Tuesday, January 30, 2007
team biore
Last night over steak and Diet Coke, Rachel and I decided to join Colleen's cult. We are now in her power. We flank her wherever she goes. And to show our undying devotion, to testify to the world that we are hers forev, we wear biore strips. We bought them together. At Target. Our lair.
Colleen is my buddha. Colleen is my queen. We dance in the nuda. Our pores tight and clean.
Come on peeps, can you blame me? Look deep into those eyes. And join us. Buy the biore and join us.
Labels: deep and reflective
Friday, January 26, 2007
if I were a waffle, i'd be belgian
You're The Poisonwood Bible!
by Barbara Kingsolver
Deeply rooted in a religious background, you have since become both
isolated and schizophrenic. You were naively sure that your actions would help people,
but of course they were resistant to your message and ultimately disaster ensued. Since
you can see so many sides of the same issue, you are both wise beyond your years and
tied to worthless perspectives. If you were a type of waffle, it would be
Belgian.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
the space of an hour
It’s 11:32 and I’m here at my desk. I’ve got my hot Gap slacks on, which make my legs look super skinny, plus the three-inch brown boots on my feet make me walk with added shu-bam. I’m wearing Dr. Pepper chapstick on my thin little mouth, and this morning I lathered my face up good with uber-thick moisturizer to fight the threatening scaley skin I so abhor. My cuticles feel more like wooden splinters peeling away from my nails, but never fear. I got lotion for them, too. The sun is bright, the air is brisk. It’s January in Boston. And for the first time ever, I think I’m okay with that.
It’s 11:56 and I just finished talking with a friend who yesterday suffered her second miscarriage. Physically, she’s still in pain and hopped up on 800 mg of Motrin. Emotionally, what words are there? I wanted to cry, but held it in because I didn’t want to make her feel worse. “It’s gonna happen,” I said to her. “I hope so,” she replied. I so wanted to cry.
Her husband had already gotten through security at Logan on his way to New York when he got the call. What does it do to a man to watch the wife he loves experience something so crushing, something he will never experience, something which rips her heart out and makes her bleed, where all he can do is carry the bags and follow her from room to room, from surgery to recovery. Recovery? Does that actually happen? I always worry about the men in these stories.
It’s 12:20 and I just read an email from my bishop. I hold a calling in my church which keeps me in regular contact with him concerning his appointment schedule, and I mentioned in my last email to him how much I appreciated his wife for the wonderful lesson she taught at Institute last night. Bishop responded with some of the sweetest words I’ve ever heard a man say about a woman. What I saw in her, he said, are gifts and talents he has “always known” about her, and just some of the reasons why he loves her so very much. When he talks about his wife, you can tell that this man made the choice to always see her with loving, patient, and adoring eyes. No matter what. He chooses to love her over criticizing her. She isn’t perfect, no one is, but he truly doesn’t care. He chooses to treat her as if she is. That, my friends, is higher knowledge.
It’s 12:29 and on my way to the restroom, a co-worker says to me, “you look so skinny!” I tell her, “It’s the three-inch boots. They change my weight.” You look so skinny - - perhaps the most sought-for compliment a woman can crave. I think it may even rival “You look beautiful.” I’d like to take a woman’s poll on which compliment they’d rather receive: Skinny or Beautiful. I’m afraid of what I’d find. Sometimes I really hate Vogue and Entertainment Tonight.
It’s 12:32. Lunch.
It’s 11:56 and I just finished talking with a friend who yesterday suffered her second miscarriage. Physically, she’s still in pain and hopped up on 800 mg of Motrin. Emotionally, what words are there? I wanted to cry, but held it in because I didn’t want to make her feel worse. “It’s gonna happen,” I said to her. “I hope so,” she replied. I so wanted to cry.
Her husband had already gotten through security at Logan on his way to New York when he got the call. What does it do to a man to watch the wife he loves experience something so crushing, something he will never experience, something which rips her heart out and makes her bleed, where all he can do is carry the bags and follow her from room to room, from surgery to recovery. Recovery? Does that actually happen? I always worry about the men in these stories.
It’s 12:20 and I just read an email from my bishop. I hold a calling in my church which keeps me in regular contact with him concerning his appointment schedule, and I mentioned in my last email to him how much I appreciated his wife for the wonderful lesson she taught at Institute last night. Bishop responded with some of the sweetest words I’ve ever heard a man say about a woman. What I saw in her, he said, are gifts and talents he has “always known” about her, and just some of the reasons why he loves her so very much. When he talks about his wife, you can tell that this man made the choice to always see her with loving, patient, and adoring eyes. No matter what. He chooses to love her over criticizing her. She isn’t perfect, no one is, but he truly doesn’t care. He chooses to treat her as if she is. That, my friends, is higher knowledge.
