More Idiocy

A girl just called the office because she wants to pick up an application. She apparently came by the building, but didn't see a "doorbell, or any other way to get in." I told her to try the door handle this time. Application Girl, you are a fucking idiot.

God Bless You, Mr. Radiator

Despite everyone's assertion that this is the warmest January Boston has seen in 10 years, I wake up every morning, shivering beneath my down duvet, wondering whether today is the day my toes will be amputated for frostbite. I hit snooze at least once--not to sleep, mind you, but to have another 10 minutes to convince myself that the warmth of the shower will outweigh the brutal cold of the arctic steppe that is my hallway. In one swift motion, I jump out of bed, grab my fluffy yellow robe, throw it over my shoulders, and dash for the bathroom, where I turn the shower on to at least 210 degrees (Fahrenheit, of course--two hundred degrees Celsius would kill me). After a skin-annihilating 15 minutes, I am finally warm enough to go get dressed, though the temptation to get back into bed is strong.

Indeed, we have saved $210 on our heating bill this month by making our apartment cold enough that I want to die. I'm not sure which is worse--hating my life or paying another $50 to the Energy Gods--but I am glad the bill is less. Love ya, Dusty!

Even more depressingly, I stumbled across the National Priorities Project's website this morning. The site keeps a running total of the amount spent on the Iraq war (as measured by Congressional appropriations) and allows users to compare this cost to other programs, like education and healthcare. As of right now, by their calculations, we could fully fund world AIDS programs for 23 years (assuming, I suppose, that the programs and the number of people they serve stays constant, etc.). Similarly, we could provide basic immunizations for the world's kids for 79 years. (Okay, so I'd imagine this is based on the number of kids alive now, and doesn't take into account the fact that there will be many, many more kids in 80 years than there are now, but that's not the point.) I'm not even going to finish my thought here; if you can't see that it's far more worthwhile to immunize kids or treat AIDS than it is to fight a hopeless war over oil and wounded pride, then you are a fucking idiot. Ahem.

On to happier things: we're having another Guest Chef Night with Jesse this Friday. I'm not sure if I mentioned the last one, for which he made Curry-Fredo with Potato Awesome, but it was fun and the food turned out much better than he thought it did. (The only real problem was that the Potato Awesome was less cooked than it should've been, but this was easily remedied with some quick microwave magic.) Nonetheless, Jesse did a lot of fretting and nervous smoking (on the porch, Dusty, don't worry), so he's going to "redeem" himself with some other delightful dish this Friday. New additions: a bakeoff between Katherine and yours truly, and the Return of RaNo (!!!). Stay tuned for hilarious tales of lentil masterpieces and bold baking.

Narcissus Rex

Ah, yes. The last day of January. A day for drizzly rain/sleet, warm blankets, and my EMT class. Also, as it happens, the last day before my favorite month. Why is it my favorite month? Because my birthday is February 16 and I am an incorrigible narcissist. In that vein, here is my birthday list: a stethoscope (already covered), an amethyst ring (size 6), music (anything new, preferably also awesome), peace of mind, and a pony. Oh, and March's rent money.

In other news, Julia is coming back this weekend to visit her girlfriend and will be granting the rest of us a moment or two of her time in the form of a party at her gf's place. The Evite, amusingly, advised us to find our own transportation back from Dorchester since the gf will be "throwing us ALL out well before the rosy fingers of dawn." Translation: She will be throwing us all out just before the noisy fingering of Julia (among other acts). And lest someone accuse me of sensationalizing Sapphic sex, let me say this: I was in the room next door to hers. I know these things.

Back on the subject of money, I've been pondering my fundraising capabilities. This stems from a bored visit to the website of one of my favorite NGOs, Partners in Health (www.pih.org), which suggests that its supporters hold fundraisers of various types to raise money for the cause. Now, if I were Kiki and Juju from The OC, I'd just throw a black-tie bash, collect $100K from my closest friends, and stuff my bra with the rest of the cash. Sadly, I lack the money, social clout, and space in my bra for such an endeavor. On to Plan B: babysitting for charity. This plan is entirely individual, though, and creates the temptation for me to skim off the top for beer money. Plan C? Still working on it. If you have an idea, do let me know.

Okay, that's all I've got for now. I've been a delinquent lately and have also deleted many postings immediately after putting them up, but I'll try to post more frequently and on subjects I don't immediately regret bringing up.

A

P.S.-- It's funny how you can call something and still be disappointed when it happens. (I'll tell you later; just ask.)

