Another actual conversation with my mom

My mom: How was skiing this weekend?

Me: It was great. Conditions were amazing. Tons of fun. I had to cut my day on the slopes short though because I got a migraine Saturday afternoon.

My mom: Oh that stinks. How much wine did you drink on Friday night?

Me: I didn't drink any wine.

My mom: ... Wait, what?

She knows me so well.

(It was beer.)

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Roo Dog has a snow day

Another blizzard took a big ol' dump on the east coast this week. This is why we call him Kangaroo.









We're still warming up.

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At least I'm not shooting heroin through my toes

A few years ago I watched my first episode of Law & Order. There was nothing else on and chances are, no matter what time of day, there is an episode of Law & Order on television. It wasn't long before Law & Order became the show I watched to zone out when nothing else was on, to a show I actually searched the channels for.

This past fall, B and I discovered Criminal Minds. And mah gah, everything we loved about Law & Order was in Criminal Minds, only deeper and darker and much more fucked up. We were hooked. Suddenly, Law & Order paled in comparison. It can no longer hold our attention. Not enough fuck up-ness, I suppose. Once you up the ante, it's hard to go back. I imagine that is exactly how heroin addicts describe their journey up the drug chain until before they know it they're robbing 7-11s and shooting up between their toes.

Then recently, B and I had the genius idea to cancel cable. We needed to trim the fat from our budget and gah knows I wasn't going to allow us to skimp at the liquor store. Cable it was. In order to sustain our media-soaked little brains though, we signed up for Netflix. $10 a month sure beats that $100 cable bill.

And that's when we discovered Dexter. I was loading up the instant queue when I stopped on season one. I'd heard a lot about how great the show was -- clever dialog, witty banter, skilled cinemetography -- so I threw it on the queue. And after one episode, B and I were totally hooked. This was waaaaaay more fucked up than Criminal Minds! Not only that, but it was chock full of sexy people! With chiseled jaw lines and great hair. And to our twisted little minds, what could be better than gruesome and seriously mental serial killers and sexy bods? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing could be better.

But recently, I've noticed something about myself. While B has gone on normally with his every day life, I have suddenly become skittish and slightly paranoid. I can't fall asleep at night until I've checked all the locks on the house. I get nervous when I'm home alone. If the dog barks at something outside when it's just the two of us at home, my heart rate will sky-rocket and I'll consider locking both of us in a closet with a tennis racquet to protect us.

B has fully taken advantage of this skittishness. If I happen to be in the shower when he comes home from work, he'll sneak into the bathroom and throw open the shower curtain, just to watch me scream. Or he'll turn all the lights off in the kitchen as I'm pouring myself a glass of water and grab me from behind. I am constantly on my guard.

This is exactly why I have my self-imposed scary movie code. I do not allow myself to watch scary movies. They enter my subconscious and haunt me for weeks at at time. I still can't even THINK at any movie even remotely about an exorcism. If a commercial comes on, I have the change the channel. I'm afraid of remote mountain houses because of The Strangers. I always freak myself out when camping because of Blair Witch Project. I'm nervous around socially awkward people who happen to be in the dental or medical profession because of Human Centipede (Ha-Ha rohyphnol). I'm even afraid of people with schizophrenia because of Patch Adams. Patch fucking Adams, people.

You'd think then, that I'd want to cut back on all of this crazy crime drama. But I don't. On the contrary, I'm even more addicted. We're already well into season two of Dexter after just a couple weeks as Netflix members. We fly through episodes at an alarming rate. It's a bit disconcerting, since we both assumed cancelling cable would give us plenty of extra free time for doing things like reading the New Yorker or finishing novels or perhaps even completing all the half-finished projects we started around the house. But nope. I think we spend even more time in front of the TV now. It's sick, I tell you. SICK.

But what are ya gonna do? At least I'm not shooting heroin through my toes, right?