It’s 12:29 and on my way to the restroom, a co-worker says to me, “you look so skinny!” I tell her, “It’s the three-inch boots. They change my weight.” You look so skinny - - perhaps the most sought-for compliment a woman can crave. I think it may even rival “You look beautiful.” I’d like to take a woman’s poll on which compliment they’d rather receive: Skinny or Beautiful. I’m afraid of what I’d find. Sometimes I really hate Vogue and Entertainment Tonight.
It’s 12:32. Lunch.
Friday, January 19, 2007
the green we pay for love
I have an emotional connection to a piano, which seems to surpass all cognitive and fiduciary logic. I think I’ve unwittingly started a co-dependent relationship with an upright grand. There, I said it, and I feel so relieved. But let me back up and make some introductions.
This isn’t exactly what she looks like. (My girl don’t have no fancy panels and what not, but the size and color are the same.)
This is a Chickering upright grand piano, which basically means her strings are the same length as some grand pianos which gives her a full, beautiful sound. She was given to me by a friend last month. Free. She was built, here in beautiful Boston, somewhere between 1918 and 1921, so she’s quite the granny. By way of quality, it’s been said that Chickering is just a step under Steinway. Her sound is so rich and gorgeous, I want to eat it with a serving spoon. I had a certified piano appraiser come to the apartment last night and…well….appraise her. Here were a few of his comments:
Then he starts giving me some numbers. For a full refurb - $450. For full keytop replacement - $350. He throws in a tuning at no cost. Grand Total: $800. I agreed to it without even blinking. If you want to know why, keep reading.
I can’t explain it, but I love this piano. I love her! She’s old and falling apart, but there is this amazing history and sound and personality that just makes me weep! Without a doubt, I was one of those little girls that talked to inanimate objects and believed they had spirits and voices. And when she comes back to me all refurbed and pretty and singing like an angel, I really believe I will make this piano happy! And that makes me so giddy! When you factor in that I paid $250 to move her into my place, by the end of next month I will have sunk over a thousand dollars into this piano. That’s a figure that, even when debating on whether to buy a new car or a laptop, would make me pause. But for this piano, it’s not a factor. I do it without any regret. Because I totally love this piano. I can’t think of anything more deserving of a little TLC than this instrument. I can’t wait to get her back. Then I can resume teaching voice lessons!
So does anyone want voice lessons? I’m running a special: $100 for each 30-minute session. 10-session minimum. Bring your own water.
This isn’t exactly what she looks like. (My girl don’t have no fancy panels and what not, but the size and color are the same.)
This is a Chickering upright grand piano, which basically means her strings are the same length as some grand pianos which gives her a full, beautiful sound. She was given to me by a friend last month. Free. She was built, here in beautiful Boston, somewhere between 1918 and 1921, so she’s quite the granny. By way of quality, it’s been said that Chickering is just a step under Steinway. Her sound is so rich and gorgeous, I want to eat it with a serving spoon. I had a certified piano appraiser come to the apartment last night and…well….appraise her. Here were a few of his comments:
“Wow, this piano is OLD!”
“Okay, now you see that…oh man…yeah, that right there, you see how this mallet pad, that’s like a flat surface, that shouldn’t be that way. That’s just years of BANGING away on the strings, that now she’s just, wow, she’s just in really bad shape.”
“Ope. You gotta crack in the soundboard, that’s understandable. (plays a quick scale.) Man, she still sounds amazing, though.”
“You need a few key top replacements. Look, this one’s chipped, and this one…oh. Yeah, basically you need all of your key tops replaced.”
“You got 100 year-old dust bunnies under here.”
Then he starts giving me some numbers. For a full refurb - $450. For full keytop replacement - $350. He throws in a tuning at no cost. Grand Total: $800. I agreed to it without even blinking. If you want to know why, keep reading.
I can’t explain it, but I love this piano. I love her! She’s old and falling apart, but there is this amazing history and sound and personality that just makes me weep! Without a doubt, I was one of those little girls that talked to inanimate objects and believed they had spirits and voices. And when she comes back to me all refurbed and pretty and singing like an angel, I really believe I will make this piano happy! And that makes me so giddy! When you factor in that I paid $250 to move her into my place, by the end of next month I will have sunk over a thousand dollars into this piano. That’s a figure that, even when debating on whether to buy a new car or a laptop, would make me pause. But for this piano, it’s not a factor. I do it without any regret. Because I totally love this piano. I can’t think of anything more deserving of a little TLC than this instrument. I can’t wait to get her back. Then I can resume teaching voice lessons!
