Glitter in the Water

I'm Begging You to Stop

2010-02-16T12:27:00.001-08:00

Dear John Mayer,
I know it was a great day when some label scout found you sitting on the grass in "the quad" and gave you a big check to record the songs you made up to impress sorority girls when you ran out of roofies that time and no one would fuck you cause your face looks like a swollen horse testicle. But you're rich now, and for some inexplicable reason women fuck you. Please stop writing songs.

Posted via email from Jennifer's posterous

Video Games Are For Whores

2010-02-12T09:56:00.001-08:00

My BF and I had a discussion last night when he was all "I wish you played video games WITH me" after I was all "you're an asshole stop playing video games and hang out with me."

I asked about the women in this particular game. He was like well, if you want to play a girl you can play a scantily clad one or this other one with a latex translucent bodysuit on. It's a battle game of some sort, set in space. So the assumption we're working off of here is that if you're a woman in a space battle you are either too stupid to know that you should probably protect vulnerable sensitive items like your tits and vagina from space weapons and or you're too slutty to care that one of your triple-E sized tits might get blown off or impede your ability to run if you leave them flapping in the wind. Why would I want to do that?

Let's be honest here. I'm a woman. Everything I look at (TV, magazines, the internet, physically modified rich people on Newbury Street) tells me that I should at least try to look like a shiny naked fucktoy. So uh, why would I intentionally engage in looking like or surrounding myself with virtual shiny naked fucktoys for hours at a time? Isn't the whole video game thing about "escapism"? Maybe I should also play a game about cleaning the toilet, or sitting in rush hour traffic with period cramps. Since apparently I'm a big fan of games in the "shit I tolerate in real life" genre. Right, game making dudes?

The video game industry can go fuck themselves until they invent something that smart women actually want to partake in. If its a space game, give me a cool fucking SPACE SUIT and don't have "sheer thong" as an option. If its a battle, give me some fucking PANTS and don't insult me with a bikini comprised of twelve soda can tabs. And at least make some sense - even in a world where dragons existed and gnomes rode around in spaceships, a woman with tits 5 times the size of her head and waist the size of her wrist would not be able to walk, let alone engage in a slow motion Baywatch run with a machine gun in each hand.

Posted via email from Jennifer's posterous

Bringing the Sass

2010-01-28T13:53:00.001-08:00

So, I'm pretty sure the two old guys who walked in the room ahead of the President last night and stopped in the aisle and announced him like he was the King of England are his Official Presidential Yellers. Since he's already paying for professional yellers, I think they should be required to stand next to him and yell "booyeah!" during his speeches when appropriate.

Bless Yourself, Asshole

2010-01-26T13:39:00.001-08:00

Every time I sneeze at work, someone says "bless you." I sneeze like 56 times a day despite taking an antihistamine for some reason, so it gets pretty annoying - especially when I do one of those rapid-fire multi-sneezes and I get a "bless you ... bless you ... BLESS you!"

Let me just say this: I'm an agnostic. I believe in something, but it's not Jesus or Allah or anyone with the power or the right to bless my bony ass every time my body goes haywire. I don't think a sneeze means demons are flying out my nostrils, and even if they were I wouldn't need a blessing, I'd need a camera so I could sell the blurry image of booger Satan to the Enquirer for a million dollars so I can stop having to come here every fucking day.

Regardless, being that I'm the subject of so much holy charity from my coworkers I feel obligated to return the phrase whenever one of them sneezes. Sometimes I sit silent and I can feel the heat of their judgement, so I say it the next time to redeem myself. I hate it so much that I've started to stifle my own sneezes by pinching the bridge of my nose. If Satan is in there, he's probably really psyched and pretty close to ruling my every move. I take no responsibility for what I post from here on out, especially if it's written in backwards Latin or whatever language church shit gets written in.

Posted via email from Jennifer's posterous

I Shop at Abercrombie

2010-01-22T12:21:00.001-08:00

Before I discovered the glory of their cotton-modal blend t-shirts thanks to a random Christmas gift from my sister a few years back, I would never have set foot in an Abercrombie. It's like a gas chamber of eye-stinging cologne with dim lights and the relentless leg-hump of bad house music. I'm amazed at the number of straight men who manage to shop there without sensing the overwhelming gay club vibe and running out clutching their white baseball hats while praying for the reassurance of their next boob-induced boner.

Anyway, I can smile and tolerate the strained "fuck me" look that their "store models" give me because it's store policy, despite how much they remind me of the child sex slaves I saw on Dateline. I feel no shame making a beeline for the heap of clearance items in the back of the store, where they sell their $30 t-shirts for the $6 they're worth, though I can sense the disgust of the full-price shoppers who notice. What really pisses me off is the aftermath of making a purchase at this joint

Your first punishment is being forced to walk out of the store carrying the disembodied torso of the 18-year-old twink whose peek-a-pube Craigslist photo they enlarged in place of a logo on their bag. Then you get home and have to wash whatever you bought 3x before you can wear it without raising suspicion that you fucked the entire cast of Jersey Shore in the men's deodorant aisle of CVS.

But when all is said and done, this is a great shirt I have on, isn't it? I got it for $6 at Abercrombie. You should go.

Posted via email from Jennifer's posterous

P

2010-01-14T11:01:00.001-08:00

According to my bf, the human bladder holds 8oz. (he told me this while explaining why he tried to pitch a company selling a 8oz. beverage a "One (beverage), One Pee" slogan set to the tune of Bob Marley's "No Woman, No Cry." Do I need to tell you how that went over?)

If he's right, why do I have to pee like 3x before finishing a 12oz. can of diet coke?

This is why I should work at home. On the toilet.

Posted via email from Jennifer's posterous

I Think I Lost My Materialism and I Want it Back

2009-11-09T08:36:00.000-08:00

Being unemployed for 10 months has made it incredibly hard for me to come up with items for a holiday wishlist! Not to sound like a total white chick with dreadlocks who eats soy cheese, but it's kinda because I've realized that without a context, so much is meaningless. I guess that's kind of good, right? But also a pain in the ass.

I had a moment in Target the other day when I found a sweater I liked, and a pair of sweatpants I liked, and I bought the pants with the reasoning that I would wear them more often. When I got home I thought about the old me who bought a hot mini dress every Friday night to go to the club and dance in and get my picture taken and show off to everyone and I cried a little bit about suddenly being uncool. Shortly after, I realized what has happened to me is really more enlightenment - the value I place on everything has shifted. I used to know that "THINGS can't make you happy" because, like, Uncle Jesse said it on Full House and every other douche in 10,000 other shows and movies and books said it all the time forever, but now I feel like I seriously KNOW it. Everything I pick up and think "I want this" my next thought is "Why do I want this? What will it add to my life? How will I use it?" after which point I end up putting most things back down.

This "enlightenment" has brought on other problems, however. When you go to get dressed and you look at your closet thinking "What should I wear?" and that question is now followed by "Who am I?" and "What does 'me' wear?" it takes a really fucking long time to get dressed.

The point I'm getting at is, you should give me pot for Christmas.

Food Phones Are Awesome

2008-08-15T08:22:00.000-07:00

I would like to have a land line just so I can have this phone. But since I can't, I think this would do:

Paco is Growing

2008-06-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

...but still isn't using his litter box. (eww)

A Few Questions

2008-06-09T17:05:00.000-07:00

Has MySpace made high school reunions obsolete?
I mean, the only reason people go is to show everyone they aren't fat and poor. And if you can see that on the internet already, then why pay $50 a plate in some function room at the Holiday Inn just to have awkward conversations with the people fate happened to seat next to you in algebra?
***
Why do I keep catching my cats eating the dog's food?
***
Would everyone be embarrassed if a public list of all their online stalker activities were made available, or is it just me?
***
Would it be considered assault if I ran around the city slapping wax on ladies with mustaches and then ripping it off? Like what exactly would be written on my police record?
***
Why is acai juice so expensive? Monavie is like $45 a bottle! But it's good.

Newborn Kitten!

2008-05-24T13:19:00.000-07:00

Max found this little guy in the alley last night. He was just born yesterday and abandoned by his mom. The vet said he's healthy so we have him at home in a box on a heating pad and are feeding him kitten formula in a tiny kitten-sized bottle. He is the size of your palm and squeaks like a mouse. He has no name yet.

We are going to take care of him until we find him a nice home with someone (one of our friends we hope) who will let us come visit and play with him! So if that is you, let us know! Otherwise we may need to move to a large farm. Here are more photos:

Sleeping...

We thought he was a rat at first!

This is all he does besides sleep.
Kitten formula yum!

The Dog House

2008-05-22T11:31:00.000-07:00

Boston Craigslist apartment listings today (2 bedroom, $1550 or below): 5978
Amount of those apartments allowing cats: 2199
Amount of those apartments allowing dogs: 1014

When you consider how much more likely an elderly person, a baby or a drug addict is to shit on the carpet or scratch up the walls, it doesn't quite seem fair.

I would love to see a listing: "Please, no babies."

An Empty Parachute

2008-05-02T12:40:00.000-07:00

Is a broken tampon machine in the ladies room.

The Fat Lady Is Singing (and Making Videos)

2008-04-29T18:17:00.000-07:00

Talentless titbag Scarlett Johansson recently released a painfully dull, self-indulgent album of Tom Waits covers. Today she followed with a painfully dull and self-indulgent music video. In which writer Salman Rushdie is speaking to her for some reason?! But it's muted, so in all honesty he's probably asking her where the bathroom is and then hurriedly excusing himself to take a shit.

This. As if her obnoxious, contrived quotes using 1950's leading lady vernacular weren't bad enough ("brazen harlot"? "fellows"? You're fucking 21 years old and you grew up in the 1990's. Eat a dick.)

I'm just waiting for one ballsy journalist with a soul to flat out ask this cow who she thinks she is, and inform her kindly what we know she's not. Because it's a long list.

For now, the emperor remains naked and oblivious.

It's Actually Spring (Today)

2008-04-24T14:23:00.000-07:00

Ringer Park is full of bloming trees and ghetto kids playing baseball.

And Nietzsche.

Sniffle Hack Hack

2008-04-23T13:58:00.000-07:00

I think the subway should have a quarantine car specifically set aside for the assholes who think it's ok to get into an enclosed space with 100 other people while they're the eye of a raging germ storm.

Too Gross for TV

2008-04-02T21:57:00.000-07:00

I can tolerate the vomiting baby on the eTrade commercials. I can handle the dripping wads of grade E meat in the Manwich commercials. But am I the only one who feels ill every time they see this disgusting pile of curly-haired dough getting all They Might Be Giants about his bad credit?

This is the worst one of all. Because you just know what the inside of that car smells like: chicken nugget farts and Rogaine. And infinite, chubby sadness.

Okay, I'm back!

2008-04-02T15:12:00.000-07:00

This poor little blog has sat untouched for months. I have been a busy little bee, but I've decided neglecting this is reflective of the state of neglect I've been leaving my personal life in, and it'd be sweet to like, you know, stop that. To begin, here is a self-indulgent photo post of my two cats:

(Note: those two glowing eyes in the background is a cat.)

My Ears Are Bleeding

2007-11-25T18:06:00.000-08:00

Voices that are so grating to me that I will and have left retail establishments playing them:

* Natalie Merchant-- So, so many ways I consider suicide every time I hear this fugly bitch sing.
* Everything But the Girl was the worst part of my gay club phase.
* Shania Twain and her phony sass and empowerment. I can totally tell she'd let her husband come home drunk and knock her teeth out and still wind up with his balls in her face the same day.
* Macy Gray is a rejected character from Sesame Street that broke loose out of the Muppet factory.
* Rob Thomas is my lesbian track coach from high school.

She's Like, So Christiane Amanpour!

2007-11-14T12:39:00.001-08:00

So apparently The Economist is letting Angelina Jolie write articles now? (I knew journalism school was a waste of time!) UsWeekly.com printed this excerpt:

“Accountability is perhaps the only force powerful enough to break the cycle of violence and retribution that marks so many conflicts,"

The original article, submitted to The Economist's office in purple crayon on the back of an Africa: Wish You Were Here! postcard with a bikini-clad fat lady on the front, actually read:

"Wut is up with those guys who do bad things? People who do bad things should be in troble. Love, Angelina Jolie"

Editors. They make the world go round.

Adios, Amiga!

