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Pre-wedding Jitters, Lasagna, and Unplanned Blogging

As I lathered up in the shower this morning, my eye caught a suspiciously large wart on the thumb of my left hand. Panic surged. My mind spiraled into a vortex of doom: How could this happen just three days before my wedding? I haven’t had a wart in 25 years! How fast does Compound W work? Is it too late to buy bridal gloves? And, if I do, how on earth will Mr. P manage to slip the ring on my finger?

Then, clarity hit. The wart wasn’t a wart at all—it was a soap bubble. And just like that, I realized I’m losing it.

For the past week, my cravings have been utterly deranged. Not for some amorphous indulgence, but for very specific junk foods. Yet, I’ve dutifully adhered to my usual policy of avoiding anything my great-great-grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food. Breakfast has been toast with Neufchâtel, though my heart longs for a big, neon bowl of Fruity Pebbles. At lunch, I chop through salads, bread, and hummus while daydreaming about a buttery mound of spaghetti with just salt and butter. (Granted, my great-great-grandmother probably wouldn’t have known what hummus was, but surely someone’s did.) I snack on plums to quell an ache for Doritos and Reese’s Pieces. At night, I’ll sit down to a rustic French dinner with a modest cheese course, but I’m secretly dying for something deep-fried and lacquered in sweet-and-sour sauce, capped off with Ben & Jerry’s featuring chocolate-covered pretzels.

Today, I finally caved. I marched to a cafeteria-style lunch spot in downtown Boston, the kind of place that caters to construction workers and unrepentant carb enthusiasts. My coworker calls it the “Quantity Café” because, well, they prioritize quantity over quality. I was the lone customer without a bike messenger’s neon vest or an industrial neck tattoo. My eyes hovered over the gooey, doughy pizza—sold by the quarter-pie—but I opted for the cheese lasagna instead.

Lasagna! My long-lost love. I walked out of the Quantity Café clutching a $4 slab of lasagna the size of my forearm. To fit into the takeout container, they’d sliced it into two pieces. Who knew that layers of ricotta and mozzarella pressed between overcooked noodles and practically void of tomato sauce could be so… satisfying? Not nourishing—let’s not kid ourselves—but deeply satisfying. For the first time in a week, I felt calm. Perhaps because my blood sugar promptly tanked, leaving me too drained to worry about whether all those empty calories were heading straight to the backs of my upper arms.

Posted in Existence.

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The Pre-wedding Post

This may be the last post until after my wedding next weekend. Anticipatory inquietude gnaws my mind. And there are errands galore, some that may make for amusing blog fodder. Like, I could regale you with a scathing recount of yesterday’s trip to David’s Bridal on a frantic hunt for accessories, during which I saw scores of girls in their early 20s, all either trailer-trash rail thin or fast-food chubby, sashay around in gaudy dresses while their adoring entourages squeed about how flattering that neckline is. Maybe I’m just bitter because my own bridal dress shopping experience was as solitary as a nose pick. If my neckline is woefully unflattering, I only have myself to passive aggressively resent.

Yes, all these bridal observations are so delightful. Unfortunately my writing energies are stretched thin these days. Both my full-time job and my consulting job are entering “produce or die” phases in the product lifecycle. The workload of a technical writer is like this: Twiddle thumbs, twiddle thumbs, twiddle thumbs… Incoming, HOLY CRIPES. Then come the 11 hour days, the desire to punch strangers who walk too slow on the sidewalk, the sense that my keyboard is taunting me: Feed me words, missy. Feed me! Is that fastest you can type?

Nervous. I’m a little nervous about the wedding. All eyes will sit on me as I portray the serene, blushing bride, ensconced in all the traditional trappings of matrimony. I avoid spotlights and rarely crave to be the center of attention, despite what the rampant exhibitionism on this website may suggest. The last time I was the focal point of a large gathering of people was 5 years ago during an office Halloween party, when my angel costume landed me as a finalist in the costume contest. Coincidentally, I also wore white.

I have carefully constructed a facade of bridal innocence to cover-up the mental and physical sullying by the passage of time. I’m more fearful that what everyone tells me is true: That your wedding day is the fastest day of your life. It is over in a blink of an eye. I’m scared that when Mr. P and I grow old together, we’ll remember the solid year of wedding planning, we’ll have the pictures and mementos to ponder, but the happiest day of our lives will be a blur. Even couples who love each other as desperately as we do must be scared for the wedding to be over, and real life to begin.

