So, during pool breaks today, the godkids and I killed time doing silly Facebook-ish surveys. Here are their answers about me…

What is my favorite thing to do during the day?
Her – Read a fiction book.
Him – Texting?

What is my favorite thing to do at night?
Her – Go out to dinner with friends.
Him – Go to a Red Sox game. Or have a glass of wine with mommy.

What is my favorite food?
Her – Chicken.
Him – Yogurt.

What is my favorite drink?
Her – Martini! Just kidding. Iced tea or crystal light.
Him – Iced butt.

What is my favorite color?
Her – Blue.
Him – Black, because you have a black Blackberry. No, your favorite color is green because whenever you play Sorry you always have the green pawn.

What is my favorite place?
Her – Fenway Park.
Him – Heaven!

What is my favorite fruit?
Her – Strawberries.
Him – Strawberries with cool whip.
Her – Cool whip isn’t a fruit.
Him – I know that! She puts cool whip on her fruit!

What is my favorite TV show?
Her – Seinfeld.
Him – Friends.

What do I always say?
Her – “You must chill.”
Him – “Clean up your mess.”

What is my favorite movie?
Her – Slapshot!
Him – Jaws. Sponge Bob: The Movie. No, the Simpsons movie.

What is my favorite sport?
Her – Baseball.
Him – Ping pong! Sumo wrestling!

Who’s my favorite baseball player?
Her – (.27 seconds later) Jason Varitek
Him – Victor Martinez (to which I told him he wasn’t getting any lunch and he switched his answer to “JV”)

What was my favorite subject in school?
Her – Creative writing
Him – History. Or free period.

What annoys me?
Her – [Him]!
Him – When [their dog] licks your toes or licks your suntan lotion off.

What makes me happy?
Her – [Her]! Or the Red Sox winning.
Him – Thinking of heaven.

What would I do if I was abducted by a UFO?
Her – Use [him] to block your face.
Him – Scream your head off, probably. No offense. You’d probably die.

What would I do if I met the president?
Her – Hola Senor Obama!
Him – Puke.

Who do I talk to on the phone the most?
Her – My mom.
Him – I have no idea.

What famous person do I look like?
Her – Beyonce!
Him – Michael Jackson. A guy from Kiss. Wally!

How old am I?
Her – Approximately 32.
Him – 31.

What do I like to wear?
Her – Flip flops.
Him – A shirt. You always wear a shirt.

On July fourth in Salem, some storm cloud of a guy rained on my friends and I long enough to say something like, “Well, summer’s basically over now.” Thanks, Eeyore. Who says that mid-fireworks? Except that conversation was about five seconds ago. Seriously, summer, why must you tease us so? And why must I use Old English? Bring me an answer henceforth at once.

It was a great summer, though. IS, sorry…I know. But Labor Day fast approaches, as does my life of gainful employment…and just in time, because no one is less liked than someone who works in edumacation at the end of August.

This summer was the usual fun litany of weddings and endless baseball. Vows and Varitek; doesn’t get much better. And great trips…I went to Pennsylvania for my grandmother’s 85th, New Hampshire with my family, New York City for the Sox-Yankees series. New Seabury beach on the Cape, yummy lobster and cold Riesling, nights at Fenway…

But I love fall. I LOVE fall. Sweaters, baby pumpkins, watching the godkids’ soccer games at sunset wearing a hoodie and drinking something warm. My job starts up, baseball heats up. Weather nice enough that you can have the windows open all the time. Apples, cider, Halloween. Speaking of, does anyone think I could pull off going as Tobie from Labyrinth at this year’s costume shindig? This may be the year.

Goddaughter is starting middle school next week and doesn’t understand why she got such a long list of supplies to buy, because “we already pay taxes!” Godson is starting fourth grade, and did I mention that he’s five foot one? Which is weird, considering I was just giving them bottles about three seconds ago. Now it’s all sports and friends and Miley Cyrus songs that show up on my online banking statement. Never link up your iTunes account with tweens, people.

