I’m a little reluctant to let the summer go (shocking revelation from a teacher, I know) and overall just amazed that the end is near. It feels like July fourth was earlier today, and what kind of crazy are you peddling by suggesting that September is only a few days away?

It was a happy, lazy summer (and thanks to global warming, we get to enjoy retroactive summer weather for the next six weeks, yayyy eventual human race extinction due to elevated greenhouse gases!). There was much baseball to be had (and much more to come, right?). When all was said and done I think I went to something like 15 games. Not bad for the perpetually sold out Fenway. Speaking of baseball, this was also the summer that Jason Varitek became single. You’re all cordially invited to my HOLY SHIT JASON VARITEK IS SINGLE party, which began the moment I heard the news and will continue until forever. In all seriousness, it’s a sad thing, they’d been together since college, I think, and they have kids and all, yada yada, call me.

I went to New York and Chicago and Bethlehem, Connecticut, holla you crazy kids, thanks for showing me how to bring the funk Lieberman style.  Also, why doesn’t your state have any teams?  Anyway.  I stayed at a Sheraton a few towns away with friends during a particularly scorching weekend just to be able to use the pools (totally worth it). In the interest of full disclosure, I also went to, um, Coco Key Water Park, which is a random indoor water park at a random hotel in a random town about an hour away, and say what you will, I had so much fun it was embarrassing.

In keeping with the theme of being six years old, there was also a trip to Canobie Lake Park, which was as ghetto fabulous as ever, and Six Flags, which was also a blast. Oh, and TERRIFYING. I’m a roller coaster girl through and through, and there were still times when I believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was about to die. During one particularly terrifying ascent, I told my friend that if we did get hurt, at least they’d give us lots of money. She replied, “Well, our families, anyway.”

And how could I forget the Neil Diamond concert at Fenway? Honestly, the combination of soft rock and baseball was almost too joyous to bear. Also, Neil is a PIMP. He’s like the dark horse of pimpdom. Pour him some drinks and he’ll tell you some lies.

I spent most of the summer working a couple days a week with my regular students and the rest of the time I spent two days a week with my Godkids (who are actually my Godsiblings, but for the sake of brevity I sometimes call them the former in my blog. Kinda like how I call myself a teacher instead of a speech language pathologist because, uh, whatologist?). Those days involved mini golf, swimming, hedge mazes, scavenger hunts, and you cannot hit your sister with a ping pong paddle just because you lost, Rocky, you must chill.

Hey, remember awhile ago when we talked about the saddest possible grocery cart? Well, hands down, the bestest moment of the summer was finally seeing it. The gentleman behind me at Target was buying a single plate, a single cup, and a box of Gas-X. I KNOW.

Anyway, it turned colder, that’s where it ends. Luckily fall is an easy transition. New seasonal candles (iced pumpkin, blueberry scone and apple, thanks for asking), sweaters, sleeping with the windows open, season three of Dexter! Also, my 31st birthday, which I say without a trace of anxiety (well, maybe a trace). I’m in a much better place than I was last year when I turned 30, and I’m really happy about that. So bring it on. Just please don’t whack me too hard with the age stick just yet. I’m still glowing from a (clearly drunk) stranger at a wedding saying, “How old are you, like 20?”

Speaking of, I think my favorite quote of the summer (aside from “When life gives you lemons, just say fuck the lemons and bail”) came from that same wedding. I was talking to my Godmother’s husband’s crazy sister when it hit me who she looked like: Lilith from Frasier. Bebe Neuwirth, thanks Google. But I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, so instead I just told her that she looked like someone famous. Her reply? “You look like someone who WILL be famous. You give off such a wonderful energy and aura.”

Our conversation ended soon after, but the quote will live on forever. Not unlike the Dracula musical. (Fortheloveofbeejus, see Forgetting Sarah Marshall if you haven’t already.)

So happy end of summer, all, and enjoy your long weekend like nobody’s business. I hope it will be as wonderful as you are. Because, really, you are. I mean, just look at you. And your AURA. My goodness.

Before I had one, I thought having a GPS in your car meant that you knew where you were going not just on the road, but in LIFE. I know someone who has one that tells them when there’s traffic ahead. Either Miss Cleo is living in there or she’s driving a tricked out Lexus.

Miss Cleo, “tricked out”…I’ve just violated several of my own personal rules for living. But, onward.

