Those who know me best are familiar with my affinity for the Google Image Search. FlickR is my pal too. It’s like Romper Room on crack for the visually oriented. I have several Firefox Plugins that have helped me achieve ninja status when it comes to tracking down an existing image that conveys my intended concept with artistic economy rarely afforded by words alone. As with most of my talents, it is my blessing; it is my curse. Several of the 31 posts in draft are unfinished because:

• I got distracted by the looking for the perfect accompanying image(s), found the image and lost the steam to take care of the minor detail of content. Forest – I’d like to introduce you to my close, personal friends – the Trees.
• The idea that I am trying to convey is so specific or obscure that even my might powers of keyword cross referencing are unable to turn up a match.

The former is why G*d created Adderall (BTW- thanks for that, Big Guy). The latter is why serendipity brought me my friend Sean (aka – Demonhood). A while back, I got it in my head that I wanted (nay – NEEDED) an image of a Rufeetini. Not one to turn away from a "dare to be great situation", Sean took the conceptual directives sent via IM and boldly assumed the role of the hero. Hopefully this is the first of many collaborations.

The Artist Currently Known As Demonhood

By day, this Santa Barbara based photog is an oracle of tech geekery at an area university. Able to photograph tall buildings in a single bound, nights and weekends are spent taking pictures of things the rest of us are too harried to catch the first time around. His lens captures delightfully quirky moments in the most poetic of ways. Check out his work and if you’re getting hitched in California, hire him to photograph your wedding.

Tags: Artist, California, Google, Santa Barbara, Sean

Faneuil Hall is one of the better known landmarks here in Boston. If you’ve visited our fair city, chances are you’ve strolled the charming cobbled streets while picking up souvenirs to bring back to the folks at home. If you’ve lived here, it’s a safe bet that you’ve cursed the freakin’ stone streets while hobbling in uncomfortable shoes on the way to meet friends for an evening out.

I had one such evening on Saturday. There are not that many people for whom I’d brave the 40 minutes looking for parking in Boston around Faneuil Hall. Finsy is one of ‘em and her bachelorette party ended up in an establishment in Quincy Market. Ahhh… there’s nothing quite like the smell of urine and sausages on the first day of summer. I’d probably crawl on my tummy through broken glass for that girl. She’s well worth it.

Years ago I appropriated my life philosophy T-shirt ripping-off Buddhist philosophy:

Where ever you go, there you are.

In short, it was a really fun (albeit oppressively hot and sweaty) night of dancing for us. I had several of my signature drink: water on the rocks with a twist. Beverage-wise: I was covered but there was a group of fellow bar patrons who begged to disagree. Literally begged.

These gents had "extra" mixed drink of the green persuasion for which they were trying to find a good looking home. The optimist locked away in the depth of my soul wanted to believe that they had caught the spirit from Oprah’s philanthropy contest and just wanted to pay it forward. After 15 minutes of well-mannered refusals from my girl friends’ it became clear that this particular brood was simply too forward. It was past time to stop trying to give big and just go home. Accordingly, the dainty white gloves came off and my scrappy side came out to play. As great of a character reference as the tattoo on their ringleader’s flabby chest was, we were all pretty attached to remembering the next 12-14 hours. Note to self: there is no polite way to turn-down a free Rufeetini.

For the record, I doubt that there were any additives to the questionable drink in question. They were probably nice, albeit clueless, guys who unfortunately made it well into their twenties without learning that there are certain things you just don’t do:

FOR GIRLS: Do not accept drinks of unknown origin from sketchy men in bars. This goes along with watching your drink being poured by the bartender, never leaving it unattended and grasping the top so that your palm covers the top as you’re walking through a crowded room.

FOR GUYS: Treat every girl you meet as you would like your mother/sister/niece/daughter to be treated as they venture out into the big bad world. In other words, do not seek to disrupt someone to complying with the above rule. If you don’t act like ladies are meat to please you, they will most likely be pleased to meet you.

Do you see the possibilities of this brave new world?

