Well-Red

Upon Electing a New President

2008-11-05T15:21:00.003-05:00

Dear Bryce,

One day, you're going to learn about all this in school. One day they'll talk to you about this "historic" election, and you'll think, gee, that was so long ago. I was just a baby! I don't remember a thing! When that day comes, I want you to have something to look at, I want there to be a record of how it felt to be here. My parents always tried to explain these historic types of things to me, and it was never really "real". I hope this helps it to feel real to you.

This is an excerpt of an email i sent to my father, your grandfather, a person from a different generation than me and a waaay different generation than you. He's a person who has spent his life in a small, rural, racially-divided area that is incredibly dependent on a large military base. In other words, he has a different political outlook than I, and I was explaining to him why I supported Barack Obama for president:

What it comes down to for me is this. I see Barack Obama, this intelligent, well-spoken natural leader who has an overall calm presence. Even when he speaks passionately, he has none of the quiet undercurrent of anger that even someone like Martin Luther King exhibited. Just a calm, reasonable presence (I never saw Lincoln, but imagine that is how he was as well). On the other hand, McCain has been erratic at best, a crazed lunatic at worst. (Just his choice of running mate alone shows an incredible lack of judgement!) His record is nothing if not unreliable (the circa 2004 term "flip-flopper" that was bandied about during Kerry's campaign comes to mind).

I see the rallies. The people at Obama's are chanting that they want change, that they want to make our country great again. That they no longer want to feel ashamed, they want to work hard to make things better. McCain, on the other hand, has been using hate and fear to fuel his campaign. It's at his rallies that people yell "Muslim!" and "Kill him!" about Barack Obama. It's at his rallies where people who show up with Obama signs are roughed up and threatened.

Again, the crazed anger vs. the calm desire to make things better.

Mostly, I look at Bryce. I look at him and I know that one day, probably sooner than I want, he is going to look at all that's happened. He is going to see the history of things like Abu Ghraib and the president who is currently trying to push a bill pardoning himself of his own war crimes through congress. He's going to see all the women soldiers who are being raped by their supposed comrades, the men coming home in bodybags who were killed by the contractors our government hired. He's going to see the guerrilla forces that we are paying not to attack our troops, who we're arming by doing so. He's going to see this neverending war, where as of now we're more than 2000 days past "Mission accomplished!", where we've spent enough money to pave the entire US interstate highway system in 24k gold leaf. He's going to look at this bank bailout, where as soon as it passed some of the recipients of our money sent their employees on $3 million dollar spa
retreats. He's going to see the voting machines that are manufactured and run by huge monetary supporters of the Republican party that are "malfunctioning" and not recording votes properly. He's going to see the images of the anger and racism and intolerance and hatred that people use religion to justify, holding up their bibles as some sort of twisted weapon. He's going to see all of this, and he's going to ask me, "Why? How? How could you let that all happen?"

And when that day comes, I want to be able to look him in the eyes and say; that it was a dark time, a terrible time. A time that most of us couldn't understand, a time thick with corruption and shame. But that we fought, all of us, we fought together to take back our country and change things, to make them good again. I want to tell him that he will never have to fight and die for corporate greed, that he will never have to decide between buying food for his children and paying for their medical bills. I want to leave him a better legacy than this. And I'm scared right now, even with the numbers swaying violently to Obama's side. I'm scared of those fucking Diebold voting machines, I'm scared of the anger and violence that the McCain supporters are threatening. I'm thankful as hell that I live in a blueBlueBLUE state, or I'd be just terrified.

Mostly, I'm scared of not doing everything I can to make things better, so he won't have to grow up in the shadows of war and financial disaster.

I hope that I can help to make things better for you, now. I hope that things will get better. Now, we have a mixed-race president-elect, and a woman Speaker of the House. We live in a state where you can marry whoever you love. I hope that things will be so much better for you, and I hope that I am a strong enough person to fight so you can have the world you deserve. So we all can have the world we deserve.

After the election, people danced in the streets. Your father and I could hear the whooping all the way out here in the suburbs. People lined up for hours, demanded paper ballots, and wept for the joy of voting. People who had never before voted came out of the woodwork and finally let their voices be heard.

I don't know yet what kind of president Barack Obama will turn out to be. But if I had to tell you one thing about this time, it would be that this was a time when the majority of the country banded together and demanded change. A time when we moved forward as one, leaping into a future that we hope holds more promise.

I love you, and I hope that one day you will look back on this day in history and smile at what it made possible.

--Mama

On Soup and Environmental Artists

2008-07-07T17:08:00.004-04:00

When people ask me what I do, in the capitalized sense of Do, as in, (whilst smiling without their eyes), "What is it you Do, Redpanda?", I sometimes have a nearly irrepressible urge to tell them that I spend my day picking up soup cans. Really, it's not exactly a lie. It's just that it makes me sound like a grocery store stocker in a starched, unflattering blue smock when really I'm just the mom to a toddler. A resourceful toddler. One who enjoys carrying around soup cans. One who screams loudly and stamps his tiny feet if said soup cans are removed from his vicelike grasp. One who drops aforementioned soup cans around the house like breadcrumbs of Christo-like proportions.

That is all.

Things you never thought you'd say before becoming a parent

2008-06-09T08:53:00.003-04:00

My favorite thus far is: "Do NOT blow your nose on the elephant!"

Today's unlikely entry comes via the excellent Sesame Street:

On broken beds:

Harry Monster: I'm Ok, but I have to ask, did you test this bed before you bought it?

Maria: You mean, did I exercise on it like a monster? No!

"Work"

2008-06-03T10:52:00.003-04:00

I loathe the phrase "stay-at-home-mom" (and the acronym SAHM actually causes me to retch), but it is some of my current (retch) SAHM brethren that I feel compelled to write about today. Not all of them, just those who verbally stamp their feet begging for recognition and the corresponding verbal back-pats. I take exception to women who cry, stuffed full of righteousness and self-induced martyrdom, that they do work! They work at home! All day!

Ladies, you disgust me.

I am home with my fantastic son now. I am not working right now, period. I'm not even dabbling at freelancing or dribbling through any contracting. I am just home with my son. (Notice how I don't describe myself as a 'stay-at-home-mom'? As if that's all I am and all I do? But that's another topic...) He is an often-challenging toddler. And I would never, ever, unless you pulled at my ears and jabbed things into the soft flesh under my fingernails, describe what I do with him all day as "work".

"Work" is something you do because you have to. You do it because you need the money, you need the validation, you need to justify your student loan debt. "Work" is a somewhat unpleasant requirement that tends to get in the way of how you'd really like to be spending your time.

Being home with my son is not and never could be "work". Is it difficult? Yep. Is it rigorous? Sometimes. Do I occasionally fantasize about being on a no-children-allowed tropical island with unlimited umbrella drinks instead? Oh hell yeah. But that doesn't make it "work".

Spending my days and nights with my pint-sized tornado, my wee imp who can and does undo all the steps I've taken towards cleanliness with a mischievous grin, that's not work. Witnessing him learn to chase the dog, laughing gaily with unabridged mirth? Not work. Beckoning him to me enthusiastically as he took his first tentative, wobbly steps? Not work. Holding his chubby hand as he gingerly picks his way up the stairs, focusing intently on not falling? Not work. Sitting placidly as he screams his indignation at being confined to his high chair and not being permitted to play with the kitchen knives? Again, though not my favorite past-time, still not work.

Sharing my days, my nights, my life with my son is a privilege. It is an honor of the highest level. I can't imagine taking such a precious thing for granted by flippantly calling it "work".

My husband spends his days at actual "work", coming home weary but game shortly before our son's bedtime. He wears his heart on his sleeve, his love for his son painting his face with joy. Their time together is sweet but scarce. I can tell him about the first wobbly steps, about the first taste of crimson strawberries, about the new songs sung in the car. But he can't be here to see those small momentous occasions. That is the sacrifice he makes every day. That is work.

Raising and loving my child is not.

I Should Blog More

2007-08-04T15:18:00.000-04:00

It's been what, a million years?

The thing is, I get paid to WORK using my laptop. I do not, on the other hand, get paid to BLOG on my laptop. Some people do. Me, not so much; and I've pretty much given up hope of being "discovered" like some gangly coltish teenager plodding down Newbury Street, head down to hide her height and oblivious to how lovely she'll be on the runway. Nope, in order for that to happen you have to 1) blog more often than once every 3 months, and 2) make me want to roll my eyes*.

Since I don't know that I'll be blogging more often, that's pretty much out. And since I hardly ever roll my own eyes at myself, that's probably out as well. But hey, who knows, maybe I'll do something so exasperating that I cannot withstand it and am forced to partake in self-directed eye-rolling.

Baby is fine, husband is fine, pets are fine, it's hot, I'm bored.

There, now you're more or less all caught up.

*Yes, I'm sure that there are paid bloggers who would not make me want to roll my eyes. But I haven't bothered to read any of their stuff. Thus, i will continue my blogger-eye-rolling in earnest.

Things I Have Bought the Bug in the Last Week

2007-05-18T21:56:00.000-04:00

Being a parent is an expensive proposition. When shopping for myself, I tend to be much thriftier (Ok, not really...), but when purchasing things for my adorable baby? Oh, nothing is too good. I've practically bought one of everything at Isis Maternity--it would really be easier if I could somehow arrange for our house to just annex the greater portion of the store.

Anyway, just for fun, I thought I'd share a smattering of my recent purchases.

First, since the Bug is a Giant Big Boy now, we finally broke down and got an Exersaucer. I think I was the very last mom from any of my moms' groups to get one, which is most unlike me. The pediatrician even suggested one. Still we waited. Finally, we broke down and bought the most expensive one we could find. Hey, if you're gonna cave, cave right. Bug loves it.

Now of course, we are in possession of the ubiquitous Winkel. And the Tizoo, which is really just sort of a foppish Whoozit. The Bug needed a little something different. I can't ever seem to resist anything dog-themed, so we are now the owners of a Take-Along Dog. He's not the favorite thus far, but is still a popular item.

Since you can never have too many Manhattan Toy items, we also picked up the Wiggle Ball and the Carosel Tiger Toy. Sadly, the other Manhattan Toy item we selected is not listed on their site. The salesgal thought it was called a "Ziggle". Who knows?

The Squish was out of stock, sadly. But we'll be back for you next week, Squish!

Now, moving on from toys, it was also time for us to get a new, more portable stroller. Since Sean is Unearthly Tall, no ordinary stroller would do. The Maclaren Techno XT happens to be just about the only umbrella-style stroller with adjustable handle heights, so the Techno XT it was. I've taken it for a spin around the block and can attest that it handles quite well for a midpriced stroller. Yay Maclaren!

Since the Bug has (happily!) finally deigned to allow himself to be fed from something other than boob alone, we were finding ourselves overrun in bottles and pumping accessories. Skip Hop Splash to the rescue! No more bottles rolling around the counter on a lame towel. We went with Poppy, of course.

We had planned to get another Baby Bjorn to supplement the old-skool one we got from Craigslist when the Bug was first born, either an Air carrier or Active. Neither one seemed particularly comfortable, however; and we read some slightly disturbing things about dangers of hip dysplasia and restricted bloodflow to the groin area when the baby is in a hanging carrier of this design for extended periods. It seemed like we'd have to settle for short spates in the Bjorn or longer ones in one of our Kelty Kids backpack carriers. Thank goodness I heard about the Ergo Carrier! I ordered this one, in black and green. I can't wait to try it out! The Bug has recently allowed something of a Renaissance of his Maya Wrap Sling, so I have high hopes that he'll welcome rides in the Ergo.

Between buying these things, there was of course the ever-present trip to Target for a giant box of wipes and a small package of diapers (although we use cloth almost exclusively at home, I do cheat and use disposables when we go out at times!) And probably some bottles and nipples of some descrip. And maybe numerous other things that I've managed to either forget or block from memory. Like the seersucker pants outfit and linen romper from Baby Gap. And the sun hat. And the sunblock. And the animal-print shortalls. And...

You Know You're in Boston When...

2007-05-18T21:40:00.000-04:00

...out of the parents sitting in a circle and chatting at playgroup, it comes up that 4 of the 12 or so of them have PhD's.

I Don't Know Whether to Laugh or Cry

2007-05-02T18:00:00.000-04:00

The Rack, undoubtedly the very worst bar in Boston, has closed up shop and is now set to become a Hard Rock Cafe.

Now, I won't mourn the loss of The Rack. The Rack was one of those establishments that most people with an IQ over 40 outgrew their senior year of high school, the kind of place that got by on lame promos and appearances by "Boston Sports Figures". I went once and danced on the 10' square makeshift dance floor while people milled about the (covered up) pool tables. While I danced, a small latino man about 4'8" in height began repeatedly smacking my ass while yelling "Whee!

(I am not a carnival ride. But since I had never been treated as such before, I frankly was too flabbergasted to do much more than look surprised. Dude, that is so beyond the level of appropriate pickup behavior that I can't even begin to address it.)

So, yeah. I think that experience pretty well sums up The Rack.

But now, a Hard Rock Cafe instead? Yet another watered-down chain littering Faneuil Hall? Ick.

I'm literally sitting here mentally debating about which establishment I loathe more--The Rack or the Hard Rock Cafe. One is yet another representation of the Disneyization (is that a word?) and over-franchisement of America, one sucks with a virulent suckage generally reserved for things like reality TV and fast food. Really, I'm not sure you could win either way. Just avoid the area entirely. Nothing to see here. Look away from the carnage. Move along.

Saturday Giggle

2007-04-28T19:05:00.000-04:00

HAfuckingHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

And So it Starts

2007-04-27T13:37:00.000-04:00

While I was on the phone with my mother today, I happened to complain about the nasty, rainy weather we're experiencing in Boston this weekend. Incredibly nasty rainy weather of the nastiest, rainiest sort. She replied: "Well, if you lived further south, closer to here, than you wouldn't have to put up with such nasty, rainy weather. And then I'd be closer to you and could see my grandson more often!"

And so, let it be known that on this day, the genesis of Project Get Grandson Closer (PGGC) has commenced! Huzzah!

Perfecting My Own Special Brand of Crazy

2007-04-25T13:58:00.000-04:00

When your perfectly nice if a bit nosy neighbor offers you cuttings from her forsythia bush, and you don't want to offend said neighbor but also LOATHE forsythia with loathing that churns sickeningly in your stomach, what do you say?

Scenario #1: Brutal Evasive Honesty: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. I just FUCKING HATE FUCKING FORSTYTHIA is all! Pleasure to see you!"

Result: Neighbor is offended and thinks you hate her forsythia, when in reality you just hate all forsythia.

Scenario #2: Gentle Evasive Honesty: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. I just have never been a big fan of forsythia. Nope, really! Yes, I know it's not that hard to grow. Yes, I'll agree that the yellow flowers are splendid. Yes, I'm sure it would grow nicely over there by the fence. BUT I FUCKING HATE FUCKING FORSYTHIA! Pleasure fo see you!"

Result: Neighbor is offended and thinks you hate her forsythia, when in reality you just hate all forsythia.

See? Both of these scenarios bring about the very same result: an offended neighbor. Now I ask in all seriousness, is the following scenario an improvement?

Scenario #3: Letting the Neighbor See a bit of The Crazy: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. It's just that FORSYTHIA IS THE FLOWER OF THE DEAD! THE DEAD! DEAD PEOPLE! I SEE DEAD PEOPLE IN THE FORSYTHIA!"

Result: Neighbor runs away screaming, but does not feel that her forsythia is in any way lacking. Which it isn't, it's the most lovely forsythia I've ever seen, assuming of course that it's possible for forsythia to be lovely, which of course it isn't.

Finally, this brings us to the next scenario, the one in which I show the neighbor a bit of my tormented, (crazy!), endearing soul.

Scenario #4: Waaaay Too Much Information: "Hi neighbor! No, I don't want forsythia cuttings, thanks! Yes, I'm sure it's no trouble. It's just that for me, forsythia will always be the flowers I saw, stained amber from the windows of the cold black limousine, when we were on the way to the cemetary to bury (insert names of various dead people here). So it tends to make me feel a bit queasy. That's all! Yours are lovely, though! Pleasure to see you!"

Result: Neighbor knows her forsythia is lovely, but pities me because I am Crazy. And maybe is concerned for my son, having to grow up in a godless, forsythia-free home.

Stupid neighbor and her stupid green thumb.

Money is the New Goldfish

2007-04-24T20:29:00.000-04:00

For that gal who has everything, Tip Jar platform heels!

Innovatively designed with a slot opening on the clear platform's side-wall, the collection allows tips to be conveniently inserted through the slots and retrieved from the accessible insole. Usually accompanied with attractive appliqués such as lips, butterfly or dollar signs in colorful neon and glitter materials, these playful slot openings offer novel and naughty ways for admirers to express their appreciation and gratification.

