Things that make me happy:
1. Quiet time on the couch with Lunchboy and the cats
2. Clean sheets, a down comforter and cool fall nights (read: good sleeping weather)
3. The end of baseball season—no more packed Green Line trains at rush hour
4. The little dances that wide receivers do after they get a touchdown
5. New issues of Vanity Fair, US Weekly and the New Yorker on my nightstand
6. The walk home from the Hancock tower to Union Square
7. Harvest pumpkin soup and any sandwich from ABP. I eat there 3-4 times a week—it’s getting out of hand.
8. When Scully falls asleep on my arm
9. When Cringer catches a milk bottle tab and sings so that we’ll know she’s killed her prey
10. Griffin curled up on my chest purring so hard that it’s a miracle she doesn’t have smoke coming out her ears
11. 200 pages left in a book I can’t put down
12. The clean calmness that comes after a good yoga practice
13. Coming home after the cleaning crew has been there
14. The ability to let go
15. When Lunchboy walks through the door on Thursday nights.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Not done baking--warm, delicious cookie me only months away
I feel like I blink and the week is over. There is no time and when there is time there is no energy. Work is good but very busy, which means no time to blog. I’m not complaining—I’d rather be busy than bored. By the time I get home at night, the last thing I want to do is look at the computer. Hence the lack of posts. Also, I can’t think of anything to write about. Every time an idea comes to mind, I feel like it sounds complainy and since my New Years resolution for 2006 was to think positively, I am trying finish up the year strong.
I could write about our weekend at Lunchboy’s company retreat in Pennsylvania this past weekend, but that was definitely not a positive experience.
Last night I dreamed that the Armstrongs lived around the corner. I kept going by to hang out with Heather, Jon and Leta, but I was doing something wrong—I don’t know what it was, but I just had a feeling that I was behaving inappropriately even though I wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing that was inappropriate, so they politely but firmly asked me not to come back.
The dream had more to do with the fact that I feel like I’m not being a very good friend right now than with the excessive number of blogs that I read (although who knows—I only realized my celebrity gossip habit was out of hand when I got a pedicure in LA and recognized 4-year-old Ava Witherspoon-Phillipe before I recognized her mother, so maybe dreaming about people I have only ever read about online is not a good sign). No time and no energy make Moxie a less empathic person. Now that daylight savings is in effect, I feel extra hibernatory. I don’t feel like I’m being very genuine or present in my friendships, and I’m certainly not putting as much effort into them as usual. I’m sorry—I will try to do better. My parents complained about this and all I could give them was that analogy from Buffy—right now my life is cookie dough. Once it’s cookies I’ll be back in the game. That should happen right around the beginning of March. My shrink says I have to stop trying to make everyone in my life happy, and while that’s easier said than done I am giving it my best shot.
I could write about our weekend at Lunchboy’s company retreat in Pennsylvania this past weekend, but that was definitely not a positive experience.
Last night I dreamed that the Armstrongs lived around the corner. I kept going by to hang out with Heather, Jon and Leta, but I was doing something wrong—I don’t know what it was, but I just had a feeling that I was behaving inappropriately even though I wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing that was inappropriate, so they politely but firmly asked me not to come back.
The dream had more to do with the fact that I feel like I’m not being a very good friend right now than with the excessive number of blogs that I read (although who knows—I only realized my celebrity gossip habit was out of hand when I got a pedicure in LA and recognized 4-year-old Ava Witherspoon-Phillipe before I recognized her mother, so maybe dreaming about people I have only ever read about online is not a good sign). No time and no energy make Moxie a less empathic person. Now that daylight savings is in effect, I feel extra hibernatory. I don’t feel like I’m being very genuine or present in my friendships, and I’m certainly not putting as much effort into them as usual. I’m sorry—I will try to do better. My parents complained about this and all I could give them was that analogy from Buffy—right now my life is cookie dough. Once it’s cookies I’ll be back in the game. That should happen right around the beginning of March. My shrink says I have to stop trying to make everyone in my life happy, and while that’s easier said than done I am giving it my best shot.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Two point conversion
I’m sick from dinner last night and also from the fact that thank you cards at Paper Source cost $24 for a box of 8. That’s highway robbery. Did I buy them? No. I know crafty people who make their own stationery and I admire them but I’m a bit too lazy for that. It could also be the bad chicken/shrimp that’s making me want to go back to bed.
