One of those days

See the time stamp? I am leaving this place right now. I should have gone home hours ago, because I am fried. Every email I send contains an error. Everything I say comes back to haunt me. Every phone call I get is someone telling me about a problem. Every plan I make gets changed. Every time I get up I am broadsided by somebody wanting something.

I have a hair appointment tonight. It's either a huge mistake and I should reschedule for another day, or it's exactly what I need.

Because I actually like a show, it will get cancelled

When we were growing up, it was a big deal when the networks unveiled the new shows each fall. You'd see all the promos, decide which ones you wanted to check out, and set your mental prime-time schedule. Back then you could count on there being at least two solidly entertaining new ones each season (e.g. The Wonder Years, My So-Called Life, Felicity). Then there were a few mediocre ones that everyone watched but nobody knew why (Blossom, Golden Girls, Doogie Howser MD), a couple that sucked but you watched them because they were before or after something (A Different World, Empty Nest), the ones your parents watched (Dynasty, Cheers, Everybody Loves Raymond), the ones everyone watched but me (Party of Five, Buffy the Vampire Slayer), and the old faithfuls (Who's the Boss?, Growing Pains, Friends, Seinfeld).

These days, the fall lineup doesn't even exist in my world. I couldn't care less. It's not that I don't like TV, it's that sitcoms suck. I can't handle another show about a family with a stupid father, which only works as a cartoon or a farce (The Simpsons, Family Guy, Married with Children), or another overwrought drama about bratty, precocious teenagers (Dawson's Creek, the OC), or another "reality" show, or some show that has had so much hype that I can't even stomach it even if it is good (CSI, House, NYPD Blue, Nip/Tuck). I can count on one hand the number of network shows I've actually liked in the past 5 years: Freaks and Geeks, Andy Richter Controls the Universe, 24, and 8 Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter, which went south after John Ritter died and they brought in David Spade, one half of the twin harbingers of television doom (the other being Andy Dick).

There was actually a show on yesterday that wasn't bad: How I Met Your Mother. Neil Patrick Harris was in it--he's going to achieve cult status, I'm thinking... NPH, man, tripping balls. Jason Segal was in it. Allyson Hannigan was in it. Even though it was about a bunch of 20-somethings living in New York and there were lots of lame sex jokes, it was semi-watchable.

I don't even have time to get into all the BAD shows that fill up the airspace at our house, like the Surreal Life and My Super Sweet Sixteen. I can't believe I watch that shit. But sometimes I do. And I watch Ghosthunters. And shows about planets. And Unwrapped. And Great Hotels.

But you know what's entertaining as hell? Breaking Bonaduce. I hope you're all watching it. That show that will send your self-esteem through the roof.

Editor's note: How could I forget about The Office? BBC and American. They both rule.

Life is a series of slow-moving Corollas

My commute lately has sucked the swamp nuts of a short-order cook after a double shift. Paving, idiots, paving, morons, and more paving. This morning I paid attention to the things I muttered out loud. It made me giggle when I became conscious of how mean and crabby I get:

"Come ON, motherfucker."
"What the fuck is wrong with you? GO!"
"You gotta be fucking kidding me."
"Get off your fucking phone, ugly bitch."

And this after last night, when a girl stole the last open tennis court and we sounded like two Tourette's patients off their meds.

Here's how it's going to go down

I am very happy to report that the excursion was a success and that 4 tickets for Dane's performance have been procured.

I am happier still thinking about what an overall kickass roadtrip this is going to be. I already have a highly idealized version of the whole thing in my mind. We leave work early to make the long trek up to Waterville. On the way we listen to CDs that everybody likes and maybe even sing Row Row Row Your Boat as a rousing 4-part round. We arrive, check in to our quaint and charming room at the Comfort Inn, and go to check out Colby's campus. We tell stories about our own good times in college as we people-watch and consider what constitutes Downeast Keg Party Chic these days, and we don't feel old at all.

Then it's time for Dane! We get to the venue early because we have general admission tickets and god knows what the hell that means, we bust a gut laughing during the show, and we wonder where Dane's going to be afterwards (because where the fuck could he really go besides The Horny Lumberjack or whatever the campus bar is called?).

