Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Kiss off, you fitness nazis

Today I learned that Healthworks is raising its fee by $10 per month, and I am incandescent with rage. The current fee is $79 unless you’re a student, so I’m now officially taking it up the butt from a place I dislike so much that I rarely even GO.

I joined Healthworks under duress last winter, when I was desperate for a gym within walking distance of my apartment that wasn’t Bally’s. I’d just exhausted a 2-week guest pass at the super-swank Healthpoint BSC club and was so glad that Healthworks had this one particular machine (that rotating stair machine that the HW organization dubbed “the gauntlet”) that I sucked up the exorbitant rates without a second thought, figuring I’d quit as soon as spring came around. But then summer was really hot and I was lazy, and then it was cold again.

I loathe Healthworks. They turned down half of the magazines that Carmen brought in, probably because the reading material wasn’t glossy or gossip-oriented. The first time I worked out there after I joined, I tried to use one of the elliptical trainers. One of the butch, ever-alert attendants curtly let me know that I’d forgotten to sign up for that particular piece of equipment and therefore had to relinquish it to someone who had.


If you live in Boston, you know that there are two types of women in this town: those with an unconditional love of Healthworks, and those who think the place is overhyped.

The Healthworks lovers are almost evangelical in their ardor. Get into a conversation about gyms with them and they will brook no criticism of their beloved house of fitness. “Oh my god, I LOVE IT there!” they say. “I live for their classes!” One woman I know once told me, “I don’t know what I’d do without Healthworks. I’m here every day.”

The women who don’t love Healthworks are a large and motley crew. Any woman (and it has to be a woman because Healthworks’ claim to fame is that they are a woman-only gym) who can’t afford their exorbitant fees or, if they do belong, can’t deal with the snotty attendants, doesn’t think the classes are all that, or finds the book-thick list of rules to be cumbersome—these women fall into the latter group. I am most definitely one of them.

They lure you in with their upscale, aesthetically pleasing ads on the T and in the Improper. And their facilities are nice. They have lots of equipment. The locker room in the Cambridge gym has a whirlpool that the resident lesbians love to congregate around, and the bathrooms are full of fliers advertising jewelry shows and expensive exercise training sessions. You can rent a towel for $1.50 or buy water for $1.50, and unless you remembered to bring your own water, you don’t have a choice about shelling out because the water fountains have been broken for the past three months.

I’ve sat through the “hour ride” spinning classes in which the instructor implored us not to push too hard. I’ve stretched through the “advanced vinyasa flow” yoga class, which was neither advanced nor vinyasa nor flow (it was a decent Iyengar class but they didn’t call it Iyengar, did they??). The instructor came over to me in the middle of a pose and had the gall to say, “I can tell that you have an advanced Ashtanga practice but we don’t do that here.” I’ve battled it out for the Gravitron machine, the situp mats, and the gauntlet machines (when they’re not broken), and I stuck out my complimentary personal training session with a male trainer who could clearly care less about building a clientele. And they are never open on holidays.

Somehow I rationalized the $80 monthly fee because the place was so convenient. But after today they can kiss my finely toned ass. They can shove their price hike and their upscale image.Bally’s might be ghetto but at least they don’t put on airs. I’d rather deal with crowds and older elliptical machines than put up with the Healthworks attitude any more.

The love molecule?

OK, the Italians are the last people I would have picked to be scientific about love and take all the romance out of it. Still, they’ve now proved that the honeymoon period doesn’t last longer than a year. Way to kill the buzz, guys. It's like analyzing a good book to the point where it's not enjoyable anymore. Why can't you just leave it be????

