Are You Asking Me Out?

Because it sure sounds like you are, Pete:

Sunday's true to it's title (SUN - Day). See you on the Common for the Walk for Hunger.

Eep! Sadly, I'll be helping my Mom clean her house so I'll be missing Pete. I imagine him being protected by Joe Amorosino in a very Bodyguard-esque situation. A well-mannered weatherman avoiding the platonic love of a geeky, hungover twentysomething fan.
But can I argue semantics here? Aren't you walking against hunger? Like, to raise money to feed people? Walking makes you hungry, but I don't think people say "whoo hunger!" Shouldn't it be the Walk Against Hunger? Karen's doing the Walk for Music because she's pro-music. People don't like to be hungry.
In short, thanks for the invite Pete. Maybe next year.

Hypothetical

Do you ever have one of those mornings? When you wake up, your mouth feeling the consistency of fine grains of sand yet your pillow is damp, wondering how it got to be morning? A morning when you stand up, turn off the alarm clock, nearly stumble while trying to slide your foot into a slipper and can't figure out how to put your arm in your bathrobe? The morning where your thoughts (such as they are) revolve around endless piles of bagels, accompanied by a trough of cream cheese with a gas tank's worth of iced coffee?

"Fierce, Amy!" Yeah, the hangover will be. Thanks, Pabst! Not.

You know the morning. You must. When you turn over the events of the day before in your mind like seashells half-covered with sand, to see if it's a really pretty seashell or if a crab will come out and bite you. Did you get crabs? How many glasses of wine did you have? Did you really tell the story of your Mom's online dating tribulations to a roomful of people? Did you get real estate advice from a woman who said to call her Coco without a trace of irony? How many times did you squeal "Ooooh, Bob!" when Karen related the story of the nice things he does for her? Did you really get into a discussion of "fucktard v fuckwit" as the appropriate term for an infantile man with your coworkers? How did you manage, after many glasses of wine, to navigate the cobblestones of the South End in heels without falling? Why were you dressed entirely in red velvet materials, only some of which were yours? How loudly did you insist on playing Britney Spears? How many times did you call your friend's friend gay? How many pictures of you were taken with the direction to make it "fierce"? Did you really send IMs to a debutante in the South that you don't know? Did you lick some dude's ear? Uh-oh, PBR. You tell the crowd that PBR makes you angry. You pretend to fight people. You are dragged to a cab and brought the hell home. You fall asleep and wake up, in all too rapid succession. And you have That Morning. When people ask "how are you doing?" When your friend says "Did you kiss someone last night?" And you say, "Uhh?" Then you eat a bagel, and air your baggage on the internet for other people's amusement. Y'all have had That Morning? Right?

I Do Wanna Wait...

Dear Katie Holmes,

I know how you feel. You just got out of a long relationship which is always hard to deal with. You're looking for an older guy, someone with experience, someone who can protect you. Lord knows I love the older men too, Katie. But Tom Cruise? Girl, please. Let me tell you something about Tom Cruise. Something Nicole Kidman already knows.
Tom Cruise is a homosexual.
I don't mean borderline homosexual. I don't mean metrosexual. I mean he loves ass, Katie. A man's ass. Tom Cruise watches gay porn and not ironically. He digs dudes. He's like the guy on the Brady Bunch-- he's gayer than the color yellow. While I know you probably want to take things slow, you're not going to get any good lovin' from Tom. None.
Also, you're freaking me out because I know you as Dawson/Pacey's girlfriend. I watched about three episodes of Dawson's Creek, which is all I could take since no high schooler in the history of ever has been able to articulate their emotions with words used on the SAT. No high schooler can articulate their emotions in words. Usually they just request Dave Matthews Band songs (Tori Amos when dumped) and hump each other like prisoners on congugal visits. So in short, I see you as a naive high school girl from the Cape, dating a considerably older gay man who was dancing around in his tighty-whities before you were born. Somewhere, James VanDerBeek furrows his dark brows in anguish.
Why don't you date someone who isn't gay? Go for Brad Pitt. He's straight. Go for Aaron Carter. Hell, date Orlando Bloom. There are many straight, girl-loving men closer to your own age, Katie. Don't sell yourself short.

Sincerely,
Amy

PS. Now I've got that damn Paula Cole song stuck in my head, along with the vision of her hairy, hairy pits. Thanks. Also, you're cross-eyed.

Harry's Safari

Imagine, if you will. A young spoiled brat is riding through safari in Africa. He is there as part of the very smart plan that the Europeans came up with-- take a year off before kids head off to college to see the world. If the kids is rich, he goes somewhere with poor people for a photo op/charity stint. This young brat's mother died in a car accident, maybe due to paparazzi, maybe due to her drunk hired help. Either way, cars make the brat jumpy, especially when in a tunnel. But there are no tunnels in rural Africa so he kicks back, puts on his beloved swastika shirt and assumes no one will be there.
Then the brat hears the roar of something far more dangerous than any jungle creature. Another car is fast approaching the safari jeep. This is not the average Sunday drive through the bush for the brat-- his mother's killers are on his tail. The cry of "Harry! Harry!" tears through the brutally dry air like the cry of a rabid lion. Harry's heartbeat increases, and he begins the very un-princely process of whining. His stiff upper lip is in dire need of some Viagra as he squeals like the hunted prey he is. Flashes start exploding, bringing the wild animals close to the two jeeps. The paparazzi jeep flies closer by the second as Harry threatens his driver in order to make him go faster. "I am the bad son!" Harry cries. "I am not my mother's son! I will take the food I so generously brought here back to England if you don't get me out of this. Am I quite clear?"
Dirt flies up behind the two cars, now nearly side-by-side on the small road. All manner of fast, large cats are following the speeding vehicles, waiting to see if a stray baby should fly out. When the vehicles move slowly and people keep their limbs inside the vehicle animals will ignore them. But the paparazzi and Harry are both hanging out of the jeeps, the paparazzi holding their cameras and leaning out of the top, Harry flashing his middle finger at the jeep. The animals smell an opportunity to gorge.
Suddenly the driver of the media jeep exclaims "Bollocks!" as his jeep hits a large rock, careens out of control, nearly hits Harry's jeep and flips over three times.
"Stop! I insist you stop," Harry demands of his driver, his princely demeanor slowly returning.
"But, your highness, if we stop the animals may find us--"
"I said stop," Harry commands.
The Royal jeep driver stops near the smouldering wreck of the paparazzi jeep. The large swarm of lions, cheetas and jaguars gather around the media jeep, now on its side. Various pieces of the photographers are strewn around on the ground like shrapnel from a bomb. The paparazzi who were fortunate enough to survive the crash have the unpleasant experience of being eaten alive by the feasting beasts.
A thoroughly evil smile spreads across Harry's face as he watches his mother's killers being eaten on the barren land of Africa. He'd imagined photographers being killed by Chinese water torture, plague and being poked by gypsies, but this grisly scene is better than any of his twisted fantasies. While the animals are distracted, Harry reaches down for one of the paparazzi's cameras. He pries the dead hand off the costly equipment, and begins to snap pictures. As he relishes the glory of karma, he wishes there was a way to photograph the smell of the paparazzi's flesh beginning to rot in the hot African sun.

