tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1443617813375219482024-03-13T03:21:32.774-07:00One Girl, 12 Ways -- Operation: Badass Librarianrattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-59866687705981102482010-12-11T09:10:00.000-08:002010-12-12T05:58:37.392-08:00jingle hellOk, I kind of fell off that #10reverb wagon after one post. <br /><br />Me, give up on a project after one half-assed attempt? Don't act so surprised. <br /><br />So while I <span style="font-weight:bold;">wasn't</span> writing contemplative blog posts about the experiences of the past year, the holiday season has crept up on me. I walked into Rite-Aid yesterday, fully prepared to roll my eyes and snort derisively at the aisles of Christmas candy and crappy ornaments, as has been my habit since October when all the Christmas shit first appeared. But suddenly, the XMas aisle was lookin' a little sparse. The fake trees and the candy cans have been thoroughly picked over, the five-pound bags of red and green Christmas M&Ms are now largely outnumbered by crappy plastic trays of stale holiday cookies. Who buys cookie trays in Rite-Aid? Besides hoarders or the elderly? <br /><br />I digress. <br /><br />It hit me then that the holiday season is official here and, in fact, is quickly approaching the Christmas climax. And my frigid little heart is nowhere near ready. <br /><br />A quick glance around my apartment proves this fact. The corner where, in years past, my humble little fake tree stood is currently stacked with overdue library books. The kitchen still boasts the plastic jack-o-lantern from my Halloween party. There is also a fake bat hanging from the chandelier.<br /><br />A carpet of notebooks, school papers, and Amy's sparkly fake mice surrounds the bed. In short -tattered cat toys are about the festive "decoration" in the house. <br /><br />Instead of bustin' out the garland and Christmas carols, all my free time has been spent writing papers and slicin' tongue. <br /><br />I did watch the holiday episodes of Community and 30 Rock this week, but even that felt strangely wrong: <br />"But -- Christmas is so far away!" I said to myself. <br />"Um -not really," my calendar replied.<br />"Seriously, why haven't you done any shopping? I'm only a cat and even I know this is the season for buying shit!" said Amy in disgust. <br /><br />Things had clearly reached Scrooge-like levels of delusion. <br /><br />So I did what I often do when seeking guidance about how to live my life: I turned to Sweet Mother TV for answers. <br /><br />Sitcoms tell us that not every holiday can be the Best Holiday Ever. Christmas or not -- shit happens. Examples:<br /><br />The Golden Girls: <br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zjf4qNkwRKY?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zjf4qNkwRKY?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />Picture it -- Dorothy, Blanche and Rose are held hostage by a gun-wielding guy dressed as Santa who wanders into the Grief Counseling Center where Rose works. A holiday without cheesecake?! Say it ain't so! <br /><br />Full House:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TQO_XlFaeiI/AAAAAAAAB5U/IatWFQGO0g0/s1600/full%2Bhouse%2B1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TQO_XlFaeiI/AAAAAAAAB5U/IatWFQGO0g0/s320/full%2Bhouse%2B1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549489577663298082" /></a><br />The Tanner family spends Christmas Eve stranded in an airport. This was especially tragic for all the other people forced to spend Christmas stranded in an airport with the Tanner family. <br /><br /><br />The Facts of Life:<br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mmiFAKcj0no?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mmiFAKcj0no?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />Jo's parents suck, and she is forced to spend Christmas at Eastland with Mrs. Garrett selling fruitcakes. This actually sounds like the makings of the <span style="font-style:italic;">best Christmas ever.</span><br /><br />Boy Meets World:<br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lRAxCKKj8y4?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lRAxCKKj8y4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />People lose their jobs, mall Santa has a heart attack, poor Mr. Feeny is like a sad old shut-in next door with no family. Weeping! <br /><br />Roseanne:<br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/eq2T7ZSxA38?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/eq2T7ZSxA38?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />Roseanne and Co. get snowed in at the diner on Christmas Eve. Better there than at the airport with the Tanner family, I suppose. <br /><br />Yes, Tea Guarie -- there is a Santa Claus! And he is probably being played by a extra who graduated from Emerson College with a degree in Musical Theater. <br /><br />In short -- the holidays are a time for the suspension of disbelief. No matter how outlandishly crappy your life may seem, you can have faith that Christmas will pull through with a happy ending. The holiday spirit can find us anywhere -- even snowed in at an airport, or trapped by a gun-toting Santa -- if we are just open to it. It's not too late for me to get on the holiday bandwagon -- after all, some of the best Christmases ever happened at the 11th hour. <br /><br />Sigh. I feel jollier already! Thanks, TV.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-38251275702060081132010-12-04T05:15:00.000-08:002010-12-04T05:49:23.510-08:00the end is near!Um, it's December. <br /><br />How the hell did that happen?! Where did 2010 go?? It seems like just yesterday I was crowing triumphantly about getting into grad school, and making plans to get in shape and grab this year by the balls. And now suddenly, its all drawing to a close.<br /><br />Time freaks me out. <br /><br />It always seems like there's not enough of it -- except when there's too much of it, as was the case with my Big Fat Year of Unemployment. Either way, Time is forever messing with my head. <br /><br />So perhaps I should take a moment to put down the library-school books, set aside the organ meats, and reflect back on this wacky-ass year. God knows, I didn't do much writing / reflecting during the actual year -- please see giant blogging gap from June to November. <br /><br />In order to make up for lost time, I've decided to participate in this <a href="http://www.reverb10.com/">#reverb10 </a>project. For every day of December, the site sends a writing prompt designed to make you reflect on the previous year and think about what lies ahead for 2011. For lapsed-bloggers like myself, this challenge is also supposed to alleviate the: "waaah, i have nothing to blog about!" BS. <br /><br />As usual, i am a few days behind on this challenge -- but better late than never. So lets just start with the day #4 prompt:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">December 4 – Wonder.<br />How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year?</span><br /><br />Wonder . . . well, I suppose I did spend a lot of time "wondering" this year: Is this grad school thing gonna work out? Am I ever gonna find a job? Am I ever gonna find a job I don't hate or suck at? Why is time going by so fast? What happened to my other black Reef sandal? Why do hoarders hate toilets so much? <br /><br />Clearly, I'm not "cultivating wonder" in my daily life, so much as "breeding insecurity and self-doubt". Duly noted, writing prompt. In 2011, I shall attempt to be more ponderous and zen. I will take time to enjoy the scenery. I will stop wishing for a magic crystal ball that I can use to spy on my Future Self. <br /><br />I will try to see the world more like Amy (my cat) sees it -- as one giant playground that exists solely for my entertainment and exploration, which I can also claw to shreds at my leisure. <br /><br />And in the meantime, I will continue to wonder at the Powers of the Internet that allow me to stream Netflix movies directly to my Wii.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-26321363672194677332010-11-14T09:25:00.000-08:002010-11-14T10:16:32.684-08:00my offal new jobfood service jobs are, in many ways, a magical anthropological adventure. you can tell a lot about people based on what they eat, and how they choose to eat it, and how they behave when they're ordering it. <br /><br />let us begin our study of human behavior at the deli counter, where people often line up to drool over the meats and organs on prominent display. my question to these folk is: why?? why would you eat this?? have u ever had to slice a giant hunk of cold tongue? cuz i have. and it really does look just like a giant dead cow tongue. now, perhaps back in medieval times, when serfs were given the discarded carcasses of butchered animals to nibble on, the tongue was the meatiest bit left. but civilization has come a long way since then, people -- you don't have to eat the unsavory parts of the animal anymore. <br /><br />i believe the people who eat this shit should be invited back behind the counter for an up-close look at the tongue in its whole and natural state. they should be forced to really examine the . . . purpleness of it. observe the gelatinous mucus that seems to jelly up the ends. <br /><br />still hungry? then you, sir, are a monster. good day to you. <br /><br />also -- what is up with chopped liver? people order this shit by the bucket-load, literally . . . and it does, in fact, resemble the shit of a baby who has been fed only cat food and mashed bananas for several days. <br /><br />worse, people seem very righteous when they order this crap:<br /><br />"Yes, give me a pound of your finest chopped liver -- post-haste!"<br /><br />"You there, girl! Fetch me a half pound of very thinly sliced tongue! So thin that I can see my mottled, liver-spotted hand through it!" <br /><br />whatever, old people. you wanna stuff yourself gouty with offal -- who am i to judge? <br /><br />in my previous food service jobs, cold food made for an irate customer. in this new world of strange deli offerings, people want everything cold. cold soup, cold fish, cold meat. if it looks like it could be served in the steerage section of an immigrant steamer, or the barracks of the gulag -- all the better! apparently, people like their sausages cold and seasoned with a hint of hardship and sadness. it brings back fond memories of when the whole family slept in one bed and had consumption, i guess. <br /><br />now some of you might be thinking -- shame on you, tea guarie! how dare you be close-minded! it's true -- perhaps i am too quick to pass judgment on people based on their affinities for odd meats. some of these old folk might be scandalized by my tastes for diet coke and lean cuisine. <br /><br />but hey, at least i can sleep at night knowing that i've never willingly had the tongue of a farm animal in my mouth. <br /><br />just sayin'. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TOAmZ8_lz1I/AAAAAAAAB5M/TCgO3sTshRE/s1600/cow_800.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TOAmZ8_lz1I/AAAAAAAAB5M/TCgO3sTshRE/s320/cow_800.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539469768977141586" /></a>rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-21639429149535227782010-11-06T07:23:00.000-07:002010-11-06T07:46:17.864-07:00*clear!!*that's the sound of me defibrillating this blog and raising it from the dead! <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">mmmm . . . zombie blog want braaaaains . . . </span><br /><br />as you can probably guess from the four month hiatus -- life has gone from super-boring to super-busy! quick recap:: <br /><br /> -- i am still on the path towards becoming a badass librarian. <br /><br />-- i now share my apartment with the world's most badass kittykat, Amy Sedaris Guarino the First:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TNVmhhgIvSI/AAAAAAAAB48/jKpF5frnLdM/s1600/149728_591348655521_13002721_34179722_6912579_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TNVmhhgIvSI/AAAAAAAAB48/jKpF5frnLdM/s320/149728_591348655521_13002721_34179722_6912579_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536444043036769570" /></a><br />here she is attacking an angel . . . <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TNVm8E_dRxI/AAAAAAAAB5E/VqjTTOmOZIk/s1600/P1010746.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TNVm8E_dRxI/AAAAAAAAB5E/VqjTTOmOZIk/s320/P1010746.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536444499239978770" /></a><br />and here she is <span style="font-style:italic;">being</span> an angel. awww. <br /><br />--<a href="http://amysayz.wordpress.com/"> amy also has a blog</a>. like me, she does not update frequently. <br />-- i now have a part-time job at Local Family Restaurant, reprising my classic role of Snarky Countergirl #2. <br />-- the band T&A is making great strides towards taking over the nerd-punk-noise-pop world. we hope to record our first "demo" by the end of the year. what, whaat! <br />-- i am still locked in a love / hate relationship with Gold's Gym of Somerville. lately i have been ignoring its calls and blocking its facebook status updates, but i'm hopeful that we will reconcile soon. <br />-- i am still slightly insane. <br /><br /><br />so yeh, i think those are the major talking points of the past four months. from here on out, my goal shall be to chronicle Librarian School and Restaurant Adventures for your reading pleasure. <br /><br />also, there have been some requests for another Lady-Mag, Deconstructed post. some day in the very near future, i will take a break from Librarian Homework to read something awful and full of perfume samples, and share my findings with you all. <br /><br />stay tuned!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-25130992688486633302010-06-16T19:32:00.001-07:002010-06-17T10:28:44.967-07:00summer awakeninghey, remember when i used to blog? <br /><br /> i know, i know -- i have been neglecting my little corner of the internet. crickets are chirping all up in here, and my last post was littered with spammy comments from asian robots. i deleted them all, so you can't see them now -- but they all included weird links . . . probably to some sort of penis enlargement website. sorry about that.<br /><br />anyway -- i'm not dead! yes, i might have spent most of the winter holed up in my apartment watching TLC (aka 'The P.T. Barnum Channel') and eating. but now, summer is here, and life has gone from zero to 60 in the span of a few short weeks. <br /><br />grad school has started! i am now officially a student of library science, hopefully on my way to becoming the most sass-tastic young adult/children's librarian the world has ever seen. if not the world, then at least east cambridge. <br /><br />also -- i'm in a band. that's right -- you didn't know i could play a musical instrument, did you? well that's because i actually can't! i'm teaching myself the electric guitar with the help of our killer bassist, Rev. the band is called T&A. yes, we know what that means. <br /><br />so far, we can "play" 3 songs -- one of which is an original composition. i figure another few practices and we'll be ready to go on tour. hell, we already have a <a href="http://www.myspace.com/tandarock">myspace.</a> now all we need is some hot merch and we'll be set. <br /><br />i promise to keep ya'll regularly updated on my adventures in library-school-land. after all, the title of this blog promises a "bad-ass librarian", and i aim to please! in the meantime, go call your local college radio station and request something by T&A. when they claim ignorance of this new band, scoff at them. say: "you don't know T&A? dude, what kind of hipster are you?" <br /><br />in the meantime, i leave you with <a href="http://punkfarm.com/punkfarm.swf">this:</a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TBmPIgtTtGI/AAAAAAAAB4Y/KbFB48SqZCE/s1600/86B_punk-farm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/TBmPIgtTtGI/AAAAAAAAB4Y/KbFB48SqZCE/s320/86B_punk-farm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483571397681984610" /></a>rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-6298576858750993882010-03-18T07:42:00.000-07:002010-03-18T13:12:04.202-07:00Cosmo, DeconstructedThis week, Shaw's is having some sort of insane sale on 12 packs of Pepsi products. I know this because yesterday I spent 15 minutes in line behind a woman who was trying to buy an entire floor display's worth of Sierra Mist. The cranky old checkout woman was baffled by the whole transaction . . . is Sierra Mist a Pepsi product? Is Schweppes ginger ale? How do you even pronounce 'Schweppes'? Can we get a manager over here? Bueller? <br /><br />While all this was happening, I had a plenty of time to browse the magazine racks / contemplate my own mortality. Which is how I even noticed this in the first place:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6I_efRRTGI/AAAAAAAAB0w/mLXsInuOeII/s1600-h/_cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6I_efRRTGI/AAAAAAAAB0w/mLXsInuOeII/s320/_cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449988292094282850" /></a><br />That would be Cosmopolitan magazine, with a faux-naked Lady Gaga on the cover. I should note that I spent a good portion of monsoon-weekend watching the Telephone video and contemplating making my own smoking glasses. Needless to say, Gaga in granny panties intrigued me. So, in a moment of grocery-store-impulse-buy weakness, I tossed Cosmo in my cart. <br /><br />Now -- the last time I actually purchased an issue of Cosmopolitan, I was probably 14, and on my way to someone's pool party / sleepover.