Anyway. How were (are…ARE!) your summers going, friends?

This video will give you a pretty good idea of what my weekend was like.

Juuuuust kidding. Well, kind of.

My dad (a born and bred Yankees fan) and I drove into the city on Friday, checked into our hotel, and wandered around Central Park for awhile. The first person to comment on my Sox hat was a Jamaican street vendor. He came in peace, though, and he told me that there are more Sox fans in New York than Yankees fans. Uh. Really?

Later on, we headed into the Bronx for the first game of three that we would be seeing over the weekend. It was the second game of the Sox-Yankees series and the Sox had lost the first one the night before, thanks to the painful descent into oblivion of one John Smoltz.

First of all: Yankee Stadium. People, it’s a colosseum. Overwhelming, impressive, everything you’d expect. My friend Mary (a Yankees fan) said it best when she described it as Disney World. The jumbotron is longer than the distance from home base to first, and very well-designed. For every player that’s up, you get stats, random facts, game score, balls/strikes/outs, as well as pitch count, speed, and description. And of course, it’s ridiculously high-def. Very neat.

Friday night’s game was a blast. It was scoreless until the 15th inning and lasted five and a half hours. I know, I know, you have to really love baseball to enjoy a game like that. The pitching was phenomenal, and would continue to be, on both sides, throughout the weekend (aside from the occasional Boston relief guys). The Sox and Yankees had never before played a game that went scoreless past the 13th inning. My dad’s favorite player is Mariano Rivera, their badass closer. My dad had never seen him close before, so it was fun when he sauntered in to Enter Sandman by Metallica. Unfortunately, A-Rod was the one to finally crush the winning home run. It was a bummer to lose, but still a really fun game.

Saturday afternoon’s game: Scoreless for awhile, but then the Yanks pulled it out 5-0. Another game without so much as a run from the Sox. Very disappointing. Also, A-Rod threw himself in front of a pitch and then whined. Classy as always. Despite our loss, Buchholz pitched very well.

Sunday night’s game: That one was going to be ours! You can’t come from Boston to see your team get swept by its arch rivals, can you? Uh, can you? Turns out you can. Lester did well, and we finally got a run (our only two the whole weekend) thanks to Martinez, who is a nice addition to the team (despite the fact that his presence does somewhat threaten my beloved captain’s future with us). But it wasn’t enough. It was tough to leave that night, to a deafening chorus of BOSTON SUCKS. Well, we did. That weekend, we did. What can you say? The worst thing the Yankee fans did, in my opinion, was mock the “Yoooooouk” when our beloved first baseman (or third, or sometimes left fielder, hey why not?) got up to bat. Too far, New York, too far!

Other stuff: We met Manny Delcarmen (one of our relief pitchers, for those of you non-baseball types) and asked him if they can hear us cheering for them when they’re playing away, and their fans are a tiny fraction of the crowd. He said, “Yeah, we can, and that’s all we can hear.” Cool. We had a lot of fun conversations with very nice Yankees fans, among whom the consensus seems to be that the only black hole on their team is A-Rod. Agreed. (Well, I’d argue that Johnny Damon is another black hole, but that’s only because he left us. He’s a good player, though. I’m kinda over it.) Ate dinner at the very adorable Lily’s on Lexington, which was awesome despite the fact that my shrimp had a face (I had to remove the EYES, people). I got a free pity dessert from our waiter, who wanted to make sure it was red, in honor of my defeated team, so he added lots of strawberries. Got to meet up with Kate, Mary, and Terry for drinks. It’s important to have restorative time with friends when your team is losing, right? Did a three-hour boat cruise around the island which was interesting, but loooooong. All in all, New York was a blast. I missed the friends that I didn’t get a chance to see, and wish I had more time with Kate, but baseball weekends are quick. Two things I wish we could copy New York on exactly are their subway system and profusion of open air wine bars. Can we get on that, Beantown?