Happy Fun Times

My hetero life partner and I get to touch the World Series Trophy. Please note that it was hot out, and that is why my sleeves are rolled up, not because I am a redneck or butch. Also note that Kristen is carrying the entire contents of her purse in the front of her sweatshirt and is not pregnant. Finally, that is the freakin' World Series trophy! Why the hell do you care what we look like?

Valuable Lessons

Or, Things I Learned This Weekend:

• Friday night is the unofficial "Get into a minor accident on Route 1 to tie up traffic" night in Boston.
• The Rick and the Sue are some of the best adoptive parents I have.
• Do NOT allow Embree out of the bullpen. Keep him penned. Christ.
• Removing curtains, vacuuming and dusting is good cardio.
• Do NOT buy heinous prom dresses on automatic markdown at Filene's Basement. If you do, make sure there are no zippers to get stuck in the half-zipped position, making a sport for three other people of trying to force the zipper without pinching the delicate fat roll on the side of the stomach while you refrain from breathing for five minutes.
• Purple and green eyeshadow is heinous.
• A good smoky eye is faboo.
• Under no circumstances, do NOT compare your physique with that of your friend's brother's girlfriend's. You will not like the results.
• Pink Chuck Taylors go with all manner of formal wear, especially when dress (pinned closed with safety pins) is yellow and coral in color.
• Do NOT double-fist Corona with pineapple slices marinated in vodka.
• Do NOT tire of bobbing for pineapple slices in a cup of vodka, say, "Eh, fuck it" and grab a spoon and lap it up in two minutes.
• Do NOT try to match a large man named Butch drink for drink. (This lesson has been learned on several different weekends, but usually the lapses in consciousness make it easy to forget.)
• Do sing loudly and off-key when your friend's brother's girlfriend's birthday cake is presented. Pray she will instantly gain a fat roll from sniffing the cake so she too will have difficulty fitting into her dress.
• Do NOT become the backup dancer for the Rick while he is singing "Build me Up, Buttercup." It requires the great physical dexterity and lack of awareness of the pain receptors in the muscles.
• Do NOT allow yourself near the Sue if you're going to make a drunk ass of yourself. If you do, pull the film from the camera before she makes a scrapbook titled "Drunken Debauchery 2005."
• Do NOT accept the beer Butch hands you. Do NOT.
• Do NOT accept the gin and tonic Butch hands you.
• Chaser is of no help to anyone.
  
• Do NOT accept the rum and coke Butch hands you.
• Do NOT attempt the basic swing steps while an old man named Bill is around. He will show your ass up.
• Do attempt the booty bump with Jen and Carolyn's grandma. She's good at it.
• Do NOT get another beer out of the cooler.
• Do take as many posed prom pictures as possible.
• Do sing "Only the Good Die Young" with your former Catholic schoolgirl friends, even though you are a public school heathen.
• Do NOT check your voicemail at 1am, stumbling around the driveway, and try to get any meaning from the messages.
• Do NOT allow yourself to eat Wendy's at 1:30am. Around 4am you will wake up in a world of intestinal pain.
• Have a loud discussion about dating with your friend's parents in the car.
  
• Staring at the television while trying desperately to rouse yourself to a state of awareness that allows you to operate a motor vehicle is fun. Unless it's the NFL draft. Then it sucks.
• Omelets rule.
• As do blueberry muffins and a sea of hazelnut iced coffee.
• Know you may be having some problems when you describe your prior evening to a seven year old and she says "You didn't get any sleep at all. You're crazy."
• Do NOT throw a ball at Big Papi's head.
• Do NOT fuck with Trot Nixon. He will mess you up just by looking at you.
• Do go to bed at 9:30, praying for an uninterrupted night's sleep.
• Wake up on Monday, wondering what in the hell happened to your weekend.
  

The IM Archives

In a fit of insanity, Amy instant messages Kristen to discuss the need to write what will become the Britney and Kevin PG Home Movie show. Kristen is watching Air Jaws. Several of our "fans" (hi, Colleen!) have suggested Kristen and I have a shared blog, so we also discuss the vision for our shared website. Keep in mind we are not drunk during this exchange. Also, the exchange is a few weeks old, so do note that the Sox have resolved the pitching woes. Keep it up, gentlemen.

