I Guess I Could Talk About Things Other Than Facebook. But, Um, Why The Crap Would I Want To?

When the social networking shebang started happening (which was probably long before I finally got on the bandwagon, raging hipster that I am), I remember saying to a friend of a friend that however mindless it may be, there’s no going back. Once you start getting random messages from the randomest of random people who you knew lives ago, it somehow becomes endlessly entertaining. He said something along the lines of, “Yeah, but what happens is that you get a message from someone you knew in fourth grade and you both say, ‘I can’t believe it! How are you?’ and then you just fester on each other’s friend lists and never talk again. It’s not a real life thing.” So true.

Now that we’re all so well-versed in the aforementioned randomest of random people finding us, it’s become sort of routine. I forget that there was ever a time when I didn’t know that my former camp counselor is on his way to the gym, my childhood friend just went to the bank, and the wife of a guy that I knew in college and never really liked has a headache. And then, of course, there’s the mind-numbing realization that you’ve been tagged in your seventh grade class picture (THERE ARE PICTURES OF YOU FROM MIDDLE SCHOOL ON THE INTERNET! AND EVERYONE WHO KNOWS YOU CAN SEE THEM!) but other than that, I think it’s kind of nice to make those little connections here and there.

Still, I’ve always remembered what that guy said to me a few years ago, so I’m not sure what I was thinking when this next situation happened. Let’s start by blaming my mom, who randomly googled the girl who used to live in our old house before us, who I wasn’t even really friends with, and then sent me the link to her Facebook page asking if it could be her. Now that we live in a world where shit like this is somehow normal, I of course friended her and she wrote back right away, the usual “I can’t believe it! How are you?” She moved to Florida after the fifth grade and it’s safe to say that I haven’t seen, talked to, or thought of her for even the most fleeting of moments since, except maybe when I found a dirty love letter to her mom written by some guy that had fallen behind a bureau in our house. So anyway, when she mentioned that she’d be visiting family in our old hometown this week, I made the next logical comment and said that we should get together for lunch.

What? I mean, WHAT? As soon as I hit send, I looked down at the keyboard, at my own fingers, as though they’d betrayed me. Now, there’s not a thing wrong with this girl (uh, woman, grown woman), and I’m sure it’ll be perfectly lovely to catch up with her…but it’s not like I’ve seen her after our ages were in the double digits. It’s not even like we were friends. It’s not even like I’D RECOGNIZE HER ON THE STREET. What will our catch up conversation sound like? “So, how was middle school? Did you totally get your period and stuff? Yeah, I was really into New Kids On The Block too. Did you have the big button with Joey’s face on it? No? Oh, I did. Yeah, really. I would’ve let you touch it.”

Naturally, she wrote back saying lunch would be great, probably wary that I’m about to recruit her into a cult or ask her to mother a child with me. Too bad I’m not doing that new-thing-every-day resolution anymore, because lunch with a freakin’ stranger could definitely count.

Happy Blogukah

Hanukah, Hannukah, Hanukkah, Chanukah…how many words have ten thousand possible spellings? (That was rhetorical. Please don’t spend all day trying to think of more. Although you know you totally will now. You’re welcome.) I think I seriously just finally learned how to spell the name of That Lovely Holiday from my friend’s Facebook status update. There’s just no excuse for that, given that I’ve spent the past six years living in a city where I seem to be the only person with a Christmas tree. Not to mention the fact that I should probably stop relying on Facebook for my cultural education. There’s other stuff that can do that for me, like Wikipedia and Tyra Banks.

So between differentiating between PS3 and Wii to please the adult boys in my life, trying to find the MAC lipstick that my mom wants when they are infuriatingly organized by random letters and numbers, and “This is a back massager, right? I didn’t just buy my grandmother a vibrator, right?”, it must be Christmas, kids. On that note, yay! I know, I’m so obnoxious I’m bordering on claymation, but I love this time of year. Especially since life isn’t a big bag of suck like it was this time last year. But moving on…

One of my favorite things about the holiday season so far this year has been this, chronicled hilariously by my friend. If you’re curious about what a particularly feisty (and, incidentally, my favorite) 9-year-old might say to Santa, check it out.

As far as gifts go, my favorite one that I plan to give this year is the video from my dad’s surprise 40th birthday that I had converted from VHS to DVD. A guy that my mom went to high school with has a videography company and he did it for me. Something tells me that I shouldn’t ask her childhood friend to also convert all the tacky Skinimax movies that I’ve accumulated over the past twelve couple years. Although he probably converted all of his already, so how could he judge me? I realize I’m into a weird area now.

The original idea was to convert it for obvious sentimental reasons, but touching family moments aside, holy CRAP, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, mostly because my mom hired her 115-year-old aunt and her organist husband to DJ the party. The two of them did used to have a legit DJ-ing business and all, but I imagine they were hired them because the price was right (read: free) and because who wouldn’t want your 115-year-old aunt and her organist husband to get this party started?

I’m not kidding when I tell you that Auntie, tricked out in a head-to-toe rhinestone-soaked monstrosity, not only sang I Just Called To Say I Love You to a likely (hopefully) half-drunk crowd, but also serenaded my dad with Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey, substituting his name in for the title character. Although that is most definitely how you would rock the casbah in the roaring 20s, I just can’t imagine that it’s what a bunch of late-30s early-40s party people are looking for on their one night out all month with a babysitter at home rooting through their drawers for dirty stuff. Did I mention that Rhinestone Auntie also made these people do the chicken dance and the Hokey Pokey? And during an unsolicited tribute to my dad, a man she probably last saw when she was seated at the “not sure where to put this relative” table at his wedding, she lovingly said, “He comes into a room, says hello, and doesn’t say another word.” Well, can you blame him? I’d be terrified of you too, you glittery cougar.

