Oh fuck it.

Go ahead, call me lame and cutesy, but I can't stand it. She's too cute not to share. Her name is Olive and she's a pest.

Stopped myself.

Just had a cat picture up here, something I swore I would never do, but gave into the temptation for a split second. Then I realized people who post cat pictures are cutesy and lame, so I took it down. Still...that fucking kitten is about the cutest thing I've ever seen. No lie...she's the bomb.

Anyone who stopped by within the 10 seconds it was up knows what I mean.

Anyway...

Thinking a lot about this blogging thing. Anyone else notice that it's become a bit like one of those Yahoo groups?

I don't watch a lot of TV, but...

Me likey.

It's about time that we get to see a protagonist in a TV show who isn't completely likeable. In the case of Greg House, played brilliantly by Hugh Laurie, he's a right bastard. I didn't think America was ready for a protagonist who wasn't your average 'put-upon nice guy,' since "American Gothic" got cancelled. Of course, the sherriff in that show was Satan, so maybe that was taking it a bit far...

In any case, Fox's "House" is really a fairly formulaic medical drama. Here's how it breaks down:

9pm-9:10 - mysterious medical emergency, and first few diagnoses,House pisses off his staff by belittling them and their ideas
9:10-9:25 - first few diagnoses are discounted, more tests ordered, House pisses everyone off by calling patient and family liars
9:25-9:35 - patient has first of several seizures or goes into cardiac arrest
9:35- 9:45 - TOUGH DECISIONS have to be made: treat one symptom, treatment for which could kill patient if the illness actually is any one of a few other possible things, or not treat one symptom, which could kill patient if left untreated
9:45-9:55 - House pisses off entire staff, patient's family, and hospital administrator, by ordering controversial procedure on a "hunch"
9:55-10:00 - BRILLIANT BREAKTHROUGH diagnosis by House. Patient is SAVED.

All the while, House has a purdy set of blue eyes on 'im.

The Hoff as a Question of Existential Inquiry

mrshife is doing Hoff week, which is disturbing enough.

But look at this: My eyes, my eyes!

Now...was there REALLY any need for THAT?!

Eyes half shut

YAWN.

More tomorrow. I am very tired. And I'm trying to get some work done before my head hits the keybbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb*******************board.

Shit.

WAKEY- WAKEEEEEYYYYYYY

BAD internet Lego man, BAD. Nothing like specialization, I guess.

Ahhhhhh....home from our holiday jaunt in Maine. The drives to and from were characterized by blinding snow. Spun out on the highway on the way there on Thursday, but the spouse is a good, experienced driver and kept us on the road. (How much weight do you have to HAVE in the back of a Ford Ranger to make that fucking back end heavy enough not to fishtail and possibly send us into a ditch? Guess we'll have to invest in another couple hundred pounds of sand, but my next truck will be an F-150.)

Had some good food, drank some beers and other things, played some pool in my brother's fabulous game room. I don't usually play pool, so as you can well imagine, I SUCK. But once I warmed up and relaxed a bit, I actually made some pretty nice shots, managed to win a game or two.

More troubling was my performance at darts. Christ...I used to be CAPTAIN of a pub darts team. Once or twice I've hit multiple double corks to win desperate games of cricket, once had a perfect, straight on stance, and a steady, unfailing right arm. When I picked up the darts for the first time in about five years, and threw... "uh...sorry about your wall. I'll spackle that in the morning..." Oy.

Anyway, the point is that I miss pub sports. I should re-invest in a good set of darts (I am terribly forgetful and have lost many a beautiful set, or left them unattended in dive bars, for unscrupulous arseholes to steal, and therefore haven't even owned a set in years). Trouble is, dart nights around here are Tuesdays, and I have to remember that part of the reason I stopped playing was that I couldn't face being hungover EVERY SINGLE WEDNESDAY of my life...

Must consider this in depth.

Turkey cake

Disgusting.

Off for a few days of eating and drinking stupidly with family. Happy Thanksgiving to my readers who celebrate it.