Amy: We should write the Britney and Kevin show.
Kristen: Um...
Kristen: Is there a need for this?
Amy: YES. Imagine the fun! Redneck jokes! Yankees fan jokes!
Amy: Blonde tart jokes!
Kristen: Well then, go us.
Kristen: DUDE! These sharks JUMP out of the WATER!
Kristen: It is awesome!
Kristen: Sorry.
Amy: Maybe we can add the sharks to the Britney and Kevin show.
Kristen: That would be the greatest thing ever captured on television.
Amy: I agree. Or on the internet.
Kristen: I want Janice Dickinson to comment on it.
Kristen: Or just drunkenly throw things at Britney.
Amy: Oh yes! WE CAN WRITE THE ULTIMATE SURREAL LIFE WITH ALL WASHED UP TV STARS AND LANDWALKING JUMPING SHARKS! WE WILL NEED MOJITOS AND AN INTERNET CONNECTION.
Kristen: BLOOD PUDDLES! This is the fucking awesomest thing ever.
Amy: AND THEN TYRA WILL SING THE THEME SONG.
Amy: I AM SO FUCKING STOKED.
Kristen: AND ASHLEE SIMPSON, SHE MUST SING TOO!
Amy: OH MY GOD, A DUET!
Kristen: FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!
Amy: Here is our blog, for now. We shall write fan fiction, kind of GBCish, but with reality people. And land sharks who jump. Someone gets their head bitten off. Preferably some asshole from the Bachelor or something.
Kristen: YAY!
Kristen: We kick ass. What should the blog's name be?
Amy: "Britney, Kevin and the Jumping Sharks."
Amy: That works on two levels.
Kristen: Heh. Best. Name. Ever.
Kristen: Except we won't always be writing about Britney and Kevin so maybe we should call it, “A Blonde, a Redhead and The Jumping Sharks.” Or something.
Kristen: Because sometimes we will talk about dirty sex. Heh.
Amy: When will we be having dirty sex? Soon? WHAT DO YOU KNOW THAT I DO NOT?
Kristen: I meant we would be hypothesizing about dirty sex. Like, as our hoo-has grow over.
Kristen: "I remember when I was young..."
Amy: "two months ago"
Amy: We can write odes to boys in the park and dorks at work.
Kristen: W.O.R.D.
Amy: "Tally of craigslist MC postings pertaining to The Blonde or the Redhead: 0"
Kristen: Or the blonde and the redhead because we come in tandem.
Kristen: Which? Totally would rock many guy's worlds.
Amy: Huh huh. Yeah.
Amy: Should we operate under these pseudonyms, or just say Kristen and Amy? Odds are people would figure it out.
Kristen: I say Kristen and Amy. And we can direct them to our other blogs if they're interested. "Basegirl and Pasquinade Double Team!"
Amy: "The hottest double-team since..." I need to Google.
Kristen: I'll wait
Amy: Hmm. It's some movie. Nothing porny at all.
Kristen: That's ridiculous. What's the point of the internet if not for porn?
Amy: Oh, if you add women you get a WHOLE slew of entries.
Kristen: Excellent.
Amy: Hmm. But no conclusive stars who have a reputation for that. Where's my ex-WHW when you need him?
Kristen: He's good at turning normal movie titles into porn titles. I think he spends like an inordinate amount of time doing that.
Amy: This means he must have an extensive knowledge of porn. Stupid boys.
Kristen: If I say "porn rocks" and we blog this conversation, we are totally getting the strangest Google hits.
Amy: That may be okay.
Kristen: Word.
Amy: Schoolgirl
Amy: Boobies
Kristen: Fetish
Amy: Double team
Amy: Lesbians
Amy: Lipstick
Kristen: Barely legal
Kristen: Heh.
Amy: Heh.
Amy: Smooch.
Kristen: We rule.
Amy: Yep.
Kristen: Well shit, now I can't think of anything to say that can't also be interpreted as something dirty.
Kristen: Doesn't help that the shark scientist dude is all, "The shark swims along, fully cocked and loaded, before shooting first and asking questions second." That is totally verbatim, by the way.
Amy: Yeah, me neither. Which is okay, since I am all tuckered out and just waiting for my hot, young roommates to get out of the bathroom.
Kristen: Heh.
Amy: Hmm. This seems to be my dating problem in a nutshell. "Fully cocked and loaded, shooting first and asking questions second" should be our blog title.
Kristen: I'm giggling a ridiculous amount over here. I'm not even drunk.
Amy: Because, while being dirty, it also is synonymous with drunk, which, we are, often.
Amy: I cracked my own shit up tonight too.
Kristen: Way, way, way often.
Kristen: Speaking of? Is there alcohol at your house for tomorrow?
Amy: Um, there are a few beers left. Perhaps mint, rum and some of Bedford's soda water should find it's way to my house.
Kristen: I GOT MOJITO RIMMERS FOR EASTER!
Amy: Oh my God, we're the most popular blog on the internet.
Kristen: Truthfully, I'm not even sure what Mojito Rimmers are, but I think it's like Margarita salt, except for Mojitos.
Kristen: Hee. hee. heeheeheeheeheehee!
Amy: Um, do we want to get that fancy?
Kristen: I don't know, I was just excited that I got alcohol and alcohol related things in my Easter basket. My family rocks.
Kristen: Dude, there are shark penises on my TV. There's a great white orgy happening. This is the coolest thing I've ever seen.
Amy: Wow. You know, they make porn with human penises in it.
Kristen: I'm not watching it because it's porny. I'm watching it because sharks are cool. And they JUMP! And, apparently, binging on whale carcasses makes them horny. Which is weird, because after eating too much, I just want to sleep.
Amy: Yeah. Me too.
Amy: It's a good thing, too. Otherwise I'd be horny all the time. More.
Kristen: Like, it would interfere with sleeping and eating and such. I mean, more than normal.
Amy: Right.
Kristen: I knew we would get around to the dirty sex before too long. Just didn't know it would come as a function of talking about shark penises.
Amy: So when the sharks eat Star Jones or Nolé Marin they will be horny and have to fuck Britney and Kevin's dog?
Kristen: YES!
Amy: HAHA!
Kristen: They have to eat Nolé Marin's dog too. That dog creeps me out.
Kristen: Is PETA gonna kick my ass now?
Amy: We can only hope.
Amy: Publicity! Fame!
Kristen: Do you have to be a pacifist to be in PETA?
Kristen: And do you have my back if I get attacked by a swarming army of red paint wielding minions?
Amy: Yep.
Amy: J will be right there with them.
Kristen: But I'm not going to beat them up. I'll just be quietly judgmental
Amy: Right.
Kristen: And maybe scowl.
Amy: Yeah!
Kristen: Plus J isn't a vegetarian is he?
Amy: No. He eats chicken, I think.
Kristen: Maybe he's like a weekend PETA member.
Kristen: Like a weekend smoker?
Amy: My vegan friend wears leather boots too. I think it's because she bought them before she was vegan or something.
Kristen: And it's silly to let them go to waste?
Amy: Yeah, I don't know. My philosophy is that if the animal is on my plate, it is too late to save it. So I shall eat its yummy, delicious flesh.
Kristen: Well, right. ditto for the kitchen of the restaurant or the grocery store.
Amy: Yep.
Kristen: Ow! Fuck, my arm is going to fall off.
Amy: Did you wash dishes again?
Kristen: No, shoulder issues.
Amy: GO TO THE DOCTOR, YOU SILLY TWIT. You don't want to get flesh-eating bacteria in that.
Kristen: There are no open sores. Just a possibly torn rotator cuff.
Amy: Doesn't matter. Don't die.
Kristen: It might become an issue because if the GODDAMN RED SOX CAN'T START PITCHING WELL THEN THEY MIGHT NEED ME! Ahem.
Amy: Oh Kristen. It'll be okay. If they win tomorrow. If not, we can freak the fuck out.
Kristen: Argh, I am fine. I have done a mental Hulk Smash and have moved on.
Amy: Well done.
Amy: But now I must move on to bed.
Kristen: Blargh.
Amy: I am trying to be not shitty feeling tomorrow for work. Since they want me to work. Waaa?
Kristen: Yeah, I would say I’m going to bed too but I just put on Air Jaws 2 so we both know I'm lying.
Amy: Let's not demean ourselves by lying. But I actually will be sleeping. And tomorrow is Top Model night, so we must be rested.
Kristen: Word. I shall bring my tired ass and my handy elementary school kid overnight bag with me to work tomorrow.
Amy: Oh super-cool. We're having another sleepover. Don't forget your retainer and NKOTB pillowcase!
Kristen: And the Girl Talk game.
Amy: I only had the Mall shopping game.
Kristen: Pshaw. Girl Talk 4-Eva!
Amy: I don't remember the name, but I loved it.
Amy: Dude, Toys R Us was having a 2 for $15 board game sale.
Amy: I nearly threw Deb into a car and drove to the toy store.
Kristen: Also, I totally had both a retainer and an NKOTB pillowcase. And a bath towel.
Amy: I had a door-poster.
Kristen: I had that too.
Kristen: Jordan.
Kristen: (Eek)
Amy: I liked the wee one. Joey Mac.
Kristen: You would.
Amy: MALL MADNESS IS BUY ONE GET ONE FREE. HOLY FUCKING SHIT.
Kristen: DREAM PHONE!
Kristen: We must get Dream Phone!
Amy: I don't think they make it anymore. Amazon doesn't have it.
Kristen: Commie bastards.
Amy: Girl Talk
Kristen: It's much less pink than it used to be. This is not an entirely unwelcome development.
Amy: Heh. Okay, bedtime for me. I forgot in rehashing my childhood. We shall make a wishlist and post it too.
Amy: Good night, Sharkie.
Kristen: Night, Some Other Clever Nickname I Can't Think Of.

Just Say No

Despite his good looks and tray of fruity drinks, this man is the enemy. I will dump the drinks on his ugly pants so he won't wear them anymore.