2007-11-10T13:07:00.000-08:00

Long time, no blog, I know. That's cause I've been busy with my new love-- Hearts Like Stars (check it out if you haven't!)
I've also been busy with other fabulous things, such as Rima's Spy-tastic Going Away Party!

(Or if you read her cake, Rama :) I met this amazing lady through Rebecca not that long ago, and damn it now she's leaving! Off to Miami to kick ass federal-style. Everyone is SOO happy for her, but muy, muy triste to see her go. So for both reasons, a group of her nearest and dearest got wasted at the fahkin' wicked pissah Bell In Hand last night. Here's the incriminating evidence:

The night started out pretty tame. Here's Rima and Rebecca (the sisters.)

Only Kelly has a wig on. That's her bf's real hair.

Oh my!

(Just kidding.)

The Emerson girls.
(And the girl who took 2 grad classes at Emerson. That counts, right?)

Rebecca makes a great librarian, no?

After a few cocktails, things started to get blurry.

Very blurry.

At which point I tried to do a one armed portrait of Rebecca's eyeball.
Xtreme close up!

Smash! Then someone dropped a drink.

So Rima interrogated everyone with her new skills.

"Was it YOU Rebecca?!"

"Was it YOU Meg?!"

More fingers were pointed.

She swore to find the culprit.

A few blueberry Stolis later, she totally forgot.

Peace, y'all. (Or is that British 'Eff you'?)

Pretty soon there was dancing...

...and dancing...

...and more dancing...

and MORE dancing!

A few secrets.

And holy Jolie, Rebecca! Some kisses.

Then Rima's phone started ringing.

Shit, it was the FBI.

So Rima texted them back: "Suck it FBI, I'm with my bitchezzz!"

And Rebecca said "Damn straight!"

It was a good time.

A crazy good time.

This is my favorite picture of the whole night.
This town won't be the same without you Rima!

Blast from the Past

2007-10-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

I just found this site where there's an interview with me when I was 19 years old, doing my first mini-collection at Parsons School of Design. I was SUCH A DORK!

Just FYI, some of the people on that page went on to major positions in the world of fashion design and publishing. I'm not telling who :)

The next year I was mentioned in an article by Fashion Wire Daily, who totally inaccurately reported my designs were being sold by Henri Bendel (the grain of truth being that one of their gay stylists, who thought I was cool, gave my phone number to Rose McGowan because he thought she would like my designs...and then I moved and my phone number changed), but I have no idea where the hell that is. Probably printed out and sitting in a box under some embarrassing teenage journal I taped shut.

Bustiers for Brazil

2007-10-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, I attended my very first organized clothing swap at Miss Ashley Info's lovely apartment in the Fenway! (And when I say lovely I mean, I have never seen a neater cuter apartment. And the couch! If Jane Magazine was still around Ash could write a small spaces decorating how-to article.)

There's the hostess kicking off the event with a Vanna White display of second-hand knittage.
You can't see it but I'm there in the lower right corner eating spinach dip and drinking my 8th glass of riesling with frozen blueberries (I don't care what Deb says. Frozen berries in the wine = classy.)
We each took our turns going through the trash and treasures we lugged over in white Glad bags. Here's Erin selling us on her bootie-sock thingies. I think Ashley was a taker? Like I said, the wine. Don't ask me to remember... I just know the highlight of my day was trying on two pairs of Erin's old jeans and actually being able to squeeze my ass into them.

Oh and by the way? Anyone who used to Kiss Ashley's Ass? Can Kiss Michelle's Ass now, bitch!

I feel like I should take her to an Ani DiFranco concert. Oh and speaking of concert, Ashley's friend Heidi with the awesome AWESOME hair who is in that sweet band The Snow Leopards came. I think she only went home with one thing but it was an awesome (belt) thing.

AND. She was so kind as to give me this amazing velour booty-suit that I'm wearing in the following unflattering photograph:

Deb found the things that were black. Or white. Or black and white striped. I think Deb might be a "fashion zebra." But she's one of the only people I know with a "signature" look, and it's always a cool one.
I love that Michelle took my slutty impulse-buy pinup girl print bustier from Filene's Basement. Of about 6 bustiers that we saw that night, I think it's the only one that won't end up on a Brazilian prostitute. Just traded from one Irish one to another. I'm kidding! Michelle's not a ho. Just me.
Michelle liked her stuff so much she wore it all at once. Rayanne Graff, anyone?

Some shoes have all the luck. Like these magical apple sandals that went home with Michelle. How cute! You know she's a teacher right?

Renee's mules weren't adopted. Off to Brazil! Sad shoe goodbyes.

It was a great time, and everyone left with heavier bags than they came with. Okay maybe just me. It'll be fun to see what re-enters the pool next time!

Special thanks go out to Nestor too, who provided the cuteness. And the peach-ness and gray-ness. And falling off the chair-ness. Thanks for having us all over you guys! A couple of spectacular hostesses.

The Big A Pigeon Whisperer

2007-10-22T09:25:00.002-07:00

Yesterday I walked with Max and Nietzsche up to the Big A deli on Cambridge Street ("Home of the Famous Chicken Parm," according to the sign...) When we arrived, we saw that there was a pigeon in the window and one of the workers was on his cell phone (I assumed to Animal Control) trying to shoo it out.

Now, call me a baby, but in my opinion pigeons are basically rats that learned how to fly, and I wouldn't go near one without a plexiglass shield over my face and a pair of giant falconer gloves pulled up to my armpits.
This guy, not as concerned. He reached down and grabbed the pigeon in his fist, then walked outside to casually continue his long distance call to what I now realized was not Animal Control but Pakistan (or wherever.)
Flash forward 60 seconds. This guy is still absentmindedly holding the bird like a crumpled napkin, chatting on the phone.
I snapped this just as Max said:
"Dude, just let it GO!"
Dude then released the bird and, I imagine, cursed Max as he watched the contents of some Big A customer's "chicken" sub fly off into oblivion.

New Site!

2007-10-19T13:44:00.001-07:00

Hearts Like Stars, my new style blog, is up! So if you don't wanna know what I ate for breakfast and you do wanna know what's fresh from the new Kate Moss and Target collections, whats on sale on what site, and whether the latest foundation from Maybelline sucks or rocks, bookmark it. I promise you frequent, fab content.
If you're linked to me here, I'd love it if you traded that link for one to HLS. But it's up to you, I'm grateful to be linked to at all :)
xoxox

What If My Parachute Is Tie-Dyed?

2007-10-18T15:35:00.001-07:00

You'd think being 27 might deter one from maintaining a "what I want to be when I grow up" list, but sadly, I still keep one for lack of decision-making skills. Extreme. Lack.
So here they are-- things I might possibly be:

- Children's book writer and illustrator
- Muppet designer
- Fashion designer (for real this time...)
- Owner of a farm converted into cat shelter/ adoption center
- Screen actress
- Painter (fine artist)
- Wardrobe stylist
- Magazine editor
- Shop/salon combination owner
- Television writer

What I constantly fear being:
- Average

I'm told this is a "late 20s thing." Like that makes it any easier.

My guess is it's also an overachieving oldest child thing.

I was always in "gifted" programs and took classes with people 2 grades ahead of me and was given tests my mom procured secretly to confirm that at age 8 I did in fact read and comprehend at a high school level. One night when I was a kid I heard my parents in bed discussing what my sister and I would be when we grew up, and they debated whether I'd be a CEO or a lawyer. I won awards frequently for writing and art and running and even landed insane things like a scholarship to study in Colorado with two famous painters the summer before senior year.
So I guess I kind of have all that buildup and thus far, it hasn't amounted to all I felt it was magically going to. Not for lack of ability, I like to believe, but lack of direction.

I can say with honesty and not a trace of conceit that then you're pretty good at a lot of things, it's hard to pick one to try to be amazing at. I just wonder when time is up.

Spinoff on Horizon Despite Low Ratings

2007-10-17T11:54:00.000-07:00

I've realized that quite often my posts are about fashion and products and shopping and magazines, and as far as being useful they really can't be (at least not to anyone not willing to sift through my "personal life posts" to get to them.)

So, I've removed the fash-un postings from this site and I'll be announcing (hopefully later today) a new web addy where from here on all things style shall be discussed, linked to, and criticized. This one won't be going away, mind you. This is still the #1 place to go if you want the scoop on my personal BIZness and thoughts. I'm just giving my area of expertise it's own forum.

Just call this part of my OCD. I like to be organized.

xoxox

The Hard Way

2007-10-12T12:47:00.000-07:00

Every day, I take the stairs down from my 5th floor office for no other reason than to avoid the awkwardness of sharing an elevator with co-workers.
And....every day, without fail, someone enters the steep, creaky, mismatched series of stairwells at the exact same time as me about one floor up, and taints my entire descent with panic from the sense I'm being chased.

(Those aren't my office's stairs, but they are scary. Just in case you didn't get a visual.)

So I run down them, leaping down to landings and swinging like an ape holding the banister, though I know it's not a monster from Scooby-Doo behind me, and it's really just some chubby guy named Jeff from Marketing who's more likely to fart and trip over his own shoelaces than tear his face off to reveal a mutant vampire who wants to gouge my throat with bat fangs.
Not that that doesn't make me panic either, because the whole reason I'm in the stairwell in the first place is to avoid riding the elevator with him.
***
If I stop taking my anti-depressants for like a week, I start falling asleep at work. Am I really that depressed?! I don't think so? I mean, I guess some things in my life are depressing?
Such as:
*It is raining today.
*I have a dentist appointment tomorrow.
*I am not a millionaire.
That is not enough to make me need to sleep forever. Maybe I have a sleeping problem?
Things I have slept through before:
*Giant storms
*A fire alarm that stayed on for 3 hours
*Entire conversations
*The flight home from Madeira, Portugal
*Possibly sex (you'll have to ask Max, but my bet is he could get away with it)
***
Today someone locked the bathroom on my floor from the inside, and I had to go upstairs to the sixth floor. When I walked inside, it was 300x better than our bathroom! It was covered in fashion magazine pages, product samples, and a giant box of tampons.
I wish I had known about that the day I walked 5 blocks in the pouring rain to 7-11 with a wad of toilet paper stuffed in my pants after discovering that the feminine product dispenser in our bathroom is jammed and impenetrable to my reach-up-in-and-steal attempts.
Oh- did that gross you out? Then you're probably a dude. Fuck you.

(Side Note: In google-image searching for above pic, I at first just typed in the word "tampon." Don't ever do that unless you want to vomit. The second photo is of a gnarly bush with a string hanging out of it. I won't be eating dinner tonight. Or EVER AGAIN.)

Ugh, Stop It

2007-10-05T12:46:00.000-07:00

What are they on, like Saw XIV?

I've had about e-fucking-nough of these poorly acted un-scary gross-fests. This guy and the pervert sex freak who makes the Hostel movies should be shot in the head. And if I see one more commercial with this fucking doll's face I'm going to do it myself.

It looks they painted Lady Elaine Fairchild from Mister Rogers with goth makeup.

What ever happened to movies intelligent enough to actually scare people? Fear and vomiting from traumatic mutilation imagery are two different things.
Movies that actually scared me? Seven. Frailty. Watcher In the Woods. The Ring. Signs.

Do You Remember The First Time?

2007-10-05T09:29:00.001-07:00

In honor of tonight, the 10th Anniversary of ~~The Pill~~ the best thing about Boston, I'm going to share with you all the high-nights and low-dykes of my four or so years as a loyal disciple.

Like Vanya, and strangely enough at just about the same time, I was first a New York City britpop kid, 19 and slinking alone amongst the rock trannies and glittering children of Don Hill's on Saturday nights to hear Justine D. and mush-mouthed English relic Nick Marc spin the same mix of Pulp and Suede every week. Tiswas, they called it. (I never complained about the high drink prices because I knew if I stood in the right spot every week, I could catch the eye of the lead singer of whatever band they had and I'd be lavished in booze for the remainder of the night.) Oh, the scheming good old days.

Back north, I ached two years for the fashion and filth of Tiswas while living with "my greatest mistake." When I finally shed him like an oppressive khaki cocoon at age 22, I went out searching for the next best thing. What I found was even better.