[Dream sequence: we find out where Dane's hanging out and go there. It's not crowded because hardly anyone knows he's there. We tell him what a great show it was and buy him a pint. He tells us to pull up at his table. Pitchers and stories start flying, he thinks we're cool and funny, and he starts reading all our blogs and commenting regularly. Someone influential finds us through Dane and gives Becca and me book deals. Dane becomes our newest best friend and invites us and all our friends to party in a luxury box at the Superbowl, where the Patriots win their fourth championship in five years.]

Late at night, we break into the indoor pool of our hotel and swim until the wee hours of the morning. We go to bed snug and happy, then wake up energized by the crisp fall air. We bathe and dress, step out into the sun-dappled morning, and find a place to get breakfast where you don't have to stand for an hour waiting for hungover freshman to figure out that they're cutting their French toast with the wrong side of the knife. Then we will meander homeward, oohing and aahing at the jubilee of foliage, stopping at roadside stands for pumpkins and apples, and grinning huge, foolish Black Hole Sun smiles.

Yes, it's going to rule.

Good stuff

The weather held out for Taste of Boston. It was murky and humid but not very warm, the kind of air it's hard to dress for, where one person is wearing shorts and a t-shirt and the person next to them has on jeans and long sleeves. I opted for my green Old Navy pants, a black tank top, and my Asics, which are silver and fuchsia and awesome. Joe had on his Bruschi jersey. We wandered around with Mardi and Mark, trading tickets for food, none of which was nutritionally valid: pizza, nachos, cannoli, pulled pork, ribs, hot dogs, chocolate cake.

The Gin Blossoms' preformance was pretty good. The singer, Robin Wilson, had the hood of his black windbreaker up the whole time, which clashed a bit with his tambourine. But his voice sounded nice. He forgot the opening lyrics to one song and at the end of the set he said, "We have one more song for you—uh, no we don't" and ran offstage to wait for the encore. But that's all right; those were just little reminders to us that hey, it's free.

Yesterday Joe and I played a minor role in a friend's vindication by helping her move a bunch of her ex-boyfriend's crap into storage. We painted watercolors with her 3-year-old daughter while she went to get the borrowed pickup truck. We lugged a recliner, a glass-topped table and chairs, a deep fryer, a printer, a mattress, some junk and several boxes out of her basement and into the truck, then out of the truck onto dollies, up a service elevator, and down a scary hallway to the very last storage space on the top floor of a warehouse. I went inside the empty space and had them shut the door on me, then screamed to be let out. We talked about what prison might be like. After we were done, sweaty and tired and dirty, she took us to dinner and Joe entertained her daughter by making monster faces.

Tonight we are road-tripping with Becca to get tickets to see DANE. He's playing up at Colby College in October. You can only buy tickets at the Colby box office or at Bull Moose Music locations, and since Colby is 3.5 hours away, we're opting for Bull Moose in Salem, NH. We really hope Becca starts dating Dane and then the four of us can hang out and he can drive us to John Brewers in the CT 2004, tossing handfuls of watermelon Jolly Ranchers in the back and screaming "I CAN'T HEAR YOU, BK BROILER!"

Putting myself out there, but only to say I'm not likely to

There are so many people out there with honest, long-standing, readable, enjoyable, well-written, soul-baring, no-holds-barred, tell-their-keyboard-way-more-than-they-ever-tell-anyone-in-real-life, very good blogs. I am not one of them. When I read over my old entries, I don't think anyone who didn't already know me would get any sense of who I am, or have any reason to care.

It boils down to the fact that I don't care for sharing too much of myself. I used to think I was an open book, but I'm starting to think I'm an open book on page 3. People often describe me as opinionated, which sometimes stings because it's my mother's favorite barb against my grandmother, whom I think she secretly loathes. And I do have a lot of opinions, but they're not about Me Knowing Everything or This Is How You Should Run Your Life, they're just... what I think about stuff. They're not really Me.