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

With Mayer Hawthorne, Eli Paperboy Reed and Jamie Lidell all coming on to the scene within a few years of each other, I think it's clear that a resurgence of men in suits, horn sections and tunes nostalgic of some of MoTown's classics is here. And I like it. A lot.

Interestingly, it's a gang of skinny white boys who are leading the brigade. And keeping with the theme of skinny white boys in skinny ties (swoon) Fitz and the Tantrums has taken the stage. It's all a little reticent of the Four Seasons slash Temptations slash Jackson Five days and I am digging it. The VGFs have a thing for this style of music. And by thing I mean you pull up a MoTown mix on your iPod and we'll be dancing until 5 in the morning or until someone smashes a watermelon on the floor and overflows the dishwasher. Whatever comes first.

The band played in Boston last weekend. And I missed them. And they'll be playing in Pittsburgh the weekend I go to visit Mojo next month, when I'll miss them again because my flight arrives the next day. C'est la vie. At least I've got Youtube.

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REJECTED

The American Red Cross is holding a major campaign this month in an attempt to fight the ever-widening blood shortage. They've taken over the whole month. January is now National Blood Donor Month. Morbid, yes. But necessary. This country is facing a shortage of something that is important for so many individuals and so easy to give.

You know you've seen the signs around. They're hanging in the library, in the gym, in your office. The Red Cross is coming and they want to suck your blood. They're coming to you and they're offering sugary treats and drinks in return. What better way to justify that donut you're going to shove down your fat gullet anyway than to restock your sugar levels after donating a pint? Or better yet, swap out a pint for a pint (or five) at your local watering whole. Go ahead, you've earned it. In fact, on blood donation day, you've kind of earned everything. Feeling a little lightheaded? Better head home from work early. Lethargic? I guess your husband is going to have to cook dinner. Arm a little sore? You definitely need some good sex to take your mind off of it.

Donating blood doesn't hurt(that much). It doesn't take much time. And it doesn't cost you a dime. I know it's hard to contribute to non-profits during a tough economic time. This is one way you can make a big difference in about as little time as possible. If I had my way with you, you'd be joining me on my 5:45 a.m. runs every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and donating lots and lots of money. This is a hell of a lot easier than that. Especially when the thermometers in Boston are reading off a -2 degrees these days. DIE, WINTER.

I've been a long-term hospital patient before. I know how valuable that red gold can be. I am so behind the act of giving blood that I've been serving as an outside ambassador all month. Nagging B to give when he can. Asking my parents about the last time they donated. Pointing out all of the local drives that are happening around town. And when I saw that a drive was coming to my office, I signed up as soon as the posters hit the bulletin boards.

On the day of the drive, I stoically marched down to the makeshift donation station in the office cafeteria, announcing to anyone who might hear me on the way that I was off to donate my blood. It was blood donation day. Did everyone sign up to give a pint?

I signed all the forms, got my finger pricked and answered all the questions. And then I got rejected. Like an asshole. And my high school boyfriend on prom night. BURN!

Red Cross: Have you ever had Hepatitis?

Me: No

Red Cross: Taken any unprescribed drugs via needles?

Me: No.

Red Cross: Tested HIV positive?

Me: No.

Red Cross: Had sex with someone who tested HIV positive?

Me: No.

Red Cross: Had sex with someone with AIDS?

Me: No.

Red Cross: Thought about having sex with someone with AIDS?

Me: No.

Red Cross: Oh, I love that tattoo. Where did you get it done?

Me: Philadelphia.

Red Cross: I'm sorry, but you can't give blood today.

Me: Wha?

Red Cross: We can't accept blood from anyone who has gotten a tattoo in the past year in Pennsylvania or Massachusetts. You can go to Rhode Island and get one and you'd be fine. But in Massachusetts and Pennsylvania they can just stick you with any nasty old thing. Can't take your blood.

Me: But -

Red Cross: You can still have a donut.