Wow. Seriously, wow. If I wore those, I'd be 6'7". Then I'd topple over and break something, probably something humiliating like my coccyx.

But, feel free to ask me about my accessible insole.

Sleazy Home Improvement

2007-04-24T13:29:00.000-04:00

Now that spring and warm weather are well underway (FINALLY!), it's officially time to pay men in tool belts exhorbitant sums of money to do the things you said you'd do as soon as you bought your house, you know, a few years back. If you're us, that means a (partial) new roof, gutters, and some yard work. And maybe we'll finally finish up the painting we started last year, and hang some art on our sad, sad walls.

But hey, I don't want to go overboard just yet. Baby steps, people! I mean, we really only painted in the first place because there was a sale at Home Depot on paint; and because we had to paint the baby's room something other than bright purple (unlike the previous homeowners, we do NOT believe that bright purple is an ideal choice for a little boy's room, unless you're going for a Purple Unicorns Rule theme or something...)

I digress. If you're wide-eyed innocents like Sean and I, you could easily fall prey to Unethical Home Improvement Guys. These men prowl your neighborhood in their enormous Ford F-7659's, twirling their Simon Legree mustaches and giggling evilly at the many schemes they have to seperate you and your hard-earned cash. Check out some of Bankrate.com's suggestions as to what you should look out for!

I was especially interested in the claim that duct cleaning is an unnecessary scam, since we were thinking of having our ducts cleaned this spring. (Whether or not that's a euphemism I'll leave up to you, dear reader. I'm too busy CLEANING MY OWN DUCTS to explore this further.)

Two Birds, One Stone

2007-04-23T21:37:00.000-04:00

When you're simultaneously overcome with the desire to occupy your 4 3/4-month old (I never know whether I'm supposed to discuss babies' ages in weeks or months--did I miss that memo while I was busy being all knocked up or struggling with sleep deprivation after the fact?) AND your incessantly energetic Jack Russell Terrier, don't despair. There IS a solution.

Bacon-scented dog bubbles!

Yes, it's true. This exists. Bacon bubble stuff. And the best part is that the 4 3/4-month old will be fascinated by the energetic Jack Russell Terrier as she leaps and twists and bounds and snaps at the bubbles.

It's a happy ending for everyone, really.

2007-04-21T11:53:00.000-04:00

True Story

So, I'm getting dressed this morning, and decide to put on makeup. It's like a light went off in my head--makeup! that is TOTALLY the answer! So I begin applying the makeup, all the while having a conversation with my husband in my head about it, something along the lines of "I've decided to start wearing makeup EVERY DAY now. I've decided to make time in the New Mom Crazy Confusion of Unattractiveness to be more attractive! So you can just keep the baby entertained for a little longer in the morning on weekends, ya hump!"

Then, distracted by my imaginary future conversation with my husband, I dropped my incredibly overpriced blush, sending little bits of incredibly overpriced blush rolling across our Dirty New Parent Floor. So, (obviously), I picked the cat hair off them, put them back in the incredibly overpriced container, and applied the incredibly overpriced blush remnants to the apples of my cheeks.

When I made it downstairs, my husband said I looked "Great!" with a degree of enthusiasm generally reserved for bacon.

I will consider this a happy ending.

2005-12-31T17:35:00.000-05:00

Goodbye, 2005

I won't miss you. As years go, you were fairly shitty. At the very least and most optimistic, I'd call you tumultuous. But most days, I'd settle for just plain shitty. So, send in wee 2006. I'm waiting with bated breath.

2005-11-22T15:43:00.000-05:00

On the Road Again

When I was a kid, my parents were those parents. You know, the ones who piled kids into vehicles of varying degrees of suitability for the task and spent their "family vacations" driving to get places.

Until I was about 8, the chosen mode of transport was a 1979 VW Rabbit. It had a blue vinyl interior, no air-conditioning, and rear windows that didn't roll down. This was the car that drove them and 2 kids across the country the first time, through the Badlands, through Nevada, through various Really Freaking Hot Places. Hot! So hot! I was only four at the time and I still remember how miserably hot it was.

As the family progressed through the years, the car changed to a Ford Taurus wagon that was known to pull campers of various descrip behind it. The Ford gave way to several Enormous Trucks. (I'm not really sure of the make and model...they are all Enormous Trucks to me...) But again, I spent countless hours riding along placidly in the car, staring out the window at the scenery flashing by. The cooler months were the worst, the sun peering out through the leafless trees and causing a nausea-inducing strobe effect. The long cross-country trips were the best, waking up in the middle of the night to get roast beef sandwiches at the A & W, or resetting the trip odometer to see exactly how far away that grain silo in Kansas was. (Answer: 37 miles!)

When I grew up and moved Away, I still mostly drove to get anywhere. I was a poor college and then graduate student, and I certainly did not have the extra couple hundred bucks that a flight usually cost. But then, my car was stolen and never came home, and I became a public transit gal. So flying became my chosen mode of transport. It was easy, and cheap, and quick--that harrowing 13-hour drive home reduced to an hour flight!

I never drive anymore. We always fly. That was part of the reason we had to get a smallish dog--so she'd fit in a carryon. We fly a LOT--we actually earn free flights. And I roll my eyes (remember the eye-rolling???) at the non-frequent fliers who don't get the security procedures. Annoying!

But this year, for some reason, those flights shot up early and permanently. A round trip flight back home was $300 each. Add to that $600 (for me and Sean) the $200 or so it takes to rent a car and assure we are not forced to sit in my parents' living room the entire weekend, and you have nearly a thousand dollars. Which, I should note, is a lot more money when you are paying for oil spills and excavating basements and the like.

So long story short, it's roadtrip time. We're bundling up the Dog Kid (the cats are not fans of roadtrips) and heading for The Sticks this evening. In our car you will find 2 cases of Labatt Blue Light (my father's request) and a case or more of 2-Buck Chuck (My mother's request--you can easily see my family's priorites: Alcohol and Stinginess.) People keep asking me how long it will take, and I'm loathe to reply lest it take far, far longer than that (see also the trip to Philly for Dave and Joanna's wedding that took us about 8 hours...).

Should be entertaining, to say the least. Not much internet access in The Sticks, so turkey day love to all and know that if you're reading this, I'm thankful for YOU.

2005-11-15T12:44:00.000-05:00

Totally Understandable

Sean: So, someone at puppy kindergarten came up and asked me if Sadie was a chihuahua.

Redpanda: What?!?

Sean: I know!

Redpanda: So what did you say?

Sean: Oh, I let my nine do the talkin'!

2005-11-11T16:48:00.000-05:00

Let the Revolution Commence!

Today is Sean's Big-Three-Oh! We have celebrated thus far by:

--Eating a McGriddle

--Braving the ridiculous, murderous-rage-inducing crowds at Ikea

--Eating a 50-cent hot dog from Ikea

--Buying new shoes

And last but not least, playing with Sean's birthday gift, Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!) Sean lept excitedly off the couch upon opening it, then sadly implored me not to make fun of him. As if it is possible to not make fun of someone playing Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!). For anyone who hasn't experienced the wonder that is Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!), please know that until one gains vast experience at the game, ALL HUMAN BEINGS (present company tremendously included) look like a cross between Mr. Ed counting and doing the Hokey Pokey while playing Dance Dance Revolution (Extreme 2!). It is impossible to not laugh at such a spectacle.

Love you, honey. There's no one I'd rather laugh at. Or look like Mr. Ed counting while doing the Hokey Pokey in front of. Happy Birthday.

2005-11-10T11:07:00.000-05:00

What Year Is It, Again?

*RINNNGGGGG!*

Redpanda: Hello?

Caller: Hello! I'm from the Boston Globe, and we are running a special on our---

Redpanda: I'm going to stop you right there. Someone actually called last night, too. It's my fiance's subscription, and he isn't here right now...

Caller: Yes, but the upcoming weeks are going to have so many coupons! You will need those for all your holiday shopping!

Redpanda: *Blink*

Redpanda: Sorry, I think coupons are stupid. He is the one who likes 'em. I prefer to spend my time reading The Wall Street Journal, bringing home the bacon, and frequenting titty bars. Gotta go!

Coupons? Seriously?

2005-11-09T12:45:00.000-05:00

So, Then...

Not one to be outdone, Gustav the BeetleBugCar chose this morning as the one during which he would stubbornly refuse to start. Alternator? Mashed potater? Who knows? All I know is that his little purple ass was going NOWHERE, leaving me to bribe Sean for a ride into work. Which I got, by the way.

Someone asked me today if I had broken a mirror or something lately. Nope. Not yet. But it is starting to get kind of funny in a lame slapstick movie kind of way. I've pretty much become the Steve Martin character in every Steve Martin movie. Things will continue to go wrong. It is how it is when you are The Steve Martin. And really, it's kind of funny when you take a step back and don't get too humiliated for the poor guy taking the hot dog buns out of the packages because the number of hot dogs in a package should match with the number of buns in the package.

2005-11-08T11:58:00.000-05:00

Let's Recap

It's not that I don't write because there's nothing going on, I don't write because I just don't effing FEEL like it. And then stuff keeps happening and I get annoyed because if I were to write about it, I'd have to provide Backstory. And Backstory annoys me, inducing eye rolling of the highest degree. And Allah help me, I can't hold back the eye rolling. I once had a big black check mark placed right next to my name, on the BOARD no less, because I had had a flagrant disregard for the implicit "Do Not Roll Your Eyes at the Teacher" rule that was somehow implied in that particular classroom. Really, it may as well have been a "Do Not Cough" or a "Do Not Blink" rule. My eyes, they ROLL. For no reason at times. At times to express understanding and empathy. Sometimes, because you are getting on my LAST frigging nerve and I wish that a giant bird would come to scoop you up and feed you to its fuzzy hatchlings high in a magical tree.

But I digress. There is catching up to be done. Some backstory may have to be provided. Look away, for there is certain to be eye rolling.

On Homeownership

Here is where I am supposed to be able to tell you how neato it is to own your own home, with the man you are going to marry no less! I am supposed to talk about the new leather sectional that we are thinking about getting from City Schemes and the paint colors we're going to put on the wall. But I'm not going to be highlighting those things today. Today we're going to discuss Oil Tank Ruptures.

Oh, sweet irony of ironies. We bought the house with every intention of converting to gas. We had pre-paid a deposit to the plumber who was hired to install our new gas furnace and to the company who was supposed to haul away our ancient, corroded oil tank. We just had ordered a bit of oil to get us through the time until the plumber could get out to do the install, which was put off a bit because of all that pesky basement flooding, mostly in the Taunton area.

But when they put the oil in, it burst forth from the ancient, corroded tank in a shimmering arc of doom. Doom, I say.

That very evening, emergancy services arrived to cut our ancient, corroded, and leaky oil tank in half and haul it out through our ancient, corroded bulkhead. They began the extensive cleanup. They installed a 55-gallon drum to hold some oil for us temporarily so we could have heat.

(Then the oil pump in the ancient oil furnace went, so now we actually have NO heat, but that's a bit off topic...)

Cut to now, when the extensive, expensive DEP-sanctioned-and-required cleanup has begun. "THEY" have jackhammered down 3 feet into our basement, stacking 8 55-gallon drums of removed soil next to our house. "THEY" are coming next week to do more sub-surface soil sampling. "THEY" think that there was an existing leak before the tank rupture, such is the extent of the damage.

Without going into too much detail, "I" am pretty fucking certain that the previous owners knew and hid it. Oh, and didn't disclose the information, which is required by Massachusetts law. So, yeah, we have an attorney. I think we kind of need a better one, though. Ours is a bit too laid-back. So if you happen to know a real bloodthirsty bulldog of a lawyer who specializes in real estate or environmental law, shoot me an email.

Oh, yeah; and no, insurance doesn't cover it. At least, not till it pollutes everyone else's groundwater and the cleanup gets up above six figures.

So, that's homeownership! My thoughts? DON'T HAVE OIL HEAT.

On a lighter note:

On Sadie:

I need to post more pics! I know! But rest assured that she is still just as cute, except her head tends to be a bit pink from all the Sadie v/s Cat wrestling that occurs in our wildly polluted home. And oh yes, she is just as smart as everyone who acquires a terrier of the Jack Russell variety fears their dog may be. Sean and I firmly believe she stays up late at night plotting how to take over the world, or at least how to build a ladder enabling her to reach the puppy food.

We've discovered a whole new subculture through Sadie. Before, when we went to Sheepfold (the lovely Middlesex Fells unofficial dog park), we would walk around, largely ignored by the many dog owners milling about. Now, we are the popular New Kids, and upon arriving are immediately swarmed. I am considering investing in a t-shirt that reads: "SADIE. JACK RUSSELL. 15 WEEKS", I tire so much of speaking those words. But everyone loves a happy wiggly puppy, and when there are other Jack owners there, we have our Jack Russell clique in the corner. Nyah-nyah!

On Wedding Plans:

We had just really started to get INTO the wedding plans, the plans to scope out sites and such, when the Oil Catastrophe occurred. So for now? Kinda sorta on hold. Sigh. We'll just have to see the degree of bankrupt we become before putting down too many deposits. I hear that Chuck E. Cheese is nice!

On Socks:

I never really wore the fucking things until I moved to Cleveland back in 1998. Yep, in cold climes they do help keep those tootsies warm! But you know what I hate about socks? Really, really loathe? That sock designers are retarded. Seriously. Retarded. Can anyone please explain to me why the sock design is on the TOP part of the sock? The part covered by your pants? Never to be seen until someone like me shows up at your party asking "YOU KNOW WHAT I HATE ABOUT SOCKS?"? The bottom of the sock, the part that actually has a bloody CHANCE of showing, this part tends to be sadly bereft of design. So here I am, in socks with an adorable argyle design on the leg. Am I supposed to be content being the sole person privy to this information? Content in the knowledge that, although no one can SEE it, my socks have a cute design?

On Copying Paige:

Since I want to be just like Paige, I went ahead and arranged for someone to hit MY car, too! Except they didn't hit my mirror, they instead managed to back into my car and knock off the license plate, which they considerately placed on my windshield before driving away. Person who hit my car in such a lame fashion? I hope you get painful pus-filled boils all over your body.

On Addiction:

Sean and I recently began watching our Tivo'ed episodes of Lost. And yeah, it's pretty addictive. And you know what else is addictive? The damn Tivo. I can no longer stand to watch TV realtime. Are you KIDDING me with the commercials?

On The Job:

I was called into my bosses' office yesterday because it had been "brought to her attention" that I took an extra-long lunch one day last week. There was that, for which I apologized profusely, and then the talk of ROI and how The Powers That Be are really, really looking at our program now, and how there are "issues", and blah blah blah blah blah. Yeah, lady. That's it. The reason your program is in the toilet is because of my extra-long lunch that one time. It's not because your scoring mechanism is fucked (which you won't listen to me about), your algorithm is fucked (which you spent a year not listening to me about until an expensive consultant said the SAME FUCKING THING), you are reporting the wrong parameters, and you've been giving me bad data for the whole 2 years I've been here.
It's also not because the other department we rely on couldn't get their shit straight, because you suddenly decided that someone who has no college degree and no clue what they were doing is my immediate supervisor, or because the software you have us using seems like it was designed by a high school student learning how to use Access for the first time.
Furthermore, the reason I can't keep up with the company you used to contract out the the work I'm supposed to do now to has nothing to do with the fact that they had 40+ people doing a job you have 5 doing. Or that you paid them millions of dollars. It's really because of my long lunch that one time.
Oh yeah, and when I show you evidence that I and my cronies are not effective at certain times you want us to be here? And that we could be more effective if you shifted our schedule around? That is because I am lazy and don't want to do my work.
The thing is, my boss (I refuse to call the person who is my supposed immediate supervisor my "boss") is completely not at fault. She's fairly new to come on board, and pretty much does what she is told to do by others. She isn't really familiar with the history of the program. And since I have long since learned to stop sharing my ideas (after the incident where I was disciplined for having ideas), I am not about to let her into the fold.
Say goodbye, program. You are toast. And I will shrug sadly when my talented friends at work end up being laid off because of a few people's inept management.

2005-10-21T15:06:00.000-04:00

More Sadie, More Poncho

Fear the poncho. Fear the Sadie.

2005-10-19T18:37:00.000-04:00

And, Because it Deserves its Own Seperate Post...

Sean and I are getting married!

The answers are:

1. Over Labor Day weekend. Yes, I should have said something sooner. Yes, I suck. Most definitely, I suck.

2. I'm not sure yet. Probably in the spring? It will give us something to do over the long bleak New England winter. And I have zero desire to be planning ANYTHING for a year.

3. Yeah, I mean, I obviously knew it was coming at some point. I mean, we bought a house and all that. I just didn't necessarily expect it right THEN.

4. Well, he had sprained his ankle quite badly, so I guess he was originally going to take me to the Berkshires and do it while hiking, but his gimpy ass was limping around on crutches, so there was none of that. It actually happened when I had just gotten out of the shower. What can I say...? I get naked, they propose.