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

You don't belong here anymore

The cousins who hosted Thanksgiving are one of those exceptionally happy couples who have been married for a few years but still act like they just met yesterday. Their house is filled with wedding memorabilia--framed invitations, formal portraits, handmade house gifts, piles of photo albums. On the wall of the foyer is their seating chart from the reception, framed and calligraphed, another memory preserved. After handing over my coat, I scanned the chart and before I even saw it, I knew what I would find. There it was--Glenn's name next to mine. How annoying! He'd bitched and complained about going to that wedding, had snarked about my cousin's economies of scale and taste, had criticized their photographer for being piss poor and had generally been a pill. What right had he to have his name on their foyer wall? I wanted to take the chart down and erase those letters, delete his name like I've deleted him from my life and my family's life. He had no place in that house, even if it was just a name.

If only. Later, after the big meal, when my cousin's wife's mother and her partner were lounging around the family room asking questions about history, I stood on the fireplace hearth and looked up at a group photo my cousins had taken on the steps of the church where they'd married. There I was, grinning (I had been so cold), and there he was beside me in his cycling sunglasses, his receding hairline and Irish smile out there for all to see. All I could think of were those episodes of the X-Files where someone would fade out of a picture whenever they died or were dissappeared, and how much I wanted that to happen. Or maybe I could cut and paste a picture of Lunchboy in there. It was irritating. Glenn's face is the last one that my cousins should have looking down on them in their home. He has no place there or anywhere here. They are permanent and he wasn't.

Not for the faint of heart

My mind and my mood go in strange directions when my feet are up in stirrups. This morning I thought about:

--how, despite the elastic band that’s permanently around one of my wrists to get my hair out of my face, I’ve gotten whipped cream, mouthwash and pecan pie in my hair over the past week. Don’t tell me that my nipples are perky for a woman of my age unless you want me to spit mouthwash all over you. That’s just how I roll.
--I’m reading a book right now that’s all about the intricate workings of the female body and yet I didn’t know that there’s an area of the female anatomy called the vestibule. Is that where visitors are supposed to leave their coats and boots before entering the house? The things you can learn from the anatomical charts on the walls of a doctor’s office.
--Thank goodness some people know how to write about this stuff well because otherwise it’s so cold and clinical, or just bad.
--Why aren’t there more warming trays in the world?
--Why did the tradition of the red tent go out of style?
--Latin is pretty, especially when used in unexpected places.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Message CM-32

Earlier today I wasted 30 minutes arguing with a Cingular customer service rep about:

1. Needing to change my Los Angeles number to a Massachusetts number (for some reason, everyone in the 310 area code will have to add a two-digit prefix to their number within the next two months—blech)
2. Needing to upgrade my phone and
3. Wanting a phone offered on the Cingular web site but which the web site wouldn’t let me order online and, in fact, told me to call customer service about

It would have helped to get the right person on the phone, so I wish I had found this sooner. I want to give this guy a medal. Because I still have neither a new cell number nor a new phone.

They made a monkey out of old King Kong

I walked into my cousin’s house on Thursday and saw my brother first. He took one look at me—a critical once over complete with raised eyebrow—and said, “Do you want my lint brush?”

So much for saying hello.

Thanksgiving dinner was at my cousin’s house in Rhode Island. There were 14 of us there, which was sort of overwhelming at times but also a definite blessing because it meant that it wasn’t just my nuclear family being dysfunctional at home together. Last year was so bad that I swore I wouldn’t do it again----my brother was in top hyper ADD form, my mother was being her worst know-it-all self and my father was barely functional. My family needs buffer space. So when my cousin sent out an invitation for this year’s meal, I almost collapsed in relief.

Still, my father spent the whole day playing with my cousin’s baby son and giving me the occasional “So will we ever have grandchildren?” look. My mother got ahead of herself about Lunchboy and tried to be the center of attention, and my brother refused to drink anything except the bottle of Bordeaux that he brought with him. After all, this is the boy who once showed up 3.5 hours late for Christmas dinner, carrying a huge bag of lobster and steamers from Legal Seafood that he wanted to cook. Immediately. He didn't understand that 1. he'd missed dinner 2. we'd all eaten and 3. seafood for Christmas dinner was the last thing my mother wanted. He got offended by our “You did this why?” response because he'd spent $80 on the food, so we had to cook it and eat it. Such is the way things happen in my parent’s house. So I am very thankful for cousins. Even when they say things like, “I could never live in the city. Where would I put my firepit?”