Yeah, so my GPS (which is one of the regular cheapo ones, psychic friend sold separately) is, at first glance, the balls. (Seriously, is this just how I talk now? If I were less lazy I would totally delete that and replace it with a highbrow synonym, believe you me.)

I mean, anything that can tell me where I’m going is kind of a good thing in my book. Well, anything that isn’t an indecipherable foreign gentleman at a gas station or Mapquest, which always seem to instruct you to start every journey by driving 1.8 miles northeast, which invariably means that you pull out of your driveway unsure where you’re going, analyzing the position of the sun and seeking the singing bush for answers.

My GPS is named Jill, not after my friend’s daughter (who, incidentally, often strongly disagrees with her disembodied namesake; maybe this town isn’t big enough for both of them) but became the default name when I (by which I mean my dad) set it up and it asked if I wanted its voice to be male or female, so “Jack” or “Jill.” One of my friends has one with the voice of John Cleese. For reals? They should expand the market for celebrity-voiced navigation devices because we could really have some fun with this. Fergie would literally ask you about all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk. Matthew Perry would ask you if you could BE running any later. I could do this until we’re all ill.

Jill and I have a tumultuous bond. Not unlike other dysfunctional relationships, she can be hard to understand. Sometimes she’s sullen and despondent. She doesn’t like when I don’t take her advice. When she gets really angry she says “recalculating” over and over and over, which is basically a dignified version of “Bitch, why you think you know these roads better than me? This is what I DO.” The biggest mindfuck she ever pulled was sending me to the WRONG CHURCH for my cousin’s wedding recently. Being trapped witnessing the nuptuals of total strangers makes for great blog fodder, but it would probably also make your family hate you a little bit for not planning out the route beforehand.

But then there are the lovable parts of her, like how she calls Route 2 East “route tweast.” It’s not all hard times. She (I mean it) has become yet another techy device that I didn’t really think I needed and now I can’t imagine living without. So I guess this is a dubious tribute to my Carberry. I know I take you for granted, but I guess I should be grateful that you do usually get me where I need to be, with only a few illogical U-turns along the way.

I’m afraid it’s not just that I don’t really enjoy watching the games. It’s more like I don’t get what the big deal is. I know, I know, this is probably perceived as a crime against humanity, right up there with not blindly supporting Obama (it’s all about CHANGE, baby. And hope. Baaa.)

Wow, you are so hating me right now, aren’t you? Okay, one politically incorrect opinion at a time.

First of all, there isn’t any show that should be on 24 hours a day, save for maybe A Face To Die For, the 1996 Lifetime thriller starring Yasmine Bleeth and Robin Givens. Anything else? Small doses, please.

I guess I just don’t understand why you’d spend every waking hour of your life playing beach volleyball so that you can go to the Olympics and be declared the best ever at playing beach volleyball. Even if you win the coveted gold, I mean, what then? Do you go around the country promoting awareness of beach volleyball? I’ve only ever seen people play this sport in the 90210 opening credits.

Same with field hockey. And what about badminton? Is this the Olympics or gym class?

I don’t really want to go on, because any of these Olympians could kick my ass, and probably should. (Except for the badminton players.) I get the whole American pride thing, but if I met someone who won at the Olympics for target shooting, I’d be like, no way, that’s cool! What was it like in Beijing? And then maybe I’d feel like getting another drink, but I bet Zeus would still be rambling on about the intricacies of target shooting, of which there are bound to be many. And I’d have to smile politely and wait and by that point all the hard liquor might be gone. And then nobody wins.

So this is somehow my third weekend in a hotel. People, I am a rolling stone. (A rolling stone who likes nice bedding and wake-up calls.) If you all could stop pledging lifelong devotion and fidelity and whatnot to each other, I could lie on my couch at home in peace.

Just kidding! You looked beautiful. And the apps were great.

This weekend I’m in Chicago. Are you? What should I do while I’m here? We went to Navy Pier earlier today. I forgot to do the requisite check-if-I-have-any-blogfriends-in-a-city before I left. I’m here for the Red Sox-White Sox series (with my Jersey born and bred, Yankees hat-wearing dad…as usual, we make quite a pair) and it’s the only time I’ve been in a city where saying “Go Sox” isn’t specific enough.

I met a Cubs fan on the subway and asked her how Chicag…ians…uh, people from here choose sides in the baseball rivalry. She had lots of opinions on the subject. And huge sunglasses. And she was about 90.

I like it here so far.