<br /><br />It was a simpler time. <br /><br />These days, I am a loyal reader of Bust, Bitch, Vanity Fair, and the occasional tabloid. Yeh, I like to keep abreast of how lonely Jennifer Aniston is, and whether or not Katie Holmes is preggers. But I usually draw the line at the heavy duty "lady-mags" . . . Elle, Lucky, Allure, etc. Which is why I was almost surprised to get home and find Cosmo in my bag. <br /><br />So I sat down to lunch and started flipping through this glossy new world . . . and an hour of shame-eating later, my brain had officially exploded. <br /><br />I feel like I need to share this experience with someone -- so internets, I choose you! Let's digest this amazingly whack lady-propaganda together, shall we?<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What We're About to Read:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JFTS1vYWI/AAAAAAAAB04/Yzvfa3quRZE/s1600-h/_toc.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 224px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JFTS1vYWI/AAAAAAAAB04/Yzvfa3quRZE/s320/_toc.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449994696848793954" /></a><br />Welcome to the April issue of Cosmo! Spring is in the air, and you know what that means! Sex-capades and shimmery eyeshadow! Wheeee!! I can't wait to see what the 'Sex Article they Can't Describe Here!' is . . . its gotta be pretty freaky-deaky if the worldly Cosmo editors are censoring it. Also -- '50 Things to Do Butt Naked'? And here I could only come up with 32!<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 30 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">Lady Gaga Wants You</span>:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JHDgMImeI/AAAAAAAAB1A/4diA1NyTEbs/s1600-h/cosmo_gagainterview.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JHDgMImeI/AAAAAAAAB1A/4diA1NyTEbs/s320/cosmo_gagainterview.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449996624577731042" /></a><br />Wha-whaaa. Cue disappointment sound-effects. I don't know what I was expecting from a Cosmo interview, but this somehow managed to make the most eccentric performance artist of the times just . . . eh. Perhaps it has something to do with the target readership of Cosmo, which is ostensibly 14 year old girls and Snooki. But yeh -- they made Gaga fill out the effin' Cosmo quiz. Notice how she basically wrote in her own answer for every lame-ass question. Nice try, Lady! <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 36 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">The Rise of the Less Successful Boyfriend:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JI60oJntI/AAAAAAAAB1I/ORBQaGTotJk/s1600-h/boyfriendsuccess.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JI60oJntI/AAAAAAAAB1I/ORBQaGTotJk/s320/boyfriendsuccess.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449998674468380370" /></a><br />Favorite Quote: <span style="font-style:italic;">"Give him opportunities to treat you in inexpensive ways. E-mail him a link to an affordable restaurant, and ask if he'll take you. Or point out little things you covet -- a hat, a pair of earrings, even a cupcake -- and say, 'I need to have that. Will you get it for me?'"</span><br />Everyone knows that successful relationships are built on a foundation of material goods and fancy dinners -- so keep those hats and cupcakes comin', boys! <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 57 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">4 Signs He's Hiding Something:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JLZea3lDI/AAAAAAAAB1Q/Zy8aP6AGswo/s1600-h/hidingsomething_banner.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 140px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JLZea3lDI/AAAAAAAAB1Q/Zy8aP6AGswo/s320/hidingsomething_banner.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450001400106292274" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JL1YMVi7I/AAAAAAAAB1Y/PS5Hqd7lUEQ/s1600-h/hidingsomething.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JL1YMVi7I/AAAAAAAAB1Y/PS5Hqd7lUEQ/s320/hidingsomething.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450001879471066034" /></a><br />Seriously?! Way to fuel the paranoia-fire, Cosmo. The next time your boyfriend clears his throat or actually shares the details of his day with you -- throw that lying bastard out! Or, you could just cut the pockets out of all his pants. Problem solved! <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 60 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">The Guy Report:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JXyr_XQKI/AAAAAAAAB1g/_Sqsj8pxrMM/s1600-h/beerenlightenment.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 63px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JXyr_XQKI/AAAAAAAAB1g/_Sqsj8pxrMM/s320/beerenlightenment.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450015027385286818" /></a><br />I'm going to print this out and keep it in my wallet for handy bar-reference. I recommend you all do the same. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 62 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">Why He Loves Your Cooking -- Even If It's Bad:</span> </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JYitsofBI/AAAAAAAAB1o/mvib7-qdcmI/s1600-h/whyhelikescookin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JYitsofBI/AAAAAAAAB1o/mvib7-qdcmI/s320/whyhelikescookin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450015852477316114" /></a><br />At first, I was trying to figure out how they stretched this to a full-page article. Or why this was deemed an article-worthy topic, period. To summarize this ground-breaking piece of journalism: dudes (by Cosmo's definition) are like giant 8 year olds who will gladly eat whatever crap is put in front of them. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 76 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">Beauty, HIS PICKS:</span> </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JZjVMoc8I/AAAAAAAAB1w/LCJKQDjqgqY/s1600-h/nailpolish.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 141px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JZjVMoc8I/AAAAAAAAB1w/LCJKQDjqgqY/s320/nailpolish.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450016962592142274" /></a><br />And here I'd been thinking that only chicks judged me based on my choice of nail polish color -- but it turns out, guys have very strong opinions about this, too. Um, direct quotage, in case you missed this: <span style="font-style:italic;">"Nails grown barely past your fingertips are the ideal length [ . . . ] They look feminine but won't stop you from, say, unzipping him or sexting."</span> Brain exploding in five . . . four . . . three . . . <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 116 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">Fun, Easy Ways to Fall More in Love:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6Ja2qepAoI/AAAAAAAAB14/RhDZqBdE0xA/s1600-h/romanceadvice_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6Ja2qepAoI/AAAAAAAAB14/RhDZqBdE0xA/s320/romanceadvice_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450018394233963138" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JbBPbaCSI/AAAAAAAAB2A/MldRiv79xts/s1600-h/compliments.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 272px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JbBPbaCSI/AAAAAAAAB2A/MldRiv79xts/s320/compliments.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450018575951202594" /></a><br />I LOL'd so hard at this, I cried . . . and then I couldn't stop crying, for some reason. Best tips ever:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Notice stuff about him. And then tell him."<br />"Really thank him. If he helps you paint your bathroom, leave his favorite salty snack in the pantry."<br />"Defuse a fight. Calling him by his pet name in the middle of an argument cools things down [ . . . ] Say something like 'Baby, I hate fighting with you.'"<br />"Learn a funny joke to tell him that night."</span><br />And don't even get me started on that '5 Best Compliments You Can Give Him' box! Seriously, have I accidentally stumbled into a hot-tub time machine back to 1950? I'm fully expecting next month's issue to have a 'Get Back in the Kitchen! 5 Great Sandwiches You Can Make For Your Man!' feature. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 118 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">The Sex Article We Can't Describe on the Cover:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JeO38WSjI/AAAAAAAAB2I/mtY7C7mX7Jo/s1600-h/explicit!!!+.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JeO38WSjI/AAAAAAAAB2I/mtY7C7mX7Jo/s320/explicit!!!+.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450022108699970098" /></a><br />I've been waiting for this one, Cosmo! What lurid new sex trend are you about to reveal to your innocent readers? Fetish porn, orgies and bears -- oh my! <br />Wait a second . . . "oral sex"? <span style="font-style:italic;">That's</span> your top-secret-uber-steamy article of the month?? <br />Dude . . . this really is a magazine aimed at 14 year olds, huh? Not that that's any comfort -- especially with this effing side-bar:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JfWsA8IGI/AAAAAAAAB2Q/oU_i2kEGEfw/s1600-h/oraladvice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 118px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JfWsA8IGI/AAAAAAAAB2Q/oU_i2kEGEfw/s320/oraladvice.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450023342448582754" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 122 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">Be the Girl Every Guy Wants to Talk To:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JfwXSS3vI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/cjOQaZ0w6lM/s1600-h/talktome.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JfwXSS3vI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/cjOQaZ0w6lM/s320/talktome.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450023783560830706" /></a><br />Please note the first heading in this article -- 'Don't Say A Word . . . Yet'. Instead of, like, talking to a guy, you should, like: <span style="font-style:italic;">"try to casually touch the guy your talking to 5 times within every 15 minutes"</span>. And don't forget: <span style="font-style:italic;">"Being a bit fearless by sharing something that's a little out there -- for instance, recounting the time you won a karaoke contest with your awesome rendition of 'Endless Love' or admitting that you've seen all the Saw movies at least twice -- shows an attractive amount of balls-out confidence."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 156 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">Read This Before You Drive Alone:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JmliEbzQI/AAAAAAAAB2w/uWllLeZwWRU/s1600-h/fearfearfear.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JmliEbzQI/AAAAAAAAB2w/uWllLeZwWRU/s320/fearfearfear.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450031294058319106" /></a><br />Translation: FEAR! FEAR! FEAR!!!!!<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 174 -- <span style="font-style:italic;">50 More Things to Do Naked:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JkXn8PRFI/AAAAAAAAB2g/ShoGeNJnN-o/s1600-h/stufftodonakkid.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JkXn8PRFI/AAAAAAAAB2g/ShoGeNJnN-o/s320/stufftodonakkid.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450028856093131858" /></a><br />My personal fav is #31: <span style="font-style:italic;">"Bid on eBay. Wearing nada will make you feel ballsy, so you'll get exactly what you want."</span> Huh -- I always thought sitting around naked in front of your computer buying used crap you don't really need was a sign of clinical depression . . . but thanks for setting me straight, Cosmo! Girl power! <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Page 178-- <span style="font-style:italic;">Send Him a Secret Sexy Message:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6Jlm94Jm5I/AAAAAAAAB2o/Ex4lmhj6wHg/s1600-h/sexymessage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6Jlm94Jm5I/AAAAAAAAB2o/Ex4lmhj6wHg/s320/sexymessage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450030219191229330" /></a><br />Now, I don't consider myself a bra-burning feminist or anything . . . but this page of Sexy Secret Messages for Your Man -- which are printed on cardstock and designed to be pulled out of the magazine and actually used -- is making me wanna go throw paint at someone.<br />Also, I am totally gonna use these "Sexy Messages", so watch your mailboxes! <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Most Amazing Weight Loss Ad of the Issue:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JnGGltiDI/AAAAAAAAB24/fm8xZbc03Qs/s1600-h/effedupad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 142px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S6JnGGltiDI/AAAAAAAAB24/fm8xZbc03Qs/s320/effedupad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450031853617383474" /></a><br />Ok, so if I'm reading this right -- you're supposed to live on "Almased" and vegetable broth for a week, followed by several weeks of "Almased" and one meal of veggies and lean meat. Why does this sound like a recipe for failure in a glass? <br /><br /><br /><br />Sigh. Well that brings us to the end of the issue, folks! I think we've all learned a little something, right? I know I have! I need to find myself a dude who drinks microbrews and never puts his hands in his pockets and, ideally, is more successful than me. To do this, I must keep my nails short (but not too short), learn some funny jokes I can tell him while simultaneously not talking too much, and caress him 5 times during a 15 minute conversation. Also, stock the cabinets with snacks and my crappy-ass attempts at cooking. Also, send him sexy secret messages and ask him to buy me cheap hats. <br /><br />Also -- oral sex!!! Tehehehe!!!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-70514137099294625212010-03-16T12:42:00.000-07:002010-03-16T13:40:27.391-07:00T is for Toolgirl, Who's Terribly Handy . . .After a rainstorm of biblical proportions, I was all set to start my Build-An-Ark project . . . but lo, the sun is shining once again! In fact, today was so damn lovely, I was inspired to do some spring cleaning / home improvement.<br /><br />Now . . . I should note that I was raised in a family where doing things the "right" way with the "correct" tools was generally scoffed at. Why bother looking for a hammer when you can just pound that nail in with mom's old shoe? Who needs a flashlight when you've got a booklight / cell phone / Game Boy to illuminate your path? As a result, I've learned to just live with a lot of malfunctioning appliances, burned out overhead lights, and a tub that doesn't exactly drain correctly.<br /><br />But the appearance of sunshine made me so giddy this morning, I rolled up my sleeves and decided to clear away some winter cobwebs before the next round of rain and gloom. And since my schedule will soon be filled with school and work, I figured I might as well get my household in order while I can. So I dragged the stepladder up from the Basement of Doom and changed all the lightbulbs in the apartment to low-wattage, energy-saving ones. Then, by the light of freshly changed bulbs, I tore apart my closet and got down to some good ol' fashioned organizing! <br /><br />I have lots of hats. And shirts. And skirts. And not a lot of dresser space. <br /><br />Alternative storage solutions were called for.