might just begin to spin wildly and randomly on its axis if Project Runway were not watched in the House of Redpanda.
To avoid this happening, I of course watch Project Runway. The world has been random and wild enough lately without me neglecting to watch a crucial episode and thus causing Wild and Random Axis Spinning.
Last night's episode was great in that Nora, aka Teenie Bitch From Hell, was eliminated. Ha-HA Nora! Walk your skank ass home! You are SO out!
I had no problem with Nora until last week's episode; when she threw a temper tantrum and sobbed, flailing her arms about wildly and randomly, when she did not get Her Way. (Sobbing, weakness, and overall patheticness are not to be tolerated in Redpandaland.)
However, she did not go out without evoking much mirth from yours truly. During a design session, her model (this particular episode's assignment was to design the wedding dress of your model's dreams) was describing the dress she had "dreamed about since she was a little girl!". Nora said snarkily to the camera, "I was like, aren't you 16?".
Nora is 21. I found this endlessly amusing. Baby, I'd putcha in the same age group!
The most interesting part of the entire episode, though, was the end; in which the judges critique the designers' fashions and it is determined who is "in" and who is "out". They informed Austin Scarlett, the prettiest man you ever did see, that his design looked "nothing like a wedding dress". Then they rebuked Teenie Bitch From Hell, saying that her dress looked "too much like a wedding dress". Consistency, anyone?
If you're not watching, you should be. Then maybe we can rehash the episodes together instead of me being forced to blog about them to keep from exploding.
Besides, the clothes are GREAT.
Last night was Project Runway night. This is integral to my very existence. In fact, I'm quite certain that the world might just begin to spin wildly and randomly on its axis if Project Runway were not watched in the House of Redpanda.
To avoid this happening, I of course watch Project Runway. The world has been random and wild enough lately without me neglecting to watch a crucial episode and thus causing Wild and Random Axis Spinning.
Last night's episode was great in that Nora, aka Teenie Bitch From Hell, was eliminated. Ha-HA Nora! Walk your skank ass home! You are SO out!
I had no problem with Nora until last week's episode; when she threw a temper tantrum and sobbed, flailing her arms about wildly and randomly, when she did not get Her Way. (Sobbing, weakness, and overall patheticness are not to be tolerated in Redpandaland.)
However, she did not go out without evoking much mirth from yours truly. During a design session, her model (this particular episode's assignment was to design the wedding dress of your model's dreams) was describing the dress she had "dreamed about since she was a little girl!". Nora said snarkily to the camera, "I was like, aren't you 16?".
Nora is 21. I found this endlessly amusing. Baby, I'd putcha in the same age group!
The most interesting part of the entire episode, though, was the end; in which the judges critique the designers' fashions and it is determined who is "in" and who is "out". They informed Austin Scarlett, the prettiest man you ever did see, that his design looked "nothing like a wedding dress". Then they rebuked Teenie Bitch From Hell, saying that her dress looked "too much like a wedding dress". Consistency, anyone?
If you're not watching, you should be. Then maybe we can rehash the episodes together instead of me being forced to blog about them to keep from exploding.
Besides, the clothes are GREAT.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Now That's What I Call a Surprise!
I brought one of the many Mystery Tupperwares from my freezer for lunch today. From the distinct reddish-brown color, I deduced that it was Cabbage Vegetable Soup.
Guess what? It's not. It's BEEF STEW!!!!
Beef Stew is far, far higher on the yumminess scale than Cabbage Vegetable Soup!
I brought one of the many Mystery Tupperwares from my freezer for lunch today. From the distinct reddish-brown color, I deduced that it was Cabbage Vegetable Soup.
Guess what? It's not. It's BEEF STEW!!!!
Beef Stew is far, far higher on the yumminess scale than Cabbage Vegetable Soup!