I know I’m a little slow on the uptake (insert “what else is new?” joke here), but crack open some organic vegan non-dairy soy bubbly because the Jolie-Pitt twins are here! They’re average looking and oddly named, just like every other celebrity baby. I can’t wait until they get older and start throwing shit at the paparazzi, but I’m just going to have to wait on that.

I don’t know Jennifer Aniston. I also don’t know why I started this paragraph with that line. Obviously I don’t know Jennifer Aniston. My point is that I don’t know what she thinks about this, if anything. I thought the fact that she was sad and fragile in her right-after-the-break-up Vanity Fair interview was kind of sweet and endearing, which is probably only because she’s not one of those basket case celebrities, but still. I’m sure any comments she gives about the situation now are something along the lines of wishing them every happiness blah blah bullshit. And at the end of the day she’s probably better off and she seems like a lovely person and I’m sure she’ll be just fine. But seriously, I hope she’s able to have a sense of humor about it at this point because HOW RIDICULOUS IS THIS SITUATION?

You’d hate anyone that your husband left you for, even if she was a lumpy dental hygenist with a lateral lisp (maybe especially if). But come on, one of the hottest women (speaking in entertainment “journalist”ese here) on the planet? That’s raising the stakes to a whole new level on a whole new playing field in a whole new ballpark. Is there any relationship that Angelina Jolie couldn’t break up? She should have a reality show where she just goes around destroying couples and luring the men into her den of hotness. Ooh, maybe she could do it at weddings! Or right before the birth of the couple’s first kid, and then she can take the kid because she technically has legal custody of all children born anywhere at any time. Are you listening, ABC?

So, okay, then they get married, or they don’t, I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter because now they have a thousand babies. There’s a new one every five minutes, either plucked from a third world country (I’d like to think their birth parents are waving their arms frantically at the departing helicopter) or birthed at Le Hospital de Villeaux A La Mode. I won’t get into the whole “how many children is too many” debate here because that’s kind of judgmental, but you guys, you’re having way too many children. Seriously, I’m not even sure I buy the whole happy family thing anymore. Maybe when you had one, two, or even three, but now there are eleventeen of them and your entire household must be about no sleep and constant poop.

I’m not sure what I think about their decision to sell the baby pictures to the highest bidding magazine, which is unfortunate since I know they’re likely waiting with bated breath for my opinion on it. It’s nice that they donate the money to a good cause, but there’s something grossly capitalist and just creepy about the whole thing. Or maybe I just kind of hate anyone who picks up an easy bazillion million and doesn’t even need it.

In all seriousness, you know Aniston’s probably way more over it than I am. Life isn’t so bad for Rachel. She never has to work another day in her life and she’s dating John Mayer, who is ten years younger than her (once you’re over thirty aren’t you supposed to react to news like this with a YEAH GIRL GO ON WITH YOUR BAD SELF? Or is that just if you’re starring in Waiting To Exhale?). I won’t buy his albums because he sounds like Christian Bale as Batman doing karaoke, but I read his blog and he seems funny and smart. Then there’s the piles of money that both of them have. Yeah, my sympathy is probably very misdirected here.

I can’t seem to get my act together to travel anywhere this summer. It’s not for lack of ideas. A friend and I were going to road trip “down the coast,” whatever that means, exactly, but it sounded good. I thought about going to Italy by myself, but ohmygah, the money. But at the same time, who cares if it’s expensive? So is heating my condo. I’ll pony up for that this winter, but not cultural experiences? Aaaand enter the existentialist debate, which I always lose because of some bullshit financial reason like wanting to pay off my car insurance in one fell swoop instead of tiny increments throughout the year.

I’ve done plenty of destination trips and enjoyed the journey (that’s what it’s all about… man) but I’ve never really done a bonafide road trip before, the kind where you just set off to see what you see. Something tells me that I’d be a far worse unplanned traveler than I’d like to think, basically the Sally (as in the one Harry met) of road trip companions. I wish I’d done my junior year abroad in college instead of doing shots, but I honestly never wanted to backpack through Europe. What does that even mean? I’d love to sit (in air conditioning, with a cocktail) and hear about all the adventures of someone who has done it, but anyone who knows me knows that it would take about a day before I’d be whining about how heavy my backpack is.

Case in point: I had this conversation with a friend the other day.

Her: Sorry, that was a client in the Bahamas, I had to take the call.

Me: No problem.

Her: I think I’m going to have to go there next month.

Me: Really? Do you need an assistant? Someone to bring you rum and fresh towels?

Her: You could come. Oooh!