As far as my feelings toward the Yankees…they’re a great team. Let’s be honest, they’re not the dynasty they’d like to think they are, but they’re a great team. They were epic decades ago, and then up until 1995, they were pretty shitty, and they haven’t won a title since 2000. But that’s in the past, and a Sox fan is in no position to throw stones. Thanks to their pitching, they’re probably in their best form all decade. And with players like Jeter and Matsui, among others, they’re playing a lot of good, honest baseball, the kind Mickey Mantle would’ve been proud of. And anyway, what would we do without the Yankees? Play Toronto until we’re blue in the face? Kick the Twins all over the field? Tampa Bay has been playing great for a few years, but who wants to see them take home the rings? The Sox need a team that challenges them and raises the game to a new level, and the Yankees do just that. I hope that since 2004 the Sox have done the same for them.

One thing that kept cracking me up was the sheer drama of New York baseball. Throughout the games, they showed clips from Rocky, 300, and screaming coaches motivating their teams in sports movies. They played long video montage tributes to players and pitchers set to songs like Warrior by Pat Benatar. They had lots of silly between-innings games. They could use a little less payroll and little more soul, but that’s who they are. They’re rock stars. The Sox are very different, but then Boston is very different. New York is a big city and Boston is a small town. The Sox are the scrappy underdogs, playing in the most rundown but beloved ballpark you’d ever hope to watch a game in. The Sox are the Beach Boys and the Yankees are the Backstreet Boys, but I think those roles work for both cities. At the end of the day, as far as I’m concerned, they’re the only two teams in baseball. It was kind of a drag when the Yanks were out of the game so early last season. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to see them win, but the fact that they’re back in fighting form makes this season, well, a whole new ball game.

Okay, I’m blogging again. Michael would’ve wanted it that way.

So last weekend I was in Connecticut for my cousin’s wedding (the only things I ever do in Connecticut are drive through it and attend weddings). I was watching TV in the hotel one night before bed, and there seemed to be an unhealthy abundance of infomercials parading before me. One in particular was for Meaningful Beauty, which is the beauty line that Cindy Crawford apparently promotes meaningfully. Watching it went something like this:

Ha. This is so dumb.

[seven minutes later] So the natural antioxidants in the rare melon extract in the moisturizer are what will protect my skin from free radicals and collapsing collagen? That makes so much SENSE. And I need the cleanser, day cream, night cream, eye cream, face mask, glowing serum, and neck cream (wait, neck cream? Oh, okay.) And a three month supply is available for just $29.95 per month if I agree to purchase…hang on a second. Is Columbia House selling skincare now?

I actually do have a few things that I’ve acquired over the course of my life from infomercials, and people, I have to be honest, this shit has just not let me down. Except for ProActiv, which made me look like Chucky after the toy factory went up in flames. Boo, Jessica Simpson. Good thing I’m not 11 or else I’m sure your candy-flavored body glitter would’ve broken my heart, too.

Anyway, in college, I bought a CD compilation called Cool Rock after seeing it advertised on late-night TV. It took 6-8 weeks to arrive (back then I’m pretty sure they used carrier pigeons) and boasted tons of 80s gems. I took lots of abuse for it, but I loaned it out once and never got it back. Clearly never got over it, either.

Back to one that I bought this century: Smooth Away! To be fair, I got it in a store, but it really is a good product. And I bet I’d totally grow tomatoes if I had the Topsy Turvy! The Strap Perfect seems like a great invention! I know they look like they’re about to start chanting, but darn if all those family members don’t look warm and cozy around the fire in their Snuggies. And I want like 97 Bumpits OMG you guys we should totally have a Bumpit party!

And then the truth sets in. I’ve never grown and seldom even buy tomatoes. I’ve never really had bra strap issues so extreme that intervention is required. If I’m chilly, I know of another warmth-creating product called a blanket. And as for Bumpits…well, fuck, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I say a cross word about the Bumpit. (I’m about to get like 900 hits from search engines from Bumpit enthusiasts. Bump it, ladies! Bump it long and bump it hard!)