Everyone else...enjoy the break from ...me, I guess.

Lunch break!

You Are Scary

You even scare scary people sometimes!

How Scary Are You?

Oh, fuck, it's the holidays again.

I took yesterday off, since they were carpeting my office anyway, and went to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. What a fantastic fucking time that was. Non-stop action, spectacular special effects, and that Ron Weasley kid is growing up nicely, in all the right places, thank you very much. HEY - He's ALMOST legal.

But I deliberately chose to go on a weekday, in the middle of the day, so as not to be surrounded by screaming kids in the theater. Instead, woe is me, I got the fucker who brought a BABY...a fucking BABY to the theater, and only decided to take the kid outside after it had made noises for a half an hour. And the asshat whose cell phone went off, and instead of turning it of, ANSWERED IT. And the idiots who walked into our theater in the middle of the movie, probably looking for the 2:30 showing (ours was the 12:45) and walked IN FRONT OF MY ROW THREE TIMES while they discussed their mistake, before finally fucking off.

Parents, forget about sex ed and school prayer. Teach your children HOW NOT TO BE ASSHOLES IN THE MOVIE THEATER. Thank you.

Busy, busy, busy.

Blogging in the next few days will be sporadic. I know, the 5 or 6 of you who check in daily for pearls of hilarity will be disappointed. Sorry, I've got cooking and traveling to do.

I think I'm in love.

Sell it, baby...SELL IT!!

With special thanks to Coffee & Cigarettes...who owes me anyway.

Cat breath

Like a good little bunny, I try to eat healthy foods, exercise, drink in moderation (don't fucking laugh, you bunch of lushes, it's true), and take my vitamins.

...but the burp that just came out of me has made me re-think the cod liver oil.

COLLEGE

It struck me last night that the crew I work with in this wing of the building, though all female, bears a striking resemblance (in SPIRIT, people, not in LOOKS) to the Deltas of the classic film, "Animal House."

My immediate supervisor is uncannily like D-Day. I'm...though slightly embarrassed to admit it, very much like Bluto, and down the hall we have a Boon, an Otter, and a Hoover.

The fucking "Golden Girls" we are NOT.

It being Friday, we'll be having cocktails in our lounge, at approximately 4 p.m.

I love my job.

GAAAAHHHHH!!!!!

It's Rue McLanahan...BACK FROM THE DEAD!!!

Please, please, please tell me she's in costume for a role in Stephenesque's Operetta, "Wigoletto."
Or maybe doing a stage adaptation of "Priscilla: Queen of the Desert."

I don't mean to be unkind, which is why I fully expect the answer to one of the above questions to be "yes."

Holy mother of...

Thanks, Dr. E-Vil...

Which Horrible Affliction are you?
A Rum and Monkey disease.

SPIDERY HANGOVER -- EEK!

Let's all take a look at the different species of hangovers available to the dipsomaniacs among us, shall we?

Thanks to Brewski, I now have a perfectly appropriate phrase to describe a certain type of hangover; The Spidery hangover. This is the one where you're capable of going to work, it's not bad enough to stay home for, but it manifests itself all day in a dry, jumpy, and as Brewski puts it, delicate way. This is a harmless one, usually the result of the 'pub trivia type' evening, where you just drink beer, don't mix your poison, and don't stay out particularly late or go too crazy. In fact, this one is often accompanied by thoughts like "if I'd just skipped that LAST round...I'd be fine." Thoroughly unpleasant, but you can work through it.

A similar hangover, but one step up the scale of misery, is the bastard-behind-the-eyes hangover. Characterized first and foremost by the feeling of a drill at the temples. Like the spidery hangover, you can work with this one, though it presents the symptoms listed above, though with alternating fits of nausea, sweats, shakes, and diarrhea. You don't necessarily HAVE to mix your drinks to get this one, merely drinking a LOT of beer, and sleeping very little will get you there. Though working with this one is frowned upon - especially if the restrooms at work have thin walls and your personal sounds travel - you won't be any happier at home, so you might as well save the sick day for the next one....