Me: But -

Red Cross: Have a great day! We'll call you in July!

But I had prepared for this moment! I chose a shirt that would be easy to roll above the elbow when I got dressed this morning. I packed extra snacks in my lunch to bring my sugars back up should I need them and to treat myself if I didn't.

But you know what's the real kicker? I did this same exact thing exactly one year ago. Only last year I never went to donate because I had been reminded of the little tattoo rule ahead of time. And apparently that fact got my panties all in a twist last year too. But as I tend to do, I quickly let the memory dissolve so I could make room in my cranium for more important things, like that name of that awesome bottle of wine I had last weekend. And all the lyrics to the Backin Up song. Sometimes you just have to get a little stupider for the sake of your own entertainment and the entertainment of those around you. DAMMIT, BRAIN.

And now, after having my arms checked for track marks and all those pages of questions about AIDS and heroin use and skin grafts from the United Kingdom, I have to say I feel a little bit like a dirty old drug user. Rejected because I tainted my blood with my needle habit.

Next time I get inked, I'm totally going to Rhode Island.

P.S. And I'm backin' up backin' up backin' up backin' up cause my daddy taught me good.

P.P.S. All this talk about blood has made me hungry. BLOOD MUFFINS.

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Maybe I'll start riding my bike

I know it's been a while since there's been a truly meaningful post on here. And I promise it has nothing everything to do with the glass bottle of wine I've been drinking when I get home at night. This week's nightly glass bottle of wine has been particularly necessary though for one reason. And I've been hesitant to share it here because remember when I was all PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION IS RUINING MY LIFE AND EVERYONE SAW MY VAGINA? And then I finally, FINALLY, bought my very first car at the age of 26? And the stars aligned and the babies stopped crying and no one went to bed hungry anymore and global warming stopped all was right with the world?

Well since then my patience has been waning. But after all those months of silently crying on the bus, there was no way I was going to start complaining about this. But suddenly this is just a bit much to bear. And I figure, if you're not complaining about something, then what the hell is there to talk about, right?

My life has a new arch-nemesis and that nemesis is the motherflipping drive. My commute went from bad to bad. Whereas before I had to deal with infrequent trains and waiting for the bus in the pouring rain and sitting next to the man who clips his toenails, now I have to deal with shitty roads and the horrible traffic and every other asshole driver out there and let me tell you, Massachusetts is just overflowing with asshole drivers.

Let me introduce you to my drive. First there's the babillion other people trying to get from the South Shore in to Boston all at the same time. There are only two ways to do this. One is the highway -- which, trust me, is the biggest shit show I've ever seen -- and the other is Route 3A -- these days, only a slightly smaller shit show. The highway is out of the question. There's no way in hell I'm going to drive 30 miles at 5 miles per hour. I'd rather run to work, which, trust me, I've considered.

So that leaves me with Route 3A. While not awful under normal circumstances -- a straight shot down the coastline from Boston to Scituate -- this week it has been one dirty bitch. There are street lights the entire way that seem to be timed to ensure that you will be stuck at every red light for 25 miles. Obnoxious, but I can deal with that.

Then there's the conditions of the road itself. We've been dumped on with snow this winter and with the snow comes the salt trucks and when the salt trucks appear, so do the potholes. There are potholes on 3A big enough to swim laps in. And in the dark, they're hard to see. While I have most of the potholes memorized now, every once in a while a new one will take me by surprise and it feels like my front axle has just been snapped in half; my teeth will clatter and my head will bounce and the entire car will jerk. Obnoxious, but I can deal with that too.

And then there's the construction on the Neponset Bridget. There are a number of bridges I have to cross going to and from Boston, the largest of which connects the town of Quincy to the city of Boston. This bridge has been under construction for two years and is still considered one of the most structurally deficient bridges in the country. You want to see potholes? You could host an Olympic diving event in these babies. One day I'm quite certain my car is just going to fall right through what I assume is just a few inches of cement left to the water below. This thing looks like a cracker eroding away in the rain.