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Colon blow

Carmen is going to have the best Thanksgiving ever. My friend Laurie had turducken at her wedding and it was to die for (isn't that so much more fun than filet mignon or chicken piccata?) Suddenly turducken is everywhere. National Geographic just did a feature on it. I want to make it for the Super Bowl. Although I think the boys might want the tur-pork-hen. Just...ew.


Last night I dragged my tired ass to Baptiste for the first time in weeks. The studio was incredibly crowded and everyone was buzzing, but I was too out of it to think about why until the instructor walked through the door--and it was Baron. Baptiste classes are always challenging but while I've heard people describe his style as "boot camp yoga," I never really understood why until last night. By the end of the class, you could have wiped the floor with me.

It was sort of funny, though. Baron's class felt like he was saying the same things he says in every class. And he kept getting things mixed up--like saying dandasana instead of danurasana, or drishti instead of ujai, or anjali mudra instead of samasatihi. I know it's snarky but it's not meant to be. I was just like, "Are you phoning this in?" That said, I'll go back tomorrow night because the workout was amazing.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Rocks in my shoes

The weird dreams just keep on coming. Friday night brought an epic saga that made me wish I had any kind of fiction writing talent because on a scale of 1-10, the level of strangeness was 11+. I know there’s nothing more boring than reading about other people’s dreams, but if you’re into secret alien colonies that are trying to impregnate unsuspecting women who they then turn into procreating zombies, let me know and I’ll be happy to elaborate.

I’m not sure what was scarier—-being hunted down by strange dream men who wanted me to bear their alien progeny, braving the Burlington Mall on Saturday or surviving the chaos of Stop&Shop last night. Somebody give me some eggnog (or a caramel crème latte from Dunkin’ Donuts spiked with…anything) because I’m not sure I can deal with the whirlwind that is the holidays. This is supposed to be a time of thankfulness and familial warmth, but the idea of dealing with people in any way, shape or form right now makes me want to hide.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Things certain people have always wanted to say

Overheard at the mall today:

"Now my fingers smell like Britney Spears..."
(after sniffing Fantasy and Curious at the Macy's perfume counter)

(A couple standing in front of the Batman ornament selection at a Christmas ornament kiosk)
"I OWN that already!"
"And you're proud of this?"
"I have the whole collection."
"That's because you're a DORK!"

Friday, November 18, 2005

Blue moon

It’s a full moon and I'm in a funk. Not the good Funkadelic sort, either. I wore my tall black boots to work today in an effort to add some zing to life, but no dice. The moon makes everyone sort of ungrounded--at least that’s what my yoga instructor said last night. At first I thought she was saying that the full moon was next week and that’s when I realized how ungrounded I felt. Full moons are weird. Things have felt off-kilter all week—just unbalanced enough to cause discomfort, even when I wasn’t awake. My dreams have been epic sagas replete with unprocessed emotional crap that only a full moon could dredge up. Broken friendships, old homes, childhood dramas, places I miss but suddenly can’t remember clearly. I wake up after sleeping hard and find that I still feel unrested.

Despite the lack of grounding, I came through tittibasana and bhakasana from my totally hack supta kurmasana for the first time in class last night. It wasn’t pretty but it was there.

L and I went to see Derailed on Wednesday and it was terrible. In the middle of a particularly violent scene, a man got up from his seat behind us and started yelling at a cinema employee in another row. It was so jarring that an older couple gathered their coats and left. I wanted to leave, too.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

The cherry patch

Talk about strange fruit. In a very weird way, I'm happy she's doing this. Not that I plan on partaking, but it's nice to know that all those bachelorette parties in Vegas will have some new options.