My first Pill....
was in the front room at The Paradise. Liz Ficken, since moved to Ireland, and I hoofed it in pumps all the way from my apartment in the Fenway. I remember dancing with my back against a pole, and being approached by a Mexican boy who asked me to go to New York with him and drop ecstacy in the back of his band's van. Needless to say, that was a no.Opening Night at The Ecko Lounge...
I was there in a 4-inch mini with stilettos, mid-winter, below zero, in line for 30 minutes waiting to get in. When I did, I thought to myself, "that was worth it." Rebecca was with me. She's more "pop-lock-and-drop-it" than "disillusioned sway," so God bless her for standing in the cold and trying to shield my naked legs from the arctic Chinatown wind.Guilford Afterparties...
That night I was standing at the downstairs bar with Hallie. Max looks down the bar at me and then saunters over in his ragged black blazer. "What a Strokes poseur," I thought.
"Why are you called Pixie?" he asked me, smirking. "That's a stupid name."
"Fuck you." I said, and went upstairs.
Cut to end of the night.
"Come to this party," says Carl Lavin.
"Where?" I say.
"Max's," he replies.
"I hate that fucking guy," I say.
"Nonetheless..." says Carl.
That night Max tried to hit on me while Nietzsche laid on my lap. The next morning I had Friendster messages asking for my IM "handle." And so it began.

First Floor Soul
Maybe I was one of only three people who actually hung down here to dance, but Nick and Gus spun some excellent jams and it's the main thing I wish we could have back. Best compliment of my life is Hallie telling me on this dancefloor that I "don't dance like a white girl."

Riding Home
Hallie, Steve, now in Ireland, and Irish Leo.
3 a.m. stops at Shaw's
Eating baked goods in my studio apartment.
Signing along to "Motorcycle Emptiness"

Crushes
I was in love with Patrick from the Cignal. He was afraid of me.
Carl tried his best to hook us up.

The Pill's First Ever Fashion Show
Abby Ficken and Slash debuts the first day of Boston Fashion Week 2004.
Full page photo in the Sunday Herald.
Models: Mary Connelly, Susannah, Victoria, Moz from The Good North.
Victoria falls off the stage twice.
Max's gay girlfriend, watching bitterly from behind the bar with an outdated fauxhawk.
Cut to the end of the night: Max in the corner with a bloody nose (for talking to me.)
Bouncers
Mal, from The Ecko, who called me "The Girl With The Legs."
What ever happened to you? You're missed.

Bartenders
The Ecko was tended by Max's lesbian. She liked to pour them stiff for me, as if I didn't know and love that she did. I loved that she always had to serve me. I tipped extra well, to rub it in.
Great Scott has Tim, who is the best. He remembered when it was vodka cranbery, and now my Stoli orange and tonic is made before I open my mouth. No matter how long I'm away.Sarah Bell
Every week. Pre-shopping. Pre-party.
Brand new dresses. Often the same dress in two different colors.
Vodka with Red Bull, and coke.
Dancing to "Trash," by Suede. Our song.
Cab rides from Central Square.
The only reason Ken ever spun "Two of Hearts."
Halloween
I was Nico in a pleather dress when The Information was Depeche Mode
So drunk I grabbed Kerry Lavin's ass and bit Moz on the face.
Fell down on the street going home and was scooped up into Zack's car by Max.
Max was seeing the lesbian again. But not that night.
Then I was Edie Sedgewick when Protokoll killed Bauhaus.
Last year I was Marilyn Monroe.

The alley behind Great Scott
Smoking pot with Vanya and company
Photo shoot with MickBarrows Afterparties
Everybody who's anybody shows up.
Was: Driscoll, Vanya and DJ Ken.
Now: Terence, Vanya and DJ Ken.

Announcing the Bands
Vanya granted me this honor for several months. Nothing like a girl in a short dress staggering over to the mic to sling veiled insults at the musical guests.

The Pill's second fashion show: This Dress Is A Weapon
Faux jewels on the tables.
Full page photos and interview in the Metro. Teaser on the front.
The colorful cupcake dresses.
My parents on the dancefloor till 1:30 a.m.
Max, actual boyfriend, in the audience.
Modeling
Victoria, Hunter, someone and I.
Toy guns.
Penguin clothes.
Theatrics.
The Information
I loved the music long before I loved the man in front.
Seen them play here 43974 times.
"A Simple Plan," should have made them millions by now. It get's better every time I hear it.
And for the record, I'm the skirt that makes him think.
But I'll only make you ill.

Happy 10th to you boys and girls of The Pill.

They Say It's Your Birthday

2007-09-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

Twenty-seven!!! I'm officially on the verge of "late twenties." Oh boy.
When I think of this age, I think about how all the old rockers only lived this long, so the party was a hippie-themed event to mark my rock and roll milestone.
I bought an old Gunne Sax dress online, picked up a lava lamp and some door beads and played a lot of Jefferson Airplane and Three Dog Night. Here's me between my almost-sista Abs and my sista-sista Carrie.

This man, who you may know from earlier posts as The Best Boyfriend Ever, put it all together.

This lovely redhead came over while Max spent the WHOLE day cooking, and worked on her famous sangria. Best dish of the night was a chicken rosemary dip that Michelle aptly said "tasted like Thanksgiving." That recipe is a keeper. (Thanks to his buddy Dove for sharing it.)
And thank you to the Barrows boys for opening their porch to us all so the food didn't get tobacco-flavored. That was very gracious and sweet.

So many fabulous celebrity couples showed up. (Because you know, when you're "in your late twenties," you start mostly knowing couples all of a sudden. Which makes for good board game nights.) Abby and Geoff looked retro cocktail-party fabulous.

Carrie and Tim went Laurel Canyon chic, in with suede tassels and peace medallions. Tim got his t-shirt at Goodwill in NH. Funny because it probably used to belong to one of our goofy friends back in the day.And Emily and Dave/Doz are rock and roll as is. If Dave's hair isn't hippie I don't know what you'd call it. New Zealand-y? I love Bozeman's wild curls lately. We had a total of three teachers in the house last night! No Teacher Left Behind.

In costume, no one topped Rima, Rebecca and Erin, who came as foxy soul sisters and stayed in costume the whole night. Itchy fros and all. The best part was watching R and R coming through the front door of my building. My 12 illegal Mexican neighbors across the hall decided it was a good night to congregate outside the front door, and their crowd parted and looked very puzzled when the two of them walked through.

Ashley and Michelle came in beatnik black, which was still very appropriate. They brought good vibes and peace signs as well.
Oh lord and then the cake. You know how at most birthday parties only a few people want a piece? Everyone wanted a piece of this one Erin brought. She had to reign me in from cutting huge slabs because by cake time I'd had a little too long of it being "punch time." Bacardi and champagne punch with pineapples, even.
Thank you to Michael for providing the punch-y materials! And to Ash and Joel for the Blueberry Stoli I will definitely be enjoying later :)

After that I was the most spoiled girl in town in a pile of presents. I opened them sitting in the new curl-up-and-read chair that I bought with the money Pop-Pop sent me.

Carrie and Tim gave me cute owl PJs (Nietzsche DO NOT eat these!) and the kitty-soft socks I am wearing now and blueberry pancakes and a cute bowl to make them in. Now when I say I want pancakes to Max he has the supplies-- no excuses!

Abby must have known that my keys look like this:

So she upgraded me with this chic piece from Sonia Rykiel that I will feel much fancier carrying around than my Darren's Music keychain. Thank you!

Erin! Made all my Forever 21 wishes come true. Including a giant dangly diamond heart necklace that makes me look like a fancy cat. I fell asleep in it. And the crazy color camera that I will eventually post pics from on here with. And this NAUGHTY MUG. Guess what happens to the milkman's man-panties when you make a hot cup of tea? If I ever see Max drinking out of this I will start to worry.

I admit, I am a known hat-girl. I have a lot of hats and I love them. Rebecca gave me what is going to be THE fall hat I wear with my black boots and sneakers. How great are the buttons?! This is getting worn today if I get around to leaving the house.

Max gave me my Carly Simon hat, which is also known to Rebecca as my J Lo hat. This one is going to be worn all fall with my brown boots. I have it all planned out. A hat for everything.

Just don't look at me, I don't have my face on this morning. Or rather, I fell asleep with my face on last night, and that's always a smeary picture.

Luke Bear gave me a cool book that I am excited about. My hour-long T commute every day gives me a lot of reading time, and I'm always running out of material. Plus I love how Luke writes, so I'm guessing there's a pretty good chance I'll dig what he reads.

And last but not least, I'd like to introduce you all to my new friend from Michelle:
Fran Cupcake. Michelle made Fran for me, and I love her. She looks like shes peeking out at me and yelling "Surprise!" in a tiny voice.

Olive tried to take Fran away from me. She even tasted her. I'm sorry, Fran.

As if Fran wasn't enough, she got me a book by my favorite fashion mag, Nylon. And candy. And the Taco/French Fry t-shirt from my last post!
Told you I was spoiled!

Max also got me a high-tech drawing tablet so I can draw my cartoons straight into the computer and not have to start over when I make a mistake. He always gives me things that I try to resist out of some Amish-like denial of modern life, things that I always end up loving (such as the digicam and ipod that both travel with me in my purse every day.) And a thing to make me stop screaming "why doesn't my internet work!" every day. He always knows what I need. Always. It's all part of his work as The Best Boyfriend Ever.

All this after waking up (strangely just a moment before the time I was born that day) to an email from my mom detailing the whole story of my birth and my first days, one that I'd never heard before, written so nicely that I cried.

Thank you to everybody for being a part of an awesome day. I feel so lucky. xoxox

Face Time

2007-09-24T09:18:00.000-07:00

Call me a Japanese girl, but I'm a sucker for inanimate things with faces drawn on them.
If you are too, Loyal Army makes lots of retardedly adorable T-shirts and tote bags you'll love.
These are some of my faves on sale at Delia*s right now:

FYI the earth is saying "Be nice to me." Awesome. And to look like a total nutjob, Fred Flare has the taco-frenchfry (tacos on the front, french fries in the back! Or vice versa.) tote to match for $25:

And if you want useless things that are cute for the sake of gag-me cuteness, you'll want to check out My Paper Crane:

These are a few of my favorites that she (her name is Heidi Kenney) makes. The "used tissues" are genius. If you're local, you'll find her things sold at Magpie in Somerville.

Wake Up, There's a Black Person on the Stairs

2007-09-22T01:52:00.000-07:00

It's like 4:30 a.m. Max just came in and woke me up. He had just tried to take the dog out the back door and this (lady?) was blocking the stairs.

Look, we haven't been to The Pill in a long time. Vanya, are you responsible for this? One of tonight's afterparty guests?
(BTW: She's not dead. She was snoring.)
Let's go for the closeup:

Update: This GUY is the drummer for Eli Paperboy Reed's band who played The Pill that night, and did, in fact, attend an afterparty at Vanya's apartment. Having you as a neighbor will never be dull, kid.

She's So Lovely

2007-09-21T10:22:00.000-07:00

This lady is trying to win a Best Dressed contest. If you would like to help her out, you can do so here. I'm torn between wanting to score her a new wardrobe with the prize money, and the possibility that I'd just be encouraging her.
In at least one way, I was amazed by her photos. I never knew the makeup gun Homer Simpson invented really went into production.
I also have a feeling the "dark hose with fuschia open-toed orthopedic pumps" is a look that's really going to take off.

Style Notes

2007-09-19T09:06:00.000-07:00

You know what's weird? Those super-futuristic Asian kids who dress like they're in the Matrix or some bad show on the Sci-Fi Channel. They look extra funny with trees in the background. Good old organic trees that grow here in reality.
I don't have a problem with them, per se. But goth people I never liked. They defy logic. If you're that into death don't hang around the food court being a pussy about it, just go cut yourself with something other than a pink ladies safety razor for once and fucking end it. And if you don't want to die and just think death is awesome, I'm going to come to your grandma's funeral and if I catch you crying I'm going to punch you in the face and step on your ironic lunchbox full of bad poetry, you fucking poseur.

Drinking With the Locals

2007-09-17T09:17:00.000-07:00

I went "out" in New Hampshire on Saturday night, and I have a few life lessons to relay to anyone resembling the people I encountered.

- If you are a DJ and you look like you work in the IT department of a cubicle office, I would recommend hiring a model to stand at the decks while you spin hidden beneath a table somewhere, completely obscured by a tablecloth. And maybe try not to do your own mash-ups.