But wait! There’s more. The “party” was in a church basement, my mom had a coral pantsuit and a straight up fro, and there was a cowboy in attendance, hat and all. Man, why can’t my parents still be friends with the cowboy? I wish I could sit by his knee and hear life lessons about horse wrangling and appropriate attire for parties in the 80s and such.

To be fair, there’s a clip of me on the video wearing a pink and white striped dress and doing a very enthusiastic dance routine to Walk Like An Egyptian with my friend Katie. And giving the emphatic answer “two VCRs!” to the question, “What present would you most like to give Daddy for his birthday?”

But enough about me. Did I mention the forced chicken dance, people?

My Minimally Valiant Attempt To Start Blogging Again With Anything Remotely Resembling Regularity

Old Britney or new Britney?
No contest, homeslice. The new is but a shadow of the old. It stopped being fun when it became clear that Kevin Federline was actually the one slumming it.

Black tie or casual?
Casual. I love the occasional formal event, but that may be mostly for the free hooch and not so much the nice clothes.

Glue stick or glue bottle?
Would anyone but a teacher have an opinion on this? It’s all about the stick, party people. Scotch clear glue sticks, to get technical.

Pancakes or waffles?
Waffles. And I know you’re dying for one of the wafflewiches I’m making this weekend. Oh, you read that right.

Obama or McCain?
You mean Cain and Rockobama, according to my students? I’m financially conservative but liberal on a lot of the issues, so it wasn’t really a clear cut choice. Ultimately I rocked the vote for McCain although I wasn’t exactly going door to door spouting my love for him. They put a hit on you if you do that in New England, anyway. I can appreciate and actually do really like the whole idea of Obama on one level, but the frenetic rock star following didn’t sit well with me, either…it just seemed so vague and ignorant with all the hope and change and bears oh my. In any case…I’m cautiously optimistic and we’ll see how it goes.

Gym or home ec?
Ha. I hated both.

Art or science?
Science.

English or math?
English.

Halloween or the 4th of July?
I like both, but Halloween is my favorite. I’ve finally decided that my Halloween party is now officially an annual shebang. I don’t like to brag, but have you tried my Hauntini? It’s awe-some.

Now or five years ago?
Now, big time.

Tea or coffee?
Tea. Specifically, large (I do not speak fratalian) iced black tea, unsweetened.

Fight a bear or Build-a-Bear?
Best question ever. I’d have to choose fighting a bear, could you hand me that shotgun, buddy, also that chair. (Whatever happened to Tenacious D, anyway?) Last year one of my kindergarteners asked me what I liked to build at Build-a-Bear when I was little. I told her they didn’t have Build-a-Bear then and she looked at me, confused, and said, “So what did you build?”

Amusement park or museum?
If you have to ask…

So, Yeah, As It Turns Out I’m The Laziest Blogger Ever

I always claimed that I’d be grandmommy blogging someday, so certain was I of the hardy blog stock of which I was made (wow, I’m keeping that in just for the plethora of grammar mistakes. This is how my mind works without editing.) But now it seems that I’m regarding the Tent with the cool indifference usually reserved for John Mayer and grown people who say “fustrated.”

I can’t really figure it out, because even during the times when I’ve been blogging like my life depended on it, I wasn’t exactly capturing the ins and outs of the human condition, I was just writing about crap like throwing wet phone books at my neighbor. And since we know ridiculousness like that is always ongoing in my life, I guess I don’t really have an excuse for the radio silence these days. What can I say, I’ve just been way too busy watching Dexter on DVR and drinking gold rocks margaritas at On the Border trying to bail out the economy. I mean, that’s life in the big city…it’s a blur of bill paying, not sleeping thanks to the postseason, pumpkin buying, and dance parties. Not necessarily…no, actually, pretty much exactly in that order.

Anyway, how have you been? Your hair looks cute. Is that a new top?

We’re Never Gonna Survive Unless

I was in line today at the post office (mailing a ten day late birthday gift to a friend. I’m sorry! I love you!) and a crazy person a person with limited mental faculties came in. I stood in line wondering what kind of domino effect gets you to that point. I bet there isn’t one mother burping her bundle of joy and thinking, “Someday my baby is going to wander around a post office talking to the wall, I just KNOW it.” At one point these people had parents and spouses and jobs and hair appointments and pointy toed boots. Right? I mean, shy of Wellbutrin and a bad morning, there may not be all that much of a difference between she and I.

Well, I can tell you the major difference right now: The basket on wheels. Why do all crazy people have baskets on wheels? Are they automatically issued to you after your breakdown? Do people initially resist them? “NO! I KNOW WHAT THE BASKET ON WHEELS MEANS! YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!”

Or maybe, by that point, as Jim Gaffigan would say, it’s more like, “Hey, a basket on wheels. At least I’m an orange.”

Choose, But You Must Choose Wisely

Venture a guess as to what my favorite purchase was today.

One teeth cleaning: $150

One bottle of OPI nail polish in Brisbane Bronze: $8.50

One bottle of Diet Pepsi: 99 cents

One each of the following Sweet Valley High books, found at my favorite used bookstore: Playing With Fire, Dangerous Love, All Night Long, Heart Breaker, Kidnapped!, Showdown, Crash Landing, and The New Jessica… priceless……

Everything Under The Sun

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.

The Evolution Of Technology Continues To Mystify Me, But At Least Now I Have Something To Blame When I’m Late

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 Have Whatever The Opposite Of Olympic Fever Is

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.

Living Like A Rock Star, Only Without The Groupies. And Roadies. And Money. Okay, Not At All Like A Rock Star.

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.