<br /><br /> Soooooo . . . I strolled over to Target in the lovely bright sunshine, and came home with this bad boy: <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_hYJm_1yI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/oZemCSxeWuM/s1600-h/drill.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_hYJm_1yI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/oZemCSxeWuM/s320/drill.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449321879154186018" /></a><br />Meet My First Drill! Drilly McDrillerson! <br /><br />Wow, you guys -- do you know how much easier shit is when you have a power tool?! <br /><br />Don't answer that. <br /><br />Anyway -- behold, the fruit of my labors!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_f3g1VsEI/AAAAAAAAB0I/FbWtAZ_X7Dk/s1600-h/hanginglight.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_f3g1VsEI/AAAAAAAAB0I/FbWtAZ_X7Dk/s320/hanginglight.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449320218941042754" /></a><br />Julie gave me this hanging candle holder for Christmas, and I've been puzzling over how to hang it for months now. Clearly, those hooks with the sticky tape on the back weren't going to cut it. But with my new pal Drilly, mounting a hook into the ceiling was a snap! I might need a slightly longer chain to hang the light from, but overall it looks lovely. <br /><br />After drilling into the ceiling, I was ready to tackle a wall. But I was still a little nervous about attempting this. My apartment building is very old, and there's no telling what secrets / faulty wiring lie behind the walls. Perhaps a more conscientious person would have used a stud-finder -- or even a tape measure -- to figure out the best way to mount something. I used the next best thing to a stud-finder -- Papa G. <br /><br />Papa G: "Good afternoon, Guarie Design Group."<br /><br />Me: "Papa, it's me. I have a home improvement question."<br /><br />Papa G: "Oh, God . . ."<br /><br />Me: "If I just drill into the kitchen wall, will anything bad happen to me?"<br /><br />Papa G: "Well, you could electrocute yourself. Where'd you get a drill?"<br /><br />Me: "How will I know if I'm going to electrocute myself?"<br /><br />Papa G: " Just don't drill directly above any light switches or electrical outlets and you should be ok."<br /><br />Me: "Ok. If you don't hear from me for a few days, it probably means I've zapped myself and I'm being eaten by the cat."<br /><br />Papa G: "Good luck!"<br /><br /><br />So, I called upon the protective powers of the Patron Saint of Household Chores, and went to work. And not only did I survive -- I managed to successfully hang this Ikea storage rack that's been in my closet for months!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_miIyfNfI/AAAAAAAAB0Y/1hDnZVWpA2w/s1600-h/silverwarecaddy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_miIyfNfI/AAAAAAAAB0Y/1hDnZVWpA2w/s320/silverwarecaddy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449327548290774514" /></a><br />You have no idea how happy this thing makes me! I have no drawers in my kitchen. At all. My silverware has been living on the sideboard in these little metal containers -- which look way cooler hanging from the wall! <br /><br />After my success in the kitchen, I moved on to the closet:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_nTblaeBI/AAAAAAAAB0g/UYJFGxw1K6k/s1600-h/emptyrack.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_nTblaeBI/AAAAAAAAB0g/UYJFGxw1K6k/s320/emptyrack.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449328395149801490" /></a><br />Fancy-pants new rack . . . <br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_ncJ3UdFI/AAAAAAAAB0o/ijM4sBUq9pU/s1600-h/hatsscarves.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S5_ncJ3UdFI/AAAAAAAAB0o/ijM4sBUq9pU/s320/hatsscarves.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449328545011889234" /></a><br /> . . . means no more hunting for lost scarves and hats! <br /><br />Who knew hanging shit on the walls would be so satisfying/empowering! If anyone needs any drilling done, you know who to call!*<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*ew - not that kind of drilling, you pervs!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-77767571769688281522010-03-04T07:01:00.000-08:002010-03-05T06:40:54.680-08:00maeby this time . . .blargh, it is march. tis the season for madness! <br /><br />i feel like i haven't seen the sun in a year. i'm beginning to think this might really be the end of the world -- earthquakes, tsunamis, blizzards in places where we grow citrus. i fear that boston is doomed to become a gray colony of mole-people. or perhaps we'll be overrun by glittery vampires, escaping the sun. <br /><br />i need to get out of the house. <br /><br />i'm not going to lie to you, internet people. i've spent the better part of this week in my bathrobe, watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0367279/">Arrested Development.</a> when i confessed this to my therapist, she said, "well, that's fitting!" <br /><br />rut roh. <br /><br />seriously, though -- nothing cures late winter <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seasonal_affective_disorder">SADness</a> like an amazingly clever sitcom. i don't know why i didn't pay more attention to this show until now. i seem to jump on the pop-culture fan-wagons about 4 years too late. so in 2014, i'm gonna be all about vampires and Lost. adjust your christmas shopping lists accordingly.<br /><br />anyway -- so yesterday, i tore myself away for the antics of the Bluth family, put on some clothes, and dragged my pathetic ass to the gym. i was fully prepared for a beat-down by Ron. i have not been very consistent in my gym efforts of late. my procrastination efforts, however, have been off the charts!<br /><br />Ron has switched up the workout routine to a 30 minute, full-body gorefest. last week, i was left shaking and sweating, flat on my back in the middle of the weight-lifting room while Ron's smug face spun above me. this week, i was prepared for a similar out-of-body torture experience. and i wasn't looking forward to it. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"what's the point of all this exercise bullshit, anyway? the world is clearly ending soon. i should be out eating ice cream and making bad decisions."</span><br /><br />once Ron and i got down to business, however, my rouge muscles seemed to pull themselves together and turned out a decent workout. at one point, as i lunged the length of the gym, Ron called out, "you are lookin' goooood right now!" i assume he was talking to me and not the WWE-wannabe who was grunting menacingly on the other side of the weight bench. <br /><br />when i'd completed my final crunches and was sprawled on the floor at Ron's feet, i asked him to give it to me straight. <br /><br />Me: "am i improving at all?" <br /><br />Ron: "you've definitely got potential . . . i mean, you're lookin' good right now. all you need is consistency -- you just gotta get in here and do this routine every other day, and throw some cardio in on the off days, and you'll see the results."<br /><br />Me: "i get kinda intimidated when i'm doing the workout solo, you know? i've . . . i've never been athletic at all, i've always been kinda goofy and clumsy, so i feel really self-conscious when i'm back there tryin' to do crunches on the big rubber ball without you there to make sure i don't roll away."<br /><br />Ron: "you gotta be confident! you got this -- and you already look great as it is, you're just tryin' to tone up a little bit. trust me, i wouldn't tell you no lies . . . you don't need to feel self-conscious."<br /><br />Me: "spring is coming. i'm freaking out about shorts. also, bathing suits."<br /><br />Ron: "don't be thinking about the summer or the clothes or any of that. just work on bein' consistent, and you'll see the results. you've got this."<br /><br />this is why i'm paying Ron the big bucks -- to tell me that i'm not a giant mountain of mole-flesh that should just go home and wait for the apocalypse to start. he also puts my goals in perspective. they are not as insurmountable as they might feel, here in the deep cold depths of winter. <br /><br />the sun will shine again. i will wear shorts again. don't over think it. you got this.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-63337467161951228642010-02-25T06:41:00.000-08:002010-02-25T08:07:26.863-08:00cattyLook who has a new roommate!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aMU5HYUuI/AAAAAAAABzA/SkHxA1-Nq6M/s1600-h/emily1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aMU5HYUuI/AAAAAAAABzA/SkHxA1-Nq6M/s320/emily1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442191490280870626" /></a><br /><br />Due to some complicated family disasters, I have been given the OK to welcome pets into my apartment! Soooo . . . everyone meet Emily, the cat I've had since I was 14. Which makes her a dottering old woman in cat years. Like Carol Channing. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aNQqC80RI/AAAAAAAABzI/yuRxZMk6UwM/s1600-h/carol_channing_001_012808.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aNQqC80RI/AAAAAAAABzI/yuRxZMk6UwM/s320/carol_channing_001_012808.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442192517027909906" /></a><br /><br />Actually, Em is a lot like Carol Channing. She's always had this aura of raggedy-ness to her, like we just pulled her out of a dumpster -- even though she's been a pampered indoor cat since kittenhood. Apparently, you can take the kitty out of the derelict house in Revere, but you can't take the derelict house in Revere out of the cat. <br /><br />She's also totally wacky and acts like a dog. She comes dutifully when called, but only if you say her name in this high pitched sing-song voice "Eeeeemmmmmmilllllllieeeee!" <br /><br />I suspect Emily was the runt of the litter, and never quite got the hang of basic cat behavior. She has shitty balance. She will take five minutes to psych herself up for the epic leap from sofa to floor. She never quite got the hang of the cat tongue-bath, either. Instead of finding a discreet corner and grooming herself, she'll crawl into your lap, lick your hand, and then rub herself against it. This is either incredibly lazy or incredibly brilliant. <br /><br />Emily is also skinny as a crackwhore, dispite the fact that she loves to eat, and will often eat so fast that she pukes. The only way I was able to lure her out from under a chair yesterday was with the promise of yummies:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aQoAfg2PI/AAAAAAAABzY/Dgi3D1lQjf8/s1600-h/emily5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aQoAfg2PI/AAAAAAAABzY/Dgi3D1lQjf8/s320/emily5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442196216725166322" /></a><br /><br />I was a little afraid that the move to the big city would be traumatic for a cat who has only the left the confines of my parents' house a few times in her entire life. But she is adjusting rather well, and is slowly starting to explore . . . <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aRBdOdTwI/AAAAAAAABzg/nwgDkmHOruo/s1600-h/emily2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aRBdOdTwI/AAAAAAAABzg/nwgDkmHOruo/s320/emily2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442196653934989058" /></a><br /><br />Even she is horrified by the condition of my ancient kitchen floor. <br /><br />Emily and I share a mutual love of watching TV, so that's what we did for much of yesterday:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aRW7A_IAI/AAAAAAAABzo/bBzqPMMvUOk/s1600-h/emily3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aRW7A_IAI/AAAAAAAABzo/bBzqPMMvUOk/s320/emily3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442197022708801538" /></a><br />"That Dr. Phil is full of shit! Put on Tyra!"<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aRh5q5cqI/AAAAAAAABzw/TEKAu1ky6CI/s1600-h/emily4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S4aRh5q5cqI/AAAAAAAABzw/TEKAu1ky6CI/s320/emily4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442197211326280354" /></a><br />"And get that camera out of my face, bitch!"<br /><br />And while I'm still paranoid that the apartment is not totally cat-proofed, we seem to be settling in nicely here! And now, when I'm talking out loud to myself or the TV, its like I'm ostensibly talking to Em. <br /><br />Meow meow meow meow meow meow!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-67771275423111730752010-02-19T15:13:00.000-08:002010-02-19T15:15:31.360-08:00sk8er boi<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-iT9mkv4bwA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-iT9mkv4bwA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-78601742231306963632010-02-17T10:31:00.000-08:002010-02-17T15:15:15.093-08:00kick-assedAs my previous post so cleverly (read: lazily) illustrated -- I had a birthday!<br /><br />I turned 27 on 2/7. Which seemed only mildly cool until I started to figure out the "magic" birthdays of other members of my family, and realized that not everyone lives to see this numerological milestone. For example, my brother will have to wait until he turns 127 on 12/7. Sorry, Ev. <br /><br />Anyway -- birthdays are always an excuse for festivity, magic number or not! I definitely dragged the celebrating out for a whole weekend. A weekend full of booze, fried food, and waffles. <br /><br />And it was glorious!<br /><br />So after a delicious party-bender, I returned to the gym for my Monday afternoon session with Ron. I was feelin' ok -- a little bloated, maybe, but certainly not hungover. <br /><br />"Are you ready for me?" Ron asked.<br /><br />"Sure!" I blithely replied, as I wandered over to the weight room and plunked myself down on the giant rubber exercise ball. <br /><br />Five minutes later, I knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. The muscles in my arms felt like they'd been replaced with waffles.<br /><br />"Are you sweating maple syrup?" asked the 6-foot talking lobster with Ron's voice.<br /><br />"I'm dying!" I groaned, and rolled ever so gracefully off the ball and onto the floor. Where I planned to remain until Spring. <br /><br />"Party too hard?" Ron asked, as he pressed some slightly-less torturous 3lb dumbbells into my hands. <br /><br />"It was my birthday weekend," I said.<br /><br />"Ahhhhh . . ." Ron said, as he propped my limp body up against a wall. "Seven reps, you can do it . . . ok, seven more . . ."<br /><br />Ron was not about to let me off easy, even though I was about to let loose a weekend's worth of junk-food all over his sneakers. I'd had my fun, and now Ron -- and my pathetically uncooperative body -- were going to make me pay for it.<br /><br />At this moment, I hated Ron. The same hot, prickly, frustrated rage I felt towards every gym teacher and soccer coach I've ever had. <span style="font-style:italic;">Why are you making me do this? I can't! Not today. <span style="font-weight:bold;">I can't.