All of this leads me to an alarming conclusion. I’m not saying that I don’t have my own opinions but apparently I DON’T HAVE MY OWN OPINIONS. What if cults start using infomercials? Or John Mayer? Or the Yankees?

People, have you been watching Harper’s Island? Because holycrapyoumust. When I saw the previews, I thought it actually seemed like it could be a cool show, and a neat concept…an eight week long (or whatever it is) murder mystery, very Agatha Christie. And for those of us with the attention span of a what was I talking about again?, I liked the fact that it’s pre-packaged with an end date, so you know ahead of time that you won’t watch for endless hours wondering where the hell it’s going (are you listening, LOST?).

Well, it’s not a cool show. I mean, it is, but only because it’s so fabulously, tackily, soapily terrible. On the first episode (spoilers! if you care!) the bridal party was about to leave for a week on the island where seven years ago a crazy person killed a bunch of people blah blah scary music. Before they set sail for The Island That In Reality Nobody Would Ever Go Back To, they’re casually wondering where cousin Eddie is. Anyone seen him? Hmm, oh well, more champagne? Must’ve been a second cousin, because they’re anchors away, and OH SNAP, Eddie is totally strapped to the propeller. Bye buddy. The least they could’ve done is text you before they took off.

Also, in the first episode, the drunk uncle (Harry Hamlin!) is staggering across a rickety bridge in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. The bridge breaks, his legs fall through, and as he’s trying to pull himself up, his TORSO IS DEMOLISHED! Well, naturally. Because apparently the mystery killer is a T-Rex.

The bride, randomly played by David Cassidy’s daughter, is possibly the hottest woman on TV besides Cobie Smulders. Her family is awesome because they’re rich which means they’re cold, mean, plotting, and none of them have to work, ever. And their last name is, of course, Wellington. The dad is trying to get the bride’s ex, one smoldering piece of man meat named Hunter Jennings, to come back and rip his baby away from the grubby clutches of the middle-class groom, who is not an acceptable match because he is not cold, mean, plotting, and presumably does have to work.

We also need to discuss Hunter Jennings for a minute. HUNTER JENNINGS, y’all. Was there ever a better name for a chiseled, shadow-dwelling ex-boyfriend? With whom the bride used to make lots of bad naked decisions?

One of the main characters, a friend of the groom’s, is my pick for the killer. She’s mousy and paranoid and doesn’t have pupils. The groom has a creepy brother who could double for that Wedding Crashers guy, you know, “the painting was a gift, Todd, I’m taking it with me.” One of the characters has The Quintessential Creepy Ass Long Brown Haired Adolescent Daughter who whispers evil things but somehow no one around her loses their shit. It’s all “Oh, that Madison, what an imp,” as her head spins around and pea soup hits the walls.

I’m so excited to find out who gets their spinal column ripped out next. And if there ends up being a hatch and polar bears and time travel, then so help me, I will… well, I guess I’ll just blog about it. But angrily! And in ALL CAPS!

I’m painting my guest room, which has been decked out in swirly multicolored children’s wallpaper since I moved in. Did I mention it’s peeling? And beautifully accented by the water stains from a melting snow debacle that happened before they put on a new roof? Did I mention that water stains eventually turn brown, making the walls look like they’re bearing the brunt of the chimney’s leaky diaper? Yeah. I like my guests to feel fancy.

A friend of mine mentioned that she saw a room painted spa-like green. I latched onto that idea, because spas are lovely, calming, soothing. But is that Seafoam? Basil? Shimmering Lime? Spruce, Spring Meadow, Peppermint, Sweet Honeydew, Irish Moss, Creme de Mint, Serenity, Shore House, or Summer Basket? Is it possible that I’m less excited about the spa color and more about the association with Swedish massages and seaweed facials and aromatherapy? It’s not like I’ve ever been pampered by celery. And what the hell is a summer basket?