The traffic this construction causes is incredible. Six lanes have been reduced to two. The bridge is unavoidable on 3A and the only way to get around it would the highway. So, like me, every idiot who doesn't want to sit in the parking lot of the highway instead sits in the parking lot of the Neponset Bridge. If I time my ride right (meaning if I were to come in at 10 a.m. and leave by 3 p.m. -- wouldn't that be nice?), I can knock off my commute in about 45 minutes. During the holiday season, traffic was light and my commute took about an hour. But for some reason, this week that traffic is back with a vengeance. It's grabbed me from behind, pimp slapped me across the face and given me a kick in the ass for good measure. This week I've been spending a solid 40 minutes sitting in traffic on the Quincy side of the bridge on top of that 60 minute drive.

AND THEN. There's the doozie of all doozies. The bridge BEFORE the Neponset Bridge is a drawbridge in the town of Weymouth. Like the Neponset, it's unavoidable. YOU WOULD THINK that considering the volume of cars that travel up 3A, they would schedule the bridge openings for non-peak hours. Because that would be logical, no? It's not a major shipping channel. It's not often that a large boat needs to get through. Only open the bridge between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. or any time after 7. That makes sense to me. WELL TOO BAD BECAUSE THEY OPEN THAT BRIDGE WHENEVER THEY DAMN WELL PLEASE. Like how about THIS MORNING? At, say, 7:30? Right when I was rushing to an early meeting that I had gotten up early for. For, oh I dunno, HALF AN HOUR?! That sounds about right. WHO THE FUCK PLANS THAT SHIT?!

Due to all of the above factors, I have not had a drive to or from work that has lasted anything less than an hour and a half. That's three hours of my day spent squirming in a seat listening to bad music. My ass has spent so much time in the car that it's sore. I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING. My ass hurts. MY. ASS. HURTS. My right ass cheek is aching as I type this. When I got home last night I couldn't stand to sit for one more second. I stood during dinner. I couldn't even relax on the couch and ended up settling in an exhausted, disgruntled downward dog-esque lean in front of the TV.

If you have a dog, you know that this is essentially universal dog language for two things, depending on the dog:

1) please play with me, or

2) please rape me

So no, it was not a relaxing evening.

I've come to the conclusion that no matter where you are going and no matter how you plan on getting there, it is a pain in the ass to get from Scituate to ANYWHERE. Now I understand why no one leaves. People are born there and die there because it's just too annoying to go anywhere else. They're townies out of necessity. It's the only way to avoid the utter inconvenience of public transportation or the butt-numbing traffic when driving. You're stuck, so you might as well saddle up with your other local friends and drink yourselves stupid.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

Ummmmm yes and please. The hair is just a bonus.

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True love is: loving the bed sweater

There's a lot of things that people think of when you say the word love. The butterflies, little pink hearts, sweet kisses, blah blah blah. But for me, I think of some of the oft overlooked elements of love. The guy who takes the fall for your public fart, for example. Now THAT is love.

I've told you how over the past year I've become a chronic bed sweater. [On a side note: Could this possibly be related to the anxiety that exploded when I moved to Massachusetts? Hmm? COULD IT?!] I'll drift off to sleep comfortably snuggled in my bed and I'll wake up in the middle of the night wetter than a skantily clad spring break co-ed in a wet t-shirt contest. Sweat dripping down my back, my hair matted, my entire side of the bed soaked down to the mattress. Just plain ol' nasty. About as nasty as I assume one would feel after waking up the morning after a wet t-shirt contest on spring break.