I'm a firstborn and I've always been responsible, independent, self-sufficient and ambitious, and I'm hardwired to do the right thing even when it's uncomfortable. My sister is the opposite... she's self-serving, lets others do for her, actively avoids obligations (to the point of rudeness), and doesn't give a flying crap. But we both guard our privacy in different ways. She bends for no one and doesn't apologize, and I construct a tight, comfortable world with just the people and things I want in it, and let the rest fall away. The people in my world, for the most part, are people with whom I felt a strong and immediate bond. I don't enjoy having surface-level people in my life and waiting around until we warm up to one another. I shy away from large groups. I avoid chatting with my neighbors or having unnecessary conversations at work. Small talk makes me want to run away screaming. I don't assume that everyone I've met wants to hear from me. I wouldn't dream of dropping in on someone unexpectedly.

So, even here, even though I could say anything, I don't, for whatever reason. I tell irrelevant stories and vignettes that I never think about again. Or I complete surveys where I'm not so much revealing myself as just answering questions. A lot of things that happen don't merit mention. Or they're too complicated and important to talk about in this forum. Or they involve people from my life, who, even if they don't read this, I'm not about to speak ill of in print. I feel a lot of different ways about a lot of different things, and I talk issues to death with my friends, and I think plenty of petty, sucky, crapola thoughts that don't need to be documented.

Where is this going? Well, I might try to open up more. Or I might not. But I never really thought of myself as a private person before, and I'm realizing that I totally am, and it's kind of interesting. If I had a private diary, that's where this would go. But I don't, and so there it is.

Caffeinated goodness

It's really quiet in the office today. I could go for a coconut iced coffee but I don't feel like going out to get one. Yesterday I was chatting with a friend from work about the killing coffee purveyors could make if they had a corporate delivery service. We were getting jazzed to write a business plan and launch it ourselves. They wouldn't even be able to keep up with the demand, especially around here... we just got a Dunkin Donuts last week. I don't get it; the area around our office is crawling with businesses and hotels and is right off I-95, yet is majorly underserved--you have to drive at least 15 to get to a Starbucks, and before now you had to go at least 7 minutes for a DD. Where I live there are 2 DDs and a *bux within walking distance.

Coffee becomes very important when you work in an all-beige office with a large picture of wheat across from you. SHEAVES OF WHEAT, and not Van Gogh's. Don't like wheat? Move down the hall and maybe you'll get snow, cacti, rolls of hay, or mountains. Z z Z Z z z Z z z ... Wuhh? Who? Sorry, wheat coma.

We're supposed to go into town for Taste of Boston on Saturday and the forecast said sunny and 70s but now they're calling for rain. Whorricane Ophelia was supposed to be out of here by then, but it's been swirling around the Carolinas for 3 days and fucking up New Englanders' plans. Maybe it will head out to sea and leave us alone. Apparently this is the 22nd Annual Taste of Boston, although I can't recall hearing anything about it until this year. It should be fun, especially when the Gin Blossoms rock the 93.7 Mike FM stage. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of Bostonians will throw their fists in the air and sing along with "Hey Jealousy" and then some dipshit will go, "Play 'Mr. Jones'!" and they'll be like, "That's Counting Crows, you dumb motherfucker."

People I wanted to SuFi this weekend

Saturday afternoon I was in line with my friend at Store 24 when a belligerent drunk guy came in. He ambled in the door wearing black jean shorts, a wifebeater, and work boots. He stared at the girl behind the counter and immediately bellowed, “WHAT THE FUCK? YOU’RE LOOKIN’ AT ME LIKE I’M CRAZY.” The girl ignored him and was talking to the guy in front of us, who wanted to know the price of a disposable camera. The guy got right behind me in line. I could hear him breathing and shifting impatiently. He went, “YOU GOTTA BE SHITTING ME.” The cashier couldn’t find the price of the camera and was trying to look it up. The guy said, “DON’T YOU SPEAK ENGLISH? YOU WORK HERE; YOU DON’T KNOW THE FUCKING PRICE?” The cashier looked nervous but kept doing her job. My friend and I were silent and still, but I was SuFi’ing him in my head. A woman joined the line. The guy walked away and pointed back at her: “I’M IN LINE RIGHT THERE. I’M JUST LOOKIN’ AT THE PRICE.” My friend and I paid for our beverages; as we were walking out we heard him ask for a pack of Old Gold smokes. Outside, she said, “That was kinda scary.” I said, “Yeah, he was pretty unbalanced.”