-If you are a 22-year-old boy trying to say you're ALSO from Boston, do not tell people what street you live on when the only streets you know are large main streets that lack actual dwellings. Unless you do, in fact, live inside the Prudential Mall.

-If you are a 22-year-old boy, don't touch my face. Or my arm. Or my leg. Ever.

-If you are a hostess at a restaurant where the tables are cleared away at 10 p.m. to make a dancefloor, don't seat people there at 9:50 p.m.

-If you are a bartender and someone orders a vodka cranberry, it requires at least an eyedropper full of vodka. I didn't ask you to clear up a urinary tract infection, I asked you for a fucking drink.

-If you are a big fat white girl, don't punk me when I'm exiting the bathroom inside a reggae club I wandered into to by accident. The overweight black dudes are ALL YOURS.

-If you are a big fat white girl, don't wear a plaid mini dress. You may or may not look like a sausage purchased in a Scottish gift shop.

-If you are me, don't ever go out in New Hampshire again unless you've lost 3 teeth and your dignity.

I Should Carry Scissors

2007-09-12T09:12:00.000-07:00

I don't like it when strangers touch me, especially on the train. I don't want your fingers resting next to mine when I'm holding the pole. I don't want to be pressed against you smelling your smells when it's crowded. And I damn well did not want to be caressed by that guy's arm hair this morning.
Trim it you fucking yak!

Fruit According to Me

2007-09-05T12:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I bit into a piece of papaya for the first time. A few thoughts:
a. It smells better than it tastes
b. Papaya is a cool word, but it doesn't sound like what it tastes like.
c. If I had discovered the papaya, I would have called it a bananteloupe.
d. No one should ever let me discover things.

Update: The dog apparently got into the trash after I scooped the papaya seeds into it. Surprisingly the seeds didn't end up in her poop, but piled next to the poop like a gross little side dish. As I cleaned up the mess (which unfortunately ended up on my bedroom floor) I imagined the seeds coming out in a giant fart-blast finale and fell over laughing.

Paparazzi

2007-09-04T16:29:00.000-07:00

Over the past week I watched Britney Spears leave the house with no pants and then again with one blue eye. These are just the latest in her seemingly endless case file in the fashion criminal house of records. Oh, I gasp in horror... but I also wonder. How would my image fare were I followed everywhere I went?
Would Bizarro me make fun of the hole in the crotch of my velour sweatpants when I ran across the street for gummi worms in the middle of the night? Would my candy consumption come under fire by members of the American Dental Association? Would I have been mocked when I rode the subway with tan-in-a-can stained hands last month? And how about the 2 inches of brown (peppered with white) roots I'm rocking this very day?
Frankly, this is why I don't try so hard. I go to work most days without more than a dab of concealer on my worst zits, only half the time having put a brush through my hair. If you uphold a veneer of immaculate style, it only attracts attention to the days you forget it.
That's why Max always looks good. He's always just a little bit dirty, and you come to expect it. It's his trademark. There's never been a veneer.
Come as you are, Britney. I'm starting to respect you for that.

Endable Summer

2007-08-28T21:13:00.001-07:00

Summer is almost over, and like everyone else, I didn't do all the things I wanted to. But I did do some! Here's my top 10 list of summer 2007 favorites, in no particular order:
1. Miami Beach vacation with Max
2. Hanging out/grilling on Ken's porch over random malt beverages
3. Sweet new friendship it took forever to get off the ground: Michelle
4. Any and all time spent at my parent's pool, esp. with Nietzsche
5. Coming up with the idea to start a magazine, and acting on it
6. North End date #1
7. Getting my hair done for free at my sister's fancy Aveda salon
8. Any and all shopping trips with any and all ladyfriends to Forever 21
9. Reading a few good books: Wives of Henry VIII, To Reign In Hell, The Rum Diary, God of Small Things and now London Fields.
10. I'll leave this slot open for all the unaccounted-for glimmers of happiness and bursts of laughter that came and went in moments.

Bienvenue

2007-08-28T20:19:00.002-07:00

This past weekend I rode up to New Hampshire.
Driving away from where you live always feels good (unless you're never coming back) because you can pretend you're going anywhere and don't have to stop pretending until you ruin it by getting where you're going.
My parents' 31st Anniversary is in August and I had an easily mailable gift (certificate) for them but I was up for a little pretend running away so ta-da, I showed up at the front door of their house.
They weren't home! But I kind of had a feeling. So I drove over to my little sister and her boyfriend Tim's condo-- also in town.
On the way I took this of the church my parents got married in. Even though neither of them were Methodists. Or are, I think. My dad still shows up here Sundays here and there, even though I'm pretty sure he doesn't agree with their entire manifesto. (From what I understand, the various kinds of Christians can only be differentiated by the list of things they think you shouldn't do.)
I honestly have no idea what my mom believes in, aside from just "God" and not paying full price or eating chocolate before bed.
There's sis and Tim, practically "bro" by this point. Four years, even more than me and Max. Shes beautiful isn't she? She's a stylist and makeup artist so she always looks good. And whenever I look good, it's her fault.Her son Chubs got a lion haircut. I tried to give my younger son Insectos a haircut myself last week and ended up shaving a near-bald circle on the top of his ass, causing Max not to speak to me or the cat for a whole day.Olive has style and doesn't need my assistance. Clearly.

It was a nice day, sandwiched between a stop at the Rockingham Mall in Salem on the way up, where I witnessed two teenage girls and one of their moms in a loud fight inside a cheesy clothing store...

"You're lucky we're not outside or you'd be DEAD right now!" screamed the ~~grown woman~~ old pig as she was dragged out of the store by an 18-year-old manager wearing a "Manager" lanyard

... and being yelled at by hair-sprayed, lipstick-stained 80s motorist at a desolate stoplight to "Pay attention to what you're doing!" for some traffic offense I have yet to recall making. The irony being that she punished me for whatever I did by taking an illegal turn to chase me, pass me in a single lane, and speed off into the night at 55 mph in a 30 zone.

It's an interesting state, New Hampshire. Equal parts Robert Frost poem and parking lot carnival where the tilt-a-whirl blares Whitesnake.

What the Christ?

2007-08-23T11:53:00.001-07:00

This offended Malaysia. But would it have offended Jesus? My bet is no.
I think that most people get offended just for something to do. I also believe that Jesus was probably way cooler than most of the people who go around talking about him and getting offended about pictures of him drinking Budweiser.
The straight up truth is the dude was a rebel, a hippie-- essentially the first rock star. He had fans and said shocking shit like "I'm the son of God." Which then got him shot down Tupac-style by a rival gang for running his mouth. I have no doubt he was smoking a little something here and there, you know? Not even just cigarettes. I mean his dad INVENTED weed.
I'm not Christian but I'm definitely down with the idea. Which is essentially just to spread non-douchebaggery across the world by not being a douchebag. All the extra stuff was made up by a bunch of old scheming child molesters who could afford paper and pens at a time when poor people didn't even know the alphabet.
Honestly, the only thing to really get offended about with this image is the historical inaccuracy of his skin and hair color, which by no stretch of the imagination considering what part of the world he came from, could ever resemble that Aryan Kurt Cobain guy up there. Jesus really looked like a cab driver.

Finders Sharers

2007-08-22T09:06:00.000-07:00

Clearance sections usually contain two types of things: stuff that nobody bought because it sucks, and stuff that for some freak reason got marked down (I don't count "past season" as a legitimate flaw) because God or Vishnu or whoever smiled upon the broke people who have taste.
I spend hours every week scouring website clearance sections for treasures. Consider this my community service- I'm gonna show you some things I found on CLEARANCE right now that rule my face.

$19.99 LEATHER (not Pleather!) Knee-High Boots
Found at: Delia*s
A classic fall wardrobe staple, knee-high boots never go out of style. Maybe the "cuff" is on the trendy side, but it's still being rocked as it only really surfaced last winter.
They also come in brown and (ew) forest green. As a general rule, let's avoid colored leather, shall we?

$1.99 (Fake) Gold Guitar Necklace and $0.99 Gun Earrings
Found at: GirlProps
Okay they're a little tacky, but still pretty cute to wear to a show. You scenester.

$12.99 Feather Pillow and $9.99 Velvet Pillow
Found at: Urban Outfitters
The velvet one also comes in red-- with all three it would look cute together, right? Very Victorian bordello, but in a chic way.

$3.95 Large "Carnaby" Platter
Found at: Crate and Barrel
If your style is minimalist or modern or based in solid colors of a bolder variety, this magical slice of melamine will totally match. If your dinnerware is more "natural" or rustic, you could still use this for bringing food to a party.

$10 Retro Print Cotton Skirt
Found at: Wet Seal
It's rare to find a retro knockoff print that doesn't look like some hideous cartoon of what it's supposed to be. So I'm calling this skirt a rarity. Even though it will probably last about 3 washes before dissolving. Longevity is overrated in fashion.

$19.99 Canvas Tote
Found at: Newport News
Doesn't this design/color combo just scream "Upper East Side yuppie, part-time-working, nanny-having, horseback-riding, charity-ball-committee bitch"? I think a dash of that looks just dandy. Not real leather on the accents, but who's inspecting you? And plus, this way you won't piss off "the vegans."

$27.99 Isaac Mizrahi Georgette Dress
Found at: Target
This piece can easily transition to fall with a pair of opaque tights and a cardigan (black, preferably-- tied in by the black dots in the dress.) Totally cute for work, dinner, whatever. And they also have it in cream and a pale teal. There was an all-black one but it's either not on clearance yet or has sold out. Isaac has done good this time. Now if he would only lay off the shapeless mom trousers...

That's all for now! I'll share more as I find them.

The Unintentional Copycat

2007-08-19T19:48:00.002-07:00

I bought a URL for my upcoming 'zine and randomly perusing a cheesy outfit catalog site today discovered that the name is in use by an imprint of a major comic book company, and not only that, but this imprint is pimped by the very company I work for! Back to the Thesaurus for me, and down the toilet goes $14.99 to Dotster.
Names are important. They say so much. Cliche cliche. I knew this at 18 when I dumped "Jennifer" for the magical nickname I still go by in certain circles. I lived in a big city and wanted to be remembered, recognized. Names play just as much a part as snappy outfits, edgy bangs and witty quips in achieving that.
In the 80s at least three girls in every grade school classroom was named Jennifer. I don't remember one year where I didn't have to trade my legitimate moniker for purposes of distinction: "Jennifer S." "Jen with two n's" and even "Jenny," which nobody ever called me except the neighbors. It put me in a club with the other Jennifers, though we were never anything alike, and I hated that.
I want my new project to be a Cher, not a Jennifer.
I'm asking women 18-35, what would you call the best 'zine you've ever read, if it was yours to name?

Quote of the Day

2007-08-15T11:26:00.002-07:00

"I don't give a fuck! I just got out of jail!"

This was shouted by a big girl with curly, gel-crusted hair in a uniform who had just finished swinging a trash-filled fist at another big yelling broad. A bulldyke in a yellow t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a matching yellow bandana do-rag was standing between them, also yelling. When it was over, Yelly McFatty #2 left with the dyke in the banana suit, and crusty returned to picking up litter on the street corner by hand.

Like A Drifter

2007-08-14T13:21:00.001-07:00

I took the long way home yesterday. I'm big on walking places, even if they're terribly far away and I'm wearing inappropriate footwear. It mostly happens when I have no good reason to go home; I did it a lot when I lived alone, and now I do it when Max works late.
Last night I found a new way to enter the park behind my building and stumbled upon our Mexican neighbors in a game of baseball. At the edge of the park I met a cat who sang to me and cuddled my legs. I was afraid for it wandering the street, so walked it back to the house where I think it lives and went home. But not until after I considered adding it to my tote bag.

(sigh) Awesome

2007-08-13T12:21:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is a sad day for women across America, thanks to the release of the new Madden NFL game. Because of this, I'd like to offer my fellow females a few suggestions as to how to cope with the neglect and ape-like hollering you'll be hearing from your living rooms in the coming weeks:
1. Take his wallet. He won't be paying attention.
2. Redecorate the house the way you want it. In fact, paint it pink.
3. Throw out some of his shit. Like the shirt with the permanent b.o.
4. Make long distance phone calls to people who talk a lot.
5. Stock up on batteries-- and if you don't have one, buy a vibrator. Preferably a loud one that plugs into the wall and shorts out the power to his gaming console.