Friday, January 07, 2005
Fear the Pants and Other Stories
Mother Nature saw fit to dump several inches of varying types of precipitation on Boston yesterday. Precipiation is, of course, something that we need. Must keep those plants alive! Must keep that water table high! Must wash the bird poo off Gustav the BeetleBugCar! Really, it's more the variety of precipitation that I object to. Like, yo, Mama N., pick a precipitation and stick wit' it? Snow? Ok. Sleet? Ok. Freezing rain? Ok. Rain? Ok. All of the above? Oh no you DI' INT!
The interstates were nicely cleared away by the time I headed to work, so Gustav and I zipped along nicely until we pulled into the actual driveway of my place of employ. This, it appeared, had never been touched by anything that in any way, shape, or form resembled a snowplow. I crept along in second gear, nervous until I crested the small hill. Whew! I could relax now that I was on level ground!
Except that my car started sliding, sideways. Right towards another car. At about 3 mph. I was so completely and utterly annoyed. (I mean, what do you do when your car slides across the road and taps another car? Do you call your insurance company so the adjuster can come out and peer at your car as it gently nudges another?) In real-life slow-motion, I slid towards a Camry, practically rolling my eyes with the lameness of it all. How lame is that? *Slide-slide-slide......doonk* Luckily, Gustav righted himself before I could relive that scene in Sideways and headed on to the parking lot. Lame accident averted.
_______
I don't understand the phenomenon of people whose families read their blogs and react negatively to the content within. Hello. Your family knows about your blog? Mine has no idea. In fact, I'm not entirely certain that my family wouldn't think a "blog" was something icky, perhaps rather akin to a barnacle, that you get on your shoes when walking through shallow brackish waters.
Hell, I have entire groups of friends who have no idea what a blog is, or that I keep one. Frankly, I find that too much awareness of who is reading tends to influence content. And god knows, I wouldn't be discussing highway masturbation or secret farting or (shudder) kale if I thought Mom and Dad were reading. So they aren't. Eeeek!
______
Arriving home from work, I was greeted by a stubbly Work From Home Sean. "Mathilda's afraid of my pants." he informed me with a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary grin. I shifted my gaze down to the offending pants. Ancient rustly windpants with snap-up legs ending in tight cinched ankles. Hmm. I might just be afraid of them, too.
"Watch!" he instructed, and did a psuedo-runway (Ok, I'm making that part up...) walk down the hallway, his precise location and speed highlighted by an insistent SWISHSWISHSWISHSWISH fromt he Ancient Pants. Sure enough, Mathilda darted under the bed, peering out suspiciously and emitting an occasional hiss of displeasure.
What can I say? She hates the pants.
______
I can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that, as it is now 2005, this means 2000 was five years ago. Five. That's four times longer than a year, plus another year. God, that's a long time. And the funny thing is, I still remember like it was just a year or so ago--standing in Boston Common as the clock was about to strike 2000, listening to the raucous strains of a zydeco band and dancing around to keep warm. I left my hat on the T that night and had to rely on my hood; me being new to this whole-hat-and-scarf-wearing thing. When I bother to think about it, I'm struck by how very different I was then. I feel like I was so young, so impossibly young. Twenty-four for Chrissakes. What did I know of the world at 24? (Of course, the truth is that even then, I knew far too much about it. When I think of it that way, I'm surprised I was even able to dance around, dance merrily and not buckle under the weight of what I knew of the world.)
But I did, and I was. And now I'm looking 30 in the face, and I can't quite believe that, either. And I guess I've kept dancing despite the weight of the world, or maybe it's just that, at Almost-30, I've learned to sort through things and find the reasons to dance.
Happy 2005, everyone.
Mother Nature saw fit to dump several inches of varying types of precipitation on Boston yesterday. Precipiation is, of course, something that we need. Must keep those plants alive! Must keep that water table high! Must wash the bird poo off Gustav the BeetleBugCar! Really, it's more the variety of precipitation that I object to. Like, yo, Mama N., pick a precipitation and stick wit' it? Snow? Ok. Sleet? Ok. Freezing rain? Ok. Rain? Ok. All of the above? Oh no you DI' INT!