1. Ladies won’t be so defensive and bitchy.
2. Dudes will have a better shot at actually getting laid.

Everybody wins. Let’s make this happen people.

Tags: bartender, Boston, Faneuil Hall

Last month I skimmed the NaBloMoPo writers’ community on Ning.com. Creative types… chillin’ online… kickin’ it old school. As a seasoned online community band-wagoneer my trigger finger got to itching. What followed is unclear… first- the pretty lights… weeeee!!!! oo- soooo dizz-z-zeeee…

Next thing I remember I had regained consciousness to find a confirmation e-mail awaiting my attention. After reading the induction letter I realized – much to my horror – that implicit in my joining I had actually agreed to <gasp!> do something. Turns out that participation based online communities do exist outside of those urban legend-based Dateline NBC pieces designed to scare the crap out of middle Americans tragically conjoined to vinyl barcaloungers.

Here’s the deal: members pledged to publish one entry per day for the month of November, the idea being that on when the clock struck midnight on November 30th each person would have raw material for a book manuscript. Even if it only leads to me writing this one piece, that’s one more than I may done anyways, right? As for my own participation in this campaign, let me break it down with a simple equation used to calculate complex probability ratios:

Joining 11/15 + general uncertainty of life direction = 0%

Regardless, here I am – a month and a half later typing furiously so that I can lighten the load of “to-dos” brought into the New Year. That and I wanted to alleviate the guilt from not having responded to the bloggers who “tagged” me for a writing assignment. (They seem to be quite lovely – between the two of ‘em there wasn’t one threat of karmic reprisal for breaking the chain.) Considering the latency of my own response, tagging other folks would be a bit hypocritical. The buck stops here: I will be “it” for the rest of my days. The other requirements will be satisfied, so that’s gotta count for somethin’, no?

✓ Link to the person people** who tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
✓ Share 7 random and or weird things about yourself.
❑ Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
❑ Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Without any further ado I present seven tidbits which expose me for the quirk-meister that I am.

1. There’s an involuntarily face I make when tearing up lettuce for salads. My nostrils flare, the soft palette** is raised and my lips purse ever so slightly. “Lettuce face” is especially pronounced with iceberg lettuce, though romaine is also a trigger. The inventor of the bag-o’-salad is my personal saviour.

2. When I was a teenager my mother told me the date I was conceived. My ears began to bleed and I now have a bonus reason to “Remember Pearl Harbor”. Seriously Mom- TMI.

3. I have a weakness for men with prominent noses. I’m not sure what it is. The resulting effect is equivalent to some sort of cryptonite/catnip alloy.

4. I have a hard time walking by someone with a tag sticking out of their shirt without fixing it. When appropriate, I usually tap them on the back to let them know.

5. I like folding laundry… and no: I will not come over to your house to fold yours. (OK- I might but only if you are clearly not doing it right.)

6. I frequently use three different words as prefixes or suffixes: ninjas, monkeys, and pants. Adding them to just about any word or scenario = insta-comedy.

7. I have the tendency to tidy up when I’m at a friend’s party. I don’t break out the vacuum or re-arrange the cabinets but I do try to help with recycling bottles, bringing dirty dishes to the sink and tossing discarded napkins/cups/paper plates. Having hosted a few parties myself I am all too familiar with how much it sucks to wake up the next morning and survey the wreckage.

*Credit for this witty colloquialism goes to my l’il brother and his turdy friend who, in days of yore, would follow me around the house chanting that phrase over and over and over and over…
**Thanks Girl Robot and Lily Potter Knits!
***For those who haven’t had vocal training, raising the soft palette opens up space in the nasal cavity and allows for greater resonance without putting additional strain on the vocal chords. The exercises used to teach this technique involve weird facial expressions (fake beauty pageant smiling, yawning and curling the upper lip while raising the nose) to create the effect until muscle memory kicks in.

Tags: ado, itching, Lily Potter Knits, New Year's Day, online communities, Remember Pearl Harbor, Robot, seasoned online community band-wagoneer

More thoughts run through my head in 60 seconds of blank staring than most people process in a day. Very few of these musings resemble my actual life. Actually, there is marked disparity. (Think: apples and orangatans.)