We're Static

2007-08-10T13:45:00.000-07:00

In Boston, everyone moves on September 1. A less than genius m.o. for a city whose layout is less grid, more "heap of one-way spaghetti," but old Bean is run for college douchebags and that's just how the leases here roll. I've moved almost every September since I washed up here in 2002. Now that I'm 26 I've started to think, man, I'm getting too old for this shit. But when I think of owning property the phrase that comes to mind is "fucking kill me." Especially in New England. Same with Max, so we chose to settle for the devil we know. Which is to say, we re-signed the lease here in this pre-Victorian shitbox and we're stuck here for a year or till we break it to cross country.

Eh, it's not so bad compared to other place's we've both lived, but it's certainly disgusting and to some degree, lethal...

I have yet to detect one stud in the walls and you can't hang a poster without half-collapsing them. I've reckoned with sturdier pinatas.

The bathtub needs to be plunged every time you shower. By the time you've finished you're up to your knees in your own filth. Or in my case, Hello Kitty body wash.

Lead pipes AND paint. (I'm smart enough not to snack on the walls, but I'm pretty sure we're still drinking poison despite the leaky Pur filter we shoved on the faucet.)

Then there are the people

The Chinese man downstairs is always naked, which is why I assume lets his dog out alone at night, but he often forgets to let the poor mangy thing back in. The dog itself is sweet but I recoil when it approaches for a pat because it looks like a leper. Also, it shits on the concrete and I've stepped in it.

The Russians downstairs are clearly part of an organized crime ring. Once I walked past the men sitting outside on my way to the laundry room, and one of them stopped me and said sternly "Where are you going." I responded by scurrying away like a spooked cat.

The two sorority girls upstairs, one of whom is named Betsy (Max and I don't know which one so whenever we see one of them we just say "Hi Betsy." One of the Betseys corrected Max the other day, but he just ignored her)-- have little barking dogs and on hot nights with the window open we can hear one of them belting off-key Shania Twain. And just last month they had a drunken friend forget which floor they lived on. We ended up being awoken at 4 a.m. to someone banging on the door, slurring and whispering into the crack "You gaeeeyys it's meee... let me eeeeehhn." I was in bed, but overheard Max have a hell of a time convincing her she was at the wrong door.

Across the hall is a friendly group of about 11 Mexicans who--judging by the used phone cards, Goya cans and condoms-- make frequent inappropriate use the downstairs vestibule. (Upside being there's always someone down there to hold the door when I'm carrying grocery bags.)

This is clearly the period of our young lives together that we're supposed to be experiencing just to have something to reminisce about when we're old and rich and living in separate homes annexed by a third floor tunnel. At least, let me believe that.

Hot Dog, You're Pissing Me Off

2007-08-08T17:21:00.001-07:00

According to the weather report, humidity for the past few days in Boston has been 100 percent. Doesn't the air being 100% full of water mean we're under water? If so, I think it's only fair I get to swim home from work instead of riding a train that smells like 30 guys sweaty balls.

"The Fam"

2007-08-07T10:11:00.001-07:00

This morning an organized group of retarded people rode the train with me. The one sitting next to me kept ringing the bell for stops, and repeating fragments of whatever was playing on his headphones in a low monotone. If something ever happens to me and I become retarded, I hope it's at least an amusing kind where I see invisible birds and inexplicably write poetry in sanskrit on my pants. Otherwise being retarded is just like being a regular person, only more annoying for you and everyone around you. I wanted to move to another seat but I felt like my tolerance of the guy was a point of judgement for me by my fellow passengers and if I got up I'd be letting everyone down.
Side note: I used to sit behind my retarded neighbor on the school bus. One day he gave me his phone number on a piece of paper, but there were only six digits. Part of me thinks I might have reached him if I had called using a plastic cellphone full of Bubble Tape.
***
Last night I found a photograph of a black family on the ground in the Stop and Shop parking lot. At first I walked past it. Then I backtracked and looked around nervously before shoving it in my bag. The back of the photo said "The Fam" in black marker and had a fuzz-coated piece of masking tape where it had been affixed to the interior of whatever vehicle it fell out of. On the ride home, I decided I would place it in a frame in my living room so that this exchange could ensue:

(Someone in my house looking at the photo): "Hey, who are these people?"
Me: "The fam."

However, when I got home and reached in my bag for it, it had disappeared. Now I wonder. Did it ever really exist?
***
This post is not meant to offend retarded people or black people, so don't be a big black retard about it.

The Broken English Patriot

2007-08-06T09:26:00.001-07:00

In San Francisco's Chinatown, this happy little man stands on an overturned bucket all day holding a sign:

Bush and Ch... Suicide Please! They have disgraced US military men, Am. Christians, US Constitution, Am. Law & Order, US Democracy, American greatness, human dignity, the value of life, The Ten Commandment, and above all they have shamed themselves. On behalf of God I would like to ask them to commit suicide to atone for their unforgivable endless big sins. If they don't want to commit suicide, every Christian has to pray that they be taken away immediately, unexpectedly, even... so that a lot of lives and tears may be saved. Thank God.
(They've caused 850,000 deaths in Iraq & Afg. and turned American politicians, Am. Democracy & Am. people into liars & aggressors + death.)
(Bush = 666) --> (US + 666)

While holding the sign he reportedly calls out to people to have a nice day and God Bless. My mom took this photo of him and then cheered for him.

I guess in China the only way out when you're as big a moron as our President is to off yourself? Personally, while I admire his passion, I disagree with this man. I hope G.W. Bush lives to see his embarrassing entry in the chronicle of American history, accompanied by a photo of his daughters hanging off a balcony holding a bottle of Bourbon with their tits hanging out.

Magic Sunday Beans

2007-08-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

Today we went to visit Mary and Wayne in New Hampshire. (They are my parents, but you all know them by their human names.) I had a bunch of pictures of us in the pool but I forgot my camera up there! And so now I'm using the pretty decent camera on my Razr V3t until I get a chance to drive an hour north again.

Sidebar about this phone: It cost me a hundred more than the regular Razr because its an MP3 player, which I don't use. I bought it because I liked how it glowed blue. Yes I am 26 retarded years old. I also love Hello Kitty, which should make me want to punch myself in the face, but I don't.

Anyway, M and W just got back from their annual amazing big American road/plane trip. This year it was a week and a half through Reno, Lake Tahoe, San Francisco and Napa Valley. (How much do they rock for being so fun and still having road trip adventures at 55? Most people's parents I know hardly even talk to each other anymore. They're good role models.) I am jealous of all the cool things they did like the balloon ride over the vineyards, eating in SF Chinatown and wine tasting (my goal is to someday know more about wine than what color I want --and maybe stop drinking Arbor Mist), but mostly I am jealous that they went to a jellybean factory! Jelly Belly central, to be precise. Up there you can see the hugely awesome sack of beans they brought home for me and Max. I plan to eat them day and night, and fill my pockets with them when I leave for work.

I saw a show about the place once on TV and apparently in the gift shop they sell disgusting flavors like vomit, booger and dirt. I think if I ever went there I would buy one of each and occasionally walk past them for the rest of my life daring myself to eat one, to see how many years it took for me to go for it. Which would probably drive me some Edgar Allen Poe brand of insane eventually, so I should probably never go there.
My favorite jellybean flavor, by the way, is buttered popcorn. Despite my realization a few years ago that I think buttered popcorn and pee are similar smells.

We cooked out on the deck this evening while Nietzsche rolled around below rubbing her face in the grass. Mom made Pina Coladas, and we had a pretty awesome non-city day. I'm happy we live so close to friendly escape.
I'm sad, though, that I can't show you Max in a straw hat hugging a beach ball while my dad tells him a story with his hands in the air like Jesus in a painting! But I will get that camera back soon.
Meanwhile here's a picture I took driving home. With el telefono. Also spotted on the road: three fat boys on motorcycles wearing ill-fitting light jeans. Traffic was annoying but probably not as much as my chattering while Max and Nietzsche tried to sleep.

***
If Jann Wenner called me and was like "Whatsup girlfriend, I'm making a list of the best albums of all time-- you can put one on the list." I would be like "Shit, Jann, don't forget Shake Your Moneymaker by The Black Crowes." Then I'd probably say something mean about his magazine, and he'd say fuck you, and I'd say fuck you, you old, out of touch gay. Then he'd hang up and I'd never work in this town again, or something like that. At least that's how I imagine it.
***
I just notice that the fur between my cat's paw pads looks like tinsel and is kind of sparkly. I would imagine that would be the dirtiest part of her fur since she does walk in her own feces. Mystery of the day.

Besos, Miami

2007-07-29T08:34:00.001-07:00

I grew up in New Hampshire, went to college in Manhattan, and five years ago ended up in Boston. Needless to say, I have never known beautiful hot weather, nor the happy, friendly people that come along with it. Three nights and four days on Sunny Isles beach in North Miami left me asking why the hell I've stuck around this cold, bitter shit hole so damn long. Yet spending those three nights and four days with a guy I'm madly in love with, who refuses to move, further reinforced my answer to that. (see below) Adorable.
We arrived at 11 a.m. on Wednesday morning. JetBlue really does kick ass, and their claims about more-than-ample legroom are valid. All seats on that plane are good ones, barring those next to the can or seated by some lardo who refused to spring for another seat despite possessing a double-sized ass. Luckily we were spared that, and I spent the flight watching a commercial-free loop of Simpsons episodes (a promotion they're doing for the movie, which I am excited to see.)
I managed to use my AAA card to score us a king-sized bed and THIS VIEW for $109 a night.

In New England, if I walked out on this balcony in my underwear and there were people on the neighboring balcony, I'd feel some semblance of Pilgrim shame, if not the burn of shocked stares. Miami people, bless their hearts, don't give a damn as much as I don't give a damn, so I spent much of my balcony time in a pair of cotton panties and a tube top reading a paperback copy of "The Rum Diary." (Perfect beach reading, I might add-- it's set in the Carribbean.) Actually, I didn't read too much. But I was out there bothering Max a lot while he was. In my underwear.We headed down to the shore, where the sand was pretty white but still coarse compared to the Gulf side of Florida.
The water was about 85 degrees and we spent about an hour floating around in disbelief that we were finally on vacation.