The "Whiskey Flu" hangover. This miserable bastard hits when you DO mix your poison, don't eat enough beforehand, and thoroughly load your body with sugar and other toxins. You know this one is on its way by the fact that it takes the actual act of vomiting to put an end to the evening's revelry, and keeps you immobile most of the morning after, because you're feverish, and have dizzy spells when you sit up too fast. Though I have done it, I do not recommend going to work sporting this type of hangover. You'll do no one any good, and may even do harm.

Kingsley Amis, in his wonderful book, On Drink, offers descriptions of a few of the different types of hangover availabe to the discerning drunk. Unfortunately, the book is out of print, and I loaned my copy to a (drinking) buddy of mine, so I don't have any good quotes to go with this post. Let's just say if you can find a copy in a used bookstore or on ebay, his comparison of the Physical hangover versus the Metaphysical hangover...brilliant.

How about it, gentle readers? What does your hangover continuum look like?

Just when the well is dry...

...my brother sends me this.

Pardon my laziness today. Don't feel much like blogging.

Nothing to write about today, nothing annoyed me during my commute this morning, and the world seems pretty rabbit-friendly. (Well, Dr. Maroon's mis-reading of my jeans post, indicating that I have some sort of mis-shapen ass, when in fact my ass is perfectly normal, which is precisely WHY I'm so irritated at not being able to find jeans that fit - that has thrown me a curve. If he'd read the thing through, he'd see that I was complaining at not finding suitable jeans for someone with a NORMAL build... but I find it's best to ignore him. I called him a fuckbag when I didn't get a blogging award, so he's not apt to be very amiably disposed toward me anyway. I'll let this one go.)

See how boring...I'll find something to stew about today, perhaps go to the archives for something interesting to say tomorrow. Meh.

So much better on holiday.

First and foremost...fucking YAY!!! The Plough and Stars will reopen! All is once again right with the world!

After being shut down because of a noise complaint, by someone who could NOT have been living in the neighborhood before the place opened, and an ownership change, and new sound proofing...a Cambridge institution is back in business. HUZZAH!!!!

Can you imagine moving into a neighborhood, knowing that there is a very loud pub RIGHT THERE, has been there forever, and is a local institution for a good pour and live music...and THEN complaining about the noise and getting the place shut down? What kind of asshole does that? I don't move next to a highway and complain about traffic, do I? You should know what you're getting into when you move into an apartment next to a fucking bar. If you don't like that kind of noise, look in a different neighborhood. Jackass.

Okay, secondly, I'm not at work today, so there won't be one of those drinking countdowns that I usually have on Fridays. (I just love the academic calendar, and having these holidays off. For those of you who missed it, today is Veteran's Day.)

I am home, imbibing coffee #1, contemplating my next move. I've got a kitten on my lap, so I'm typing with one hand, a skill I've developed over the last year or so. (Almost up to regular speed!) The workout is done, a good 5o minutes aerobically, some weights, squats, lunges, and crunches.

By the time cocktail hour rolls around, groceries will be done, the apartment will be spotless, and I will have done some freelance work that will allow me to invoice out enough for this month's truck payment, and leave the weekend free of any work unpleasantness.

Right...what's everybody reading?

Hell-bound

There are many, many reasons for me to be going to hell when I die. I am a selfish, spoiled, uncaring, cantankerous little bile-bunny, whose world revolves pretty much entirely around when and where I'm getting my next beer. Count that for reasons 2 through 5.

But mostly, I'm going to hell because I was all that as a teenager, PLUS I used to sneak up on my hard-of-hearing grandmother, then shout that it was time for dinner, scaring the old dear right out of her chair, and prompting her to call me, in her little French-Canadian accent, "liddle bidge." Poor Memere.

Not sure I believe in the idea of eternal damnation or retribution after we die, but if it does happen as they say...that's the first on the list of big fucking black marks against me that St. Peter has saved in his big book of sins, which he will point to when I get there without my guest pass, and send my ass packing.

At least I'm honest.

