Mashed potatoes dot com

The Happiest Place on Earth*

2011-10-25T10:55:00.013-06:00

Very soon I will be heading to Costa Rica, which is one of the most exciting places I've had a chance to visit. I am visiting some very dear friends (one of which has a blog that is actually about Costa Rica, so if you found this blog while searching for relevant information on Costa Rica you may want to go here). I am excited about the opportunity and can't wait to begin my adventure by hiking through the countryside, scaling volcanoes, and zip-lining through the jungle. Once I reach my destination of course I will realize that I did not pack any hiking shoes, nor do I own any hiking shoes, and also that I am afraid of heights (unless in a steel-structure building surrounded by glass and with a nice jazz bar). This revelation will force us to revise our itinerary to include things that don't require shoes like hot springs and piña coladas.

Preparing for your trip to Costa Rica:

Packing!: The climate is very different from New England, so naturally I asked a few questions about what to pack. The traveler's dilemma: how to pack enough to get through the trip while having a little extra room in your suitcase for souvenirs and exotic animals you might want to smuggle home. Personally, I'd leave enough room for a small sloth or monkey, who will feel comfortable enough swaddled in between my skirts and tank tops. At the request of my hosts, I have packed magazines, Flinstones gummy vitamins, clothes that aren't growing mold on them, and Reese's peanut butter cups. That should leave enough breathing room for my souvenirs.

Things you wanted to know about traveling to a developing nation but were too afraid to ask:

Q: Can I bring my hair dryer or other hair styling accessories? It is important for me to look good in pictures when I screen my photo album to a roomful of bored and resentful friends and family.

A: Yes! Your U.S. appliances will work in Costa Rica, although you may suffer embarrassment as others make fun of you for styling your hair in a jungle.

Q: Will I get malaria in Costa Rica? Do I need to take any precautions to avoid contracting horrible diseases?

A: From what I've heard, malaria isn't a pressing concern in Costa Rica unless you are in very remote or high-risk areas. Personally, I like to be well-prepared so I am going to bring my own malaria.

It's good to learn a little of the language before you go somewhere foreign. I have a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish that I remember from high school, and some more I gleaned from watching soap operas on Telemundo. I only have three days left to learn the rest of the language, so I think I am going to focus on learning jokes translated into Spanish because I want people to like me. The trick is going to be remembering which are acceptable for everyone I meet and which are the dirty jokes.

*DisneyWorld was quickly knocked off its previous spot on top of the roster when someone realized they don't sell alcohol in the Magic Kingdom.

Office Voodoo

2011-04-08T11:10:00.006-06:00

Today, from 11 A.M. -12:15 P.M., I embarked on a journey on uncharted territory. That’s not really true. It has probably been charted by children under ten and by people who actually practice voodoo and don’t just pretend to when they are bored at their offices and have a surplus of office supplies. Nevertheless, I don’t have a long history with voodoo dolls, at least not one that goes past two hours ago. But I do have a long history with office supplies, and today I decided to create my own voodoo doll out of whatever is readily available to me (meaning I did not have to get out of my chair) to protect our office from evil spirits, office violence, the crazy people on Canal St., and other relevant Boston office concerns.

In order to make time for this project, I had to push lunch back to 12:30. This would not have been possible without a resting/snack break sometime after my arrival to the office at 10:15. The representative voodoo doll of our office is without name – any suggestions would be welcome and appreciated. Yes, those are cone-shaped breasts inspired by early African statues of women.

Office Voodoo Doll Q & A session:

Q: What was the most challenging aspect of the Office Voodoo project?

A: You might think it was not getting caught by my boss. It was not. The real answer is getting splinters from snapping chopsticks. They really weren’t meant to be further broken down. And the noxious smell of tea bags that I never used because they were unpalatable. Another challenging aspect was not having glue.

Q: What materials were used in the creation of this doll?

A: A lot of tape was used. So much tape I ran out and had to get more from supplies. For the body and head, I used tea bags surrounded by pink notes for phone calls that say IMPORTANT MESSAGE at the top. Also used were push pins, string from the tea bags for hair, paper clips, chopsticks, rubber bands, staples, petals from a fake flower that is attached to a possibly-dead 4 year old cactus, Post-it sticky notes, and a calligraphy pen.

Q: Where will the doll be displayed?

A: It will be hanging from a push-pin next to my desk until it falls apart or is stolen by one of the janitor’s kids who periodically leave toys in the office after hours.

Q: What is the biggest difference between your voodoo doll and more traditional voodoo dolls?

A: Probably that it is made of office supplies.

Going back to school ... maybe?

2011-01-14T12:26:00.005-07:00

I have recently applied for a Master's degree in Art Education at a university in Boston. I am very excited about the opportunity and am now biting my nails (but mostly others' nails) in anticipation of their decision. Of course I've been out of school for over four years, and it's not uncommon to be nervous about going back. However, the only evident fear a return to school has provoked is the lingering possibility of arriving at school out of uniform, late, having forgotten my locker combination, my class schedule, and how to negotiate the inside of a rather small building. I went to a Catholic high school where we had to adhere to a dress code, something that seems to be sticking with me for life because this month alone I've woken up from at least seven separate nightmares in which I had forgotten about the dress code and was cast out by some very scary faculty members. As a result of my private education, to this day I cannot put on a pair of khaki pants without passing out.

I think we tend to give our subconscious mind too much credit. For instance, it's curious that despite the fact that high school and graduate school are two very separate things, my subconscious seems unable to accept the distinction and move on from the past, resulting in many dreams about trying to find a friend inside the cafeteria. If my dreams are trying to tell me something, such as that should I be accepted to graduate school, it will be an almost identical, nauseating experience as high school was, then my subconscious and I are absolutely not paying to go back to school.

A more appropriate nightmare about returning to school would be the likelihood of all the seats in every coffee shop in Cambridge being entirely filled all day long, every day.

I haven't posted a blog in so long my browser refuses to recognize my blog address.

2011-01-05T11:08:00.003-07:00

And it's probably a wonder I even remember it after six months of neglect. A lot can happen in six months. So what happened in the last six months that I've had no time to blog? Nothing. Really, nothing. Oh, except for my new bundle of joy. Hint: it's not a baby (person)!!

Moxie!

This was the very first day my roommate and I picked her up from the shelter. She is the reason I get up in the morning (because she is stepping on my face and licking my eyeballs waiting for breakfast) and the reason I put everything breakable at least five feet above ground.

But enough about her, because she's grown astronomically since we adopted her (at a rate of one pound every three months), and in no time I'm sure she'll have a blog of her own. Then little Moxie can use the internet much in the same way as it's being used by everyone else, to set up a blog to talk about how cute she is and how her favorite past-time is scratching.

New!!

2010-06-09T10:57:00.005-06:00

If you care about me at all, you may have noticed that I haven't written in a while. I've been busy uh, er, taking care of my ... doing my laund-... in the hospital? Alright, in all sincerity I haven't written in a while because I don't care the least bit about any of you, or writing or literature, and I wish you would all stop checking up on me and asking why I've been missing work and why it looks like I haven't slept in days or why I keep asking you for money every time we speak.

But I've also been painting, and doodling on Post-it Notes at work. And to prove that I haven't spent the entire time napping, I present you with the New! Arts Bog, an original blog that relies on the occasional typo. This blog will probably be updated even less frequently than any of my other blogs.

Again, that link is: http://artsbog.blogspot.com

Yesterday we had our very first meeting in 2.5 years!

2010-02-24T11:07:00.004-07:00

Minutes 2/24:

We began the meeting by discussing at length what we were all going to have for lunch. We then took a poll to determine if the majority thought it was going to rain later or not. I took scrupulous notes in the form of artistic renderings of some animals and of various objects found in the room, but if they had faces and were capable of voluntary movement. As far as I can tell, three people flew in from separate locations to have turkey sandwiches with us. When my boss left the room for a moment, probably to have a cigarette from the stress or to discretely have an extra turkey sandwich he had hidden in his breast pocket, the visiting staff backed me into a corner and demanded to know if I liked my job. I made some indecipherable grunting noises and asked if anyone felt a draft in the room. I then emptied a plate of free cookies into my purse and slipped out the window. Overall, having a meeting was a pleasant experience and I hope we have one again sometime.

Back to reality. And strangely, happy about it.

2010-02-24T09:00:00.009-07:00

I've spent the past three plus weeks house-sitting for a very nice couple (previously mentioned in this blog, who hopefully do not read this blog) and their three very fuzzy cats. It's great because I get to live out an absurd fantasy where I am very wealthy and have purchased my very own stylishly-furnished condominium in a nice part of town. (In case you were curious how I was able to afford this at twenty-five in my fantasy, don't worry, I have invented circumstances as well. Naturally, I was born into money, which I refused to accept because I wanted to make it on my own without my family's billions of dollars. So at seventeen I set out to make it on my own, which I did, after an appropriate amount of hardship and turmoil. One day after leaving an Au Bon Pain with a cup of coffee and a donut without paying, I am "discovered" by a local talent scout who thinks I'd be terrific playing reenactments in television shows and commercials. Some time passes, I make a healthy profit, and then I buy up a bunch of small businesses.)

Anyway it's been great spending time eating snack foods in front of a flat screen television while cats presumably try to read my mind, but I'm quite happy to be back in Cambridge. Was it hard giving up my luxurious waterfront property in order to "get back in touch with my roots"? Sure, it was. Thanks for asking. Why am I so glad to be back to an apartment with a shower which may not be a shower at all but actually a conveniently-positioned leaky faucet and windows that waft in the smell of steak when opened (pro or con?)? Allow me to provide a few reasons:

1. The homeless people. You've been missed! There don't seem to be any at all where I've been staying. I suppose maybe they are afraid of heights and don't like crossing the bridge over the harbor. If no one asks me for money, is that because they assume I don't have any? Without the crazy and/or homeless people in my neighborhood, who is going to pay me compliments and greet me in the morning?

2. The people to dog ratio seems a bit unbalanced in Charlestown. The statistics have not been newly generated in a few years but I think it's something like one person for every three golden retrievers. I guess this would be a positive for some people.

3. If I break something, I don't have to leave an apologetic note or fastidiously super glue it back together. I have tried leaving myself notes but quite often I've come back to find several more Post-it Notes asking what the hell I was talking about and if I'd seen the clock radio anywhere or knew who'd drank all the port.

4. I can finally put an end to the persistent terrifying nightmares where an oil tanker crashes into my house while I sleep.

Here's your man.

2010-02-16T11:27:00.012-07:00

If you are looking for someone to thank/curse/serve with papers for the snow we finally received today in Boston, look no further than this (immortal) guy --->

That handsome man on some very malformed skis is Nordic god Ullr. According to some not very credible internet sources, Ullr is the god of snow and/or skiing and/or snowboarding. Even more legitimate research (Wikipedia) proves him to be the god of justice and dueling and the patron god of agriculture and archery, none of which has anything at all to do with snow, really, so I suspect his prowess may have been further embellished by fancy ski resorts looking for a mascot. Anyhow I'm happy with today's snowfall, if only because it doesn't seem to be very popular with a lot of people here, which makes me like it more, and also because it makes everything seem just a little more romantic. Taking out the trash and recycling? A chore. Taking out the trash and recycling in the snow? Romance. Waiting on the curb for your bus to arrive while a drunk man screams obscenities at everyone in the vicinity? Unmistakably irritating (unless you are that drunk man). Waiting on the curb for your bus while a drunk man screams obscenities and snow is falling? Well, Valentine's Day is just barely over anyhow.

Other related news: pictures of these cute baby animals in snow.

Chicago-ish Area Experiences Minor Earthquake, Parents Later Prank Call Concerned Daughter to Report From Midst of Second Earthquake

2010-02-10T18:49:00.006-07:00

I suppose people think it's very funny and clever to call up their children and pretend to be in the middle of a natural disaster, particularly when they've just had one this morning, even if they did sleep through the whole thing and didn't find out about it until hours later.

As you probably by now know, Illinois suffered a minor quake early this morning, shaking many residents from their beds out onto the floor and awakening them from their hangovers. The news reached me before it reached my parents in Chicago, presumably because I am on Eastern Standard Time and get my news an hour before they do. Being the more devoted and compassionate of the two children, I called my parents on all of their phone lines (or at least the ones they've made available to me) as early and as often as possible until I was sure that everyone had survived and that someone would still be around to help me with my taxes. It turned out that not only had they not felt the rumble but they hadn't even heard anything about it, and that everyone was a little upset with me for calling so early in the morning.

As much as they wanted to assuage my fears and make certain I don't needlessly worry, they eventually determined that it is much more important to keep one's sense of humor in tact, which is why this evening my mother called my cell phone, uttered into the receiver "Hi, Ashley, OHMYGOD IT'S AN EARTHQUAKE I HAVE TO GO BYE!" and hung up. The real stand-out comedic element was ignoring all of my subsequent phone calls. When I finally did get in touch with them, it turned out that a vodka tonic was behind the whole thing, and that there was no second tremor after all.

It's a little disconcerting that my own parents would toy with my fragile emotions so carelessly, but then again maybe I'm just upset because no one's showed any interest in the "apocalyptic" snowfall we were supposed to and then did not receive today. But I do live on the coast which means that there will be plenty of natural disasters for me to invent in order to solicit some attention of my own.

God, the suburbs are so depressing.

2010-01-11T10:30:00.002-07:00

More things found in the basement.

This poem was originally published in my junior high school's literary publication, where they are legally obligated to publish anything that does not contain curse words. Try not to trip over the typos. I had no idea I was so cynical and oppressed in the sixth grade, but I suppose you have to start somewhere. I'm not exactly sure why I am re-publishing this (I don't expect it to get any more attention this time around), aside from my own personal amusement.

"Why?"

1997

I'm pretty sure I was just upset that I couldn't watch television or eat Twinkies before dinner or something. The whole wrap-up kind of feels like a cop-out, too. By the ending, what have we really learned? The tag-line might as well be "Live, what else are you going to do?" But for now I'll stick with "Why ear?"

Sick, this time not just for the sympathy

2009-11-29T17:25:00.005-07:00

When I found my cell phone in the refrigerator, it occurred to me that I might be sick. I have been bragging about my genetically superior immune system for the better part of a year (I've subjected it to a battery of tests including, but not limited to: mistreating it with a questionable amount of alcohol, holding onto subway hand railings for greater than three seconds, and violating my self-imposed mandatory five-foot distance from all children). Naturally it came as a shock to me when I finally succumbed to some terrible malady which has had me voluntarily housebound for upwards of one day. I am certain the severity of my affliction lies somewhere between a common cold and a deadly combination of malaria, dengue virus, and whooping cough. This week I have had the good fortune of being confined to a very nice condominium, watching over the cats of a lovely vacationing couple. As I have only left the house twice in two days, I am virtually an invalid. It may seem nice, but it is not all it's cracked up to be.

For example, I am not very good at directions and I keep getting lost. I will be searching for the spare bedroom one night, only to wake up the next morning in the second floor bathroom, having mistaken the bathtub for my bed. Secondly and perhaps most importantly, my back is starting to ache from all of the soft, comfortable furniture. I keep falling asleep when sitting anywhere from the sheer comfort - it's become impossible to get anything done let alone finish an entire sandwich, without dozing off. I attempted to count the number of threads in the bed sheets, to see what I was dealing with and what I'd have to overcome, and lost count somewhere after 20,000.

Another drawback has to do with the cats themselves. Cats are so needy! I have not spent this much time openly talking about one's feelings since my senior year high school retreat (and I'm pretty sure everyone was making things up so we could go to lunch already). By now I feel as though they are just fishing for compliments.

They have also taken to rifling through and investigating the contents of my belongings. It wouldn't bother me so much but some scarves and balls of yarn have gone missing. My last qualm with the (many) cats is that they keep trying to read my personal journal as I write in it, and I am a very private person. I've tried redirecting them to my blog, to no avail.

Of course there is always the predicament of where to find entertainment when you have been quarantined, and since there is (surprisingly) no Internet (or I just can't find it), I've had to substitute with alternate, baser forms of entertainment such as reading, feeding the cats catnip, and watching Hannibal re-run on television (alone ... I am going to regret this very soon). So far I have had a perfectly adequate time amusing myself, but suspect I will be in trouble once I run out of snack mix.

Party Tricks

2009-10-01T10:58:00.012-06:00

I attended a wine tasting event at the Museum of Fine Arts last week. I decided I should wait to blog about it until I'd forgotten much of the experience and had to make most of it up. I did, fortunately, take some notes along the way and figured I'd share some of what I learned with you. I also took some fliers, swizzle sticks, and complimentary (?) blocks of artisan cheeses, but these proved more difficult to share.

I make it a point never to eat cheese alone because that might constitute a problem, so my good friend came along to the tasting. In truth, we learned a great deal about nothing and I'm not even sure the sommelier had been to a wine tasting before. None of the following information was actually communicated to me because the MFA is an institution of arts and they don't even have a single book of matches behind the bar, so I had to Google any of the knowledge contained in this post. As a result, I am now qualified to review any kind of wine imaginable, including wines that have not been invented yet.

In fact, the most memorable part of the entire production was the older gentleman who may have been the right-hand man of the sommelier. Primarily he stood there drinking all the wine and heckling us whenever we got up to try a different wine, informing us that the wine in hand would make us more God-like, or, taken in too much quantity, destroy our reputations, or both.

How to Appreciate Wine (Instructions)
Remember, a good wine will appreciate you, too, and won't take advantage of you or constantly point out your flaws.

1. Looking at the wine: Quite often, your wine will come in a glass.

2. Smelling your wine: Some of the common smells associated with wines include types of berries, fruits, flowers, trees, nuts, and industrial U.S. cities. I happen to have a very keen sense of smell, probably from all the candy I ate growing up, and I was able to be a lot more specific in my descriptions than you will be able to be. Don't let this discourage you. You can still enjoy wine!

3. Remove your nose from the glass.

4. Describing its flavor: Your first impression of the wine's flavor is called a “forepalate," followed by the "midpalate" and not surprisingly the "endpalate." According to a source I did not verify, "You may be surprised at how differently the wine tastes going down from when it first came across on the palate, so focus."