We have a cake and a menu, but still no honeymoon. The honeymoon is proving to be surprisingly challenging, mostly due to the scarcity of travel agents. Mark that—the scarcity of good travel agents. We’ve found a couple that were more than willing to book us into hotels with terrible reviews or onto cruises that we didn’t want to take, but we’re still looking for someone who can help us find what we’re looking for. It would help if we really knew what we wanted, but that’s the fun of spontaneity. Hawaii? Sure! The Caribbean? Me likey the sun. But please, no open-air hotel rooms where the likelihood of spiders on my face at 2am is incredibly high.
Last night I dreamed that I was Deuce McAllister’s high school girlfriend, and I’d come back from the future to tell him what college football program he should pick to jumpstart his NFL career. This probably means that I need to cut way back on my Sunday football watching, but hey—it’s such a lovely way to zone out.
We have a cake and a menu, but still no honeymoon. The honeymoon is proving to be surprisingly challenging, mostly due to the scarcity of travel agents. Mark that—the scarcity of good travel agents. We’ve found a couple that were more than willing to book us into hotels with terrible reviews or onto cruises that we didn’t want to take, but we’re still looking for someone who can help us find what we’re looking for. It would help if we really knew what we wanted, but that’s the fun of spontaneity. Hawaii? Sure! The Caribbean? Me likey the sun. But please, no open-air hotel rooms where the likelihood of spiders on my face at 2am is incredibly high.
Last night I dreamed that I was Deuce McAllister’s high school girlfriend, and I’d come back from the future to tell him what college football program he should pick to jumpstart his NFL career. This probably means that I need to cut way back on my Sunday football watching, but hey—it’s such a lovely way to zone out.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Asclepias syriaca
On Sunday, we took advantage of the Patriots bye week and went apple picking. Which is to say, when the concept of a Sunday without mandatory football was broached, I latched onto it like a leech on those kids in Stand by Me and decided it was time to do something involving fresh air and seasonal fun. Don’t get me wrong—I am enjoying the football this year. But it’s good to mix things up a bit.
We went to an orchard in Groton because it’s late in the apple season and most of the orchards we found online were closed for picking. On the way out on 119, we passed a pumpkin patch. Not one of those roadside stalls piled high with pumpkins, but a real pick-your-own pumpkin patch. Neither of us had ever been to one of those before, so we pulled over and walked down to where the pumpkin vines covered a ten-acre field like old, gnarled knuckles. As we walked, the patch’s owner passed us on his tractor and roared out an extremely loud greeting. We giggled. Everyone was happy at the patch. Among the misshapen, the rotted, the still mostly green, and the way too big for our needs pumpkins, we found one that was just right, as well as a couple of brightly colored gourds. Carrying our finds back up the hill, the jocular farmer passed us again and roared out something else to the group he had on his hay-covered flatbed. If Santa Claus was real, he’d sound like this guy. We are so going back next year.
The orchard, once we found it, was perfect. Though we were late enough in the season that most of the trees only had apples on the top branches, this meant that we almost had the place to ourselves and that was better than picking at the height of the season. No jockeying for ladders with 6-year olds, no getting clocked on the head by apples that someone high in the tree shakes down by accident. We filled our two bags leisurely, climbing trees when we wanted to and walking between the rows in whichever direction seemed best. Along the way, I rediscovered a childhood obsession that I’d completely forgotten about---milkweed pods. They were everywhere, sprouting big white tufts of silky seed pods just begging to be flung in the air. So I flung—and flung and flung and flung. At some point in life I want milkweed in my back yard so that I can regress to age 5 whenever fall rolls around.
Then, tired and jonesing for apple cider doughnuts, we went home and watched football.