As I scanned the beach I was relieved to discover my fear of Miami being a hard-body paradise of tanned supermodels was an unnecessary one. Everyone was in a bikini and had more bulges, rolls and cellulite than I probably ever will. The only superlative I was in the running for was "whitest person on the beach."We dried off and went up to the tiki bar by the pool to get tropical drinks. There we made friends with the 70-year-old bartender named Freda who we saw every day of the trip, and she took this picture of us.Max made fun of me because she and I were talking about bargain shopping and we both said the phrase "and a coupon!" at the exact same time and started laughing. I am an old Jewish lady in a young shiksa's body.Max kept trying to read the whole trip, but I have serious ants in my pants and I wanted to go exploring. He yelled at me after I took this and told me I was like a little kid. I am, in fact, exactly like my father. (Right down to the lamenting I did about going home as we swam on our last day there.)Finally I left him alone and he read and napped, and later we walked down Collins Avenue to a small Colombian restaurant where the menus were shaped like plantains and almost everything on it came wrapped in a plantain or had them in it. The waitstaff could hardly speak English, so I ordered in Spanish. Our server exclaimed "wow!" but I couldn't tell if it was patronizing or sincere. I like to think it was because I pronounced "pollo" "poy-yo" like you're s'posed to. Max was too embarrassed to order in Spanish, even though he could have (and he is half Colombian.) For a man who practically sings his diary onstage, I am surprised when sometimes I'm the more outgoing one. We got our sunburns on the second day because we stayed in the ocean for three hours straight without reapplying our sunblock. (see above) Max was a baby about his but I'm used to burns. Nothing can compare to the lobsterizing I got in Maui several years ago. Now that we're home they both faded to tans, and his is SO DARK. I hope if we have kids they get his skin.That night we got Mexican delivery and ate down by the pool. The even delivered margaritas! They would never do that in Boston.
Friday we rented a car and drove around the city. I wanted to see Little Havana, so we found Calle Ocho and cruised up and down. I was expecting cool little shops where I could buy Cuban arts and crafts to bring home. All it was was a bunch of crumbling stores that looked closed and sad looking people sitting on milk crates holding babies, next to old men in wheelchairs with no legs. The only fun part was laughing at the names of the stores (Puperia, Ferreteria...) My favorite was a laundromat which translated in English was called "Uncle Laundry." Anyway, we were kind of convinced nobody there works cause there were scores of people just loitering in doorways.
We also checked out the design district. All that was was a bunch of stores with Jetsons-looking furniture we could never afford. Boring! So we didn't pull over.
On the way out of the downtown area we saw Little Haiti where it looks like you could get shot in broad daylight, and then Millionaire's Row, where the most gigantic speedboats and yachts I have ever seen are parked in the water behind massive tropical estates. I guess all cities have both, don't they. That's us at South Beach/the Art Deco District. I gotta say, if you ever go to Miami forget makeup and just pack oil-blotting papers. It has to be the sweatiest place on earth. In the morning you can really see what a sauna it is-- I tried to take a picture because it was a gorgeous sunny day, but all the camera could record was the heavy air. (see below) I gave up on cosmetics and for the most part tried to keep my hair from sticking to my face (as you can see the above shot is a failure in that regard.) Max always looks good-- that's him on Ocean Drive.
South Beach itself is huge, and a lot quieter than I expected, but the neighborhood wasn't too sprawling. The main drag is pretty much overpriced boutiques and restaurants with Escalades and Maseratis parked out front where tacky-looking nouveau-rich broads with jet black hair and tons of makeup were "eating." All I could think is how much work it must be to live in such a hot beachy place and be so done up and image conscious all the time. Not my bag. I'd just be barefoot and half-naked. In fact, I was.
A street or two in from the beach there were more of the truly deco looking buildings in pink and green, and more of the cheap shops I prefer. There were also a ton of tattoo shops. And this lizard!I've never seen animals like that just hanging out. All we have up north is squirrels. I bought a pair of hot pink shorts with "South Beach" on the butt, and we drove back.The water was very calm and clear when we got back, so we bought masks and goggles and dove down to find some cool shells. There wasn't much but coral (I brought some home and let the cats smell it. They weren't impressed...) and little feeder fish that nipped at Max's feet. He kept jumping and I kept thinking "shark!" My shark-phobia defies logic. Though Max would argue that everything I think defies logic.
Later we went to Aventura Mall (too expensive for me to buy anything) and ate at some place called the Lux. After dinner we started bickering and Max stormed out the wrong exit into the wrong parking garage and we ended up getting a ride back to our car on a mall security golf cart by a 16-year-old black kid who probably thought we were really stupid. I thought it was kind of funny. I feel like any time you try to be seriously mad and stay that way, a bird always comes by and poops on your head or something like that to make you feel ridiculous. I know it does to me.
Of course, the day we had to leave was the most beautiful one of all. (see above) I woke up at 9 and forced Max out of bed to go down and enjoy the water one last time before we had to shower and get going.The hotel was cool and let us stash our bags and hang out by the pool until 3pm when our cab came. A fifty-something lady bought us ice cream because we helped her remember the song playing on the radio was Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Actually, I knew it because I'm the hippie, Max just yelled it out. But she was so nice. She said she felt so blessed to be there on the beach on such a gorgeous day that it was no problem.
More evidence to back up my theory that city people are miserable assholes because of location, not nature. I do not want to be a miserable asshole. I can't wait to move.Then Max called his mom and insisted we all go on vacation together next month because we had so much fun, and we haven't seen her in SO long. I hope it happens. More more more! Beach beach beach!Just before our cab came we took these pictures. (Can you see why I got carded when I ordered that last strawberry daquiri?) Sad goodbyes!!!!!

Anyway, to sum it up: Best Vacation Ever. Best Boyfriend Ever.
The End.

P.S. The homecoming was pretty smelly but we are happy to be back with the cats and dog.

These Are the People In My Neighborhood

2007-07-22T20:45:00.000-07:00

I heard what sounded like a high school marching band playing "Down By the Riverside," several minutes before, but I just figured it was the T.V. in the other room. Then it got louder. And louder. At which point I looked out the window and saw this happening:
Yeah, that's what you think it is. This is where living in Allston is somewhat charming. You'll be in your room on a meaningless Sunday afternoon and out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, there's a fucking parade going up the street.

I remember another one back in the fall when we first moved in. I have no idea what it was about, but there were marching bands and a guy riding in an open car waving to people as he passed. You know, like the Mayor would do. Only he wasn't the mayor. In fact, I'm pretty sure by the looks on the faces of people on the sidewalk, no one knew who the fuck he was. He was just riding up the street baffling people. Apparently someone in a city permit office downtown felt this was worthy of stopping mid-day traffic.

Anyway, I feel like Allston is essentially just an absurd Cambridge. We share their diversity and do-goodliness, but the people here are less the intellectual and more the guy who did so many whippits he's half-retarded, but is still a nice dude.

P.S. I asked and apparently the parade today was about this. Oh, and there was no band, someone was carrying a boom box.

Le Moustache

2007-07-20T15:07:00.000-07:00

I just waxed my mustache for the first time ever, and I must say, it wasn't as exciting as I had hoped it would be.
I suppose the first issue would be this: I didn't have a mustache. Okay, so I had a little bit of hair there but it was blond so it didn't really count.
The reason I did it is because my lips curve up a little at the sides, creating a little line that shadows about a centimeter in above my lip. Don't get me wrong, I like my lips, it's just that the effect these curves create is a two-part phantom mustache visible only in photos and bad store lighting when my head is tilted back. My sister has this too-- we call them "mustache puffs." Not to be confused with the whiskery areas under a cat's nose, which we refer to as "bunchy puffs." (see below)

Recently I had been paranoid that maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn't my lips all this time, and maybe there actually is a mustache there. No, I couldn't see any rogue follicles going butch on me when I looked up close in the mirror, but there was a chance I was just not looking close enough. In preparation for my trip to Miami-- which thanks to the South Beach diet hype I visualize being a haven for supermodel-esque chicks-- I've been self-tanning, teeth-whitening and doing half-assed abdominal workouts on my yoga mat. I was in the mode already, so I decided just in case, I would err on the side of not being mistaken for Frida Kahlo. (I know, I know. Wearing this monkey on my shoulder and flashing my uterus isn't helping matters in this regard...)

So I bought a box of those Sally Hansen strips and went for it. This is what happened. I peeled apart the plastic, stuck one strip to each side of my upper lip, and ripped them off. Didn't hurt much, but it did remove the majority of hair ...and left in it's place an even greater quantity of gooey, clear wax. The kit included a tiny bottle of solution to get the wax off, so I soaked a cotton ball in it and wiped it under my nose. This resulted in zero wax removal, but now I had long wisps of cotton ball hanging off my face. It took me about 10 minutes to pick those off, and now my upper lip is weirdly hairless and sore and I get the sense it would squeak if I were to rub my finger on it.

If you're looking for a point to this story I guess it's this: If you try to get rid of an invisible mustache, you will end up looking like an old Chinese man.

Suitcase: Half-Packed

2007-07-17T15:59:00.000-07:00

A change of scenery is crucial. We're heading to Miami in a week and because of it this next week will not exist because I'm daydreaming about myself on the beach, tan even though I tan like a lobster and glowing in the sun even though it's usually only partly sunny there this time of year. Sometimes I worry that if I stay here much longer I will never leave. Don't ask me why. I always feel like leaving, no matter where I am. Except on vacation. Vacation is really just a vacation from a burning need to run away.
***
I have a big project coming up, and so much to do to start it I don't know where to begin. I thought about looking for a guide but I'm pretty sure that great things don't happen with guides. No one can show me how to do this, and that's why I want to do it.
***
People should know this: "freelance"= having to remind people to pay you.
***
When I discover that I just don't do something well, I usually stop pursuing it so intently. Like guitar. I'm not talented at it, so I play quietly to myself and not in a band. Self-tanners, however, are a different story. I come out like a leopard every time, but I keep buying them.

And They Cried Crocodile Tears

2007-07-16T08:20:00.001-07:00

(Photo from the Boston Phoenix)
I used to pass this guy on the street every morning as I walked up Harvard Ave. to the B train. Knew his name was Mr. Butch cause he wore a black leather jacket with it painted on the back, and on 90 degree days I used to think about how the smell inside it must be strong enough to kill a baby. Well, he died last Thursday, and now Allston lampposts are plastered with an illustration of him that reads "R.I.P. Mr. Butch. He lived life how he wanted."
I googled his name and was surprised to find he has a Wiki page. I guess he had lived in town for 30 years on the street, and had to relocate to Allston from Kenmore Square in the 90's because the Boston University police forced him to.
Several thoughts:
a. Campus police have authority? Interesting. I thought they were like mall security.
b. My instinct is to take issue with the statement "He lived life how he wanted." Did anyone ask him what he wanted? My guess is he'd have preferred to have a bed and food every day instead of wandering a dirty city street overrun with drunken college assholes whose condescending attention must have been insulting to a 56-year-old man.
c. I'm fascinated by the phenomenon of "celebritizing" people solely because they are different. In high school I watched kids do it to the one black guy in town and the down syndrome boy who lived on my bus route. I feel like Mr. Butch probably suffered the same stupidity.
I have always been one to reach out to the outcast (a habit that usually resulted in my being stalked... some people are shunned for good reason, I learned.) However, I always did so in a quiet, genuine fashion. The popular kids always made a show of their bonding with these people. Loud greetings, high fives. I always wondered if the people they did it to felt mocked. I wonder if Mr. Butch felt mocked. Maybe he just tolerated it because it benefitted him? I'm sure he had some real friends too. I just wonder if the people who said hi to him in front of their friends and invited him to parties as a novelty act ever brought him food or even cared what happened to him afterward. Of course everyone is "sad" about it now. That always happens when people die, everyone scrambles for their piece of the grief like bridesmaids after the bouquet.
I am sorry for his true friends, the people who knew his last name and his life story and what he lived for. There's a memorial for him today outside Regeneration Records on Harvard Ave., where a lot of people will gather-- most of whom probably never said a word to the man and will forget him once the rain comes and smears the ink on the flyers. I know in a few days I won't notice he's missing on my walk to the train-- I mean, I didn't notice his absence Friday, and he was already dead by then. However, I know if I died today, there wouldn't be flyers of my face all over the city. And really, I wouldn't want that. I'd think it was bullshit.
If I could ask Mr. Butch one question, I'd want to know if his fame meant something to him.

Don't Stop Aksin' Me Out

2007-07-14T22:55:00.000-07:00

Whisked over to Hanover Street in the North End in a cab. Dinner at Galleria 33 (Food: A- Decor: B+ Service: B+ Price: entrees about $20.) I ate so much that Perez Hilton would be drawing a white arrow to my "baby bump" if the paparazzi caught my exit. Take home pastries from Bova Bakery ( Strawberry cheesecake, a giant square of chocolate mousse cake, and an apple turnover for tomorrow morning. An older lady was making her selections at the counter at the same time as us. She pointed to a rounded chocolate dessert and said "what's in the chocolate ball?" The guy serving us smirked and looked at us and said "a chocolate ball." I think he was making a testicle joke?) . We smoked cigarettes on the cobblestone corner, while holding hands.
Two days ago I was feeling so neglected I would have wanted to slap whoever wrote this. My outlook is so easily changed.

P.S.
Dear Dudes,
Even if you have been with your lady a loooong time and/or live with her, you should still take her on REAL DATES (like ones you have to wear pants to... and refrain from farting during) occasionally. We need to be reminded that if we weren't your lady, you'd still ask us out. It's that whole renewing your wedding vows thing, only cheaper.
xo

Young Maid, Relatively Speaking

2007-07-09T22:11:00.000-07:00

This past Christmas I had my boyfriend give me a $9.99 square-cut cubic zirconia ring that I picked out at Filene's Basement. I thought it would be funny to wear it around and see if it helped to keep gross guys from hitting on me at his concerts. I also liked the idea of wearing something that said I belonged to him. So seventh grade, but it's true.
We saw some friends Christmas night and one of the guys had me try to trick his girlfriend into thinking we were really engaged. She didn't fall for it. Anyway, when we got home I cried. All I could think was: is it that preposterous that my boyfriend would ask me to marry him?
In the past two years a lot of people I know have gotten married or engaged. These ones are married:

Liz, 27, childhood friend
Em, 26, college roommate/bff
Brian, 27, high school bff
Cathy, 24, close cousin
Lindsey, 27, childhood friend
Paulo, 30, college ex-bf
Justin, 30, high school ex-bf (1 kid)
Steve, 25, high school ex-bf (1 kid, another on the way)

My most recent (most evil) ex is supposedly engaged now too, I hear. But back to the fake ring. Every now and then in the months following, it would fool an acquaintance or two and I'd have to laugh and explain to them why I wore it. Each time, it got a little less funny and a little more sad. Recently, it happened, and I went home and cried again. So I decided to stop wearing it.
I don't know that I'm necessarily ready to get married. I have been with my boyfriend about three years and we just signed our second yearlong lease together, and I definitely think he's the person I belong with. I'm just not sure why all of a sudden lately I get so emotional about the idea. I'm 26 and he's 30, pretty young by today's standard. I think maybe I'm just starting to feel left out?
Anyway, when the following people get married before me, I will really begin to freak out. And honestly, they're all in long term/adorable relationships, so they could go at any minute:

Clea, 26, college roommate/bff
Carrie, 23, younger sister
Rebecca, 26, childhood friend
Dubie, 28, childhood friend
Michelle, 27, new buddy/gf of my bf's bff (was that readable?)