Posted in Existence.

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100% Chance of Love

Now that my wedding day is within a 10-day window, I can freely and obsessively check Weather.com’s 10 Day Forecast for the all-important wedding day weather prediction.

Currently, the forecast for my wedding day is 74 degrees, partly cloudy, with a 20% chance of rain. Encouraging, especially since the day falls during an apparent spell of dry weather in Southeastern PA. But obviously “mostly sunny” would be preferable to “partly cloudy,” because I know that partly cloudies have a tendency to turn into mostly cloudies, foggies, rainies, and then the next thing you know…

tornado

Posted in Existence.

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Blood, Sebum, and Tears

Everyone has a mental dictionary, where our brains go to put personal connotations to words. For example, my definition of pain used to be “that searing sensation in your eye when you prepare a hot pepper for dinner and, later that night, remove your contact lenses and essentially deposit one million Scoville heat units into your eye via the oils that cling to your finger despite repeated washing.”

Tonight, the word pain has been redefined in my mental dictionary to mean “undergoing behind-the-ear pore extraction during a facial by a pint-sized Russian grandmother.” (I wanted to ask her why she felt compelled to brutally squeeze the gunk out of the pores on the fold of skin behind my ears, but my mouth was frozen in a silent scream.)

Posted in Existence.

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Gabba Gabba Grey

Outside of South Station this evening, I saw an elderly man wearing a Ramones t-shirt. I first zeroed in on the shirt: Black, with a stark white Ramones banner above the iconic eagle logo. Good condition, but not brand-new. Then I zoomed out and took in the man: 75 (give or take 5 years), tall for his age but shorter than me, with a shock of gray hair that has held onto his wrinkled skull reasonably well. Standing and walking on his own. Again, good condition, but not brand-new.

Other than the shirt, the elderly man wore a geriatric uniform of roomy tan cotton shorts that grazed his kneecaps, white socks pulled to mid-calf, and loafers. Given this context, my first thought was that he found the shirt at a Salvation Army or a yard sale, saw the bald eagle seal, and thought the shirt made a statement of patriotism. Never mind that the eagle is holding a baseball bat instead of arrows and a scroll that says “Hey, ho! Let’s go” instead of E Pluribus Unum. These are confusing times, after all.

But maybe he was a Ramones fan. If someone between the ages of 30 and 50 wore a Ramones shirt, that person would look exceeding lame. A man over the age of 70, however, is at an age of profound wisdom and insight. He has seen it all, done it all, and chooses to glorify the Ramones above all else. He was suddenly the coolest guy in Boston.

ramoneslogo

Posted in Culture, Massachusetts.

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Smoking on the Pike Bath

Yesterday I was power-walking on the bikepath, enjoying the dulled late-summer warmth and the subdued sunlight at 6:15pm. The bikepath passes behind the A-town High School and affords a view over the well-groomed athletic field, which is encircled with a burnt-orange track and flanked by aluminum bleachers. There is a chain-link fence separating the bike path from the shrubbed valley that leads to the high school premises, but an unofficial passageway has been forged for entry and egress, and local students are often seen milling on the bike path after school hours.

Four such young men sit on a wooden guard rail alongside the bikepath, and as I walk past them, a potent smell of marijuana fills my nose. I slyly glance at them through my sunglasses. They look like good kids, insofar as they have short hair and preppie clothes. One is talking very rapidly as I pass. The others stare slack-jawed at their hands or at the ground. Cyclists whiz by to the left of me, and one stoned lad looks up and jerks his head to follow the motion.

Don’t they know that marijuana smoke clings to the air like a swarm of gnats? You may be wondering how I know what marijuana smells like. Well, the truth is, I found out in 4th Grade on the school bus. There was a back-seat loud mouth named Mike K., who one day declared “This bus smells like pot smoke.” Everyone on the bus, including the bus driver, took a deep breath. I took several, memorizing the smell that had been identified as pot smoke, knowing this knowledge would serve me well in life.

(Oh, that Mike K. He must have had quite a home life. Another day he announced out of the blue “I hope I marry a screamer instead of a moaner.” He repeated this several times, an 11-year old boy obviously proud of his grasp of this adult terminology. I sat in the front of the bus with my book, parsing the statement. I knew it had something to do with sex because of the word “moaner.” But “screamer?” Why would someone scream? And why would he have a preference?)