Later that night Joe and I went out to dinner. We were on this two-lane main road that is a pain in the ass because it has too many lights, you have to zig-zag between the lanes because whichever one you're in becomes turn-only every other block, and it's lined with parallel parking spaces so you always have to stop to let someone back in or pull out. We were in the right lane, and behind us on the right came this guy who was laying on the horn and trying to bypass traffic by using the unoccupied parking spaces as his personal travel lane. Because my instinct is to passive-aggressively fuck with people on the road, I eased rightward and tried to box him out. But I wasn't aggressive or quick enough, and he managed to squeeze by anyway, horn still blaring. I was expecting to be flipped off or yelled at, but he — a middle-aged guy in a nondescript American sedan — was casually looking ahead, as if he was on a leisurely Sunday drive. I really wanted to issue him a hefty SuFi, but I can only SuFi with my left hand and he was on the wrong side. Plus I was envisioning the shotgun he probably had in the passenger seat.

On the way home, same street, it goes from two lanes to one when you cross the town line and you have to merge. I was in the right lane and there was a black BMW in the left lane about half a car length behind me. Now, merging is a folding in of cars, a zipper of cars closing. In a merge situation, the car that is half a length behind would naturally fall back, yes? That's what I thought too. But this guy started honking and getting all agitated. I could tell that it was because his feeble ambitions of scoring a better place in the merge pattern had not been met. So he zoomed left and passed me. I should have SuFi'd him then because he was right there and he was a dick! But his maneuver was too fast. Then he jerked to the side of the road and got back behind me and followed us until our turn came. I thought for a second about what I'd do if he followed us. It looked like he wanted to; his headlights seemed to wobble as if he was popping a blood vessel inside, but he grudgingly went straight.

Then, of course, I SuFi’d the angry red smolder of his taillights.

The crack o' jack

I came to work at 7:00 today so I can leave at 9:30. The roads were empty and I got a parking space mere steps from the door. Sleeping in would have been an attractive option but (a) it's Friday of a 4-day week (b) there are a couple things I need to get done, and (c) I save 2.5 hours of PTO.

It's (c) that sold me on coming in. I hate the idea of wasting PTO just to wait for an electrician. He's coming to replace the wiring in our kitchen ceiling and install a new light fixture. We took down the old fixture on Monday and found a bad scene: burn spots in the ceiling from the light bulbs and a bunch of crusty, frayed wires. As we examined the damage, black flakes and chips of burnt plaster rained down. There was silence as we both realized the house could have burned down. Since then we've only been using the stove hood light.

The new light fixture is part of Operation We Don't Want The Kitchen To Look Like Ass Anymore. We painted it pale green when we first moved in, but instead of French provincial we got mental ward. I found the can this weekend and even the name was ghastly: Lime Wash. And the floor, which never gets totally clean no matter how hard you scrub, tore when they installed the new dishwasher. So I went on a buying spree: curtains, tablecloth, pictures for the walls, etc. And we liked how everything looked, but it made it even more obvious that we needed new paint and a new floor. Neither of us were excited about painting, because working around the doorways and cabinets is a pain in the ass, but we sucked it up and did it on Saturday, even after going out the night before. We went with a shade called Napa Valley, a rich, warm green that lights up when the sun comes in. I just hope the electrical work won't violate our bank account too badly, because we still need to have the new floor installed.

This weekend we also tackled the office, which had been long-neglected. You couldn't go in there without knocking over a pile of books, CDs, DVDs, or papers. We got to work, and now it's orderly, functional, and attractive. There's a lot in there--two CD racks, two desks, three bookcases--but everything has a home. The desks have chairs that match. The light switch actually goes to a light.

Yeah baby. Fucking motivation. The same motivation that got me out the door at 6:40 this morning and sent me back to the gym this week. It feels good, you know? I don't understand why it doesn't stick around.

Unreal

I'm home early from work and watching CNN. Just saw a huge convoy of guardsmen and relief supplies finally, FINALLY reach the victims at the N.O. convention center.

I also saw the best anti-looting sign spray-painted on a wall:

"DON'T TRY. I AM SLEEPING
INSIDE WITH A BIG DOG,
AN UGLY WOMAN,
TWO SHOTGUNS, AND
A CLAW HAMMER."