We went to an orchard in Groton because it’s late in the apple season and most of the orchards we found online were closed for picking. On the way out on 119, we passed a pumpkin patch. Not one of those roadside stalls piled high with pumpkins, but a real pick-your-own pumpkin patch. Neither of us had ever been to one of those before, so we pulled over and walked down to where the pumpkin vines covered a ten-acre field like old, gnarled knuckles. As we walked, the patch’s owner passed us on his tractor and roared out an extremely loud greeting. We giggled. Everyone was happy at the patch. Among the misshapen, the rotted, the still mostly green, and the way too big for our needs pumpkins, we found one that was just right, as well as a couple of brightly colored gourds. Carrying our finds back up the hill, the jocular farmer passed us again and roared out something else to the group he had on his hay-covered flatbed. If Santa Claus was real, he’d sound like this guy. We are so going back next year.
The orchard, once we found it, was perfect. Though we were late enough in the season that most of the trees only had apples on the top branches, this meant that we almost had the place to ourselves and that was better than picking at the height of the season. No jockeying for ladders with 6-year olds, no getting clocked on the head by apples that someone high in the tree shakes down by accident. We filled our two bags leisurely, climbing trees when we wanted to and walking between the rows in whichever direction seemed best. Along the way, I rediscovered a childhood obsession that I’d completely forgotten about---milkweed pods. They were everywhere, sprouting big white tufts of silky seed pods just begging to be flung in the air. So I flung—and flung and flung and flung. At some point in life I want milkweed in my back yard so that I can regress to age 5 whenever fall rolls around.
Then, tired and jonesing for apple cider doughnuts, we went home and watched football.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Strange Celebrity Dreams p.2
Last night I dreamed that Lunchboy and I had a threesome with Kristen Bell, who plays Veronica Mars. She was an active closet lesbian and snuck up on me in the shower.
No Colbert this time--sorry.
Now, let it be known that while Ms. Bell is certainly pretty, she is not on my "women don't do it for me but she would be an exception" list. Nor is she on Lunchboy's list (he says), though I'm sure he wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers. His response to me telling him about the dream went something like this:
"Ewww. She's not very hot. But YAY for the concept!!!"
Right. That'll happen as soon as I can hop in the sack with McSteamy and Clive Owen.
No Colbert this time--sorry.
Now, let it be known that while Ms. Bell is certainly pretty, she is not on my "women don't do it for me but she would be an exception" list. Nor is she on Lunchboy's list (he says), though I'm sure he wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers. His response to me telling him about the dream went something like this:
"Ewww. She's not very hot. But YAY for the concept!!!"
Right. That'll happen as soon as I can hop in the sack with McSteamy and Clive Owen.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Driven
Last week on Grey's Anatomy, Meredith had a great line in the middle of one of her great rants. "You have no idea how much effort this takes!" she yells at McVet and McSteamy. "I am plucked and waxed and shaved, and I have a clean shirt on. And all you can do is look at each other!"
It's no secret that upkeep is a bitch. In relationships, it can get easy to let things slide because really--what are they going to do if you aren't as polished as usual? In the past, with other men, I let things go a bit because I felt strongly that the men should love me no matter what I was wearing or how smooth my legs were, an argument that still rings true but only to a point. Lunchboy WOULD love me no matter what, but I choose not to walk that line.
That said, I had a moment of reflection last night while on the aesthetician's table. "Why do you do this?" she asked, after watching me flinch and bite my lip in pain. "I don't understand why this is all the rage." She's Indian and salt of the earth, and is clearly befuddled by all the women she sees who dislike their body hair. I didn't know what to tell her. Everyone has their reasons for the things they do. I know what mine are, but I wasn't going to say them out loud.
It's no secret that upkeep is a bitch. In relationships, it can get easy to let things slide because really--what are they going to do if you aren't as polished as usual? In the past, with other men, I let things go a bit because I felt strongly that the men should love me no matter what I was wearing or how smooth my legs were, an argument that still rings true but only to a point. Lunchboy WOULD love me no matter what, but I choose not to walk that line.
That said, I had a moment of reflection last night while on the aesthetician's table. "Why do you do this?" she asked, after watching me flinch and bite my lip in pain. "I don't understand why this is all the rage." She's Indian and salt of the earth, and is clearly befuddled by all the women she sees who dislike their body hair. I didn't know what to tell her. Everyone has their reasons for the things they do. I know what mine are, but I wasn't going to say them out loud.