Right back where we started from

Last night I dreamed about the Santa Monicas. I was hiking in the foothills and suddenly I began to cry when I realized how much I missed the mountains.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

AIM no more

For some unknown reason, my company decided to block access to all instant messaging programs last week, a move which has frustrated me to no end. Yes, AIM was a total time suck but it also made the days where I have nothing to do go by much faster. Believe it or not, I actually used the stupid thing for business purposes from time to time so blocking AIM is actually counterproductive on many levels. Alas.

I just bottomed out my 4th bottle of Robitussin this week.

Cheeeeeese, Gromit

The Wallace Effect hits England!

Monday, November 14, 2005

The new monogamy

New York Magazine's annual sex issue looks at some interesting concepts, including the way some couples are opening the door to outside experiences.

"For much of human history, monogamy (or, at least, presumed monogamy) has been the default setting for long-term love. Hack the system, goes the theory, refuse to forsake all others, open the door even a crack—and the whole relationship will crash. Any dissenters have been pathologized as delusional idealists or worse. But now a new generation of couples is employing a kind of homeopathic hypothesis: that a tiny injection of adventure will ward off the urge to stray further—as long as it’s all on the table and up for discussion. (And just as with homeopathy, a healthy percentage of the population considers this premise bunk.)"

I kind of think this is a load of crap. Clearly there are people capable of having this kind of open relationship and more power to them. But let's not get all excited and make it out to be a trend. Maybe I'm just too traditional to be hip. I like the idea of a relationship strong enough to go through changes of all sorts, including the desire of one or both partners to branch out at whatever level is acceptable to them. I want the kind of openness in which everything can be put on the table without judgment. But at the same time, I feel like if what you really want is to screw around on a regular basis, why bother being in a committed relationship at all? I guess I'm just a one-man woman at heart.

The article's authors make the point that maybe being bisexual is the new requirement for being the perfect girlfriend. I hate the whole "perfect girlfriend" thing. It's a pointless, deadly trap that keeps you from ever being yourself, except when it's convenient or pleasing to your partner. Like Ariel Levy's book asserts, it looks like relationships and passion in general have become very consumerist. Levy, herself a New York Magazine writer, looks at the mainstreaming of raunch culture in light of how women are getting in on the act and participating in their own exploitation. Basically, Levy says that smart, intelligent women are buying into sexual stereotypes to make themselves feel more liberated and come off as supercool to their boyfriends.

Not that I'm saying monogamy is the only way to go, or that women can't be empowered by their own sexuality. I just question the motives behind the way these things are sometimes expressed.

Thank you

To whoever left a bag of sick supplies on my doorstep last week. My roommate brought them in and left them on the table, and I thought they were hers until tonight, when she told me someone had dropped them off. So I'm sorry it's taken this long to say thank you. THANK YOU!! I owe you a big batch of chicken soup or a good dinner. You're a lifesaver.

OK, it's time to put down the celebrity gossip magazines

On Friday night I dreamed that I saw Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson in the airport. I was on my way to Philadelphia (for no apparent reason) and they were sitting on the floor in a corner, trying not to be seen. They were fighting. Jessica was wearing some horrendous multicolored gypsy skirt and cowboy boots, and Nick was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. In the dream, I had some weird connection with them, like we’d been friends before they turned into fame-bound ho bags. When I saw them, I walked over and asked if there was anything I could do to help them get over the fight they were in. Then I offered them my Honda Civic so they could leave without being pounced upon by the paparazzi. Instead, Jessica invited me to this German class she was taking (at the airport)? I said yes and when the class was over I couldn’t find my luggage.

Friday, November 11, 2005


It is Friday after all...

My surrogate kitties:

Scully puss!

Shelter cuteness:

And the parking nazi holds sway over all

Let me just say that the Somerville parking police can kiss my ass. I got to my car this morning to find a ticket tucked under my wiper blade, despite the guest parking permit prominently displayed on my windshield. The $40 ticket was for “guest permit abuse.” Apparently it’s not kosher for me use my guest permit to park at Lunchboy’s house more than two nights a week.