Here is a transcription of the notes I took during the wine tasting:

Wine:2008 Lois Grüner Veltliner
Aroma: New Car
Forepalate: French Onion soup with gruyere cheese
Midpalate: OFF! insect repellent
Endpalate: bagels and lox
Pairs well with: agoraphobia, steak tips

Wine: Mark West Pinot Noir, probably made this very afternoon
Forepalate: Lawry's Seasoned Salt
Midpalate: I think there is something wrong with this grape juice
Endpalate: Tang
Pairs well with: self-loathing, steak tips

Wine: 2006 Columbia Valley Cabernet Merlot
Forepalate: Forgot to focus
Midpalate: Attractive male entered bar, still forgot to focus
Endpalate: [indecipherable scribbling]

5. Finally, locate your car keys. They are already in your hand. That's right.

You may insist that I've left out a good deal of information about wine tasting, and I have to respectfully disagree with you; I only left things out I didn't really feel like talking about.

In closing, I was also given the opportunity that night to try foie gras for the first time, which looked an awful lot like Spam and tasted like 250 mL of wine because that is exactly what I had to drink to get the horrible taste out of my mouth, as well as the image of a duck having a large metal tube shoved into its throat just so I could experience the undeniable pleasure of wanting to rip one's tongue out of their mouth. You have to wonder, instead of forcibly over-feeding ducks to produce foie gras, why don't they just erode their self-image with scathing criticism until they binge eat without the help of a feeding tube? It works on most females over sixteen and you would probably have more luck getting it past PETA.

See, I'm not awkard with your baby.

2009-09-23T14:08:00.009-06:00

See, I just patted it on the shoulder and said "hello." When it did not respond to this, I stuck out my hand for it to shake. When it did not offer its hand in turn, I asked what sex "it" was and what was "its" name. Then I said, "Hello, Jake. How old are you? I'm twenty-five." Your baby furrowed its brow and I inferred that he did not know the approximate answer to my query. Your baby being from Boston, I figured he would at least be aware of how the Red Sox were doing this season (I do not, so theoretically he could have told me anything whether it was remotely accurate or not and I would have believed him). I hate to break this to you, but your baby is either apathetic about sports or was born without the capacity for speech. Your baby then looked like he was either going to cry or file a report with Child Services requesting that I never have custody of a child.

Oh, I give up. I was introduced to the baby of a friend's sister yesterday and within moments decided that I had to be at the mall or something. I considered asking if it was recommended to treat a baby in a similar fashion to how you would treat a puppy, but I couldn't think of a better way to phrase this question.

I gave up coffee six months ago, could your baby use this gift certificate to Starbucks?

Budgeting attempt #457

2009-08-12T11:36:00.005-06:00

I lost my credit card for the second time in two months (at a bar, try to contain your surprise), which is probably a good thing considering my current bill is unfathomably high. A brief overview of my statement as I tried to cancel my credit card (again) revealed something that I was otherwise unaware of. I am poor. Not only am I poor, I am negatively wealthy. I should be looking at people who consider themselves "poor" in envy and asking them how they have been so successful with their investments. As I routinely do each year for about one week, I am designing a budget to better fit my fiscal allowance (this comes out to roughly $1 per week). Spending less money on food is an essential element to budgeting, because a thorough investigation of my spending habits reveals that I spend close to 41% of my paycheck on sandwiches. The following monetary restrictions have the added bonus of aiding in weight loss until I become anemic, lose all muscle mass, my hair begins to fall out, and I hallucinate. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is the exact diet of many glamorous celebrities!

Breakfast: Flirt with Dunkin' Donuts guy for free munchkins (This worked once so I'm convinced it has potential. If cashier is female, just try harder.)
Lunch: Once flirting for munchkins doesn't work twice in a row, purchase bagel with quarters stolen from a video game arcade.
Dinner (once every 72 hours): Donate platelets at nearest hospital in exchange for coupon good for one free meal at hospital cafeteria.
Dessert: Chew on a straw.
Optional snack items:

Stare longingly at pictures of food on Blackberry I just purchased for $200. Deny to everyone that I have just licked Blackberry.
Free Saltine crackers and plastic cutlery from nearby cafes. Garnish Saltines with ketchup, salt & pepper packets, and more cutlery.

Entertainment: Watch tourists in Faneuil Hall exit Dick's Last Resort with enormous paper condom hats on their heads.

Granted, I know this will only last one more week, or however long it takes for Visa to mail me a new card. But in the meantime at least I get to eat a lot of bagels. And hallucinate without paying for drugs.

2009-07-27T08:17:00.005-06:00

My aunt, uncle, and little cousin just returned to Boston after two weeks in China. My eight year-old cousin brought me back a small kimono-shaped purse as a souvenir, to keep my cell phone in "so I don't lose it at bars anymore" (in her own adorable words). For the record, I've only lost my phone at a bar once! The other time was a cab. I really had nowhere to go with this post, other than the fact that upon their return my aunt noted there was actually more booze in the house than when they left instead of less (you're welcome).

Alcoholism is a symptom of Seasonal Affect Disorder

2009-06-23T13:20:00.005-06:00

Judging by the recent weather we've been experiencing in Boston, I have spent a disproportionate percentage of my salary on bathing suits when I should have spent it all on umbrellas. I didn't sign up for a health club membership and go for the month of December so I could not wear a bikini this summer, but I have heard from the acquaintance of a friend of a reputable source that the entire summer is going to be this miserable and rain-soaked. So unfortunately, unless we all move to a corner of the Earth that hasn't had amnesia and forgotten that it's summer, we are all going to have to start on heavy anti-depressants to get through this summer.

More creative genius uncovered in the family basement

2009-06-23T11:29:00.011-06:00

Why am I the one in my family who chose to write when my brother so obviously should be carrying that torch himself? I previously subjected readers to "The Witch and the Prince," an original piece of short fiction written by my brother at age seven (circa 1988, but it is essentially timeless), which I found in a box of our old things my parents meant to throw out but kept forgetting to put out on garbage day. Last time I was home I uncovered "Aliens," printed on that old accordion-style computer paper. "Aliens" reflects a more mature, socially-responsible writer. It is a story of space travel and extra terrestrials, but it is also grounded in reality; it echoes the futility man sometimes feels against unfamiliar forces. It also depicts the strength of the US defense force (kinda). (I find the parentheticals to be most helpful.) Reproduced here:

ALIENS

The countdown started. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, BLAST OFF! The shuttle rose into the sky, then into space, but when in space it got stuck. Jon and I tried to get it back into orbit but we couldn't. We asked Keith if there were any meteors in the area. The answer was YES but it was a UFO!

We tried radioing for help but it didn't work. We could only talk to it (the UFO). So we asked if they wanted peace, but they wanted to kill us! Then in the distance we saw another UFO. We tried radioing it (the UFO), it worked. It wanted peace, and it killed the other ship and brought it back to Earth. On Earth we had a celebration for them (aliens).

But the aliens in the other ship hadn't died. They started to attack Earth. But this time the other aliens weren't there to help us so we called the AIR FORCE and the NAVY and the MARINES and the ARMY and they barely killed them and since then they (aliens) haven't attacked.

Ultimately, it is a story of survival, just barely. Sure, it could stand a little character development. Who is Keith? Who is Jon? Which one is more attractive and what do they typically have for lunch? Fortunately, I know the answers to all of these questions because they are clearly my brother's childhood friends.

Are blogs only for sharing how terrible your day was and where you've recently been for lunch

2009-06-12T19:15:00.004-06:00

Or can I publish sloppily-drawn, not very funny cartoons I just thought of in the shower, too?

City Living: Dangerous? Or informative and flattering?

2009-06-03T16:00:00.002-06:00

As the only daughter in a typical suburban household, my mom and dad assumed the customary role of over-protective parents. The City was a dangerous place where children from good families were kidnapped by pimps and drug dealers disguised as bus drivers. It was better to spend our time sitting in our carpeted homes watching people living in the city on television, or to occasionally go out to the movies and watch it on a much much larger television. And I mean who can blame them, I recently got on a bus bound for Cambridge and somehow ended up in Roxbury. In a 12" miniskirt. But sometimes, it's just downright flattering. There are all sorts of crazy people around with very active vocal cords seeking to embarrass themselves just for you! One of the more awesome (and very odd) moments of my life occurred this morning:

I nonchalantly walked past an idling taxi, at which point the driver shouted something at me. Naturally I assumed he was asking me for directions and I would be forced to tell him that I was just visiting. He offered me a free ride to wherever I was going (three blocks from my office) which I declined, which prompted him to then ask me to lunch and/or dinner. I began to walk away but he actually got out of his cab to follow me around and ask for the specific reasoning why I would not go out with a nice middle-aged taxi driver like himself. After fumbling for a while with some excuses I had stashed in my purse for the appropriate moment, I finally found the good old standby which was that I was in a VERY SERIOUS COMMITTED LONG-TERM RELATIONSHIP WITH A GUY WHO DRIVES A MUCH BIGGER TAXI THAN HIM and that I probably shouldn't even be speaking to him right now.

A less exciting and somewhat more uncomfortable example happened last night around the south end, when I was mistaken for a prostitute and queried about services by a man driving slowly by. He didn't go so far as to ask for rates/discounts, etc., he just uttered the two magic words: "Sweetheart. Sex?" (He liked me!) After pausing to consider the proposal for the appropriate two to three minutes, I moved on. I am a lot of things, but a prostitute is not one of them.

For whatever reason I've been getting approached by people in vehicles lately. Why is this? So they can drive away real quickly if I actually say yes? So there you have it: cities are a great place to build up your self-esteem by talking to whackos.

Burn Before Reading: Ashley Freeland does not recommend you re-read your childhood diaries

2009-05-26T19:43:00.012-06:00

Going through my childhood journals (Vols. 1-26) at age twenty-five was perhaps not one of my greatest ideas. My dad shipped me a collection of journals I’d written in at various awkward stages of my life which I had requested in order to review, and if the desire struck, burn. While I had expected to find angsty poems over lost spelling bees and sweaters purchased at full price right before they went on sale, what I actually found were feelings (I have been searching for an adequate synonym for “feelings,” and I’m afraid it can’t be done so the word will have to stay put) I had done a damn fine job of shoving into a corner of my mind which collected a lot of dust over the years. In other words, I had no idea I’ve had such a hard life … ?

Naturally, I shared this discovery with my parents so they could feel equally bad about my ruined childhood. I also occasionally alluded to “what I had been through” without specifically mentioning what this actually was, which leads me to believe I might want to check police reports to see if I had survived childhood imprisonment/torture of any kind. I might have been referring to braces.

What is evident:

The high quantity and variety of clubs, teams, and activities joined and almost immediately dropped out of stays at a pretty consistent level throughout my entire life
The sheer number of boys mentioned from the moment I learned to write onward is astounding, and I have no idea who over half of these people are
My confusion surrounding the word “boyfriend” becomes pretty evident in earlier monologues, particularly in grade one when various (remarkably senior) male actors are mentioned
I changed the spelling of my name three times.

Of course there were still some valuable entries that withstood the test of time and continue to amuse me, such as:

“I LOVE VOLLEYBALL! VOLLEYBALL VOLLEYBALL VOLLEYBALL!!!!!”
“Oh no my pen is dying I have to find oh here I found a new pen sorry it’s blue!”
“MY MOM SMOCKED ONCE [sic]!!!” (She continues to deny this allegation.)
“I don’t understand how I can live in this house. There are bugs everywhere. A jaguar can’t scare me, but bugs can.” 5/17/? (I had encountered many jaguars in the wilds of Highland Park, Illinois, none of which scared me at all.)
“Things to do every day: 1. Floss teeth 2. 8-Minute Abs 3. Look for guys 4. Practice guitar”

I no longer do 8-minute abs, play guitar, or repeatedly try out for cheerleading squad. I am no longer on yearbook staff (one meeting attended, for free cookies), Spanish club (one meeting attended, free pan de muerto), or track (one event attempted, hurdles - last place. free pizza.). On the other hand, I have not had braces for over eleven years and I look forward to many years to come of not having braces. I cannot stress enough, unless you want to lie awake half the night wondering who you are going to eat lunch with tomorrow, until eventually you realize that you don't even have a cafeteria, maybe it's best to just let yourself assume that you wrote about puppies, Christmas, and attractive celebrities who were way way too old for you.

Making a commitment to your furniture!

2009-05-22T13:37:00.007-06:00

I'm afraid of commitment. There, I said it. I'm not talking about to people, because that's a more personal subject that I'm going to avoid completely so I don't have to confront it, but I am afraid of committing to places, inanimate objects, and occasionally jobs. The idea of permanently temping (bit of an oxy moron so bear with me) will always be alluring to me. It took me two years of living here to buy myself a mattress. I acquired all the furniture I have through relatives who bought better furniture to replace it with, and although I find said furniture very attractive/comfortable for napping/expensive looking/capable of containing lots of things, I also secretly resent it very strongly. It's nice to have things, but it also makes the idea of becoming homeless more terrifying because it's much harder to be homeless while carrying around a queen-size bed, armoire, and leather sofa. They wouldn't fit into a shopping cart. If I moved somewhere, I'd have to figure out how they would arrive there too. In other words, the largest commitment I have made in my life so far is to my furniture, and this feels wholly unsettling. It is also the longest term relationship I've been in, which is a separate issue that won't be dealt with on this blog ever.

For those of you who forgot what a hangover feels like

2009-05-22T13:19:00.005-06:00

They are excruciating. I nearly decided to conveniently "forget" that I worked on Fridays, but I wasn't sure how believable that sounded. (Hi Mom! Hi Dad!) I have revised my job description to include sleeping face-down at my desk. People should not drink "bowls" of any kind of beverage, particularly when it requires seven straws to finish the job. Also, if you can't pick up a martini because you lack the dexterity required to pick up said martini without spilling it everywhere, you probably should not be drinking martinis in the first place. My organs simply refuse to cooperate together as a team and are instead insisting that they each carry out their own artistic method of destroying me. I probably haven't felt this terrible since my last hangover. Of course, showing up unexpectedly at some swank bar in the South End being the only one dressed like a teenager whose entire wardrobe consists of clothing from American Eagle their parents wouldn't let them out of the house with is always fun. My brother is coming into town today so naturally I want to show him a good time by being incredibly moody and irritable and sleeping a lot.

2009-05-21T11:29:00.004-06:00

It is a matter of fact that as Americans we are maturing at an increasingly slower rate than previously. Less than two hundred years ago, if I had been a satisfactory daughter, I would have given birth to nine children by now. Sure, six of them would have died before their third birthday, but that would still leave me with three kids to feed, clothe, and repeatedly remind what a burden they are and how they will never amount to anything.

Is this alarming? The fact that one hundred years from now, we're going to have sixty-five* year-old children? The mid-life crisis when you buy the Porsche is going to come at an inopportune time because you'll have cataracts and won't be able to drive.

*Absolutely no math or research was done for this post. It is important to me to keep numbers completely arbitrary and everything very loosely based on facts.

A Rejection Letter to Myself From ... Also Myself

2009-05-18T15:55:00.007-06:00

Although deep down I realize I am applying for a Master's of Fine Arts partly for the sheer pleasure of seeing the look of restrained horror and disbelief on an adult's face when I tell them I'm applying for another degree in Creative Writing, I remain fixed in my conviction. It is true that I have been charged with changing my dreams as often as most people brush their teeth (I don’t own a toothbrush), but I have held onto this particular goal for days if not weeks. I've been spending a lot of time writing, and thinking about writing, but mostly just writing about writing. I'm also aware that it's an incredibly difficult program to get into (right up there with med school! Although you don't actually have to save anyone’s life or be able to name any parts of the body or be able to name anything of any consequence at all). So in order to save deciding committees the trouble of rejecting me personally and to give them ample time to reject the other 96% of applicants, I have decided to write my own rejection letters from them. Ahem.

Dear Applicant,

While we appreciate all the time it must have taken you to complete the application process (which you keep incorrectly telling everyone is harder than actually going to graduate school) and the 4 A.M. epiphany that undoubtedly sparked your interest, it is with feigned regret we must decline your application. Simply put, we fear you’ll just end up spending graduate school the way you ended up spending your undergraduate school, by trying to find out how much your new friends can drink and scouring the campus for boys you have not met. Although we find you to be a creative individual (the very fact that you created your own rejection letter from us is unusual and quite frankly a little disconcerting), we feel you are probably better suited for a life of infrequent blogging for no pay. If you ever find yourself in the area, we encourage you to visit our gift shop for a selection of university mugs, sweatshirts, and keychains with the capacity to open a beer bottle.

Good luck in all your endeavors (and by endeavors we mean blog),
Faceless Admissions Committee
P.s. Please stop trying to contact us at our homes late at night. We are not reversing our decision.

Really inconvenient places to get inspired

2009-05-18T12:48:00.005-06:00

It's difficult to control where artists (haha, I'm referring to myself as an "artist." Laugh all you want.) find inspiration. Sometimes inspiration occurs in the most inappropriate places, like during sex. I'm not admitting to this happening, I'm just saying it would be inappropriate to go searching for a pen. A few places I actually will admit to being inspired:

1) In the shower. I don't usually keep pens here. There is also the obvious problem of your thoughts immediately being soaked and the difficulty of writing on wet paper in the first place. It is also not a good idea to bring a laptop into the shower.
2) A public restroom. Maybe I shouldn't admit to this, but I have stood at bathroom sinks writing down something that suddenly struck me. People washing their hands next to you may find this behavior slightly creepy.
3) A funeral. It's generally frowned upon to write in fits of inspired glee beside someone's casket.
4) When being attacked by a large bear. Publishing aspirations aside, it is not in your best interest to stop and write down how being attacked by a bear makes you feel.
5) During sex.

"Always wear clean underwear before you leave the house" and other misleading advice

2009-05-16T22:09:00.004-06:00

OK, so that one's true. Specifically, I want to address the malicious bits of advice that have been thrust at me by teachers, guest speakers, family, and friends since I decided I wanted to be a writer years ago. Nothing particular to my own writing, since most of the people in question have not read anything I've written, but tracing my past, it seems that from about the 10th grade onward, people started telling you that you couldn't do anything you wanted to do anymore. Up until this point, it was OK to profess that you wanted to be an artist, it was OK to share with enthusiasm that you wanted to be a stage actor (even though you had stage fright which presented itself on mutliple embarrassing occasions). They snatched away the Kool-Aid they had been serving us and replaced it with something arguably more bitter and depressing (alcohol seems like an obvious literal example to be placed here).