Back to the bikepath. I believe whole-heartedly that marijuana should be legalized. Our country wastes an untold amount of resources on prohibiting marijuana in order to save kids like these from the scrounges of a drug that is less dangerous than alcohol. Meanwhile, the medical establishment is happily pumping these same kids full of psychoactive substances, and we’re telling them with straight faces “Don’t do drugs.” Are we effing serious?

But regardless, I’m still bothered by these boys, brazenly smoking weed on a bikepath that’s choke-full of old people, young families, and yuppies with cell phones. I had the urge to teach them a lesson by leaning over them and whispering, “Whadya kids smoking? Don’t you know you’re surrounded by narcs!” And then I’d run around the bike path, screaming “Get me some doooooooooowners!”

Posted in Massachusetts, Nostalgia.

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Tom!

There are two men in my life: Mr. P and Tom Brady.

Mr. P is my husband, the man who was put on Earth for me to meet, love, marry, and eventually egg to the brink of insanity. I cook for him, I clean for him, I offer kind words and a ready ear, and I edit his important English-language emails. In return, he drives us everywhere, purchases the household wine, and handles everything related to cable, internet, home networking, and the trash. We have fun together. It’s a very loving and symbiotic relationship.

Tom Brady is my quarterback, the man who was put on Earth to ignite the passion within me… the passion for football. Up until 2001, I could watch a football game without boredom and appreciate the events of the game, but I was largely apathetic. My dormant fervor was ignited when Tom Brady took over for Drew Bledsoe as quarterback of the Patriots. I didn’t know precisely what I liked about Brady until 2003, when I had a beer-and-football-induced epiphany: Tom Brady was a modern-day deified Greek hero.

My heart, mind, and soul belong completely to Mr. P… except when the Patriots are playing. Then, I’m worshipping Tom Brady, and there’s some French guy next to me on the couch drinking a beer and muttering about pump fakes and punt returns.

Oh, Tom. Tom. All last week, I burst with anticipation at seeing you again. I didn’t expect miracles during the season opener, but I never thought I’d see you vanquished on the field by a safety blitz and replaced by… Matt Cassel? For the entire season?!? The what-what? Boston Globe sports columnist Dan Shaughnessy compared it to “going to a Springsteen concert, waiting for the Boss, then hearing a bow-tied announcer tell you, ‘Bruce cannot be here tonight. Someone else will be fronting the E Street Band'”.

No, not quite. It’s like dying a horrible death and finding out God is actually a bunny rabbit. I mean, egads. The disillusionment.

Posted in Existence.

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Wikipedia Taught Me (Pro-Wrestling)

This morning, I started reading a Wikipedia article about Hubris (here) because I was writing a meditation about America’s decline, and I thought to maybe invoke this sin of Ancient Greece to describe the excessive national pride that compels voters to embrace a non-elitist hockey mom. Sarah Palin is fantastic, because she’s just like me, and I’d be a great President!

It turns out hubris isn’t really an applicable in this sense — mind-boggling stupidity is more apropos — but I began clicking Wikipedia hyperlinks, and the next thing I knew, I surfed my way to Wikipedia’s extensive holdings about professional wrestling — defined as “an athletic performing art, containing strong elements of catch wrestling, mock combat and theatre” (here) — and read for a good 90 minutes.

Here are some of the fascinating things about pro-wrestling that I learned from Wikipedia:

  • I learned about kayfabe (here), which is the industry term for the storyline aspect of pro-wrestling. The article lists examples of lapses or breaks in kayfabe, such as: “Orton hit the floor, he suffered a legitimate broken collarbone, and as he was writhing in agony, Triple H could be seen discussing with the referee and the EMTs whether or not to continue the match; it was obviously decided to conclude the match early, so Triple H took out his signature sledgehammer, and proceeded to hit Orton in the head with it, thus finishing the match.” The show must go on!
  • I learned about heels (here), which is the industry term for the villains. The article lists common heel wrestling tactics, such as “Removing the padding on turnbuckles to expose the steel underneath it, and then smashing an opponent’s head, face, etc.”; “Sticking thumbs, throwing powder/salt, or spitting foreign substances into an opponent’s eyes”; “Assaulting the opponent after a match or interfering in a rival’s match to cost them the win.” All things that I’ve never done, but possibly, if I were a pro-wrestler, I may be inclined to consider. I’ve always had a dark side.
  • I learned about faces (here), which is the industry term for the baby-faced heroic foil to the villainous heels. The article lists the types of faces, such as the Juggernaut, the Underdog, and the Anti-Hero (“acts like a heel, but gets cheered nonetheless”). I was surpised to find out that “Rowdy” Roddy Piper is considered a Face, and when I read his article, I found out he wasn’t Scottish at all, but from Canada! I also read about “the highest-profile feud in wrestling history” between Piper and Hulk Hogan, “where Piper kicked pop singer Cyndi Lauper in the head- and even attacked Captain Lou Albano- with Hogan seeking revenge as a result.” Evidently, this was during Piper’s pre-Face years. Then I found out Captain Lou Albano is 75 years old and still alive (here).
  • I learned about the Mega Powers (here), which is the legendary tag team of Hulk Hogan and “Macho Man” Randy Savage, with the comely Miss Elizabeth serving as valet. The article features a meticulous chronology of the Mega Powers: the hopeful formation (“Hogan stated that the combination of ‘Hulkamania’ and ‘Macho Madness’ may become the most powerful force in WWF history”), the dubious glories (“Elizabeth exposed her assets in skimpy panties after stripping off her skirt to the heels, resulting in the Mega Powers coming back to win the match”), and the inevitable feud and tag team dissolution, the details of which have been flagged by Wikipedia as needing “additional citations for verification.”

Posted in Culture.

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Googles

In order to cull the delightfully quirky search engine queries from my website statistics, I sift through literally hundreds of queries that at best can be called indelicate and at worst can be called criminally prurient. Some do make it to the final list if they are relatively prudent and have a comical redeeming quality. For example, I have a soft spot for queries that juxtapose orthodox religion with impropriety, like horny mennonites and “mormon moms” nude.

But I can’t even begin to post all of the X-rated queries, which cover basically every possible standard and/or deviant sexual behavior that has ever been conceived. I cringe to think that people who type such things into search engines have, ew, touched this website. I know that I’ve warranted this attention by using a few naughty words over the years, but I really have no idea why this lil’ old website would qualify as a result for “ass fisting virgins hardcore” (although from now on, I guess I can’t complain).

Despite all the depravity, this month I think I got the happiest Google ever: jesus happy face. How sweet is that? It instantly washes away all the gross feelings I get from queries like bathroom hidden camera pics and entire website devoted to crotch shots of peaches.

INTERROGATIVE
what do employees at cvs wear
whatever happened to the chinese gymnast who hurt herself at the olympics
what is pinky-sweared
what figure of speech is “moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy” from “the cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls”
where to find exotic color legging in the natick mall
what does a fat female look like
who did mark twain say he wanted to bash in her skull with her shin bone
can you fit a twin mattress in the back of a lexus suv
what country had a swim team swore off drinking and big macs for the 1996 olympics
what food makes you horny and board

QUOTATIONS
“diamond dead”
“can ticks survive”
“cambridge is expensive” “ma”
“mormon moms” nude
“snoopy origami”
“workslows”
“andy warhol” “body dysmorphic disorder”
“boring songs like suedehead”

CELEBRITY
johnny rotten in a green sweater
carne wilson skinny dip
jean-luc picard narcotic abstinence
edith piaf’s personal belongings
jenna bush nipple slip with president
britney spears if she was fat
lance armstrong black embroiled suite jacket

MISSPELLED
men must live and create. live to the pint of tears
peppermint snopes liquor
ass peraide
she guaged her friends belly fat
illustration french bike bagette

EVERYTHING ELSE
mothers against drunk drivers boycott against red lobster
garter snake and vegetables musky odor
gym instructors fraternize with female clients
restaurants in greensboro nc with smoking sections
fat housewives cop killing -desperate
german runner defecates on herself during marathon
horny mennonites
horny mom want pleasure sex with her son
photo picture sex cigarettes in the cervix
mistress whip chauffeur maid
signs of virginity pictures
bobaraba penis
peaches that lives on a farm
waiting to eat parched stomach clown straws circles lyrics
the meaning behind away in a manger football chant
volleyball crotches
those sad green eyes that tantalize and pierce me to my core
seafood at johnny’s food master supermarkets any good fresh
ihop oily stools
gigantic skeletal remains of the mythical hunter orion
meredith green, anthony greens wife, picture
jesus happy face

Posted in Miscellany.

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Mount Flume 4328′ September 4, 2008

Posted in 4000 Footers.

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