When I wake up, I'm freezing. I literally have to towel off. I'll throw on a fresh t-shirt, but then I always come face to face with the sheets. How can I crawl back into a bed that is soaked with my own sweat? It's just ... gross. And ... cold. And that's when B will wake up and reach over to feel the sheets. "Sweating?" he'll ask. "Yes," I'll sigh. "You cold?" he'll ask. "Yes," I'll sigh again. And that's when he'll pull me into his clean, dry side of the bed, and consciously roll over into my cold, wet side.

Every time I sweat the bed, B gives me his dry side and spends the rest of the night wrapped up in my cold, disgusting sweat sheets.

If THAT'S not true love, then I went and married one sick, sick man.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

The video is endearing. The band is adorable. The song is awesome. But above all? I jurst lurve zeez trumpets. Allow me to introduce you to Johnny Flynn:

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I hope they were at least the type of treats that clean your teeth

As a tennis instructor, B was showered with small Christmas gifts from the people he teaches throughout the holiday season. Most of these were gift cards and many were homemade cookies and sweets. And in my opinion, one of the best things about the holiday season is the plethora of homemade goodness. Whenever I take a step back and have a good serious look at my life, it's pathetic how much of it revolves around eating cookies.


As you can imagine, an outpouring of these came within the few days before Christmas, when I had already scampered off to Philadelphia. B had to work a few extra days and would meet me down there before Christmas Eve. Instead of immediately ingesting all of them with the force of a Dyson three-cylinder bagless vacuum cleaner, which is what I would have done, B piled all the baked goods onto the kitchen counter before driving down to spend Christmas with my family.

When we got back to Massachusetts, after a slightly stressful (and for me, hunger-filled) 10-hour drive, I dropped my bags at the back door and made a beeline for the pile of treats before me while B headed upstairs.

Oh GINGERBREAD MEN! I hadn't had one of those cookies yet this year! Let's start there, I thought. They looked deliciously homemade and after THAT car ride, just what I needed.

I bit off the head and chewed. Interesting. Kind of bland. Definitely must have been baked by one of the kids B teaches. That's cute. Someone needs to learn a different recipe though. I chomped off a foot and chewed slowly while I contemplated. This is definitely kind of gross. This tastes like a mouth full of wheat. What type of parent would let their child give out these disgusting cookies to their tennis pro? I put the rest of the cookie down and moved on to some fudge to cleanse my palette.

B came into the kitchen, followed by the dog, and walked over to the counter where I was hovering by the goodies. He reached for the bag of gingerbread men. "Oh, don't even bother with those," I said. "They're kind of gross. Who made you those?"

"Did you eat one of these?" he asked.

"Yeah, they're really bland."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. Blegh."

"That's good because they're dog treats."

"What?"

"My aunt made them for Rooney. You just ate a dog treat."

And with that, he threw the rest of the cookie into the air and we both watched as Rooney gobbled it down. Naturally, this just made the entire 10-hour drive through white out snow worth it for B. That chance to have me eat a dog treat.

Maybe next time I'll be a bit more cautious before shoving unknown goods into my mouth (that's what she said). But probably not.

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Wednesday's Song of the Week

You know how when I was introduced to Antoine Dodson and the Bed Intruder Song for the first second time, I just about shit my pants with ecstasy? I rolled around on the floor pushing play over and over and over and managed to work in quotes from that beautiful, black, bandana-ed man into every day conversations for months. I don't actually know if "work in" is the correct term for the way I interjected these quotes into conversations. Maybe something more along the lines of I "tourrettesed them in" would be more accurate.

B: Don't look. I'm hiding your Christmas present.
Me: HIDE YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENTS, HIDE YOUR WIFE, AND HIDE YOUR HUSBAND CAUSE THEY RAPIN' ERRBODY OUT HERE.

..................

B: Do you know where I put my keys? Can you help me look?
Me: Where are you keys? WE LOOKIN' FOR YOU. WE GON' FIIIND YOU. WE GON' FIIIND YOU.

..................