Speaking of spas, has anyone else found that mud baths sound much better than they are? I basically just sat in a tub. Filled with mud. That felt like mud. And smelled like mud. And made me think about how they can put “dead sea minerals” in front of any word and we’ll pay, and tip well, for it. I’d be more excited about work if I was invited to more dead sea minerals meetings. Or if I had to swing by the dead sea minerals supermarket on the way home.

There are the colors that sound more like places I want to be more than colors that I actually want in my home: Galapagos Turquoise, Acapulco Sand, Bermuda Teal, Caribbean Azure. They may actually all be the same color, but regardless, they are seductive, warm, and must be kept away from me, or those walls will be Cayman Blue before you know it. With a Cancun Sand trim. And Provence Creme polka dots.

Some colors keep it real, like Grape Gum, which looks exactly like it sounds. But the Scandinavian Blue that is maybe a fraction of a shade different from it somehow has a name that betrays its blatant purpleness. There are lots of identity issues happening on that color wheel.

There are colors that just feel good, actual color aside: Sun Porch, Yellow Rain Coat, Bunny Nose Pink, Pancake Syrup. There are those that make no sense: Cool Lava, Elephant Pink, Nacho Cheese. Who wants their walls to look like cheap apps at happy hour? Maybe me, actually. Yum.

Turns out that First Light, Icy Moon Drops, Early Sunset, Melted Ice Cream, Venetian Marble, Full Moon, Creme Brulee, Icing on the Cake, and Pale Straw are all delicious-sounding synonyms for WHITE. Tuscany sounds wonderful, but it’s really the name that’s enticing, since it’s just a shade away from Fatigues and Artichoke. And where else but in a bucket of Benjamin Moore would Stormy Monday sound appealing?

I have a suggestion for department store cosmetic counters: Get rid of your employees. I’d go there so much more often, and I think most other women would too. There’s no one standing in the produce section of the grocery store saying, “Oh, you’re buying a peach? Then you need peach yogurt, peach jam, and peach pie too. Otherwise there’s no point. Do you exfoliate?” In the cracker aisle, there’s no one holding a clipboard and frowning, “Oh, you’re buying Wheat Thins? Did you know we have Triscuits? And Ritz? You seem like more of a Wheatables type. And with your complexion…”

But at a department store, you can’t walk by a toxic wasteland of perfume on your way to look at shoes without being accosted by someone asking if you’d like to smell like buttercups in the breeze or lilacs in the spring or Jessica Simpson, post-divorce. You can’t let your eyes rest for even a nanosecond on any products by Prescriptives or Lancome without the woman behind the counter all but demanding to know what you’ve been using on your skin thus far and why it’s taken you so long to arrive at your senses and come to her for help. Sshh, don’t worry, it’ll be okay now. You’re safe.

I wanted to buy something at Clinique today only slightly more than I didn’t want to deal with the people at the Clinique counter. They may be the worst ones of all. What number skin products do you use? You don’t know? You don’t use clarifying toner? When did you stop caring?

First of all, the labcoats. The coat doesn’t make you seem like a doctor or scientist. Come to think of it, when I was in grad school I worked at a local hospital a couple mornings a week checking the hearing of newborn babies, and they used to make me throw a labcoat over my jeans. You’d be amazed at how many freshly minted parents are more than happy to let you wheel their new baby away and poke them for a few minutes when you look like…well, a Clinique salesperson.

Second of all, the withering size-up. “Hi,” I said. Cheerfully enough, I think. “I’d like such-and-such.”

“Such-and-such. Certainly.” Pause. “Have you considered any of our redness-correcting products?”

“No thank you. Just the such-and-such.”

“Certainly. If you’re interested in a sample of this redness-correcting product…” And suddenly there’s a Q-tip being offered up in front of me with a dab of, presumably, redness-correcting product on the end of it.