Since the weather in Boston has slowly turned from Pluto-like conditions to a habitat that can support human life, I've begun to venture from the confines of the office during my lunch break. I stroll through the Common, watching businessmen, students and tourists enjoy the sunshine that we'd thought gone forever in January. I enjoy the people-watching almost as much as the actual sunshine and fresh air.
My hetero life partner, Kristen, usually accompanies me during lunch and since we're a couple of fabulous single girls, we stare at the boys. Kristen tends to nudge me when the men in Sox hats walk by, usually in jeans and a basic t-shirt. I let out a little coo when guys with thick-framed glasses and a laptop bag pass, their pasty skin reflecting the sun like the moon. While there are a good amount of handsome men around, many of them are like a sixteen year-old boy with a Fender guitar-- they have the proper instrument, but they don't know how to play.
Men of Boston (and the world): stop wearing pleated pants.
For the love of kittens and rainbows, stop. I am begging you. There is no excuse for wearing khakis with pleats in them. Nor is there any excuse for wearing corduroys with pleats. My ex-whatever he was wore dark brown pleated cords. My friend was amazed that I even appeared in public with him while he had these fashion abominations on his thin frame. (I'm not even going to discuss pleated jeans. If you own pleated jeans, time-travel back to 1985 and return them.) It's confounding-- why do you wear pleats, gentlemen? Flat-front pants are sold at all major retailers. Carson has told you not to wear these pants. If you've dated me, I've told you. Yet still, like stubborn children, you insist on it. They don't make your ass look good. No girl is going to want to look at your ass when she's seen the front of your pants and seen fissures that are usually reserved for Scottish garb. I can only think that you wear pleats because you think you're going to end up with male cameltoe or something without them-- but flat-front is your friend. It makes you look lean, directs attention to what's below your belt and shows that you want to present yourself well.

See? It's okay. He looks great, and I can't even see his face. Perhaps he isn't carrying fruity drinks for me to imbibe, but I'm okay with that since it would not be embarrassing to take him to a proper bar.
Thanks for making my lunch much more interesting than just reading the Globe, gentlemen. Keep walking by, with you unpleated pants and Sox hats worn proudly. I'll be the redhead who has no qualms about staring you down as if you're a gazelle on the plains of Africa and I am the hungry lioness.

P0Pe4U@aol.com

Yes, children, the Pope's now online.
Insert your own "Now he can get email newsletters from NAMBLA" joke here.

"You've got Mail. IN HELL!"

Rhode Island

Last week I was bored since Kristen left work early, I was done for the day and leaving in fifteen to head to the Ocean State. I stumbled upon a website with stupid quizzes (I speak 50% Yankee dialect, my brain is 80% female, my inner European is Italian) and found this.
I'm all for the good jokes on my home state. But, some of these things just aren't true. So let's do a rundown, shall we?

Keepin' it street in the 401, y'all.

You Know You're From Rhode Island When...
You celebrate "birt-day"
I used to have quite the Rhode Island accent, but when I moved to Massachusetts I lost most of it. I do occasionally drop an r and add it elsewhere, but for the most part I pronounce my words correctly.
If your oldah brodah is a retad.
That's "retahd."
If you had a "wickit" good time at the beach.
Yep, I have wicked good times at the beach. When I lost my accent, I lost my reliance on the word "wicked," although sometimes, that's really what I feel. Usually I am wicked pissed, or something is wicked cool.
You can drive two miles with out seeing a Bess Eaton.
Dude, Bess Eaton went the way of the Edsel last year, and I am profoundly sad for it. There was nothing better than drinking a birdbath's worth of coffee from The Tank. All the styrofoam cups had inspirational quotes from the Bible, and nobody ever ate donuts from Bess Eaton. Now we have some kind of hockey player chain or something from Canada. Fucking Canada.
You know the difference between red, white and clear chowdah.
I do indeed. I enjoy chowder more than probably healthy, especially when served with clamcakes that are so greasy the bag they come slowly turns translucent. I am partial to white (New England) clam chowder, but will have it RI style (clear). Manhattan style (red) is just foul. If you want tomato soup, eat Spaghetti-Os.
You consider a car journey of longer than one hour a day trip.
Heh. It's true.
You can you curse in Italian.
Hey, not all Rhode Islanders are Italian. A lot of them are, but some of us are mongrels.
You know the basic rules of DuckPin bowling.
If you've seen me try to bowl with more than one beer in me, you'd be happy to know that I do know Duckpin bowling. That teeny ball is much easier to toss when inebriated than the 20-lb standard jobbies. Sorry for nearly killing you, Kristen, Alicia, Will and Kerri.
You own garden tools from Job Lot.
I own everything other than underwear from Job Lot.
You have tried to drive the measured mile in less then 45 seconds.
If I myself haven't, Pete or Cris have attempted it with me in the car, screaming in terror.
You know what the expression "side by each" means.
Yeah, people in Woonsocket who live on top of their mothers use it. Not us Southerners.
You have used the expression "Not For Nuthin" or "bubbla".
The kids I babysit and I got into an argument about this. They seriously had no idea what the hell I was talking about. I maintain, to this day, that it's a bubbler. A water/drinking fountain has a naked cherub in it. A thing with a handle that you drink from bubbles water, hence bubbler. Anyone who argues this point with me will find themselves in a world of hurt. VIVA BUBBLER.
You serve bread with every meal.
Why not? Bread is proof God loves us. Especially when slathered with warm butter.
You know what "3 all the way" means.
Actually, I don't have any idea what this means. Does anyone else? I assume it has something to do with lottery tickets.
You load up on milk and bread before a snowstorm.
This somewhat psychotic tradition began after the blizzard of '78 (which was allegedly going to be "flurries" not "crippling blizzard of doom") so most people were caught without the essentials at home. My mother, who was living with my father at the time, had only frozen ravioli in the apartment. Which may have been okay for just her and my Dad, but my grandmother decided that the snow would keep people away from the mall, so she decided to go shopping, got stranded and hitched a ride to my parent's house with some random snowmobiler. My grandfather came to get her a few days later. So, yes, my Mom always sends me out for milk, bread and usually some kind of snack foods before a snowstorm. Which was a good thing during the President's Day Weekend storm of 2003 when an Escort with three adults and two children had to drive from Rhode Island to Boston. Thanks for the snack mix, Mom!