</span></span><br /><br />It turns out, I could. And I did. Ron cut the end of the session a little sort and let me off without much of an ab workout. He was probably also afraid that I was about puke all over him. I limped and crawled frantically out of the gym like I was escaping from some sort of POW camp. <br /><br />Never again, I thought to myself. That SUCKED. <br /><br />At first, I blamed Ron. Couldn't that bastard cut me a break? It was my birthday . . . er . . . month, after all! I was pissed. And . . . disappointed. <br /><br />I'd been feeling so good about my little baby-steps of gym progress. Lifting weights and doing crunches had made me feel strong and powerful and capable. Like my body was a well-tuned machine, instead of a doughy sack of insecurities. I was on the road to becoming a stronger, healthier, less insane me . . . and now I was back to square one. Cue the crying and shame eating. <br /><br />It's taken a little time to shake off the frustration. I'm realizing, though, that getting in shape really takes a certain amount of commitment. I've always rolled my eyes at people who get up at 5am on Christmas Day to get in their workout or whatever . . . but I'll bet those people feel pretty damn good when they're done. <br /><br />Yes, there are going to be days when my brain says, "Eff it, Tea -- let's skip the gym today. You went yesterday, you can go tomorrow!" Or, "Life sucks, have another beer!" I can choose to listen to that voice -- and there will probably be times when I do -- but there will be consequences. I will feel like ass the next day. My strength training will come to a standstill, and workouts will get harder. I will continue hallucinate that Ron is a giant crustacean. <br /><br />Basically -- I gotta make a commitment. Which, for a commitment-phobe like moi, is scary shit. But I also need to choose what's more important to me -- feeling good in the long term, or self-gratification in the short term. <br /><br />Heady stuff, man. And I thought I was just signing on to drop a few pounds for bathing suit season! <br /><br />This week, I'm gonna get back in the saddle and commit to the plan. Four strength training workouts a week -- 1 with Ron, 3 on my own. That's 2 Upper Body Days, 2 Lower Body Days. I'm also gonna be brave and hit up the Sunday morning yoga class. I'm gonna include my Couch to 5k training sessions as warm-ups before my strength training sessions. <br /><br />I don't have to do everything perfectly, but I have to make the effort. Time makes things easier -- but only if you stick with it! <br /><br />Sticking with things has never been a strength of mine. But this is all about getting stronger -- in every sense of the word.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-21773766327259110732010-02-13T06:19:00.001-08:002010-02-14T05:15:42.176-08:00271. February is a short month.<br /><br />2. As is customary with my magic-short-birthday month, I have been doing a lot of eating/drinking/partying!<br /><br />3. Blogging, not so much. <br /><br />4. I have seen lots of lovely bands:<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/J3hpHiaoDGw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/J3hpHiaoDGw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SYsi9RUu0GE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SYsi9RUu0GE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6PwYjRrHFY4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6PwYjRrHFY4&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />5. I ate wondrous pomme frites while bicycles twinkled above me . . . <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a51HeeC9I/AAAAAAAABw8/NS4DT8jXsH8/s1600-h/p054_Hemi_Mar09-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a51HeeC9I/AAAAAAAABw8/NS4DT8jXsH8/s320/p054_Hemi_Mar09-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437737922287504338" /></a><br /><br />6. I hung out with the locals and watched J.Bo's karaoke-DJ destiny be fulfilled! <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a6zY6a4QI/AAAAAAAABxM/idobkIp06dw/s1600-h/sign.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a6zY6a4QI/AAAAAAAABxM/idobkIp06dw/s320/sign.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437738992120029442" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a67sMhatI/AAAAAAAABxU/RCU_O0ZnVPE/s1600-h/bar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a67sMhatI/AAAAAAAABxU/RCU_O0ZnVPE/s320/bar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437739134735182546" /></a><br /><br /><br />7. We also played darts . . . <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a6b1mig4I/AAAAAAAABxE/9XSY0182hDs/s1600-h/6449_151991766410_140516366410_4074832_4930642_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a6b1mig4I/AAAAAAAABxE/9XSY0182hDs/s320/6449_151991766410_140516366410_4074832_4930642_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437738587504411522" /></a><br /><br />8. Apparently, I have taken very few photos in the month of February. I must rely on stock-images from the internets!<br /><br />9. But Libby did come over and take pictures of me for her photography school assignment. Hello, Libertine!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a7wEMaXSI/AAAAAAAABxc/LGSyGzc5-_U/s1600-h/P1010579.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a7wEMaXSI/AAAAAAAABxc/LGSyGzc5-_U/s320/P1010579.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437740034530368802" /></a><br /><br /><br />10. My apartment smells like springtime:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a8qzpm9II/AAAAAAAABxk/qmcf5WozAug/s1600-h/flowers1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a8qzpm9II/AAAAAAAABxk/qmcf5WozAug/s320/flowers1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437741043701707906" /></a><br /><br /><br />11. On my birthday, I had a <a href="http://www.inmanoasis.com/">lovely massage here:</a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a9ww2HuVI/AAAAAAAABxs/5rn7z4VG5_8/s1600-h/l.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a9ww2HuVI/AAAAAAAABxs/5rn7z4VG5_8/s320/l.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437742245539723602" /></a><br /><br />12. The massage lady was very nice. Especially after I fell asleep on the table. <br /><br />13. Chicken and waffles changed my life!!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a-q5UuFQI/AAAAAAAABx0/_7sfnGVp_go/s1600-h/2008_04_roscoes+chicken-thumb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3a-q5UuFQI/AAAAAAAABx0/_7sfnGVp_go/s320/2008_04_roscoes+chicken-thumb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437743244247962882" /></a><br /><br /><br />14. You should all stop reading this blog and go, immediately, to <a href="http://www.tupelo02139.com/">Tupelo in Inman Sq.</a> I'll wait for you to get back. <br /><br />15. And while I'm waiting, I will think about how lame all the Superbowl ads were. <br /><br />16. Except for the one with Betty White:<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GkAnLtqWDhc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GkAnLtqWDhc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />17. Chelsee and I have seen lots of movies, in preparation for the Oscars.<br /><br />18. I love this girl:<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wVLia_ae_eE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wVLia_ae_eE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />19. This girl, too:<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/s4iqHSeqrNw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/s4iqHSeqrNw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />20. And speaking of Carey Mulligan, An Education sparked some serious "50's-style-retro" cravings. The cure? <br /><br />21. Diners . . . <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bEEUQ1RUI/AAAAAAAABx8/v7dgwb27sCo/s1600-h/cambridge_pic_1001001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 248px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bEEUQ1RUI/AAAAAAAABx8/v7dgwb27sCo/s320/cambridge_pic_1001001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437749178534282562" /></a><br /><br />22. . . . and <a href="http://shoppoorlittlerichgirl.com/">shopping for vintage goodies.</a><br /><br />23. I found these old school menus, which will make lovely art for my kitchen . . . <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bFEm_32YI/AAAAAAAAByE/oO3g0X1HHBs/s1600-h/menu1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bFEm_32YI/AAAAAAAAByE/oO3g0X1HHBs/s320/menu1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437750283075049858" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bFKzHB54I/AAAAAAAAByM/o6EdVRFJrIg/s1600-h/menu2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bFKzHB54I/AAAAAAAAByM/o6EdVRFJrIg/s320/menu2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437750389405509506" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bFTdFs1eI/AAAAAAAAByU/P1GefNmVL5s/s1600-h/menu3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bFTdFs1eI/AAAAAAAAByU/P1GefNmVL5s/s320/menu3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437750538113177058" /></a><br /><br />24. I also found $600 Chanel pumps for $68!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bHNpIcPnI/AAAAAAAAByk/iMZXbuDO4qo/s1600-h/shoes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bHNpIcPnI/AAAAAAAAByk/iMZXbuDO4qo/s320/shoes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437752637289938546" /></a><br /><br /><br />25. But now it's time to get back on the bandwagon. Less shopping/partying/waffles, more job-hunting/FAFSA-filing/weight lifting!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bF3PoBDSI/AAAAAAAAByc/48Dm_cu1T7w/s1600-h/cambridge_pic_2002001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 182px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S3bF3PoBDSI/AAAAAAAAByc/48Dm_cu1T7w/s320/cambridge_pic_2002001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437751152974302498" /></a><br /><br />26. I promise my next update will feature more words . . . and perhaps some wacky stories of my gym exploits. That's what the readers want, yes? <br /><br />27. For now -- here's to my lucky year!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-46680436432535997102010-01-28T15:21:00.000-08:002010-01-28T17:03:28.228-08:00the lazy-ass and the 5k: part I<span style="font-style:italic;">Once upon a time, there were three girls named . . . er . . . Miss T., Miss C. and Miss M. They worked together all day (and sometimes all night) at a Big Nameless Company in a City Near You. These lovely ladies were sassy, stylish and awesome, even in the face of adversity, hardship, and evil sea witches. <br /><br />Sometimes, they were very busy. And sometimes, they were very bored. <br /><br />When boredom struck, these three intrepid young ingenues turned to the internets for distraction and entertainment. They started blogs, and stalked other peoples blogs, and obsessively checked boston.com for updates on the outside world.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.wearenotmartha.com/">Miss C. became an internet celebrity. </a><br /><br />Miss M. learned 4000 new ways to prepare oatmeal.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.avclub.com/features/hater/">Miss T. laughed out loud too much, and often got scolded. <br /></a><br />Eventually, the three friends were forced to part ways, but their love of voyeuristically stalking girls much more motivated and physically fit than themselves remained strong. United by their love of shit on the internet, they remained in touch. <br /><br />One day, in the bitter depths of January, Miss M. sent her fallen comrades a message, reminding them of a pact they'd once made. (well . . . not so much a "pact", as "half-assed pipe-dream". and Miss C. would probably argue that she'd never agree to such crap in the first place -- but whatever). <br /><br />"Hey guys -- Remember when <a href="http://grfx.cstv.com/photos/schools/masb/genrel/auto_pdf/BeaconDash09.pdf">we talked about running a 5k?</a> Well, I've found the perfect one for us! It's a flat course, with a scenic view -- and there'll be refreshments afterwards!" <br /><br />At first, Miss T. and Miss C. were a bit hesitant. Miss C. hates running. Miss T. has never actually run anywhere, ever. But the more they pondered the challenge, the more appealing it became. Sort of. And after all, if all those "healthy living" girls could run marathons and whatever -- surely our three heroes could do it too, yeh? <br /><br />"Miss M. -- you had me at refreshments," replied Miss T. <br /><br />So the three girls vowed to get themselves in running shape and kick some 5k ass. They have 2 months. <br /><br />Let the adventure begin!!</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Guess what, guys? That's a true story! I know, you were probably thinking it was some sort of Disney princess fairy tale, right? Any minute now, a singing june-bug is gonna come in and teach Miss T. about the importance of hydration while training. And maybe that <span style="font-weight:bold;">will </span> happen, if I get dehydrated and delirious enough! <br /><br />So yeh . . . I'm gonna run a 5k. My two former co-workers have signed on to join me. Anyone else wanna be part of the story?! It'll be awesome -- you might even get to see me cry / throw up! <br /><br />Seriously -- you should all come join us. Yes you, blog reader. I know who you are, and what you're thinking. And you're thinking, "Oh, heeeelllll no!" Well stop thinking that, and <a href="http://grfx.cstv.com/photos/schools/masb/genrel/auto_pdf/BeaconDash09.pdf">come sign up for the 5k with me.</a> You know you want to. <br /><br />Anyway --as the story above states -- I've never run before in my life, except to catch a bus or something. And even then . . . .I give up easily. <span style="font-style:italic;">Eh, there'll be another bus . . . sometime. In the meantime, lets just sit on this bench . . . .zzzzzz . . . </span> <br /><br />Miss M., knowing about my reluctance to move, also sent along the link to this handy <a href="http://www.coolrunning.com/engine/2/2_3/181.shtml">Couch to 5k training program.</a> Any exercise program that has the word "couch" in the title is a-ok in my book. Today, as I hit up the gym for a non-trainer sweat session, I decided to put the plan to action. <br /><br />Week 1, Workout 1 is clearly designed for people who loooove their couches. Like moi. After a "brisk 5 minute warm up walk", you then jog for 60 seconds and walk for 90 seconds. You keep that up for 20 minutes. Then you're done. <br /><br />Even I found this to be pretty easy.<br /><br />10 minutes in, I was feeling pretty good. I'll admit, it was a little awkward cranking the treadmill back and forth from "run" speed to "walk" speed every 60 seconds. It only got more lame when some long-legged Olympian hopped on the treadmill next to me and broke into a flat out sprint. <br /><br />Walking . . . . .jogging! Ok, walking . . . walking . . . jogging! . . . Walking . . . <br /><br />My grandma could probably have done the walk/jog thing more gracefully. Granted, my grandmother also probably has much better support garments than I. But I digress. <br /><br />So I was nearly done with Workout 1, when my trainer, Ron, wanders over and gives me the thumbs up. Yes, hi Ron. Good to see you too. My arms, shoulders and back still aren't speaking to you, though -- so eff off. <br /><br />I realized Ron was probably expecting me to go bench-press some shit after this lame treadmill routine, so I shamefully dragged myself over to the free-weight area and actually completed a decent set of squats and lunges. <br /><br />Ron says I have "perfect form" while squatting. I know. I know. <br /><br />After 20 diligent minutes of bobbing around with the giant exercise ball and stretching, I scampered the hell out of there. Mission accomplished! Workout 1, in the bag! <br /><br />Two months is not a long time to go from lazy-ass to runner, but I'm keepin' the faith. If things are looking bad come race day, I'm sure a whistling cricket or a dancing crab will come to my aid with some golden sneakers or something.<br /><br /> Cuz that's how fairy tales work, yo.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-34069508390232640282010-01-26T06:54:00.000-08:002010-01-26T19:38:54.000-08:00shame on tea -- an extremely belated/half-assed red carpet recapI know, I know - all has been quiet here at One Girl, 12 Ways. Sorry, readers. My bad!<br /><br />So, I've been planning to do a Red Carpet Recap of the Golden Globes. I started hunting the internets for suitable photos of all my fav celebs . . . and then the People's Choice Awards happened, and the SAG's -- and suddenly I was overwhelmed with red carpet pics. Two weeks later, my thoughts on the Golden Globes seem pretty irrelevant. Now it's full steam ahead to Oscar season! <br /><br />I am making strides towards my goal of seeing all the Academy Award nominated films before the big night. Which some might argue is a nonsensical feat. Since the Academy Awards outcome will have no direct impact on my life whatsoever. Also, actual nominees have not even been announced yet. <br /><br />Whatever! This pop-culture whore flies in the face of common sense / reality! <br /><br />So I'm basing my current movie-viewing line-up on all the other award show nominations of the season. In fact, I am heading off in a bit to see another potential Oscar contender this afternoon! When the actual shortlist is announced for reals, I'll give you my picks.<br /><br /> But for now, here are a few of my favorite moments from the 2010 red carpet season thus far . . . <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18G5dxRjNI/AAAAAAAABvU/6TiKn2zlmcg/s1600-h/500x_feypoehler11810.