So does anyone want voice lessons? I’m running a special: $100 for each 30-minute session. 10-session minimum. Bring your own water.
Labels: random
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
who's a big winner?!
on vehicular licensing, registering and transference of same
I found out yesterday I’ve been driving on a suspended license for the last two years. Hey, that is super-fun info.
I was returning from an errand yesterday in Belmont, when I got pulled over by a State Trooper. When the trooper pulled up behind me, I was dumbfounded. What did I do? I wasn’t speeding, I didn’t turn on a red. When he told me my license had been suspended, my jaw dropped. I looked him straight in the eye and begged, “WHY?!”
Statey asks me if I had any outstanding citations. I tell him the only citation I’d ever received in my whole life was just two years ago.
Flashback two years ago: I was stupid in the ways of vehicular licensing, registering, and transference of same from one state to another. I was unaware of the fact that it’s illegal to drive around with license plateses from one state, the state you live in, and a driver’s license from another state, the state you used to live in. When I registered my car for Massachusetts, and got my Mass plates, apparently they were supposed to take my California driver’s license. They didn’t. In fact, I don’t remember them saying anything about transferring my license to Massachusetts. So for about a year, I was basically driving around without a legitimate license until the men in blue caught up to me. I was fined $50.00, which I paid, I had to straighten out the driver’s license, which I did, and I thought it was all behind me. Done. The End. (mmm….apparently no.)
Flashforward to yesterday: Troopie seemed pretty convinced I was telling the truth because his countenance softened when he said “Okay, I’m going to go check this out for you, and I’ll come back.” Troopie walks back to his cruiser, and I start praying that he’s going to come back and tell me it was all a big mistake. Apparently, I should have been praying for something else. Something that might have stood a chance at happening.
Troopie comes back and says: “Ma’am, you were pulled over on Brighton Street two years ago.” I say yes. “Well, ma’am, you never paid that ticket.” MWHA-HA-HA-UHT?! Oh no. No no no. I don’t know many times I used the word “sir” but it was a large number, and all of them were spoken most rapidly: “Oh yessir, yessir, I did! I remember that ticket! It’s the only one I’ve ever gotten, sir! Sir, I did pay it!” I felt like a 7-year old confessing to Mrs. Griffin that I did do my spelling homework, and the look in my eyes ought to be proof enough of that. I thought if I said “sir” enough times he’d just drop the whole thing and let me speed away. “Well, there may be a glitch in the system,” he says back, “but it’s telling me you didn’t pay it. Your license has been suspended for that reason. I am supposed to seize your vehicle and arrest you. This is a criminal offense.” Please let this not be real. Please let this not be real.
Things were getting deeply serious at this point. I was up against a wall. It was raining hard outside, and I was feeling desperate. I had no choice. I had to do it to survive. I pulled out the look. You know what I’m talking about. The look that all women must perfect if they stand a chance at escaping certain citational/arrestational doom. Helpless look. Near tears look. Furrowed, adorable, please help me, I’m just a lost girl in a big bad city look. I tried to think of the cutest puppy dog I had ever seen in the whole wide world. And then I became that puppy. I looked deep into Troopie’s eyes, and softly uttered one golden, pathetic sentence: “I just don’t understand how this happened.”
I know. I should burn in hell.
Troopie cracks a small adoring smile from one corner of his mouth and says, “I’m not going to do that. You seem like a nice woman.” I breathe an exaggerated sigh and look at him gratefully, rewarding his decision with one of my signature smiles. “What I have to do, however, is give you this.” He hands me the citation. Crap. Crap. Gotta work on my look some more. “I’m driving away now. You should not operate this vehicle while your license is suspended. But, I’m driving away now. What you do is your business. Got it?” He gives me a knowing look. I smile and nod with resignation. I tell him thank you, and he tells me to have a nice day. Will do. You bet.
So I’m getting a court date, ya’ll. I have to plead my case to a judge. Then I get to pay a minimum of $150 to reinstate my license, and see if I can find a copy of the check from two years ago which paid this stupid citation in the first place. If I can’t find it, I’ll have to move on to my contingency plan. You may find me standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Practicing: (cue “Look”) Your Honor, (look down, sigh, look up)… I just don’t know how this happened.