Hence the “kiss my ass.” I used to think the Cambridge parking police were hardcore but this is insane. I live in Cambridge and if you have a parking permit in your car, they let you park wherever, whenever. My old roommate had a guest permit in her windshield for a year and a half and never got nailed for “guest permit abuse.” It’s a total load of crap. There’s never a lack of parking on Lunchboy’s street, so it’s not like I’m taking up any resident spaces. Most of the houses there have driveways anyway.

My theory is that this particular parking nazi lives on Lunchboy’s street. Why? Because he strikes at any time of day or night and he has no mercy. One friend parked there for a half hour in the middle of the afternoon when he came over to help set up the new grill and he got slapped with a ticket. Another person got ticketed at 10pm on a Friday night. Last week I got hit at 6am. This guy is nothing less than territorial. His boss must love his ass for pulling in so much revenue from tickets.

There are a couple of solutions to the problem. 1. switch guest permits; 2. park on the next street over where there are no permit restrictions; 3. bribe the parking officer; 4. get a Somerville parking sticker. The latter would require me to reregister my car in Somerville and change my address so I’d have proof of residency. Option 4 is what we like to call “forward-looking.” While there is some anxiety involved (because, well, you never know), even Mr. Spock would agree that it’s the most logical choice in the near term. I’m at Lunchboy’s house anywhere from 4-6 nights a week. We do our laundry, dry cleaning and food shopping together. My magazines are mailed to his address because someone in my apartment building started stealing them from the bulk mail bin. On the weekends I only go back to my place to get clothes and feed Scully. At some point we have to stop playing semantic games and face up to reality. Not that we haven’t discussed it—we have. But we agreed not to bring it up again until the spring. So in the end we’ll see. I’m still in no rush, though clearly the parking nazi has other ideas.

This, however, perked up my day. Whenever I tell people that I was Princess Leia for Halloween eight years running, people (ie boys) always ask, “Did you wear the gold bikini????” No, I didn’t but maybe now I will.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

What I need

Even my girls couldn't poke through this.

From SFGate. It's the Warm Biz Bra, the latest in environmentally correct lingerie, in Tokyo. The soft, cushy bra lifts, separates and most importantly, insulates. I don't know if it fits under work clothes but hey.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

A few of my favorite things

I am addicted to the cotton boyshorts underpantsfrom Target. Especially the Supergirl ones (why don't they have them online???). They speak to my childhood love of Underoos. Plus, they are super comfy and sexier than Hanes Her Way. I think Magpie once told me that boy shorts get rid of VPL but they kind of don't. Who cares--I heart them.

Digital ghosts

"The real secrets are not the ones I tell."--Mason Cooley

Everyone has secrets. They are a weight we all carry--that's just a fact of life. No matter how benign they are or how hard we try not to think about them, secrets are never a light burden. Holding things close to the vest is part of human nature, of individual identity, and it's ingrained in the ego because secrets make us feel certain ways that are secret unto themselves. Whether it's titillation, humiliation, pride, guilt, satifaction or despair, the things we don't tell anyone have emotional repercussions that lead us to do things we might not otherwise do. You might think something is secret but those who know you well can feel the veil of concealment behind what is said or unsaid. No matter how deep they are tucked away, secrets can be as tangible as lies.

Which is why secrets have a tendency to work themselves out into the open, whether it's by anonymous submission, subconscious oversight, or surreptitious investigation.

We all have things tucked away that we don't want anyone to find. Photos, letters, emails, IMs. Conversations that crossed a line but were too fun to cut off. Pictures that are inappropriate but impossible to delete. Doors that are kept open because it feels good to know you have options, to know you're wanted. Boxes of ex-boyfriend/girlfriend memorabilia that don't mean much anymore but that you can't let go of.