Me: What, really?

Her: Yeah! You could stay with me in my room. I’d have to have dinner with my clients, but then I could meet you for drinks. That would be so fun!

Me: That would be awesome.

[pause]

Me: Who would I eat with, though?

Her: What?

Me: Who would I eat dinner with? Honeymooners? Mangy locals?

Her: Mangy?

Me: I went there a couple years ago. They’re kind of obsessed with American women. And they’re not exactly subtle about it.

Her: You could eat in the hotel. It’s not like you need to forage in the jungle for coconuts.

Me: Well, I can’t be on vacation in paradise and eat in the HOTEL.

Her: So go anywhere!

Me: But it’s not like grabbing a quick lunch by yourself. I’d have to go out for a romantic dinner alone. I’d be like the How I Met Your Mother guy alone in the restaurant in Hawaii in the Sarah Marshall movie.

Her: I didn’t see it.

Me: Oh, you should. [Dracula musical!  Infant Sorrow!]

Her: Quick, go on Expedia, before you psych yourself out.

Me: Okay. Well, let me think about it.

Her: Sigh.

See? Can’t get out of my own way. GAH.

I give you money and send you into the grocery store to pick up 5 items. You can only pick one thing from the following departments. What do you pick?
1. Produce: Strawberries
2. Bakery: Joseph’s lavash bread
3. Meat/Deli: Cracked pepper turkey breast
4. Frozen: Crunchy slim-a-bears, of course
5. Dry goods: Oat clusters Cheerios

Could I also maybe go to the dairy section and get some milk or yogurt? No? Okay. Not even pudding? Fine. Sorry. Go ahead and hate on the lactose. Also, I want some Baked Lays. And paper towels. Are you mad at me? Where are you going?

If you were to make breakfast, what 3 things would you make?

I “make” breakfast for my adopted godkids a couple days a week. They have sliced pears, melon, and cereal or an English muffin. There’s some gourmet stuff happening on that granite countertop.

So, what 3 things do you find yourself doing every single day, and if you didn’t get to do them, you probably wouldn’t be in the best mood?

1. Sleeping
2. Showering
3. Eating

You’re driving down the road, and suddenly you’re hit with this sense of road rage. What 3 factors probably contributed to it?

1. Somebody just cut me off in such a way that could’ve caused an accident, and for no apparent reason, like so they could be five inches ahead of me waiting for a red light.
2. Somebody rides the breakdown lane to pass everyone and then they merge back in right in front of me.
3. Somebody is riding my ass when I’m going fast enough. Now I’m riding my brakes, you dink.

We’re going to the zoo. But it looks like it could start storming, so it’ll have to be a quick visit. What 3 exhibits do we have to get to?

1. Bears, I guess?
2. Maybe monkeys?
3. I’m not really into the zoo thing, plus I think it’s going to rain. Why don’t we go to a movie?

You just scored tickets to the taping of any show that comes on TV of your choice. You can pick between 4, so what are you deciding between?

1. Dexter
2. Lost
3. The Office
4. How I Met Your Mother

You’re hungry for ice cream. I’ll give you a triple dipper ice cream cone. What 3 flavors can I pile on for ya?

1. Chocolate chip
2. Cookies and cream
3. Peppermint

Somebody stole your purse/wallet. In order to get it back, you have to name 5 things you know are inside to claim it. So, what’s in there?

1. Pink wallet
2. Sunscreen
3. Gum and mints
4. A mini pink Purell
5. A driver’s license with my face on it. Clearly this is my stuff, Columbo, so please give it back.

You are at a job fair, and asked what areas you are interested in pursuing a career in. Let’s pretend you have every talent and ability to be whatever you wanted, so what 4 careers would be fun for you?

1. Novelist
2. Pediatrician
3. Chef. Or maybe just a professional watcher of The Food Network.
4. Battler of demon cobras

If you could go back and talk to the old you, when you were in high school, and inform yourself of 4 things, what would you say?

1. Put forth a little more effort in your classes. There’s some important stuff to learn and there will never be another time that someone will be standing in front of you and teaching you all about it. Well, until college.

2. Don’t get involved in the pettiness. And when it comes to harmful people, let it go, walk away, and be grateful to them for making you appreciate true friends.

3. Don’t worry, you’re not fat. In a few years you totally will be, though, so hang in there!

4. Don’t get too stressed. It’s not that big a deal, and things will work out. Just enjoy it as much as you can while you can. Wait, is this my life philosophy?