You feel compelled to hear at least one weather report a day.
If only to see the smile of my beautiful weatherman. But I am a bit of a weather geek (see above). See also: weatherbug installed on my computer.
You understand the humor of the Ocean State Follies.
Cracked me up when I was a kid. I haven't seen them in years.
You consider your holiday season incomplete without a trip to Lasalette Shrine.
I've actually never been.
You have a bottle of coffee syrup in the fridge right now.
You bet. Coffee milk is awesome.
You've phoned into a talk show on WPRO or WHJJ.
Nah. Talk radio isn't my thing, although I used to listen to Rush Limbaugh with my Mom. Yet somehow, I turned out liberal. Thanks Mom!
You have given a bottle of Sakonnet wine as a gift.
My Mom gets them sometimes, but we never drink them. I don't know why. Maybe a surprise snowstorm would tempt us to crack them open.
You've gotten sick from eating too many clam cakes.
They are fabulous. I had clamcakes and chower last weekend and it was a sure sign of spring. Some people confuse clam cakes with crab cakes-- clamcakes are dough with clams mixed in, deep fried into alien looking blobs of delicious fat bombs. Dunking them into your clam chowder is an excellent way to eat them, although they're fine on their own.
You've boasted about the money you saved at the Christmas Tree Shop.
Hell yes. I do love a bargain. When I go home, I usually hit Target, Christmas Tree Shop and Job Lot. Sometimes Building 19 if I'm feeling especially broke.
Your first live concert was at The Civic Center or Rocky Point.
Nope. It was the Tent. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.
You own a hat with a red "P" on it.
Not yet, but I will. I think I love the Paw Sox just as much as the Red Sox. Cheaper seats, cheaper food, cheaper beer, my catcalls travel father than they do at Fenway, enjoying baseball without schmoopy couples and endless talk of a fantasy team-- awesome.
You still call the Rhode Island Mall the Midland Mall.
No, but my Mom does.
You have close relatives who work for the state.
No. Just the lower echelons of government.
You have used a demolished landmark when giving directions.
Heh. "Go by the old Almacs, hang a right where A&P used to be..."
You secretly watch "Providence" even though you tell your friends you don't.
I think I saw two episodes of that show, only because I love that guy from M*A*S*H. BJ!
You can sing the Rocky Point theme song.
I didn't know it had a theme song, only because my Mom thought the place was a death trap so I never got to go. I can sing the entire "Block Island Ferry" song.
You have a degree from RIC, CCRI or URI.
Come on now. Lots of people who aren't from Rhody get degrees at these institutions. New Jersians have to get out of Jersey somehow. (Also New Yorkers!)
You think vodka and Del's is a great combination.
Um, that's empirically true. Frozen lemonade and vodka? Do the math. Mike's hard lemonade is just a melted Del's and vodka.
You've been to Scarborough Beach but not Block Island.
True story-- my 72 year old grandmother has never been to Block Island. She's driven across the country countless times, but hasn't sailed away on the ferry to Block Island. My Mom's never been either. I've been, only because a friend of mine worked there and she took me to visit, the damn jingle stuck in my head. [Set to a reggae beat] "Sail away on the Block Island ferry/take a trip back to carefree times/leave today/Block Island awaits you/Just leave your worries behind."
You drop the "w" in Greenwich, Kingstown, and Warwick.
I do in "Greenwich." It's "Greenich" which confuses the hell out of non-natives.
You use the expression "down-city" for downtown.
I don't. I hate that PC version of downtown. It sounds like a tourism brochure. If people get mugged and shot there, it's downtown.
You celebrate St. Joseph's Day and know what a "zeppolla" is.
Yes. And yummy. Also, poor spelling, quiz website. It's "zeppole."
You know what "ProJo" stands for.
Yep.
You still call CCRI "reject".
That isn't very nice. My brother goes there, and he's not a reject. Also, I should have gone during my senior year of high school in the "get the hell out of your high school" program but didn't listen to my art teacher.
Your city house and your beach house are less than an hour away from each other.
If by "beach house" you mean "place where I park the car and walk a mile to the beach" then yes.
You always start giving directions by saying, "Well, you get on 95..."
Well, that's what you do.
You can recite the license plates of all your family members and friends.
We had one license plate from the time I was in preschool until 2000 when my car died and we didn't get another one so the registration expired. And I miss it dearly.
You know what a "package store" is.
It's where self-confidence comes from.
You think lots of gold jewelry looks great on the beach.
Oh puke. No. I go to Town Beach where the dirty hippies and svelte surfers hang out. Gold jewelry, big hair and mascara do not belong at the beach. Roxy shorts, body boards, surf wax, frisbees and guitars do.
You know what Allie's makes.
Little cakey bits of heaven. Bite me, Krispy Kreme.
You put celery salt on your hot dogs.
Yep. And it's delicious!
You order an iced coffee in December.
Cold coffee is okay at any time of the year.
You know exactly which parts of Dumb and Dumber, There's Something About Mary, Meet Joe Black and Amistad were filmed in RI, and you can tell someone exactly where that is.
One part of one of those movies was filmed in the cemetery across the street from my high school. And also, can you hire a copyeditor, website? This shit sucks.
You know what the Coffee Cup Salute is, and who does it every morning.
Frank, I miss you! Salut!
You grew up with everyone you see at Stop and Shop.
It never fails. Every time I go home, I see someone there I know. Sometimes my cool math teacher. Usually someone with a kid who's been married and divorced in the past five years.
You've never been farther south than Jersey, and not farther West than there, either, but are planning to move to Florida as soon as you turn 60.
Heh. No, unlike some Rhode Islanders, I am not content to stay only in one little corner of the state. And many Rhode Islanders stay because they have balls and can handle the cold of winter. Because summer in Rhode Island is the best time ever.