My friend T found lascivious videos of a coworker on the computer she shared with her ex-husband, and that's how she knew something was seriously awry. I found Glenn's letters to the trollop on the desktop of our computer because he didn't work very hard to hide them. The emails I had to go digging for, but I only dug because I knew there was a reason to do so. Another friend found suggestive photos that her husband's "friend" had been sending him just to keep things spicy, because that's the kind of connection they had.

When you have trust issues, it's hard not to go searching for the things you don't want to know. But it's imperative to hold back. I've only given in once and felt terrible about it afterward. Still, you have to draw the line between what's appropriate and what's not, what's acceptable and what's not. Some secrets are not okay, no matter how fun or flirty they might be.

My shrink calls it being hypervigilant--that overwhelming need to constantly be aware of whatever's coming down the pike. It's from the fear of being the last to know something, of having the rug yanked out from under me again at the last second. It's not fair or rational or logical. But how do you reconcile secrets and trust? How can you place any weight on words when you know there could be evidence to the contrary? Of course, it goes both ways. At some point I just have to let it go and have faith, so that I can be trusted, too. I have to shut my brain off because otherwise past pain ends up poisoning the present. But I do think that trust requires some level of evidence. Otherwise talk is cheap.

This is what I get for taking too many flu drugs and letting my thoughts run wild.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005


I'm home sick with the flu. Everything hurts. I can't get comfortable anywhere--on the couch, in bed, on the floor. Scully is no help. Animals are supposed to be empathic and supportive when their people get sick, but Scully is perfectly happy to nap on the other side of the apartment from me. Forget the fact that I provide her with food and love--she can't be bothered with my squirming around.

Because I'm never home very much, I have no sick food in the house. There's a random box of crackers and some strawberry jam for toast but otherwise I'm relying on my roommate's stash of chamomile tea. Oh, the packaged soup, soda, and saltines--they are so close and yet so far away. Brooks is around the corner but I can't seem to get further than the hallway before I need to sit down again. Everyone has their own sick food. My old roommate liked plain white rice when she was ill. An old boyfriend needed ginger ale and alphabet soup. I like chicken-flavored ramen and saltines with strawberry jam on them. It sounds gross but it works for me.

My mother would sigh and tell me to buck up and go to the store. If only I could let myself be a baby about being sick, but I always just feel badly for being a wuss. Unlike every man I've ever known--what is it about men and their ability to turn into complete drama queens when they're sick. It's like no one in the world has ever had a cold before. Instead, I'm perched uncomfortably on the couch and watching bad daytime TV. When exactly did it get to be this bad?? Somehow I found a Star Trek: TNG marathon on Spike, but while I was flipping channels, I passed a Who's The Boss reunion, some bad reality crap and about 17 different soap operas. When I was 11, I got into a couple of soaps and the scary thing is that Days of Our Lives STILL STARS the people who were on in 1986, and they don't look any older. Ah, the wonders of Botox and liposuction.

OK, I need more Tylenol.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Fleeing the shark tank

A bunch of us took my friend T out to the MFA First Friday last week. It's been about 7 months since she and her husband split up and she decided that she was ready to put her toe in the dating pool. We offered to be wingmen. Or wingwomen. Whathaveyou. But it was something of a disaster. I used to look at people who brought their SO to the MFA and think, "Don't mess this up for us single people!" It's hard enough trying to tell who's a normal person there without having to wonder if they're attached. But it's just as icky going there as a couple because then you have to watch your SO get hit on. Even when you're crazy happy together and you can think, "Ha ha, I'm going home with them," that's never a fun experience.

