Category Archives: going to hell

Ouch. And yet, hah.

Me, look­ing at today’s Google home­page image:  It’s Char­lie Chaplin’s 122nd birth­day.
The hus­band, not look­ing up from his com­puter: And his wife’s 35th.

Red Sox Fans Are All Douchebags, aka Don’t Box Me In

I go to ther­apy not far from Fen­way Park and Ken­more Square, a land of ample metered park­ing.  Usu­ally.  But it’s base­ball sea­son, and as I came out of my ses­sion, the SUVs were roam­ing like mad cat­tle, foam­ing and froth­ing and honk­ing and worst of all, NOT USING THEIR SIGNALS TO INDICATE LANE CHANGES.  (Care­ful there, E., your pet peeves are showing.)

I got to my car, got in, turned on the igni­tion, and had not yet even turned on my blinker when bang, one SUV WHIZ backed up right on top of me and BANG another crept up behind, both of them glar­ing at one another so hard that they com­pletely ignored that between them, they’d made it impos­si­ble for me to get out of the space, because each of them had encroached at least six inches along­side my bumpers in an effort to claim the whole space.

I tried look­ing at one.  Then I tried to look at the other.  I honked my horn, even, because in Boston, this is uni­ver­sal for “Get out of the way, one of you ass­holes, because I can’t fuck­ing get out of the space.”  I also glared over my glasses.

Appar­ently, they were both from the sub­urbs and did not com­pre­hend, because nei­ther one budged. I there­fore got out of the car.  After all, I had fif­teen min­utes more on the meter, and there’s a lovely cof­fee place not that far away.

blc’s not going out, in a man­ner of speak­ing.  And Red Sox fans?  Don’t fence me in.  (I love Bing & the Andrews’ Sis­ters’ ver­sion too, but ooh, David Byrne.  How can you not love David Byrne singing that song?)

Jingle bells, Santa smells, I’m headed off to work…

Yep.  Workin’ Christ­mas Eve.

But that’s okay.  You know why?

I baked.  Cook­ies.  Lots of ‘em.  I made my tra­di­tional Fine Cook­ing but­ter cook­ies with rasp­berry jam fill­ing and frost­ing.  And choco­latey cook­ies sprin­kled with salt from Bar­bara Lynch’s cook­book Stir.  (Run, don’t walk, make these cook­ies.)  And the best tof­fee you will ever eat, ever.

That’s right– recipe links.  In case you needed some last minute projects.

Bring on the hol­i­day shop­pers.  I have sugar, I will not be stopped.  I will smile at you and you will like it, you last minute shopper.

Also?  I have a rockin’ red $4.97 long-sleeved snow­man tee-shirt with rainbow-colored span­gles I picked up at Sears, because I told every­one at work I would bake if every­one wore Weasley sweaters or ugly, sparkly hol­i­day gear.  I’ma gonna wear it with my denim skirt and my fes­tive red clogs.

I might even bust out the antler head­band.  It’s Christ­mas.  Magic might happen.

Wish me luck.  And lots of hassle-free returns.

Horribly inappropriate and very funny site

It’s a weather site.  It tells you the tem­per­a­ture and fore­cast for your loca­tion, based on your ISP address.  There’s a blog and a com­ment form and the design is very, very sim­ple.  But there’s just enough edi­to­r­ial com­ment of the NSFW type to make it all so very worth­while.  In the vein of the peo­ple who know that the F-word is one of the most ver­sa­tile words in the Eng­lish lan­guage, I present (ok, fine, the BH told me about)– The Fuck­ing Weather.

Happy f-ing Memo­r­ial Day, all.  Hope it’s safe, healthy, and more fun than a bar­rel of f-ing monkeys.

Random thoughts and drunken etcetera

258 pho­tos at the Ferry Farmer’s Mar­ket– less fat­ten­ing than Cow­girl Cream­ery Cheese.

* * *

The Ferry Farmer’s Mar­ket: like heaven, just foggier.

* * *

BLC (out loud): (To guy nearly kneecap­ping me with his cane) Hey, watch it!

BLC (inter­nally): Oh, shit. Another blind guy.

* * *

I’ve never been afraid of heights before. But I tried to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge today, and only made it as far as the first tower before hyper­ven­ti­lat­ing. Wind + lots of traf­fic + wide expanses of incom­ing tide = hyper­ven­ti­la­tion. At least I got some good pic­tures. And the BH, trooper that he is, went to the mid­dle of the span for me to fin­ish out the photos.

* * *

None is more won­drous than man.” (Sopho­cles). I don’t often think this, but some­thing as arti­fi­cial, as inge­nious, as sci­en­tif­i­cally and aes­thet­i­cally designed as the Golden Gate Bridge? It makes me change my mind.

* * *

I should have done a pho­toes­say: “Glasses of BlogHer.” There were some seri­ously cool specs on offer this week­end. I love girls who wear glasses.

* * *

Two new verbs from the Bet­ter Half this weekend:

These [Zuni Cafe] fries are so good, I am going to invent a verb. I am going to ‘cookie mon­ster’ these.”

I don’t know what I want. I am going to just ‘Ste­vie Won­der’ here until I do.” (File under “going to hell.”)

* * *

Re: this morning’s crack-of-dawn cable car ride: “I love the smell of steel dust in the morning.”

* * *

There’s a blues/rock band on the cor­ner, and mar­i­juana smoke in the air. Sun­day night in Union Square.

* * *

The laugh­ter and spit takes after fin­ish­ing a bot­tle of wine? More than worth the fact that we’re too drunk to f*ck.

* * *

BLC: I never regret it [drunk­e­ness]– I never remem­ber it.

* * *

BLC to BH: That reduced liver func­tion whinge? It might work bet­ter if it wasn’t because of a bad McDLT.

BH: Yeah, but are you going to write “con­t­a­m­i­na­tion by fecal mat­ter” on your blog?

BLC: No, I don’t want the google hits.

(Ooops. Well, too late.)

* * *

You did NOT just lick the crema out of your cap­pu­cino cup, did you?