5. Yes, I do suck. Truly.

All else aside, we are both very happy.

Here is a picture of my head only partly obscured by my hair, gazing over to the precipice of marriage. (Or, actually, a gorge in Vermont.)

2005-10-19T18:21:00.000-04:00

I'm Just Not Feelin' It

So, hi.

It's been awhile.

The crazy thing is, it's not like there is not TONS and even BUTTLOADS of stuff for me to write about. Rest assured, there is. I just, well, don't write about it. Instead, I do things like eat grilled cheese with tomatoes and count down the minutes until my life is over and I no longer have to return to this hellish, misguided place that pays me to sit here in my chair and Not Be Smart.

Yes, it is true. Truly true. Several months back, I was reprimanded for coming up with ideas during a meeting. Then I was reprimanded when the ideas I was reprimanded for coming up for weren't implemented (because of the reprimanding, remember the reprimanding?) and the whole misguided project blew up in everyone's formerly-smug faces. Yes, that would be the same project that I gently suggested would not work as it was intended.

It is awful, just awful; and I am bitter and miserable most of the time. It is more than a bit shitty to be recruited for a high-level position and then watch as people above you who don't know what they are doing sloooowly destroy the program you have worked so hard to build. Fuckers.

But, enough of that. I will find other employ at some point, or at least enough freelance work to make me feel comfortable giving my employer the ol' heave-ho.

In the meantime, here is a picture of Sadie to tide you over:

2005-09-12T20:46:00.000-04:00

Seanie Loves Sadie

2005-09-08T22:18:00.000-04:00

One More Thing or Listen to Your Mother

We picked up Sadie from the airport today with much fanfare and camera flashing. Such a teenie wee thing! We heading home with the throngs of rush-hour commuters, crawling up I-93 at 5pm.

At last, we eased the car into a parking space in front of our house. Sean offered to gather the rest of the Sadie-gear from the car while I took her for a quick walk and then got her settled inside. I set her in the back yard, where our neighbor Sandra watched. "Do you smell gas?" I asked her.

"Yeah, I do," she replied, "Yuck."

By now, Sean was coming up the sidewalk. "Honey?" I implored, "Do you smell gas?"

"Yeah", he sighed. "I'll go in and check there."

I paid little attention to that and turned back the the teenie puppy and her teenie puppy stumbling. By now, Sandra had scooped her up and was being accosted by puppy tongue-swipes. I almost didn't look up when Sean burst back outside.

"The house is FULL of gas!" he yelled. "A gas line snapped and is WIDE OPEN. The house is FULL of it!"

Well, really, Fuck.

I must interrupt my own retelling of this occurence to mention that our plumber friend Dave just last week was good enough to swing by and hook up our sexy new clothes dryer, and did a fab job I must add. Just last week! We were just freaking THRILLED to no longer have to drape wet clothes all around the house after running a load of wash.

Anyway. House. FULL of gas.

Apparently, our washing machine had become a little too, shall we say, enthusiastic in its spin cycling and thrown the dryer clear off the platform. (Please note that nothing like this ever occurred before, when the dryer was just sitting there unhooked-up and useless.) As it fell the inches to the basement floor, the injured dryer snapped its own gas umbilicus, leaving a gaping gas line to leak gas into the house for however long (One hour? Two? Three?) it was.

Sean called the gas company, who dispatched someone immediately but did not call the fire department (which, according to the technician, probably should have been done...). He then covered his nose and mouth and climbed back into the basement to retrieve the cat's kennels, so we could get them the fuck out of there.

The technician arrived, went down into the basement, and promptly shattered and knocked all of the glass out of our sealed basement windows with her wrench. "You have explosive levels of gas in here.", she stated calmly. "Stay outside. Are all of your pets out here? Yeah? Ok. Stay out here, and do not turn on any lights or touch any electric appliances. DO NOT."

Sean looked at me. "That was the first thing I did when I went downstairs," he said gravely, "I didn't even think about it."

After a few hours of hanging out in our overgrown yard with our new puppy becoming increasingly confused and our cats becoming increasingly irritated, the technician tested again and deemed the levels "safe" once more. We're now all back to (almost) normal, though the gas is still off till another technician comes tomorrow to check things out further.

It's been a very sobering experience, however. Sean's finger flipped that switch in the Basement of Doom, but it happened to be a humid summer day. I almost didn't buy 2 cat kennels, but I decided it would be best to have one for each cat, in case there was some sort of emergency. We sometimes leave the house and are gone for hours and hours--we could easily have been in that situation tonight. It just happened that we were picking up the puppy and wanted to get her home to settle in.

But nothing terrible happened. We're fortunate.

And now, I know that this must be why my mom always said not to run the washing machine when you're not home. Fucking ay, Mom. I totally get it now.

2005-09-01T13:13:00.000-04:00

It's Not Just Riots

Television and radio media just plain sucks. Yes, I understand that reporting on little else except for the "riots" and "unrest" and "marshall law being declared" serves to psychologically seperate you from this disaster. I know that you want to make sure we all understand how different "they" must be from us, how deserving they must be of this tragedy. But frankly, fuck you. I call bullshit.

Ignore CNN. Ignore NBC. Ignore CBS. The real news can be found at:

www.nola.com

The I Survived Katrina Connection

www.redcross.org

Incidentally, at that last one, you can also donate to the relief fund.

If you live in the Boston area, your home Red Cross is:

www.bostonredcross.org

They are looking for healthy volunteers who can spare at least 2 weeks, and scads and scads of cash. Please help.

Talk of the president spending his time vacationing and not deploying personnel in time shall be postponed until such time as I am again able to think of it without risking brain implosion. Oh, also, talk of the president's upcoming party that will take up money and personnel shall be postponed as well.

2005-08-24T13:25:00.000-04:00

Confession

While in Florida, land of the infamous highway A1A, I belted out more than once:

"A1A, BEACHFRONT AVENUE!
Girls were hot, wearin' less than bikinis
Rockman lovers driving Lamborghinis
JEALOUS 'cause I'm out getting mine
Shay with a guage and Vanilla with a nine..."

I'll spare you the rest. I'm outta here. Word to your mutha.

2005-08-22T22:21:00.000-04:00

The Good, the Bad, the Indescribably Cute

We're back from Florida and I don't feel like talking about it. The trip can be summed up, in essence, by this conversational exerpt that occurred just as we were driving off in our rental car after arriving:

SEAN: *smacks forehead* SHIT!

REDPANDA: (alarmed) What? What is it?

SEAN: I forgot the keys to the condo!

REDPANDA: You....what?

SEAN: The keys! I don't have them. They're in Boston still.

REDPANDA: (long pause) Does...anyone here...have them?

SEAN: No. The guy who does is away on vacation.

Yes, yes, gentle reader; I am aware that locksmiths can be called. Indeed, locksmiths were called. But that is not really the point. The point is that 2 days were lost to exhausting every other option and then seeking a locksmith who would open a condo we, wait for it, DO NOT OWN for us. Well, actually, I think there is a slip of paper that indicates Sean owns it. That slip of paper, of course, is in BOSTON.

That was the bad.

The Good and the Indescribably Cute are this: We have decided to announce that there is an impending addition to our little family. Meet Sadie.

Sadie is too little to come home to live just yet. She is expected to arrive sometime around September 8th. Also, she has the honor of being the very first Well-Red image.

2005-08-17T17:55:00.000-04:00

Allercold Brought Reinforcements

Like, his good friend Walking Pneumonia. Yippee! I do nothing halfway.

Hopefully the Zithromax the nice doctor gave me will kick some butt somewhere along the lines. Unless, of course, this whole thing is viral. Then, all you can do is say "Fucking Virus!" and sniff in annoyance.

The good part of all this is that I was here today for the delivery of our new "server". Having spent as many years as I did living entirely off of tips, I of course half-expected the delivery guys to bring someone bedecked in flair wielding a beverage tray. But no, it was a piece of furniture, just as we had ordered. It almost but not quite matches our lovely new dining room set, which is fine by me. I have never been a fan of the matchy-matchy sets. "Go", but don't "match".

Now, we just have to assemble our kitchen island (The one that I for some reason assumed came already assembled. Is that too damn much to ask? Four hundred bucks and you send me a box of fucking wood pieces? What am I, a puzzle enthusiast?) and we can do away with a good portion of the boxes that are still scattered around our downstairs. And do you know what that means? That means PAINTING TIME, baby! (Alayna--that last sentence was for YOU!)

So, we're leaving for the Boca-est of Ratons again tomorrow. I'm rather enthused about flying Song for the first time--legend (and Sean) has it that there is some sort of trivia game on every TV monitor. I am quite certain that there will be a high-stakes game of trivia going down tomorrow morning. One can only speculate as to the result.

2005-08-15T11:24:00.000-04:00

Breaking the Unofficial Hiatus

...On careers
I hate my fucking job. Have I said that lately? Hate. Fucking. Job. Maybe I'll type that a time too many and get canned, leaving me to sue and/or collect unemployment. Yay!
Why, do you ask? Well, let's just say I'm sick to death of putting forth new ideas, only to have them shot down until months later, an expensive consultant comes and puts forth the same "new" ideas; which are then implemented post-haste.
Never fear, I shan't really quit or get fired. I shall type away like a monkey on my keyboard until I can be bothered to find new employment.

...On tax-free shopping
Yes, I jumped on the bandwagon on Saturday and now have a new buffet (which will be delivered Wednesday) and a new toy, complete with second free new toy, to show for it. I pretty much rule now.

...On health
We ran around like recently-beheaded chickens getting new toys on Saturday for the EXPRESS PURPOSE of thereby freeing up our Sunday for BBQ and NASCAR. This was, in its very essence, a great plan. However, it was intercepted by Evil Allercold, the Destroyer of Clear Nasal Passages. I have been gasping and sniffling miserably from the couch all Sunday and Monday long. Damn you, Allercold! Are you an allergy? Are you a cold? Who knows? I loathe you all the same!

...On disappearing weekends
If it weren't enough that half my past weekend was revoked by Evil Allercold, the impending weekend is to be taken up entirely by Floridaness. This sounds fun in theory, but in practice entails the cleaning, scrubbing, and packing up of Sean's recently departed father's condo. This is just one of the many Things That Must Be Done that they don't warn you about when you are handed your "I'm Now a Grown-Up" button. So be forewarned: not only does it suck in general to lose people you love, but you will have to go through their stuff, pay their outstanding debts, and generally box everything up. This probably seems obvious, but the minutea of it had escaped me somehow before. My bad.

...On homeownership
The boxes? They are still everywhere. Hopefully the arrival of the buffet will give me a place to put some of the things currently in boxes. And one day, we assume that the upstairs of our house will be cool enough to be in for long enough to sort out. Also, we still have to paint. And have our oil heat converted to gas. And regrade one side of the house. And plug up the hole in the attic where the squirrels come in. And replace half the roof. And repoint the foundation bricks. And replace the bulkhead. And...and...and...

...On more homeownership
A big giant CONGRATS to my good friends Paige (who has a blog that I would link to if I could ever seem to get around to asking her if I may...) and Theron, who just signed the P & S (I like to say it really fast so it sounds like I'm saying "penis") on their condo-to-be last week. It's a great-looking place, and best of all just a scant 3.8 miles from ours. Guys? Can I borrow a cup of sugar? :)

And now, let it be known that both my stomach and head ache, and I wish I had some saltines.

2005-07-27T22:34:00.000-04:00

In Memoriam

Sean's father passed away on Sunday.

Jack was a bear of a man with an ever-present gleam of mischief in his eyes and an easy smile. He never failed to charm and delight, and the world is a bit smaller without him in it.

Please keep him and those who knew him in your thoughts.

Be well.

2005-06-29T17:00:00.000-04:00

Soy Sauce.

Since buying a home, we are trying to operate under the "Lots of Crap is Going to Go Way, Waaay Wrong" principle, or LOCIGTGWWW for short. This seems the smart way to go. The thing is, the stuff that tends to go wrong tends to be stuff no one would ever in a bazillion years have come up with as a Potential Thing to Go Way, Waay Wrong. So, really, in some wacky alternative universe, one could say that we have been enjoying Surprise after Surprise. Whee! Surprise! Whee!

Bah.

Lat Thursday night, we were rushing around our old apartment like the proverbial beheaded chickens in an attempt to get all the crap Sean left in it OUT and get it cleaned up in time to perhaps get a refund of a week's rent. (As our fellow Bostonians can likely attest, this is HUNDREDS of dollars and totally worth a good amount of effort!) When it became obvious that there was no earthly way that this would be accomplished in a single evening, Sean relented and made the decision to take part of the next day off in order to help me finish the job. We would get it all finished up in the morning, then he would head off to work for a few hours before we had to catch our flight to Maryland for my family reunion. Stellar plan! Right?

Enter our good friend the LOCIGTGWWW principle.

After a busy morning of scrubbing interspersed with many, many trips up and down approximately 34 flights of stairs to load items into our trusty VW's, Gunther and Gustav; we were finally nearing completion. Sean and I were making the second-to-last trip downstairs from our sparkling clean ex-apartment when It happened.

I was carrying a bucket, a mop, and a brand-new half-gallon container of Kikkomen Light Soy Sauce (Sean really likes his sticky rice). Somehow, negotiating the stairs must have become too much for the little bit of coordination my limbs possess. The bucket tipped and the soy sauce flew through the air; gracefully tumbling over and over until it landed, conveniently enough, on the landing.

Sean holds that it sounded sort of like this: "CRASH! CRASH! Glugglugglugglugglug"

Soy Sauce. Oh, the soy sauce. You have never seen such soy sauce. There was soy sauce on the ceiling, on the walls, on the neighbors' cooler and fishing rods. There was soy sauce on the windowsill, on the porch, on the radiator. It coursed down the stairs, puddled on the floor, ran down the walls in great brown rivulets. It was a sight to behold. I can liken it only to the bloody walls scene in The Shining. Except, you know, much more Asian in nature. Although those little girls from The Shining do sort of remind me of the little girls from Mothra.

To his credit, Sean laughed good-naturedly for a good ten minutes before we set about scrubbing the floors and walls till the paint was coming off and repositioning itself elsewhere. So then we had to clean that up, too.

For the record, he did not make it to work that day. And we did make our flight, just barely. And as for whether or not you can still smell the soy sauce? I'm not entirely sure.

2005-06-23T10:21:00.000-04:00

Rough Morning

Scene 1: New House Dining Room

SEAN enters the dining room where REDPANDA sits at the table drinking coffee. SEAN is looking very forlorn and is wearing only a T-shirt.

REDPANDA: "Honey...what's wrong?"

SEAN: (*sighs*) "I can't find my glasses. Or my pants."

REDPANDA: Laughs so hard coffee comes out nose

End Scene 1

Scene 2: New House Kitchen

REDPANDA enters the kitchen where SEAN is getting a glass of water. SEAN has just been watching a Tivo'ed episode of The Daily Show.

SEAN: "Omigod. This was SO FUNNY. Listen to what happened on The Daily Show."

REDPANDA: (*grinning*) "What?"

SEAN: "Well, there was this whole thing about the Republicans shutting the Democrats out of the Congressional Hearings. So they had to set up in a basement somewhere, with folding chairs! Anyway, they are showing all this, and then they focus in on this woman, and she is breastfeeding. I mean, you know I support a woman's right to breastfeed, but still! It was a Congressional Hearing!"

REDPANDA: *blinks* "So, what was funny, exactly...?"

SEAN: "She was breastfeeding!"

REDPANDA: (*Getting annoyed*) "Well, her right to do so is protected by law..."

SEAN: "Yeah, but isn't that kind of...unprofessional? In a Congressional Hearing?"

REDPANDA: "Look, I'm getting angry. What is the big deal? She was FEEDING her BABY. How is that funny?"

SEAN: "She was BREASTFEEDING."

REDPANDA: "I get it. I know your knee-jerk reaction is to be amused. But for crying out loud, she was doing what was BEST FOR HER BABY. Would you be laughing if she had pulled out a bottle? Would it even have made The Daily Show?"

SEAN: "You take things too seriously."

REDPANDA: "You don't take things seriously enough. Now the freaking Daily Show is half-assedly putting down breastfeeding? Are you kidding me?!?"

SEAN: *storms out of room in a huff*

REDPANDA: *wishes she could storm out of room in a huff but has to stay in room to cut up strawberries instead*

End Scene 2

Scene 3: Inside REDPANDA'S car.

*Cellphone rings*

REDPANDA digs around for cell, shifting and braking the entire time, nearly missing a suddenly stopping car. She finds it, snaps it open, and holds it to her ear.

REDPANDA: "HELLO? HELLO? WHAT? WHAT?"

CELLPHONE: *Silence*

REDPANDA throws phone back onto passenger seat and exits rotary onto highway.

