29 July 2006

virginal, pure

My underwire bra has gone all freaky on me again. They always do this eventually -- somehow the wire pokes a hole through the fabric on the end near my sternum, and before I know it I am sitting in a meeting with what looks like a very long, curved matchstick peeking up from behind my top shirt button.

Usually by the time a bra reaches this stage it has attained Favorite Bra status, and I am heartbroken to see it go. Not so this time. This one was a desperation purchase a few summers ago when I needed to wear white for something and needed a non-black bra to go under my clothes.

Since I am widely known for prefering to wear all black clothes, excepting the occasional blue jeans, it is not surprising that all my bras are black.

So I had to buy a stupid, mundane beige bra, which is nothing but serviceable. I'm almost glad to see it go.

Except that now it is the middle of summer, and I have an event next weekend.

To which I must wear white.


24 July 2006


Maybe it's because that sexy beast Kevin Smith has been all over the universe with the press push for Clerks II and my old friend/roommate/moocher extraordinaire Paul always reminded me of Kevin Smith, with his similar penchant for wearing short pants and telling off-color jokes.

Whatever the reason, I've been thinking about Paul lately, and his most goddamn brilliant joke, universally referred to as The Sick Clown Joke.

I first noticed Paul when we ended up on adjacent bar stools at my old favorite haunt in grad school, a place called Taps (it had been a funeral parlor once). Something of a monologuist himself, Paul talked my ear off and at closing time convinced me to slouch around the corner to his house to watch So I Married An Axe Murderer, which I had never seen at the time.

I think we watched it twice that night.

Not much of a flirt, but one hell of a drinking buddy, Paul had long black hair and a visible affection for beer by the pitcher. Although he and I never had any chemistry, I ended up involved with one or two of his friends over the next few years -- mostly crazy cute goth boys with sensitive souls. Yum.

Paul was also known as the guy who woke up in the middle of a late night party once, having passed out early on in the middle of the living room, sat up straight and inquired, "Are there... 'EGGS?'"

By the way he said it, you knew he wasn't wondering if we had any in the fridge. He was seriously wondering if eggs actually existed, or if he hadn't just dreamed it all.

Paul could tell an amazing number of jokes and tell them well. As a person who can only remember one long joke at a time, I was amazed at his repertoire. Midget jokes, blonde jokes, quadraplegic jokes, bestiality, pedophilia -- do you see the Kevin Smith connection?

He had a sidekick -- Gary I think was his name -- who would constantly ask for The Sick Clown Joke at times like these, when the jokes were flying fast.

Paul would invariably look dismissive, or modestly down at his shoes, or hush Gary up by indicating that the crowd was too mixed, or the hour too late, the drinks too strong -- whatever. Some story about why he couldn't possibly be compelled to tell the greatest, best joke he knew. It was only, he said, for very special occasions.

C'mon, please! Gary would plead, and usually the rest of the drunken gang would too.

But Paul would not be moved.

After a few years of this I became convinced that the joke was a figment, a ruse, a masterful piece of PR, nothing more. When I accused him of this, Paul was struck dumb, then lashed out at me suddenly, with a furious, accelerated rattling off of the set-up to a very long, very complicated joke involving a clown, some spooky woods, and a little kid.

Then he abruptly broke off, waved a disgusted hand at me, and turned away.

Unbeliever! he said.

If you don't believe there's a Sick Clown joke, then you don't deserve to hear it.

I ran after him then, apologizing and assuring him that I did, I DID BELIEVE!!!

Like he was goddamn tinkerbell or something.

He never told me the rest.

I still think he was lying.

21 July 2006

hey ladies

Does anyone need a sticker peeled off?

Or an itch scratched?

Or perhaps a tricky little knot pried loose?

Well too bad.

Because I just filed my nails right down to the quick, and that is always when I need to do those things.

On the bright side, I am now primed and ready for:

playing a little ragtime piano

thrumming my fingers in an expression of ennui

pleasuring the ladies in a special way

BUT since I would be more surprised than I can possibly say to be called on to perform any of those duties, I am left simply wondering why I got so damn carried away with the nail file.


20 July 2006

you never write you never call

I am thinking of you. Honestly I am.

It is just that I am deep within a dark cave of a very long stretch of working 14 hour days and pulling together an entirely insanely huge project.

It's actually going pretty well, no one has pulled anyone else's hair out yet, and I am still getting eight hours of sleep every night.

And it will be over soon.