Hey buddy!

First of all, I have to say, I’m a fan of your work. A undeniable F-A-N. You’re all over my iPod. Granted, no one likes shit music more than me, but please don’t let that bother you. I’m happy to say that I defend you, often with cocktail in hand, to anyone who mocks my musical taste. Which is basically everyone I know, but I digress.

I think Hello Again is hysterically funny (was it meant to be? sorry), I secretly like Love On The Rocks, I literally am Forever in Blue Jeans, and of course I’m a Sox fan, so thanks a bunch for Sweet Caroline. When I was a little I would always cry when I heard Heartlight (remember, the song from ET? Wait, of course you do). My family mocks me about that to this day. Thankfully I got over that inexplicably emotional reaction. Just please don’t play it because ohmygoditssosad.

Having said all that, there’s an issue that has been gnawing at me for some time, so I’m just going to put it on the table. I hear your song “America” played in the background of any remotely patriotic event, such as Fourth of July festivities and presidential campaigns. On the surface it seems only fitting for such situations. But here’s what: It’s totally about terrorists and illegal immigrants. The jig is up, Diamond.

Not only is that what it’s about, but it contains the ominous warning (over and over and over) that the aforementioned terrorists and illegal immigrants are coming to America TODAY. Dude, you might as well scream “You can run but you can’t hide, stupid Americans” or “Enjoy your last meal at Burger King, you fat video gaming nation.” Why the hate disguised as patriotism? Or are you laughing all the way to the bank (presumably this song still makes money for you) at our collective inability to listen too closely to song lyrics?

Other than that, keep up the good work and questionable grammar (ahem, Song Sung Blue and I Am I Said).

Sincerely,

Red

I harbor a deep, shameful love for The Bachelor. The absurder than absurd premise, the fighting, the crying women… it is so, so good, and you will never convince me otherwise. Many before you have tried and failed, young grasshopper.

The Bachelorette is somehow less entertaining. Women make it all so girly, with their swoony visions of the future and sunset picnic dates. I like how the Bachlelors just try to hump as many of the wide-eyed cocktail dresses put in front of them as they can. Fuck, it’s what I’d do, were I a single square-jawed 32-year-old financial consultant. Am I right? Can I get a what-what?

I just wish that they’d really depict 26-year-olds dating (jello shots and infidelity!) instead of having them read those dumb scripts. I’ve provided a loose translation of some of the Oprah shit they force the guys to read as they try to weed out the skanks and virgins.

You have enriched my soul with your wit and wisdom, and I wish we had more time together = You are ugly and you need to go home now.

I think you’re an extraordinary woman, but I fear I cannot give you what you need = You are ugly and you need to go home now.

Although your beauty makes my heart rhapsodize with joy, I must say goodbye = You are ugly and you need to go home now.

It would be my honor to get to know you better, but our journey together ends tonight = You are ugly and you need to go home now.

Will you accept this rose? = I would enjoy the opportunity to put it in you again.

I didn’t really watch The Bachelorette this season (no frontin’, you know I’d admit it) but I was drawn into last night’s finale by its tractor beam of crappiness. Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one.

Kate: Gotta love that we’re watching a show that advertises old people’s meds.

Me: Gotta love that DeeAnna (seriously? this is her name?) is panicking about her biological clock at 26.

Kate: She’s a prettier version of my high school nemesis.

Me: I bet she picks the weird one.

Kate: I think they’re both gay.

Me: Jason is totally unappealing. “Hello, I shall do your taxes.” Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll meet a nice lady when things pick up at H&R Block in the spring.

Kate: Paisley tie!

Me: Least of his concerns.

Kate: I so want him to be like, “Whatevs. This show got me laid.”

Me: He would be my, nay, America’s hero.

Kate: Woo! Suck it, loser.

Me: I wish that was the name of the show.

Kate: Right?

Me: Who marries a 26-year-old snowboarder? I’m sorry, I didn’t want to have to take it there, but here we is.

Kate: Named Jesse, no less. Where are the Rippers?

Me: What does a professional snowboarder even do? Give lessons to people on vacation who are saying things like, “I don’t know what I’m doing! Hahaha I’m drunk I like snow.”

Kate: That’s what I picture.

Me: I’m sorry, but after a few weeks in the Carribean I’d be ready to marry anyone. Including your dad. Not that he’s not hot.

Kate: Noooo!

Me: We fell in love, Kate. You can’t fight the human heart. Just call me mom when you feel comfortable.