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18G5dxRjNI/AAAAAAAABvU/6TiKn2zlmcg/s320/500x_feypoehler11810.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431067259945716946" /></a><br />Oh, what I would give to be sittin' at this table! Though I must admit, I enjoyed Tina's SAG awards dress more . . . <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18HT8qsugI/AAAAAAAABvc/czibt_ZoOlg/s1600-h/500x_feybetter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18HT8qsugI/AAAAAAAABvc/czibt_ZoOlg/s320/500x_feybetter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431067714916235778" /></a><br /> . . . but really, you could put this sistah in a burlap sack and she'd still be freakin' hilarious and amazing.<br /><br /><br /><br />And speaking of Golden Globes vs. SAG Awards fashion, which Gabourey Sidibe ensemble do we like more?:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18H5lZkXAI/AAAAAAAABvk/y37ceoM6n2M/s1600-h/500x_gaboureysidibe11710_02.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18H5lZkXAI/AAAAAAAABvk/y37ceoM6n2M/s320/500x_gaboureysidibe11710_02.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431068361505397762" /></a><br />Golden Globes<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18IFH1f_jI/AAAAAAAABvs/8PiLqnzrKpk/s1600-h/500x_sidibe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18IFH1f_jI/AAAAAAAABvs/8PiLqnzrKpk/s320/500x_sidibe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431068559727918642" /></a><br />SAG Awards. <br /><br />My vote is for the SAG-blue number. I personally think all the "rhinestones" on the green dress are kinda "TJ Maxx salesrack". Hell, for all I know, they could be real emeralds. I'm just sayin' . . . from here, it looks a little "Isaac Mizrahi for Wal-Mart".<br /><br />Please note my heavy use of "quotations" to denote my "opinions" in the previous "paragraph".<br /><br />Can I also take this moment to say -- I hope we see more of Gabourey in Hollywood. Apparently, there are some people out there who <a href="http://jezebel.com/5452680/guardian-discovers-gabourey-sidibe-is-not-precious">don't quite understand that she's an actress.</a> Yeh, and guess what -- Mariah Carey isn't a social worker, either! It's, like, make-believe! <br /><br /><br />Now for more people I love and the clothes they are wearing . . . <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18JClU7vjI/AAAAAAAABv0/0tYwY4DuXZk/s1600-h/500x_careymulligan11710_01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18JClU7vjI/AAAAAAAABv0/0tYwY4DuXZk/s320/500x_careymulligan11710_01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431069615616409138" /></a><br />Carey Mulligan . . . my girl-crush of the week . . . <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18JScd2dUI/AAAAAAAABv8/ojWmoxcfYlo/s1600-h/500x_betty_white.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18JScd2dUI/AAAAAAAABv8/ojWmoxcfYlo/s320/500x_betty_white.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431069888115799362" /></a><br />Betty White, my girl-crush of all time!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18JeIjFEWI/AAAAAAAABwE/dv14GKMzJfk/s1600-h/500x_janelynch11710.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18JeIjFEWI/AAAAAAAABwE/dv14GKMzJfk/s320/500x_janelynch11710.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431070088927449442" /></a><br />Jane Lynch, you were robbed! <br /><br /><br />Now, it seems that some media outlets <a href="http://jezebel.com/5451976/you-dont-put-a-big-girl-in-a-big-dress-dissing-christina-hendricks">have labeled Mad Men's Christina Hendricks a "big girl". </a> Say wha? I don't see it . . . <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18KeO49zxI/AAAAAAAABwM/xEtIW8f7mo4/s1600-h/hendricksdistorted0110.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 205px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18KeO49zxI/AAAAAAAABwM/xEtIW8f7mo4/s320/hendricksdistorted0110.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431071190141488914" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Um, yeh -- she has boobs. Just like our awesome-hot friend, Penelope Cruz:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18KvAqwA_I/AAAAAAAABwU/tBgMcXAf5ng/s1600-h/500x_cruz.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18KvAqwA_I/AAAAAAAABwU/tBgMcXAf5ng/s320/500x_cruz.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431071478381544434" /></a><br /><br />Those aren't "big girls", people. Those are women who look like actual women and not tanned, botoxed lollipop sticks. I would gladly swap bods with Christina Hendricks. Or Helen Mirren, for that matter:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18LZEu8lYI/AAAAAAAABwc/7AJW1z2WxBg/s1600-h/500x_mirren.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 199px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18LZEu8lYI/AAAAAAAABwc/7AJW1z2WxBg/s320/500x_mirren.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431072201027392898" /></a><br /><br />And finally -- while both of these looks might have been trashed by the rag-mags, I give these girls snaps for doin' their thing:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18L_Qg87nI/AAAAAAAABwk/6pwrk29WvjE/s1600-h/500x_95841654_10.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18L_Qg87nI/AAAAAAAABwk/6pwrk29WvjE/s320/500x_95841654_10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431072857024949874" /></a><br />Am I the only one who really enjoys this sparkly hoodie number? It's for an after-party, people! Come on! <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18MQHj2F0I/AAAAAAAABws/DqVBdSFPmks/s1600-h/58063392.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S18MQHj2F0I/AAAAAAAABws/DqVBdSFPmks/s320/58063392.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431073146678941506" /></a><br />I'll stand by you, Amanda Palmer! I'll stand by you!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-7540744716585860292010-01-13T15:31:00.000-08:002010-01-15T05:14:58.707-08:00rippedGreetings, Comrades! Hope everyone is having a good week . . . or at least, a survivable week. According to the weatherman, Boston is supposed to hit 50 degrees on Friday! There's something to keep living for! <br /><br />So, remember how I got bamboozled into signing up for free personal training? Betcha thought I blew that off, huh? Not so! I've been taking a few days to digest my latest gym adventure. Also, I was unable to lift my arms to the keyboard. Until now! <br /><br />Gather 'round, kids -- Tea's got a tale for you! With a surprise ending, no less!<br /><br /><br /><br />Monday, 4pm -- I scurried into the rat-hole that is Golds Gym Somerville. I mean that in the most loving way possible. But seriously, this is the actual gym entrance:<br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S05dIcNRjmI/AAAAAAAABvM/x_qCfdlSsQM/s1600-h/23800.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S05dIcNRjmI/AAAAAAAABvM/x_qCfdlSsQM/s320/23800.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426377000620232290" /></a><br /><br />It's located in the basement of a strip mall. Enough said. <br /><br />Ron, the young man who initially approached me about signing up for a free training session, was literally waiting for me at the door. <br /><br />Ron: "Heeeeey! You ready?"<br /><br />Me: "Honestly, I'm kinda scared."<br /><br />Ron did not seem particularly moved by my apprehension. He laughed and told me to go suit up. I was already wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt -- was I supposed to bring a spandex leotard? Weight lifting belt? I played along and huddled in the locker room for a few moments, and then returned with my water bottle and my last remaining shreds of dignity. <br /><br />Ron was waiting for me with a guy who is best described as a 'budget-Guido.' He introduced himself as Carlos, the General Manager. He was going to be my trainer for the evening. <br /><br />"Are you ready to do this?" Carlos asked, with a genuine enthusiasm I'd not seen in Ron. Or anyone else at Golds Gym Somerville. <br /><br />"Um -- sure?" <br /><br />"That's right you are!" <br /><br />Before we got down to sweatin', Carlos had me fill out a survey covering my medical history and fitness goals. <br /><br />Carlos: "Have you ever had a stroke?"<br /><br />Me: "I don't think so."<br /><br />Carlos: "Are you currently pregnant?"<br /><br />Me: "No sir."<br /><br />Carlos: "Have you ever been on a diet before?"<br /><br />Me: "[laughing] Oooooh yeh." <br /><br />Carlos: "Is your spouse or partner supportive of your fitness goals?"<br /><br />Me: "Uhhhh . . . sure?"<br /><br />And so it went. I told Carlos my weight. He said some stuff about cardio, nutrition and free weights - the Holy Trinity of physical fitness. There was talk of ripping apart muscle, and muscle eating fat, and body fat ratios . . . <br /><br />This was all starting to sound like an anatomy lecture. Taught by a Guido. <br /><br />Then, Carlos sent me off to the elliptical machine, saying, "Don't go crazy, just get a little warmed up." <br /><br />After 10 minutes, I was feeling sufficiently warm. I've been a member of Golds Gym for 4 years, and my usual workout sessions consist of 20 minutes on the elliptical, followed by 40 minutes of power-incline walking on the treadmill. Usually listening to some sort of talk-radio podcast. Not exactly heart-pounding. <br /><br />After 20 minutes, Carlos deemed me sufficiently prepared for the next phase of the workout. And it wasn't going to involve The Hater podcast. <br /><br />We wandered over to a corner of the gym with several dubious-looking machines. Carlos instructed me to lie down on what looked like some sort of torturous operating table, put my feet up on a bar, and reach back over my head to grab the handles behind me. Then, sit up. He helped to lift the machine with me the first time, so my completely uncoordinated body could figure out what was going on. <br /><br />Well hi there, stomach muscles! Where the hell have you guys been?!<br /><br />After a few reps on the crunch machine, Carlos led me over to the . . . "pull up machine"? I don't know the technical terms for the equipment, but basically, I was suspended from my arms and lifting my legs straight out in front of me.<br /><br /> Now things were getting tricky. <br /><br />Me: "Oh, wow! Um -- yeh . . . I don't know how many more of these I can do."<br /><br />Carlos: "Just 2 more! You got it! You got it!"<br /><br />And, much to my surprise -- I got it. I completed the set. And I didn't fall / cry / collapse! A gym class miracle!<br /><br />While I took a water break, Carlos asked me, "So who are you paying attention to in the gym right now?"<br /><br />"You," I answered.<br /><br />"Who else?"<br /><br />"Uhhh . . . me?"<br /><br />"Who else?"<br /><br />"Uhhh . . . "<br /><br />"No one, right? Because you're busy doing your own thing. And guess what? No one else is paying attention to you right now either. Everyone's concentrating on their own workouts, no one's watching to see if you're going to mess up."<br /><br />This might sound like fairly obvious advice -- but in the moment, in all my sweaty, awkward glory -- it kind of blew my mind. Carlos was right -- no one gave a rat's ass what I was doing over here in the pull up corner. They were all busy sweating away on their own torture machines, or jogging along reading US Weekly. <br /><br />And this was the turning point right here, people. This was when I started getting into it. <br /><br />Carlos took me into the stretching area and had me lay down on my back, legs hovering inches above the floor. Every time he said "Up!" I lifted my legs straight up in the air. When he said "Down!" I lowered them. He put me through a rapid-fire series of "Up! Down! Up! Hold it! Hold it! Down! Up! Down! Up!" -- and I kept up with him. Through two whole sets, with barely a break. <br /><br />Carlos: "Your lower abs are strong."<br /><br />Me: "Seriously?"<br /><br /> Carlos: "Sure. I'm putting you through a slightly more advanced beginner series, and you're keeping up with me."<br /><br />This was perhaps the first time anyone has ever commented on my physical strength. In a positive manner. I was sweaty, and starting to feel a little jello-y . . . but it was a good feeling. I was pumped! When Carlos challenged me to do some planks, I was determined to hold the pose all the way through his 30 second countdown -- no flopping to my belly with 10 seconds to go.<br /><br />And I did it! <br /><br />By the time we made it over to the final ab machine, Carlos and I were chatting like old friends. When I referred to the machine as a medieval torture device, he laughed appreciatively. I have no doubt that flirting with the young, female, non-athletic potential clients is a big part of Carlos' job description. But I was feelin' so pumped by the emergence of my previously hidden ab-muscles, I didn't even care that he was buttering me up for the Big Sell. <br /><br />When Carlos led me away from the machines and back towards the office -- I was actually surprised. Our workout hour had flown! And . . . I liked it. I liked feeling strong -- like every machine was a new little physical challenge. I liked pushing myself right to the "oh-my-god-I-can't-do-4-more-reps!" edge -- and then doing 4 more reps. I'd walked into the gym certain that I would crumple in the face of weights and scary machines -- but I didn't! In fact, I did the whole routine without copping out on a single thing! <br /><br />When Carlos shut the office door, I said -- "I need to be really honest with you. I came here tonite mostly for a laugh, definitely not planning on signing up for anything. But I really liked this. And I wanna keep doing it. But my financial situation right now is a huge joke. Seriously. Funds are . . . nonexistent. Almost."<br /><br />And Carlos, in true Guido fashion, said, "Talk to me. What can you afford? If this is something you really want to do, we can make this work."<br /><br />I sat there and thought about it for awhile. <span style="font-style:italic;">Was</span> this something I really wanted to do? God knows, I've never been a gym bunny, or a fitness fanatic. Hell, I'm usually the first person in line to scoff at those people who get up at 5am to do spin class, go running in the snow, can't miss a workout. And yet . . . I've struggled with my body image and my weight for most of my life. I've tried every diet plan you could think of -- and a few I've invented myself. I've had some successes -- but I have never really reached a point where I've felt truly comfortable and confident in my own body. <br /><br />But strangely enough -- I felt confident out on the floor doing leg-lifts with Carlos. I felt strong, I felt determined. So . . . maybe its time for me to start focusing on what my body can actually <span style="font-style:italic;">do</span>, instead of just what it looks like. <br /><br />"Ok, Carlos -- let's talk," I said. <br /><br /><br />I bet you can all guess where this is going, right? <br /><br />Tea Guarie, sucker of the century, now has her very own personal trainer!! I'll be meeting with him once a week for a one-on-one session, and then he'll give me two other workouts I can do on my own for the rest of the time. Financially, I think I'll be able to swing it. If not, I can cancel it without too much trouble. And really -- people have made worse investment decisions, right? <br /><br />I won't lie -- I'm really excited! Is that weird? To get excited over exercising? God knows, my muscles have been making their displeasure known over the past few days. My ab muscles seem to be particularly resentful - I had to roll out of bed onto the floor this morning. But this is just the beginning -- even though it hurts like hell now, I can't wait to see where I'll be three months from now. Maybe Carlos will be able to put some actual weights on the machines! Maybe I'll be able to do more that 5 pull ups! <br /><br />The possibilities are endless!<br /><br />So between my library hook-up and my gym escapades, I feel like I've been more productive this week than I was in all of 2009! And if there's one thing I learned from my "workout", its to take it all slow and steady. One movement, one step at a time. <br /><br />Piece o' cake.