Me and my bare hands are a little worried we're turning into "a typical girl."

Take Your Be-ach and Shove It

2007-07-08T20:25:00.000-07:00

Today my boyfriend and I went to the beach to meet some friends.
Which is to say, drove over an hour away from Boston on a cloudy day to be told by a disinterested, toothless Barney Fife that the beach was "closed" because the parking lot was full. (Closed? How can "outside" be closed? And why can't people just park along the side of the sleepy ass road leading to the beach?)

Our friends experienced the same problem an hour earlier, and said there was a shuttle that ran from the visitor's center in the middle of town (town being a police station and an ice cream shop), so we headed there. Inside the visitor's center, a sweet old man--who I think may have been Santa Claus-- slid on his bifocals and took ten minutes trying to figure out when the next shuttle was scheduled to arrive.
"How the hell do you read this thing?" he said to himself.
What else could you possibly do in here all day besides read your own pamphlets, I thought to myself.
Santa figured it out eventually and said the next shuttle wasn't coming for another 30 minutes. Back out to the sidewalk, my irritable Florida-born beach-snob of a companion was fuming.
"Let's just fucking go home."
"Let's check the parking lot one more time and if it's still full, we'll go," I compromised.

On the way back down the beach road, we passed an exodus of fleeing beach-goers. By then it was late afternoon, and with deep steel-colored clouds approaching, the lot was no longer full. According to the beach website (I travel prepared), the parking fee after three drops from $22 to $11. It would be a waste, but by then I was resigned to deal with it.

"Um, actually it's still $22," said the high schooler at the gate. It was 3:07 p.m.
"There is no way in hell," I told her, feeling like a grandma whose dollar-off coupon just got rejected in the checkout line. I muttered a semi-audible"fuck this" before cutting the wheel and speeding off in a cloud of sand.The point of this story? Massachusetts has no idea how to run a public beach. Between "membership" stickers and exorbitant parking fees, no-dog laws and retarded parking situations, you'd think you'd get something better than what they really have to offer-- masses of rocky, brown sand overlooking blackish, seaweed-filled 50-degree water, peppered with fat people and their pissing children. New Hampshire doesn't have better beaches-- in fact, they are worse-- but at least they don't try to make a country club out of a bingo hall.

Burka'd

2007-07-05T00:41:00.000-07:00

The other day after work I stopped by my local TJ Maxx to browse a bit. I was wandering towards the back when out from behind a rack of bright summer dresses came a lady dressed like this:And it totally scared the shit out of me. Not in a "omg you're not white/national security" kind of way but in a "omg why is there a giant black ghost in TJ Maxx on a Tuesday" way. Call me an asshole, but I totally jumped and gasped before I realized it didn't have a scepter and I wasn't going to die.
The funny thing was, she was carrying a Fendi bag. I guess when you can scrimp on clothing and cosmetic expenses by stapling black sheets together and never showing your face, you can put away a decent amount of cash.
Random thought: If I ever wore a burka, it would want it to be covered in Ginsberg poems or something, so people could read me and not get what the hell my outfit was rambling about.

Because I Couldn't Draw Hilary In Frosting

2007-07-04T17:39:00.000-07:00

Today is the Fourth of July. I made a cake about it last night and we brought it over to dinner on our friend/neighbor's porch. I was proud of my Ghetto Homes and Gardens* project so I took this picture.
I love having a friend whose apartment is practically connected to ours. Brief, impromptu hang outs are nice. I'm just paranoid we're becoming a little too Kramer/What About Bob? on him. My boyfriend literally wanders over when he's not home and eats his leftover chicken.
I mean fine, we brought the chicken initially but I think you forfeit whatever you bring somewhere once it enters someone else's house. Everything except the plate or the pan, which you get back later unless they live more than 50 miles away. That's why I left the cake there.
And right now I have another cake in the oven so my boyfriend doesn't go over and steal it.

P.S. As for the title of this entry, yeah, I am (so far) planning to vote for her. We'll see though.

*That actually should be a magazine, showcasing the domestic creativity of underpaid twentysomething pseudo-homemakers. And people who live in trailers. I bet they do some cute stuff.

Not A Secret

2007-06-28T08:23:00.001-07:00

Yesterday a big girl in a big dress sat next to me on the train and squished me into the wall. I was reading my book (Wives of Henry VIII...nerd alert), and I scanned across to her lap to what she was reading. It was this cool book of stuff from Post Secret (Post Secret is: people anonymously send their secrets to an address via arty postcard, and someone collects them online and in books.)

Anyway, if they ever get one like this, I'll know it was from her:

Because she really did.

Dog Has Issues

2007-06-27T08:43:00.000-07:00

Why? Why do you eat my panties?! Even if I bury them at the bottom of the hamper, you shark around in there until you find them and then you eat the crotch so all I'm left with is a ragged Tarzan skirt. I love you but since I met you three years ago, you must have eaten about $300 worth of intimate apparel. And whats with the hiding? You think I won't find them if you stick them under my pillow or back in the hamper?
The worst part is later on you throw them up. Look, cleaning up dog barf is gross enough without finding used panties in it. You name your price-- Milk Bones, hamburger, whatever you want. Just stop eating the following:
My panties and thongs, the crotches out of pajama pants, and the jeans he free-balls in.
Thank you.

Oldness, VH1 and Gayness

2007-06-25T13:17:00.000-07:00

This weekend I went to a "grown up" party. Nobody broke anything or threw up, you smoked outside, and people ate food and didn't yell or slur their conversations. I've decided this is the cool new thing. It'll probably be back sometime, but right now the "rager" is so last year.
***
My sister was in New York last weekend for a makeup class at the Aveda Institute, and ran into "New York" from VH1's "Flava of Love" in a wig store. She was wearing false eyelashes made out of fur, and reportedly "looked like a Muppet." They took a picture together-- that's my hottie sister on the right. I'm kind of the Mary-Kate to her Ashley, in terms of style.
***
It would be really fun if there was a secret list of all the celebrities who were gay, and then someone sent it to me, so I could check off all the ones I was right about. Then I would highlight "George Clooney" and then go up to my boyfriend and say "In YO FACE!"

As Pointless as Naming Goldfish

2007-06-20T11:26:00.001-07:00

This is a list of girls on Maxim's 2007 Hot 100 List who no one has ever heard of.

100. Noureen Dewulf 99. Mía Maestro 98. Yunjin Kim 95. Second Life Girl 92. Mary Elizabeth Winstead 91. Isla Fisher 88. Raquel Alessi 87. Padma Lakshmi (isn't that an Indian dish?) 81. Emmanuelle Chriqui 80. Abbie Cornish 79. Adrianne Palicki 77. Hilarie Burton 76. Diora Baird 75. April Scott 71. Willa Ford 66. Joanna Krupa 65. Autumn Reeser 64. Lena Headey 63. Bianca Kajlich 62. Danneel Harris 61. Nadine Velazquez 60. Jessica White 57. Tricia Helfer 56. Michele Merkin 54. Missy Peregrym 43. Kate Mara 42. Minka Kelly 40. Moon Bloodgood (ewww, nice name) 33. Roselyn Sanchez (daughter of Dirty, I assume) 22. Nicole Scherzinger 18. Megan Fox

Who else thinks they ran out of sluts whose names they could remember and just made up a bunch of names? Instead of going to all the trouble of looking them all up they should have just written something like this:

#87: The girl whose boobs we saw in that movie with the cars in it.
#86: The girl whose ass we saw in that movie about the guys in college.
#85: The girl in the thong from that show...

And so on. It would have been way more entertaining.

You Deal With It

2007-06-19T11:15:00.001-07:00

Dear Dudes,
Ever wonder what it's like to have your period? Imagine this lady following you around doing this to you repeatedly all day and night for anywhere between three and seven days.
You're sitting at your desk at work, and she's hitting you in the gut, and you have to pretend nothing is happening and do a good job.
You go home and want to f**k your girlfriend but you can't, cause this lady won't stop hitting you.
It's a beautiful day, and you'd love to take a nice jog, but it's impossible because she's in front of you the whole time with her fist in your gut.
Then you lay in bed at the end of the night, exhausted, nauseous and aching from the ceaseless beating, but there she is, pounding at you like there's no tomorrow. You wake up the next day, and consider calling in sick. But what do you tell your boss? Hey this lady that you can't see is beating the hell out of me, and you have no idea how it is, but trust me, it's horrible and I can't work? You can't. So you suck it up. Again. And it happens EVERY MONTH FOR ABOUT 30 YEARS.
Just think about that a minute.
Then the next time you see a box of tampons sitting out in your bathroom, go find your girlfriend and give her a backrub, a bottle of Aleve, restock the batteries in her vibrator and when she asks, go get her some fucking chocolate.
xo

Tucking is for Drag Queens

2007-06-14T09:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Dudes,
If you are short, do not tuck in your shirt. It halves the already small distance between your feet and head.
xo

Coming and Going

2007-06-13T09:46:00.000-07:00

This morning on the subway I decided to close my eyes for a few minutes (I stayed up until 3 a.m. watching a show about crab fishermen. Shut up.) I felt something on my arm and opened them after one stop to find an Asian version of Criss Angel, Mindfreak laying up against me, when all the seats around us were empty. I stood up to get away, and he got up and put on his backpack. Then I realized I was still a few stops from work and sat back down. He sat down again too and leaned against me again. Finally I got up and walked to the other end of the train and stood by the door, then turned and glared at him. He looked like a kicked puppy, with the exception that I've never seen a puppy who deserved to be kicked like I should have kicked him.
***
When I stopped to take my final pee at the office before the ride home from work yesterday, the cleaning lady was already in the bathroom with all her shit. Actually, when I opened the door she was playing with her hair and making a "sexyface" at herself in the mirror. I don't know why, but instead of just asking if she minded if I peed really quick, I walked six blocks to use a tourist bathroom in Faneuil Hall. I think I might be awkward.
***
"This morning I got up and had half a banana, half a granola bar, half a cookie I found in my bag...." said some lady I passed on the street to her companion.
As I walked away I pictured was her home full of halves of food, half a couch, etc.
Then I tried to think of how a story containing that line could possibly have been interesting, and decided that next time I see someone forcing another to endure such inane babbling I will run up to them and make a crazy animal noise and then run away, just to make the person stop and talk about something better.
***
Another train ride.
Man sits on other end of empty car shaving with an electric razor.
It jams.
"Fuck," he says.
He opens the top and taps it vigorously, emptying a flurry of beard particles into the air.
I'm hoping I didn't eat any of them.

Ed, Elves and Eyelashes

2007-06-11T09:37:00.000-07:00

I don't get Ed Hardy clothes. They remind me of the bleach-stained 80's clothes this kid Danny in my sixth grade homeroom used to wear. You know the type: unruly, dumb, Kool-Aid mustache, always smelled like the day-old cafeteria hot lunch special, single mom who left him home alone a lot between her waitressing job and sucking down Misty cigarettes at the 99 Restaurant bar waiting for a man with a nice Harley to sweep her off her feet.
I remember one day a kid in class asked Danny if he lived in a trash can. Danny replied no, that he lived in a condom. I assume he meant to say condo but the poor kid looked bewildered when the entire class erupted in laughter, so maybe not.
***
Last week my boyfriend told me my face was changing and now I look more like an elf. Ever since I've been stopping in the mirror for about five minutes every time I'm in a bathroom, checking my face to see if I can see anything different. Then I got paranoid that the people at work thought I had a weird butt problem because I'm always gone so long, so I stopped.
I wouldn't mind having pointy elf ears. I bought some rubber ones for Halloween one year but secretly planned to wear them around the house when no one was there. I was really bummed out when they were too big and kept falling off.
***
What happens if you try to wish on an eyelash and when you go to blow it off your finger it sticks, and you have to try a few times and by the time you actually get it to fly away all you're thinking about is getting the eyelash to unstick and not about your wish anymore? Does the original wish still come true?

