Foiled

Last night, I received my new Title Nine catalogue. I was only semi-excited, as most of their goods are too expensive (though very good), so I usually only allow myself to buy sports bras from them. (Not to bring up the rack again, but the girls need support, yo.) I flipped through during the commercials, and lo and behold, there was a new sports bra that I needed. And they had a whole clearance section with stuff I could afford! This was very exciting. I went through it and circled a bunch of items that I clearly had to have, and this morning, I hit the site to put my order in. Except. Yeah. The bra I wanted? Not available until November. The clearance items I wanted? Sold out. Or available. In white. I was totally turned back. Harshly rebuffed. Cruelly denied. And I really wanted to spend some money, too, dammit.

Either/or, neither/nor

Is prolonged use of my cell phone causing the rampaging headache from hell (five days and counting!) or is it excessive consumption of Lean Cuisines?

Enquiring minds want to know.

Ask and ye shall receive

All I had to do was ask.

Patience, grasshopper

I'm trying to give Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip a chance. I mean, I love Aaron Sorkin. A Few Good Men? Loved it. Sports Night? Best. Sitcom. Ever. West Wing? A classic. And yet -- the thing is, if you've seen these shows, you've already seen Studio 60. Except it's not as good. Though Bradley Whitford? Love him. Matthew Perry? Also stellar. But Amanda Peet? Just a tip here, honey, but try another expression. The constant smirk is extremely annoying. Luckily, however, it is nowhere near as annoying as Harriet -- excuse me, Harry. When can we kill her off? When? Because if I'm actually going to continue watching this show, she's got to go.

And Aaron? Get your ass off the soapbox. You need to establish the characters before you start making them your mouthpiece. It's way less annoying then. The coke thing, though? That was funny.

Guess who's back?

I hate the red-eye back from Seattle. Sure, I've only taken it twice, but I feel like a seasoned pro. And by "seasoned," I mean "tired and cranky wench who can't help but notice there were a ton of children on the flight once more and my throat feels sore and if I get strep again, I'm suing." I think the jet lag actually came in handy during last night's debacle of a Pats game. Had I been up to full strength, I feel sure that I would have broken some of Leigh's new furniture.

In other news, Seattle kicked ass. Whilst my host had to take meetings with the Man, I got to luxuriate in a day at the spa. The serenity massage was excellent, and at Gene Juarez, they practice "discreet draping." They take their draping extremely seriously, people. It would have been funny if I hadn't been so relaxed. I followed that shit up with the spa manicure and pedicure, which I highly recommend. I fell asleep. Twice. And my nails have never looked so good (which hopefully makes up for the rest of me looking so bad).

The not-so-underground tour

We hit Pioneer Square in Seattle before taking the ferry over to Bainbridge Island for lunch. And yet again, I'm loving the totems.

A true competitor

"Ten points. And I'm out of tiles, bitch!"

And yet J.R. will still play Scrabble with me. Not many can say the same.

East Coast bias

Apparently, on the West Coast, the Pats are not that important. Apparently, instead of watching the Pats build a sizable lead over the Jets and then barely hold on for the win, people out here want to watch the Seahawks. I know. The Seahawks. Whatever. The Pats got the win, and so did the Sox. Even if I couldn't watch them do it.

Strange migrations

I'm considering launching a full-scale research project on the migratory patterns of children between the ages of 0-4. Because I swear to god, more children fly between Boston and Seattle than any other destination I've been to. Going to Seattle? Here are the 50 children designated to fly with you -- don't worry, we've got enough to cover the whole plane! And when the babies aren't crying, the toddlers will kick your seat! Going back to Boston on the red-eye? No problem! Here's your return contingent of children.

I'm telling you, people, it's weird. Is Seattle the official destination of families everywhere?

It's a right I defend

The time has come to admit it: I'm a Barbra Streisand fan. There. I said it. I can't help it; I was raised to be one. I was listening to Color Me Barbra in the womb, people! And at this point in my life, listening to Streisand is almost nostalgic. Comforting. Plus, I still know all the words even when I don't think I know the words. And it's not just her music, oh, no. It's the movies, too. The Way We Were. A Star is Born. Even Yentl.

I had to admit the truth of the situation when I was creating a "Best of Babs" playlist for my iPod -- I didn't want to go on vacation without her. My life is sad, people. Sad. (And why don't I own Butterfly? I'm pretty sure it's my favorite.)

Go, go, go

Work has been kind of crazy of late, as I am pushing through two weeks' worth of work in one week's time so that I can fly away tomorrow for a week of relaxation and revelry. (Yes! I'm getting another vacation! This makes up for not getting any last year.) In addition to that stress, Jen and I are being shown the door, so we are on the hunt for a new home for ourselves and the Sam (he doesn't really care where we live, as long as there are treats to eat and couches to shed on). So, on top of all that madness, you know what I didn't need? I didn't need iTunes rejecting my Alison Krauss CD. Goddammit, can't you tell that I'm trying to get every possible combination of songs on my iPod before I leave? What if I absolutely have to listen to Song for Life while I'm away? Huh? What then, iTunes? What then? Okay, I'll forgive you. If only because I can now play Tetris on my iPod, and I'm looking forward to pissing everyone off around me by swearing vehemently at the screen all throughout the six-hour flight.