“No thank you.”

She wasn’t the first non-doctor to diagnose me with rosacea, which cosmetics counterpeople talk about like it’s AIDS. “Oh. You must have ROSACEA. I know of some lovely hospices, dear.” Never mind the fact that my dermatologist has reacted to my wondering whether or not I show signs of it with, “Eh, probably not.” (Ahem, rosacea, that is.) These are the same non-doctors who also try to frantically ply me with self-tanner so that no one else has to be subjected to the glowing orb of whiteness that is my skin. So do I have damaged skin that requires your product so that I look healthier or do I require the appearance of damaged skin so as to look healthier? Make-up your mind, ladies.

Why do these women have the ability to make any of us feel even the tiniest iota of insecurity? I’ve rarely seen one who didn’t make me think, “So THAT’S what frosted blue eyeliner/incorrect tanning lotion application/roots on top of roots look like.”

The woman next to me said she was interested in a particular foundation. A doctor slash scientist said to her, “You’re not wearing any makeup now, right?” The woman was clearly in work clothes, probably in her 40s, and responded with an obviously deflated, “Uh…no…not really that much.”

Back to my own personal beauty technician. “Come back if you ever want to check out our redness-correcting products.”

I checked to make sure I had everything I needed before I walked away. There’s nothing like tossing some retail bitch a stony glare as you retreat and then having to shuffle back and say, “Yeah, hi. I think I was supposed to get a gift with purchase?”

It just kept coming. This faucet could not be shut off. “We really have some fabulous options. I swear by them.”

People, she had a lazy eye. Do you think that I ever, in a million years, would’ve suggested to her that she try glasses? Because I swear by them.

I don’t watch that many movies. I mean, I enjoy movies (I also enjoy food, sports, and vagueness) but I just don’t sit down and watch them very often, even the ones I love. It’s funny how we tend to accumulate our favorite movies and display them but hardly ever throw them into the DVD player. Here’s a movie that cracked me up/moved me to tears/taught me invaluable life lessons and as its reward it gets to live out the rest of its plastic-encased years on a Bed Bath and Beyond stand in my den.

I especially don’t watch many Good Movies. You can argue that that label is subjective, but let’s put it like this: In 2007 I opted for I Know Who Killed Me over An Inconvenient Truth, and in 2005 paid money to see House of Wax but not Million Dollar Baby. No regrets, people.

My love for crap movies is something that was born in me and that I’ve painstakingly nurtured over the years. If you’re not a crap movie aficionado, you may not realize that they actually have their own set of parameters that must be adhered to. For example, none of those painful scary movie spoofs count. There’s a special place in hell reserved for humorless parodies.

The main requirement is that a crap movie has to think it’s a real movie. Case in point: There’s a movie coming out that stars Audrina Partridge (the brunette from the Hills with the heavy eyelids and no top lip) as a sorority girl ghost on a murderous rampage. Jujubes for everyone!

I enjoy the whole movie theater experience, but now that tickets cost $10 and the movie will probably be on On Demand in about two months, I find myself thinking twice about whether or not it’s worth it. My one caveat is that I will happily pay full price to spend a couple hours in the dark with Jason Segel, Paul Rudd, Jonah Hill, Seth Rogen, or any combination thereof, which is another way of saying that yes, yes I do kiss my pillow and pretend it’s Judd Apatow, thanks for asking.

I love that Dane Cook bit about how couples have that whispered fight when the one who went to buy candy comes back to the theater and it’s dark and he wanders the aisles, blind and lost and receiving no assistance from his partner, who doesn’t notice him. One time I was watching a movie with my boyfriend, who spent about ten hours trying to open a bag of Reeses Pieces quietly, all the while making those tiny but somehow tortuous crinkling sounds. I finally suggested that he just bite the bullet and rip the bag open, and when he did, the bag basically exploded and candy went everywhere. I think that was probably one of the best laughs I’ve ever had at a movie, particularly when he indignantly clutched the last few pieces of candy to his chest, unsure of how to rescue them but unwilling to fully accept defeat. I’ve learned not to judge anyone’s candy-opening techniques, because now I understand that if I mock your technique, and you then alter said technique, resulting in the untimely demise of your candy, you get to take my candy. That’s just how the universe works.