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-66026917600528512312010-01-11T16:23:00.000-08:002010-01-15T05:16:02.899-08:00hit the ground running (or in my case, walking)How is it already 7:30pm? Funny, how time flies when you're out being productive! I've gone a whole day without watching a single episode of Real Housewives of Orange County or Teen Cribs. And I don't even miss it. Much. <br /><br />So, what have I been doing with my valuable daytime tv watching time? I'm glad you asked! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S0vDKMnGBCI/AAAAAAAABu8/y2O7hKP8wpI/s1600-h/librarywelcome.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S0vDKMnGBCI/AAAAAAAABu8/y2O7hKP8wpI/s320/librarywelcome.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425644756049200162" /></a><br /><br />Today was my inaugural day of "volunteering" at the Cambridge Public Library! <br /><br />Volunteering is in quotes because, while there is no official volunteer program / position for me at this time, my library administrative coordinator contact (a friend of my dental hygienist) has offered to give me projects on an as-needed basis. She's also going to pass my name along to the Friends of the Library committee, to see if I can help with any of their upcoming programming. She is hopeful that by the fall, when I'm officially in school full time, there will be more opportunities to work with the library on a regular basis. Can we say boo-yeh? <br /><br />The reason the CPL is in such chaos is because they've just moved into a brand spankin' new building. It is squeaky-clean-wonderful-gorgeous. My time spent slaving under a regime of architects who specialized in "light-filled, community gathering spaces" gives me a special appreciation for the library's awesome new layout. Sunny reading areas. A Harry Potter-esque study room in the refurbished historic wing. An amazing new "Teen Lounge." Man, I love this place! <br /><br />I am a dork.<br /><br />But I don't care!<br /><br />So yeh, I didn't get to do anything really "librarian-y" today. Which is fine, because I have not yet begun my official librarian training. Instead, I got to put together brochure packets that pimp the awesomeness of the new library. Needless to say, I read a lot of brochure packets while I worked. <br /><br />Fortunately, reading is encouraged at the library. <br /><br />True confession time -- I love collating. It's true. When I'm not under a major deadline, I find repeatedly bundling massive piles of papers in specific order extremely relaxing. My imagination wanders. I think about my life, and if it would make a good sitcom. I think it has potential. Especially if I could somehow finagle it so all my friends had apartments in my building. Then we could make a reality-sitcom. A reali-com? A Doc-com? <br /><br />Then I start thinking about what the theme song to my reality-sitcom would be . . . <br /><br />And poof -- three hours later, I'd created 500 new brochure packets! And the library staff was amazed at my collation stamina! It's a win-win! <br /><br />As payment for today's efforts, I was given a little library freebie:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S0vIBxC2ZjI/AAAAAAAABvE/OueruUjTKM4/s1600-h/librarygoodie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S0vIBxC2ZjI/AAAAAAAABvE/OueruUjTKM4/s320/librarygoodie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425650108768609842" /></a><br /><br />So here's hoping my library hook-up calls me back for more random fun at some point soon! Just being in the building, meeting people and doing random little housekeeping chores is a treat at this point -- and hopefully, will lead to bigger and better library adventures in the future! <br /><br />The second half of my day was so mind-blowing, I think it deserves a post all its own. I'll give you a hint, though -- it involves sweat, guidos, and risk-taking of both the physical and financial sort.<br /><br />Any guesses?rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-87942710963021608442010-01-09T13:46:00.000-08:002010-01-15T05:17:09.360-08:00its time for . . . Tales From the Treadmill!Picture it -- Golds Gym Somerville, 2010.<br /><br />I was strolling along on the treadmill like I normally do, after successfully convincing myself that my "walk-jog" routine will start Monday. Everyone knows, diets / exercise plans / weeks start on Mondays. Duh. <br /><br />I was listening to The Hater podcast and trying not to laugh out loud like a creepy freak, as I'm sometimes apt to do. This week Amelie Gillette is making fun of Tyra Banks, Oprah, the Jonas Brothers and Domino's Pizza. I effing love her. <br /><br />Suddenly, I'm aware of someone standing on the vacant treadmill to my right, staring and gesturing at me. My first thought was that this is "Ghostbusters dude". What -- I've never told you about Ghostbusters dude? Allow me to indulge in a brief tangent here:<br /><br /><br /><br />There's a guy at my gym who is apparently a huge fan of my "Ghostbusters shirt". It's just a black t-shirt with the Ghostbusters logo on the front -- suitable attire for dive bars, the gym, job interviews at the Sav-Mor Liquor Store. Nothing special. <br /><br />The first time I wore it to the gym, this guy stopped right in front of my elliptical machine and started talking at me. Which was pointless and annoying, because I was listening to the Glee soundtrack at top volume and couldn't hear what the eff he was saying. At first I thought he was a fomer match.com date, come back to awkwardly remind me of some unreturned phone message or something -- but no, this dude merely wanted to tell me how much he liked my Ghostbusters shirt.* <br /><br />"Ghostbusters, man! I remember that movie! That's so cool! Where'd you get it?"<br /><br />"Thanks . . . uh . . . Target, I think?"<br /><br />"That's awesome!"<br /><br />A few minutes later, he came back <span style="font-style:italic;">with a friend</span>, and proceeded to proudly point out my Ghostbusters shirt to his buddy. His friend, to his credit, looked confused and embarrassed.<br /><br />"Dude, remember Ghostbusters?"<br /><br />"What?" said his friend. <br /><br />"Ghostbusters -- that movie! With that guy . . . that was the logo!"<br /><br />"Oh yeh . . . I don't know if I ever saw that . . ."<br /><br />"Whaaaaat?! Are you serious?!" <br /><br />So they went on. I stopped even pretending to be a part of the conversation and cranked up my ipod once again, and eventually, they wandered away.<br /><br />So, needless to say, the Ghostbusters shirt was taken out of gym rotation for several weeks. When, at last, the day came when all my other gym tees were in the laundry and I was forced to don the GB tee -- dude was right there in front of my treadmill again!!! <br /><br />Him: "Heeey!" [gives thumbs up on shirt] <br /><br />Me: [startled, confused stumbling, followed by embarrassed nod / thumbs up]<br /><br />Seriously? Does this guy just wander around the gym checkin' out people's outfits? If so, I pity him -- because Golds Gym Somerville is certainly not a fashionista gym. Unless the hot new trend in workout wear is "moving company t-shirts, old sweatpants, and ill-fitting support garments". They had to post a sign at the front desk stating: "As of January 1, 2010, No Jeans Allowed". <br /><br />I'm no athlete, but even I know you shouldn't wear jeans to the effing gym. Come on, people!<br /><br />Ok, end tangent. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So back to today's treadmill visitor. It was, thankfully, not Ghostbusters dude. It was a guy wearing an official Golds Gym Somerville shirt, which immediately made me nervous. What did I do? I wasn't wearing jeans . . . did they notice that the last time I was here, I failed to wipe down the treadmill when I was done? What -- its not like I touch the damn thing other than to press the Start / Stop button! Get over it!<br /><br />But no, Official Gym Employee had not come to scold me. He had come to gently shame me. <br /><br />Him: "Hi, My name is Ron. I don't think I've seen you at the gym before -- how long have you been a member?"<br /><br />Me: "Um . . . awhile . . ." [by awhile, I meant 4 years. although clearly, the effects of 4 years of gym membership are not immediately apparent when looking at me in all my gym-clothed glory]<br /><br />Him: "Oh, ok -- so you're getting back into it for the New Year!"<br /><br />Me: "Right!" <br /><br />Him: "Has anyone ever talked to you about doing a free personal training session?"<br /><br />Me: "Uh . . . no . . ." [but they have approached to me comment on my t-shirts / oogle me]<br /><br />Him: "Is that something you'd be interested in?" <br /><br />Me: "Kinda . . . I gotta be up front with you though -- I'm not gonna be able to commit to paying for sessions, because I have no job." [ and I'm pretty sure that once you watch me attempt a sit-up, or a crunch or whatever -- you're probably not gonna wanna train me, either.]<br /><br />Him: "Totally understandable . . . just see what training's all about . . . blah, blah, blah . . . should I put you down for Monday at 4?"<br /><br />This is usually the part of any pitch where I break the sales-person's heart with, "Weeellllllll . . . let me think about it . . ." and then run out the door and never return. But today, I thought to myself -- what the hell? I've been coming to this sweaty pit for 4 years, and I still can't touch my freakin' toes. Maybe it <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> time to switch it up, get some "professional" advice. <br /><br />Which is <span style="font-style:italic;">exactly what they want you to think.</span><br /><br />Damnit. Clearly, the treadmill is my kryptonite. Corner me on one and I'll agree to anything. <br /><br /> Ron obviously saw me as fresh meat. Sauntering along at an easy 3.5 miles per hour, occasionally snickering to myself. <span style="font-style:italic;">Oooooh yeh,</span> he thought<span style="font-style:italic;">There's a girl who's enjoying the gym too much. There's a girl who needs some pain. </span>.<br /><br />Ron's parting words to me were, "Bring water and a towel, and come prepared to sweat."<br /><br />I should have told him, "Ok. You bring Band-Aids and a face mask, and be prepared to call 911 at some point." <br /><br />Instead, I actually said, "Ok, great! Nice to meet you! Can't wait for you to kick my ass!" <br /><br />The moral of these stories: I need to stop being friendly to people at the gym. Or anywhere. Or just walk around laughing out loud to myself at all times, so they'll stay away. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*Just so we're clear, I am aware that this dude was probably more interested in my "lovely lady ghosties" than my "shirt". I can be clueless . . . but not that clueless.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-86509491279243098612010-01-05T07:02:00.000-08:002010-01-15T05:18:04.687-08:00ten for '10A new decade, a new adventure, a new blog layout! I'm fairly certain that the image blogger has randomly superimposed into this template is the Boston Public Garden, yes? Or is it one of the many other "monuments to men on horses" that exist all over the world? Whatever -- I'm choosing to believe it is a photo of my hometown, and therefore this template was designed especially for moi!<br /><br />So - I didn't have the heart to scrap all the "One Girl, 12 Ways" biz from 2009. Even though my efforts to improve myself with monthly themes didn't work out so well -- I feel like it should stand as a monument to a strange, transition year in my life. RIP, 2009 - Viva 2010! <br /><br />You may have noticed a small addition to the blog title. That's because -- drumroll please -- <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S0NXPAV4_3I/AAAAAAAABuc/g2oJCSw7pe0/s1600-h/acceptance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/S0NXPAV4_3I/AAAAAAAABuc/g2oJCSw7pe0/s320/acceptance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423274291585679218" /></a><br /><br />I've been accepted to the Simmons Grad School of Library Science! <br /><br />I'm trying not to let the word "science" scare me too much. The word "library" counteracts the traumatic memories of high school Chemistry.<br /><br />School officially starts in May, which means I've got a few months to clear the cobwebs out of my head, figure out a job situation and prepare myself for being a full-time student once again. Fortunately, I enjoy school -- so much, in fact, that my goal is now to work in an academic-type setting for the rest of my days. No more late-night deadlines, no kissing CEO ass, no blah-blah-blah corporate bottom lines. No more gray, windowless cubicles! Bring on some dusty, windowless bookshelves!<br /><br />So this year, the blog is gonna be a lot less "theme-y" and a lot more . . . "life-y"? A humorous peek into Tea's wacky world, and a place to record all my little adventures. <br /><br />Also -- there will be lots of book reviews. <br /><br />So, its time to list my 10 Completely Achievable Goals for 2010. Lets not dwell on the fact that I "achieved" very few of my 2009 Goals. A new year -- a clean slate. Here we go:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">10 Completely Achievable Goals for 2010</span><br />1. Go to Grad School<br />2. Get a new couch / pull up nasty-ass carpeting in my apt<br />3. Keep my nails painted and not let them get all chipped and gross<br />4. Do yoga. Regularly. For real!<br />5. Learn to play an instrument so our amazing band, T&A, will take off (tambourines count, people -- we're talking "achievable" goals here!)<br />6. Run / jog / briskly walk a 5k <br />7. Volunteer at 826 Boston<br />8. See all the Academy Award nominated movies ( i need to get on this, like, now)<br />9. Write something -- short story, screenplay, lyrics for amazing T&A songs . . . <br />10. Go to the beach, again!<br /><br />Ha! I don't know how "achievable" some of those are . . . considering last year I didn't manage to "wear eyeliner everyday" or "do my dishes with some semblance of regularity". But we'll see . . . even if I semi-achieve half of these things, I'll be living a productive life. So get on my ass, friends -- remind me to start running / volunteering / movie-watching. <br /><br />It's gonna be a hell of a year, folks -- get ready!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-59799565435307096952009-12-03T05:37:00.000-08:002009-12-03T06:08:54.626-08:00december will be magicwe have reached the end of the year! sort of! <br /><br />december is upon us, folks. i know this because my little corner of east cambridge is suddenly a-glow with christmas lights. this makes me happy. i'm a sucker for tacky holiday decorations. <br /><br />what a wacky year it has been! i know there are still technically 28 days left in 2009, but i can't help but look back at where i was 11 months ago. <br /><br />let's bust out the <a href="http://onegirl12ways.blogspot.com/2009/01/nine-completely-achievable-goals-for-09.html">Completely Achievable Goals for 2009</a> list, shall we? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1. Wear eyeliner every day</span><br />not sure i fulfilled my eyeliner obligations. there were definitely some lazy days where i didn't even brush my hair. does wearing yesterday's eye make-up count? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2. Read a book</span><br />yes! for evidence of my ability to read, check out my <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/189496?shelf=read">Goodreads page</a>. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3. Gain 100 pounds and apply to be a contestant on The Biggest Loser . . or, just stop dieting</span><br />oh man. my weird eating issues were all over the map this year. i did, for awhile, stop dieting . . . and then i got laid off and packed on some shame-eating pounds. not quite biggest loser proportions, though. i continue to try to be less neurotic about my weight . . . but this monkey on my back is just so damn cute! until it tries to tear my face off, that is. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">4. Do dishes with some semblance of regularity</span><br />eh. like eyeliner -- there were lazy /busy days where the dishes sat in the sink overnite. there are no dishes in my sink right now though -- so lets call it victory! sort of. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">5. Reach "Expert" level drumming for at least one Rock Band song</span><br />i've reached "Medium" level on a few Rock Band songs. laaaaame. but i fully intend to start a real Rock Band in the coming year, drumming skillz or not. so get ready. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">6. Stay up later</span><br />check! now that i have no job, u will find me up all nite! <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">7. Shop more</span><br />lol -- i was doin' damn good with this until -- oh right! -- i got laid off. i'm beginning to see a theme here . . . <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">8. Be unapologetically proud of my tv watching and pop-culture obsessions</span><br />was this ever *not* true? obviously i'm a pop-culture whore. loud and proud!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">9. Go to the beach</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SxfDgfApDqI/AAAAAAAABuM/ee18an8y2b4/s1600-h/9328_554569181881_13002721_32991353_6343536_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SxfDgfApDqI/AAAAAAAABuM/ee18an8y2b4/s320/9328_554569181881_13002721_32991353_6343536_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411008440156360354" /></a><br />check! <br /><br /><br />it's funny to review where my mind was in january, as compared to now. i was so focused on the minutiae of my day to day existence, because so much of my time was eaten away by work. being banished from the cube has definitely given me perspective. i don't think i ever would have had the time / motivation to apply to graduate school if i'd still been locked away in my Corporate Dungeon. i think i've figured out a very big part of what i'm looking to do with my life, career-wise. 2010 will be all about putting the plans into action . . . assuming i get accepted to Librarian School. fingers crossed! <br /><br />but we've still got all of December to go before tackling a whole new decade! i plan to live out the rest of this year just enjoying every moment as it comes. no dwelling on the events of the past 11 months, no freaking about what lies ahead. its the holiday season, goddamnit! and for the first time in a very long time, i feel like i have the opportunity to breathe and actually enjoy the festiveness. <br /><br />so let's try for a Merry December, people!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-54672955747897238552009-11-23T15:02:00.001-08:002009-11-23T15:09:43.609-08:00shameful!so this has obviously been Slacker month here at One Girl, 12 Ways.<br /><br />matt said to me, "tea! you almost made it through the whole year!" <br /><br />i don't think i've ever managed a year-long commitment to anything, so that'd truly be an accomplishment. i hang my head. <br /><br />BUT -- i can always hope to redeem myself come December, yes? a chirstmas miracle! stay tuned!<br /><br />until then, enjoy this video of paula deen eating a "burger", which i would argue is more shameful than my blog-lapse this month:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zv8yEMRDe_w&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zv8yEMRDe_w&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></objectrattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-5838065557233730672009-10-19T09:07:00.000-07:002009-10-26T11:33:02.910-07:00all dressed up, nowhere to go . . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXbCOnGAxI/AAAAAAAABro/sUscOmBM7R8/s1600-h/octomom--300x300.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXbCOnGAxI/AAAAAAAABro/sUscOmBM7R8/s320/octomom--300x300.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396960559801697042" /></a><br />Scared yet?<br /><br />Halloween is nearly upon us, people! Dispite my attempts to be on top of shit this year, I am once again clutching at costume straws. My most excellent Roller Derby Girl outfit is proving more challenging than I anticipated -- and that's ignoring the minor detail of my not knowing how to skate. So now it's time to come up with a Plan B -- but I'll be damned if I'm going to the Garment District this week. I'm a weird girl, I must have some wacky, costume-worthy shit around the house, right? Let's see . . .<br /><br /><br />Ok, this is what I managed to gather from my "dressing table":<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXgMgnjYsI/AAAAAAAABrw/ufJqftKa9x8/s1600-h/P1010626.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXgMgnjYsI/AAAAAAAABrw/ufJqftKa9x8/s320/P1010626.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396966233992291010" /></a><br /><br /><br />Hmmm . . . how about a "fuzzy beast" costume?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXgy-Soz0I/AAAAAAAABsA/_GX8lKTEHaI/s1600-h/P1010627.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXgy-Soz0I/AAAAAAAABsA/_GX8lKTEHaI/s320/P1010627.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396966894792658754" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXghr4BDhI/AAAAAAAABr4/g77WiW0mBog/s1600-h/P1010628.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXghr4BDhI/AAAAAAAABr4/g77WiW0mBog/s320/P1010628.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396966597791387154" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(I actually bought this wolf hat to wear this winter. It's really warm. Also, I don't have to go into an office anymore . . . so I am a little out of touch with how "normal" people dress. Don't judge.)</span><br /><br /><br />Or maybe "Flapper of the Night"?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXhODOu6PI/AAAAAAAABsI/IkOkzyqA-QE/s1600-h/P1010629.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXhODOu6PI/AAAAAAAABsI/IkOkzyqA-QE/s320/P1010629.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396967359974926578" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXh5Gc74aI/AAAAAAAABsQ/Pi5bYhVpV18/s1600-h/P1010631.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXh5Gc74aI/AAAAAAAABsQ/Pi5bYhVpV18/s320/P1010631.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396968099574178210" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(This headdress was my great-grandma's from the 1930's, the fan was a gift from Julia's travels.)</span><br /><br /><br />"Washed Up Devil"? or "The Octomom's Oldest Child"?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXiUv8JcyI/AAAAAAAABsY/tp3VfDfQpBI/s1600-h/P1010633.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXiUv8JcyI/AAAAAAAABsY/tp3VfDfQpBI/s320/P1010633.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396968574567412514" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Yawn, I know. Horns came from Canobie Lake - they also light up. Badass!)</span><br /><br /><br />"Grizzly Sea Captain":<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXi3lFyMaI/AAAAAAAABso/Cgkrec6_rJo/s1600-h/P1010634.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXi3lFyMaI/AAAAAAAABso/Cgkrec6_rJo/s320/P1010634.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396969172950462882" /></a><br />With Mermaid:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXjP9rMrZI/AAAAAAAABsw/7cQwAleOYkU/s1600-h/P1010637.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXjP9rMrZI/AAAAAAAABsw/7cQwAleOYkU/s320/P1010637.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396969591866699154" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXjj0tzXnI/AAAAAAAABs4/vlohZBPlngg/s1600-h/P1010639.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXjj0tzXnI/AAAAAAAABs4/vlohZBPlngg/s320/P1010639.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396969933059087986" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Captain's Hat was picked up in Florida, the paper-mache mermaid was inherited from Mama G. Yarrrr!)</span><br /><br /><br /><br />"Everyone's Favorite Revolutionary War Hero, Sam Adams":<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXkGlakavI/AAAAAAAABtA/ESMbDkHSZRs/s1600-h/P1010642.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXkGlakavI/AAAAAAAABtA/ESMbDkHSZRs/s320/P1010642.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396970530247305970" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXkPesW1MI/AAAAAAAABtI/LmYGk_GEZCI/s1600-h/P1010643.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXkPesW1MI/AAAAAAAABtI/LmYGk_GEZCI/s320/P1010643.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396970683061687490" /></a><br />Or, I could throw a sheet over my head and go as "The Spirit of the Revolution":<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXl9kI361I/AAAAAAAABtQ/SnyGXtywJnw/s1600-h/P1010656.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXl9kI361I/AAAAAAAABtQ/SnyGXtywJnw/s320/P1010656.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396972574309083986" /></a><br />I'd have to be a taupe colored ghost, though.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Tri-corn hat was a 4th of July accessory. Because I need hats for every holiday.)</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Along the same vein, I could also be "The Spirit of New Orleans":<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXm_htiuTI/AAAAAAAABtY/rMn2G1bg-IE/s1600-h/P1010645.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXm_htiuTI/AAAAAAAABtY/rMn2G1bg-IE/s320/P1010645.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396973707528943922" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Mask was a NOLA souvenir from Papa G, voodoo doll was also a NOLA gift from Julia.)</span><br /><br /><br /><br />I seem to have small collection of these hats of the 1940's/1950's . . . perhaps I could be "Jackie O's Personal Secretary" or "An Extra on Mad Men" . . . or "Grandma, 1952":<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXoC1262II/AAAAAAAABtg/RB0ANLIDPgs/s1600-h/P1010646.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXoC1262II/AAAAAAAABtg/RB0ANLIDPgs/s320/P1010646.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396974863988217986" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXoSwwaSSI/AAAAAAAABto/2EscAwW7ris/s1600-h/P1010651.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SuXoSwwaSSI/AAAAAAAABto/2EscAwW7ris/s320/P1010651.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396975137496647970" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Both hats were, in fact, inherited from my grandma.)</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Oh man . . . so many choices! Any further suggestions of stuff I can make with this rag-tag pile of weird hats? <br /><br />No wonder I love Halloween. If this accessory collection is any indication, every freakin' day is like Halloween over here! It's true - I don't like to take myself or my fashion too seriously. Life's too short, people. Put on a wacky hat and go to the grocery store. <br /><br />Actually . . . maybe I could wear one of these hats, some slippers, and a stained velour sweatsuit and go as "Crazy Woman in the Canned Food Aisle of Shaw's". <br /><br />I like it.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-45697774827174582272009-10-12T07:40:00.000-07:002009-10-12T08:48:41.906-07:00down the rabbit holetap, tap. is this thing on?
<br />
<br />is there anyone left out there?
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<br />many of you have been "reminding" me to blog for weeks now -- sorry it has taken me this long! i'm not dead - i'm not even suffering from the swine flu. i've simply been poking around inside my head for the past month. i am happy to report that things are starting to get sorted.
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<br />so . . . where were we?
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<br /> when i last left ya'll it was Back to School month. while my plans to blog about all things educational failed miserably, i *did* manage to set in motion a true Back to School plan. i'm officially applying to grad school at <a href="http://www.simmons.edu/gslis/">Simmons for my Master of Library Science </a>degree. every parent's dream, right? a librarian in the family!
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<br />i've been taking stock of all the things i truly enjoy doing: reading. sometimes writing. looking up crazy crap on the internet. entertainment. snarkiness. stand up comedy. i weighed these against the things i hated about my last job: a cubicle. suits. kissing the asses of my corporate overlords. working a gazillion hours a week to improve the company's bottom line and not my own.
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<br />based on my calculations, being a Young Adult librarian will allow me to focus on the things i love -- books, information, youth culture -- in an environment that is refreshingly far from corporate america. everybody wins!
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<br />so the past couple weeks have found me slowly pulling together all my application information, which has been slightly stressful. its been a long time since i've filled out a FAFSA form, or written an essay about my Career Goals. the ball is in motion, though -- and with any luck, i'll be polishing off the last few pieces of the application this week. then comes the financial part. anyone need a kidney? i'll sell ya one for $27,000.
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<br />i'm really excited about this new vision of my future! excited, and nervous. commitments of any sort freak me out -- perhaps that's why i've waited this long to seriously consider any sort of "long term" life plan. but now that i've set my cap on librarianship, i'm in love with the idea. i'll feel a lot better once the application process is complete, though. paperwork fills me with anxiety. and rage.
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<br />anyway -- we have now reached the month of October! insanity! where has the time gone?! the trees outside my window are all bare and brown, the Garment District is packed full of obnoxious college students. i need to get a jump on my costume plans, so i'm not frantically tearing through the leftovers three days before Halloween, like last year.
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<br />have i mentioned how much i love Halloween? i love it. a lot.
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<br />a few weeks ago, Miss A and i took a trip out to Wilmington to see the <a href="http://www.bostonderbydames.com/">roller derby.</a> which was amazing. while we were strolling the desolate streets from the train station to our dinner destination, Miss A took a good long look at the thoroughfare of car washes and crumbling strip malls and asked, "so, what did you do for fun here?"
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<br />i replied, "oh, you know . . . we'd walk to the library. or go hang out in the cemetery."
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<br />i didn't think of myself as one of those "goth" kids in high school -- i didn't wear black lipstick or eyeliner or listen to excessive amounts of the cure or anything -- but there has always been a whiff of the macabre about me. i was armed with a ouija board at age 9. i was the kid that other mothers would politely ask to stop scaring the rest of the sleepover guests. i looooved being scared. i loved blurring the line of reality and the unknown -- i dreamed of having some sort of supernatural experience. i wanted the ghost stories to come to life. thus, my passion for halloween.
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<br />also, there was free candy. so yeh -- ultimate holiday for spooky, chubby kids.
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<br />while i like to think that i've matured slightly over the years -- i no longer move the ouija board to make it spell the names of my friends' deceased pets -- my love of all things creepy remains strong. i still enjoy cemeteries and ghost stories. i still own a ouija board. i watched the episode of Ghost Hunters where they take Meat Loaf to a supposedly haunted island:
<br /><a href="<object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hFgfSylMylQ&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hFgfSylMylQ&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>"></a>
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<br />so October is going to be Gothic Month here at One Girl, 12 Ways. that doesn't mean i'm out to rob a Hot Topic or anything -- its just the time of year to curl up with a good ghost story or go shuffle through the leaves in a big ol' new england cemetery. and before this month is over, i vow to do both.
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<br />and i vow to keep you better informed of my movements, blog-readers! i realize the end of the year is fast approaching, and i wanna keep the blog momentum rolling all the way into 2010!