I was returning from an errand yesterday in Belmont, when I got pulled over by a State Trooper. When the trooper pulled up behind me, I was dumbfounded. What did I do? I wasn’t speeding, I didn’t turn on a red. When he told me my license had been suspended, my jaw dropped. I looked him straight in the eye and begged, “WHY?!”
Statey asks me if I had any outstanding citations. I tell him the only citation I’d ever received in my whole life was just two years ago.
Flashback two years ago: I was stupid in the ways of vehicular licensing, registering, and transference of same from one state to another. I was unaware of the fact that it’s illegal to drive around with license plateses from one state, the state you live in, and a driver’s license from another state, the state you used to live in. When I registered my car for Massachusetts, and got my Mass plates, apparently they were supposed to take my California driver’s license. They didn’t. In fact, I don’t remember them saying anything about transferring my license to Massachusetts. So for about a year, I was basically driving around without a legitimate license until the men in blue caught up to me. I was fined $50.00, which I paid, I had to straighten out the driver’s license, which I did, and I thought it was all behind me. Done. The End. (mmm….apparently no.)
Flashforward to yesterday: Troopie seemed pretty convinced I was telling the truth because his countenance softened when he said “Okay, I’m going to go check this out for you, and I’ll come back.” Troopie walks back to his cruiser, and I start praying that he’s going to come back and tell me it was all a big mistake. Apparently, I should have been praying for something else. Something that might have stood a chance at happening.
Troopie comes back and says: “Ma’am, you were pulled over on Brighton Street two years ago.” I say yes. “Well, ma’am, you never paid that ticket.” MWHA-HA-HA-UHT?! Oh no. No no no. I don’t know many times I used the word “sir” but it was a large number, and all of them were spoken most rapidly: “Oh yessir, yessir, I did! I remember that ticket! It’s the only one I’ve ever gotten, sir! Sir, I did pay it!” I felt like a 7-year old confessing to Mrs. Griffin that I did do my spelling homework, and the look in my eyes ought to be proof enough of that. I thought if I said “sir” enough times he’d just drop the whole thing and let me speed away. “Well, there may be a glitch in the system,” he says back, “but it’s telling me you didn’t pay it. Your license has been suspended for that reason. I am supposed to seize your vehicle and arrest you. This is a criminal offense.” Please let this not be real. Please let this not be real.
Things were getting deeply serious at this point. I was up against a wall. It was raining hard outside, and I was feeling desperate. I had no choice. I had to do it to survive. I pulled out the look. You know what I’m talking about. The look that all women must perfect if they stand a chance at escaping certain citational/arrestational doom. Helpless look. Near tears look. Furrowed, adorable, please help me, I’m just a lost girl in a big bad city look. I tried to think of the cutest puppy dog I had ever seen in the whole wide world. And then I became that puppy. I looked deep into Troopie’s eyes, and softly uttered one golden, pathetic sentence: “I just don’t understand how this happened.”
I know. I should burn in hell.
Troopie cracks a small adoring smile from one corner of his mouth and says, “I’m not going to do that. You seem like a nice woman.” I breathe an exaggerated sigh and look at him gratefully, rewarding his decision with one of my signature smiles. “What I have to do, however, is give you this.” He hands me the citation. Crap. Crap. Gotta work on my look some more. “I’m driving away now. You should not operate this vehicle while your license is suspended. But, I’m driving away now. What you do is your business. Got it?” He gives me a knowing look. I smile and nod with resignation. I tell him thank you, and he tells me to have a nice day. Will do. You bet.
So I’m getting a court date, ya’ll. I have to plead my case to a judge. Then I get to pay a minimum of $150 to reinstate my license, and see if I can find a copy of the check from two years ago which paid this stupid citation in the first place. If I can’t find it, I’ll have to move on to my contingency plan. You may find me standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Practicing: (cue “Look”) Your Honor, (look down, sigh, look up)… I just don’t know how this happened.
Labels: really bad day
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
because of the blog
Last night I told Peg I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue with the blog, since nowadays I seem to be using it solely for venting otherwise useless hot air. Then, just for kicks, I went back into the archives and found a post from January 9, 2006, or in other words, this time last year.
Here it is, if you’d care to read:
Reading last year’s post made me smile:
- Because of the blog, I know what I was thinking about a year ago.
- Because of the blog, I know that what I “sensed” was about to happen actually did happen in ways too eerily exact to articulate.
- Because of the blog, I know that I’ve broken a three-year trend. Until this year, I would always get bronchitis somewhere between October and now. Cross fingers, but that hasn’t happened yet! Woot!