Morning sugar
Jelly Belly jelly beans are by far the best beans out there, but they have one downside: you have to eat them one by one. Otherwise, instead of getting a pleasant mouthful of generically yummy sweetness, you get a mishmash of flavors that, separately, taste delicious but together taste like cough syrup.
Pick up this week’s issue of the Improper Bostonian. C-love has a kickass article about eating solo. There’s a lot to be said for eating alone and she does a really good job at explaining why it’s fun, even for people who avoid eating by themselves at all costs.
Pick up this week’s issue of the Improper Bostonian. C-love has a kickass article about eating solo. There’s a lot to be said for eating alone and she does a really good job at explaining why it’s fun, even for people who avoid eating by themselves at all costs.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Tastes like sugar
Last night I went to Cambridge Naturals to get a refill of my daily multi-vitamin. After prying my way through the safety seal and the wad of cotton before breakfast this morning, I discovered an object with which I once had a very close acquaintance: the silica gel pack.
When I was about six, I somehow got ahold of a bottle of vitamins—or maybe it was something else, I don’t remember but whatever it was had one of the silica packs. Anyway, I thought the silica pack looked like a single serving piece of candy, so I ate the whole thing. Down the hatch. Noticing that I was chewing on something, my mother figured out what I’d done, promptly had a small coronary and called poison control, who told her to feed me lots of oatmeal. Not feeling sick in the slightest, I had no clue why she was so upset. I was only disappointed that the silica hadn’t tasted like candy. It turned out fine. But now I smile whenever I see a silica gel pack.
When I was about six, I somehow got ahold of a bottle of vitamins—or maybe it was something else, I don’t remember but whatever it was had one of the silica packs. Anyway, I thought the silica pack looked like a single serving piece of candy, so I ate the whole thing. Down the hatch. Noticing that I was chewing on something, my mother figured out what I’d done, promptly had a small coronary and called poison control, who told her to feed me lots of oatmeal. Not feeling sick in the slightest, I had no clue why she was so upset. I was only disappointed that the silica hadn’t tasted like candy. It turned out fine. But now I smile whenever I see a silica gel pack.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
I don't keep going and going and going
My batteries are running low—literally. Last week the battery on my Mac laptop gave out, leading to a series of frustrating and disillusioning interactions with the people at my local Apple store. Then last night, the water bottle in my yoga bag spilled all over my cell phone and the battery did a little vibrating jig before it kicked the bucket. Apple is sending me a new battery but I have to head over to the Cingular store at lunch to see what I can do about the phone. What’s next—my watch? My car? It’s been an anti-Midas week, where everything I touch breaks. I won’t get into the mishap with Lunchboy’s Gamecube on Saturday, except to say that it was totally accidental.
After three blissful months of local projects that kept him home, Lunchboy is back on the road again for the foreseeable future. We are back to weeks measured by the time between when he leaves on Monday and gets back on Thursday. I get lonely and miss him when he’s away, but he’s the one stuck at Logan for 4 hours after getting up for a 6am flight. He’s the one who won’t get home until 11pm on Thursday. The cats don’t know what’s going on. They keep giving me these looks like, “WTF? Where IS he?”
Last night was the first night in months that I’ve slept alone, and I kept having extremely vivid dreams that there was someone else in the house, or that there was an intruder in the condo upstairs (I’m catsitting for our neighbors while they’re on their honeymoon). Usually I feel very safe in the house but without a working phone I felt vulnerable and powerless. In the dreams, I’d scream “Get out! Get out!” at the intruder, but then realize that I couldn’t call for help. Today, very tired.
After three blissful months of local projects that kept him home, Lunchboy is back on the road again for the foreseeable future. We are back to weeks measured by the time between when he leaves on Monday and gets back on Thursday. I get lonely and miss him when he’s away, but he’s the one stuck at Logan for 4 hours after getting up for a 6am flight. He’s the one who won’t get home until 11pm on Thursday. The cats don’t know what’s going on. They keep giving me these looks like, “WTF? Where IS he?”