*Cellphone rings again*

REDPANDA: "HELLOOOOOO?"

CELLPHONE: *Silence*

REDPANDA calls last incoming number. It is SEAN'S cellphone. SEAN answers.

SEAN: "Hello?"

REDPANDA: "Hey. What's up?"

SEAN: "I have a flat tire."

REDPANDA: "What? You do? How?"

SEAN: "I dunno. Maybe I ran against the curb? It's a big hole in the side. Where are you?"

REDPANDA: "I'm on the highway. Sorry."

SEAN: "S'ok."

REDPANDA: "Go catch the bus. There were people waiting when I went past."

SEAN: "Yeah, Ok. I'll go do that."

End Scene 3

We can only conclude from this performance that SEAN would have been better off staying in bed and fondling his lamp today.

2005-06-22T10:27:00.000-04:00

WE MUST PROTECT THE ONIONS!

While driving through the I-93 South tunnel on the way to work yesterday, I saw a couple of police cars with the slow flashing lights that usually mean they are escorting someone. From what I could see, it was a huge semi. Geez, I wondered, I wonder what that semi is carrying? Must be some sort of hazardous material.... As I approached, I could see that the cargo space was just loaded with piles and piles of something. What could it be? I craned my neck to see as I approached, hoping for a glimpse of the scary hazardous material that demanded not one, but two police escorts. As I finally zipped past, I saw the deadly cargo....onions. Bag after red net bag of giant head-sized onions. I never knew that onions were such an onery vegetable that a police escort (or two) is required to ensure their safety. Live and learn.

The boxes are slowly, sloooooowly dissipating. Slowly. The boxes. There are still so many of them. In the words of one of our gazillion-dollar movers: "You guys have a lot of stuff!". Yes, we suffer from the deadly yuppie disease of Stuff Collection. It is true. If I had my druthers (what exactly is a druther?), I would own every vase Crate and Barrel has ever offered. Yes, I know that they are re-released every year in "new colors" when it's just the same old vase. I don't care. I want all the colors. I want melon, salmon, orange, and pink. I want aqua as well as turquoise and sky and teal.

Our new dining room table from Jordan's arrived yesterday morning. This is the dining room table we have had unending dreams and fantasies about since we first glimpsed it, but put off buying until we "owned a house". Well, we went out on the evening of the closing with a "today is The Day!" kind of attitude and bought it. It is a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, the thing I didn't take into consideration is that Jordan's is, well, rather large. Our dining room, not so much. So the table that looked regular sized in the showroom looks, well, friggin' ENORMOUS in our dining room. If we keep the built-in leaf tucked away and seat it as a rectangular-shaped 6-seater it works, but if we make it a giant sqare 8-seater (which is why we fell in love with the thing in the first place), it looks silly. I nearly wept. Maybe it will be better when the boxes dissipate further. But I fear that our dining room will look disappointingly like a Van Gogh.

When the alarm bleated us awake this morning, I promptly rolled over and hit the "snooze" button. Sean, on the other hand, began earnestly fondling our lamp, as if it and not the clock radio were the offending item; and furthermore as if fondling an offending item rather than slapping it were the "correct" response. This caused me to cackle like a crone and declare him a "Lamp Fondler". He is, you know. He fondles lamps.

Since we don't have nearly enough to do at home this weekend, we thought it would be a good idea to leave town. So we're leaving town. Actually, it's a case of Super Lousy Timing, but my family reunion is this weekend, and I desperately wanted to go; house or no house. It's one of the few times that I actually get to see members of my family who have chosen in-laws as their holiday stops (bastards!). Plus, my cousin who lives on a sailboat in the Caribbean will actually be there. And let it be said that if I lived on a sailboat in the Caribbean, I would be in rural Maryland about as often as she is, which is to say pretty freaking rarely. So, in essence, we will spend the weekend feasting on such southern delicacies as Watergate Salad and Kentucky Fried Chicken. And I will come back with an accent. This is nearly unavoidable.

Let it be noted that I probably misspelled "onery" when referring to the mighty onion as an "onery" vegetable. However, spellcheck's best offered solution was to replace "onery" with "Henry". Fuck you, spellcheck.

2005-06-17T13:46:00.000-04:00

24 Hours of Closing Day Fun

...A Timeline of Magical Events...

Wednesday, June 15th (The day before Closing Day)

8:45 pm - Redpanda and Sean decide to procrastinate all packing, subvert all stress, and go see a movie. High Tension is playing.

9:05 pm - In the car en route to movie, Sean's cellphone rings. It's Redpanda and Sean's attorney, Good Lawyer, calling to inform them that he had just received messages from people on the west coast saying that all was in place to close on Friday! Redpanda's eyes grow to the size of saucers. Sean pats her knee reassuringly.

11:05 pm - Sean and Redpanda leave High Tension. Overcome with stress and gore, Redpanda weeps most of the way home. Sean pats her knee sympathetically.

12:00 am - Sleep, glorious sleep.

6:35 am - Mathilda begins her morning ritual of Stomping on Redpanda's Bladder While Licking any Exposed Redpanda Parts. Redpanda rolls onto her side and goes back to sleep.

7:35 am - Tivy begins his morning ritual of Jumping on the Bed and Staring Until Sleepers Become Creeped Out and Fill Dish. Redpanda rolls the other way and ignores him.

8:45 am - Redpanda nudges Sean. Reluctantly, the two clamber out of bed.

9:00 am - Sean begins calling All The Powers That Be.

9:10 am - Snag #1. Power That Be the Provider of Money is complaining that Power That Be the Provider of Insurance has not worded Important Things correctly. Sean hurriedly calls Insurance Power and indicates such.

9:11 am - Sean is assured by Power of Insurance that all is rectified and will be faxed presently. He sighs with relief.

10:00 am - Power of Money calls to indicate that Power of Insurance is a stupidhead and still did not say his name right. Sean calls Power of Insurance and goes over problem again. Power of Insurance assures him that they will immediately rectify situation. Sean brushes his hands together proudly in jubilant dismissal.

10:35 am - Power of Money calls to inform Sean that Power of Insurance is not his friend anymore because he still is not saying his name right. Sean calls Power of Insurance, and, speaking in progressively slower and slower sentences, explains exactly What the Fuck is needed. Power of Insurance nods gamely.

11:00 am - Redpanda and Sean meet Sexist Realtor (Did I forget to tell you THAT story?) at New House To Be for Official Walk-Through. They see that the deck is finished, as agreed. Yay! All will surely be well!

11:01 am - Sean looks under the deck and sees that there is still approximately 27 tons of concrete debris under deck, which was supposed to be removed. Redpanda sighs and indicates that he should take a picture of it.

11:15 am - Sean realizes he has forgotten the pliers he needs to get into the attic and ensure that Stormy did not flood said attic. Redpanda drives home to retrieve them.

11:30 am - Stormy seems to have spared the attic. Redpanda and Sean head home while Sexist Realtor begins frantically making phone calls.

11:40 am - Redpanda and Sean arrive home. Power of Money calls again to say that they think Power of Insurance might be their best friend again. Good Lawyer calls to say that he is running around doing things. Sean tells him about the 27 tons of concrete. Good Lawyer says: "Shit."

11:45 am - Redpanda begins drinking Butterscotch Schnapps.

12:00 pm - Redpanda and Sean leave for the Gas Station (to get gas), the Bank (to get cashiers' checks) and the Middlesex Court House (to get a house).

12:55 pm - Redpanda and Sean arrive at Middlesex Court House and immediately begin signing things.

1:00 pm - It is noticed that, on more than half of the mortgage documents, Sean is referred to not by his first and last names, but by: "Sean Sean". Redpanda suggests that he needs to explore a career in hip hop and perhaps his own clothing line.

1:10 pm - Redpanda and Sean sit down to a round table with 7 other people. They sign more things.

1:15 pm - Someone brings up the 27 tons of concrete. The sellers' attorney, Evil Slimy Fat Lawyer of Doom, acts as if this is a rhetorical issue. He continues to do so until Sean pulls out Knife the Mac, who has a series of photos of 27 tons of concrete. Evil Lawyer seems flustered and pulls out copy of signed contract. Signed contract states: "Contingent upon removal of all debris, including construction debris under deck, without limitation." He concedes that this is pretty clear-cut. All nine people begin to speak about the 27 tons of concrete.

1:20 pm - Bucktoothed Seller #1 says that "the deck cost them a lot more than they thought it would". Redpanda struggles to keep from strangling her with her own teeth while coming up with a nice way of saying "That is not our fucking problem, whore."

1:25 pm - Bucktoothed Seller #2 (I swear to you, they were brother and sister and should not be procreating!) says that he "already conceded $3500 and is not willing to concede any more". Redpanda begins entertaining fantasies of his head on a spike, Braveheart-style. She smiles indulgently and tries to find a nice way of saying "Do you want a fucking cookie, fucktard? That is SO NOT THE POINT. YOU SIGNED A FUCKING CONTRACT." Her voice is shaking so she does not make head on a spike fantasy a reality.

1:26 pm - Sensing danger, Sexist Realtor leads Redpanda and Sean to a corner away from the table. Redpanda immediately commences with Crazy Insane Arm-Flapping of Anger. She explains that she would like to walk away now and not buy Bucktoothed Sellers #'s 1 and 2's house. Sean and Sexist Realtor smile indulgently until she stops. Then, they lead her back to the table, where Sexist Realtor says: "We'll proceed." Redpanda's head on a spike fantasies grow more vivid. Also, many more papers are signed. Many of them say: "Sean Sean".

1:40 pm - Evil Slimy Fat Lawyer of Doom is making small talk with the sellers and laughing jovially. Redpanda hopes he dies.

2:00 pm - Bucktoothed Sellers shake hands and leave. Redpanda wishes that she had poison fingers.

2:05 pm - Evil Slimy Fat Lawyer of Doom leaves, as well. Redpanda considers following him and pushing him down the stairs. But there are more papers to sign.

2:10 pm - Good Lawyer jumps up to file the Deed with the Registry of Deeds, conveniently located directly behind the table.

2:15 pm - Sexist Realtor and Bucktoothed Sellers' Realtor begin talking and laughing about how the sellers completely had not lived up to their end of the contract. So obvious! Ha ha! Ha ha! Hi-fucking-larious! Redpanda ponders that in her next life, it might be fun to be a carrion bird and pluck their flesh from their bones.

2:35pm - Good Lawyer returns with the Deed. Redpanda and Sean now own the house! As well as a 27 ton pile of concrete.

3:00 pm - On the drive home, Redpanda admits to Sean that she finally conceded and didn't force the concrete issue because she realizes that the Sellers need the money for dental work. Sean laughs maniacly.

6:35 pm - Hot Monkey Sex on floor of new house.

7:30 pm - Sushi Boat is ordered.

8:15 pm - More sushi is ordered.

The End.

Until the rest.

2005-06-15T12:19:00.000-04:00

In Closing...

Everyone keeps asking me when our closing is. See, that's the thing. You are supposed to know when your closing is. It is rather important within all the Homebuying Rigamorole to actually be able to show up for your closing. And in order to do that, you should know when your closing IS.

I think ours is tomorrow. But no one really seems to be ENTIRELY certain. As of Monday, it could have been Tuesday. As of the previous Friday, it could have been Friday. But then it couldn't be Friday, so it had to be Tuesday or Thursday.

Did I mention that the movers are coming on Saturday? And that the carpenter is coming on Friday to fix the steps so the movers won't fall through them on Saturday?

Sigh. Can someone remind me why we were buying a house, again?

I think it was mostly because we like all the cardboard boxes.

2005-06-03T11:08:00.000-04:00

I Don't Feel Like Titling This. Why Don't You?

Back from New Orleans and I miss it already. Living in Boston, I keep forgetting how nice and friendly people are in "other" places. Plus there aren't 3 kinds of hot sauce on the table in any restaurant we frequent here. And here, there should be. We had a delightful time, lots of walking and walking and walking followed by eating and hitting the hot tub, which was followed by drinking and debauchery. But really, when isn't my life chock full of debauchery? Really, I try to engage in Purposeful Debauchery whenever possible.

We did get a chance to hit Nola, the French Quarter version of Emeril's epicurean empire. (Check me out! I'm all alliteratin' all over the place!) It was quite good, lovely food and excellent service without the pretention that usually accompanies lovely food and excellent service. Also, they had cake.

Sean is due to arrive back in the northeast this afternoon, at which time I will commence holding him hostage for a weekend of packing. It seems that we are buying a house in 2 weeks, give or take. And with the buying of the house, it occurs to me, comes the actual moving into the house. This had somehow escaped me until recently. (You mean, not only do I have to BUY and FINANCE and INSURE the damn thing, but I have to get my possessions there as well!? You have GOT to be kidding me.) This is sad because it means yet another weekend swirling away when we are already beginning to feel that we haven't seen much of our friends lately. (Hey, R-Dubs and Alayna--we miss you!) Although, it must be said that I did get a quick Theron fix the other day when he picked my sorry ass up at the airport and chauffeured me back to my apartment. (I rubbed against him to pick up a bit of essence d'Paige and Sylvie.)

Allright, pretties, that's as creative as it gets today.

2005-05-25T10:39:00.000-04:00

Autumn is My Favorite Season

That's why I'm so thrilled that we're starting it in May this year! Behold, the roaring wind! The driving rain! The temperatures in the mid-40's! It's enough to make me want to begin selecting my Halloween pumpkins! And geez, it's time to get a jump on that holiday shopping!

Rain used to be a minor annoyance. Now we are buying a house. Since we don't actually live in said house yet, I am forced to sit here and form mental images of all the damage this storm (let's call him Stormy) is doing to my future abode. Stormy is tearing the shingles from the roof. (Especially from the "right side" of the roof that is not "new" as was advertised, but 30. Freaking. Years. Old.) Stormy is dumping gallons of rain through the gaping hole by the chimney where some asshat didn't install flashing. Stormy is flooding the basement through the ancient, decrepit, leaky bulkhead. Stormy is seeping into the foundation on the side of the house where the soil is graded the wrong direction. Stormy is laughing at the lack of gutters as he pummels the house, feeling nothing but mirth as the soil around the foundation erodes. Stormy has driven all the neighborhood rodents to seek refuge in my attic, where they enter through the hole left by a missing piece of fascia.

Are we in a floodplain? My house is floating away! I just KNOW IT!!! Does our contract include a contingency for Floating the Fuck Away?!?

The main benefit of renting is, I now realize, Not Having to Give a Fuck.

I now am forced to Give a Fuck. Dammit, flippantness! I liked you!

We are still set to close on June 15th. I think most of our T's are crossed and our I's dotted. Mr. Mortgage Man still has to send out his appraiser, which probably is occurring right now as the rodents do the jitterbug in the attic while the house Floats the Fuck Away. Aside from that, there is nothing to do but pack up all we own in the world, buy some homeowners' insurance, find movers, sign our lives away, pay the attorney, pay the taxes, pay the closing costs, pay the interest on the mortgage(s), pay the carpenter to come out and fix the step, pay numerous other people to come out and fix numerous other things, and smile with the Joy of Homeownership.

Heh.

We're heading off this weekend to someplace that is actually the temperature it is supposed to be right now, New Orleans. Sean has a Red Hat conference next week, so I convinced him to go down early, take me along, and enjoy all the Big Easy has to offer before I head back home and he has to "settle down and work" (quotes intended). We're staying in a B & B in the neighborhood of Faubourg Marigny, the hip little sister of the French Quarter. So, I am attempting to be psyched for that as I battle my "spring" (quotes intended) cold and try to envision a place where my summer clothes will be comfortable and not ridiculous.

I love New Orleans, so I'm thrilled to have an excuse to go. It will be interesting to go there as a "grown up" (or, at least, a non-college-student), and as a non-vegetarian. Oh, the muffalettas I missed out on before! The beads I will be missing out on now! I will have some jambalaya and a Hurricane for each of you.

2005-05-23T13:41:00.000-04:00

Things That are Irritating

1. It is freaking 50-something degrees today. It is late May. This should not be. But what is even more annoying than that is that, when talk of the weather comes up and everyone begins complaining in unison, without fail some asshat pipes up smugly: "Just wait till this summer. You'll be complaining about how hot it is."
No, Asshat, I will not. It just doesn't get that hot here. I grew up where summer meant 90-degree temperatures with 90-degree humidity. Where you sucked water vapor into your lungs in the summer instead of air, and the mosquitoes swarmed thick and ruthless around your head if you dared to venture outside. Where the poison ivy grew thick and lush and rich, choking the trees and underbrush. Where it was so hot in the spring that creeks ran dry despite the rain, the tadpoles flopping miserably in the thickened mud. Boston summers pale in comparison. I have yet to complain about the "heat" in Boston. Heat?! Tee-hee!

2. They are talking of banning Oxycontin sales in Massachusetts. One reason given for this was that, and I quote: "Oxycontin use leads to heroin use.". Err...sure.