The blog is where I started to let it all hang for the first time in several years. For a while it was the only place I could go and not care what people thought. It was the first stab at being a whole person, integrating all sides into one, in a safe place with just a keyboard and iTunes playing - no eyes, no ears, no consequences. Well, sort of.
Fellow bloggers and I have talked about how strange it is sometimes to walk into church or a friend’s house, and be instantly disarmed when someone you barely know asks you about something he found out by reading your blog. It’s silly. You know it’s up for all the universe, but you’re genuinely surprised that anyone would take the time to read you. Especially that guy. Yikes! But even then, you know it’s all good. The blog was the sledgehammer. When you walk in afterward and see your wall knocked down, you’re kind of relieved. It needed to happen, but it happened when you weren’t physically present. You weren’t there for the loud thuds or thundering tumbles. You walked in post-demolition, and you see the people standing around you with the dust settling in on their faces and their looks of surprise. And all you can say is…Yeah. That’s what’s going on. Funny, huh? (Shrug.) That wasn’t so scary.
So I think I'll hang on to the blog. I'm curious to see what I'll think of this post next January.
Labels: deep and reflective
Monday, January 08, 2007
snippuhts
Oh my gosh, I’m blogging again.
I hope to post a short report on my trip home for Christmas this week. When I remember to bring my camera to work, so you’ll all have pretty pictures to see, I’ll do that. If I remember. Okay, there’s a slight chance there will be no short report. I don’t like to be tied down.
Instead, what I will do today is publicize today’s little snippuhts at which I snickered.
First Snippuht:
While walking up Tremont in search of something appetizing on a rainy afternoon:
Homeless Person: Spare change, miss?
Me: No, thanks!
I seriously didn’t mean to say that. I wasn’t trying to be glib with a desperate man in need of change. It just slipped out. And then I snickered and kept walking.
Second Snippuht:
While waiting in line at the Wendy’s establishment, I recognized a man I had seen only once before. He is memorable for one reason only: his hair plugs. Nelly, the plugs. Have you seen “Return to Me?” (Minnie Driver, David Duchovny) Remember the scene with the hair plug guy? Yeah, well…Wendy’s guy? Identical to Return to Me guy. The hairline on the top of his forehead looks like he traced it with a brown eyebrow pencil. Not kidding. Botched Plug Job. I’d totally sue. I actually began to think about this in detail: Who would do that to the poor guy, he seems so nice? He also seems foreign. I wonder if foreign hair plug installers don’t have the best equipment as we American folk do. Do foreign hair installers require schooling of any kind? How about depth perception? And if it was in fact done here in the States, shouldn’t we make a law? I then resumed thinking about my taco salad and Diet Coke, of which I was about to consume.
Hmmm…reading over today's snipphts, I’m beginning to think I am a heartless beast. I don’t give needy people change in the rain, and I snicker at insecure bald men.
I hope to post a short report on my trip home for Christmas this week. When I remember to bring my camera to work, so you’ll all have pretty pictures to see, I’ll do that. If I remember. Okay, there’s a slight chance there will be no short report. I don’t like to be tied down.
Instead, what I will do today is publicize today’s little snippuhts at which I snickered.
First Snippuht:
While walking up Tremont in search of something appetizing on a rainy afternoon:
Homeless Person: Spare change, miss?
Me: No, thanks!
I seriously didn’t mean to say that. I wasn’t trying to be glib with a desperate man in need of change. It just slipped out. And then I snickered and kept walking.
Second Snippuht:
While waiting in line at the Wendy’s establishment, I recognized a man I had seen only once before. He is memorable for one reason only: his hair plugs. Nelly, the plugs. Have you seen “Return to Me?” (Minnie Driver, David Duchovny) Remember the scene with the hair plug guy? Yeah, well…Wendy’s guy? Identical to Return to Me guy. The hairline on the top of his forehead looks like he traced it with a brown eyebrow pencil. Not kidding. Botched Plug Job. I’d totally sue. I actually began to think about this in detail: Who would do that to the poor guy, he seems so nice? He also seems foreign. I wonder if foreign hair plug installers don’t have the best equipment as we American folk do. Do foreign hair installers require schooling of any kind? How about depth perception? And if it was in fact done here in the States, shouldn’t we make a law? I then resumed thinking about my taco salad and Diet Coke, of which I was about to consume.
Hmmm…reading over today's snipphts, I’m beginning to think I am a heartless beast. I don’t give needy people change in the rain, and I snicker at insecure bald men.
Labels: random
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