Talking points

I had dinner with the fam last night -- my sister, her boyfriend, my mom -- the usual crew. Dave and I talked about sports, and Dawn and Mom talked about curtains. I'm beginning to think I'm being invited along just so Dave has someone to talk to. Or maybe Dave is being invited along so I have someone to talk to?

Dave and I tacitly agreed to just not talk about the Sox and move on to the Patriots. Don't disappoint me, boys. I don't think I could take it.

Weekend update

It has been brought to my attention that I have been woefully neglectful of keeping you all up to date in matters of things not relating to my rack. Frankly, I didn't know you were interested. In case you are, I spent Saturday getting up at 6 am to make a difference, then I went to help Leigh move to her swank new pad in Waltham, and then I hung out with Melanie and Erica, trying to see who could drink the most margaritas in the least amount of time.

I have to tell you honestly, as much as I love drinking, I had just as much fun moving Leigh's enormous amount of crap in the sweltering heat. Crazy, I know, but good friends will do that to you. That and the Blue Ribbon barbeque we had for lunch.

I'd think twice if I were you

Greatest t-shirt ever? Well, it's up there. Many thanks to Maggie for buying it for me, thanks to the Patriots for pulling out the win against f-ing Buffalo, thanks to Surviving Grady for making the shirt, and thanks, of course, to Wells for saying it. Say what you will about Boomer, he was always a fun interview.

(Now who's going to buy me the Bellhorn shirt?)

And then, three days later, she got the joke

Now, I wouldn't call myself slow, really, but it can take me some time to process subtle things. Like the other night, whilst at Fenway, Melanie and I were discussing my boy Mike Lowell (he didn't give me the finger point, but I knew he was throwing the mad defense my way) and his battle with testicular cancer. Pause. Man next to me, "Do you girls want some nuts?"

And now that I look back on it, I'm pretty sure that same guy was checking out my rack when he kept leaning over the seats and looking sideways. Not that I blame him.

Perhaps Kason Gabbard had it in him all along

Or perhaps he just needed the special magic that is Melanie and I at Fenway. Or maybe he was jealous of all my Mike-Lowell love. (Did you see how many double plays Lowell got started just because I asked him to? Well, okay, actually, he had to in order to make up for the fact that the Sox scrounged together three measly hits off Javier Vazquez. Okay, I'll stop bitching since the OtherSox only got four hits, none of which they turned into a run. What was really funny about all the double plays was that I screamed and cheered for them like they were homerun bombs.)

In other words, we won. Papi was back in the lineup, and the crowd loved it. It was probably my last appearance at Fenway for the season, and it was beautiful. I love my boys. No matter what.

Misery Chastain cannot be dead

I finished The Mill on the Floss whilst eating lunch at McDonald's. First, let's not go into why I was eating at McDonald's. Second, let's not mention how I was the only freak reading an actual book at McDonald's. Third, how freaky was it that I saw my boss from my very first real job? I did not say hi, and she did not notice me. Or she did and she was ignoring me. Whatever. That's not the point. The point is this: I lingered at f-ing McDonald's for an hour and a half, looking like a loser who goes to the beach only to get copies of Byron kicked in her face, and f-ing George Eliot cheats the ending. Look, lady, I did not read 485 pages of you describing the lane in detail for you to wrap up your messy characters and relationships with a simple, "Oh, yeah, and then they died." Cheater!

And I can't even threaten not to read anymore of her long-ass books because I've already read them. I take it back! I did not read Middlemarch! Or Daniel Deronda! Or Adam Bede! Screw you, lady.

Divine revelation

Watching the Gilmore Girls is just like smoking pot: You get an incredible case of the munchies. Melanie and I had to pause in our watching to walk down to the store to get brownie stuff. Somehow, we decided that our brownies not only needed chocolate chips added, but chocolate frosting, too. Life is sweet.

Just like the old days

I'm at it again: Watching the Red Sox and obsessively reading books. I feel like my old self. Have I been in a protracted funk lately because the Sox have been, essentially, beset by the plague?* Perhaps. Or perhaps I was just tired and cranky. Bygones. The point is, I watched the whole game last night. And it was great -- gut-wrenching, ulcer-giving, great. I watched again tonight, and if Papelbon is seriously hurt, I'm going to church tomorrow and lighting a fucking candle, people. Sure, I've been an atheist for years, but if my going back to the fold will bring the Sox just a little fucking luck, for chrissakes, then I'll do it. (Luckily, I have a sick memory, so I still know all the words to the Nicene Creed.)

In addition to being my usual twisted self when it comes to the Sox, I was walking around the house reading a book today. I haven't walked while reading in a long time. It felt really good. And the book responsible for sucking me in? The Mill on the Floss. I know, hard to believe, but Eliot and I have something going. Something sick to be sure, but something. Let's hope both the winning and the reading continue. The fucking injuries can stop right here.

*On a serious note, my heart goes out to Jon Lester.