It irritates the fuck out of me when people A) Make stupid generalizations, and B) Incorrectly report scientific data. Have studies shown that a large number of people who use oxycontin went on to use heroine? Than the correct way to report that is "Studies have shown that a large number of oxycontin users went on to use heroin." I despise journalist rifraff reporting a cause-an-effect relationship where there is none. It reminds me of the example a professor gave, waaaay back in undergrad. Do you know that there are three months of the year where both car accidents AND ice cream sales skyrocket? So, of course; that means ice cream causes car accidents. The fact that both of these things happen in the summer has nothing to do with it, right?

I digress. Why that report REALLY pissed me off was the simple reason that it takes responsibility out of the users' hands. Oh, I see, oxycontin use LEADS to heroin use. There were no decisions made there along the way by the users. They couldn't help themselves! They were LED!

Please. This is right up there with people stating that marijuana is some sort of "gateway drug". What crap. It's amazing that people don't stop to think that maybe, just maybe, there are certain people who are more likely to become heavy drug users. Is it unsurprising that they would start with something a bit lighter, like, say, marijuana? I say, NO. But to imply that one thing leads to another is absurd.

Relation is not causation, people!

I now return you to your regularly scheduled NON-angsty web surfing. Thank you.

2005-05-15T17:11:00.000-04:00

Conversation

Sean: I can't believe they countered $1500.

Redpanda: I know. Effed up.

Sean: I mean, $1500?!? At least meet us halfway, you know?

Redpanda: So, what do you want to do? Counter their counter or stand firm?

Sean: I dunno. I'm really pissed off.

Redpanda: I know. But is it really worth it to lose a place we like over a few grand? I mean, that's like 1% of the price or something.

Sean: (sniffs) I guess. It really pisses me off, though.

Redpanda: So do you want to stand firm?

Sean: I want to tell him that if he doesn't accept this offer I'm going to scoop out his eyes with a melon baller and skull-fuck him.

Redpanda: *Pause*.

Redpanda: I don't know if you should play with Moglia anymore.

Sean: Nah, baby, that was all me.

2005-05-10T11:18:00.000-04:00

So Much To Say So Much To Say So Much To Say So Much To Say...

Sorry. I am lazy. Too lazy to update, apparently. And there have been actual, exciting, interesting things to write about. I just...didn't. Mea culpa.

One of the biggest excitingest things that has occurred is that, for all practical purposes, our House-Hunting Obsession is over. In its place we have squarely placed the Getting Through the Closing Obsession. This is because, ladies and gents, we made an offer on a dwelling this past Saturday afternoon, and the nice sellers saw fit to accept it. Whee!

Little did I realize that the complicated part was just beginning. I had skipped over all the Making an Offer and Choosing an Inspector and Closing the Deal sections in all of our homebuying reference books. (Note to self--this is a stupid, stupid idea. Read ALL the friggin sections so you are aware that you need an UNGODLY sum of money in time to sign the P & S and cannot just put it all off till the closing date.)

So now, we have to wade through all the complicated legalities of transferring property from one owner to another. I am convinced that I should be entitled to Homebuying Leave--how else can we EVER get this all done?

But, yeah! Very exciting! Hopefully nothing will get in the way. The inspection is tomorrow, so I fully expect Mr. Inspector Guy to pull apart our 115-year-old (soon-to-be) home and find nothing but perfection. He hee.

Ok, more to follow. But for the record, I updated!!!

2005-04-14T17:37:00.000-04:00

thirtysomething

....as of tomorrow. Me. Yeah. Well, not so much the "something" part. Me. Yeah.

Can ya'll believe that shit?!?

Can I get a shout-out to my birthday buddies, Moglia and Stumpy? Happy birthday, boys!

2005-04-05T12:46:00.000-04:00

Punk Rock Is Dead.

Conversation:

Sean: So, yeah; Gene Simmons really gave it to Billy Joe. He said (affecting a Gene Simmons-esque voice): "You are a pop band, Billy Joe...."

Redpanda: Whatever. Like what Gene Simmons says means anything.

Sean: GENE SIMMONS! Of KISS!!!

Redpanda: Please. Kiss is a mediocre band at best. A bunch of guys who have to use makeup to distract us from the mediocrity of their music.

Sean: Well, yeah, I'm not saying that their music wasn't mediocre. But they were responsible for the entire glam movement of the 70's...they were the start of a movement.

Redpanda: Like Green Day wasn't responsible for the starting of a movement? How many bands ripped off their sound?

Sean: That doesn't make them punk! Punk is the Ramones! Punk is the Sex Pistols!

Redpanda: Yeah, Sex Pistols, Dead Kennedys, fine. The Ramones?!? No way. They may say that they're punk, but I disagree. They're hard rock at best.

Sean: THE RAMONES?!? THE RAMONES ARE A PUNK BAND!!!

Redpanda: Nope. I say they're hard rock. Besides, Green Day is an example of the evolution of a style of music. They may not be "old school" punk, but they are an example of how music evolves. Think of rap and R & B that's out now? It sounds nothing like the old-school stuff of the 80's. It all eventually evolves to become more appealing to the masses.

Sean: THE RAMONES ARE PUNK!!!

Redpanda (annoyed): So how come you can decide that the Ramones are punk, and that's gospel, but I or Billy Joe can't decide that Green Day is punk as well?

Sean (thoughtfully): Well, I think that the thing you're not considering is that you are WRONG.

2005-03-28T11:22:00.000-05:00

This is Terribly Inconvenient

I am such an ass.

All winter long, everything is iced over. I slip! And slip! And slip! But I always manage to regain my balance and plod on, if a bit steadily.

Today, during the first episode of SPRING precipitation (READ: RAIN) I manage to become a weather-related casualty. That's right, I slipped on my painted wooden front steps and landed smack dab on my brick walkway--on my knees! Brilliant.

My skirt? Just a wee damp spot. My tights? Unscathed. My knees? One is fine, one seems to be Royally Fucked Up.

This is, in part, because I decided that the Best Thing For Me To Do would be to (that is, after I writhed in pain for a time) would be for me to get in my car and drive to work! Sure! It seemed to make much more sense to me at the time than navigating my way back to my 3rd floor apartment. Which, in retrospect, seems like a very good reason NOT to get in my car and drive to work. But I did!

I work with a ton of people who are both nurses and mamas. Suffice to say I have a giant bag of ice on my (elevated atop of a recycling bin) knee and stern threats to "stay off of it!!!".

Now, it is time to go to the hospital. You see, my regular doctor is on Milk St. I'd like to see any of you navigate your way to Milk St. with an injured knee. The hospital you can GET to.

But.

There's always a but.

But, I am in Quincy. With Gustav the 5-speed BeetleBugCar. Sean is downtown. With nada. Because he took the T like a good commuter.

Sean does not drive stick. I *heart* my car.

Thus, I am waiting for Sean to take the T to the bus to the square and walk the rest of the way home, where Gunther the Passat is waiting. Then, he will drive all the way to Quincy to get me, after which we will proceed back to the hospital that is a few blocks from our house.

Very inconvenient. Stupid knee! Stupid me!

2005-03-25T15:08:00.000-05:00

Obsessed

Life is more fun with an Obsession, so I like to acquire one every now and again. When I tire of it, I trade it in for another. Past Obsessions have included Graduate School, Finding A Better Job, and Planning a Vacation. The best part of all of these Obsessions is that really, they are all very, very repeatable. Vacation over? Just found a new job? Never fear! Just spin the wheel, point your finger, and voila! There's your new Obsession!

But, in time, even a triple-Obsession list needs an addition. Three Obsessions was no longer enough. It was time for a new Obsession. So I have acquired one. I like to call it Investing in a Dwelling, aka Buying a Freaking House.

Buying a Freaking House! Oh, how I love thee! World, if I had ever known the extent to which it is possible to become Obsessed with Buying a Freaking House, I would have done so long, long ago! Oh, the neighborhoods to investigate! The MLS listings to peruse online infinitely! The open houses to navigate while battling nauseous motion sickness and sucking down Diet Pepsi!!!

There are books to read. There is paperwork to fill out. There are Home Depots to visit, drunkenly or sober. There are overpriced remodeling magazines to buy. There are realtors to interview. (That's right! We haven't even BEEN OUT WITH A REALTOR YET! And already, my Obsession Level is way up there at 9!) Best of all, THERE ARE LISTS TO MAKE!

LISTS!

I LOVE LISTS!

I wake up bright and early and sip my coffee while reading The Everything Homebuying Guidebook or Buying a Freaking House for the Complete and Utter Asshole or some such book. I then head to work, where I will spend the day periodically reloading a MLS listing to see if any of the properties I have saved have gone "INACTIVE". If one does, I immediately email Sean a message much like this:

That house! The one that I liked?!? With the granite countertops and maple cabinets and character?!? That was really cheap?!? In that neigborhood I kind of sort of liked??? It has just gone INACTIVE!!!!!!!! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT YOU BASTARD!!!!

I am not altogether reasonable regarding my Obsessions.

When I finally get home after a long day of reloading, I sit down to look over listing sheets and open house listings while I eat my dinner. Then, I pick up the laptop and begin showing Sean all the new properties I have found during my busy day of reloading. There are often as many as two. Finally, when the day is complete, I settle down in bed to read my If You Buy a Home Without Reading This Book Than You are Clearly a Raging Retard book.

I am incredibly pissed off that this Sunday is Easter, which means there are NO OPEN HOUSES for me to go to! NONE! Well, a few. But NONE that I want to go to. That is a whole wasted Sunday!

Today at lunch I did a drive-by of a property halfway back to my apartment. I periodically stopped people on the street to ask if they liked living in that area.

This, my friends, is the definition of Obsession.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it has been at least 4 minutes since I've seen the latest MLS listings on ZipRealty. I MUST GO!

2005-03-22T14:05:00.000-05:00

Things To Do in Home Depot When You're Drunk

1. Say: "PLEASE. I am NOT DRUNK."

2. Pull a squirting faucet out of its holster and commence singing along to a Cher song that's playing on the Muzak.

3. When the previous action is pointed out to you as a piece of evidence for your drunkenness, say: "PLEASE. I am NOT DRUNK."

4. Open and close every single cabinet in every single display kitchen, giggling the entire time.

5. When this is pointed out to you as evidence that you are intoxicated, say: "I AM NOT DRUNK. They WANT you to do that."

6. Pull apart drawers and watch them clatter to the floor.

7. Laugh hysterically.

8. Protest: "THAT IS WHAT THEY ARE HERE FOR." when your companion becomes embarrassed and says: "SEAN. FOR CHRISSAKES!"

9. Drop a granite countertop sample on the floor with a pronounced "DOONK".

10. Laugh hysterically.

11. Protest: "THAT IS WHAT THEY ARE HERE FOR." when your campanion becomes embarrassed and says: "SEAN! FOR CHRISSAKES."

12. Pick up EVERY SINGLE PAMPHLET that is available, until you are carrying around an 8-inch stack of cabinet pamphlets. Two of most of them.

13. Protest: "THAT IS WHAT THEY ARE HERE FOR." when your companion becomes embarrassed and says: "SEAN! FOR CHRISSAKES!"

14. Repeat as many times as necessary until vacating Home Depot.

2005-03-15T21:26:00.000-05:00

"Cooking"

I am a big fan of my crock pot. And when I say "crock pot", I mean "crock pot" both in the colloquial all-encompassing term that is the same as "slow cooker" (much like "kleenex" = tissue and "jello" = fruit-flavored gelatin dessert) AND the specific brand of slow cooker that is, crock pot.

Crock pot. I love you, crock pot.

When I first got my crock pot, I ordered a couple of crock pot cookbooks off of Amazon. One, The Everything Slow Cooker Cookbook, has just rocked my world. Everything I've made out of it has been deelish. If you are in the market for a crock pot cookbook, I officially recommend this one!

The other one is Fix it and Forget it Cookbook: Feasting With Your Slow Cooker. This cookbook sucks The Ass. Now, the lame title should have immediately been a tip-off. I mean, what do they mean? Am I going to hunt antelope with my slow cooker by my side, gleefully tearing the warm moist flesh from the bones of the unfortunate antelope I take down? Because, you know, that's what I'm envisioning.

Anyway, this cookbook is awful. It's one of those cookbooks where all the recipes are contributed by "readers", in this case women from the rural midwest who name their dishes things like Barbara's Good Chicken and Dottie's Best Ham and Bean Bake. In a word, eww.

I would like to take this opportunity to clarify a few things for the "contributers" who "contributed" to this book, just so their "contribution" could be enhanced next time they care to "contribute".

1. A can of cream of mushroom soup AND a can of cream of celery soup is overkill for FOUR CHICKEN BREASTS.

2. Adding 1 tsp of soy sauce to a dish does NOT make it "Oriental". "Oriental" is a word used to describe a RUG.

3. Nice try, but adding 1 tsp of soy sauce to a dish doesn't make it "Asian", either.

4. Adding 1 tsp of ground peanuts or peanut butter to something does not make it "African".

5. It takes a helluva lot more than 1/4 tsp cumin to make a 3 lb chicken dish "spicy".

6. Pouring a bottle of storebought barbeque sauce over a package of cut-up chicken and turning on the crock pot does NOT equal a "recipe".

7. Neither does doing that with cream of mushroom soup.

8. Neither does doing that with Italian salad dressing.

9. Neither does doing that with cream of chicken soup.

10. Neither does doing that with an envelope of onion soup.

11. Fifteen seperate recipes cannot all be the "best".

12. It is the year 2005. No one knows what the fuck "salt pork" is. I don't, for chrissakes, and I'm from the sticks.

13. Nothing should contain an entire stick of butter. Nothing.

14. Grape jelly and a bottle of "chili" sauce does not become barbeque sauce when put into the crock pot.

15. Don't call it "Chicken At A Whim". In the first place, it's ON a whim. In the second place, 5 hours cooking time is far from a "whim".

And lastly, a question:

16. What kind of person cooks a rabbit in a crock pot?!?

Thank you, contributors.

2005-03-11T09:55:00.000-05:00

Fung WHAT?!?

I'm taking the Fung Wah to NYC this afternoon to visit my friend Sarah, the Pollyanna of the East. Most everyone who lives in either Boston or New York is familiar with the Fung Wah phenomenon--the fact that there is actually a bus you can take between these 2 cities that takes 4 hours (plus or minus) and costs a mere $15. Hell, you can't drive there for that these days. And if you drive, you can't watch DVD's or read. Eff that ess.

Still, despite my level of "familiarity", I have not had personal experience riding the Fung Wah. Today I pop my Fung Wah cherry.

I am now going to share with you a few tidbits of Information I have gleaned re: the illustrious Fung Wah.

1. (In response to my comment "Oh, I'm sure I don't really have to be there a half hour before the bus leaves. I'm sure that's overkill. I'll get there like 15 minutes before.") "DO NOT MAKE THAT MISTAKE! I got there a half hour before last time and they had ALREADY SOLD MY SEAT. They made me wait an hour and take the next bus!"

World, I cannot help but feel that this defeats the entire purpose of PREPURCHASING YOUR TICKETS ONLINE. Here is my ticket. I have bought my seat. How can it be gone?

2. (In response to my question as to whether or not there were restrooms on the bus). "Yeah, there is one on there, but they don't like you to use it unless you really have to."

World, I ask of you, WHAT KIND OF PERSON USES A RESTROOM ON A BUS FOR ANY REASON OTHER THAN PURE, UNADULTERATED NECESSITY?!? Are there people who travel the world, taking recreational pees and craps in bus restrooms? (Can a pee or crap ever really be recreational?)

3. (In response to my bosses' question as to whether I was taking the Fung Wah) "Be sure you check to make sure the driver has a license. My daughter took it once, and the bus BROKE DOWN. Then the police found out the driver didn't have a license, so they just dumped everyone out in the street and told them to find their own way home."

World, I am calling you for a ride if this happens to me. Especially since I will have spent all my available cash on knockoff handbags and martinis. Preferably at the same place.

2005-03-03T12:08:00.000-05:00

Compliment

MALE CLIENT: "You have a real nice voice!"

REDPANDA: (laughingly) "Thank you!"

MALE CLIENT: "I mean it. Your voice is real comforting to my earlobes right now."

REDPANDA: *awkward, uncomfortable giggle* "Thank you. I'm glad to...comfort them."

MALE CLIENT: "I'm 5'8" without high heels on."

REDPANDA: "..."

2005-02-28T10:06:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-02-24T12:21:00.000-05:00

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!!!!

2005-02-18T11:55:00.000-05:00

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. (Wait...do 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!

2005-02-17T12:59:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-02-10T13:02:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-02-05T10:20:00.000-05:00

Conversation

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.

2005-02-02T10:33:00.000-05:00

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?