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<br />anything is possible, right?rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-43510443969851007172009-09-04T07:15:00.000-07:002009-09-04T10:14:25.953-07:00tea and archaeologyWeekdays can get a little maddening when you're unemployed. Friends are working. Oprah is still in summer reruns. And I refuse to allow myself to get hooked on the soaps. If I start talking about how Brad thinks Sage is totally his, but she's actually been sleeping with Dylan while Madison is in a coma -- come over here and slap me. <br /><br />It shouldn't be that hard to find interesting things to do with my time that don't involve TV or alcohol. After all, this is a fairly bustling metropolitan area. Plus, I live within walking distance of <span style="font-weight:bold;">two </span> of the most geek-chic-elite universities in country! Surely there must be something more intellectually stimulating to do besides camping out in the cafe of Borders, reading all the British tabloids. <br /><br />A Yelp search of "Cambridge arts & entertainment" opened a whole new, touristy world of activity to me. Boston/C-bridge is chock full of museums and galleries, historical monuments and trails. I have seen almost none of these things, because I spend all my free time in karaoke bars. Or my apartment. <br /><br />So what better activity for "back-to-school" month than to learn more about my hometown, and take advantage of its uber-intellectual resources?<br /><br /> Sure, I may not be smart enough or rich enough to <span style="font-style:italic;">attend</span> Harvard. But on Wednesdays and Sundays any shmuck with a Massachusetts license can check out the University's "collection of artifacts we begged/borrowed/stole from native peoples" -- for free!<br /><br />You all know how I love free shit. <br /><br />So, come with me on a magical mystery tour of Harvard University's Peabody Museum of Archaeology & Ethnology!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEpu9nTUFI/AAAAAAAABqA/Vv1zOUyNKfk/s1600-h/P1010541.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEpu9nTUFI/AAAAAAAABqA/Vv1zOUyNKfk/s320/P1010541.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377625316847210578" /></a><br /><br />See -- it's appropriately brick-ish and museum-like from the outside:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEsi1wQTqI/AAAAAAAABqQ/iy5mP_Iv_YQ/s1600-h/3639344276_9abdd89dbd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEsi1wQTqI/AAAAAAAABqQ/iy5mP_Iv_YQ/s320/3639344276_9abdd89dbd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377628407113731746" /></a><br /><br />A brief note about Tea and museums -- I effing love them. Truth. Every since Miz Linda and I did our "backpackers tour of London" back in September '07, I've learned to appreciate the weird and wonderful world of display cases, dioramas, and ancient-dust-covered shit. I enjoy crappy museums and world-class, state-of-the-art museums with equal measure. <br /><br />For the record, the Peabody Museum is neither. <br /><br />But let me start from the beginning. <br /><br />Wednesday, 3pm. I wandered into the lobby of the Peabody Museum, which reminds me a bit of a Victorian-era high school. Or library. Actually -- remember that '80's movie, The Neverending Story? When the kid hides in the attic of his creepy school or whatever, reading the magic book? It's kinda like that:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEvNZODrtI/AAAAAAAABqY/NhAQB6LkoHE/s1600-h/oAttic.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEvNZODrtI/AAAAAAAABqY/NhAQB6LkoHE/s320/oAttic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377631337211735762" /></a><br />Attic from Neverending Story . . . <br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEve_2bTNI/AAAAAAAABqg/J_WscCPYRdE/s1600-h/peabody_spookyroom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEve_2bTNI/AAAAAAAABqg/J_WscCPYRdE/s320/peabody_spookyroom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377631639639379154" /></a><br />Attic of Peabody Museum.<br /><br />Point made? <br /><br />Anyway - the woman at the reception desk appeared genuinely surprised to see me. I suspect the museum is not exactly a happening place most weekday afternoons. In fact, I seemed to be one of only 4 people wandering the halls of the place, which added to the overall creepy-haunted-museum vibe. Excellent.<br /><br />So after showing her this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqExVU_vmrI/AAAAAAAABqo/dLZjhh4l8tE/s1600-h/P1010554.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqExVU_vmrI/AAAAAAAABqo/dLZjhh4l8tE/s320/P1010554.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377633672540166834" /></a><br /><br /> . . . I was given one of these:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqExym0YUyI/AAAAAAAABqw/-x-vw4tfVpc/s1600-h/P1010553.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqExym0YUyI/AAAAAAAABqw/-x-vw4tfVpc/s320/P1010553.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377634175540548386" /></a><br /><br />I love these little museum lapel clips. I usually lose them about 5 minutes into my museum visit . . . but there must be some sort of fun craft I could do with 'em . . . <br /><br />Back to the Peabody:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEyPsT8MSI/AAAAAAAABq4/D2B5rDPFiDk/s1600-h/peabody_indiangoods.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqEyPsT8MSI/AAAAAAAABq4/D2B5rDPFiDk/s320/peabody_indiangoods.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377634675231306018" /></a><br />As the name suggests, the Peabody Museum is full of artifacts "recovered" from various indigenous peoples. The entire first floor is a homage to Native Americans. Complete with piped in sounds of tribal drums and chanting. This was a little disconcerting, as I was wandering the floor alone. In some places, the exhibit rooms were completely dark until I tiptoed in and set off the light sensors. The overall "you're-about-to-be-scalped!" vibe was way more exciting than most of the exhibits, which were limited to 1950's-era dioramas of tribal huts and displays of old baskets, blankets, and sliver jewelry / belt buckles that could have come from straight Urban Outfitters. <br /><br />Clearly, I need to foster a greater appreciation for the arts of our native peoples. <br /><br />Anyway -- there were a few highlights, including this totally random modern graffiti piece:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqE0F6P-bkI/AAAAAAAABrA/XRBCbjQ-AQA/s1600-h/peabody_graffiti.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqE0F6P-bkI/AAAAAAAABrA/XRBCbjQ-AQA/s320/peabody_graffiti.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377636706197335618" /></a><br /><br />And this sign, explaining how Native Americans kinda hate Harvard University . . . and the rest of America:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqE0ciqqGCI/AAAAAAAABrI/4v1iTCUkIGE/s1600-h/peabody_stolen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqE0ciqqGCI/AAAAAAAABrI/4v1iTCUkIGE/s320/peabody_stolen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377637095003789346" /></a><br /><br />There was also a small installation on "Excavating Harvard Yard". Digging in the Yard unearthed a whole load of broken pottery, animal bones, and bits of old pipes -- giving us a unique window into the life and times of Ye Olde Harvard Students. For example -- did you know that back in the day, the food at Harvard was really, really bad? We're talking rancid butter bad. Also, your socio-economic status determined whether or not you were allowed to eat with a fork:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqE1JEjEqiI/AAAAAAAABrQ/8gQYXzvxjcU/s1600-h/peabody_dining.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqE1JEjEqiI/AAAAAAAABrQ/8gQYXzvxjcU/s320/peabody_dining.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377637860013025826" /></a><br /><br />Bored with the dusty old crap of the USA, I wandered up to the South American floor, where I found the best display in the whole museum:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqE3lklGxeI/AAAAAAAABrY/rL10m2REe44/s1600-h/peabody_diademuertos.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqE3lklGxeI/AAAAAAAABrY/rL10m2REe44/s320/peabody_diademuertos.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377640548671079906" /></a><br /> . . . also, the most hot-pink display in the whole museum!<br />That, my friends, is a Dia de los Muertos shrine. I wish my cell-phone camera was less crappy, because it was the most ornate, detailed, fabulously cool thing ever. I could have stared at it for an hour. Sadly, some obnxious lady and her super-bored children wandered in and interrupted my private gawking session. But I would seriously go back to the Peabody just to visit this shine again . . . which maybe makes me a loser. Whatever - I stand by that statement! It was cool, people!<br /><br />Moving up to the attic-like 3rd floor, I found the Pacific-Islander Artifacts. This crap was actually pretty cool:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqFEp9pbS3I/AAAAAAAABrg/PmU8Jy8ycjA/s1600-h/peabody_puppetman.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xQli3isVvUg/SqFEp9pbS3I/AAAAAAAABrg/PmU8Jy8ycjA/s320/peabody_puppetman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377654917770726258" /></a><br />I have no idea what this little dude represents. I probably could have read the accompanying explanatory placards . . . but who has time for that? <br /><br />There was a brief moment on the 3rd floor where I actually did get spooked. I was the only person on the entire level, and most of the floor was still shrouded in darkness, since all the lights are on occupancy sensors. Suddenly, there was a tremendously loud creaking noise behind me, and I jumped about a foot in the air. Total Ghost Hunters moment. Then I realized the noise was actually coming from the floor below me, where that annoying family was still hogging my Day of the Dead shrine. <br /><br />Any museum that can so fully capture that spooky, Hollywood-esque haunted house vibe gets two thumbs up from me! The whole place is like a little portal back in time . Maybe not to ancient times, but perhaps a Victorian Harvard where students still wore caps and gown to class and stealing from the "Indians" was not considered a crime. Bottom line -- I would love love love to spend the night in this building. And not so I can read up on gods of the Pacific Islanders. <br /><br />After about 45 minutes, I'd had my fill of the Peabody Museum. Since it was free, I didn't feel like I needed to linger and read all the boring signs to get my money's worth. As I skipped back down the steps and up the street towards home, I was mildly impressed that a) I'd just gone to a museum all by myself in the middle of the day, and b) all this crazy ancient crap was tucked away in an unassuming brick building just up the road from my house. This "learning about my city" thing is a-ok! Next up -- the MIT Museum? The Somerville Museum? The Lars Anderson Auto Museum? How many of these bad boys can I hit before the end of September? <br /><br />Only one way to find out!rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-86489052620843048312009-09-02T16:00:00.000-07:002009-09-02T16:26:41.693-07:00trapperkeepers unite!Wait -- it's September?! <br /><br />Seriously, where did the summer go? A whole season gone -- poof! Just like that. One minute it was May, and I was sitting in a lonely cube, contemplating taking my own life with an staple remover . . . now suddenly, autumn is here and I'm living off Uncle Sam while trying to stay sober long enough to come up with a life plan.<br /><br />Fortunately, fall has always been my favorite time of year. Perfect weather, perfect sunlight, an abundance of apples and pumpkins. Halloween! Seriously, what's not to love? <br /><br /> And obviously -- it's back-to-school season.<br /><br />Now, when I was actually enrolled in a school of some sort, I was perpetually bitching and moaning about something . . . the loss of free time, the homework, the early bedtime. The uniform. The B Line. There was no end to my educational complaints. <br /><br />I stand before you today a reformed girl. I, Tea Guarie, miss going back to school. I miss the smell of the floor polish, the shopping for Lisa Frank folders, new backpacks and booklists, the syllabi, the after school activities, the day planner dutifully filled in until the second week of October.<br /><br />I was pretty good at school. Not an Einstein or anything -- as the grammar and spelling of this blog can attest. But I loved that feeling of a fresh start every September, with new teachers and subjects and challenges. I love learning things. I don't retain most of what I learn -- but I have always found the process of learning enjoyable. In school, your job is to simply be open to knowledge -- have an opinion or an idea, and defend it. Express yourself. Think beyond the borders of your own world. <br /><br />God, why wasn't I so hot n' bothered about learning when it actually counted? Probably because they were making me learn Geometry and Chemistry. <br /><br />But, yes. This year more than ever, I wish I was going back to school. <br /><br />Which brings us to September's One Girl, 12 Ways theme. While I may not be currently enrolled in any formal educational institution, I vow to make this a month of mind-expansion. Clear the cobwebs out of the ol' brain and <span style="font-style:italic;">learn</span> a little, goddamn it! <br /><br />And unlike my half-assed summer posting schedule -- this month I vow to be on the ball! In fact -- I already have the topic and research for my next September post all ready to go! That's right -- I'm doin' the assignments ahead of schedule! How do ya like <span style="font-style:italic;">them</span> apples??<br /><br />Don't worry -- just like every other school year, my motivation/enthusiasm will have all but disappeared by October. Just in time for Halloween.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144361781337521948.post-84739847150543064472009-08-17T19:48:00.000-07:002009-08-18T07:32:08.204-07:00and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/anYaWhq3z-Q&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/anYaWhq3z-Q&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I'm sick of the concrete jungle this week, kids. It's so hot. And yes, I know it's hot everywhere . . . but there's something extra oppressive about summer in the city. Every surface seems to absorb as much heat as possible and then radiate it back like a giant convection oven. <br /><br />I'm pretty sure I'm sizzlin' at medium-rare right now.<br /><br />In my 'hood, people go to the dog-park for relief. It's the closest expanse of green space available -- and even that little mecca of grass looks out on the shopping plaza and a McDonalds. <br /><br />As Kermit the Frog once said: "Green can be cool and friendly-like." Unfortunately, our green space is more: "humid and full of homeless drunk people." <br /><br />I digress.<br /><br />So tonite, whilst making sweet love to my air conditioner, I stumbled upon a documentary on the History Channel called <a href="http://www.history.com/content/woodstock">Woodstock: Now & Then.</a> Which reminded me . . . <span style="font-style:italic;">oh yeh, it's hippie month! </span><br /><br />I've always had a thing for Woodstock. I went thru a hippie-lust phase in high school, around the time most of my friends were enjoying N'SYNC and shopping at Abercrombie. I kept my unruly curly hair long (mistake!) and wore a lot of baggy shirts. And I had a lot of crap from The Body Shop. Not much of a counter-culture statement. <br /><br />I think what has always captivated me about true-blue flower children is their uninhibited approach to living. Hippies were free. On a lot of drugs, yes -- but free to do those drugs, make love and art, dance naked in the mud, start communes, start movements. They lived in the moment, and in that moment their lives had meaning. Just by simply existing, they were part of something much bigger than themselves. <br /><br />Look at the music that came out of that era. People had shit to say -- they expressed themselves through art in hopes that they could change the effed up world around them. <br /><br />We're living in effed-up times too, people. And so I sit and watch America's Best Dance Crew and Toddlers and Tiaras. I freak out about my weight and tell myself that once I lose 15 pounds -- then I can go take on the world. <br /><br />God, I'm a terrible hippie. <br /><br />But I'm trying. I'm recgonizing the things that keep me from being as free as I want to be. <br /><br />This weekend I went to a Healthy Living Summit sponsored by some of the darlings of the food/healthy lifestyle blogging community. It was inspirational in a few different ways. I've started thinking a lot about what I want <span style="font-weight:bold;">my</span> ideal "lifestyle" to be . . . and I smell a new blogging project on the horizon. As if don't have enough blogs going at the moment -- but this is an exciting one, kids! I'll say no more now. Stay tuned.<br /><br />So anyway, one of the speakers at the Summit was a woman who runs an organic dairy farm in Vermont. She gave a talk on organic farming and agriculture, and showed pictures of her farm -- green rolling pastures, happy cows heading out to graze, her super adorable family. They all work together on the the farm. They know each of their cows and their distinct personalities. They work super hard -- but their work is tangible, it has meaning. <br /><br />I don't know if my work has ever had meaning. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">But Tea -- surely you aren't suggesting you're going to go become an organic dairy farmer, are you? You can't even commit to taking care of an effing hamster! </span><br /><br />That's a fair point, readers. And while the likelihood of me becoming a farmer of any sort in the forseeable future is slim to nil . . . my next career move needs to be a more meaningful one. I want my life to have some substance -- I want to get up in the morning and have a purpose, to do something I actually care about. The trick is figuring out what that is. And once I do that, maybe then I'll get a little taste of that hippie-freedom. <br /><br />Or do I have it backwards? Do I need to just let go and be free in order to discover what it is that makes my heart happy? Isn't that what this month was supposed to be about? <br /><br />Luckily, life is a journey, not a race. I've got more than the 31 days of August to set free my inner flower-child and head out on the road. This right here? This is me just trying to figure out which way I'm holding the map.rattynposhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15716276541673137448noreply@blogger.com0