Last night was the first night in months that I’ve slept alone, and I kept having extremely vivid dreams that there was someone else in the house, or that there was an intruder in the condo upstairs (I’m catsitting for our neighbors while they’re on their honeymoon). Usually I feel very safe in the house but without a working phone I felt vulnerable and powerless. In the dreams, I’d scream “Get out! Get out!” at the intruder, but then realize that I couldn’t call for help. Today, very tired.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Chicken or fish?
Was it me or did last night’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy suck big donkey balls? The Office, however? SO GOOD.
Today was my first windy day at work. Until now, I’d forgotten that the Hancock tower is in a wind tunnel but I’ll never forget again. I was sitting in my boss’ office and the room filled with a very loud creaking sound, like a porch swing on crack. Judging from the noise, the building was moving several feet back and forth. The swaying was so marked that our design director’s office door kept swinging open and closed of its own accord. It’s kind of freaky being this far up in the air and knowing that the building is moving underneath your feet, even if the building is constructed to respond to wind pressure. I hear it’s even worse being in the elevators because they SWAY as they zip up and down.
Must think about something else now.
The weatherman on the evening news last night said the F-word. Luckily there was no frost on the ground this morning. But when I woke up, all three cats were huddled on the bed, seeking as much warmth as possible. The formal countdown to the first fur-pile begins…now.
Today was my first windy day at work. Until now, I’d forgotten that the Hancock tower is in a wind tunnel but I’ll never forget again. I was sitting in my boss’ office and the room filled with a very loud creaking sound, like a porch swing on crack. Judging from the noise, the building was moving several feet back and forth. The swaying was so marked that our design director’s office door kept swinging open and closed of its own accord. It’s kind of freaky being this far up in the air and knowing that the building is moving underneath your feet, even if the building is constructed to respond to wind pressure. I hear it’s even worse being in the elevators because they SWAY as they zip up and down.
Must think about something else now.
The weatherman on the evening news last night said the F-word. Luckily there was no frost on the ground this morning. But when I woke up, all three cats were huddled on the bed, seeking as much warmth as possible. The formal countdown to the first fur-pile begins…now.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Too punchy for paragraphs
1. Photographer—check. I agonized over this decision but it is made. Moving on.
2. Seeing florist this weekend
3. Seeing mother this weekend, as we are going with my matron of honor to have her dress fitted. I am actually somewhat annoyed that we have to do this on a Sunday because it means that I will miss football. And football is much more relaxing that being with my mother. Also, I did not win last weekend. I blame the Patriots defense. They let me down. Am on pins and needles until Steve Smith plays again.
4. For the record, I argued long and loudly in favor of eloping. And was overruled.
5. We are being stalked by our neighbour, who’s a wedding planner. She zeroed in on my ring about 24 hours after we got engaged and does not allow either of us to walk by her house, stand on the porch or, sometimes, stand in our kitchen without her asking how things are going and if we need her help with anything. For a while we weren’t sure whether she was being neighbourly or trying to drum up business, but then she quoted me a price a few weeks ago and even though I tactfully told her that we didn’t have the wherewithal to cover her services, she’s being very persistent. We used to chat over the porch railing all the time but now Lunchboy and I keep conversations with her as short as possible.
6. All this will be put aside at 9pm tonight, when the new season of Grey’s Anatomy begins. My drama is nothing compared with Meredith’s. No drama is comparable to Meredith’s.
2. Seeing florist this weekend
3. Seeing mother this weekend, as we are going with my matron of honor to have her dress fitted. I am actually somewhat annoyed that we have to do this on a Sunday because it means that I will miss football. And football is much more relaxing that being with my mother. Also, I did not win last weekend. I blame the Patriots defense. They let me down. Am on pins and needles until Steve Smith plays again.