2005-01-31T14:02:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-01-28T09:26:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-01-23T19:23:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-01-19T13:28:00.000-05:00

One-Liner of the Day

Co-worker to other co-worker (who happens to be wearing a matching green jacket-and-pants set):

"I think we should all thank Sherri for single-handedly bringing back Granimals for adults."

2005-01-18T13:00:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-01-13T11:57:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-01-11T13:44:00.000-05:00

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!

2005-01-07T14:35:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-01-06T13:35:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-01-05T11:25:00.000-05:00

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?

2005-01-03T13:27:00.000-05:00

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!

2004-12-29T17:22:00.000-05:00

The Easy Way to Produce Content -- Blog About Farting!

Apparently, it has happened again.

Conversation: (Which, incidentally, took place at 2 in the AM. On a SCHOOL NIGHT.)

Sean (half under his breath): Hee hee! Hee hee! Hee heee heee! Hee hee hee hee!

Redpanda (sleepily): Hmmph? Huh? Mmph? What's so funny?

Sean: Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to wake you up! Nothing! Hee hee hee! Hee hee!

Redpanda (grouchy): Mmph! Why are you laughing?

Sean: Nothing honey, I'm sorry! Go back to sleep. (Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee!)

Redpanda: WHAT IS SO FUNNY?

Sean: Hee hee hee! You farted again! In your sleep!

Redpanda: Wha?

Sean: You did! Hee hee hee hee hee! You farted in your sleep! It was really funny! Hee hee hee!

Redpanda: It is TWO A.M.!!!

Sean: I know. I'm really sorry. It was really funny. (Hee hee hee hee hee...)

Redpanda: Was it so loud it woke you up or something?

Sean: No. I'm just coming to bed. It went "poot-poot-poot"! HEE HEE HEEE HEEE.

Redpanda: Leave me alone. I'm trying to sleep. Why do you care?

Sean: It was really funny! I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to wake you up. I have proof! You have farted at least twice. HEE HEE HEEE.

Redpanda: SLEEP!!!

Sean: I'm sorry. Don't worry. It was a very feminine fart, honey. Hee HEE HEE HEEE HEEE HEEEEEEEEE......

World, I fart in my sleep. I hear that it occasionally is known to go "poot-poot-poot".

2004-12-22T13:35:00.000-05:00

While the Merry Bells Keep Ringing...

This will be my LAST POST before Christmas. I think. We're leaving at ass-thirty (that's "early" in Redpanda-speak) tomorrow morning for the greener (literally--it's not nearly as cold there) pastures of rural Maryland. That's right, I'm going Home for the Holidaze. And I'm taking Sean with me! Ha-HA! I can't wait to force-feed him stuffed ham. And scrapple. I love scrapple. I'll bet I can lie and call it "perfectly rectangular country sausage" again and he'll have 4 helpings. Mmmm...scrapple.

Please have scrapple...and stuffed ham...and presents that weren't bought at the summer clearance sale at Target....

To say my mother is a bargain shopper is rather akin to saying "Gee, Robert Downey, Jr. might like a hit off my bong." I have no problem with this, I am a fan of the bargain myself. Witness the sapphire-blue suedelike shearling coat dangling from the back of my office chair. I picked that baby up from Lord & Taylor at 65% off, plus an additional 15%. BAR. GAIN. My issue is more to do with the emphasis being placed on "bargain" instead of "something the giftee will like". Don't get me crap I won't like. Please. I'd rather get no crap than crap I have to pretend to like. It's too much pressure. That floral-print button down? I'm never going to wear it. I'm going to exchange it for something black. You know this. Just buy me something black in the first place. And don't even get me started on the year that I was given several sets of long thermal underwear, size 3XL.

Really, I can't wait to have kids and put the pressure on them instead. And to play with their toys. And lactate. Lactating is the coolest.

But yeah. Weird gifts? They suck. Besides, I'm not a big fan of gifts. That's mostly why I prefer Thanksgiving to Christmas. I like the kitschy decor, the sappy tunes, the shopping. But I'm not a big fan of receiving.

So anyway, I'm off to partake of scrapple (hopefully!) and stuffed ham (definitely!). There will also be boxed wine. I'm giving my parents one of those Rabbit-style wine openers in the hopes that it will discourage such behavior. I can only hope.

Merry Christmas, one and all! And yes, I said "Merry Christmas". Not "Season's Greetings". Not "Happy Holidays". Know why? 'Cause the holiday we're getting ready to celebrate this week? That'd be Christmas. If I was preparing to celebrate Chanukah, or Kwanzaa, or Ramadan? I'd wish you a happy one of those. But I'm not. So, Merry Christmas, dammit!

(Hmm. That was a harsh way to end things.)

Cuddle a warm snuggy kitty. Drink some hot cocoa laced with booze. Tell someone you love that you love them. It's Christmas!

(Was that better?)

2004-12-21T13:28:00.000-05:00

Peanut Butter and The Wrong Shoes

There was a peanut butter-related fiasco at our house last night. One of such magnitude that Sean proclaimed: "You had better blog this!" (Well, actually, he probably said "You better blog this!" and not "You had better blog this!", but what sounds grammatical in speech and what is grammatical in writing are two very seperate things, mais non?)

Anyway. I digress. It all began when I decided that I would make the peanut butter-loving Sean some No-Bake Peanut Butter cookie things. A co-worker had made them last week, and they were SO VERY FUCKING YUMMY. Like big giant Reeses Peanut Butter Trees (which we all know are vastly superior to plain old "Cups"). No problem--we had all the ingrediants, including a full jar of Better N' Peanut Butter waiting patiently in the cabinet. (Now, I fear I must digress once more. I just googled "Better N' Peanut Butter" so I could include a link, but all I found were pages where fatty boombalatties were complaining that it "wasn't good!" and including "recipes to make it better!" that included such things as FUCKING CREAM CHEESE. HELLLO! TRY COMPROMISING. ADDING CREAM CHEESE RATHER NULLIFIES THE FAT-SAVING QUALITY OF THIS PRODUCT, N'CEST PAS? Shit like that pisses me off. These are the same people who complain that lowfat mayonnaise isn't as good. Or lowfat cheese. Duh. That's because it's lowfat. Live with it. Ok, sorry about that, please carry on.)

SO. I mixed up the ingrediants, only to find that there is obviously some crucial ingrediant contained only within Genuine peanut butter that is missing from Fake, Defatted-Peanut Flour peanut butter. I was mixing a bowl of tan cement. There was no hardening. Just a neverending stickiness. Sean had to come and bail me out with a spatula and a second application of confectioner's sugar.

It was very sticky.

Now see, that wasn't that funny, was it? You really kind of had to be there. Sean has no sense of comic timing.

Speaking of Sean, I have a deep, cold fear in the pit of my stomach that he went to work today in the wrong shoes. We were running a bit late; and he burst into the bathroom, where I was peacefully putting in my contacts, wearing a pair of rusty-tan cordury pants with a sagey-green striped sweater.

In a word, NO.

I sent him to change the offending sweater, being the Designated Rescuer of Sean's Fashion Integrity. Unfortunately, my first suggestion was to replace it with a black turtleneck sweater. This would have been all well and good, but Sean was wearing brown shoes. I quickly changed my suggestion to "the cream fishermans' sweater". But alas, I fear it was too late.

Upon arriving in the bedroom, I found the sagey-green striped sweater discarded on the bed. Whew! Unfortunately, the fishermans' sweater was still in the dresser. And the brown shoes? Nowhere to be found.

We have a fashion emergancy! If anyone sees Sean, please know that the Designated Rescuer of Sean's Fashion Integrity did not, I repeat, NOT approve his sweater-and-shoe-combination choice. Don't fire me. Please. The ponytail is gone, is that not evidence enough of my success???

2004-12-20T13:36:00.000-05:00

"The Blowtorch Isn't Working. Let's Go Get the Chainsaw!"

Any party in which those two sentences are uttered consecutively is, in fact, officially Off The Hook. I had thought that, at 29-and-three-quarters, I was effectively past my time of attending such soireés. Not so. Sean's illustrious co-worker Aaron proved otherwise with his smashing bash at the Asparagus Farm this past Saturday.

Replete with ice luge (for which the blowtorch and/or chainsaw were needed), this was one of those shindigs where you awaken the next day and say to yourself "Gee, I'd like to go to that party again and again.", if for no other reason than to hear Groove of the Day (who were stationed conveniently right next to the ice luge, until the cops came and shut them down).

Yes. The cops came. I am 29-and-three-quarters and I still go to parties where the cops come. How you like me now? That's right, I rule. I get carded to buy video games and I go to parties where the cops come.

After the live music was shut down, it was time to bake pizzas in the brick oven that was connected to the fireplace. That's right. There was a brick oven. I have no reason to lie.

Can you believe that shit?

Aaron, my party-throwing skillz are permanently humbled. I bow before thee. Thanks for the mean soireé!

2004-12-17T11:00:00.000-05:00

The Armoire Story

On the day in which I was Carded! To Buy! A Video Game!, there was also an armoire. I call it "an armoire" and not "my armoire", because at that point, it was just an armoire like any other, and not one I held any sort of ownership over. Of course, things change.

We left Best Buy, me swollen with a smug pride at my very evident Youngness, and happened upon a store proclaiming: FURNITURE CLOSEOUT SALE!. What is one to do when faced with such a proclaimation? One really has only one choice: Walk Into the Store Immediately.

It just so happens that Sean and I have been loosely in the market for some sort of clothing-holding-furniture for some time now. And recently, I have been tightening that loose-marketed-ness up into more of a state of we really need to buy a dresser or a chest or a freaking armoire soon-itude. The digging through piles of clothing folded and placed on the foot of the bed because there is NOWHERE else to put them has grown rather old, really.

So, we walked into the store and began perusing dressers, chests, and freaking armoires. They tended to fall into the following categories:

1. Totally Fucked Up and Nearly Useless
2. A Wee Bit Fucked Up and Fixable
3. Only Slightly Fucked Up
4. So Incredibly Fucking Ugly That the State of Fucked Uppedness is Effectively Rendered Moot

There was an armoire that I was partial to, and it pretty well fell squarely between categories 2 and 3. That is to say, one door was not actually attached to the armoire, but was instead leaning neatly against it. Other than that, it seemed fairly pristine.

We fiddled with the armoire a bit, finally asking the Slimy Salesguy attendant upon said armoire what the deal was with it. He reported that it was solid oak (which, from what I could see, seemed accurate), that it retailed for $1300, and that he could let it go to us for $399.

We hemmed and hawed a bit, and finally left to "think about it" and "maybe come back".

Hours and hours later, we remembered that, in the midst of our holiday shopping, there had been an armoire. But we were far too tired to go back and retrieve it.

Cut to the next day. After some researching and thought, I decided that I could not, in fact, live without the armoire. Or at least that I really really liked it and thought we should go get it. Sean agreed emphatically, and we headed out to buy the (solid oak!) armoire for $399, all the while discussing where we would rent a Uhaul to go get it, and who might be able to help move it up to our third floor apartment. And do you think that he will take $350 for it? Because that would be, like, SO cool!

We slipped almost unnoticed into the store an hour before closing. "Hey!" Sean hissed in my ear, "It's a different guy! Walk around for awhile!"

Sean is just all smooth like that. All hissing in my ear and shit.

So, after a few requisite circles around the stores' periphery, feigning interest in furniture that fell into categories 1 through 4, we came back to the armoire. "Gee, the door isn't on it!" Sean exclaimed in mock horror.

"Golly, you are correct!" I agreed. "The door certainly is not attached to this armoire in any way, shape, or form."

"We would have to expend a degree of effort to right the wrongs done to this armoire!"

"I agree. Far too much effort would be expended!"

"The screw-holes could potentially even be stripped, rendering any effort expended to reattach said door practically moot."

"I concur. This is an armoire of the poorest quality."

Tiring of hearing us shovel armloads of crap at him through each other, the salesguy finally piped up: "I'll let you have that armoire for $199."

$199? As in, a hundred dollars? And then, another 99? Like, half what we came here to pay?

"And you can have it delivered for another $50."

Sold!

So, we will be expectantly waiting for our armoire on Saturday. We just have to, you know, expend some effort to move the furniture already in the bedroom. And then put the door back on.

The moral of the story? Salesmen are always full of crap when they say a price is their "best" one. But then, you already knew that, didn't you?

2004-12-16T10:53:00.000-05:00

I Swear I'm Not Making This Up or Why Are My Pants Meowing, Mommy?

Conversation:

Redpanda: So, what did you get for your adopted Salvation Army kid?

Co-worker: Oh, I got him some dungarees! The guy at Marshall's helped me pick them out. A sweatshirt, too.

Redpanda: That's cool. Is that a G Unit shirt?

Co-worker: Yep! God, I gotta wrap these! *shuffling papers* Does anyone have any tape?

Redpanda: *Handing her some tape* Here you go. Nice boxes. They're not plain old clothes-shaped boxes.

Co-worker: Yeah! This one used to have some kind of candy dish in it. And this one *pause*.........Oh, this one used to have my cat's ashes in it.

Redpanda: ...What?

Co-worker: Yep. Garth. When he died, we had him cremated. My husband was just so upset. So, yeah. And this is the box his ashes came in. See? It says "Garth" right here.

Redpanda: You cannot give some kid pants in a box that used to have your dead cat in it. You just can't.

Co-worker: Why not? See, I'll even peel off the label that says "cat remains". He'll never know.

Redpanda: CANNOT.

Co-worker: This box is kind of dusty, though. *blowing*

Redpanda: Are you sure that it's dust?

Silence reigns.

2004-12-15T13:29:00.000-05:00

Perhaps Because of the Titties

I was carded to buy a video game the other day! I was carded! To buy! A video game!

It was rated "M for mature", and thus was the perfect gift for my 20-year-old brother. Well, that and the 7 X-box games Sean snagged off Craigslist for $35 today. Thanks, Craig!

Now, just so you know. "M for mature" means that it is not really suitable for people under 18. I think. But anyway, I'm sure it does not mean "mature" in that "Now that I'm almost 30, it's time for me to start acting more mature" kind of way. I'm quite sure it was meant in more of a "You are not mature enough to see our gratuitously nude jumping chicks until you are 18!" kind of way. Which can only mean one thing: I look over ten years younger than I really am. Woohoo!!!

As someone who was recently carded to buy a video game, I can definitively state that it feels great to be young. So very young. So not old at all.

Also, we bought an armoire. But that's another story, and not nearly as interesting as the one in which I get carded to buy a video game.

2004-11-22T16:02:00.000-05:00

Redpanda: Pimpin' Disease Management Since 2004.

Today was the second time that I was filmed for some sort of disease-management-related or company-related promo. That's right, second.

I was filmed for a commercial a few months back, but so far nothing has come of it. I signed stacks and stacks of release forms, so I'm sure that one day I'll find footage of myself in some random training video or T.V. ad.

Today's bit was a bit more self-directed. My company has been courting a big account, and my program is apparently one of the selling points. The problem? No one really "gets" what disease management is. The solution? Hey, let's make a video of Redpanda doing her thang! It'll be great!

Great.

So, after tossing and turning till the wee hours last night, listening to Sean snore loudly and cartoonishly and Mathilda the Evil One chase something loud and rolling, I had to get to work early to write a script for someone's video. But I did! And it was great! And they filmed the video! And now I don't have to get ready for it any more! And now I get to go home in 2 hours and sleep!

"You're so good on the phone!" my boss exclaimed.

I think she thinks I should work for a 1-900-#. Which, perhaps, I should.

I will be available, for a fee, to Pimp any disease management programs you have in the works.

That is all.

2004-11-18T13:53:00.000-05:00

Conversation

Sean: So, how'd it go?

Redpanda: I dunno. You know how in interviews they always ask you those stupid scenario questions? And you have to make some crap up on the fly, like when you were a kid and had to make up sins for confession?

Sean: Made-up stuff? Sure.

Redpanda: Yeah. Like, "Oh, I totally remember when that happened to me! I handled it ever so well, by doing A, B, and C. Everything worked out beautifully!"

Sean: Oh. Well, at least you were making up work-related stuff. I usually just make up random stuff.

Redpanda: Random stuff?

Sean: Sure. During my interview, I told (my boss) I could fit 50 hot dogs in my mouth.

Redpanda: ...

2004-11-13T11:09:00.000-05:00

New-Fucking-England

Ok, so when I was mentioning the "snow" yesterday? How there were flakes on my windshield? I meant it in a kind of joking way, like Ha-ha, I am now a New Englander! See me complain about the weather! Just a few scattered flakes of snow and already I'm bitching!. What I most certainly did NOT mean is that it was actually, really and truly, going to SNOW.

It did.

Like, inches and inches.

Can you believe that crap? I'm waiting for Old Man Winter to pop out of the clouds and yell: "Psyche!". (Of course, then he would probably have to be wearing a Hypercolor sweatshirt and penny-rolled pants with his flock-of-seagulls haircut, but that's really not the point...)

