Monday, February 28, 2005

See, Dave? I, Too, Am an Ass

It was asked of Sean once by his friend and co-worker Dave (just my friend, not my co-worker) whether this blog existed for the sole purpose of making him look like an ass. Well, let me be the first to assure you that it most certainly does not. It's just that Sean happens to be excellent at looking like an ass, and is quite good-natured about how shamelessly I exploit his ass-looking-ness for the purpose of blog fodder.

Let it never be stated, however, that I am not an ass as well. I am an ass! An ass of the highest order!

It had been a long and reasonably successful day of Open Hous-ing when Sean (the ass) and I decided it was time for a lunch/dinner break. We selected a Cambodian/Thai fusion place that I had always meant to try when I lived in the area. Over our pad thai and simple noodles with calamari and sweet chili sauce, we discussed some of the places we had seen that day. Should we make an offer on that lovely place? Should we discuss it further? Should we move to North Carolina where we could live in an antebellum mansion for this price? (Ok, that last one was me.) During the course of the conversation, Sean asked how quickly things can move once an "official" offer is made. Now, a normal human being would, at this point, respond with a "Very quickly, Honey.", or a "I believe quite fast, My Darling.", or "I have heard tell that it can be like the speed of light, Sugar Lips.".

Dear reader, I am not a normal human being. I intead elected to answer this question in what I felt was a witty manner--snapping my fingers to demonstrate how very fast things can go. (It should be noted here that, usually, I cannot snap effectively. As a child, I would flick my fingernails together to simulate snapping. I am a crappy snapper. This was the one, solitary time in my life that all of the forces of nature came together and caused my fingers to follow suit in a crisp, deafening *SNAP*.)

Of course, the sweet little waitress, who had been hovering nearby, came right over. I had snapped, after all. Who does that? Are there people who snap at restaurants? Besides me, I mean.

I fell over myself apologizing, my face flushing scarlet as I attempted to explain to a person who likely speaks very little English that I had not, in fact, been rudely snapping at her. I had been snapping at Sean, which makes perfect sense because really, DON'T NORMAL PEOPLE WALK AROUND SNAPPING AT EACH OTHER IN CAMBODIAN/THAI FUSION RESTAURANTS?!?

World, I am an ass. My GOD, I am an ass.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Of Snow and Cooch and Sealing Wax

Something I love, I mean loveloveLOVE, is the feeling of lazy winter weekend mornings. When the snow is swirling madly outside but Sean and I are inside in the kitchen, making omelets and muffins and listening to Bob Marley while dancing around in our flannel pajama bottoms (Ok, I dance. Sean raises one eyebrow at me pointedly while I dance around and says: "Yeah?"), I begin to think that New England winters may not kill me, after all.

One of the funniest things I've seen lately occurred at the Baby Shower of my good friend, the lovely and effervescent Paige. It was a Baby Shower of the co-ed nature, meaning that the girls spent much of the shower planning to build a raft and cross the river to get to the boys' side. You just have to be careful the counselors don't catch you or it's potato peeling duty for weeks! But I digress. Co-ed in the sense that there were four men there who could be shamelessly exploited for the amusement of all the women present, which is exactly what happened. I'm not sure whose idea it was (Brilliant! Freaking brilliant!!!) but someone came up with a "game" the boys could play. They were each given a baby bottle filled to the brim with ice-cold apple juice and told to see who could suck it down first. Now, let it be said that I have seen fewer things funnier than a group of four grown men sucking at baby bottles with all their might to a chorus of "Suck! Suck! Suck!" chants. Sean won, of course. I'm a lucky gal.

Another thing that happened at the shower was that I realized, as a friend of Paige's was talking about her friend, that I knew who she was talking about. Not knew him as in "Hey! I know that guy too!" but just kind of "knew" him as in "Hey! I've seen that guy at Pier 1 before!". I voiced that I had, in fact, seen him at Pier 1 before, realizing too late that in doing so I had become one of Those People. I am Creepy. I "know" people who don't know me. I am a Pier 1 Guy Stalker. Now, I have this uncontrollable urge to walk up to said guy and say in a singsong voice: "I know who you are." I shall then flap my arms like a chicken, yell "BUCK BUCK", and run out of the store at top speed. Is that creepy?