4. For the record, I argued long and loudly in favor of eloping. And was overruled.
5. We are being stalked by our neighbour, who’s a wedding planner. She zeroed in on my ring about 24 hours after we got engaged and does not allow either of us to walk by her house, stand on the porch or, sometimes, stand in our kitchen without her asking how things are going and if we need her help with anything. For a while we weren’t sure whether she was being neighbourly or trying to drum up business, but then she quoted me a price a few weeks ago and even though I tactfully told her that we didn’t have the wherewithal to cover her services, she’s being very persistent. We used to chat over the porch railing all the time but now Lunchboy and I keep conversations with her as short as possible.
6. All this will be put aside at 9pm tonight, when the new season of Grey’s Anatomy begins. My drama is nothing compared with Meredith’s. No drama is comparable to Meredith’s.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Little G and Ms. Puss understand
The evolution of the cats’ nicknames is an ongoing source of amusement in our house. I’ve written before about the litany of names that Scully has born, but now that our brood has grown to three, the nicknames have developed a tendency to snowball. For instance, Lunchboy sometimes calls Cringer “sweetmeat.” Somehow sweetmeat has been truncated to “meat.” As in, “Hey, meat! Are you a fluffy girl?” It always catches me off guard, probably in the same way it would if I actually knew the Veals.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Warning: wedding rant ahead
This weekend, my fantasy football team is playing Lunchboy's fantasy football team. Inter-house tension will ensue. But seeing as my quarterback is Donovan McNabb and his is Eli Manning, I think we know what's gonna happen. That said, I have a feeling that bets will be placed and rewards of a slinky nature will be placed on the table. We shall see what Sunday night brings.
On the wedding front, things are moving along nicely. Place--check. Date--check. Officiant--check. This weekend we are interviewing a couple of photographers. After doing some online research, I discovered that I am a total photography snob, the result of spending almost four years with a former photojournalist/sports photographer/narcissist/sometime wedding photographer. What can I say? I got spoiled by watching Voldemort shoot friends' weddings for $1000 and then hand over the proofs and negatives without getting testy. Most wedding photographers, I discovered, do not do this. Instead, they charge phenomenal amounts of money to take pictures and then hold the negatives hostage unless you drop even MORE money on a wedding album. It's a total racket.
My morning triumph today was finding out that a really good photographer is willing to drop his astronomical prices by almost half because he doesn't get a lot of business in February. Go winter weddings!
If your eyes haven't glazed over by now, you deserve a medal.
I put some thought into starting a blog for all my wedding-related rantings, mostly so that I could rave about my mother, who is proving to be the main obstacle in most of the planning, primarily because she is insane. She was like this last time, but I racked up her obstinate behavior to the fact that she didn't like the fact that I was 3,000 miles away. No. No no no. Her obstinacy is no illusion and it is trumped only by her desire to make this entire event all about her.
It doesn't help that my brother has moved back into my parent's house for the umpteenth time, and so now my mother can indulge her inability to cut the apron strings. She can also channel her time, money and energy into my brother, who is 27, employed, and just doesn't like paying rent. Translation: when I ask her to help with small tasks, I get answers like, "I can't--I have more pressing things on my mind. I'm too busy taking care of your brother and father to think about this right now."
Those "things" become less pressing if she's given the opportunity to make planning as complicated as possible, usually by exercising guilt and passive-aggressive tendencies the likes of which neither Lunchboy nor I has ever seen before. She will help, but only on her terms and only if we acquiesce to her Nutcracker-like vision of a winter wonderland wedding, complete with theatrical lighting, white frosted branches, a mysterious fabric tent-thing for the ceremony that bears a distinct resemblance to several BAD costumes on the original Star Trek, and the spending of much money, which she assumes we will front because "I just don't have a lot of disposable income right now." It doesn't matter that we're aiming for simplicity and elegance--her ideas are BETTER but not so good that she will pay for them.
I'm not being nice, I know. But if you'd been exposed to the full force of her guilt-tripping passive aggression, you'd be keeping her at arm's length, too. The wedding is 6 months away and she's already driven me into two sleep- and appetite-vaporizing anxiety attacks. Hence the wine and Ativan.
OK, done now.