(And for those of you who wanted me to throw a picture of myself up here for your critiquing pleasure, this cartoon - though it OBVIOUSLY is NOT me, or even my original work - is actually, oddly enough, pretty darn close to what I really look like. It's kind of spooky. )

Nothing to say today

With apologies to Alan Hale Jr. and Bob Denver.

This is what I got when I Googled the phrase "stupid news" to see if anything came up that I cared to write about.

Well...I think I need add very little.


..........................................................Luncheon, I think.

I googled some odd stuff

For the entry below, I googled a lot of weird stuff, trying to find a picture of a wet, pissed off looking rabbit to illustrate how I felt after my shower tumble. So now there are some weird records somewhere of my search terms, doubtless someone out there thinks I'm a right pervy.

But anyway, in my search, I found this.

We've got an injured rabbit, also.

(Name the movie that title came from, and you'll win...I don't know. My admiration.)

Right, I never claimed to be graceful, sure-footed, or the owner of particularly quick reflexes. It's what makes me a mediocre athlete, at best. But I can only imagine what it must have looked like to the two cats that were in the bathroom with me yesterday morning, when I slipped in the shower, couldn't get a grip on anything to stop the fall, and went arse over tit, all over the bathroom, knocking things off shelves, tearing down the shower curtain, missing the sink by inches, finally landing in a wet, naked puddle, on my left elbow, half in-half out of the tub.

I'm bruised, and embarrassed, but okay. Thanks for asking.

So, now I guess I have to buy some of those ugly adhesive things that go on the bottom of the tub, to prevent slippage. Either that, or only have assisted showers from now on.

I feel old.

I grow old...I grow old...I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

I just want some simple goddamn jeans.

I must be getting old, because Levis Strauss jeans have veered off in a direction that has left me behind. All their women's jeans appear to be "stretch" now, which is awful. JUST DIABOLICALLY FUGLY. And it's like admitting that you're fat and can't fit into regular denim, so you need a little "give" at the seams. So obvious.

The bastards appear to have discontinued the 512 for women. Or if they didn't, they've made it impossible for me to find them. The 512's were the only ones that had the reasonably tapered leg, without having to resort to tailoring. Call me an 80's chick, but I like the tapered look. At least the 512's didn't have those FUCKING AWFUL HIPPIE FUCKING FLARES, or rest on the lower part of my hips, or have some shitty wash on them. All I want is just plain old pre-wash, black or bleach, NOT some stupid obvious worn out looking material just on the thighs, or fraying holes in strategic places already, which you have to pay an arm and a leg for. I guess they call that "broken in." Fuck off, just give me the simple product, and I will break in my own cunting jeans.

So, over the weekend, I went back to buying men's jeans. Plain old, simple, straight leg, zipper fly 505's. BUT...I shall have to get them tailored because what they call a straight leg is NOT a straight leg. On me, it looks like the dreaded fucking hippie fucking FLARES. Children, flares were NEVER attractive. Not even in the 70's. Just awful. And hip-huggers...who the fuck thinks these are flattering on the female body? Nothing like taking a body part that is TOO WIDE anyway, and accentuating the fuckers, drawing attention to a body flaw, creating the impression of an ASS the size of New Fucking York.

No, you smartass mo-fo's out there. I do NOT have hips that are too wide, nor do I have an ass that is the size of New Fucking York. I'm just making a point.

I'm actually very nicely built. Curvy, not fat. Athletic, not overly muscular. Thin, not willowy. I'm a piece of work. Tssssssssss. You'd think finding jeans for a fairly normal body shape, with normal proportions, would be easy.

Now just give me some fucking decent, simple, authentic jeans and stop making me have to go all out of my way and having to shell out extra expense to get them tailored. Fuckers.

New link

Somehow, I feel like one of those sick, religious recruiters. "Come to us, we're the TRUTH."

But I just talked someone into blogging, so I gotta link. Take a look.

Non-sports fans, you'll be disappointed, but I think this sports blog is a promising hit. I hope he continues.

Please welcome: Newcomer Motts!