I wish my place of employ would employ a "Shave Your Cooch" policy. Not because I have a fondness for the shaved cooch, necessarily, (Not to say that I don't. I mean, who doesn't love a nice shaved cooch?) but more because I tire of having to rid the toilet seat of short n' curlies before I can safely pee. Ladies without bare floors? They could be penalized.

I love those last two lines!!! Read them aloud!!!

I am now thinking to myself, self, would it have been better to use the word "Poontang"? What do you think? Which word is more amusing, "cooch" or "poontang"? Do you have a more amusing word to suggest? If you don't answer, I hope your cooch gets penalized.

Penalize! The cooch!!!!

Friday, February 18, 2005

Where the Line is Drawn

Friday is my day off this week, a meager apology for the fact that I'll be working in the surreal quietude of Saturday. That meant that this morning, as Sean's alarm erupted into loud reports of traffic and Teddy Bruschi, I got to roll over and go back to sleep. Lovely.

Except for one thing: Our "new" downstairs neighbors. I say "new" because, for the majority of the time we have lived here, our downstairs neighbors were three twentysomething guys who were, we now realize, nearly as quiet as church mice. ( mice go to church? What religion are they?) Our "new" neighbors are a twentysomething couple, who I firmly believe enjoy tap-dancing around the house wtih cider blocks looped around their feet; usually around 1 am.

Now, dear reader, I admit that I am not the quietest of apartment dwellers. I enjoy a heavy-footed jig every now and again, and am occasionally known to play Southern Cross 37 times in a row (to Sean's dismay). But I do not generally engage in the behaviors my ears bore witness to this very morning. Oh, what they bore witness to!

There was yelling. Screaming, even. It was followed by shouting. This was yelling, not of the "we-are-in-a-big-fucking-fight" variety, but more of the "I-feel-like-sounding-my-own-personal-Barbaric-Yawp-right-the-fuck-NOW" yelling, which is far less tolerable and/or interesting. The yelling, screaming, and shouting were accompanied by an occasional interspersion (is that even a word?) of laughter.

I flopped around and gave the bedroom floor (from where the sounds were coming) the evil eye. This accomplished nothing.

The yelling and screaming interspersed with laughter was followed up by a series of whistling. Not the kind you use to call a wayward field spaniel back to your side, mind you; but the shrill futile attempt to sound melodious kind. The whistling stopped only because one cannot simultaneously whistle and yell or scream; so whistle-pauses had to be enacted for this very purpose.

I pulled the comforter up higher in an attempt to catch a few more minutes of snooze time. This accomplished nothing.

You see, it was time for the pinnacle of the performance. The Coup de Grace, if you will. I heard, from my warm bed-nest above, the unmistakable sound of Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On being sung in a rich yet tone-deaf male baritone, each word drawn out and elongated as if it were a photo of a Cosmo model.

There was nothing more I could do. It was time to get up. And go to another room. And miss my old neighbors, who never screamed, never yelled, never whistled, never sang Celine Dion. Come back, old neighbors! Come back!

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Why I Yelled at the Radio This Morning

I actually yell at the radio many mornings, so today was more the rule than the exception.

Parents are pissed off that they can't attend a high school hockey game. Hello? I thought that they were being generous in allowing the game to take place. You're pissed off? Well, sucks to be you. I applaud the administrators in making this decision--it is paramount that high school students learn this important lesson: actions have consequences. Brawling at games will not be tolerated. The girl who was killed during the post Red Sox world series victory probably was not the person who "started" the rioting. Somehow, even given my revelation of this startling fact, her degree of deadness remains the same. Parents? Shut the fuck up and find something better to do with your time.

A woman is fighting MGH to keep her mother on life support. The part that pissed me off, specifically, was her lawyer's comment on the radio this morning. He said: "She knows her mother is close to death. She just feels that it is up to God to decide when to take her, not the hospital." Ok...that's fine. We'll let "God" decide. Let's just unplug that there ventilator, and let Him make his call! I mean, since "God" should decide and all, I'm not sure that modern medicine has a right to intervene.