So, snow.

2004-11-12T11:32:00.000-05:00

Friday Wrap-Up

We skipped the sushi. But it was an ideal birthday for Sean, in that he consumed something containing peanut butter at each and every meal.

You should check out this site. Thanks to my birthday buddy Stumpy for the link!

Tonight promises to be a fun night, and you're invited! My friend Melissa's first photography show has its reception at MassArt. It's in the Kennedy Building from 5-6:30 (621 Huntington Ave.). But hey, if you can't make it, it's there through Nov. 20th. Check it out!
After that, I recommend you head over to Copperfield's just outside of Kenmore Square to see Groove of the Day funk it up old-school. They don't go on till 11:30, but I bet you could drink till then if you wanted to.

If you see a tall redhead wandering aimlessly around either event, feel free to tell her "hi", and perhaps that you like her shoes.

It's supposed to snow today. SNOW. SNOW. There were a few itty-bitty flakes of death on my windshield this morning. It's only November. Excuse me as I suppress a sob.

I'm working till 3 today, which I find irksome. Normally, I would have today off and work tomorrow. But some sort of maintenance is going on tomorrow, so the building will be closed. So, I had to come in today to "make up" that time. Now I ask you: is it my fault that the powers that be are closing the building? Can't they just eat those 6 measley hours? The answer to both questions: NO.

I long for a big steaming mug of hot chocolate. But I will have to settle for coffee or tea if I don't want to leave the building. Sigh.

2004-11-11T13:11:00.000-05:00

Oh, The Birthdays I've Neglected!

Everyone's birthday has been lately! Dave's and Randy's were both last week. (Happy belated, guys!) My dad's was a bit before that. Today is Sean's.

In celebration of his birthday:

I let him sleep till 10.
I got up early and baked him a Special Birthday Breakfast: Peanut-butter coffee cake. (I say "bleah!" But he says "Yum!")
I made him coffee with hot chocolate, whipped cream, and hot pink candy dinosaurs.
I let him putter around the house for hours without complaining, until my stomach began digesting itself and I had to say "TAKE A SHOWER SO WE CAN GO FOR LUNCH ALREADY! I'M FREAKIN' STARVED!"
When he is finished with said shower, we will be heading towards my old digs, Brookline, so we can have a "Juicy Hamburger Lunch" at Coolidge Corner Clubhouse. We will then spend approximately 27 hours browsing at Brookline Booksmith before heading to Coolidge Corner Theater to see a matinee.
After that, we shall see if I am dragged to J.P. Licks ("They have CAKE BATTER! ICE CREAM! And it's Perfect Jimmie Weather!")* or for sushi. Or both.

It may be a day for tummyaches.

Happy 29th, honey! You're worth the achin'.

*This is not the time, but here would be a good place to introduce the sprinkles v/s jimmies debate.

2004-11-06T15:17:00.000-05:00

This is Your Life

I had one of those This is Your Life moments last night. You know the kind I mean--those moments in which all of a sudden every molecule around you seems bright and lucid, where you have the strange sense of seeing yourself in the very same place later on, thus predicting your own deja vu.

I was sitting in the Kirkland Cafe with my Magic Hat #9 (which I indicated to Sean that I wanted by holding up 9 fingers and gesturing to my head), listening to the wonderous funky stylings of Groove of the Day, and gazing just beyond bassist August's head through the window. The neon sign cast an eerie blue glow that reflected in the panes, but I could still see the Kebab Factory, which I've always been meaning to try, and Toscanini's, which I love, across the street. People hurried by wrapped in scarves and light autumn jackets, kicking at the crunchy leaves on the sidewalk while craning their necks to see who was playing.

I smiled at the people around me. Dave and Joanna are getting married! And Louis and Jeannine just had a baby! And Sean just went to get me another beer! Maybe it was just the beers, which I had started consuming earlier as we noshed at the Thirsty Scholar, but I began to feel like I was wrapped in a cozy blanket of contentment. I liked everyone around me. I was jammin' out to the music. New beers kept appearing.

It's one of those things, this forging of a new life where before there was none. It happens gradually, so slowly that sometimes it's painful. But then, sometimes you'll just be sitting there, doing nothing in particular, and you'll realize This is MY life. I have made it. It is mine. And I relish it.

And at moments like that, there's really nothing more you can do but grin gamely at the people grinning around you, and politely point to your head to request another beer.

2004-11-04T15:29:00.000-05:00

Feel Better

A friend forwarded this to me. I'm sure it's from a column somewhere, but I can't seem to google it up. If anyone has seen it before, let me know so I can give proper credit.

Fear won.

Yesterday, the day after election day, I felt it. I was
spirit-deprived, sleep-deprived, faith-deprived, aghast. I wanted to email
all of my friends in other countries and apologize for something that wasn’t
my fault. I wanted to secede, retreat to my cosmopolitan bubble, spend the
next four years in denial. I couldn’t find a single comfort, except for the
fact that my state had remained blue. And that, in the end, didn’t matter.
I drank lots of caffeine, took a nap in my office, didn’t have anything to
say to all the people around me who were similarly speechless, aghast. I
was afraid to be gay, Jewish, liberal, Democratic, democratic - a
non-majority American. I couldn’t believe that my country could be so
stupid. And then I could believe it, and that was worse.

That was yesterday.

Then I went to sleep. Then I woke up.

History will say, beyond the fact that our country managed to
re-elect the worst president in its two-hundred-plus years, that this
election was won purely on the basis of fear. The Republicans seized the
day because they played the fear card again and again and again. Kerry
waited until the end to play it - and it’s not a card that can be played
second. There was no positivity, no vision in Bush’s campaign; he didn’t
even bother to try. There was only fear.

The Michael Moore movie we should have all been looking at wasn’t
“Farenheit 9/11” - it was “Bowling for Columbine”, with its central thesis
that American history has been dictated by fear of the other, both outside
and within. The thesis certainly extends to today. How else can you
explain how people in small town Ohio can say that their most pressing,
decisive concern is terrorism? Do they say that out of empathy for the
people of New York and DC who are the most likely targets? No. They fear,
however improbably, for themselves. And because - for some reason that has
nothing to do with the truth - there wasn’t an economic fear to
counterbalance their safety fears, they went red.

Then there is the dubiously phrased matter of “moral issues.” If
you listened very closely to the sounds coming from hell, you could hear the
slave owners and the segregationists and the woman-haters laughing every
time that button was pushed. Because it was their legacy that was born
again in this election. Gay marriage is just a part of it. Abortion is
just a part of it. Fear of the other manifests itself in an arrogant,
ignorant righteousness. And this time, that righteousness voted. This fact
beat me up more than anything else.

But wait. I thought about it some more, and I realized that if I’d
been asked which of the factors decided my vote the most - Iraq, terrorism,
the economy, etc. - I would have probably said “moral issues” as well.
Because I feel everything about the Bush administration comes down to moral
issues - and the (again) arrogant, ignorant, self-righteous,
uncompassionate, dogmatic, stubborn, and at times hateful way that they rule
our country. It is repugnant, undemocratic, and needs to be opposed. They
have defined morality to their own goals. We need to take it back.

It is a horrifying thing to wake up and find that fifty-one percent
of your country is just plain wrong. The word disappointment can’t even
begin to describe it. But here’s the good news: forty-nine percent got it
right. There are over fifty-five million people in this country who got it
right. This is not a small opposition. This is not a fringe element.
These are many, many voices that came together with a strength never seen
before. It wasn’t enough, but it was something. We can’t quiet them now.

I refuse to give George W. Bush the satisfaction of my fear. I will
not let him take his campaign tricks and play them on me after the election
is over. (The campaign, mark my words, continues.) I felt fear yesterday.
Gut-wrenching, mind-numbing, soul-confusing fear. It was nearly paralyzing
in its sadness and frustration. Then I realized: the Republicans want me
to be paralyzed. They want me - and you, and all of the forty-eight percent
- to be absolutely petrified with fear. We cannot, under any circumstances,
let that happen. We didn’t let that happen for the past year when he threw
all kinds of orange alerts and vague threats our way. His re-election
doesn’t change our need to be vigilant. It increases it. They are genuine
reasons to be scared of another Bush administration. But we cannot shut
down or shut up. I keep thinking of that despicably brilliant ad the Bush
campaign used, showing the wolves tearing through the woods, talking about
the need for safety against attack. But here’s the thing: they (and in
this case I mean the Bush forces, not terrorists) might be wolves, but we
are not sheep. I refuse to be a sheep. We are wolves, too, no matter how
many times we are told we are sheep. And we must be fierce in our
opposition.

Don’t let the news break you. They want us broken.

Don’t let your spirit be compromised. You’re going to need your
spirit.

This is not the end of anything, nor is it the beginning of
anything. It is the continuation of a fight that has been going on for a
very, very long time. It’s called right vs. wrong. And right might get
bruised, and abused, and paralyzed. But every day it prevails in fifty-five
million different ways. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. The next
four years are going to be awful. People will die because of this election.
The fight is going to be harder. But that just means we have to be even
more vigilant.

Fear won, but we can’t let it win.

2004-11-03T14:24:00.000-05:00

More of the Same or Dear America or Speaking of Seppuku

Dear America,

I live my life trying to fight the good fight for the little guy. I work lower-paying jobs that I feel "truly make a difference". I never fail to engage someone in a debate about how at-risk populations don't deserve their circumstances, and do deserve a leg-up (so to speak). I design campaigns to educate and uplift said populations. I pay down my six-figure student loans slowly, so very slowly.

Now, I feel you deserve to know that my feelings for you have changed.

Family farmers in the midwest--when you cry out to me about the cancers your family has developed from the toxins leaching into your soil? Who did you vote for?

Factory workers--when you hold up those signs and chant about the minimum wage not being a "living wage"? Which mark did you fill in on Nov. 2?

Senior citizens--when you realize that you can no longer afford your prescription drugs? Where was your vote?

Parents of teenagers--when your child discovers he or she cannot attend college because there are no programs in place to help him or her pay for it? Did you even show up?

Parents of younger children--when your child attends an unsafe or unsatisfactory school? Are you sure you pulled that lever correctly?

Parents of soldiers who aren't coming home--when you go on with your life despite this fact? Did you vote for someone with a plan to get out?

You who don't want to pay eight bucks a gallon for gas--where did your loyalties lie?

You who has been collecting unemployment for eight months--did you put out your hands and plead for more?

Great. You got your tax breaks, rich white men of America. I hope that's some consolation when the kid whose HeadStart program was cut 5 years ago shoots your son in the freaking head.

You voted the "religious" and "moral" man into office. Great. Osama Bin Laden feels he is religious and moral as well.

I am finished with you, America. I and the vast majority of the voters on the coasts and metropolitan areas who were voting Kerry? We're fine. My friends who are Kerry supporters? Fine. We don't need the social services right now. We can pay for our kids to go to private schools and college, so they probably will never join the military to get a free college education later (but get shot to bits first). We have health insurance from our employers. We buy organic veggies and don't smoke.

Fuck you, Middle America. Lie in the bed that you've made. And when it pricks and jabs at you? Shut the fuck up. You deserve every bit of it.

2004-11-02T18:41:00.000-05:00

What Democracy?

Today, Sean and I left early to scamper down the road and vote, which we did because we are good people and do not suck. We passed many other non-sucky people who were also going to vote. The ones who didn't seem to be heading towards a place to vote I will assume are either planning to vote after work or are republicans. This makes me more comfortable.

But really, that's not what my li'l story is about today. We parked our car and walked quickly in the brisk autumn air, my stomach knotting with aggressive butterflies. I remember all too well the aftermath of the last election, when I thought it's not that bad, things probably won't be that bad, he can't be that awful.... Of course, that naive young girl has had to live in the mess that Bush has made of America ever since, so she's much less naive now and more ready to kick his pathetic ass out.

Approaching the front desk area, we were asked for our address. We responded with it, and then followed up with our names. The sweet elderly lade smiled at me. "I need to see your ID, sweetie." she said. Well, of course. I'm voting, after all. I gave her my ID, smiled, and waited for Sean to hand her his.

He never did.

He didn't have to.

Apparently, if you have voted "before" in some states, you are not required to show your identification when you go to vote.

So, basically, I could have spent my day voting and voting and voting all over the country. If only I had known. I could have volunteered in a nursing home, become familiar with everyone's name. I could have volunteered in several nursing homes. I hear that there's a lot of those in Florida.

So, that clears that up. Our voting system is a joke.

2004-10-27T18:19:00.000-04:00

Need Help?

Well, of course you're going to get out and vote next Tuesday! To not do so would be asinine, and you aren't an irresponsible asshat like that. You actually acknowledge that the freaking country is a shambles, and you want to do something about it. You have a daughter or son whom you don't actively dislike and therefore you DO want them to have a non-sucky world to live in, one where abortion is safe and legal and you can breathe the air and drink the water.

So, yeah, DUH. But you're having a little trouble deciding WHICH candidate you should vote for.

Enter Presidential Guidester! You select what your beliefs on most "issues" are, and the guidester gives you the breakdown of what percentage of your beliefs go with which candidate.

I was 100% John Kerry.

I didn't expect it to be quite that cut and dried, but hey, what can I say? Bush is just that bad.

So, check it out! It's fun! And you might even learn something!

2004-10-27T13:24:00.000-04:00

Update

The church took their sign down.

Thanks to all who contacted them!

2004-10-26T13:36:00.000-04:00

Irony at its Best

For the past eight million years, or at least most of his "adult life", Sean has had Godawful Long Ponytailed Geek Hair. This was bad. Now, he has Shorter Sexy Hipster Hottie Hair. This is good. But, his Halloween costume is such that it requires Godawful Long Ponytailed Geek Hair. So he has to wear a nappy-ass wig.

This is very funny.

Speaking of Nappy Hair

My hair is crying out mercilessly to be cut. When it's wet, I can no longer pull my fingers through the splittiness of my hair's ends. I have a haircut in mind, something shorter and hipper and perhaps bang-ed. I was thinking Bettie Page-ish before, but then I remembered--I am a yuppie now and thus want to be taken seriously at work. Since I don't work at an "arty" job, that kind of precludes such cool haircuts as Bettie Page-ish or pink shaved. I also probably shouldn't wear a nose ring.

This is sad. I shall pout now.

2004-10-21T19:03:00.000-04:00

Hate is Not a Christian Value

A church not far from my house has posted a sign out front that reads:

Homosexuality is a sinful choice.
Repent.

I know this because Sean called me saying he wanted to "call the police or something" because it was a "hate crime".

Well, unfortunately, it's not really a crime. But I was, of course, terribly angry and offended. If you want to preach hate in your church, fine, you are all ignorant fucks. But don't pollute my community with your nasty messages. The thought of someone from elsewhere seeing that sign and silently noting This town is a close-minded town angers me unspeakably.

So, I called. No one was there (they were probably all dressed in white sheets burning crosses somewhere), so I left a message stating my name, that I was a member of the community, and that I was offended by their sign. I said that I thought their sign promoted hate, and that hate was not a Christian value at any church I am familar with. I asked them to take it down.

Sean will be doing the same.

Would anyone else like to join us?

New England Baptist Church
30 Salem Street, Medford, MA 02155
(781) 395-6116

2004-10-21T11:03:00.000-04:00

How 'Bout Those Red Sox?

How 'bout 'em???

2004-10-20T18:05:00.000-04:00

A Story About Gas

This morning was not a good one. A graveyard of discarded skirts lay on my bed, and yet I still looked like crap. I didn't have time to put on any makeup beyond the requisite blush and concealer. I even forgot to slice up olives for my salad!

When I finally ran out the door, I remembered. Gustav the BeetleBugCar's gas alert beep had been beeping shrilly and insistently the entire way home last night.

Fuck, says I to that. Fuck.

So, off I went to the gas station, where I pulled up to the pump and breathlessly requested: "Fill it up! With Regular! Please!" The attendant smiled gamely and strode off to do my bidding, and I sat back in my seat and sighed contentedly, confident that all was at last well in the world.

Then, I reached into my wallet to pull out my trusty credit card, and found only a sad blank slot in its usual spot.

Fuck, once more. But a bigger Fuck this time.

I popped from the car like a jack-in-the-box on speed and ran to catch the attendant. "Wait! Can you make it ten dollars??? I forgot my credit card!"

He nodded and obliged, so I gave him my ten bucks and sped off.

But, I have to wonder--what would have happened if I HADN'T caught him? Or if I HADN'T had ten bucks in my wallet? Would they have held me prisoner until someone could come bail me out? Would they have hauled me across the street to the police station? Would they have made me give them my thumb?

2004-10-13T16:19:00.000-04:00

Here Today, Gone Tomorrow

We arrived back from Barbados to a message from my mother, saying to call "whenever I get in, no matter how late it is.". (This always means someone is Dead. People never say to call "no matter how late it is" unless someone is either Dead or Nearly Dead.) It was just a hair of trepidation that I called her back, to confirm that, indeed, Someone was Dead.