Springtime in the City

It's finally happened. Spring is actually here. My excitement knows no bounds. I've been running on minty beverages, solar power and the sheer joy of being able to wear flip-flops without fear of frostbite for the past forty-eight hours. It happens every spring-- I get overzealous and end up tiring myself out like a preschooler who's been out past his bedtime. Hand me a juice box and some animal crackers and put me to bed. Despite the sheer exhaustion that's overtaken me, I'm still going. Going for a walk at lunchtime. Going to the Sox game tonight. I should stay home and count my pennies, but the thaw has hit Boston and I couldn't care less about my bank account. There's baseball to be watched, walks to be taken, sunshine to enjoy.

Now that's more like it.
The weekend started out nicely on Saturday in Rhode Island. My Mom watched our thermometer, waiting until it was warm enough to open the windows and let the fresh air in. Birds (and the fat-ass squirrel) ate at the birdfeeder, the birds singing happily in the sunshine. I cleaned our bathroom closet, singing along to WBRU, not minding the work since the fresh air was mixing with the smell of the cleanser, making everything seem fresh. My Mom and I drove around with the windows down all afternoon, soaking up the sun. Kerri and I went to Newport Saturday night, wearing only light jackets. The bartenders did a shot with us, I met a guy named Lancelot. It couldn't have been better.
Sunday found me up early, getting ready for a day at McCoy. I got my grease-stained Sox shirt on and waited for Kristen to arrive from New Hampshire. We got coffee in cups that assured us we were drinking the official iced coffee and iced lattes of the 2004 World Champion Boston Red Sox. Sunday was a perfect day for baseball. The sun was warm, but a cool breeze blew across the grass, carrying the sound of children's voices from across the park. We waited for two hours to see the World Series trophy, to finally touch it and believe that last fall wasn't all a dream. The boys of summer stretched on the lawn as we waited. A little boy in front of us demanded to know why a grill was parked in the picnic area. I screamed for Kevin Youkilis so loudly that mothers ushered their children away from me. The right side of my body got a sunburn during the wait to see the trophy.
And there was baseball. Honest to God baseball. For cheap. We had seats on the first base line for nine dollars. (The perfect perch from which to yell "Kevin Youkilis, you rock my socks off" or "We've got a seat in the car if you want to come back to Boston with us, Kevin.") A hot dog, a sausage and two orders of french fries cost sixteen dollars. The french fries were perfect-- thin, salty and crispy without being hard. Kids chatted about baseball around us, doing the wave. After the game (which the Paw Sox won) kids dangled buckets with baseballs down in the Sox dugout, angling for autographs. Youk signed some, immediately making me sad I hadn't put my telephone number in a bucket to lower down to him. Kristen and I stood in the park for a while after the game ended, watching little kids run the bases, unable to pry ourselves free from the sunshine, the sound and smell of baseball in the air.
Monday was Marathon Monday, the best Monday of the year. Something about Marathon day makes me giddier than a kid on Christmas. I got up early and went to Shaws to pick up some ice for the drinks and some cold medicine for Kristen. I noticed that everyone was in a good mood. People ate breakfast outside at Starbucks, greeting friends as they walked by. People took their morning run on the street where thousands of runners would soon come by. I had a grin on my face as the sun dried my damp hair. The breeze blew over my shoulders since I had a tank top on. It felt great to be back in the warm air for good, instead of just visiting it.
It felt like I'd walked into an episode of Sesame Street visiting Shaws that day. People smiled and were friendly. "Everybody's here getting their ice today," said the guy who was stocking the ice cooler. "Nothing worse than a warm beer on a hot day." I agreed as he put four bags of ice into my basket. The guy at Dunkin Donuts was his old jovial self, smiling as I nearly cleaned the place out of muffins, munchkins and hazelnut iced coffee. I felt like breaking into "The People in Your Neighborhood" but figured that song coming from a girl in movie star glasses wouldn't be quite right.
The party-goers arrived shortly after the first pitch of the Sox game. We sat around the living room, Emily and her friends running in and out to check on the status of her friend who was running the Marathon. Kristen and Deb told the epic story of the game they went to on Thursday. I cooked tacos and got sandwiches out. The radio was set out on the back porch which overlooks Beacon Street, so people could wait for the marathoners and keep up with the game. Kristen and I made some mojtios, the smell of mint and limes coming out of the plastic pitcher. Ice thudding into the bottom of plastic cups, the sound of people booing as Manny made his errors, the dull, mechanical sound of helicopters passing overhead all reminding me, all day long, that spring is finally here. Sounds like that don't happen in winter.
We made our way to the street when the marathoners got close to my neighborhood. Our mojitos poured into big blue cups, we stood on the sidewalk under the midday sun, squinting up to watch the leaders come through. The sound of the sirens comes first, warning the crowd that the race is coming. Then the media trucks come by, then one runner, one small mass of muscle and sweat, runs by and is gone. The crowd cheers, encouraging her. Then another runner. Then a pair of runners come by. Then the masses start coming through, the less experienced runners who paint their names on their arms so the spectators, people who don't know them, can cheer them on. "Go Paul! Go Canada! Go 2013!" I think the best thing about the Marathon is about the non-competitive nature of it. Yes, it's a race, and the runners are trying to get there before everyone else. But for the large majority of the runners the course is the competition. Just being able to cross the finish line, wrap yourself in foil like a human baked potato is the victory for most of the 20,000 marathoners. As a spectator, you get to have a part in that. You know you've encouraged someone, just some guy with bloody nipples and a wobble in his stride, to beat the course. One runner stopped right near us to stretch out his hamstrings. He was red in the face, but didn't look sick. Dried sweat wrapped around his waist like a belt. He pushed against the street light, wincing as the muscle loosened.
"You've got it! You're nearly there!" We cried as he turned away from the sidewalk and got ready to run again.
"Thanks, guys," he huffed as he took off, his stride now stronger.
When sunstroke was about to set in (mercifully Monday's sun exposure was on my left side, thus evening out my ying-yang burn from Sunday) we reconvened in my living room to watch the best of Will Farrell DVD. When it came time for the marathoning house guest to return, we sat on the shady porch, drinking Corona, glad to have a day out of work with such good weather. We talked about baseball, about how we could never run a marathon in less than two days, that finally spring arrived. It's continued today, with Pete Bouchard saying this:

Not good enough? Tomorrow the heat of summer bears down. 80s cover the landscape like hair on a Yeti. It's a beach day, it's a lake day, it's a hug the weatherman day - office hours by appointment.

So hug your cute weatherman. Take your lunch outside, even if it means getting precariously close to a goose turd. Run yourself ragged. Spring and summer are short in New England-- you can sleep when it snows again. If you need me, I'll be napping under the table at dinner before the Sox game.

Benedict?

"Eeeexcellent."
We've got a new Pope, y'all!
Say hi to the Cardinal formerly known as Joseph Ratzinger, who has the Pope-name of Pope Benedict XVI.
I'm a little bummed that this cat is all about conservative doctrine (so lady-priest wanna-bes must find a new church to preach in, gay people can just forget about anything good). I also don't like his name. I think of this Benedict, who isn't known for doing good things. He's a traitor. Why do you want to be associated with a squealer? I guess Benedict is far more metal than John Paul II was, but the flow of Pope Benedict the Sixteenth isn't quite as nice. But, I've got to give it up for my German peeps. It's good to have you back in the Papacy. Lieterhosen, Oktoberfest and oompah bands will be imported into the land of esspresso and cannoli.
Intelligent writing to come later.

Mark Your Calendars!

"Yeah, we're famous for no reason. Whoo!"
Britney's show has a premiere date!
Cheetos and Red Bull at my house! I cannot contain my excitement for this huge, unbelievable, gasoline-soaked train/plane/automobile wreck. Bare feet in my bathroom! Ginseng nips! Pimps and Hos wedding track suits. God, America rules.

Theo and Me and Friendy's

Or, what can happen when a girl watches a baseball game, the Dunkin Donuts commercial and endless Friendly's advertisements on television.
(Also, mother and brother, perhaps you should read about my need for an iPod?)

"Do I know an Amy? Uh, nope. Never met her. Certainly didn't do anything Rick James would write a song about with her, either."