Keeping up with movies, particularly Good Movies, is like keeping up with filing bank statements or other tediousness that we’re raised to think is requisite for maintaining our adult passport. If you don’t do it at least once a week or so, the pile grows, and then finally you just end up shredding all of them. Or suddenly it’s Oscar night and you don’t recognize anyone on the red carpet unless they were in The Wedding Date or How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days. Damn you TBS and your perfectly timed rainy Sunday afternoon moviefests!

These days, Twilight seems to be the new Titanic, Brad Pitt continues to be King Midas, Dakota Fanning is all growed up, and they’re making movies out of Where The Wild Things Are and Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. What’s next, Goodnight Moon starring Sean Penn? And say what you will about Miley Cyrus, but I think the premise of her movie is genius. It seems like the perfect way to transition (read: keep) her fans from Hannah to Miley, and also a nice way to throw in a little “just be your own bad self” message to her adolescent fans. And, you know, it’s not about vampire sex.

Yesterday I saw that Nicolas Cage movie Knowing, which involved defying a few of my own tenets of film logic: 1. Paying the aforementioned $10 for a movie that’s received the proverbial shrug from critics, 2. willingly watching something slightly scary when I have the most intolerant palate for goosebumps ever, and 3. spending two hours of a beautiful day in a theater. I also think it’s worth mentioning that the family in line ahead of us spent $34 on snacks, but that’s a whole other issue. Despite the fact that Knowing is about (spoiler alert! which you know from the previews!) the end of the world, it was actually pretty entertaining.

When the world really ends it’s going to be a little off-putting to find that we can’t be saved by Bruce Willis and a drill or Jeff Goldblum and a haltingly delivered speech about science. Apparently we’re going to be done in by ice, fire, aliens, or childhood obesity, but without Will Smith, I don’t know how we’re supposed to get out of it. I haven’t even seen that guy in years. Hollywood has so not prepared us.

1. Driving makes us bipolar. If there’s a roadblock coming up in my lane so I try to move into your lane and you block me out, you’re an asshole. If you’re in my old lane and try to inch into my new lane, but in that douchey way where you drive right up to the roadblock and then need to get over RIGHTTHISMINUTE, you’re an asshole. If you’re taking too long at a light or intersection, you’re an asshole. If you beep at me under the same circumstance, um, hang ON, give me two seconds, you are such an asshole. If I know you and you relate any of the above situations as having happened to you, the other person is automatically an asshole. Somehow we’re never the assholes.

2. There are certain lines from movies, especially 80s movies, that can instabond otherwise strangers, like “Ray, when someone asks if you’re a god, you say YES,” “I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City,” and “STRIKE FIRST STRIKE HARD NO MERCY SIR.” There are many of these that you could bust out with that would make me suddenly love you, but none moreso than, “Sesame Plexor? Oooh, she’s such a sleaze!” Anyone…anyone?

3. My eighth grade English teacher was probably my favorite teacher ever. He dressed like a crazy person and straight up looked like a monkey. He had us read The Most Dangerous Game and The Cask of Amontillado, both of which he infused with such goosebumpy drama that I’ve never forgotten them. He could read your cell phone contract to you and you’d be riveted. He hated redundancy and used to throw a book across the room whenever he heard the words “old adage,” because an adage already means old. I think of him whenever I hear someone say that.

4. I’m reading a book by a woman named Donna Tartt. I randomly grabbed something to use for a bookmark and realized later that it was a picture of a lemon.