On the wedding front, things are moving along nicely. Place--check. Date--check. Officiant--check. This weekend we are interviewing a couple of photographers. After doing some online research, I discovered that I am a total photography snob, the result of spending almost four years with a former photojournalist/sports photographer/narcissist/sometime wedding photographer. What can I say? I got spoiled by watching Voldemort shoot friends' weddings for $1000 and then hand over the proofs and negatives without getting testy. Most wedding photographers, I discovered, do not do this. Instead, they charge phenomenal amounts of money to take pictures and then hold the negatives hostage unless you drop even MORE money on a wedding album. It's a total racket.
My morning triumph today was finding out that a really good photographer is willing to drop his astronomical prices by almost half because he doesn't get a lot of business in February. Go winter weddings!
If your eyes haven't glazed over by now, you deserve a medal.
I put some thought into starting a blog for all my wedding-related rantings, mostly so that I could rave about my mother, who is proving to be the main obstacle in most of the planning, primarily because she is insane. She was like this last time, but I racked up her obstinate behavior to the fact that she didn't like the fact that I was 3,000 miles away. No. No no no. Her obstinacy is no illusion and it is trumped only by her desire to make this entire event all about her.
It doesn't help that my brother has moved back into my parent's house for the umpteenth time, and so now my mother can indulge her inability to cut the apron strings. She can also channel her time, money and energy into my brother, who is 27, employed, and just doesn't like paying rent. Translation: when I ask her to help with small tasks, I get answers like, "I can't--I have more pressing things on my mind. I'm too busy taking care of your brother and father to think about this right now."
Those "things" become less pressing if she's given the opportunity to make planning as complicated as possible, usually by exercising guilt and passive-aggressive tendencies the likes of which neither Lunchboy nor I has ever seen before. She will help, but only on her terms and only if we acquiesce to her Nutcracker-like vision of a winter wonderland wedding, complete with theatrical lighting, white frosted branches, a mysterious fabric tent-thing for the ceremony that bears a distinct resemblance to several BAD costumes on the original Star Trek, and the spending of much money, which she assumes we will front because "I just don't have a lot of disposable income right now." It doesn't matter that we're aiming for simplicity and elegance--her ideas are BETTER but not so good that she will pay for them.
I'm not being nice, I know. But if you'd been exposed to the full force of her guilt-tripping passive aggression, you'd be keeping her at arm's length, too. The wedding is 6 months away and she's already driven me into two sleep- and appetite-vaporizing anxiety attacks. Hence the wine and Ativan.
OK, done now.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Did you know you brought me home
Early last year while standing in a bar, my friend M made the astute observation that Boston men are, as a group, very short. M is one of those blonde Nordic goddesses and short she is not. But really--are all Boston men shorter than average? I poo-poohed making that kind of generalization until last night, when Lunchboy and I hit the Zero 7 show at Avalon. Lunchboy, who's a respectable 6', towered over most of the men there. As we stood to one side of the room, I looked out over a wide swath of male pattern shortness. Tom Cruise would love this city--he could throw out his expensive shoes with the not-so-hidden lifts and walk with his head held high. Why are there so many short men in Boston? And why was the short guy who insisted on standing RIGHT in front of me wearing so much cologne? My god, the cologne. I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and tell him that too much Drakkar does not compensate for lack of height.
The concert itself was fun. They did Destiny and Somersault, but not In the Waiting Line. Sia bounced around the stage like a coked-up sprite and flung her voice to the sky in the most breathtaking way. It's a testament to my naivete that I had to ask whether she was high or just relentlessly happy. I think we were literally the only sober people there (where's Nancy Botwin when you need her?). At least being stoned would have kept me from realizing that I was ready for bed at 10pm and that I might be getting too old for Tuesday night shows.
The concert itself was fun. They did Destiny and Somersault, but not In the Waiting Line. Sia bounced around the stage like a coked-up sprite and flung her voice to the sky in the most breathtaking way. It's a testament to my naivete that I had to ask whether she was high or just relentlessly happy. I think we were literally the only sober people there (where's Nancy Botwin when you need her?). At least being stoned would have kept me from realizing that I was ready for bed at 10pm and that I might be getting too old for Tuesday night shows.