Well, this New Year's Eve, while celebrating with my Very Good Friends in New York City, one of my best friends showed me a new video some time around 1 a.m. And you know what I did? I watched it another six times. Then we turned it up and had a dance party in the living room that lasted until about 4:30 in the morning. Oh us.

And just like Antoine Dodson brought new meaning to my life; new light to the darkness; a luscious mix of pleasure, pain, enlightenment and auto-tune genius, this Kansas woman -- who I'm going out on a limb here and just guessing has fricasseed that Kansas brain right on up with years of drug and/or alcohol abuse -- has blown my mind right on open. BLOWN IT RIGHT ON OPEN, YA'LL. I love this woman. She is you and you are me and we are all backin' up backin' up backin' up backin' up backin' up.

And I don't think I'll ever get it shut. I can't stop singing this song. I sing it in the shower. I sing it when I'm running. B and I sing it to each other as we get ready for bed. It just ... puts us in the mood. So now, I give you: BACKIN' UP.



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2010 in Review: Is this real life?

I know I say this every year about this time, but 2010 was a fucking whirlwind. I knew 2009 was going to be pretty hard to beat what with the wedding and the honeymoon and all that, but MAN 2010 really shook things up. Like, really.

First and foremost, I started the year off with a bang by completely uprooting my life and moving from Philadelphia to a small fishing village in Massachusetts. And yes, I probably was drunk when I decided that might possibly be a good idea.

As a result of The Move, I was unemployed for what felt like a very, very long time.

But because of that, B and I got to gallivanting all over Europe and even dipped our toes in Africa. For free.

On a related note, I also spent the majority of the first six months of my newlywed life living with my in-laws. This also felt like a very long time. Hiya, Babs! Love ya!

And then not only was I constantly battling a vicious and never-ending case of homesickness, but I had, like, no friends. For what also felt like a very long time. This, I've come to discover, is simply because New Englanders are assholes. Luckily, since I am also an asshole, I've picked up a few very good friends along the way.

But then I got a job. Which I love. And with that, I voluntarily get up (almost) every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 4:30 a.m. to run with a group of homeless men and women, who I also love.

And then summer came -- for the love of gah FINALLY -- and I really hit my stride. I spent my weekends hanging out with friends on beaches and boats and docks and bars and pretty much operating like any other functioning alcoholic with a really nice tan.

B and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary. First, at the wedding of one of my best friends in the city where we were married ourselves, in Philadelphia, which I'm not going to say is vastly superior to Boston but I'm also not not going to say it either. And then we celebrated again together, in Provincetown.

All the while, I had been training my cute little behind off and ran my second marathon.

By then it had gotten really cold again. And for what felt like a while after the marathon but was actually only two weeks, I couldn't run. But now I'm better and I can run but it's so fucking cold that who the hell wants to even go outside? I guess I do because I'm still out there almost every morning. Like a fucking idiot.

Before I knew it, it was Christmas and now it's January and I've spent the past month vacillating between being euphoric and a miserable sack of snot because I miss my home and my family and can you even BELIEVE I've been up here in this frozen tundra for an entire fucking year? B thinks I have Season Affective Disorder but I told him I have Scituate Affective Disorder because Scituate is in the middle of fucking nowhere and I am 26 years old and want to enjoy my youth damnit! If I want to walk out of my house and get sushi at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday I should be able to do it! You can't even get pizza in Scituate after 9 p.m! On a Friday! I've tried!

Anyway. This post is not about that. This post is about this year. Or rather, last year. 2010 was a crazy year and I am certainly a lot crazier for it. Before we moved, I definitely had a slight flair for dramatics. These days, my crazy runs wide and it runs deep.

As such, my New Years resolution is to find my zen. I'm going to try to chill the fuck out a bit more. And hopefully stop punching B when I'm drunk. And also sober. And I'm going to try stop not saying but not not saying how much better Philly is than Boston. Or, at least, not say it less. Here's to hoping 2011 holds all the wonder we hope! And is slightly less punchy.

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