And I want them all to knock it off. I want the Grown-Up Realism Party or whatever they're calling themselves to stop spreading these viscious rumors about how publishing or whatever your personal interest is is so hard that basically you shouldn't ever try. I admit I have to come to terms with the facts of reality. Surprisingly (this is especially surprising to me), it's not the potential for esteem or success that compels me to write. It's the need. I need to write the way an addict needs its drug of choice. The fortunate part is that I probably won't have to sleep with someone to get my fix when money's tight (I don't know that this is true - I'm not really IN the writing world yet). It is the knowledge that I sometimes spend as long to craft an email as some people spend doing their actual jobs. I'm afraid that if I don't pursue this somewhat lofty goal I will begin to save everything I jot down in my notebook and share them as anectdotes at parties in a frenzied state and you will never, ever get me to shut up. That sounds like something of a nervous breakdown. How would you like that? I'm going to have a nervous breakdown at your party! There's no quicker way to kill the buzz of a good party (other than passing out too early on someone's couch. That pretty much kills the buzz for you.) than when you have to call an ambulance because one of your friends is panicking themselves into a state of shock.

"If you didn't have to work for the rest of your life, what would you do? Then
do that. Oh, I thought you were going to say 'accountant.' You want to be a
writer? There's no money in that. It's funny, writer sounds so much like
'accountant.'"

When I tell people I want to be a writer, sometimes they get all cheeky and ask if I'm going to write The Great American Novel. The truth is that I don't want to write The Great American Novel. I didn't even read The Great American Novel in high school when we were supposed to read it over summer vacation. Instead, I watched All My Children and ate Oreos all summer and when fall came I got the Cliff Notes version and then I cheated off someone else's quiz when they weren't looking. I just want to amuse people, to connect with them in a way I feel is sometimes more difficult to articulate in person, and to make them think a little. But not too much, not so much that they suffer an acute panic attack or break down in fits of tearful despair.

I'm twenty-five. Therefore, I write this with virtually no authority or proof whatsoever. But if it were up to others, I would be in law school studying to be some sort of regulatory something-or-other with a sensible, nice haircut wearing a magenta Gucci suit with shoulder pads (actual suit once pressed upon me).

Reasons I should not nanny full-time Part 18

2009-05-12T07:26:00.014-06:00

Why is so much emphasis placed on informing children who will be picking them up should their regular caretaker become unavailable? I have been babysitting the same kid every Friday for two years. I couldn't make it last Friday, and he didn't even notice I had been gone. I certainly didn't make it a point to tell him and he seems to have made it to soccer practice in any event. Children are remarkably resourceful when you just give them a little freedom.

I spend my Friday afternoons leaving work early (more people who don't notice my absence) to escort a child from a bus stop to his house, to soccer practice, and back home. Children have this adorable way of cutting across your path while you're walking beside them so that you are forced to collide directly with traffic, the nearest mailbox, and/or frail elderly women dragging themselves behind walkers.

This weekly hauling across town gives me roughly forty-five minutes to fill with conversation with an eleven year-old boy. I don't think I would even know how to fill forty-five minutes of conversation with an 11 year-old boy if I was an 11 year-old girl. I have to admit, this is partly my own fault. I could come more prepared. I tend to exhaust all my prepared questions in the first minute. This includes the time-tested classics: "How was school?" (fine), "What did you do in class?" (I don't know), and "What happened to your forehead?" (an accident in archery). Subjects he has a demonstrated interest in are: sports, Wii, and why I am not very smart. The last video game I owned was JJ and Jeff for TurboGrafx-16. Not only has he not heard of this, he doesn't believe it ever existed, and wonders how I could play video games in the first place since there was no television, electricity, or running water in my youth. I have to say he makes a very convincing argument and even I am starting to have doubts about how correctly I am remembering things.

As I have recently been informed (by aforementioned child), my sole responsibility is to sit there and make sure the house doesn't burn down. But that's not all! I also have to make sure he is not hit by moving vehicles or abducted by a band of gypsies, that he does not shoplift, commit large or small scale fraud, or eat more than two HoHos or less than three green beans, and watch closely for signs of swine flu or other recent frightening pandemic, dyslexia, stroke, or early onset male pattern baldness. After school, we are both burnt out from putting in a hard day's work, so I make sure I fuel up with Diet Coke and Oreos before soccer practice and that he doesn't burn down the house. The only assumption you can make about children is that absolutely everything they touch is covered in billions of teeming germs just waiting to get their hands on you, without exception. Within even relative proximity, you can and will catch any number of illnesses you thought you had acquired an immunity to years ago.

I know you're not supposed to tell people's children they are the reason you're never having your own kids, but sometimes it's hard not to. On the other hand, if you pay close attention (by eavesdropping on their conversations) you can pick up some valuable insights, like that having a girl as a friend is good, in the long run, but definitely not on the bus. It's hard for me to determine exactly why this is, but I'll just have to take their word for it because buses weren't around when I was a kid.

Why we choose to continue our continuing education

2009-05-08T14:32:00.002-06:00

Why do adults voluntarily continue their education after they've graduated and entered the workforce? To quench their thirst for knowledge and find something stimulating to engage in after work? To prolong the recurring nightmares about not being able to find your classroom or showing up to school naked? After all, they are free to spend their leisure time indulging in purely amusing behaviors like sitting in front of televisions or trying to pick up strangers in bars.

I don't think I have sweat since my high school Spanish class. Spanish teachers can really make you sweat. I don't know how a perky five-foot woman who may or may not actually know English can make me so nervous, but every time she looks at me I feel like she's asking me to translate something into hieroglyphics on the blackboard. I signed up for an Adult Education Spanish language course in preparation for a move to Spain I had recently decided to make to teach English (which I rescinded the following morning when I decided I liked my furniture too much to move to another continent). I'd forgotten how good I had become at avoiding eye contact and looking convincingly like I was conjugating the most difficult verb in the history of the Spanish language in my head. My Spanish isn't progressing very quickly but sometimes Profesora Somethingiforget says the craziest things, like (translated): "Today we are going to exchange Pop-tarts and visit our grandparents in Revere." It's strangely unfulfilling when these turn out to be empty promises. I bet you didn't think I knew the Spanish word for "Pop-tarts."

Also, is it me or has class been getting a little too personal? Last week we spent an entire chapter learning words to describe relationships including, but not limited to: love, husband, wife, boyfriend, friends-with-benefits, prenuptial agreement, and "make-up sex." One of the questions in this week's homework asked us to detail the circumstances of the first time we fell in love. Either that or my Spanish is just terribly bad. What are we going to discuss next? Our credit scores and disturbing childhood experiences?

Vices: everyone has one, some of the more interesting people have six or seven of them.

2009-05-08T09:30:00.006-06:00

Sometimes it's a good idea to give something up, if only to prove to yourself that you can give something up. You also get to tell people you were able to give something up to the acclaim of friends and strangers, as if it was some great personal struggle you have triumphed over. It doesn't even have to be something you like. I gave up coffee last August and was able to abstain for the following six months. I also started drinking in the morning. I find it's much easier to replace a vice than to eliminate it. I also gave up vodka for Lent this year, and lasted all 27 days of it.

I caved and started drinking coffee again this winter, but I'm trying to give it up again because I haven't been acknowledged for anything in a while and would like some encouragement. Methamphetamine seems like a sound replacement. That or jogging.

2009-05-01T01:35:00.008-06:00

Disclaimer: Because some of the people who frequently appear in this blog* feel that they are over-represented here, or portrayed in a particularly harsh or whiny light, and have expressed interest in being absent from any future blog posts, the following is to be considered a work of pure fiction.** Any resemblance or similarities to real-life persons is strictly a huge coincidence.

Some people move away from home to a big city on the coast of somewhere, to a place where people actually outnumber cows, and discover that they've transitioned to their better, flashier lives and left the past behind them. And some people keep coming back because they always feel like they've left something, somewhere, and figure it must be around here somewhere and if it's not under the bed then it must be in the back of the closet ...

I like to go back to the Midwest occasionally to stay with my parents in the suburbs and leave dishes all over the house and lights on in every room and basically just to periodically anger them. I find it comforting to know that I can make the people that love me very very angry with me by doing very little. While I may have lived in three different apartments in the past year, with six different roommates, I come back home and everything is exactly as it was, precisely where I left it. No one has so much as borrowed a book or bothered to fix a slightly off-center painting on my bedroom wall.

I am determined to make this visit home as exciting as (but no more than) a typical week during my high school education. Which permits the following activities: an overabundance of television (preferably "marathons"), a trip to the mall for sneakers, several lunches at strip malls (is there any other place in the world with more strip malls?), and at least one night out, the details of which I won't make privy to my parents and will return the next day looking pale and complaining of sleep deprivation.

I arrived at home in the family minivan this afternoon. After a couple of heated political arguments with my parents, which I ended by flinging a magazine at my father (both times), I voluntarily agreed to accompany my mom to the graduation from obedience class that their award-winning dog was enrolled in. I went because, well, mainly because the very thought generated an intense desire to see just how far I could roll my eyes into my head. I figured if nothing else it would provide some good writing material. When I mentioned this to my mom, she immediately retracted the invitation. Luckily, I was able to score an extra ticket from a scalper outside the veterinarian's office.

I have to preface this by saying that the class wasn't nearly as crazy as I had expected, nay had hoped, perhaps due to the fact that the teacher actually seemed to know quite a lot and the whole experience was so just disturbingly heart-warming. For the entire bit I sat idly by in a metal folding chair with arms crossed, listening intently and trying to get over my rational fear of the German Shepherd three seats over from me.

Class turned out to be held inside some kind of barn/gymnasium. The surprisingly engaging teacher*** who I think held a lot of credentials in some things, began the session by responding to important questions (from humans) like what dogs should and should not eat and the proper way to confront a pet experiencing separation anxiety. (Apparently the answer is sometimes with anti-anxiety medications prescribed to humans. This fact alone merits its own post.) I discovered that one very crucial element to being a successful dog-obedience-class-teacher is the ability to personify an animal. In order to present a given scenario to human dog owners, one has be able to speak for the animal -- to know what it's thinking at all times and exactly how it would be thought out loud in English, and at what pitch and timbre. (Evidently most dogs have a tendency to say "No sir!" after most phrases.)

Of course this only wraps up Day 1 of my stay, and I already feel like I've been here about ninety hours. As I always do, I'll soon tire of the strip malls and the traffic, and I'll want to go sit in traffic in another part of the country for a while -- and I will return to Boston. I will leave behind the awkward honking of Canadian geese and FoxNews consistently blaring in the background. And I guess I will leave because my life is mainly somewhere else now, inside new drawers and closets and presumably lost underneath the bed. But mostly I will leave because my return ticket says so.

*Person. Honestly, most people realize I don't have any power to defame someone's character.
**The truth is that it can't be fiction, because I'm simply not even that good. But it's common knowledge that adults over 60 can't read print this small, and so this is a secret fact shared between you and me, dear reader. While we're on such a personal level here, sharing secrets and all, I think you are looking very nice this evening, and I probably wouldn't object to you buying me dinner.
***Instructor? Trainer? Coach? It's unclear to me what the exact title would be in this case.

I'm blogging from a new laptop!

2009-05-01T00:09:00.003-06:00

Changes you may notice include:

Speedier and more efficient blogging, with more credible sources
More (or less) pictures
Less crumbs in the computer keyboard
Better hair

Actually, it's not "new" in the sense that it has recently been purchased. More like "new" to me because someone else wanted something that could more technically be considered "new" and I looked just desperate enough to accept a hand-me-down. It occurs to me that I've never made a single purchase in my entire life (credit card charges will dispute this claim). Being the youngest child certainly has its advantages, namely the one where you never buy anything for yourself and just wait around for someone else to get tired of their own things and give them to you for free.

The dangers of being really, really ridiculously good-looking

2009-04-10T08:03:00.019-06:00

An incredibly attractive, close female friend of mine manages to get hit on not only by every breathing human male she encounters but also by their girlfriends. I had no idea propositions for threesomes from couples were nearly so common until I met her. I imagine she could walk around with half a slice of pizza stuck to her face and men would still try to pick her up. I suppose this could evoke a what-am-I-chopped-liver kind of response if I didn't also find it tremendously amusing.

I mention this not to brag about how attractive my friends are, but to point out the hidden dangers associated with being very good-looking.

So this blonde friend convinced me to take a kickboxing class with her at the gym last night, something I was initially hesitant to do because I look sort of scrawny and wimpy and as it turns out I actually am sort of scrawny and wimpy. (Is there any proof that all humans even have "oblique" muscles to begin with? My experience seems to suggest otherwise.) Something that may occur to you on your own during a kickboxing aerobics class, which did not initially occur to me, is that in order to avoid passing out you must not only precisely execute the steps and punches and jabs in sync with the instructor, but that you must also continue to breathe for the entire duration of class. Since I am one of the least coordinated people on this side of the equator, the simple act of breathing while keeping in tune with our freakishly fit instructor (who looked a lot like Emily Haines, if Emily Haines had been parented by Arnold Schwarzenegger and a BowFlex machine) proved to be too difficult. I started counting stars until I realized that stars seemed out of place on the inside of an aerobics studio.

We decided to take a break and consult one of the gym employees for advice on how to remain conscious. I nearly collapsed onto the front desk, wheezing, on the brink of unconsciousness, while the enamored and concerned personal trainer asked my perky friend detailed questions about what kind of symptoms she was experiencing. It occurs to me that had this been a real emergency, I would have had to manifest an epileptic fit in order to solicit any medical attention.

But being attractive can also be damaging to your own health, not just the health of your friends. For example, while hanging out in hell's kitchen in NYC at four A.M. (I don't know if that's the right neighborhood, but it sounds appropriate), some friends and I noticed an unfamiliar tour bus parked outside of the worst nightclub on earth and decided to capitalize on our friend's good looks by convincing her to climb aboard the bus and satisfy our curiosty. How did we know that something wasn't about to go horribly awry like the kidnapping of said friend and fleeing across the border only to use her as a drug mule? Um, we didn't. It remains an experience she won't talk about to this day.

Iatrophobia

2009-04-06T09:06:00.006-06:00

Today is Red Sox opening day at Fenway. Which is kind of a big deal for everyone here. But more importantly to me, I have a scheduled visit to the doctor for some reason I cannot really remember. More than likely I probably woke up feeling kind of hypochondriatic one morning and wanted to see if they were any closer to finding a cure.

The individual's rate of aging (and therefore deterioration of health) can be determined by the number of questions one asks within a standard sixteen minute physical. What once began as a simple "Oh and I've had this cough, doc, is it tuberculosis?" has snowballed into a list of experienced signs and symptoms I prepare that can only point to imminent death and disease. Though doctors' primary reason to exist (other than to diagnose, treat, and bill) is to answer your questions and concerns, you have to remember they are present to answer purely medical questions; they are not your therapist, Google, or a Magic 8 ball. (I.e. "I develop a stutter whenever someone mentions my ex-boyfriend's name. Do I have a central nervous system disorder?" or "I've been having dreams about Michael Keaton, but I've never even seen a Michael Keaton movie. What could this mean?")

I have to say that my mom was totally wrong about the whole "eating so much junk food is going to catch up with you one day" theory. While it's true that I've gained weight since I was thirteen, if all the Reese's peanut butter cups, Ho Ho's, and Milano cookies I managed to consume in those magical metabolism glory days suddenly just "caught up" to me one day, I think I'd be in much deeper trouble than I currently am.

That said, weight seems to be one of those things you can never get quite right at the doctor at any age. Somehow you've always grown too much or too little and are in danger of being in some sliver of the pie made up only by other freaks and those with growth disorders. (This may be a predominantly female experience. See: bathroom scales.) Remember how your pediatrician used to calculate exactly what percentage you fit into compared with the rest of your developing American peers? I can remember standing on the scales of judgment as an adolescent trying to think more like lead so that maybe I would cause the number on the scale to go up and I'd be in a more popular percentile with more of my (cooler) peers. Well, I try to think more like Fluff these days and they don't tell me what percentile I fit into but you can almost see them plotting you on some sort of Graph of Normalcy.

On the other hand, you don't get encouragement anymore either. The physician's never like, "You gained eight pounds since last year, good job! Keep eating your veggies and someday you'll be as big and strong as Michael Jordan!" Or, "Good work not being an American obesity statistic!" Now they just ask if you're a smoker. And there is no lollipop for cooperating.

New ways to answer the phone at work

2009-04-05T22:00:00.001-06:00

I don't often get phone calls at work from actual people looking for help. More frequently I get hung up on, have a deep, emotional conversation and then realize I've been conversing with a recording, or find myself trying to decipher the message of a fax machine that keeps calling (see: Pie of the Inedible Sort) . Lately I've been having a little fun seeing how long I can delay actually speaking before the caller starts to freak out. But I don't think I'm going far enough. I would like to take advantage of this by doing the following:

1. Hanging up on people before they have a chance to hang up on me
2. Answering the phone in a sexy, throaty voice
3. Trying to switch everyone's phone service
4. Responding in sign language (which I will learn)

*This post was drafted in January. I was hoping no one noticed because I have nothing to contribute today.

There's no such thing as a free lunch.

2009-04-04T22:21:00.007-06:00

Other than the free lunch they give out at the hospital if you will listen to them talk about cancer for an hour. MGH Cancer Center's Grand Rounds seminars are an exciting weekly occurrence not only because they discuss the most ground-breaking, innovative, Power Point-laden discoveries about cancer, but because they provide a free buffet to any employee who attends. And if you can have yourself paged after your last potato chip, you don't even have to stay for the whole lecture. I estimate that at least 40% more employees have developed a sudden interest in cancer research since the economy took a dive. The presentation content tends to be just so slightly beyond my understanding of carcinomas, so I typically find myself spending most of the time daydreaming about things that are completely unrelated to cancer. It is very cost-effective if you are able to finish a chicken salad sandwich while looking at pictures of tumors.

2009-04-03T12:08:00.004-06:00

I'd always assumed that the type of people who attend focus groups would be closer in appearance to bottom-feeders, people who didn't have jobs or hobbies and have three hours on a Tuesday afternoon to show up and give their opinions on facial tissue dispensers. People who expect to get paid for merely having an opinion. That said, as lucrative as entry-level administrative jobs in the healthcare industry are, I make up a considerable part of my income with odd jobs like babysitting, cat-sitting, just being around when free things are handed out, and recently, focus groups.

So based on my hypothesis, focus groups aren't supposed to make you feel dumber because while you thought it was a paid session about social networking web sites, it was actually about NASA, which you happen to know very little about. I wish I could have had some time to prepare. Although I am aware of NASA's continued presence and have seen some images of Mars and have heard about the crazy astronaut woman who drove across the country in homicidal pursuits, etc., I don't think I've really thought about NASA since high school.

That, and the fact that everyone else in my peer group was either enrolled in med school or preparing to become a diplomat. I made up for my ignorance of how NASA invented LASIK eye surgery or precisely what the International Space Station was with overt skepticism. Kind of like answering every question with another question. NASA doesn't like it when you use the word "propaganda" too often. Or when you look at them dubiously when they talk about the moon landing.