5. When your dad’s friend’s wife is obnoxious and everyone knows it (she corrects people’s mispronunciations, works in some random HR job but acts like it’s the Oval Office, and has no children but will tell you how you’re raising yours wrong), you still can’t really express that to your dad in the way that you really want to, because, well, it’s your dad. You have to say something like, “Dad, I just don’t like her. She’s mean. You know? Remember the fourth of July?” It’s frustrating because nothing but saying out loud that she’s A TOTAL CUNT will ever feel satisfying.

6. It’s weird to think about the services that have become passe. Like video stores. I never saw that coming. When you see one now, it’s actually worth pointing out, like it’s an endangered species (“If you’re very, very quiet, and you look out the jeep window to your right, you’ll see the elusive Hollywood Video, a formerly docile creature, now in a violent struggle for survival…”) I just wonder what industry will be totally shut down next by some technology that never occurred to anyone and in the next breath no one could live without. Isn’t it bizarre to think that you’ll be in the middle of some random anecdote years from now, and one of your kids will pipe in with, “Wait, what’s a VIDEO STORE?”

7. I have no idea why some pop songs seem infused with the kind of mind-bending absurdity that somehow illuminates exactly what’s wrong with the world today, and others are like, yay, I love this one, turn it up.

8. I am fustrated by people who pronounce it fustrated. All of these people can say frugal, fruitcake, fraction, fragile, and fraternizing. There is no logical explanation for this.

9. I like to think that on an everyday basis, Obama speaks in the endlessly vague proclamations that he rocks in every speech, and how nightmarish it must be for his staff to try to decipher him long enough to actually make a to-do list. “Okay, sir, on Monday you have an 11:00 about demanding results from the government at every level, and then a lunch meeting about how we have to roll up our sleeves and bring change to America…”

10. My mom’s birthday is coming up and she told me that she wants night vision goggles. This probably tells you everything about my family that you need to know.

I received this email the other day:

Hello Webmaster,
I am [Just Trying To Pay The Bills], Marketing Representative and interested in sponsoring your blog and I am contacting you to ask if you are interested in blog post sponsorship. Please let me know if you have any further questions regarding pricing, guidelines and processes and kindly add my email address to your email address book to make sure your spam filter does not discard any important messages.
Yours truly,
[Don't Judge Me, I Have Kids To Feed]

Oh cool! Blog sponsor! Isn’t that the kind of thing that enables you to quit your job and let your online ramblings pay your mortgage? Or something? Sign this Webmaster up, bitches.

As a general rule, I should probably know better than to respond to someone who has to assure me that she’s not spam (man, it’d be nice if more people came with that warning, though, huh?). But I responded to her to find out the situation. She wrote me back to tell me that my mission, should I choose to accept it, is to write a 150 word blog post about the company that she works for, or is being held against her will by, it wasn’t clear. I have two days to write said blog post after I receive the assignment (which I assume from the tone of her email must self-destruct after those 48 hours), I’m not to write anything hateful or rude, and whatever you do, sucka, do NOT mention that your opinions are now bankrolled.

Yeah. Because anyone who knows me will think it’s perfectly natural that I’m suddenly writing a 150 word blog post extolling the virtues of an online casino website given the fact that I only ever went to Mohegan Sun to see Earth Wind and Fire. Moreover, I can’t believe a company like that actually has staff working for it, real live people who have names and write emails. I mean, is there a storefront? I thought websites like that were just vaporous entities with pop up windows with those fake Xs that make you accidentally open more pop up windows which is really just the ultimate internet black hole mindfuck. I would’ve just deleted the emails and moved on had I not seen the best part: For the pleasure of doing business with me, they’re happy to pay me…oh the suspense…five dollars. Five AMERICAN dollars. Now that’s what I call putting five on Red.

I wrote her back and told her that the economy isn’t quite that bad yet. But if I ever start spouting off about how act now sign up for your free trial to win big retire young and rich you may already be a winner just sign here and THREE CHERRIES YOU WIN, you’ll understand, right?