It was really loud and crowded. The shark tanky behavior of the men didn't make T feel attractive, it just made her sad. Lunchboy stepped up and tried to take her on a scouting mission, but they ended up retreating to the America's Cup exhibit because T loves boats and the boats made her happier than the men upstairs. I think she expected to meet someone that night because when your heart's broken you can't help but hope for a knight (or night) in shining armor, but the MFA isn't really the place for that. I felt badly for making her sad. Boston is a tough place to be alone.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Bow before her

Megan deserves these shoes because SHE PASSED THE BAR. Mean G, you're a rock star!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Running blind

Over dinner at Redbones tonight, I talked to my college roommate's sister about relationships. I wanted her advice. She's younger than me and has been married for four years. She and her husband have a spectacularly good, solid relationship. For some reason, dinner made me need to know how a good relationship works. Because I'm not sure I know how anymore. I know how to start off good, but then it always seems to trail off into months of need and expectation and distance. That's not the case right now, but I don't want it to be the case ever. So I asked how they made it work.

"When you really love someone," she said. "You don't ever want to hurt them. You'll do anything to keep from hurting them. So even when you fight, you don't get spiteful. You don't use what you know about that person that's hurtful. It's a really thin line but it's a line you don't want to cross."

She talked a lot about the importance of making sure you keep the foundational basics in mind every day: trust, honesty, respect, communication. If you respect each other, you'll never be afraid to open up with the person, she told me. You'll always feel safe.

"Did you ever read that book, He's Just Not That Into You?" she asked me.

"No," I told her. I haven't. I refused to read it because when it came out, I was in a place where I really needed to not distrust every guy I met.

"It has some good points. If you really pay attention to the little things a guy does, his unconscious behavior toward you, you can tell exactly where you rank in his life,"she said. "It has to be more than saying something for the sake of saying it. Love isn't just words, it's every day actions. You can say you respect and value someone, but if you act the opposite way, it's clear what's really going on."

I don't know why I needed to hear this from her tonight of all times. Maybe corn fritters and hush puppies make me want to know the way of things. Sometimes it's just disorienting to know that there's no logical path when it comes to the heart. You can't say, "If I do this, than this will happen."

On my way home, I rubbed my eye and found an eyelash on my fingertip. Eyelash wishes lost their power for me a while ago, but I blew on it nonetheless. I don't know why I'm feeling so skeptical about life, the universe and everything tonight but I am.

Beautiful and deadly

The Golden Gate Bridge is getting a lot of press these days. Lots of people want the bridge to have a suicide barrier, but a lot of other people think it would be aesthetically unpleasing to have a net or something up there. I don’t live in San Francisco so I’m not going to make judgments about the issue, but I can say that every time I’ve driven over the Golden Gate, I’ve thought about Tad Friend’s story in the New Yorker.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Mouse serenade

Birds do it. Whales do it. Bats do it. Now scientists have discovered that mice sing when in the presence of their mates.

When I think of mice singing, all I can picture are the mice narrators from Babe.

Look at your watch now

Last year I was a gogo girl for Halloween. This year I was a Gwen Stefani fan—same gogo boots but with a teenybopper attitude. Gwen was amazing. She pogoed in hot pants. She put the Black Eyed Peas to shame. Her Harajuku Girls were sassy dancing fiends. It was B.A.N.A.N.A.S.

The show kicked ass but Boston was not ready for La Stefani. From our nosebleed seats way up in the top balcony, we had a clear view of the floor and no one down there was dancing. No waving arms, no jumping on chairs, no gyrating. They just stood there, as if dancing to “What You Waiting For?” was the most uncool thing ever. Seeing as they were all about 17 (we were the oldest people there with the exception of the parents who were chaperoning their kids), their sense of cool was probably more well defined than mine, and apparently screaming and sending text messages to the giant screen next to the stage are cooler than dancing. But still--how do you not dance to “Rich Girl?” Gwen picked up on the audience apathy pretty fast. By the end of the second song, she was like “What’s up with this town? You’re all shy!” I was like, welcome to the land of the puritans, honey.

Today my feet are torn up from dancing in gogo boots, and I am definitely not a rich girl after dropping $80 at the T-shirt stand, but it was worth it.