Recent ways in which I have managed to alarm my friends and (certain) family

2009-04-03T08:51:00.008-06:00

1. Becoming kind of feminist-y. I always thought "feminism" was a dirty word and that feminists were kind of irritating and should stop nagging everyone. On the other hand, it isn't all about hating men (as if that weren't fun enough). I've been recommending books to friends with the word "women" in the book description, and I think everyone's just started looking at me funny.
2. Eating tofu. I have no explanation. I just kind of like it. What is it anyway? If I asked my dad to grill some tofu for me next time I was home I think he'd have a coronary. Aside from the indisputable fact of meat being delicious, this would be my main deterrent in not becoming a vegetarian. Because I care about my father's health enough that I would continue to eat delicious meats despite my loosely held beliefs.
3. Controlled drinking. Yeah, it's more trial and error than an absolute science. Look, the nickname "Trashley" wasn't exactly a coincidence, it was earned. And I'm not going to lie about being kind of proud of that, because I've never won anything in pretty much my entire life and I don't have a lot of marketable skills. Not everyone likes this. Most people don't believe me, or consult the DSM-IV for disorders which include symptoms of "sudden personality changes."

2009-04-02T06:10:00.004-06:00

Why do I watch Wings in the morning instead of the news? Because if I watched the news first thing in the morning, I would have the good sense never to leave my apartment. It's hard enough getting out of bed in the morning in the first place. The news is consistently so depressing that the likelihood of me crawling back into bed out of fear and resignation is much higher than if I were to watch any of the poorly-written sitcoms on at the same time. As an experiment, I watched CNN and FoxNews simultaneously this morning and didn't make it to work until 10:15. And I closed my eyes the entire way to the office.

I still think you're wrong.

2009-02-26T07:59:00.006-07:00

My parents have had a banner year. As everyone knows, parents derive most of their happiness in life through being able to prove their children wrong. If you are not careful to ensure that they are proven wrong a comparable number of times, they are in danger of developing an over-inflated ego. Once this occurs there is virtually no turning back and you have lost what little control you had over them. In an effort to offset the rather large things they have been right about this year (drinking, moving in with strange men you met on the internet), I have compiled a list of things they were NOT right about.

Don't let it go to your head: Why I still think you're typically wrong and I know what I'm doing here.

Because I went to that concert Sunday night when you told me I'd never make it to work the next day, and not only did I make it to work, but I also hadn't showered or changed and ended up sleeping on a friend's couch.
I did not get kidnapped in Sinagpore.
I haven't fallen into the ocean yet, so I'm going to assume that my risk of drowning because of the relative proximity to the ocean is pretty slim.
Honestly, my boss really doesn't care if I wear miniskirts to the office. He isn't secretly judging me or writing me up in some nonexistent permanent record.
Ice cream for dinner is perfectly acceptable and I will not get scurvy.
That television show with Jennifer Love Hewitt talking to dead people is really horrible.

Obviously this list is incomplete and will need some additions to be really effective. But it's a start, and I at least hope to take them down a couple pegs by April.

2009-02-12T09:42:00.005-07:00

This is probably like calling up your ex-boyfriend from a year ago and suggesting he take you out to dinner, but I'm re-posting last year's Valentine's day blog post. Actually to be specific, I am merely recommending you read it (read: requiring, begging). I just found it and decided I still like it, and would like to inflict it on everyone one more time. It is pretty likely the only post I've written that I did any amount of research for. Also I think I like last year's me more than this year's me.

Valentine's 2008: Essentially the same as 2009. If if ain't broke, don't fix it.

How to lose friends and alienate people, and end up paying off the rest of your student loans yourself

2009-02-09T08:55:00.008-07:00

Everyone knows the best way to become a successful writer is to alienate your entire family. Specifically, by publicizing all the ways they mistreated you and things they could be criminally charged for and how they are snorers and fall asleep in church, et cetera. Completely unbeknownst to me, not everyone likes having themselves scrutinized on the internet, their lives pored over by absolutely no one because no one reads my blog.

And so I give to you, in honor of Valentine's Day (which I canceled, but I will still pay homage to it as long as someone gives me free candy), the My Mom is Great post. I will warn you, if you are squeamish like me and declarations of affection send you running in the opposite direction, this is about to get warm and fuzzy.

Since my mom has henceforth boycotted my blog on the premise that I have purposely defamed her character, I suppose I should try and win her back because without her I have lost roughly half of my readership. Now that she has learned how to use the internet, she represents an important demographic of internet users that I should not neglect. That being the demographic that is still paying off my undergraduate college loans for me. Without further ado, reasons why my mom is great (and better than yours):

I think it would be a tough call if she were to face Mother Teresa in a Nice-off.
She still loves me even though I can be a really really big bitch.
I had an identity crisis in middle school and had Tupac, Usher, and Wu-Tang posters plastered on my bedroom walls, but she doesn't go around telling people this as an anectdote.
She makes a really incredible Thanksgiving dinner that I request for pretty much every holiday I am home, Veterans Day or Arbor Day or whatever, and she cheerfully obliges.
She unquestionably fulfills her duty as mom to insist that I am the best-looking, funniest, most talented girl she's ever met in her lifetime.
She is wowed by this post and agrees to read my blog again.
She has an incredible amount of self-control that I've never seen in another individual (a concept that I have yet to grasp; maybe that's one of those traits that appears later in life).
She stayed up all night sewing me a pirate costume the night before Halloween in elementary school because I hadn't made up my mind until then.
I've never seen her break a single rule or law, or make one morally bankrupt decision. There was this one time I saw her drive the wrong way in a parking lot and drive over a median, but that is all that comes to mind.
She sends me articles warning about the destructive effects of binge drinking at least every two months, with high-lighted passages and motivational post-it notes.

Well, of course there's much more, but I have to stop myself because I've already lost the other half of my readership with this sentimental post. Happy Valentine's Day. In case you are wondering I prefer chocolates and bottles of wine.

Religious tapas

2009-02-04T19:09:00.007-07:00

If Buddhists can't teach me to relax, no one can.

Excuse me if I sound like a five year-old in this post. I don't mean any disrespect to Buddhists or anyone that can sit still for five minutes. Quite the opposite; I respect anyone that has managed to remain calm in a world where I have been over-stimulated in nearly every aspect of my life. Not that I plan to set myself on fire in demonstration, but I figured just short of that, maybe I can learn to stay calm when the vending machine is out of my favorite snack.

I attended a meditation class tonight at the Boston Buddhist Cultural Center and suffice to say I am going to need a lot of work, if not sedatives. I felt exactly like I had been sent to time-out to think about what I've done . But you're not supposed to think at all, which is the hard part. So, I know that in meditation you are supposed to push all nagging thoughts out of your mind and concentrate on your breathing. But what if you have removed all negative thoughts and replaced them with absurdly and unrealistically positive thoughts? After an hour and a half of meditating, I felt pretty good, but I also realized I had spent the entire time in Fantasyland, where I am an overnight success for something-or-other, every guy I've ever dated has just called to apologize for being an imbecile, and my pants are all inexplicably too big. I have no way of verifying this, but I don't think the Dalai Lama spent hours in silent meditation wondering what he was missing on television or wishing he was effortlessly a size two (yes, I'm aware of the irony there).

The reason there was a stack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Hostess cupcakes on top of some kind of altar in front of the Buddha eludes me, but I don't know much about Buddhism. Maybe Buddha and I have more in common than I thought. I know if I were being praised as a deity, I would prefer some snacks offered to me, maybe even a piece of cake. Or maybe they are just prepared for diabetics in class.

I sat in the dark for twenty minutes listening to the soothing sounds of the subway overhead. I suddenly became aware that I am either very fidgety, or my nose just itches a lot more than everyone else's, my hair is constantly falling in my face, and more cold air seems to be blowing on me. I also became aware that my cell phone bill was overdue, that I had missed garbage day, and that the subway approaches approximately every 5.5 minutes.

We then spent some time walking in a very slow circle. It turns out that I walk so fast because if I walked any slower I'd lose balance and fall over. I didn't get kicked out of class for giggling or anything though, so I think I'll go back next week for another lesson. I'm hoping that they don't set us on fire in the second lesson, because I think that could take at least another couple of weeks. I figure it's better to have too many religions than to have too few.

Everything is starting to taste like chlorine

2009-02-04T12:09:00.007-07:00

I recently started swimming again, partly because I've been reading too many health/physiology non-fiction books and I haven't seen Law & Order or tequila mentioned even once (I'm just as surprised as you are). Finding a new pool to swim in is great, because it exposes you to a whole new set of overweight elderly people in Speedos. (Face it, you were getting bored of your old one). It's also interesting to note what the lifeguards enjoy doing when they aren't busy mocking you in your bathing suit to their coworkers. One of the female guards prefers to knit while making sure she is around to confirm when a swimmer suffers a heart attack and dies. She seems to be a good knitter, which is comforting because if I were to get something in my eye, lose the struggle and find myself drowning, someone would be on hand to quickly knit me a raft or large sweater and pull me to safety. The lifeguard at my old pool used to play Frank Sinatra CDs loudly and continuously. Which is kind of cool, unless you hate Sinatra and are a poor swimmer. Then you might resent drowning to the sounds of Old Blue Eyes.

Sidenote: Adjust your calendars. U.S. observance of Valentine's Day has been canceled due to insufficient interest. The most popular holiday in February is now Groundhog Day, which will be celebrated more than once, on a "best two out of three" basis.

2009-02-03T14:26:00.006-07:00

Remember how your parents used to trick you into going to the doctor or to visit your Aunt Erma by pretending you were going to more kid-friendly places like the zoo or shopping for Mad Libs? No? Well mine did anyway. I've always been very gullible, so my childhood memories of Disneyworld (all seven of them) were remarkably inconsistent with other children's recollections, and I almost always reported my teeth being cleaner upon return.

Why is this relevant now? Aside from reminding you to psychologically damage your own children this way, I urge you to try it out on yourselves once in a while. For instance, I have a class tonight and it is snowing, lots (growing up in Chicago, this is obviously a new phenomenon for me), so I'd prefer to go home and curl up in front of a warm television. But this is not the decision the responsible adult-type person I am supposed to be by now would make. If I was instead convinced that I was going to a bar, I would be more disposed to leave work on time to get to class (bar) early. With practice, I'm convinced it will become remarkably easy to fool myself. For instance, in my mind I have been on a strict diet of healthy foods and moderate exercise for six months and have been steadily losing four pounds a day.

Will all this dishonesty with myself become confusing? Will I start to distrust myself? Yes, probably. I envision myself being disappointed when first setting foot in the classroom, but too embarrassed to mention anything as it may actually be some new type of bar that is too hip for me. Of course things could take a very different direction when I ask my teacher for a gin and tonic.

Surviving Rough Economic Waters

2008-11-19T08:12:00.010-07:00

Is that a sound metaphor? I don't know, probably not, but I'm not really qualified to make finance analogies. Even if you're not in crisis mode yet (what's wrong with you?), you still want to cut back and prepare for the worst. I know I professed it previously on this blog and then disappeared to drink at the beach all summer or whatever, but I am willing to be your beacon of hope during these tough financial times. At least, the beacon of hope that isn't Barack Obama, because I've watched the news a couple times in the past year or so and I know how you people think. Here are some strategies I've been noodling with:

Have you been wanting to lose five pounds? Good. You're going to lose twenty. Food has become a luxury you can no longer afford. You better hope people are baking you Christmas pies and cookies this season because you've become accustomed to eating in your once-charmed life. This is your own fault for thinking food is a right and not an extravagance, but it's too late to change this. The previous tenants in my apartment left behind some canned goods and oatmeal. I don't know exactly how many months/years this food has been there, but if it doesn't have botulism I am eating it.

Prepare for the worst: homelessness. Now I'm really hoping this doesn't happen to you (unless maybe I don't like you? Then why are you reading my blog?) or anyone I know, but if falling asleep in history class while the teacher talked about the Great Depression taught me anything, it is that sometimes things become worse than we had ever imagined. I once shared a theory of mine with a friend that good-looking people cannot be homeless for very long. Eventually someone wealthy would pass the adorable homeless person pan-handling for loose change and either sweep them off the dirty street, feed them and put them up in their own apartment, or turn them into a fashion model (they probably have that strung-out, heroin-abusing waif look going for them already). Maybe you don't wake up looking like Giselle or whatever though. So maybe you need a little makeup to keep yourself looking your best while sitting outside the 7-11 smoking discarded cigarettes.

Can you prepare for this? Absolutely. Anticipate that you might not be able to afford the necessesities of being an attractive homeless person like: eyeliner, liquid foundation, maybe even a hairdryer that you plug in at the library when no one's looking. Stock up on these essential items before you find yourself out on the streets without so much as a hairbrush. (My guess is this tip may only work for women, but be my guest if you'd like to give it a try.)

Stop purchasing Splenda. Switch to sugar. Replacing sugar with artificial alternatives is a way people like me convince themselves that they are healthy even though they are probably giving themselves cancer. Sugar is way cheaper and you're going to need the calories anyway. Look into growing your own sugar cane.

Blankets! Blankets are probably the most important piece of advice I can offer. Naturally, the state of crisis will peak in the winter. Being unable to afford heating, residents in the chillier regions of the country will turn to blankets to ward off shivering, frostbite, and eventual death. Begin a collection of blankets. If you have grandmothers, or if you know any, urge them to knit you as many decorative blankets as possible. They have survived one or two depressions themselves and probably have gotten pretty good at knitting blankets.

That's all I've got for today, because I have a job to keep (I swear I'm not bragging), but stay tuned for more unsolicited advice because as I think we've learned I only write in this thing when things are going terribly for everyone.

Keep your chin up!

2008-11-11T13:49:00.008-07:00

I published some really old posts because it seems I am NOT funny anymore and have found better things to do with my time, like bang my head against my desk and listen to talk radio.

See:

"What McSweeney's Really Intended To Tell Me In Their Rejection Letter"
"I have finally been run out of Charlestown by golden retrievers and baby strollers."

"Inappropriate Reactions to a Declining Economy"

(more to come...maybe)

Inappropriate Reactions to a Declining Economy

2008-10-23T08:10:00.005-06:00

Despite previously doing some writing for a finance company instructing investors how to protect their monetary assets, I'm particularly dense when it comes to actually applying these fundamentals to my life. It's nothing short of a miracle that I haven't gone completely bankrupt by now (thanks, MasterCard!). My brother of course is very skilled in matters of finance, which is why our opinions surrounding the current economic state of our country differ dramatically. Consider some examples:

Josh: So the market just tanked again.
Me: So ... should I return the new boots I just bought?

Josh: I'm being audited.
Me: That's awful! I know how you feel. I gained FOUR POUNDS.
Josh: Did you just hear what I said? About being audited?
Me: Losing weight is hard.

Well it's a good thing that I actually prefer my food to come from cans.

I have finally been run out of Charlestown by golden retrievers and baby strollers.

2008-09-07T21:28:00.006-06:00

Sometimes you wake up next to someone you can't recall ever meeting before and decide you need to make some changes in your life. And sometimes, you wake up on an air mattress next to a train set, a Barbie Dreamhouse, and Monopoly Junior and decide your life could use some adjustments. I recently moved out of the spare room at my aunt and uncle's house (i.e. my little cousin's playroom) that I had been freeloading at for a month and into a "fixer-upper" in the North End. Which is great except that now I actually have to pay rent, no one cooks me dinner, and I have to walk past Mike's Pastry and about a zillion Italian restaurants at least twice a day (if it is at all possible I think I am gaining weight just by breathing). I also estimate that roughly 75% of my decision to move into this apartment was based on the fact that another roommate had a seriously adorable cat.

I spent one Friday night with a bad cold painting my bedroom, by myself, for the first time, and experienced a number of thoughts over the six hour period, including:
1. This is possibly the worst decision I have ever made.
2. I hope my roommate likes blue cats.

Not including: Paint fumes are very dangerous and bad for you and I should probably open a window.

Quack off

2008-08-22T13:02:00.007-06:00

During my daily journey on foot from Charlestown to Boston, I've had to come to terms with one of my bigger fears. Which is being struck and killed by a Duckboat. It's not that I've had many close calls with the large tour buses, or that the drivers seem particularly reckless, it's just that there are so many of them along the Freedom Trail route that the likelihood seems so great. If I had to come up with a list of the most embarrassing ways to die, this would be somewhere at the top. I can't think of many lamer ways to end your life than being killed by a renegade bus in the shape of a duck that encourages its riders to quack at pedestrians. Imagine the shame your parents would feel as a result of the news of your (very tragic) death being made public. Of course they would be overwhelmed by grief to learn of your passing. They would probably never be the same, for a while, until they kicked up their workout regimen, took a vacation to the Bahamas, and adopted a new hobby like metalworking. They would wait weeks to auction off your belongings and turn your bedroom into an entertainment room. But the grief would always be tinged with the humiliation that their own child was run over by a giant purple duck. I guess one of the Super Duckboats would be slightly less mortifying because it is a lot more threatening and mutant looking and was probably previously used in warfare. I can only imagine the lengths my parents would go to to conceal the circumstances of my demise.

Grief-stricken funeral attendee (wiping tear from eye): I'm so sorry to hear of your beautiful, talented daughter's passing.
Dad: Thank you. She was undoubtedly the better-looking of our two children. Unfortunately, our daughter also had a very serious drug problem.
Attendee: I thought it was ... I heard she was struck by a Duckboat on her way to work.
Dad: That is not true. Ashley suffered an overdose from a combination of the many, many recreational drugs she took.
Attendee: But both the Boston Herald and the Globe had an article ...
Mom: Drugs. She injected most of them.

It doesn't hurt to listen for quacks while crossing an intersection.

Never offer to let someone move into your home temporarily when you are really only saying it to be nice

2008-07-28T21:09:00.004-06:00

Because sometimes you will come home from vacation and find that they have actually moved into your home while you are away, and have no real intention of ever leaving. And you may come in to find that they have entirely reorganized the extra "bedroom" which is really not meant to be a bedroom, but the room that contains the wine closet. The suitcases that accompanied their arrival, which look like they contain enough clothing for a year and not a month of freeloading off of you, will have been emptied and organized by color into your closets. Your food and champagne bottles will start disappearing at a much faster rate than you remembered.