I was standing in line at Friendly's, hoping to order a Fribble in the heat of late July when I saw him. Well-dressed in a button down shirt and linen pants, he looked in desperate need of a banana split. He caressed his head of thinning hair, and placed a Red Sox hat on his head. His cell phone kept flashing, ringing in silent mode. I stared at the man. I felt like I'd seen him somewhere before, but couldn't place him. His blue eyes peered out from under the brim of his blue hat, looking frustrated with the long line but didn't go so far as to roll his beautiful eyes.
I stood next to him, and flashed him a smile. He smirked back at me, looking somewhat distracted.
"Long line," I said.
"Yeah," the handsome guy sighed in return.
"I've been looking forward to my Fribble all damn day. It's so hot out there. I love Boston in the summer, but Christ it's hot."
"I just want a cone. I don't drink, so when I'm stressed... sorry."
I smiled at him. I liked that he cut off his story, that he didn't want to tell me too much right away. "Busy time at work?"
The guy laughed at me, a hearty masculine guffaw. "Yeah, you can say that."
"It can't be as bad as working at Friendly's. These kids are fuckin' stressed." The high school students behind the counter somehow managed to look both harried and bored simultaneously.
"My job's pretty bad." His eyes twinkled, like he knew something I didn't.
I was ready to flirtatiously flight with him. "Really? What do you do?"
"I'm the General Manager of the Sox."
My eyes bugged, and I instinctively reached out and grabbed his arm. "Oh, God, I'm an idiot. Sorry. Hey, I'm Amy. Nice to meet you."
"Theo Epstein."
I giggled. "I know that now. Hey, good job on that whole World Series thing. Can I buy you a cone?"
He held his hand up and shook his head no. "The gig pays well. Thanks for offering though."
"No, no, I insist. I also didn't know who the hell you were. Even after that television commercial. Seriously, I just got paid. Let me get your ice cream."
Theo smiled and nodded, and told the disinterested teenager behind the counter that he wanted a strawberry wafer cone. I ordered my peanut butter cup Fribble and leaned against the counter. "So," Theo said, his blue eyes staring into mine, "what do you do?"
"Well, I work in publishing. And I'm an aspiring writer."
He nodded. "That's really cool."
"Well, it doesn't have the appeal of 'Red Sox manager,' but it's pretty good. I'd ask you some questions about baseball, but I'm sure you're sick of talking about Johnny Damon's biceps or Jason Varitek's thighs or whatever when you talk to women."
Theo took his cone from the bored clerk, who gave me the total in monotone. He stuck his tongue out to lick the edges clean, and he looked even more handsome than he had before. I took my Fribble and sipped it, looking into his deep blue eyes as I lowered my lips to the straw. We locked eyes, him liking, me sucking. The attraction as palpable as the noise of the restaurant. I broke my stare, paid the bill and walked out with him.
"Thanks for the ice cream," Theo said, his voice slightly lower than it had been before we exchanged our tension-filled stare. His tongue continued to lick the cone as we walked outside.
"No problem," I said, unable to look away from his deep blue eyes.
We stood in the parking lot for a minute, neither wanting to leave. The sun was beating down on us, so Theo had to work hard to keep the ice cream from melting on his hands. I sipped my Fribble calmly, watching him lick the cone, giving it the attention it needed. The combination of the innocence of a boyish man eating an ice cream cone, combined with the erotic imagery was driving me nuts. I decided to seize the day, grab 'em and go for it.
"You know," I said, stepping closer to Theo, "if that keeps melting on you, I'd be happy to lick it off."
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but didn't lower them in immediate revulsion either. He looked around the parking lot, but nobody was foolish enough to be standing in the full July sun but us. I felt his eyes looking me over, trying to find the visible outline of some recording device that I could use to blackmail him into endless Iced Lattes.
"You'd..." he murmured into my ear, his breath smelling of strawberries and cream, "you'd be into that?"
I looked up at him over the edge of my sunglasses. "Oh yes," I replied.
He looked around again, taking a step closer to me so we were almost hugging. "Would you be into," he paused, and moved his mouth closer to my ear, "some rope?" I could barely hear him. I have no idea how he could verbalize actual syllables and be so quiet. He must have learned how to keep things quiet during the Nomar trade.
"Why Theo," I said softly, in a chiding manner, "you've got a bit of a kinky side, don't 'cha?"
He shushed me, putting his free index finger roughly to my lips. He moved his finger under my chin, moved my head so I looked up at him, and lightly scratched the underside of my chin.
"Yep," he said.
And thus began my sexual escapades with Theo Epstein. The taste of peanut butter cup Fribbles and the feel of July sun on my skin will always remind me of the bliss that a nice Jewish boy in the public eye can give when he's in private.

Youk?

"I don't wanna go back to Pawtucket! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

Sad times at the railway station, y'all. Youkilis is going back to Pawtucket. This is kind of cool because I'll get to see him (and the World Series trophy) on Sunday, but I will miss him here in Boston. Also, the idea of being sent from Boston back to Rhode Island is mortifying. I know how you feel, Kevin. If ever I have to return to the place of my technical residence from the big league city of Boston, I'd feel pretty bad too. Maybe you can rent out my old room at my Mom's house. She makes some killer mashed potatoes, and we're less than an hour from McCoy. There's ample parking and not many neighbors, so you can sound your screams of woe through the trees undisturbed. I still love you, Kev. Let's get some cabinets and drive by the Big Blue Bug on our way to the beach.

It's Been Seven Hours and Too Many Days...

Come back to me, precious!
As you may be aware, my iPod has met it's demise. My iPod was not this shiny great version, but the first generation dinosaur with the actual spinny wheel. It held a measly 5GB of music, which I was close to exceeding since my recent rediscovery of Tori Amos has had me ripping the CDs so they can be at my disposal at all times.
I had the pipe dream that I could disassemble my museum-worthy model and replace the hard drive so I could have Ashlee and J. Lo back in my morning commute. Computer Dan assured me that I have the skills to handle cracking the case open and plugging the new drive in. "I opened my iPod once without even trying," he said. I even thought I could afford to fix it, since I found this website. "$39.95?" I said. "I can handle that." Except despite all my proofreading training, I didn't read closely and see that was only the cost of battery. Upon further research, it turns out the hard drive would cost $100, bringing the grand total to $139.95, plus shipping. Plus the very real possibility that I would bring the bits of my iPod in to the office, pour them onto Computer Dan's desk and weep. For the third time in a month and a half.
Both Yvette and Kristen are all, "Dude, chill, you yuppie hipster you." But let me make this clear: I cannot live without air, Top Model, water, or my iPod. I am trying. Lord, am I trying. I am reading books on the commute in. But in the morning it is hard to hold a book up, especially while holding on for dear life as the green line hurtles and jerks into Boston, especially while I'm stumbling in tall shoes, trying to balance a book, scalding hot tea and my gym clothes. Some days I just want to put the song shuffle on and listen to Tori Amos or Tom Waits or the Police. I am a moody motherfucker. I may start the day in a Talking Heads mood, then be in a Kelly Clarkson state of mind. I have tasted the glory that is having my music collection on hand at all times and I don't want to go back to my South Park CD wallet which only holds a few CDs. I don't want to burn endless spindles of blank CDs to load onto my office computer. I especially don't want to listen to the inane conversations people have on the T. The iPod is the epitome of the American Way: I want everything, and I want it now, or whenever I may demand it in the future. I am doing my patriotic duty by lusting after the 20GB model so I can even load my Indigo Girls CDs on my computer.
Does the fact I hate people and cringe at the sight of a Discman or *gasp* a Walkman make me an elitist? Sure. But the iPod is the one luxury item I have, really. I don't own any Manolo Blahnik shoes. I don't own any Mizrahi, not even the stuff from Target. The occasional Frapuccino and my iPod are the yuppie standards I want for myself. For the love of Christ and ponies, I don't even own a Burberry scarf and you can buy that shit at flea markets for $5. My cellphone doesn't have a flash for the picture phone. Oh LORD, won't you buy me, a Mercedes Benz...
Ahem. So, in short, it makes me a snooty elitist yuppie, but I am going to start a countdown to my birthday when my Mom said she'd consider buying me the new shiny model. And learn to put myself into a catatonic state while on public transport until that glorious day comes.

He Speaks to Me in Riddles, He Speaks to Me in Rhymes

From the Pete Bouchard files

Check this out! My man Pete did a Police-centric weather forecast today. While I'd hoped to make it to Thursday for my once-weekly Pete prattle, this deserves my attention:

About the snow yesterday:

De-do-do-do, de-da-da-da is all I want to say to you.

Many did think it was doo-doo falling from the sky. Few delighted in this sad swipe from Ol' Man Winter.
.......
How do we fix his wagon? We'll turn the sun loose on him.

Bright and beautiful all into the weekend. Sure, the clouds will pepper the sky from time to time, and the sea breeze caps the temperatures along the coast, but the April sun is undeniable and haughty.

Marathon Monday is still looking WARM...great for spectators - but not for the runners. If you're running, take solace in the words of the Police: When the world is running down, you make the best of what's still around.