I Am A Snoop Curious Cat

2007-06-10T14:06:00.000-07:00

Lately I have had a problem peeking at things that are not mine.
It is a known lesson but only recently have I discovered that you always always always get what you ask for when you open bags and drawers and envelopes and empty pockets.

Once you start, its like a big long scary hunt for the shittiest treasure ever, because whatever you find you have to snoop further to justify it or verify any crimes you believe were committed.

I'm not a girl who can keep a secret unless it belongs to someone else. My mother once told me I was the weirdest kid cause whenever I did something wrong I felt compelled to blurt out whatever it was and incriminate myself within hours of doing it. She added that sometimes she just would rather not have known. I haven't changed really, except that I only confront the suspect if I have enough evidence that I think the D.A. on Law and Order would say to me "that's enough for a search warrant, I'll take it to the judge." And so half of the results of my snooping are just little pieces of sad that sit inside me cutting invisible, quiet holes in the trust between me and the snoop-ee. The other half get justified in confrontation and most of the time result in someone being pissed at me.

I can't decide whether snooping is a necessary evil or not. Part of me is a mushy, destroyable romantic who believes in the best and that anyone who takes advantage of my nature is the only one who loses. But I don't believe it completely. Janis Joplin once said: "Don't sell yourself short. You're all you've got." I've regretted not protecting myself before, and wish I had taken better care of me by making sure some person really deserved the access they had to my weaknesses. (Even though I like to believe they are strengths.)

Things I'm Loving Right Now

2007-06-06T09:28:00.000-07:00

The "Tent" dress. Nobody knows if you're bloated, pregnant, a toddler or any combination of the three. It's flattering, and adorable.

Neutrogena "Mineral Sheers" eyeshadow. It's like, the anti-eyeshadow. It just looks like you were born with the perfectly even-toned eyelid skin (ew) that you weren't. I don't want to use the word "dewy" but its a cross between that and "shimmery."

"Girlfriend" by Avril Lavigne. I'd like to knock the bitch's fangs out in real life, but this song is fun. Same riff as Regina Spektor's "That Time" (best song on her latest album "Begin To Hope") plus "Hollaback Girl" cheerleading. I drove past two hipster boys yesterday on the way home from grocery shopping and turned the volume down in embarrassment because my window was open, but in the privacy of my own car-space I'll admit affecting my best obnoxious valley-girl accent and yelling "hell yeah, I'm the motherfuckin princess." Whoever wrote this song for her hit the permanent juvenile g-spot inside every chick with that line.

Levi jeans. Yeah, I've got a couple of pairs of Seven for All Mankind, a pair of Earl jeans and I've flirted with Diesel, Paper Denim and Cloth, Lucky and a few others in the trendy world of designer denim. But when it comes down to it, Levi's make an ass look better than any of them. It's all about the way the back pockets fold under and in to your humps.

Jergens Natural Glow. I'm pale. Chock it up to my Anglo roots, or the fact I've never lived anywhere the temperature hit above 70 for more than three months out of the year. I'm a wrinkle-phobe so I refuse to cook in a tanning booth, and I've believed the "won't streak" and "not orange" claims on the sides of far too many self-tanners to buy another brand. Still, come summer, I prefer not to compete with the sun in blinding people. Enter Natural Glow. It's so gradual that if you see a mistake or a blotch, its more like a faint watercolor stain than a fudge brownie wiped across your skin. It's sub-Lohan in intensity, for sure, but at least no one wonders if I'm the understudy in a stage version of "Powder" anymore.

Drawing Lines

2007-06-04T12:31:00.000-07:00

Everyone worth their weight in teen angst has a little (sometimes big) drug phase at some point in their lives. Personally, I didn't touch anything (but that prescription--a boyfriend's-- codeine cough syrup I kept hidden in the headboard of my bed and chugged before school. Hey, I really hated school...) until after I was accepted to a college in NYC. I figured, at that point, no matter how deep I sunk into the lifestyle of stoner, or whatever, school would be the luck dragon that swooped down and carried me away to where I wanted to be and save me. There was no way I was letting myself get stuck in New Hampshire.

I spent the second half of senior year as a full-on stoner, smoking joints in my best friend's volvo during school hours out behind the fire station. That habit lasted all summer, and then I left for school.

In New York I fell in with a now-major label band of spoiled trust-fund boys who (naturally) did a shitload of cocaine. Somehow I avoided the stuff, despite being offered it all the time-- I just wasn't that interested.

My drug phase didn't happen until 23, post-college, pre-career. I was living in Boston, and again, fell in with a music scene where just about everyone in it did coke. I don't know what made me, but I was offered a line one night by my now live-in boyfriend and thought "what the fuck." Long story short, I did coke pretty regularly for about a year (not that I ever paid for it-- I'm a pretty girl).

In all honestly, after a while life with it got really predictable and repetitive. I don't know why you like drugs, but I enjoyed them for the lack of these two attributes of daily life. So I did it less and less, and now I kind of hate coke and think it's really boring.

My boyfriend continued to do it for a few more years, and it became the source of many tearful arguments and broken appliances. It still does, sometimes. Nothing feels shittier than seeing a substance come before you in terms of your partner's dedication and love.

However, being 26, I feel like if I did decide to do coke again here and there it would be acceptable on some level. I'm a "twentysomething." I'm "finding myself." But most of my friends who do it are in their 30's. I'm just wondering where the line is where it's no longer "rock and roll" (even if you are in fact in a band still) and you're just a fucking loser.

I'm all for prolonging the adventuresome nature of youth. For sure. But I think once you've had that drug phase and you know deep down it's not exciting anymore you have to admit it and move on and grasp some other angle of irresponsible fun to focus your social life around. Because these days when I see my 30-something friends sitting around a baggie of white shit at 4 a.m. they really don't seem all that different from the fat ex-athlete polishing decade-old trophies and retelling the story about that game when there were three seconds on the clock and he scored the winning point.

I have really hilarious, talented friends. They don't seem old to me, although most of them have at least four years on me. It's only when they're desperately reenacting these old bonding rituals lying to themselves that it's "still a great time" that I feel like I'm hanging out with a bunch of old has-beens. Nothing makes me more furious than watching people lie to themselves. That's how churches start.

Until they invent a new drug that does something totally different, I'd love more than anything for my social circle to make a shift towards anything else, just for a change. I'm ready to alter my perception again. I just don't know how. I don't want to start hiking, or having book clubs and knitting circles and babies while they sit around watching sports and chugging Bud Light. I don't want the expected, the predictable. I don't want to be boring. But is this it? Is that all that's left for us now?

It could be that I've become a hypocrite. I'm still lying to myself that it isn't.

Hammurabi for Identity Thieves

2007-05-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I put down my purse at a dance club like an idiot and the next thing I knew my ATM card was missing. Not 7 minutes before I called the bank to cancel it, the thief had already charged $30 at a Citgo station.

Yeah, yeah, it could be so much worse. But just to get my $30 back I'll now have to sit on hold for a half-hour and fill out 6 pages of paperwork with some fraud department, which pisses me off.

It got me thinking how there should be some perk that comes with all the bullshit you have to deal with-- something that makes fighting for measly amounts of cash, which are rightfully yours (and I'll be God Damned if I'm robbed of the pair of irregular Levi's jeans I would have bought at Marshall's with that money)--feel more worthwhile.

I mean, if life was fair, anyone who steals someone else's identity to blow their money should also have to bear all the burdens of the life of whoever's identity they stole. Like take the whole fucking identity. The thought occurred to me because a good friend of mine who's on crutches for the rest of his life had $2,000 stolen from his bank account by some unknown prick in California just a few days before mine got pinched. It would be justice, wouldn't it, if that prick who blew my friend's money got both his legs shot off the next day in a random drive-by?

Or not even random-- I vote that the banks adopt the "eye for an eye" policy. I totally have a zit right now. Whoever took my card should wake up to some hired Bank of America goon crouched over their bed rubbing the grease from an empty potato chip bag all over their face until they have one too.

Like A Comfy Old Shoe

2007-05-29T20:23:00.001-07:00

I have mixed emotions about Boston. These are them.

CONS:
- I grew up pretty close to here, so I see people from my hometown a lot. I hate most of them.
- I already explored the place as hard as could be when I was a kid. No mysteries to uncover.
- College kids. Lots of them. Awkward.
- The T. It costs as much as New York's but its a three-wheeled Radio Flyer by comparison.

PROS:
- Creative people here have given up on being famous so they're nicer to you.
- Smaller rats.

Just Do The Fucking Dishes, Man

2007-05-29T19:51:00.000-07:00

DEAR DUDES,

If you are cohabitating with your lady, there are several reasons you should clean up after your stank selves besides just "being nice." Number one is the fact we don't believe any of your excuses as to why you aren't more useful. Here's my Top 3 excuses and what they mean...

Excuse 1-- The "Communication" Card : "I can't read your mind. You have to tell me when you want me to clean."
Translation: "I am so fucking stupid that I did not see the inch of dog hair/ fried rice/ spilled soda coating the floor, and/or I am so much of a filthy zoo animal that I don't find it offensive."

Excuse 2-- The "Oblivious" Card : "I'm a guy, I don't notice stuff like that."
Translation: "I'm too busy doing/thinking important things to even acknowledge my surroundings. You noticed because you're nothing but an air-headed ho."

Excuse 3-- The Unspoken Standoff : "I'm always going to [do the dishes, whatever], but whenever I go to, you've already done them."
Translation: "I know if I hold out long enough you'll break and do it for me, and since you proved me right this time, I'll do this again next time."

You have to admit, you kind of knew we knew, didn't you? So. Just FYI.

xo

Enviga: A Non-Sucky Energy Drink

2007-05-29T19:40:00.000-07:00

So, yet another energy drink is out, and being the sleepless twenty-something I am, I grabbed a can en route to work this morning. Before I give you the dirt, here's a little background on me and these things....

*RED BULL- To be honest, I'm no fan of Red Bull. Somebody once told me the urban legend that one of the ingredients, taurine, is "bull piss"-- and while I don't buy that, what this person did was put a vivid descriptor on the bad, bitter acid taste I already encountered while slugging them back before a night at the club. (And in the interest of full disclosure, I have to mention that my hatred for the drink may be mildly rooted in a personal bad move. When it first came out, I thought it was like an ephedrine, so I pounded one before heading out for a 5-mile run and totally booted about .5 miles into it.)

*TAB ENERGY- I tried this because-- I'll admit it-- because it's pink. And they marketed it to chicks, and I fell for it. It's a few notches up above the Bull, with a slight "Smarties" candy taste. Only it's more like a Smartie that's been wedged in the bottom corner of your jeans pocket for a month, encased in lint, and eaten on an empty stomach with the lint still on it.

So, not being a fan of the genre, I was surprised how much I liked ENVIGA, the new green tea enegry drink from Nestea (a Coca-Cola brand.) Specifically in Peach. The big hook with this product is supposed to be that it's "proven to burn calories" on it's own if you drink it. Dude, let's be honest. You burn calories every second by fucking breathing. So don't think of it as a diet option-- that's what bulimia and meth are for. This is a legal wake-up shot that tastes good and offers the antioxidant boost of green tea. (If you don't know antioxidants-- they're the thingies that help all your cells renew themselves, thought to help in fighting cancer, aging, and other shit.) Enviga spares you coffee-breath, has has only 5 calories a can, and lacks tooth-rotting soda sugars.

Verdict: Wakes you up, tastes good. Cost: About $2

Therapy Comes In Many Forms

2007-04-10T17:55:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend is in a band. Every once in a while his ex, this half-wit alcoholic bartender and recently, sex worker, shows up at his gigs just to upset me. She did it recently and I made this as sort of a theraputic cleansing of my hatred. Then I had a good laugh.