The interstates were nicely cleared away by the time I headed to work, so Gustav and I zipped along nicely until we pulled into the actual driveway of my place of employ. This, it appeared, had never been touched by anything that in any way, shape, or form resembled a snowplow. I crept along in second gear, nervous until I crested the small hill. Whew! I could relax now that I was on level ground!
Except that my car started sliding, sideways. Right towards another car. At about 3 mph. I was so completely and utterly annoyed. (I mean, what do you do when your car slides across the road and taps another car? Do you call your insurance company so the adjuster can come out and peer at your car as it gently nudges another?) In real-life slow-motion, I slid towards a Camry, practically rolling my eyes with the lameness of it all. How lame is that? *Slide-slide-slide......doonk* Luckily, Gustav righted himself before I could relive that scene in Sideways and headed on to the parking lot. Lame accident averted.
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I don't understand the phenomenon of people whose families read their blogs and react negatively to the content within. Hello. Your family knows about your blog? Mine has no idea. In fact, I'm not entirely certain that my family wouldn't think a "blog" was something icky, perhaps rather akin to a barnacle, that you get on your shoes when walking through shallow brackish waters.
Hell, I have entire groups of friends who have no idea what a blog is, or that I keep one. Frankly, I find that too much awareness of who is reading tends to influence content. And god knows, I wouldn't be discussing highway masturbation or secret farting or (shudder) kale if I thought Mom and Dad were reading. So they aren't. Eeeek!
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Arriving home from work, I was greeted by a stubbly Work From Home Sean. "Mathilda's afraid of my pants." he informed me with a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary grin. I shifted my gaze down to the offending pants. Ancient rustly windpants with snap-up legs ending in tight cinched ankles. Hmm. I might just be afraid of them, too.
"Watch!" he instructed, and did a psuedo-runway (Ok, I'm making that part up...) walk down the hallway, his precise location and speed highlighted by an insistent SWISHSWISHSWISHSWISH fromt he Ancient Pants. Sure enough, Mathilda darted under the bed, peering out suspiciously and emitting an occasional hiss of displeasure.
What can I say? She hates the pants.
______
I can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that, as it is now 2005, this means 2000 was five years ago. Five. That's four times longer than a year, plus another year. God, that's a long time. And the funny thing is, I still remember like it was just a year or so ago--standing in Boston Common as the clock was about to strike 2000, listening to the raucous strains of a zydeco band and dancing around to keep warm. I left my hat on the T that night and had to rely on my hood; me being new to this whole-hat-and-scarf-wearing thing. When I bother to think about it, I'm struck by how very different I was then. I feel like I was so young, so impossibly young. Twenty-four for Chrissakes. What did I know of the world at 24? (Of course, the truth is that even then, I knew far too much about it. When I think of it that way, I'm surprised I was even able to dance around, dance merrily and not buckle under the weight of what I knew of the world.)
But I did, and I was. And now I'm looking 30 in the face, and I can't quite believe that, either. And I guess I've kept dancing despite the weight of the world, or maybe it's just that, at Almost-30, I've learned to sort through things and find the reasons to dance.
Happy 2005, everyone.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Conversation:
COWORKER: So, this was my husband's first Christmas with my family.
REDPANDA: Yeah? Wow! How'd that all go?
COWORKER: Good. My family is kind of crazy, though.
REDPANDA: I know what you mean. Mine is too. He handled it Ok, right?
COWORKER: Yeah...
REDPANDA: What?
COWORKER: Well, this was this one thing with my uncle. And underwear
REDPANDA: What? You can't leave me like that!
COWORKER: (Hestitantly) Well, my aunt got some of those white cotton thong panties from Victoria's Secret for Christmas. So my uncle, he took them, put one leg hole over each ear, and said "Ho ho ho, I'm Panty Claus!"