This is of course what I have chosen to do for the month or more that I essentially have no place to live. Apparently "I don't know" is not a very well thought-out answer to the question "Where will you be living in a week?" This may have been an oversight on my part. But my bedroom has a wine closet in it and if I stick my head over the balcony railing I am pretty sure I run the risk of being knocked out by a passing sailboat. Of course the easiest way to get me to move out would be to stop having wine delivered to my bedroom.

In response to the heat wave we are experiencing in the Northeast

2008-06-09T21:23:00.014-06:00

For as long as I've been responsible for my own heating and cooling situation, it has become increasingly clear to me that the way to my heart is an air conditioning unit. If someone is brave enough to ask for my undying affection (I have had more successful relationships with tax collectors), instead of promising me years of happiness and well-behaved children, they may have better luck promising to keep me in air-conditioned living environments for the rest of my life. Why stop there? Give the casket central air; don’t risk years of me haunting you, reminding you that this was a promise made for eternity. Though this may seem overly simplistic, after pulling the turkey sandwich I’d made out of the freezer because the bread was starting to melt, I decided that my request is a perfectly reasonable one. As evidenced by the week I spent in Singapore recently, during which I spent half the time trying to calculate how long it would take to cook a pizza outside, I have concluded that I’m not a hot climate sort of person. Don’t get me wrong – I love hot days by the pool and the margaritas that accompany them – but I don’t think I’d be happy if I had to give my entire sweater collection to ORT.

One thing I find particularly agreeable about hot weather is that not only does it become acceptable to eat ice cream for every meal, it’s also practical. I find myself adverse to any foods that haven’t come directly from the freezer or are at least 50% water. This makes beer a very respectable option as well.

I begged and pleaded with my only fan after it broke down on the hottest day we've had all year. It had been struggling for quite a while; various strings had been holding it together in several places and it had to be balanced just so so that it didn't tip over and crawl over to you at night and gnaw at your face while you slept. It was really only a matter of time before it decided the world had simply gotten too hot for it and ascended to Vornado heaven. After practical reasoning and even reverse psychology failed to resurrect my fan, I decided to get the hell out of my apartment and into somewhere with a higher concentration of water. I headed to the YMCA to swim and refused to get out of the pool until some old ladies started screaming at me so they could practice their midnight synchronized swimming.

Despite an anxiety directly related to shopping malls, I left the Y to check out the selection of fans at Sears. Now I readily admit that I still have nightmares stemming from my year-long job at Walgreen's, and I am empathetic enough to expect to be hated by retail workers, but they seemed to react to my questions like I had asked them to help me move out of my apartment. Or if they could orate the state capitals to me in reverse alphabetical order. When asked where the fans were located, the incredibly helpful salesman answered “You have to go to that side,” and waved in the direction of the lawnmowers.

“The other side of the store. The side that I just came from.”
“Yeah.”
“In general.”
“Yeah.”
“Well thanks for your help, I’ll mention your name at the counter to be sure you make commission.”

Unfortunately it appeared that someone else had noticed the bit of heat and had bought up all the fans. I originally intended to purchase as many fans as I could fit into my bedroom at once, but I would now have to make do with just the one. I grabbed the last fan before I had to fight over it with a bigger, sweatier customer. On the way out of the mall I stopped in Brookstone on a delusional whim, where you have the option of a $600 portable air conditioner and a $100 fan that also purifies your air and releases a bunch of ions into the air and detoxifies your karma or something. I stood in front of the working display air conditioner, closed my eyes, and imagined my life as someone with Central Air.

My new fan has the singular advantage of being louder than my old fan. But it just might save me from getting heat stroke in my sleep and never waking up (like how meteorologists always warn you about the importance of keeping your grandparents cool in the summertime). Or I’ll just start sleeping at the office.

**Disclaimer here, because you might think I’m an idiot for not buying a window unit when you can get them for roughly the cost of three fans. I have to admit that it has much more to do with laziness than anything else. Most of my behavior is dictated by my laziness and this is no exception. In less than two months, I'll be moving for the eighteenth time since I've lived here and it doesn't really seem worth the effort. I also try to resist any kind of installation that requires A Man to help out, and based on my previous air conditioner experience, I am pretty likely to drop the thing out the window. Maybe next summer.

One happy little link to this post.

I think I am going to be strung up from a tree somewhere for not being a sports fan.

2008-05-29T07:44:00.009-06:00

Boston's overzealous sports fans tend to see my disinterest in all things sports as blasphemous. I've been to my share of Red Sox games, but if they were out of beer and peanuts that you can throw on the ground I would have a much harder time deciding whether or not to go. It just isn't in my blood. If you took a look under the microscope at the genetic makeup of the members of my immediate family, you would find that the ESPN gene is absent. Hockey is fun to watch but only because there's lots of smashing and the rapid exchange of the puck complements my split-second attention span. My brother claims to enjoy sports but in reality I think he'd rather sit down with a book on derivatives in a hotel lounge somewhere than attend a Patriots game. I can usually slide by with responses like "no way!" and "get out of town!" without having my sports trivia knowledge called into question. Then people will recount precise details of a recent sporting event or name a basketball player I haven't heard of because he isn't dating a famous celebrity and I am expected to respond with something other than "ohhhh." People send me text messages informing me of what significant game they're currently at, hoping to elicit jealousy - I mean can you believe I'm actually at this game - and I respond with something I would find equally enjoyable, like "I'm front row at a Yanni concert benefiting orca whales. And they're out of beer."

I never played sports, unless you count signing up for teams in high school on the basis of how cool their uniforms looked (which wasn't very cool - our school colors were brown and yellow), and then spending the overwhelming majority of the season sitting on cold steel benches with very clean, mud- and grass stain-free athletic socks that could have been featured in a Tide commercial. In junior high I had a brief stint in track. I ran in one event, hurdles, only once, which I came in last for, and then I stopped showing up because they were running re-runs of 90210 on television at the same time as practice.

This morning I was asked if I'd like a pair of (free?) Celtics shorts. On my way to work I was stopped by a Globe distributor who I exchange pleasantries with each morning because I am so starved for attention and human interaction at work. He was driving by in his car and recognized me, though we've never actually exchanged names and have limited our conversations to the weather. He rolled down his window and asked if I liked the Celtics, to which I was probably supposed to respond "Ohmygod YES!!!" and instead said something like "ermm, that's basketball, right?" He then rambled on something about his friend who works at ... (I now realize I had stopped listening at this point because he had mixed in some sports vernacular that confused me ) ... and I can get you some Celtics shorts. You want 'em?" And then I nodded and smiled as I walked away.

If you want to boost your confidence, don't underestimate the significance of strange comments from drunk old men

2008-05-02T10:53:00.006-06:00

On the way home from work yesterday, I passed by Sullivan's, one of our three bars in Charlestown, and was stopped by a bulbous old man smoking outside of the bar. He shouted something friendly at me, prompting me to remove my headphones from my ears. It was nearly five P.M. so I imagine he was having himself a nice little happy hour. What he says is: "Aren't you a view!" which is great because I love being complimented by strange drunk people. What I said was: "Hey, look at your friend!," gesturing towards his friend (or sworn enemy, perhaps), who was making wild arm movements instructing me to run away very quickly. What I should have said was: "Oh, that's just the alcoholism talking!" When I asked what he meant (because I am usually very friendly and wanted more precise details), he made a comparison to the Boston Harbor. Which frankly, I wouldn't go swimming in. On the other hand, that sort of comment is very open to interpretation. Lots of things would be considered "a view." The abandoned rail lot behind my last apartment that I saw from my window was a view. Catching sight of a humpback whale in the Atlantic Ocean is a view. But you wouldn't typically like to take a whale out to dinner or drinks. Just thinking maybe people should think of their compliments more literally before sharing them with strangers.

**In an afterthought, I just now walked to the 7-11 near my office and heard a compliment being given to a random woman that completely dwarfs the one I received. A panhandler yelled "America's Next Top Model! Right there!" after some chick on the street. Which is probably one of the best compliments you can receive from a complete stranger because it's like saying "America took a vote and decided you were the prettiest of six people and thinks you would look very well both in magazine ads and at a fashion show, I mean America really thinks so." Don't I feel like a humpback whale now! Not to seem completely superficial, though. I would be just as happy if someone came up to me on the street and said, "I think you write very well!! Do you want to go out for drinks?" I might be a bit more confused about how they could tell, though.

Postcards from the afterlife

2008-05-02T09:27:00.006-06:00

"Is there really a God? I mean really?" and other questions not to ask when you're hungover.

I generally try and limit brain activity when I'm the least bit hungover, but for some reason I thought of this one this morning and it seemed like a really good question to ask. It got me thinking. And not just about what kind of sandwich I want for lunch. We may never know the answer to this until we die, or until he sends us a postcard. If there is a God, what does his wardrobe look like? What does he drink? Does he like ice hockey or does he find it kind of dull? There are so many unanswered questions. My cousin Dan and I debated this, and he had some rather interesting thoughts. What if he was one of us just among us, right this very second and we never realized? And if he in fact is, just appearing like a normal human being who buys lottery tickets and files a tax return, what if you thought he was kind of a jerk? Like if he was one of your relatives who always took the last pig-in-a-blanket at family parties or gave you umbrellas as gifts? (A quick aside: a store employee once recommended that I give an umbrella when I was looking for a gift. I said that I thought that was a terrible idea, and that no one likes receiving an umbrella on their birthday, and was promptly smacked by the woman I was with who does give umbrellas as gifts.) Now you have something to talk about with your friends over martinis just like they do in Sex and the City. Oh wait, that's not what they talk about at all. At any rate, your insights on the subject will be welcomed.

What I imagine God might say in a postcard:

"Hi, I'd like a number 5 to go, but instead of the fries could I substitute a glass of gin?"

2008-04-28T12:05:00.007-06:00

I had twenty pages of my non-existent manuscript evaluated by someone with credentials as part of a writing seminar this weekend. Which was an equally good and bad experience. Her overriding opinion was that it needed lots and lots of work. I will figure out the good reasons once I learn to take criticism as something other than personal injury. It's not like she told me to deposit my dreams in the nearest receptacle. She did tell me there was potential. Which is a bit like being told you could be kind of pretty, if you just did some tweaking in quadrants three and four of your face and had some liposuction on your way out of the surgeon's office. It also may have been easier criticism to handle if the person evaluating my work was a stout, balding man instead of young and pretty. Not only is this person confirming the notion that I will have to shelve my dreams of being esteemed and famous for maybe ever, but she also looks like I might have hated her in high school. I left the seminar a few minutes early because I was bored and feared I might be called on during the last workshop. Maybe I missed the grand finale where the organizers share a big laugh at our expense and announce that it was a practical joke and we're all being published? No wonder so many writers were alcoholics.

Things I want to do with your constructive criticism:

1. Return it to you for a full refund.
2. Ask it out to a nice dinner. Have a mutually good time getting to know each other. Flirt relentlessly with it. Act surprised when criticism offers to pay the bill. Do not return it's phone calls and act like we've never met before when I run into it at a bar.
3. Insult its mother.
4. (Not) apply it.

You can't get sick on your birthday and other lies.

2008-04-25T08:52:00.011-06:00

Mashed potatoes dot com turns twenty-four today! Actually, blogs didn't exist twenty-four years ago because people were busy keeping quiet and writing their personal thoughts in a diary, where they probably belong. I awoke this morning with one of those colds that seemed to be my college roommate all four years of school. I had the very same cold for my entire collegiate education and heard it had stayed in the Midwest and found employment as a Human Resources Representative after I graduated. I suppose it came out to visit and spend the weekend with me. So, after watching the ticker-tape parade outside my apartment some of my friends had arranged in my honor until I got bored, I stopped at a convenience store and asked the sales clerk if they had any Sudafed. She points to the Sudafed PE, which everyone knows is a weak impostor because it doesn't actually contain psuedophedrine. "What's this?" I say. "I can't make meth with this." I finally showed up to work at the leisurely hour of, erm, 10ish, after sorting my stacks of gifts into piles based on their weight, constitution, and likelihood of containing gold. Not to shock anyone into cardiac arrest, but I don't plan on doing a hell of a lot of work today. What I am doing is leaving websites open on my computer monitor like a Wiki search of "Polymerase chain reactions" and "Methods for performing open-heart surgery" when I leave my desk so it looks like I've been unusually busy and ambitious.

Addendum: I'm 24 years old -- Fact or fiction?
Points to consider:

My pants are being held up by a safety pin, because the button fell off last year
I showed up to work fifty minutes late.
I'm currently listening to Guns 'N' Roses, which either means that I've been around a while or that I actually think it is still 1991.
Whether or not I will have a good day is actually pre-determined by if I am having a good hair day or not.
I opened up my presents before I even brushed my teeth this morning.
I snorted in laughter when the communal office Inbox received an email with the subject line "Brad was amazed at my trouser snake."

2008-04-22T16:46:00.008-06:00

What I Did On My Spring Vacation
by Ashley

When I wasn't combating frizzy hair or wiping sweat from my forehead, I was doing enjoyable things with my family in Singapore. Once I had adapted to no longer being on an airplane (I refused to get out of bed until someone turned off the fasten seatbelt sign), my aunt introduced me to her family. My younger Chinese cousins stared up at me with blank expressions as she explained to them that I was actually related to them.

On the second or third day into the trip, or something, we saw a group of monkeys crossing the street on Sentosa Island, looking about for a while, and then wandering back into the forest without so much as waving to us. Most likely they had a bus to catch back to the main island. Everyone got very excited about it and all yelled at each other to get their cameras out. As far as I was concerned, we could have gone home after the monkey sighting and I would have returned very happily. I don't think monkeys are aware of the power they yield to make or break your trip.

We were subject to the whims of the eight or nine Singaporean and American children we were traveling with, which meant we did a lot of things requiring you to wear 3-D goggles or hold a flock of parrots while your picture is taken. Most every tourist stop ends at a gift shop. I think some of the bathrooms had gifts shops. In a stroke of business savvy, I decided that if I ever open a business in Singapore, I am going to open a gift shop at the end of a gift shop. Some of the merchandise inside will include tiny plaster figurines shaped like gift shops.

The other 3/4 of the trip we spent eating and drinking. We were introduced to many new and unbelievable foods. Not in the sense that they were unbelievably good, but more that we did not believe them. "There is what in this soup? Sharks? I don't believe you. If that's so, then what was his name?"

We also took many pictures of things and places that can only be found in Singapore tourism books. The day before we went home, we spent pretty much the entirety of the day in what I can only determine was a not very good mall downtown being chased around by sales clerks.

In conclusion, my vacation in Singapore was a lovely experience with some terrific family, and even some new foods you didn't have to get drunk to try. It was a satisfying cross-country adventure, but I think I am going to wait a few days before I get onto a plane for another twenty-four hours.

"Um, yes, I'd like a nutcracker designated for cracking crab legs in the 2-4 foot category. Approximately 10 inches in diameter. I suppose you'll have to special order that."

Alternate (dirtier) caption:
"Oh my, Mr. Jackson, this is the largest case of crabs I have seen in my entire career."

To parents of teenagers: Your 13 year-old daughter will never be more mature than she is now.

2008-04-21T15:30:00.003-06:00

I'm twenty-three and live on my own (more or less). I've been out of school for two years. It's three o'clock in the afternoon on a work day and I just had a telephone argument with my parents that resulted in a tiny little emotional breakdown (which is a great way to spice up an otherwise dull day, by the way). And here is why. As you mature, you learn how to "rationalize" and put things into all sorts of "perspectives," but occasionally any twenty-something woman will find herself in the midst of a telephone conversation that would have the literal translation of storming into her room and slamming the door, followed by sulking into her pillowcase and inflicting the silent treatment on others for hours. I'm not really sure why it happens; sometimes you would expect the person on the other end of the line to be reading Teen People magazine while applying press-on nails. To the contrary, this person has her name listed on a lease agreement and is pretending to read The Economist.

The real catalyst behind the argument was a passing idea I had this morning to move to somewhere like, I don't know, Minneapolis. Bear in mind, among others, some of the illustrious destinations that I've considered moving to for no concrete reason: Louisville, KY, Santa Fe, NM, and Canada - in the general sense. I usually pick the places that people don't intentionally move to. I'd rather live in an underdog city than one of those big pretentious ones like say, Los Angeles or New York City.

Well, apparently some people don't appreciate when you make rash decisions about moving around the country on a Monday. So it occurs to me that maybe I should hold my tongue when I decide to quit my job and move to Dublin when I know I'm not actually going to do it. Which would be simple if it weren't for the fact that worrying your parents is terribly fun. When I was younger, if I thought my parents weren't taking some monumentally important life crisis of mine seriously enough, I would tell them that if they weren't going to start taking this seriously I would start doing hard drugs. Which I never did, because I wasn't cool enough for anyone to ask me if I wanted some, but it sounded like a distressing enough threat. It doesn't work so well anymore, in part because I have exhausted threats like these, and also because they know I couldn't afford designer drugs on my own salary without an allowance from them and I would probably be more likely to spend the money on expensive jeans.

This is not a Saint Bernard.

2008-04-15T11:52:00.011-06:00

Over the years, pigs have made many fabulous contributions to the dinner table. Most notably, as baby back ribs. Or ham, if that's your thing (It should be pretty evident by now that I am not a vegetarian). But that's not all; apparently they also make for some terrific pets, says this guy seen here on a walk through the Boston Common this afternoon. Not that I interviewed him, but I get the feeling you wouldn't own a pig if you couldn't stand pig ownership, what with all the other options pigs have today. This might not have fazed me if I had been in Cambridge, but I am more used to seeing horses or stockbrokers on this side of the Charles. I'm hoping someone else saw this because I didn't manage to get a half-decent picture that revealed that it was actually an enormous pig and not just a leashed dog. I was on my way to meet some ticket scalpers on the other side of the park, and was stopped in my tracks at the sight of this unlikely little fella. My natural instinct was to snap a picture so people would actually believe me, but this is the best I could do with my cell phone as I didn't want to offend the man. I mean I would hate it if I was just trying to enjoy a lovely day by taking my pig out for a walk and strangers stopped to take blurry photos of me. Still, I would trade in like ... five of my neighbors' golden retrievers if we could just get one pig in Charlestown.

Eureka! http://universalhub.com/node/14040

I've noticed that no one updates their blogs on weekends because they are too hungover and I am going to change all that.

2008-04-13T12:08:00.018-06:00

With a post about my recent trip to the circus. I agreed to go to the circus with my family on Friday partly because I wasn't really paying attention when they asked me. We went to the Big Apple circus at Government Center for the amusement of my seven year-old cousin, who has expressed an interest in people with excessive makeup catapulting themselves onto a chair twenty feet in the air whilst on stilts. The circus is one of those things I feel like you have an obligation to go to every ten years or so, when it's been long enough that you have forgotten what a circus is like and want to satisfy your curiosity.