The most recent collision of reality and my inner world happened as I accompanied my best pal (Winnie*) on a shopping sortie to Copley. Cast in the role of consumerist wing woman, I kept my eyes peeled for classic silhouettes that fell within her color palette.

Of course, altruism takes a back seat once I cross through the threshold of a BCBG Max Azria store. The back of that store has a gravitational pull under which I am powerless. Their party frocks are fab and I can immediately visualize myself coyly sipping a cocktail served in impractically shaped glassware. As I thumb through the racks of floor length gowns Winnie quips in her affably sarcastic sing-songy tone: “Never too early to plan for prom, eh?”

Touché, my dear friend; touché indeed. After 20 years of best friendship, she knows me all too well. The thought of another person knowing the floor plan of one’s mangled psyche may be terrifying to some, it is one of my greatest comforts to share this reciprocal shorthand. I just laughed and lobbed it back: “Hey- ya never know. This could be my year.”

Here’s the kicker: already, I have enough formal wear that you’d think I was an aspiring game show hostess investing vowel money in a professional wardrobe. That makes perfect sense considering:

*Tuesday 1/2 price burger night is the social highlight of my week

*My boyfriend:
—lives in Asia.
—takes pride in not owning a pair of shoes.

The storm in my brain came up with two possible solutions as impractical as they are warped.

*Host a Spinster Gala.
Breathe mints optional;
Cat required.

*Check with Vanna White to inquire about a closet swap: her wash-and-wear travel clothing for my finery.

“Yo Whitey- hit me back, ahhh-ight? I gots a favor to axe.”

N.B.: Alternate suggestions welcome as class participation is encouraged and will count for 30% of your final grade.

Tags: Asia, aspiring game show hostess, BCBG Max Azria store, head, kicker, New Brunswick, possible solutions, Vanna White, wash-and-wear travel clothing

“I met my boyfriend at the airport last month.”

That statement looks simple enough but like most things in life, the true meaning is open to interpretation. To wit:

➥ The narrator is romantically involved in a serious enough capacity that the threshold of tentative exclusivity* had been crossed. (Travel concierge services are typically reserved for phase 2** or 3*** of a relationship.)

➥ A flame was kindled in a TSA detention cell – an impressive feté of personal chemistry considering lighters are contraband in any international airport of significance.

➥ Hypothetically, one could imagine mutual literary pursuits forging a connection. While not ‘literally’ ‘official’ it wouldn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure that several indicators symptomatic of a figurative phase 2 were present.

Let’s re-cap:
Phase 1*
Beta Faze

Phase 2**
Two individuals wearing synchronous dopey/addled looks as if in a constant state of running open-armed-daisy-field marathons.

Phase 3***
Flannel pajama pants are donned in lieu of wearing make-up. (Well for women that is… men wearing makeup is usually a pre-cursor to phase 4b****.) Shlep and fetch duties have become an unspoken mandate.

Phase 4a
Happily ever after – two individuals fuse to form a collective entity. (Oh Whitnard- if only I had the time and motivation for a photoshoperama session.)

Phase 4b****
Unhappily ever after – while I am very supportive of alternative lifestyles I, personally, do not wish to date a man who would borrow, stretch and ruin any of my favorite apparel. (A provisional exemption was granted once for Halloween but I don’t see that permit being renewed.)

Tags: concierge services, Halloween, rocket surgeon

Date of Original Publication:
Mon 07 Aug 2006 06:35 PM EDT
Multiple Choice Section of Your Pre-Flight Examination

TSA Officer: Do you have a butter knife in your bag?

Winnie:

A) I butter not.
B) All the better to eat you with!
C) Allah Akbar?

(Upon finding and confiscating said knife)
TSA: Technically, I’m supposed to call a state trooper over to clear you for your flight…

Winnie:
A) Is he single?
B) Will this involve a full body-cavity search? In that case, there’s something I need to tell you….
C) Go ahead, tell him there’s a Sheriff in Nevada that’s got dibs.