Denouement

I am smothering my sorrows with Newman's Own Peanut Butter Cups. I am not afraid to admit this, because 1) Paul Newman was a grade-A hottie in his day, and 2) he's been faithful to his wife for 47 years, having said, "Why fool around with hamburger when you have steak at home?" This reminds me of the infamous "rump roast" incident of 2004, but I digress.*

On Monday, Megan left for Australia. She'll be gone two months, during which time Katherine will be our roommate. To clarify, Katherine's awesome. But finding someone awesome to live with, having not known the person (Megan) before, was like finding the Elusive Chode, only way better. Dusty's never around, and I'm just getting to know Hannah, so I'm all alooone. Fortunately, Emily and Beccah want to entice Dusty into getting Showtime (L Word what!) by offering to pay for it, so perhaps we'll have visitors at least once a week. Oh, man. That sounds sad. It's not that lonely, I swear. I've just started walking around the apartment naked because the chances that someone will see me are far outweighed by the chances I'll trip over my unhemmed jeans and fall down the stairs. That's all.

On a happier note, I'm hoping this warm spell will keep up. Our heating bills were out of control ($475 for December!) and I think I'd rather freeze than pay that again. Argh. Also, I'm going out with Steph, Ansel, and Robbie on Thursday night, which promises to be an awesome time. And lastly, the stickers came in last week, so I get to stuff and seal 2900 envelopes. Yippee!

*Additionally, there are only 3 cups in a package, and I only have one package, so I can't go too hog-wild.

Supplies!

My mom, Lynna, and I are going to watch March of the Penguins--if, that is, I can extract them from the bathroom. They're upstairs doing some sort of foot makeover. I'm not totally sure what's going on, but it smells like a chewing gum factory exploded. A few minutes ago, I went up to investigate. This was a big mistake. Our conversation went something like this:

Mom: Lynna, could you pass the peppermint lotion?
Lynna: Here you go, Marilyn. Hey Adrienne, want some foot scrub?
Me: Um, no thanks, guys. Wanna go watch some cute penguins waddle around to the vocal stylings of Morgan Freeman?
Mom: Are you sure you don't want some foot scrub? Lotion? Sandpaper-on-a-stick?
Me: I'm fine. Really.
Lynna: Here, have some foot gel!
Me: What the f*ck is foot gel?!? Fine, dammit, I'll cut my toenails. Is that okay? They're ripping holes in my socks, anyway.

And so it goes. Also, for those who care, I'm bringing a surprise back to Boston. Hint: Run. It's fuzzy. Get outta here.

Christmas Creatures, or, A Nun's Worst Nightmare

Sigh. What a nice day. Molly woke me up at 10:30 (thanks, pooch) and soon thereafter, Caitlin (Lynna's daughter) arrived from her boyfriend's house, where she'd spent Christmas Eve. A mere two hours later, Danielle emerged from her lair to unwrap presents. My mother, whose urge to splurge on Christmas is as irrepressible as it is adorable, had piled presents around our (once-again leaning) tree. Normally, my sister counts every present to make sure that we have exactly the same number (though her having extras is also acceptable), but this proved impossible with so many people participating in the melee. When all was said and done, I had a digital camera, a new set of sweaters, and a pile of wrapping paper as high as my knees.

The holiday tradition continued with a trip to the movies. This started long ago with Little Women, and has progressed to such holiday classics as this year's selection, King Kong. Now, I have a tremendous amount of respect for Peter Jackson's directorial abilities; he has a great sense of timing and the CGI is fantastic. But damn, does he need to learn to make movies shorter than three hours. Many of the action sequences, despite being visually stunning, were entirely too long. But the most superfluous scene of all, which I'll call the "bug scene," provided an unexpected bit of entertainment in the form of a character being attacked by what can only be described as "uncircumcised-penis worms." It's one of a few unintentionally funny moments in the movie, another of which comes at the end. I'm going to try not to spoil the movie, but repeat after me: "I'll never let go, Jack! I'll never let go!" Sigh. On the whole, however, I'd recommend the movie if you've got a few hours to kill. I even found myself, at times, wondering whether I might prefer a man like Kong: silent, sensitive, and willing to take on three Tyrannosaurs for me. But though the sexual tension between Kong and Naomi Watts's character (Ann Darrow) is palpable, I think I'll take my chances with men of my own species, if only because they're less likely to topple cabs at socially inappropriate times.

That's all I've got for now. A merry Christmas and happy Hanukkah to all, and to all a good night!

You Can Go Home Again

I haven't been able to post in a while, primarily because every time I sit down to write I produce reactionary drivel that has no place in any forum, however limited the audience. Good news, though: I think I'm over it. Yes, that's right. After weeks of anguish in which I acted like, well, a complete fucking psycho (culminating last night), a two-hour flight to Ohio and a few hours with the fam have cured me of my insanity.