Lady, I am truly sorry for your loss. But, your mother has been on a ventilator for six years. You are being selfish. Let her go. Your "God" was eliminated from the picture when she was plugged into a machine to carry on all of her basic life functions.

No worries, all, there is still enough bile left for my liver to metabolize the giant drink I plan to have this evening.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

What NOT To Do

1. Don't set your alarm for an hour early with plans to go to the gym before work, then hit snooze twice and re-set your alarm for an hour later. This will ensure that you cannot go to the gym, and when you finally get up you are likely to say "Dammit!"

2. Don't mistakenly grab the curry powder when you're reaching for the cinnamon. This is likely to result in a bowl of very icky oatmeal.

3. Don't ask your boss why a specific training program for your department does not exist. She will nod her head encouragingly and tell you it's a "Great Idea!" and that you can "start researching it immediately!"

4. Don't tell everyone you are going to quit eating sugar on the day your co-worker brings in both homemade tapioca and homemade pistachio cookies. You will make yourself into a liar.

5. Don't move to Boston. It is expensive and cold and you will spend a good half of your year staring out the window wishing you could be elsewhere. But you can't afford to take any vacations, because you live in Boston. Bah.

Saturday, February 05, 2005


REDPANDA: Wake up, honey.

SEAN: Mmmmph.

REDPANDA: It's 8:30. Remember, you wanted me to wake you up before I left for work?

SEAN: (Insistently) MMMMPH!

REDPANDA: (Gently shaking) Wake up.....

SEAN: (Muttering angrily) You need more RAM!

I'm still wondering exactly what kind of dream I interrupted.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Some Stuff That Happened Yesterday, Not All of it Terribly Interesting

Sean had a hurty foot yesterday evening, a hurty foot and a giant bin of organic fruits and veggies thanks to Boston Organics. Because I felt badly for him, and because I kinda sorta had a craving for Bukowski's wicked good mac n' cheese, I agreed to swing by and pick him up after work. Well, Boston being Boston, and Murphy (of the Law, of course) being Murphy, I got stuck in gridlock so bad that a traffic summit was called by Boston officials. So, there was to be no Bukowski's mac n' cheese in my future. Sigh.

We went to Fridays, or T.G.I. Fridays, or whatever the fuck they're calling it these days, for some dinner. We ususally hate places like this, but who could blame us after seeing their 3 courses for 12.00! commercial roughly 6,000 times? We're pretty much programmed to go there, and really, who can argue with that kind of predestination?

My dinner was mediocre if not crappy in its essence, but wondrous in the simple fact that I did not have to prepare it myself. But then, after it was completed, I found out something so sad that it almost made me cry. Apparently, you are permitted to switch out the desserts. That's right. Instead of crappy cheesecake-flavored-polymers, I could have feasted on Godiva chocolate-flavored polymers. With vanilla ice cream-flavored polymers melting gently on top. Oh, the unjustness of the world! That I would find that out too late to take action!

Another thing that happened last night was that Sean ran into some people he hadn't seen in nearly a decade. In catching up with who was doing what, Sean of course uttered the name of his employer; which was, apparently, misheard. We know this because, after we had moved away, we heard one person stage-whisper to the other: "Did he say he works for Burger King?".

World, Sean does not work for Burger King. If you have ever misheard what I said when I told you where Sean works, please allow me to set the record straight once and for all and state that it is most assuredly NOT Burger King. If he did, he would have a much greater appreciation for their french fries, and not prefer the sodden ickiness of Wendy's nasty potato-logs.

I also wanted to mention that I did finally read the New York Times online article about "mommy blogs". I thought it tedious at best, especially since I regularly read many of the very blogs they profiled. My favorite part was when they played the "narcissism" card. I love it, really relish it, when asshats feel they are making astute observations by pointing out that blogs are "narcisscistic". I can't help wondering if these same people pick up biographies of Benjamin Franklin and then note: "The author of this book seemed to go on and on about Ben Franklin! I mean, come on! Are there not other people in the world?" Asshats? Exactly whose life would you have diarist-style bloggers write about? Yours? Do you order sashimi and then deem it undercooked?