Back to you...
Pete

Wow. Awesome. It's almost like he Googled himself, and decided that I am cool and not scary at all and will write about the Police just for me. Because how many Police fans are out there? I don't have a whole lot of love for Sting as a solo act (other than the fact that he's smokin' hot) but the Police wrote some great songs, which I listened to on an endless cycle in my 1989 Ford Tempo my freshman year of college. The Sting love will probably greatly increase when my roommate and I go to Providence in May to see Sting at the Dunk. Pete probably got tickets to the BU show. With his wife. Psshaw.
But, to prove that my love is not blind, I don't really get how the sun can be haughty (proud). I think it would work as personification if there were more context. Like, "the April sun, looking down on us from high, is undeniable and haughty." But I am going to attempt to use the phrase "fix his wagon" today because I am all about the old-school phrases, such as "give them what-for" and "rapscallion."
Pete, you are the bee's knees!

Can a Baby Survive 9 Months of Non-Stop Red Bull?

This baby's gonna have some foul-ass diaper rash if his mother's hygene habits are any indication.
Dear God, she's breeding. Britney Spears is with child. Not with the Son of all that is good (Justin Timberlake) but the Dark Lord's evil seed (Kevin Federline, who never once sang the words "I'm gonna have you nekkid by the end of this song" except in his bedroom mirror). I fear for the poor child.
"Kevin, baybe, I feel so seeeick. Go to the store and buy me some Cheetos and decaf Red Bull, baybeee."
It seems a little odd that Britney redesigned her website, got herself into the media a lot recently and announced her television show all right around the time she announced her pregnancy. Does she have a new album coming out too? Nothing like using a new life to try and salvage your train-wreck of a career.

Love Train

Until Johnny Damon goes the hell away, I need to find a new baseball love. And while Johnny Pesky endeared himself to me today to the point where tears welled up in my eyes, he's a bit old to inspire the lust in me. I've been kicked off the Kevin Millar love train, and Kristen has forbidden me from the 'Tek love train. Arroyo has a wife named Am(ie), so that would work well, but his hair is problematic. During today's ring ceremony, I decided to jump on the Kevin Youkilis Express.

He cleans up mighty nice. He respects his elders. His biceps do not inspire me to write sonnets, but I could maybe manage a haiku or some free verse. He's the guy that I should want to date but I get blinded by the hot, bad-ass with the highlights and dim expression. But I'm on the platform, waiting for the Youk to pick me up and take me away. Call me, Kevin!

Let's Hear it for the First Amendment

Behold my hero.
They let Jim out of his house early, and I am glad that at least the courts didn't continue to unfairly punish Jim for doing his job. The fact he was imprisoned at all is frightening. Reporters don't give the names of their anonymous sources. That's it. That's his job. Not only did Taricani risk jail time for keeping his mouth shut, he risked jail time with a heart transplant that makes him extremely susceptible to infections. He may have a weak heart, but his balls are made of brass. So go on with your bad self, Jim. Go have an ice cream cone with some jimmies on it.

C is for Cookie, Now, Always and Forever

This is ludicrous.

Much like the pied piper, Cookie Monster spreads his seeds of obesity and heart disease with a smile and delightful tune.
Kids are not stupid, y'all. Kids are very, very smart. The kids I babysit for reign me in so fast sometimes I get whiplash. "Amy, you should be an auffor," they say. "Amy, you and Sam should write a book." "Amy, you're being really silly." "Amy, you shouldn't spend all your money at Target." Kids are not without will. Have you ever tried to make a four year old get his boots on faster because you want to get going? He'll do it in his own damn time.
Greeted with the news that Cookie Monster has been made PC made me feel sick. Instead of "C is for Cookie," Cookie Monster will sing "Cookies are a Sometimes Food." What? WHAT? Fuck you, PBS. His name is Cookie Monster! His name suggests he eats cookies. His is not Carbless Monster. He is not Carrot Monster. He is not Cucumber Monster. His name is Cookie Monster. Give him his dignity and his awesome song.
Even as a kid, I knew Cookie Monster was a joke. He taught me the letter C, what the letter C looks like (a cookie with a bite taken out, a waning moon) and what words begin with C. I laughed at the spray of cookies showering from his puppet mouth. I knew, even as a preschooler, that Cookie Monster was PRETEND. He was awesome, but he was pretend. He was there to sing, make jokes, interact with the real kids who never ate the cookies with him.
That's another thing. Cookie Monster never swallowed any cookies, much like Bill Clinton smoking pot but not inhaling. It's physically impossible. His mouth is two pieces of cardboard joined together. I had a Cookie Monster puppet, and anything I put in his mouth always came out. He puts the cookies in his mouth, masticates and spews them out like the joy he gives to children. Any kid with any sense of curiosity will figure out that Cookie Monster isn't eating those cookies, but making gluttony a joke. Let me say it again: it is a joke.
I am so tired of our gluttonous culture looking for the magic cure-all when it comes to obesity. Americans are fatasses, despite our worship at the altar of the underweight, sickly figures. People think if soda is taken out of schools, kids will lose weight. If McDonalds doesn't supersize, people will be healthy. If you eliminate carbs, people figure the weight will melt away and stay away. Pills are sold, videos are sold, everybody thinks that finding the one thing that makes people overindulge will cure the country of cellulite and saddlebags. I don't think Cookie Monster led America down the primrose path to obesity. Any parent with half a mind will teach their kids that eating cookies by the handful isn't healthy. My mother kept watch over what I ate for most of my childhood. We had cookies, but we also had chicken and vegetables. A good parent will make their kids go outside instead of sitting their ass in front of the television watching Cookie Monster set his PC example. ("Go outside, kids, it's good for you! But stay tuned for Barney and Friends on PBS.") I took gymnastics. I played softball for a while. I rode my bike in endless circles around the house. If a parents shows a kid that it's fun to play outside, that baked sweets aren't breakfast, lunch and dinner, that Cookie Monster is teaching letters, not dietary requirements than it'll all work out. Let Cookie Monster sing his song about the letter C and let kids enjoy Sesame Street without giving them body image issues at age 3.

Finally!

Congress is doing something I support. Viva daylight!

I Wanna Hold Your Hand...

From the Pete Bouchard files:

Ahh...SPRING! Feel it, see it, believe it - 70 is within reach at last!

As we throw the last shovels of dirt on Ol' Man Winter, our attention now turns to sea breezes, passing warm fronts and stalling weather systems...almost in that order.

So will the warm air Jump up from New York City, or slowly Creep in this afternoon? (Musical references should be obvious.) Depends on where you are. Gets into Worcester early, takes most of the day for the warmth to reach Boston and the North Shore, and out on Cape Cod...you'll get nothing and like it...hey, this ain't August...

The clouds early today will be as fine as the grass at Fenway. Just a few to dim the sun, then more and more this afternoon as the warm front passes by.

We have cloud issues over the weekend. A stalled front offshore will have you (or maybe it's me) wringing your hands over mostly cloudy or mostly sunny skies.

Put your hand in the hand of the man from 7 News...

Pete

Squee! Pete, I will hold your hand even in the dead of winter. But when you say things like "70s" and "shovels of dirt on Old Man Winter" it makes me love you even more than I do when the wind is cold and whistling by my window. Now all that whistles outside my windows are birds. I can wear a skirt without nylons. I'm wearing my denim jacket and NO SWEATER. I know it's unusually warm, but this morning I could feel spring coming and I started imagining the beach, the smell of coconut sunscreen and cool of aloe vera gel on my sunburned skin. Thank you, Pete, for telling me today will be awesome.