There's something about Ohio that's amazingly sane, childish fathers notwithstanding. As my plane flew in over eastern Ohio, the late-afternoon sun suffused the patchwork of cornfields with a golden glow and, for a maddening moment, it looked like Tuscany. Then the plane drew nearer the city, the water-tower toadstools and snaking lines of subdivisions appeared, and sanity returned.

After my mother and sister picked me up from the airport, our first stop was the grocery store. Since most of my friends (and therefore, readers) are from the vast expanse of Middle America, I need not describe the immensity or the comfort of a grocery store the size of a space-shuttle hangar. Then home again, home again, where my mother had decorated the house in greenery and bows and the largest poinsettias I've ever seen. (Seriously. I think they were imported from Chernobyl.)

In the middle of our living room stood our first live-cut tree, its branches draped in lights and tied with bows, listing painfully toward the windows. I asked my mother and Lynna (our semi-permanent houseguest) why the Leaning Tower of Tree-sa was in our living room (Lord, deliver me from bad puns), and they replied that they'd tried everything they could to make the tree stand up, but to no avail. Lynna, ever one to mock my Ivy League pedigree, said that the one thing they hadn't tried was intellectualizing it, and that they'd been waiting for me to arrive. Ever one to meet sarcasm with seeming ignorance, I agreed that, indeed, intellectualizing was just the thing the tree needed.

And so Reed (Lynna's son) and I set about making the tree stand up straight. This involved unscrewing the four screws on the tree's base, rotating the tree, holding it in place, and replacing the screws. I nominated myself to hold the tree while Reed went to work at its base, and so the hilarity began.

"What's Reed doing?" Danielle asked. "Screwing the tree," I replied. "Oh," she said, and sat down on the couch to observe. "Reed's really good at screwing," I said, letting only the tiniest smile play across my lips. "Yeah, well, it's getting really hard," said Reed from his position on the floor. Now Danielle was smiling.

Lynna came into the room. "Can I help with anything?" she asked. "Yeah, actually, Mom, it would really help to screw it from both sides at once," Reed replied. "It's getting really tight, and I don't want it to be crooked." Now there was open insurrection. I doubled over laughing; I think Danielle might have snarfed her drink. It was awesome. Lynna looked confused. "What's going on?" she asked. I just shook my head; there's really nothing like being a total perv on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmukkah!

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Bitter Blonde

I'm thinking of becoming a blonde again. Now, I know what you're thinking...okay, I actually have no idea what you're thinking. But I'll go ahead with my rationale anyway: after months of study, I have determined that blondes do have more fun (or, at the very least, that I had more fun as a blonde). Additionally, many more men hit on me when I was a blonde, and given the current circumstances it seems I may once again be in a position to need to meet men. Put more succinctly, if I'm going to become a bar floozy, I might as well floozy it up.

This is all very dangerous, of course. The temptation exists to punish Men in General for the sins of Men in Specific, and there's nothing worse than a bitter blonde in stilettos. It's not that I hate men. In fact, I love men. I just hate that I love men and that I still believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I'll meet an intelligent, funny, thoughtful man who will (and here's the kicker) actually treat me with love and respect instead of taking me for granted. Is that so much to ask? Apparently, yes.

Again with the bitterness. I apologize. If it helps to make this any more understandable, my parents' divorce was finalized on Wednesday, and it's throwing a serious wet blanket on my illusions of love. That, and the fact that Robbie and Jill broke up. This is, perhaps, more devastating than my parents' divorce, if only because it makes a lot less sense. Jill, if you're reading this (and I doubt you are): What the FUCK are you thinking? Robbie, if you're reading this (and you might be), ask Jill what the FUCK she's thinking. Jesus, guys, get it together. This is totally unacceptable.

In a totally transparent attempt to distract myself (and, as I told Dusty, to reinforce my shaky moral ground with the knowledge that I'm a future practitioner of The Right Thing), I've spent a lot of time poking around the literature on the Partners in Health website (www.pih.org). Suffice to say that I feel really bad moping about boys when there are people with HIV and multiple-drug resistant tuberculosis, so I comfort myself by thinking about how, in a few short years, I'll be on the front lines fighting against things like maternal mortality, and won't have time to worry about Men in Specific. So there.

That's all the vitriol I can spare for now. Tonight, besides being the Worst Night of the Year (Kirkland's annual Incest Fest), is a night for drinking. Steph, Ansel, Robbie, and I were going to go ice skating on the Frog Pond, but given the weather, we're just going to drink ourselves Irish at a bar downtown. Wish me luck.