Monday, September 11, 2006
All made out of ticky-tacky
Yesterday the basement flooded again, this time for no apparent reason. It turns out our neighbor's water heater exploded. Now our plumbing is making very angry noises whenever we try to use the water. I am sore in strange places from mopping. Also from sprinting to our seats at the game yesterday. Everything is moving swiftly these days and my body hasn't quite caught up.
The Metrowest Daily news printed our engagement announcement last week and they got some crucial facts wrong. According to them, Lunchboy and I share a father and our parents both live in Somerville. Neither of these things is true. Another thing to set straight--getting married in February does not mean that I'm knocked up. Like 6 people have asked us this. So: 1, I'm not, and 2, if I were, why would I schedule the wedding to coincide with me reaching maximum density?
Scully is becoming more and more of an outdoor cat. Her latest favorite thing is taking dirt naps in the garden, an activity that leaves her extremely messy and a distinct shade of gray. Her new nickname is Pigpen. She has also taken to climbing the rhododendron bush/tree and we keep finding her perched in the bushes about 4 feet in the air.
Things are fine and yet they are slightly off kilter. Then again, could this day be normal. So much raw emotion in the air. I spent this morning reading the portraits of grief section of the New York Times and feeling as if I were standing on the edge of all the pain and loss that still rules so many people's lives. Horrible.
The Metrowest Daily news printed our engagement announcement last week and they got some crucial facts wrong. According to them, Lunchboy and I share a father and our parents both live in Somerville. Neither of these things is true. Another thing to set straight--getting married in February does not mean that I'm knocked up. Like 6 people have asked us this. So: 1, I'm not, and 2, if I were, why would I schedule the wedding to coincide with me reaching maximum density?
Scully is becoming more and more of an outdoor cat. Her latest favorite thing is taking dirt naps in the garden, an activity that leaves her extremely messy and a distinct shade of gray. Her new nickname is Pigpen. She has also taken to climbing the rhododendron bush/tree and we keep finding her perched in the bushes about 4 feet in the air.
Things are fine and yet they are slightly off kilter. Then again, could this day be normal. So much raw emotion in the air. I spent this morning reading the portraits of grief section of the New York Times and feeling as if I were standing on the edge of all the pain and loss that still rules so many people's lives. Horrible.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Special teams
I'm not sure why fall decided to arrive in the middle of August, but I remain in denial about the fact that summer is over. The spring was so rainy and gross that it feels as if summer only lasted a few weeks. Bring on the Indian summer, I say. Although the dry chill in the morning air is actually pleasant. So is the fact that ABP has started serving harvest pumpkin soup--the best part of fall (ok the apples are nice, too).
The Miami-Pittsburgh game is on TV right now. Lunchboy is not home. I am actually watching football by myself. Assimilation is complete. Last weekend I drafted my very first fantasy football team--and it was FUN! I don't have anyone playing tonight but now I'm excited about the season. I'll be more excited if Steve Smith's hamstrings heal nicely in time for Sunday's game.
Lunchboy's boss gave us two tickets to Sunday's Patriots season opener. WOO!
The Miami-Pittsburgh game is on TV right now. Lunchboy is not home. I am actually watching football by myself. Assimilation is complete. Last weekend I drafted my very first fantasy football team--and it was FUN! I don't have anyone playing tonight but now I'm excited about the season. I'll be more excited if Steve Smith's hamstrings heal nicely in time for Sunday's game.
Lunchboy's boss gave us two tickets to Sunday's Patriots season opener. WOO!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
I know how weird it is
: Last night, once I fell asleep, I dreamed that Brad Pitt wanted to have anal sex with me. But I wasn't into it, so he had anal sex with Steven Colbert instead.
Today I was in NY for work. Concept--work travel. I love business travel and my last job never let me do it. When I got to the NY office this morning, one of my coworkers had fresh bialys from Kossar's on her desk. It was a true hallelujah moment.
We are watching the first season of Weeds on DVD. Nancy Botwin may be my new hero.
Today I was in NY for work. Concept--work travel. I love business travel and my last job never let me do it. When I got to the NY office this morning, one of my coworkers had fresh bialys from Kossar's on her desk. It was a true hallelujah moment.
We are watching the first season of Weeds on DVD. Nancy Botwin may be my new hero.
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