It's a larff, innit?

....Yes....that ought to do it for today. I think I'm in the mood for a margarita.

It's November 4, and it's sunny, warm, beautiful. Go figure. New England, eh? We had snow last Saturday, then 70 degrees and lovely on Sunday. Today is perfect, tomorrow could be shit.

I'm thinking a margarita...yes, that'll do. Maybe some nice Tex-Mex themed dinner. Or better yet, we could go Spanish and do Tapas. Love tapas. Little bits of everything.

Now, if we could only speed up time.

Here's something good.

10,000 anti-Bush protesters in Argentina. Only one business was spray-painted on, and only one other business on the protesters' route was damaged in any way. A fruit stand. And the best quote, the guy selling the fruit says, "I only lost four bananas."

That's beautiful.


EDIT: Holy thundering Jesus Christ! The link that was there this morning, that showed a report on a relatively peaceful protest, has been replaced by an article talking about extreme violence, of course with customary asides about elderly people and children being hurt. So...the media, huh? You CANNOT fucking trust it.

I feel so used.

I'm calling UNCLE on this one.

I don't know what to make of this.

I just don't....know...what...

Fuck it. I've got nothing. Maybe I'll edit this one later, when I'm more awake. Maybe I won't.

I'm frightened. Hold me.

Ain't moving there, no way.

Of the following cities, which is the hardest to get to from Boston?

A. Paris
B. Baghdad
C. Jamaica Plain
D. Johannesburg
E. Sydney

If you didn't answer C., Jamaica Plain, then you clearly have never lived in the Boston area.

You look at it on a map, and it's RIGHT THERE, just left of Boston, under Brookline. And it's a perfectly nice community. Affordable, charming, good bars, restaurants, businesses, etc. But to actually GET there, you have to travel miles of strange, unfamiliar terrain, braving the strangest traffic patterns I've ever seen, turning this way and that, to get to the final leg of the journey, a game of death on a high-speed, four-inch-wide, two-lane death trap, called the Jamaicaway. Cars wiz past in the oncoming lane with a centimeter to spare between you, the road turns in a ridiculous series of tight curves and loops, and there are giant, ancient, killer trees lining either side, so if you lose control of the car, or if you have to veer away from oncoming traffic, or if someone invades your lane - not hard, since the lanes are four inches across - you're toast.

I hate to say it, but it is true, that once a friend moves to that area, I'm not going to visit. Much as I might miss that person's company, if they want to see me, they have to meet me on some middle ground. I'll go downtown, I'll drive to the suburbs, or you can come to me, but there is NOTHING that'll get me on that death trap of a road voluntarily. Sorry.

boredboredboredboredboredboredbored

Noticed something about our trick-or-treaters last night. For the first hour, the age ranged from 1 to 4 years old. The first person to show up at our door was a young mother, carrying her infant, in a pumpkin costume. No other kids, just this woman carrying a baby who won't remember this Halloween, and wasn't enjoying it at all.

My question is this: If the kid is too young to:

A- understand what's going on
B- remember what's going on
C- eat candy...

Then what's the fucking point of spending the money on a costume, and dragging the kid out? It's one thing if you've got older kids to chaperone, and don't want to leave the baby at home. It's also another thing if it's one of those neighborhoods where everyone knows you and you want to just socialize and show off the baby.

Is it just me who thinks this is odd?

One cute story about the little halflings last night. At one point I was watching TV and didn't hear them when they knocked, but noticed two little Darth Vader faces staring in our hall window. One of my cats, a big, beautiful, green-eyed, epitome of a Halloween-black-cat, was sitting on the floor, staring up at the two little Darths...they must have been twins. When I went over to open the door and give them their candy, they were all over the concept that I happened to have a black cat on Halloween night, and that she was staring at them with her spooky green eyes.

So I told them that I was a witch and that Luna was my familiar and that she'd chosen them, out of ALLLLL the trick-or-treaters we had, for me to lock in our basement, fatten up, and eat for Sunday dinner.


So that was fun.