Tags: body-cavity search, Nevada, Sheriff, TSA Officer

A friend, whom for the purposes of this blog I shall name “Jenny”, woke up one recent morning to find a pimple of preposterous proportions developing smack-dab in the middle of her cheek. Like a bad boyfriend, this pimple was simply not going away until it had robbed poor Jenny of any self-esteem.

A colleague of Jenny’s, noticing her pimply predicament, suggested that she “dab a bit of urine on her cheek- a doctor said it would clear acne right up”. In the name of scientific research, I went in search of evidence to support this claim. I humbly submit to you the hyperlink below.

Urine, a cure for all diseases.

Tags: acne

Maybe 75-100 is closer to the mark but I was in no shape to judge, let alone count. Two weeks later and I am only now recovering from Davis Square’s communal celebration of late summer: Birthdaypalooza.

From the moment I was assigned the making of the punch, I became the mixologist of my own destruction, the architect of my undoing. The recipe was based loosely on something from one of those plastic bound fundraiser cookbooks no doubt compiled by disarmingly matronly pillars of the community. To the extent that I can recall, the recipe was as follows:

• 1 big bottle/jug of orange juice
• 1 quart lemonade
• 1 gabillion quarts Iced Tea – I used Pomegranate Juice tea bags & brewed the vat of it in my unairconditioned kitchen. (I do not recommend repeating said conditions.)
• 1-2 cups creme de cacao
• 2/3 bottle of apricot brandy
• the remainder of a handle of Bacardi dark rum
• 1 bottle Gosling light rum
• garnish with chunks of fresh coconut
• season to taste with a few generous splashes from another handle of light rum (adjustment courtesy of the Zoo Mass alums)

The result? A punch with serious kick. A kick, that I might add, gave me 32 smacks in the ass (and an extra one to grow on.) I’d just as soon not grow any this year so the last one was overkill.

It may have also been the straw that gave the camel a bad back. Had a been younger, I might have suffered through the hangover. However, the wisdom I have garnered in my first 32 years help me to steer clear of that as I slept through the entire next day, waking at 10 pm.

My first meal was typical hangover fare (the closest thing to me which required zero preparation): Betty Crocker chocolate frosting straight from the can. The dark side of my brain took over as I imagined a scenario in which my untimely expiration came about mid-container. I know it wouldn’t be funny for whomever found me deceased under the covers with a partially frosted face and hairdo befitting the bride of Frankenstein. Sugar rush tends to bring about inappropriate reactions and this image thoroughly amused me at the time.

As an advocate for getting one’s daily allowance of the frosting group, this would normally not be problematic behavior. I, however, must fit into the dress pictured (in teal) on September 16th for friends’ wedding. Finding a $498 Elie Tahari dress on sale (relatively close to season) for $36 is the equivalent to coming across the holy grail while cleaning out your parents attic. Would a size 4 have been more comfortable? Yup, but the size 2 did zip up when last I tried it. For $36, I’ll wear a girdle whilest sucking it up (and in) for the afternoon/evening…

I’m also going to lay off the frosting. That should prove helpful.

Tags: advocate, architect, Betty Crocker, Davis Square, fundraiser, USD

Compliments of Sprouty. G*d, I love this one.

Tags: Kitty Compliments

I’m not much for video games… but holy CRAP! Wii is the best thing ever. Way better than sliced bread. It’s not even a contest.

It’s this alternate universe where I can break 100 at bowling. I can also box like a mofo, all without breaking a nail or messin’ up my hair. I wish I could make my Mii cuter, but she’s still a looker. Hollah!

I wonder if my boxing prowess would translate in a street fight. The realistic part of me says, “No chance.” My girl friend and I look like we’re having an seizure during a slapfight with ants in our pants. Must sign off for now. Sean and Stacy are taunting me for this “dear diary” entry and it’s my turn to kick some simulated butt.

Tags: boxing, Sean, Stacy