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.

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.

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'!

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.

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?

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.

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.

More Sadie, More Poncho

Fear the poncho. Fear the Sadie.

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.)

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:

Seanie Loves Sadie

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!!!

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!

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.

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!

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!

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.

"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.

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.

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: "..."

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.

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!!!!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.