So, yes, my grandmother passed away the morning of the night we returned to the good ol' U.S. of A. I foresee your condolences and I thank you for them. I loved my grandmother very much and saw her nearly every day of my life growing up, and almost that often when I was actually grown up. She taught me so much, and was strong and gentle and lovely to me all of my life. She was 94.

But, by 94, she was only a shadow of herself. I'm happy to know that she is no longer suffering, is no longer fighting, is no longer afraid. I hurt mostly for my grandfather, who is inconsolable and sobs that he "misses his wife". He is 97. They were married longer than the average U.S. lifespan.

Now, I know it is the Beginning of the End. He will not last long, grieving for her. When he is gone, they will sell The Farm. The place I grew up will become tract mansions, surely as my tummy is sunburned. My family will fight bitterly amongst themselves, the aunts and uncles who used to go on vacations with us and come over for margarita parties will become mad with greed, their lips twisting like pipe cleaners.

But I don't have time to think of that. I have to repack the bags I just pulled tank tops and bikinis and shorts from with respectable enough clothing to wear to a funeral. I have to hop on a plane tomorrow morning. I have to try and tie up numerous loose ends before then.

Then, I will come back and regale all of you with stories about the lovely island country of Barbados.

I'll miss you, Grandma. I've missed you for years.

2004-10-02T13:05:00.000-04:00

Why I'm Not Sure We Should Have Kids

Conversation:

"Mathilda is so cute and small. Look at her tiny head!"

"I don't think she's that small anymore, honey. She's kind of a medium-sized grown-up cat now."

"I know." Pause. "But her head still fits in my mouth."

"Er...what?"

"Her head. It fits in my mouth."

"How exactly do you know this?"

"Well, I was sitting there one day, and patting her head. And all the hair was flat and her head looked so tiny, so I wondered. Then I just went...(*Opens mouth widely*)"

"..."

"What?"

"..."

"What?"

2004-10-01T17:13:00.001-04:00

Anyway

"There are so many things I'll never get to watch her experience, now." the mother said regretfully of her dead child. "So many things she'll never get to experience."

"Like what?" the pre-teen asked.

"Oh, lots of things. Like, her first kiss."

"Like she would really tell you about that." the pre-teen sniffed scornfully.

"She wouldn't." The mother smiled a strange kind of patient half-smile. "But you know. You know, anyway." She turned then, looking far, far out the window; as if the answer to some profound question lay somewhere beyond the darkening horizon, visible only to her.

2004-09-30T13:48:00.000-04:00

In Which I Amble Along a Big, Circular Path Before Returning Back to My Original Topic - Authority

It was over 40 years ago, in 1961, that Stanley Milgram undertook his famous, or should I say infamous experiments in Obediance to authority. It's one of those things you learn about in Psych 101 -- the professor brings in the old, grainy, black and white video (or projector if your professor is super-duper old-school or if you go to a really shitty college) and you watch as unknowing subject upon unknowing subject administers painful electric shocks to a person they cannot see, just hear. The person whimpers in the distance, begging not to be shocked. But a "scientist" insists that the experiment goes on--that the subject keeps adminstering the shocks. Despite obvious discomfort, the subject generally keeps shocking until the shockee is rendered silent.

What they don't know? There is no real electric shock. The guy they think they are shocking is actually just an actor--albeit one who is excellent at whimpering pathetically.

Ethics would never allow such an experiment today, of course. (All the 'good' ones are that way--dammit!) But the implications of it were so far-reaching that, as I said, it's still the stuff of Psych 101 today.

Unquestioning obediance to authority figures (or perceived authority figures) is something I never really bought into, personally. Anyone who knew me as a child can reiterate this for you. I was always as I am now, raising my eyebrow disdainfully at the nuns and refusing to do what my parents asked of me unless they delivered a sensible explanation for why I should do said thing. Respect was, and still is in my eyes, something you earn by your actions, not something I would deliver to you unquestioningly.

I was a pain in the ass that way.

I see this strange "Obey the Authority Figures At All Costs" phenomenon quite often at work. It's crazy, really. How did physicians become an "authority figure"? Somehow, they are. I watch and listen as people's doctors make horrible suggestions, prescribe dangerous drugs, refuse to refer them to a specialist for something far beyond the doctor's personal realm of expertise. The consequences of some of these monumental fuck-ups are, well, monumental. Sometimes the patient is so embarrassed to return to a doctor who made him or her feel stupid that they don't go back. They don't call to ask if they should be having "that" reaction to their prescribed drugs. They sometimes die.

This crap pisses me off. People, your doctor is hired by you. To perform a service. If he or she is not performing up to par, freaking fire him/her already. It never ceases to amaze me that the same people who will pitch a ginormous fit right in a salon over what they perceive as a bad haircut will keep going back to the same crappy doctor who belittles them, doesn't have time for their questions, or makes bad decisions. (Note: telling your fat ass to lose weight already or your smelly ass to quit smoking does not qualify as belittling. Lose some weight, fat ass!)

Note to doctors: Don't do these things to people. When someone tells me you have done one of those things, I will send an ambassador to gently teach you the "right" way to be a doctor. If you don't change, I will fucking fire your ass. Hard to keep a steady patient base when an insurer won't cover you. And my clients deserve good doctors. So there.

All of this discussion about authority figures is kind of a roundabout way to share with you a hypothesis I was bouncing off of Sean this morning as I slurped coffee and he crunched corn flakes (Now with Bananas!). This is often how my hypotheses occur--before either one of us are really bright enough to hold our own in the ensuing discussion. It can get quite messy, really.

(That's the problem with keeping news radio on in the morning--they will mention something about Bush. And indubitably, it will piss me off and I will get all in a tither.)

Anyhow. So. My hypothesis. I was asking, audibly, "Who the FUCK in their RIGHT MIND would vote for Bush? This is NOT a rhetorical question. I REALLY DON'T understand! WHY would anyone DO THAT?"

Then, all of a sudden, I knew. Because he is the president. An authority figure. A major authority figure. And he is saying "Vote for me!". So, it stands to reason that one should. I mean, who is this John Kerry guy saying I should vote for him? He's not the boss of me. The president is the boss of me!

In essence, I believe that people will vote for him simply because he is the president.

There you have it. The power of Authority, as proved by Milgram and Redpanda.

2004-09-29T13:43:00.000-04:00

Some Days It's Worth It

My phone jangled insistently, interrupting me from a boring-ass spreadsheet. My personal extension flashed on the caller ID. Damn. It was someone who had had previous contact with me, whether it was a message I left on a machine or a business card sent imploringly through the mail, please call me back, I want to help you... I had requested that he or she contact me. I couldn't ignore whoever it was. Flipping my eyes heavenward, I picked up the phone. Yet another fruitless call on yet another fruitless day in which I will impact nothing and no one.

A North Shore blue-collar accent greeted me. "Yeah, you sent me a letter. I just moved, so that's probably why it took me so long to get it..." I dug for his file, feeling my heart sink. People with North Shore blue-collar accents who are this young (mid-40's) don't make changes. They don't do anything. They just bitch about their "bad genes" and keep smoking, drinking, eating crap, not exercising.

I told him a little bit about why I had called, what was going on, the program I worked for; bracing myself all the while for the imminent rejection. But it didn't come. Instead, David (I'll call him David because that's his name. And why change it?) interrupted to say "That sounds great! I'd love to do that! I want to do anything to help me get healthier, especially my heart." (Well, he said "hahhht", really. But I think that's the same thing as "heart".)

"Well, great!" I replied, pleasantly surprised. Delving into conversation with David, I found more pleasant surprises.

"Yeah," he said, "I go wit' my wife now to the maaahket to do the grocery shopping. My GOD! It takes FOHEVAH! Reading all those labels! I gotta say, I really respect my wife now for doin' that all those yeaahs for me and the kids."

I laughed and explained that it was a system, that it was hard at first but that they'd get it down pat and it'd be easier.

"Gawd, I hope so!" he replied.

When I asked about smoking, he said he had just quit. I responded with my general yay-for-you-you-are-so-awesome stuff, telling him how great it was that he had done that, what an accomplishment it was, all that jazz. "Well, I tell ya what, I wish I had never lit that first one, tell ya the truth. Now, whenever I get those cravings, I just remember when they used the defibrillator on me. They put those paddles right on me to restart my heart. And Christ, it feels like getting kicked in the chest by a mule, I tell you what. Whenever I want to light up, I just think of that feeling. I thought I was going to die for sure. But thank God, I didn't. Now, I wish that my 22-year-old would learn from what happened to me, and quit too."

The conversation went on. We talked about ways he could improve what he was already doing, how he should take the time off from work to attend cardiac rehab, how I would connect him with more resources to help him stay quit (smoking). He was bright and excited. His heart attack had made his life better--made him appreciate his wife more, made him quit smoking, made him eat better and exercise. He had a new lease on life.

We closed the (long) conversation with him fully enrolled in my program and swearing he would talk more to his doctor about attending cardiac rehab. When we got off the phone, I set down the headset and stared at it awhile. I thought, as I often do, about the inequities of life, the inequities of "the system". How this man, with his blue-collar background and lack of college education, was targeted by Big Tobacco. How they got ahold of him from a young age, teaching him that cigarettes were cool, were grand, were his best chance for escapism. I thought of his job that won't give him time off to attend cardiac rehab so he can learn how to best heal after a heart attack, and how to prevent a future one. I thought of his countless cigarette breaks at work, going for a beer with the guys afterwards. A culture of unhealthy habits. I thought of his son, who had been born when he was barely past his teens, who now didn't want to quit smoking. I thought of how the cycle repeats itself, what it really means to "Have a family history of heart trouble".

It means discrepancies. In care, in upbringing, in opportunities. It means being stunted from the start. It means having a fuckload further to fight before you reach your destination.

Fight the good fight, David. Keep at it. I will knock down any barrier I can to help you on your way. I will help you any way that I can. And one day, God help me, I will make it so someone else doesn't have to fight that fight.

Fuck you, Big Tobacco. You will lose. One day, you will fucking lose.

2004-09-27T13:36:00.000-04:00

Tots.

After seeing Napolean Dynamite for the second time, I came in to work today and was greeted by a cafeteria selling tater tots.

Nice.

I'm eating them right now, all old-school style with a side of ranch dressing for dippin'.

Oh, how it takes me back to freshman year....

2004-09-22T10:07:00.000-04:00

A Pepto Tale

One of Sean's many obsessions is with Pepto-Bismol. (Or, rather, Target Brand Pink Bismuth Liquid). If I happen to complain about some ailment, be it a stubbed toe or gangrene, he's lightning quick to suggest: "Why don't you take some Pepto? Take some Pepto, honey! It'll make you feel better! It's yummy!"

What Sean does not understand is that if one has a digestive system with any sort of sensitivity, one cannot, I repeat, NOT go around chugging Pink Death. To do so is to capitulate all thoughts of pooping for the next week, if not longer. And it is not, in any way, shape, or form, yummy. In fact, I would say that the opposite is true--that Pepto is, in fact, yucky.

That said, Pepto does come in very handy when one is having issues of, shall we say, ass explosivity. It functions as the only nonsexual buttplug.

Now, I have been a bit under the weather this week. It began as a cold, but as things drifted south, I began to feel the first twinges of Upset Tummy-ness. Yep. It was one of Those Times. I was in need of some Pepto.

Except, there wasn't any. None. Nada. Ix-nay on the epto-pay.

Why is that?

Well, I'll tell you. That is because Sean chugs Pepto. He does shots of it the way some people shoot tequila. He drinks it as a beverage, likening it to strawberry milkshakes in consistency and flavor. He uses it in recipes as a substitute for milk, butter, or eggs. He finds any possible way to suck down as much pepto as is humanly possible.

And he will be very, very sorry for that When I Get Home.

2004-09-21T16:08:00.000-04:00

Weekend

Friday evening we went out, my hair shiny-bright with a new dye job, to dinner and a movie with our friend Mike. We always seem to do the same thing with Mike--dinner and a movie, or a movie and dinner, or maybe dinner, a movie, and then a drink. I'm not sure if it's because we automatically think of Mike now when we're going to do these things, if it's just a habit we've gotten into and can't seem to break, or if it's just plain The Way Things Are. But an evening with Mike often means we'll be catching a movie at the Kendall and eating dinner at Cambridge Brewing Company. No slouch, that. I enjoyed a Pumpkin Ale with my Mediterranean pizza, while Sean and Mike opted for a burger and pecan-crusted catfish, respectively.

We saw a "special sneak preview" ofShaun of the Dead. Three words for you, folks--Kick. Ass. Flick. Over-the-top gore, a sicko sense of humor, and a smart, biting wit all wrapped up in one nice, neat package. I laughed my ass clean off.

Saturday, I worked as the rain came down in sheets, pounding against the windows and making me glad that I hadn't signed up for the Heart Walk (which was, incidentally, cancelled anyway...). When at last that was over and I was home, I found myself making moussaka. Making moussaka is always fun because Sean particularly likes to find new things to call it. This time his favorites seemed to be "Mufasa" and "Baked Montana". Either way, the important thing is that he ate the stuff even though I'm sure it pained him to do so.

That night, we headed back down south to Dorchester for the going-away party of my friend from work, Siobhan. I'm very bummed that she's leaving me, since I never tire of her stories of things like men taking Viagra and then trying to pick her up by saying "Hey, I just took a Viagra!". But alas, the greener pastures of fashion school in Milan were calling, and answer she must. Sean and I spent the evening drinking immense cocktails and complaining that the immense cocktails were not strong enough and too expensive. Oh wait, maybe that was just me.

After sleeping in the next morning, we arose and had a leisurely brekkie before heading north to join R-Dubs, Alayna, Paige, and Theron for some group apple-pickin'. It was my very first time, and it did not disappoint! I have numerous great shots of all involved that I may post one of these days. Beautiful day + apple pickin' = Yay! After we had picked our requisite bags of apples (we all favored the Honey Crisp variety), we headed back to Chez R-Dubs to gather round the Pats game and have some snackies.

So, that was my weekend. A slice of my life, if you will. Not too shabby, not to fancy.

2004-09-18T13:32:00.000-04:00

The Way to Get the Poon-tang

I'm sure many of you are familiar with the new craze that is sweeping the nation (I love to say "sweeping the nation", It makes it sound like some entity is flying over cities and plains in a superhero-like fashion, wreaking havoc amongst mad thralls of people who are jumping up and down, desperate for WHATEVER IT IS!) freecycle.

Sean is a freecycle junkie. He spends a substantial portion of his day forwarding me descriptions of what can only be described as Crap That We Don't Need in Any Way, Shape, or Form. Sometimes, he even goes and retrieves said Crap from the offerer and hides it in the trunk of his car for weeks on end. Then, when I find the Crap in his trunk and say: "Where the fuck did this Crap come from?", he can safely reply: "Oh, that? I've had that for weeks!"

But, I digress. Although freecycle is a great resource for people both trying to get rid of Crap and people trying to obtain Crap, sometimes things that really piss me off get sent around. Some of the best examples are things like "My 4-year-old son would love some kittens to play with!",(That's kittenSSSSS. Plural. Because, you know, it's normal to get more than one pet at a time for your 4-year-old.) or "Does anyone have a puppy I can adopt? I went to the shelters, but the ones there are expensive--like $200--and I can't afford that!" (News for you, assfuck--if you can't afford to shell out the 2 big ones required to adopt the puppy, than you can't afford to own a puppy.), or the unending "Please adopt my kitten. She is 7 months old and no longer cute. Also, she still needs to be neutered. She hasn't gotten her shots yet, either. I only got her because she was cute. Now I have discovered that she is a lot of trouble and I wish someone else would take her now that she is not cute anymore!" (No further explanation required on that one.)

After the seven millionth of those hit the list, Sean took action. He pretty much spammed the entire freecycle community with the suggestion that pets can be found easily on Petfinder or in the shelters, and that it was not appropriate to treat them like they were an old bookcase or table. He also provided a link to the Saddest Craigslist Post Ever, one that made me tear up for weeks after whenever I thought about it. It's so sad, in fact, that I think everyone should read it so that they too can spend a few days stumbling around muttering "good dog or good cat!" and bursting into tears.

Well, the response was pretty overwhelming, to say the least. For a while, Sean forwarded me the nice responses he was receiving from the freecycle community.

So, what does this have to do with The Poon-tang?

Well, all, I mean EVERY SINGLE ONE of the responses he received were from women. And some kept responding, sending more and more personal information in each email. I am still patiently waiting for the "Great post--here is a crotch shot!" or "Very well said. Would you like to put my boobie in your mouth?" or "Enough about pets. When can we fuck?" emails to arrive.

That Sean, he is one helluva chick magnet.