Here, put this on your face and go stand in that circle over there. Yes, right there, next to the horse.

Which I did last year. Having been to the circus twice in two years, if someone asked me to the circus I would be too circused-out to go. Suffice to say, the performers were very spectacular and amazing and probably not human, because I don't think human beings are capable of such stunts. Or maybe there was something in their tap water growing up. Leaving the show, I felt a bit badly about myself for not being able to balance four people standing on my shoulders or cross a tightrope with an armful of groceries. Come to think of it, I couldn't recall any of my accomplishments. When I wasn't busy suspending my belief, I was doing what I usually do, making sarcastic remarks about everything and refusing to participate in group cheering and singing. There were few clowns which was good as I was sitting uncomfortably close in the fourth row, and was sure they could tell when I wasn't smiling and might come over to harass me or have me juggle a baby tiger and a set of encyclopedias on stage. I was on the edge of my seat for the entire show. But that had more to do with the kid sitting behind me who shouted "DAD! Can you get me some water? I THINK I HAVE STREP." Kids. Precious little germ festivals, aren't they?

I actually have to say one thing to stick up for circuses. Whenever the circus comes to town, PETA members get all up in arms about their treatment and march around with signs with catchy slogans like "Imprisoning and tormenting animals for the amusement of humans is wrong!" and "Animal cruelty is bad!" But is it the humiliation and degradation they fear the animals are suffering from being part of a traveling circus act? Because if that's the main reason, it should be pointed out that humans look equally as stupid, if not more stupid, than the animal entertainers. So you put a poodle in one of those costumes that makes it look like it's a Mexican guy in a sombrero riding a horse when it stands on its hind legs. They also feature grown men in leotards spinning in the air after propelling themselves off of other men's crotches. Then there's the issue of animals not having a say in their career choice. Can't an argument be made that many humans go to law school specifically because their parents want them to? Plenty of people can be seen walking around in these very silly-looking business suits carrying briefcases instead of pursuing their dream of say, watching television from their couch. I haven't met any animals who have taken up investment banking solely to please their parents, but if one, why not the other?

Now my body is telling me to hide underneath my covers and not come out for many hours because it is unreasonably bright outside and I have one of the more notable hangovers in U.S. history. To put it lightly, it feels like all of my internal organs have found a place with cheaper rent and are unsuccessfully trying to vacate the premises.

Dear U.S. Gov't, You'll get your $45 as soon as I get back my copy of Houses of the Holy and that Cubs sweatshirt you borrowed from me. Signed, Ashley

2008-04-09T21:07:00.000-06:00

Tonight, I am going to see a tax accountant type person because as it turns out, I can't be trusted to report my own income. Which is not a very big surprise. After trying to complete the forms online, the government claimed that I owed it forty-five dollars. Aside from being completely absurd, it sounds a little like the government feels jilted because it thinks I didn't cover my share of a bar tab or a taxi fare. Instead of casting aside a petty sum like $45 and acknowledging that it in fact owes me lots and lots of money, the U.S. government is passive-aggressively trying to stick it to me. How long have I stuck by your side, U.S. Government? I've been here for you from day one, through thick and thin. Sending you money whenever you were down on your luck, never badmouthing you to other forms of government when you forced my parents to start buying generic items instead of popular brand names . The Great Depression, 1929, was I: hanging out at the end of a breadline, anxiously trying to decide between white or multi-grain, or was I enjoying life as an ex-patriot, kicking back with an opium pipe in Southeast Asia? Neither, as I wasn't born yet, and opium isn't healthy for babies. The Stock Market Crash of '87: did I give communism a try? Or was I learning to tie my shoes because I had just turned three?

I'm taking my tax documents to a neutral party to help settle the score. And as we are still entering unsettling territory with the market, that and, um, some other bad things the U.S. government has gotten caught up in, I may have to hold its hand through another bad spell. But I will tell you this: if we don't get this whole tax thing straightened out so I can claim the loads of money that the government owes me, I am so not inviting it out to celebrate my twenty-fourth birthday this month. I have a feeling I will get my message across.

I'd like to share something I recently learned about plants.

2008-04-08T21:28:00.006-06:00

And that is that they need water, continuously. Not just that one time when you first get them and decide they'd look nice in a vase with some water. The other week, my friend and I arrived at Logan Airport, all jet-lagged and looking like we had just eaten airline food and had our seats kicked by six-year olds with restless leg syndrome for the past twenty-four hours. Her boyfriend met us at the airport with two bouquets of flowers. Now, he very easily could have gotten off with just the one bouquet of pretty flowers for his girlfriend because, you know, he doesn't pay for my dinners and well I guess there are some other reasons. But he made a nice gesture because he is like the equivalent of the nicest person you know.

But I guess I am not a frequent receiver of flowers or I didn't pay attention in biology, because I seem to have missed out on a crucial element of their growing process. After taking an alleged short-cut that someone had heard of that inadvertently re-routed us to a nice tour of what appeared to be the adult underground section of Everett, through East Boston, and maybe a little bit of Chelsea and Cambridge, I finally returned home to transfer my new flowers to something reflective of their natural habitat: a pint-sized Cayman Islands Margaritaville glass filled with water. After cutting the stems at a diagonal, under water, and adding a packet of food that looked suspiciously like the packet that I had used to feed my childhood sea monkeys, I considered my part over. Only nature had any influence over them now. And maybe I would talk to them a little.

Except about two days later, they looked pretty ill. Like sickeningly, went out on a bender and came back with a criminal record and a bunch of track marks kind of ill. Until I noticed something remarkable. They had drank all the water. I'm positive it was them; the dog can't reach that high up. And I think I would have noticed a bunch of flowers in my mouth if I reached out for a glass of water in the middle of the night and grabbed the wrong cup. As if by divine will, I replenished the water and they had completely resurrected within days. Let that be a lesson to you all - if you are responsible for any life source, even if it does not speak fluidly, help out with the rent, or subscribe to any magazines, it is going to require water multiple times in its lifetime.

How many of you are subscribers to the theory that our dreams predict future events?

2008-04-07T08:00:00.002-06:00

Well it's a good thing I don't because then I might be worried about having children in my very near future. Of course it wasn't one of those conventional sort of pregnancies, where you get fat and have to check into a hospital or anything. But in the same dream, I also had a terrific new apartment downtown, so ... maybe not so bad, you know? It was one of those pregnancies where you sort of just find a tiny baby in your house who is relatively fluent in English from the get-go, and then you realize you don't know the number to any good sitters in the area. The apartment had a courtyard with a pool.

I hadn't realized Boston was actually a suburb of Seattle*

2008-04-04T09:44:00.010-06:00

I have spent an estimated 7% of this year's salary on umbrellas. Umbrellas are hopelessly flawed and inadequate devices that are designed to survive through one entire thunderstorm. They also have a tendency to break when you walk into a tree with them. I don't know if I've just started to notice the rain more since I started walking to work, but this winter it has been raining eight days per week. If nature keeps this up I'm going to need a salary increase.

*Upon googling I quickly found that Seattle is by far not the rainiest city in the U.S., contrary to popular opinion. It is the forty-first rainiest city in the nation, but we'll just ignore that little "fact."

Well, no. I hadn't considered using mushroom caps in place of umbrellas.

This is being broadcast live-ish via a tropical rainforest wireless internet network!!

2008-03-25T20:00:00.008-06:00

Air travel takes on a whole new meaning when you are traveling half-way around the world. I just returned from a three-legged flight home from Singapore that took twenty-four hours. Or maybe it was more than that. I don't know. Singapore is a half day's difference from Boston, and I'm not very good at math. I don't know what time of day it is or what the date is or if I should be asleep or awake. I don't know if I'm hungry or what meals I've eaten today. I suspect I might be hungry because I just devoured a bag of potato chips in thirty seconds but that could also be hormones or gluttony. Still I'm afraid I'll wake up at three in the morning in my kitchen, finding that I've gotten out of bed to make myself a turkey sandwich in my sleep. I can only hear out of one ear at the moment and I've been bleeding out of my nose. I have this wobbly feeling in my legs from some kind of lack of balance that makes me feel like I've just stepped off a very bumpy boat ride, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I have to hold onto walls for support when I'm doing things like walking, showering, or balancing my checkbook. When I try to toss something into the trash can I'm off by about four feet. Though this may be exaggerating my feat, I feel like I know a little bit about what it must have been like for immigrants or early explorers who had to go 'round the world in a cramped boat and survive on things like rats for sustenance and then all come down with dysentery. I also had to watch that stupid Alvin and The Chimpmunks movie starring Jason Lee. If Columbus was around today he probably would have been smart and brought a laptop and some DVDs.

I remember learning about tropical rain forests in grade school, about the layers of plant life and variety of animals, but I don't remember my teacher mentioning anything about how your hair would instantly morph into absurdly large frizzy coils, rendering it close to impossible to get a date. That's all I will say about my trip for now, because it's time to clock out. Check back later for more of my irreverent opinions about the tropics (I think I meant to say irrelevant). Those who like free-ranging monkeys, food that may be on an endangered species list, and children waking you at 7 am with binoculars may be more entertained than those who like facts or political agenda. And yeah, I did back-date this post, because it loses all relevance once you realize I've been home for two days.

oink oink

I should be packing, but I have managed to do everything possible except for packing, including writing this blog post.

2008-03-16T10:32:00.003-06:00

If embarking on a twenty-four hour trip overseas weren't nerve-wracking enough, my sources on Wall Street tell me that we may enter a state of serious depression like, tomorrow. I can only hope that my airline doesn't make a series of immediate of budget cuts in response on things like in-flight movies, Hemispheres magazine, or, I don't know, the amount of fuel the plane carries. The sane person in me somehow managed to convince myself not to go out last night, which I am very grateful for. I still have the matter of packing for my trip, which is so far the only thing I haven't managed to do today. I am not going to post any blogs on my trip, because that would be ludicrous, so you should just assume that I am still alive and not imprisoned in a Singaporean detention center.

Re: To the person who has not placed a "missed connection" Craigslist ad concerning yours truly

2008-03-14T20:30:00.008-06:00

Occasionally I look at Craigslist's Missed Connections because they can be amusing and because if there are people noticing me at Starbucks or the dry cleaners and deciding to write up about it on a website, I'd like to know about it. But it seems that no one has placed an ad because they saw me running to catch the T.

I thought it would be interesting to place my own made-up ads about myself, so that I could impress some select friends about how many admirers I have, but that is like sending yourself flowers, which should only be done to make ex-boyfriends jealous. Still, it would be fun to invent personals like these because very often they're completely insane. However, I am not an unethical sort of person. So here are some ads that don't exist but could:

"Panera Bread. Tuesday 2pm. You ordered the Sierra Turkey. I had a ham sandwich. You dropped your sandwich on the floor. The ham sandwich was pretty good. Your blue eyes mesmerized me as you cursed obscenities and knelt down to pick up your sandwich."

"I saw you at Home Depot on Sunday. You were in line buying a pickaxe and some bags of mulch. I was carrying a lot of heavy firewood in my muscular arms. I didn't need a cart because I've got these strong arms, which are so strong from all the weights I lift. I had tan pants and wasn't wearing a shirt. Home Depot actually had a problem with that part and told me to leave the store or put a shirt on. I think you were wearing blue. I have glasses and have been told I'm very good looking. You had brown hair. What's the pickaxe for?"

"First noticed your glowing smile at the Public Garden. You were talking on your cell phone with your mother about movies. I sat next to you because your beauty was so captivating and I wanted to get your attention. You shifted further away from me on the bench. I couldn't help noticing how shiny your hair was, and I wondered what it smelled like. When I reached out and put my hand on your knee you shrieked and walked away. I tried to give you my number but you were running too fast. Were you running late for something?"

Does this box come in 5'6"?

2008-03-12T13:10:00.009-06:00

At work, we are moving our office from one end of the hall to the opposite end of the hall. Yes, I'm going to have to deal with a lot of strange new changes, but it's still an arduous process that requires me to take three unplanned days off work while burly men and tech guys join forces to set up our new office space. In preparation, I have to remove all the things I've acquired in my desk over the past eight months as well as whatever was left by the people before me, and place them into a cardboard box. Moving is hard work! Anything that appears work-related whatsoever is not mine, unless it was something I over-zealously completed in my first month of employment.

Going into the cardboard box:

Several boxes of tea that promised noticeable results like Tranquility, Stress Relief, Vitality, and one that says simply "This one will prevent you from sleeping at your desk," which all failed with flying colors
Bottle of Advil, Aspirin, and Midol
Contact lens prescription (?)
Novelty buttons
An article my mom sent me from Harvard Women's Health Watch entitled "Alcohol over time: Still under control?" with an attached instructional Post-it Note
Various condiments and utensils stolen from nearby eateries
One mini cactus plant
Wrapping paper for several holidays
One hundred sixty-eight dollars in loose change
Bottle opener (which I promise was not mine, but was leftover from a previous employee - I now realize it was left as a suggestion)

Not going into the box: a collection of Boston area phone books from 2002-present.

Is it too late to take my box and all of its contents with me and start a new life for myself?

Cost of Socks Hits Levels Unseen in Years

2008-03-12T09:45:00.006-06:00

We all know by now that the record-shattering price of oil is causing the cost of all other products affected by the change to increase significantly. What I didn't expect to rise in price so dramatically: socks. I went to the "Tent" store across the street from my office to buy some new socks because my current pair was soaked from this morning's rain. To my disbelief, it seemed that I had a choice between paying fifteen or twenty dollars for one pair of socks. That's about eight dollars per sock. The upside of this is that while wearing these socks I am completely impervious to hurricanes, blizzards, tornadoes, and the semi-annual "Running of the Brides" sale at Filene's Basement (as the package states, loosely translated). My new socks were the product of sheering forty-three sheep. Comparatively, fifteen dollars is a bargain when you compare it to the hospital bills I would have had to pay once I caught pneumonia from sitting in an air-conditioned environment with wet socks all day. Of course the economic crash we are to expect has only just begun; once things really start looking bleak, we are all going to be wearing paper bags on our feet.

Next stop: Singapore

2008-03-10T14:05:00.007-06:00

Well, technically it's more like next stop: Chicago O'Hare. And then Tokyo. And then maybe Hong Kong or something. But after that, it's next stop: Singapore. In less than a week, I will be en route to a tropical island with a consistent temperature of 85 and relative humidity of 190%. Though I'll be spending all twenty-four hours of St. Patrick's day traveling, in comparison, there aren't that many serious differences from any normal St. Patrick's Day other than my position in the troposphere. I will be squished into a small space with a bunch of people I don't know. Eventually I will have little idea where I actually am. I will have to climb over a bunch of people and wait in line to use the bathroom, which will happen a lot, because to deal with the extensive length of our flight I will probably need to drink. I will probably spill my drink on the guy next to me (turbulence). I will speak much louder than I have to (ears popping at high altitude) There's a small possibility I might develop blood clots (okay, I guess that one's particular to flying). I will finally fall asleep and wake at our destination in a state of confusion.

Notes on my manuscript while writing my manuscript.

2008-03-09T18:23:00.009-06:00

I've signed up for this seminar where you present part of your completed manuscript to a real live agent, who reads it and discusses its unlikely future with you. I will keep the subject of said manuscript a mystery, because it is still a mystery to me at this point. Unfortunately, my computer has been running like one of those old Macintoshes that people donate to poor kids, and is allowing me to type at a speed of two to three words per minute. This post, for example, took me two and a half hours to type. I have been taking cat naps when attempting to switch between my allotted two programs (I opened iTunes twenty-five minutes ago, and it just now opened). It appears the culprit may be spyware, but any attemp to rid my computer of these termites has resulted in the spyware program downloading more and more programs from the Internet, none of which have solved my computer problem.

I've decided to move my laptop into the kitchen, which seems dangerous because a) I keep getting distracted by boxes of food, and b) I just bought a new bikini, which I am supposed to wear in one week. However, it seems like a good idea to move the bulk of the work to somewhere other than my bed, somewhere that doesn't have a television.

Special note: I've moved the entire project into someone else's house, using an entirely different computer. There's no food or television within 20 feet of me, but there is a persistent flow of wine. It's a solid work-like environment because I am surrounded by books and some important-looking paper documents which might be someone's tax information. There are also some framed photographs from WWII, which just serve as a reminder that the entire library might come under siege at any moment. More updates as I become increasingly disillusioned.

Technology and Your Aging Parents

2008-03-06T19:57:00.011-07:00

My parents insist on keeping up with cutting-edge technology; they must remain at the very forefront of innovation among their peer group. For example, they've had state-of-the-art Caller-ID technology installed on their home telephone line for upwards of one year, and are now working on understanding the principle and use of what we refer to as "call waiting" (they are still grappling with the concept; they don't understand why listening to incessant beeping is considered desirable or in any way informative). The former technology allows them to see who's calling in addition to waiting to hear what the person wants on the answering machine (skeptics, indeed). Caller-ID also allows them to think up cute ways to answer the phone while they are eating dinner. This is undoubtedly one of their favorite things to do. As soon as either parent realizes one of their children is calling, the natural instinct is to answer and say something like, "I'm sorry, the person you are trying to reach his moved. Please do not try again to contact them, as they've moved very far away to someplace without telephone poles." Tonight's in particular was a good one, and I think explains why if you haven't got a very good sense of humor about yourself in our family you are basically screwed. Context: I had e-mailed my dad earlier complaining about something very dramatic and critical. As the words "disillusioned" and "failure" were used at least once - words that I only throw around in the most serious invented circumstances - one could only assume something was amiss. I called tonight looking for sympathies because that is part of their contract, and can be called upon until they have in fact moved somewhere without telephone poles or my life is perfect in every conceivable way. He answers:

"Suicide hotline?"
".... Oh good, I thought you might be closed this late at night."

Ah and that is why I love them. Nothing's sacred. Well it's a good thing that the sole by-product of my "angst" has been the purchase and occasional use of a black eyeliner pencil.

There is no such thing as a free lunch (part I)

2008-03-04T08:42:00.004-07:00

Lie. Well it all depends on how you look at it. If someone asked you, "would you like a free lunch at a respected establishment, and in addition, a friend for life, no questions asked, a friend that has a vested interest in your financial future and regularly calls to check in on how you are doing?" Sounds too good to be true. Now consider that this person is an Ameriprise Financial employee who wants you to come in for a consultation and has been calling you since September, with plans to call you right up until you are safely buried underground, at which point they will start calling your grieving children. Free lunch, indeed.