REDPANDA: *Laughing uncontrollably* Panty Claus?!?
COWORKER: Yep.
COWORKER: So, this was my husband's first Christmas with my family.
REDPANDA: Yeah? Wow! How'd that all go?
COWORKER: Good. My family is kind of crazy, though.
REDPANDA: I know what you mean. Mine is too. He handled it Ok, right?
COWORKER: Yeah...
REDPANDA: What?
COWORKER: Well, this was this one thing with my uncle. And underwear
REDPANDA: What? You can't leave me like that!
COWORKER: (Hestitantly) Well, my aunt got some of those white cotton thong panties from Victoria's Secret for Christmas. So my uncle, he took them, put one leg hole over each ear, and said "Ho ho ho, I'm Panty Claus!"
REDPANDA: *Laughing uncontrollably* Panty Claus?!?
COWORKER: Yep.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Could You Repeat That?
My boss has this most annoying habit of re-sending mass distribution list emails we have already received to us.
As in, she hits "reply all", puts her 2 cents at the top of the email, and hits "send".
"Guys, this is very important. I know you might not have seen this before, but you should read this."
Duh, we just did. Yesterday, when YOUR boss sent it to us.
The reason for this eludes me. Is she trying to reiterate? Does she not see that we have already received the email? Is she trying to take credit for someone else's work? Is she a stark raving lunatic?
All of the above?
My boss has this most annoying habit of re-sending mass distribution list emails we have already received to us.
As in, she hits "reply all", puts her 2 cents at the top of the email, and hits "send".
"Guys, this is very important. I know you might not have seen this before, but you should read this."
Duh, we just did. Yesterday, when YOUR boss sent it to us.
The reason for this eludes me. Is she trying to reiterate? Does she not see that we have already received the email? Is she trying to take credit for someone else's work? Is she a stark raving lunatic?
All of the above?
Monday, January 03, 2005
She Cooks!
Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.
The main reason for my posting today is that Kale is Coming. I just checked out my Boston Organics weekly box, and the box next to kale had an asterisk.
I fucking hate kale.
It's the same thing every time the box arrives. Whether it be chard, or collards, or kale--the same thing happens. I say to myself "Self, this week is going to be different! This week I am going to make a delicious chard/collard/kale dish!"
Two weeks later, Sean is pulling the rotted remains of untouched, forgotten, and woebegone chard/collards/kale out of the crisper, making an "eww" face, and looking at me like I'm something the cat just vomited onto the floor.
(I'm not, by the way. Please do not confuse me with thread, plastic Christmas tree needles, or cat hair. I am none of these things.)
So this week, I vow, things will be Really, Really Different. For serious this time. Really.
I have decided that I am going to make some semblance of kale soup. Either this one or this one. With some tweaking either way, of course. Recipes never call for enough garlic or seasoning. Stupidheads.
I'll have to let you know how it turns out.
Well-Red, now with recipes!
Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.
The main reason for my posting today is that Kale is Coming. I just checked out my Boston Organics weekly box, and the box next to kale had an asterisk.
I fucking hate kale.
It's the same thing every time the box arrives. Whether it be chard, or collards, or kale--the same thing happens. I say to myself "Self, this week is going to be different! This week I am going to make a delicious chard/collard/kale dish!"
Two weeks later, Sean is pulling the rotted remains of untouched, forgotten, and woebegone chard/collards/kale out of the crisper, making an "eww" face, and looking at me like I'm something the cat just vomited onto the floor.
(I'm not, by the way. Please do not confuse me with thread, plastic Christmas tree needles, or cat hair. I am none of these things.)
So this week, I vow, things will be Really, Really Different. For serious this time. Really.
I have decided that I am going to make some semblance of kale soup. Either this one or this one. With some tweaking either way, of course. Recipes never call for enough garlic or seasoning. Stupidheads.
I'll have to let you know how it turns out.
Well-Red, now with recipes!
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