So just in case you're interested, and desperately missing your daily habit of reading my writing and NEVER COMMENTING NOT ONCE YOU LURKERS YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE EAST FALMOUTH I AM TALKING TO YOU AND NORTH CAROLINA IT WOULDN'T KILL YOU EITHER YOU KNOW

then you can also find me writing at the Dead End these days. Check out the links on yon right side of screen.

Otherwise, let's have us a nice, long chat come August, mmkay?

I'll even wear that pretty dress you like so much.

14 July 2006

allons enfants

Holy busy.

I am just now emerging from a two-week period of consecutive 12-hour work days. I even had to get up and do worky things on Saturdays and Sundays, and they usually fall on the weekend, and in the early morning! On the weekend!

Sleep! Sleep! All I want for my birthday is sleep!

...and a pony.

So... it's my birthday today!

AND... I finally got to go home from work today AT FIVE O'CLOCK SHARP.

So I went out to dinner with some friends who I didn't even know at this time last year, after coming home from my outstandingly awesome job that I didn't even dream I would have at this time last year, and now I will drink some tea and sleep the sleep of the just.

I always love my birthday. I am not shy about broadcasting the fact of my birthday to the world and to strangers. I have had some entirely amazing birthdays in my time.

This one beats them all.

I'm 35. My early thirties were a bit of a rough time for me. Things have turned around for me in the last twelve months in a way that is nothing short of a miracle. I am infinitely blessed and insanely lucky.

AND... I got treated last night -- by utter and complete surprise -- to a ball game at Fenway.

No really. Does it get any better than this? I might explode.

04 July 2006


I'd been suffering from a low-level headache all day. It really settled into my brain at about 1 pm, when I felt it necessary to lie down for a nap, this being a national holiday and all. I'd been drinking nothing but herbal tea all day, had had a nice, decent breakfast, and was otherwise feeling pretty hale, so I was mystified and ever so slightly resentful that I should be so afflicted.

I realized I was being a big baby, considering how I had run into an old acquaintance from high school just the night before, who eventually revealed that she had had a brain tumor.

She had trouble remembering my name at first, and I made a show of being self-mocking and hurt that anyone could forget such an estimable personage as myself (I was, shall we say, high profile in high school. Drum major of the band, drama club diva, conspicuously well- behaved and high acheiving. I think I even did the goddamn pledge of allegiance over the PA system my whole senior year. I think I would hate me then.) to which she responded that it was hard to remember things these days, what with part of her brain having been removed and all.


So my hothouse flower act over what was, after all, only a minor headache, was wearing a little thin. But there it was anyway. Just because you know that you are acting like a jerk doesn't mean you are sufficiently motivated to give it a rest.

So I lay swooning dramatically on my bed, having fitful dreams about weeding my garden whilst snow covered the ground. Eventually I had to get up and go to a gathering of friends -- woe is me -- so I fluffed up my hair, wincing at the pressure on my brain through the agitation of my follicles, and went out.

As soon as I walked in the room, I knew.

I smelled the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee brewing, and my very synapses cheered with relief.

In the course of a normal working day, I consume vast quantities of coffee. On my days off, I am usually running errands, and so somehow manage to stumble across a latte or two in my wanderings. Today, however, errands-running was out since everything is closed on Our Nation's Birthday. So I had sat at home, unwittingly suffering withdrawal from my one remaining chemical dependence, caffeine.

So here I sit, gratefully sipping hot coffee at nine o'clock at night, knowing I will be awake until three a.m. as a result, not caring, not caring, not caring.

So grateful.

01 July 2006

they should at least find you handy

Oh my stars and as I live and breathe, but home repair is a rewarding pursuit. I'm telling you, I haven't even spent a dime yet and already I feel like a responsible, thoughtful, home-owning Woman of Means.

And what this Woman of Means means is that I've resolved the burning question of whether or not we really need a new front door.

The answer is NO.

But I will still indulge everyone's overpowering urge to spend a fair bit of money and to shop for new and brightly shiny things, because we have decided to compromise and buy new STORM DOORS. The idea is that these will protect the architecturally-important original doors from further damage.

Hooray for Compromise! Especially when it is Me Getting My Own Way, thinly veiled as Compromise!

So I went shopping for storm doors today at the local home supply shop, and HOLY COW what amazing strides mankind has taken in Storm Door Technology since I last researched the subject, which was approximately never.

Really, did you know they have doors now with screens that can self-retract, neat as a pin, inside the door itself? HONEST TO GOD THEY DO.

I tell you, we live in miraculous times.

Now I can spend endless, needless hours on the web, researching storm doors! A new obscure thing to be geeky about!

Perhaps next I will get up on a ladder and clean out the gutters!

Do not hold your breath!