Nothing quite like having your face licked by a tranny in honor of the bride-to-be.

2008-02-29T07:57:00.015-07:00

Now I'm sure you've all been licked square on the face by strangers before, but was that stranger in fact a man in a sequined red minidress who is in fact, prettier and has better legs than you? Were you also surrounded by middle-aged Wellesley women having their heads grabbed and shoved into the chests of transvestites as they lip-synced to Shania Twain? I think it goes without saying that I've never been so terrified in my life, but actually as long as you looked directly at the transvestites on stage and didn't focus on the seedy clientèle in your peripheral vision (who are every bit as sketchy as you'd imagine times three), you could manage the drag show without crying. It's an odd thing to find yourself drinking seventeen margaritas whilst you gossip about miscarriages and fallopian tubes with women whose children you babysit. Odder still that I'd be introduced to Boston's underground by a middle-aged Newton mom. It was really cute how one of the moms said "I feel so Sex and the City!" because even though I hate the show, I don't usually associate a drag show in a back alley of Boston's theater district with it. Now to answer the question that's on everyone's mind. Yes, the male-dressed-as-female drag queens use the women's restroom. Of course I've just skipped the whole bit about the gay bar afterward, but that is because I'm busy washing my brain out with soap and ethanol. And to think, I almost went home early. To sum up the experience: as we're getting into separate cabs after the show, no one has mentioned that we're not going home at all until I hear "to Club Cafe, please!" which happens to be the one gay bar in Boston I've actually been to. "Er, are you serious?" Bacholerette parties are a conception I can't quite wrap my head around, because I can't think of anything an engaged woman wants to do more than receive lap dances from a man in a bustier and top off the night grinding with men who wouldn't want to sleep with her to save the human race from extinction. I am not a huge fan of gay bars only because it's like window shopping after all the stores are closed. I mean the shoes on display are gorgeous of course, but you can't afford them anyway and they aren't picturing you naked.

Oh, I almost didn't mention the part about how there are always one or two straight guys in a gay bar who prey on the few straight women who "just came to dance" with their gay male friends (or are actually masochists), by repeatedly telling them they are straight(!) in the rather large assumption that they will sleep with them solely because they're the only kosher dish on the menu. Because obviously it's a matter of commodity and has nothing to do with whether they are actually worthwhile or respectable human beings. And then of course in a gay club I also discovered that the women's bathroom is actually one giant party, more like a VIP room than the place you come because you've had six too many gin and tonics. I'll admit that most people's first drunk dial is not their parents, and I'm not sure my dad appreciated the phone call. "You're where? They were wearing what? Listen, I'm going to have to call you back. I Tivo'd Medium and your mom and I are watching it. Your mom says you should go to church tomorrow."

We're not going to talk about my presence on stage with Flaming Dan stumbling around to Madonna's "Vogue" (I haven't seen that video in like a hundred years, let's just say it wasn't pretty).

Just as I suspected.

2008-02-28T14:49:00.005-07:00

to: customerservice@bank###.com
subject: Re: News regarding your credit card.

Dear "Bank",

How serious are you about helping me achieve my goals? Because I have a stack of manuscripts and writing that I'd really like to see published someday, and you probably have more influence over publishers, ya know, being this huge bank conglomerate with loads of money. Can we have a talk about this? I'd love to get the ball rolling.

Looking forward to a successful future with you.

Respectfully yours,
Ashley

from: donotreply@bank###.com
subject: Regarding Your Inquiry and/or Comments

Our computer-automated system cannot process responses containing inquiries or comments.
We would be happy to communicate with you by phone at 1-800-555-5555.
For your convenience, we are available 24 hours a day.

Thank You!

I knew it sounded a little too good to be true. Well, I've always thought it's best to follow up with a phone call anyway.

Questions my officemates are probably dying to ask me

2008-02-28T14:47:00.000-07:00

Um, do you ever do anything around here ever?
Have you even considered it as a possibility?
Do you find the frequency of your hangovers as startling as I do?
Precisely who did you sleep with to get this job, anyways?
Why on earth do you chew so much gum?
Did you even bother to shower today?
Are you aware that our work hours don't actually start at 9:45, and they aren't going to just because you have convinced yourself that they do?
Is that mark on you forehead from falling asleep at your desk?
Was that you I just saw having a lengthy debate about the U.S. invasion of North Korea with a crazed homeless man who thinks he has X-ray vision?

I am prepared to answer all of these questions, that is whenever they decide to start talking to me.

If my job was a husband, I would have left him by now.

2008-02-28T13:50:00.000-07:00

Presumably for someone younger and more attractive, and with more money.

But in the meantime, this is an accurate representation of how I spend my weekdays, for those who are still puzzled and wonder where it is I disappear to from 9-5:

9:30-10:30. Adjustment period. Reconvene with friends online and find out what I might have missed whilst I was asleep. Defrost. Savor Dunkin Donuts coffee. Check Craigslist for better jobs.
10:30-10:45. Contemplate things of grave significance, i.e.: why we were put on this earth, children: a good concept or just a necessary evil?, having wars vs. not having wars, if I really still fit into these pants or if I'm kidding myself.
11:45-12:00. Check Inbox for messages of crucial importance, i.e.: e-mails about surprise pay increases, contests I may have won, terrorist threats, etc. Flag them as "To-do."
12-1:00. LUNCH. Weigh options carefully. Wave hello to not-so-jolly homeless persons as I pass them on sidewalks.
1-1:30. Think about how hard I am going to work tomorrow. Also, why wars are bad and how instead of going to them, we should hold things like pie-eating competitions and potato sack races to settle our differences. Put cup to wall and listen to the goings-on of cool architects next door. Is that Pink Floyd?
1:30-2:30. I just remembered why I am here and why there's no television in the room. Diligently work. Eventually transition to alternating between work and online shopping.
2:30-4. Fantasize about televised interviews of myself with various talk show hosts, magazines, etc. (if you are thinking that this is a remarkable amount of time to devote to such an activity, consider that at any given time that I am thinking quietly to myself, this is what I am actually imagining).
4-5:00. The same bit about work/online shop, but with more gusto this time. Tie up loose ends, i.e. publish blog posts that have been marinating in my drafts folder for too long.

Try getting a monkey to do all that.

Signs you are getting old.

2008-02-28T10:37:00.006-07:00

You eat vegetables without being promised a new skateboard, and without someone pretending they are an airplane.
You do your own taxes, or have someone do them for you, or are in general aware that they even exist.
You hear yourself saying things you've heard your parents say, including "Bills, bills, bills," "Men.," and "I need that like I need a hole in my head."
Your parents stop returning your phone calls, and change their forwarding address without telling you.
Family and their married-type friends express marked concern that you don't have a boyfriend (God forbid) and try to set you up on blind dates with That Nice Man in Accounting or Betty's Handsome Young Nephew From Brandeis.

A published author gives advice to impressionable young writers.

2008-02-28T09:16:00.008-07:00

During my final semester of college, we had a guest speaker come in to talk to our creative writing class. Although I am not at liberty to divulge the name of said speaker, because I don't remember it, let me just say that he was actually famous. Our (whackjob) teacher, who I will discuss at a later time, was worried that we'd have nothing to ask him and would sit around in uncomfortable silence for three hours, so she required us to bring a list of questions to ask him. It was that period of time when your parents won't stop calling to ask what exactly you're going to do after college and remind you that graduation is mere months away and the buck stops there do you hear me, really, I mean it, so I was looking for a little more guidance than Monster.com could provide. I took this opportunity to ask him one very important thing that had been on my mind.

"So you must get asked out a lot because you're famous, huh?"

But after that, I had one more enthralling question to pose.

"Purely hypothetical: do you have any advice for writers who are, I don't know, just graduating from school with a degree in creative writing, which will probably be pretty useful as a coaster but not much else, and hypothetically don't know if they should pursue writing as a career because they don't know if they will really achieve their goal of receiving royalties, a book with their picture on it, etc., and depend too much on things like designer blue jeans and electricity, etc. to function without an income?"

And then I took a deep breath and sat down. His response? "Get out. Get out while you still can." He didn't elaborate on the point much further than that. There you have it, folks. When all I needed was a tiny glimmer of hope (a lollipop and a "go get 'em, tiger!" would have done just fine) from someone that has managed to accomplish specifically what I desired most, I felt like he was handing me a proverbial shovel with which to bury my dreams. And bury them deep because you don't want animals digging them up at night.

But in reality, that guy's book probably sucked, because I haven't heard anything about him since, and he probably didn't realize that I have loads and loads of free time and take rejection very well.*

*That's actually pretty far off the mark. I will cry when being criticized on most occasions. But I'm trying to get past that (I'm having my tear ducts removed).

Re: News regarding your credit card.

2008-02-27T07:49:00.005-07:00

From: Some Big Corporate Bank
Subject: Hey! What's up? We never get to just talk ...

Dear Ashley,

Thank you for being a great customer.

Because of your excellent history with us, we're increasing your credit line to $6,600. It's our way of saying thank you.

We value your business and are committed to helping you achieve your goals.

Dear evil credit card company,

PLEASE STOP INCREASING MY CREDIT LINE. That's my way of saying I do not want to be indebted to you for the rest of my natural born life. I have already promised the first two of my unborn children to you and several of my organs, should you need them (or if you just fancied a new kidney or anything else you'd had your eye on).

On the other hand, I appreciate your kind gesture. Your commitment to my success is heartening. And unlike others who receive these weekly e-mails from you, I plan to take you up on that offer. Let's test this commitment, shall we? Oh, but you don't even know what my goals are yet! It just so happens that my goals lie not in consent form writing or in administration arts, because then I would have achieved them by now. Before I croak, I want to be the author of something that's published, and I won't stop short of modest fame. That's where you come in. From now on, along with each minimum credit card payment I send to you by mail, I will be enclosing a copy of the most recent chapter of my manuscript-in-progress. But that's just the beginning. Let's get together and chat about this! Looking forward to meeting you finally!

Yours,
More literally than I am comfortable with,
Ashley (# 3902 2546 2345 8952)

It's 4:30 in the morning, do you know where your mezuzah is?

2008-02-26T20:35:00.006-07:00

My roommate's large golden retriever/lab/whatever forcibly entered my room in the middle of the night last night for unknown reasons. Maybe he thought he heard a squirrel in my bedroom, or that he had uncovered where we keep our secret stash of cured ham. Either way he had the good fortune of bounding into my room right when I was in the middle of a dream about being attacked by German Nazis or something, and it wasn't long before I was hiding invisible menorahs and expeditiously consuming all of my Matzo. I know that golden retrievers aren't usually the stuff of nightmares, but at 4 in the morning, anything can manifest itself as the invasion of Poland.

What it means to be a revolutionary.

2008-02-25T14:53:00.002-07:00

A friend of mine suggested I read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood because it "revolutionized non-fiction." She also provided some supporting arguments which I will not reproduce here. My initial response was of course, "hey, I want to revolutionize something too." Which got me to thinking. What does it mean to be a revolutionary? Over the years, there have been hundreds, maybe thousands of known figures who have revolutionized everything from indoor plumbing to government structure. So in essence, you could literally revolutionize anything so long as it significantly changes or modifies the subject in question. What to get out of this: There are millions of untapped resources of things that are just dying to be revolutionized. And who's just the sort of person to be that revolutionary? You are! Also, me. Consider your Wikipedia entry after you have revolutionized plastic cutlery. If you find that nothing can be done with silverware, what about the future for potted houseplants? Now I don't know what sort of changes will be weighty enough to earn you the title of "Revolutionary," but that is only because I don't own houseplants and I eat with my hands. It is going to take a lot of work, but uprooting communism took a lot of work too.

2008-02-24T19:36:00.004-07:00

After careful consideration, I have determined that the shining accomplishment in my life thus far has to be my phenomenal blood pressure. It is the envy of athletes and vegetarians; you could not dream up a more perfect blood pressure. I know this because every doctor who has checked my blood pressure has raved about it. "What a terrific blood pressure! I've never seen anything like it in my career! You must run marathons." No, I don't, and I think it's safe to say that I am going to go through my entire life without ever running in a single marathon. If I could think of an appropriate Guinness Book category for my blood pressure I would submit it for consideration in their records. Of course, I have done very little to influence it, so it is most likely just a result of good genes, but there it is, outshining everyone else's blood pressure 365 days a year.

"What McSweeney's really intended to tell me in their rejection letter concerning my list, but bashfulness prohibited them from doing so"

2008-02-21T16:27:00.008-07:00

Alternate title: "Denial and Its Many Forms: Turning Lemons into Lemonade"

Dear Ashley:

Your list was very clever, one might even go so far as to say it was too clever. In fact, that is what I am saying. It was too clever and funny for our little magazine/web site/whatever we are and that is why we unfortunately must decline to publish it. Because we want you to go out there with all your talent and take over the literary world and get all of the credit for it! We also find you very attractive, and we wouldn't mind taking you out to dinner. But, striking beauty aside, we know you will make it without us. Look us up if you're ever in Valencia!

Unwaveringly yours,
McSweeney's Internet Tendency

See, I'm not upset. I just thought the rejection was subjective and chock-full of underlying messages.

Titles of books that will not be written until I get an advance*

2008-02-21T13:43:00.010-07:00

Beached: Stranded on a Deserted Island For A Year (My Dramatic Rescue and How I Returned Home to Find No Unread E-mails and Only One Missed Phone Call, Which Was From My Parents)
Ashley Takes a Good, Hard Look at Her Life, Decides It's Two Sizes Too Small, Asks If It Can Be Returned Without A Receipt of Purchase for Cash, or if We are Talking Store Credit Here
Hairstyles For Every Occasion and Climate: From Hostile Military Takeover to Dinner Party!
It's Not Funny: Traumatic and Embarrassing Moments in My Life: Years 1-12
It's Not Funny: Traumatic and Embarrassing Moments in My Life: Years 13-16
Where's Mommy?: Why I Am One of the More Likely Candidates for Postpartum Depression
Bus Fare: One Man's Journey From Cleveland, Ohio to Lincoln, Nebraska, By Public Transportation Alone
Ashley F.: Voice of a Generation (Who quite frankly never asked for one, and hate it when people try to put words in their mouth)
A Tale of Two Cities: II. More colorful than the first and with a more satisfying ending, also with brief guest appearance by Mötley Crüe.
Ashley F. Takes a Good, Hard Look at Her Life, Decides There's Been a Mix-up in Human Resources, and Asks if They Would Mind Checking the Computers One More Time

*Advance is, of course, open to interpretation, and could imply "delicious turkey club sandwich" just as much as it could "$45,000 annually." Some of these titles may require quite a bit of research, research that I am willing to immerse myself in to produce quality contemporary literature.**
**Yes, I laughed when I read "literature" too.

Csdlo kgjsdfhl, oeribnqwer avbh.

2008-02-21T08:22:00.013-07:00

Excuse me, that was just me mashing at my keyboard as I attempt to regain the feeling in my fingertips.

Secretly, I enjoy when temperatures in Boston fall below freezing, because then I get to look down on others who insist on complaining about the weather as inferior and less able to withstand adverse temperatures than me. And, were we ever to find ourselves stranded in the Antarctic due to bad directions or as a result of sitting on a floating chunk of iceberg too long, they would be more likely to freeze to death whereas I might say something like, "What service do you think provides decent cable out here?" or "Do you think we can still get delivery?"

I derive immense pleasure from telling people "if you can't feel your legs now, try moving to Chicago." One reason I do not think I could live somewhere consistently pleasant is because we would no longer have the weather to complain about, and would be forced to transfer our negative attention to something else. Finding nothing superficial to whine about, we might have to look toward actual problems, like "I think there's a great big gaping hole in my love life," or "I'm being sent to prison for tax evasion, and I've never looked good in orange." Another reason I couldn't live somewhere warm is because of the tremendous lengths one would have to go to to look exceptionally good naked year-round. Why, not only would I have to sign up for a gym membership, I might actually have to go.

As I zipped my overcoat over my parkas and headed out into the sunshine, I was warmed not by the jackets, but by inner warmth. The inner warmth that comes from the sense of accomplishment one feels after surviving a harsh winter with the gas bills to prove it. I smiled because it was Thursday, and I would not have to sit in front of a computer at a desk much longer this week, and could instead sit at home in bed in front of a computer. It was then that I noticed I had absentmindedly walked directly into a funeral procession, at which point I transformed my cheerful expression into one of despondency and grief, as if I was having a very bad day myself.

Good luck finding my replacement.

2008-02-20T13:09:00.012-07:00

Could your position be filled by a lesser primate?

Could a properly-trained chimpanzee, or potentially even a gibbon or a capuchin monkey succeed at your job? Do you feel secure that they would not be promoted before you were? I feel comfortable making such comparisons between species of primates because I took a class in college called "Primates," which I got a C in. I bet you didn't know that the only thing standing between monkeys and your job is the folks at PETA, who think that placing animals in entry-level administrative jobs could lead to symptoms of boredom, indifference, and even disillusion.

The above photos compare myself and a chimpanzee in front of some sort of computing machine (no wise-cracks about who is who, thanks). Who appears more comfortable in the workplace? Notice the chimpanzee's relaxed manner as he sits at his typewriter. He approaches the day's work with confidence and patience, topped off with a zest to succeed. In contrast, note the overwhelming sense of frustration in my face as I yell at the uncooperative computer before me. Of special interest: that is not even a real computer I am sitting behind. It was one of those plastic ones they put on top of desks for sale at Office Depot to show you what a real office would look like if you bought that desk. I have become so accustomed to experiencing irritation and aggression at the hands of a disagreeable computer that it is now something of an immediate response.

So exactly how confident are you that you are irreplaceable? I'm not so sure we have that kind of comfort. After all, ambition is ambition, whether or not your diet consists mostly of bananas and live insects. They will start the same way we did; first maybe a work-study program, followed by an internship, eventually they will be working full-time with benefits in your office. Have you ever tried to make small talk with a monkey? Between you and me, they are insufferable.

Why must babies look at me so skeptically?

2008-02-19T09:29:00.006-07:00

I waited in line at the Dunkin' Donuts this morning behind a woman with a small baby in a stroller. Because maybe I should make more of an effort to respect babies as actual human beings, I stared at the baby in an attempt to make it smile or at the very least, kill some time while someone made me coffee. To my surprise, this anonymous baby stared intently at me very skeptically. In response, I stared back at the baby with a similar look of skepticism. What reason did this woman's child have to distrust me so much? What did he know about me? Had he/she heard things? Was it my outfit? I knew I shouldn't have worn these pants. My obvious lack of interest in the field in which I worked? Maybe that baby was right. For those of you unfamiliar with what a skeptical baby looks like, it's a little bit like this:
That is what prompted me to find this article, citing scientific proof that babies are a terrific judge of character. Luckily for me, I think I am a little more complicated than a triangle is and perhaps should not take a strange baby's reaction to heart so much. Also, I can't remember the last time I pushed a red circle with button eyes down a hill just for the fun of it.

Happy Valentine's Day.

2008-02-14T07:29:00.017-07:00

What is this nauseous feeling I'm experiencing?

It's February 14th again, which means two things. 1) Shit, my rent was due two weeks ago, and 2) It's Valentine's Day.

But seriously, I'm not going to rant about how Valentine's Day is stupid, as you might expect. And anyway, I'd prefer having my teeth cleaned to going on a romantic candlelit date any day. At one point, Valentine's Day was a fun holiday for everyone. Even the weird kid in class that never cut his fingernails and wore an over-sized Chicago Bears sweatshirt every day for two weeks (okay, that second example was actually me). Everyone had a Valentine (their mom) and everyone got exactly twenty-one Valentine's cards from their classmates because it was mandated by the teacher. Any distaste I have for the holiday is probably a result of not getting a gift from my mom on the morning of V-Day anymore. We may be single, but we still like to gorge ourselves with candy. To be fair, this Valentine's Day shows last year's up, partly because it's not twenty degrees and sleeting, and partly because I've already gotten two cards from the kids I babysit, one including a Pirates of the Caribbean temporary tattoo. If you can think of anything more romantic than a skull-and-crossbones tattooed on your left bicep, let me know.

Still not over the fact that Valentine's Day is a manufactured holiday brought to you by the Hallmark Corporation? Then just don't celebrate it like a modern-day American. Let's take a look at how other countries around the world have celebrated:

Great Britain: According to an unverified source, folks in Great Britain used to "pin four bay leaves to the corners of their pillow and eat eggs with salt replacing the removed yokes." This act would allegedly induce pleasant dreams of their future husband. Personally, I would rather just take a Lunesta. I take it they weren't dreaming about drawing hasty divorce papers or bitter arguments over the contents of the refrigerator. Not only that, they also used to write the names of the men they were into on paper and put them on clay balls which they dropped into water. The paper that floated to the top first was the man that they would marry. This one seems a little lame, but I guess it's no sillier than consulting a Magic 8 ball or seeing which one calls you first (hey, sometimes it's hard to choose). Currently in Britain, children sing songs and receive gifts of candy, fruit, or money (ding ding ding dingding!). Either people in the UK are a lot weirder than I thought, or I'm not doing very thorough research.

In Britain and Italy, some unmarried women are said to get up before sunrise staring out the window waiting for a man to pass. "They believe that the first man they see, or someone who looks like him, will marry them within a year." So it's no big surprise that a lot of postal workers and garbage men get lucky around this time of year.

I'm only going to offer one more example, because I think you should do your own research and because this turned out to be a lot less interesting than I thought. An Ancient Roman tradition follows that the festival of Lupercalia was held on February 15th to ensure protection from wolves (which is somehow linked to Valentine's day...I'm skipping some minor details) During the festival, "young men struck people with strips of animal hide. Women took the blows because they thought that the whipping made them more fertile." This tradition continues today; it is called sadomasochism and it is still alive and well in today's underground society.

For those of you reluctantly hitting shopping malls searching for either that perfect gift for your loved one, or the ticket that will help salvage what's left of your failing relationship, there are a number of websites dedicated to providing you with a variety of chains, whips, and restraining devices to win just about anyone's heart.

Works cited: This is my actual source. I think it is actually a school report made by a junior high student or some old lady's needlepoint website, but I didn't think you'd mind, given the spirit of today's holiday.

'Cause I’m the taxman. ... Yeah, I’m the taxman.

2008-02-13T10:27:00.002-07:00

I just looked over the Wisconsin W-2 instructions that I received in the mail and wondered how I am going to persuade my dad to file my taxes for me. Then I remembered a crucial piece of information: I haven't lived in Wisconsin for two years. I'm no accountant but I feel like this changes matters. I was hoping that my parents missed me so much that they would complete my tax forms for me just to feel like we weren't separated by a thousand miles, but I recently learned that this is not the case. So 2008 marks the first year I have to prepare my own taxes. I feel like this is a large leap from my previous responsibility of supplying my signature and a stamp, but my dad assures me that I am ready for the challenge. I am a little nervous that through a calculation error, I will inadvertently defraud the government and be taken in contempt for tax evasion, but that's a chance I have to take. My parents seem to have cut the ties on all other planes of monetary support, but I'm hoping they're still good for bail money.

Last night, I tried convincing the kids I babysit to prepare my taxes for me (one is very good at math and one shows promise), assuring them that the process is so simple they practically file themselves. In return, I would complete their spelling and grammar assignments (I got a bachelor's degree in English so they were looking at an easy A). No one showed interest in the deal, but then we all got distracted by snack and forgot what it was we were talking about.

I wonder exactly how long it is going to take until I turn into my dad and start writing angry letters to the government and talking about tax cuts in my sleep.

My Future as a Children's Book Co-Author

2008-02-11T08:30:00.000-07:00

I once plagiarized the entire Neverending Story movie plot and gave my whole extended family his or her own personal typed copy of my 14-page short story. It received wide acclaim, but the guilt was too much. I didn't write another word for the next ten years.

Recently, I've considered doing a collaborative effort with my seven year-old cousin in which I plan to use her youthful imagination and cuteness to write a successful children's book. The longer I wait to do this, the less cute it will become. I think it would be kind of a neat idea because kids have a lot more imagination than embittered twenty-three year olds. Though I have yet to put crayon to construction paper, here is an excerpt from my imagined interview with The New Yorker announcing its publication:

Handsome interviewer from New Yorker trying to hide his attraction to me:
What prompted you to make a collaborative work with seven year-old Katarina?

Me: Well she's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I've seen her work in some of the kindergarten publications and well … it just blew all the other riff-raff out of the water.

NY: What has it been like working with Kata?

Me: It's been kind of tough to find the time, you know? I have a nine to five and Katarina has gymnastics, tennis, swimming, Chinese lessons, ice skating, baseball, kickboxing, and tae kwon do. She also gives weekend seminars on origami and fire safety. I have a very strict napping schedule I like to stick to. So it's hard to get together, but it's really great when we're able to.

NY: How do you expect that the book will be received by readers? It has gotten terrific marks among reviewers.

Me: Well I think the first thing they will notice is that Kata is very cute. We've put a photo of her at six years dressed as a cat for Halloween on the back of the book jacket to demonstrate this. We've also taken the liberty of including several pictures of her doing adorable things like wearing a hat that is clearly too large for her, sitting inside of a bucket, and petting a very cute dachshund. She's cute as a button and I hope that readers of the book will let that cloud their judgment. They may also notice that the book smells a bit like licorice. I really hope people notice this because it turned out to be a lot harder to accomplish than we expected.

NY: What words do you think critics will be using to describe this work?

Me: I don't doubt we'll hear "ground-breaking." People have a tendency to call things ground-breaking whether any ground has actually been broken, or if they've actually just sort of tripped over something on the ground, like a rock. This book is no exception. Maybe also chart-topping and rip-roaring. Sensational. Reasonably priced. Adequate.

NY: Well it was a pleasure meeting with you. You have great hair. Are you free next Friday?

Hopefully we can get the ball rolling on this project soon so that I can just sit back and wait for my checks to come in. But I might have to wait until skiing season is over so her free time isn't taken up by downhill racing lessons. I'm open to any plot suggestions or character ideas. A talking umbrella? Toaster who dreams of making it on Broadway? I'm not an "idea" person, so this isn't my job. That's what the kid is for.

The Bucket List for Twenty-somethings

2008-02-10T20:14:00.001-07:00

I haven't seen the aforementioned movie because it looks really cheesy, but I'm familiar with the concept. I think my own Bucket List would vary because I'm twenty-three, seemingly healthy and have plenty of time. My bucket list:

1. Open my monthly credit card statement and for once, not cry.
2. Rent several new releases from Blockbuster and do not return them on time. Wait until they are many days, possibly weeks late, and then return them. Do not apologize.
3. Go to a fancy restaurant and order the most expensive thing on the menu, even if it is quail. When you are finished, ask the waiter if he can bring you another one.
4. Tell a complete stranger that you are in love with them, using best most convincing expression. Say nothing else and walk away.
5. Have a stalker. Some people talk about having a stalker and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little jealous. What makes these people so much more stalkable than me? Unless of course my stalker is just sneakier than other people's stalkers and has very cunningly avoided being discovered. If possible, I would like to have one of those genial, harmless, if somewhat odd and obsessed over me kind of stalkers.
6. Visit a petting zoo that has llamas. Try to feed them marshmallows.
7. Fall asleep on a park bench.
8. Disassemble a toaster to see its inner workings. Discover much about how toast is made. Do not put back together.
9. Put on a blonde wig to see how I would look as a blonde.
10. Walk out of a really terrible movie. Demand money back.
11. Try french onion soup for the first time.
12. Loudly say "YOU'RE WELCOME" after you've held the door or elevator for someone who did not bother to say thank you.
13. Befriend someone who owns a trampoline. Hang out with them religiously until jumping skills improve.
14. Wear pajamas to work. Roll sleeping bag out next to desk.
15. Pay the extra twenty dollars a month for HBO.
16. Visit New York City by myself and swear off maps. Get very, very lost. Don't ask for directions until I have somehow wandered off the island and have entered New Jersey. Buy a slice of pizza.

Relationships, or "It's Not My Fault"

2008-02-10T19:27:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I think about how it might be nice to have a boyfriend primarily to have someone to share blame with. I've seen couples do this a lot, and I'm sometimes jealous that I have no one to blame for my own mistakes or shortcomings. I've witnessed my mom blame my dad for many things over the years that he was in no way responsible for, or even involved in, and I think it's just tradition. Man is a primarily monogamous animal and that may be because man discovered his/her need to shift the blame to someone other than themselves. Examples: "I'm so sorry I was late to your son's bris. My boyfriend Steve takes soooo long to get ready!" or "I'm sorry I can't make it to your nephew's elementary school graduation. I would love to be there but I'm obligated to go to this stupid hockey game with my boyfriend. God he is so clingy! I would dump him but, you know, he has a car."

I also think they would be fun to yell at. There are certain insults and arguments that are really only appropriate to say to someone you are dating. Why should people in relationships have all the fun? I've practiced this with a Starbucks barista but it generally leads to confusion and I don't really feel satisfied in the end.

Starbucks guy: Good morning, what can I get you?
Me: I shouldn't have to tell you.
SG: I'm sorry?
Me: You never listen to anything I say.
SG: [becoming increasingly uncomfortable] Coffee? Latte? What will you be having?
Me: Did you ever even care about me at all [glancing at nametag], Tom?
SG: Room for cream?
Me: I think we should go on a break, Tom. I'll be at Dunkin Donuts. Call me when you grow up.

Vacuum? Vacumn? Vaacumn?

2008-02-09T08:27:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning with an incredible urge to vacuum. Some people claim to wake up and crave a drink or a cigarette, or for their methadone IV to drip faster. I woke up this morning and had to get my hands on the nearest vacuum cleaner. Which was relatively easy as I keep it on top of my night stand. It's too bad there isn't some kind of Locks for Life program for dogs, because my roommate's dog seems to shed an unprecedented amount of hair and it is all going to waste. So I spent this morning vacuuming everything in sight, including my laptop computer, my neighbor's cat, and a model of the U.S.S. Constitution I had created out of dust bunnies (that's a joke - my neighbor doesn't have a cat. I don't know whose cat that was). Needless to say, it's been a while since I've picked up a vacuum, so I had to divide the activity into a three-part process and should be finished by Tuesday. It's a good thing I did and decided to write about it, because it's about time I learned how to spell "vacuum." I am not a frequent obsessive compulsive neat freak, but I woke up and knew that I could not start my day without vacuuming everything around me and switching the lights on and off fourteen times. Next week: bleach, all of the surfaces it can be applied to, and why it should not be used on pets.

2008-02-08T11:18:00.000-07:00

I found these people online and want to impress them. Because someday, as far-fetched as it seems, I'd like the ability to write something every once in a while and subsist entirely on some sort of royalty checks that periodically filter into my mailbox. It may be a lofty goal, but someday I too want to have a spot on Bargain bookshelves alongside my favorite authors. I usually rely on my unmatched ability to look good in a suit and to nod agreeably to win people's respect, but that's only possible once you've gotten past security. So what does one do to interest a publisher when one hasn't actually written anything of value yet? Send in glossy semi-nude photos? Show up outside their bedroom window with a boombox over my head blasting Peter Gabriel? Are gift baskets still popular these days?

Inappropriate gift basket

*I don't quite have the touch when it comes to Photoshop. Some roughly edited Microsoft Paint will have to do for the moment.

Happy New Year, or "Outlook Not Good"

2008-02-08T08:35:00.001-07:00

I went out to celebrate the Chinese New Year last night with my family. As is customary, we ate seven different kinds of animals, consumed several bottles of wine, and I was sent off with an orange (guess which one is not actually a Chinese tradition). As it is the Year of the Rat and I am a rat myself, I felt a little like it was my birthday. Unfortunately after hearing the Chinese Zodiac predictions, it was like one of those birthdays where your wallet is stolen and you get a parking ticket and conclude the day by going to a funeral. According to my aunt's interpretation of a 2008 report in a Chinese newspaper, I have the following things to look forward to this year:

Unexpected weight gain
Dental problems resulting in blood loss
Being dumped; or pregnancy
Emotional instability
Something called "irrational exuberance"
Theft, break-ins, burglary and crime
Scandals of corporate greed and embezzlement (Ashleygate?)
Misty, clouded perceptions

This comes as a bit of a surprise as I actually had a good feeling about this year. There's a bit of a gray cloud settling over it now that I've been told to "be careful" six separate times. The comfort is in knowing that if I gain ten pounds and undergo a root canal, potentially three quarters of my high school graduating class will be suffering the same fate. That might just be another "misty, clouded perception," though. Happy New Year, rats!

2008-02-08T07:57:00.000-07:00

Things I won't be giving up for Lent because they pose more of an indirect threat to others than they help me put in a good word with Jesus:

1. Coffee
2. Gluten
3. Television
4. Alcohol
5. Insulin injections*
6. Nonviolence

For most of my childhood, I thought that Lent was the period of time when you stopped eating chocolate. Once I got a little older, I learned from watching my mom that Lent is actually the time when you alternated between giving up chocolate and wine, except on Fridays, which didn't count. I don't think I learned that you can actually choose what to give up until I went to Catholic high school. I guess my mom just thought none of us could possibly get into heaven with the amount of chocolate we all ate.

I've never actually given up anything successfully for all of Lent. In part, this is because I don't see what it accomplishes. Any food I give up will always have the ulterior motive of losing a couple pounds, and that's not very God-fearing, because vanity is actually one of the commandments if I recall correctly. If I gave up coffee for a few weeks, I would get a little Certificate of Achievement and I might feel good for accomplishing such a feat, but I would also be pretty bitchy to everyone. Until I find something to give up that will not be indirectly harming other people or myself, I think I will just try being nicer to people so Jesus doesn't have to pretend like He's happy to see me.

*Okay, so I'm not actually a diabetic. It's a good idea that diabetics don't give this up for Lent, though.

Free therapy from people who can't write you prescriptions.

2008-02-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

As a hospital employee, you get a number of benefits, one of which is access to the Employee Assistance Program. You may be thinking this sounds like a program that helps you come up with rent money, but it isn't. It is free counseling from trained professionals. These people can't write you prescriptions, so there is little point in pretending you are really nervous so they will give you Valium. It is, however, a pretty good excuse to talk about yourself for an hour. I have taken the opportunity to use the Employee Assistance Program occasionally to advise me on what I want to do with my life. And every so often, I like to go back in to let them know what exciting things I've been up to, like what movies I've seen and what rock concerts I've been to and so forth, because I'm pretty sure my counselor, Veronica,* lays up at night wondering how I am and what I thought of Juno.

I went in today because I think I'm at a point where I need to figure out what I want to do with my life (and how it's going to make me modestly famous), and because I wanted to know what she thought of my darker hair color. If you haven't had a session in a while, they make you fill out all of the paperwork again, because hospitals love paperwork. An interesting thing I noticed this time, is where you fill out your relationship status, "Single" is listed just one notch above "Widowed," and is several rungs under "Married" and "Divorced." Maybe I take HIPAA forms too personally, but I feel like they were mocking me. If I hadn't been in before, I might be a little unnerved at the fact that the support staff in the waiting room seemed intent on making sure patients were properly hydrated before seeing a counselor. After the third employee asked me if I wanted any water, I wondered if I would be subjected to a feats of strength test this time.

Career counseling is kind of a funny concept, if you think about it. Can you imagine a tribesman whose job it is to salt meats and fish wandering into Human Resources because he was unhappy with his role in the community? "It says here you cured meats from 1942-1947. Have you ever considered metalworking?"

I spent the entirety of the session trying to con her into making my decisions for me and have her come up with a detailed outline of how I should spend the rest of my life. This didn't seem to work, though, as she insisted I make these choices myself, and had little opinion on whether I should have salad or a sandwich for lunch. I think I might have to go back for a follow-up in the future, because I don't feel that I got a real firm decision on what kind of future she thought I should pursue. And I think the typed outline is missing a few crucial years.

*Name changed to protect anonymity. Not my own, because I'm pretty sure I've lost that by now.

America's Got Very Little Talent, If Any

2008-02-07T10:47:00.001-07:00

With summer coming up (don't let the snow throw you off), I briefly considered quitting my day job and picking up an evening job like at a Starbucks (coffee: yay!), so I can spend the daytime working on my tan at the pool instead of burning my retinas in front of a computer screen (Yes, you can also harm your eyes from direct sunlight. I knew you were going to say that. That's why I will be wearing these.) I wouldn't just be drinking margaritas, chatting up lifeguards, or reading trashy romance novels like this, though. I plan to spend the time finishing some books I never finished after I stopped commuting to work seven months ago, as well as some new books I recently bought because they were shiny, working on my manuscript, solving the energy crisis, and coming up with a fail-proof plan for accomplishing world peace by next February (it's been on the back-burner for a while). This might seem a little ambitious, but I have all afternoon. The only draw-back to this plan as far as I can tell, is that I won't be able to watch prime-time television because I'll be serving people coffee. Luckily, summer television line-ups are completely terrible.