The other night I pooped popped (that was too funny a typo to delete it in full) one of my sleepy pills, because said insomnia is bad enough that I have to use drugs, and let me tell you that this stuff isn’t that Ambien deal where I wake up and eat raw bacon or murder people while sleep walking.  However, I am normally an incredibly light sleeper and wake up to the sound of a bug farting, so my pills do me good by allowing me to be knocked out for some number of hours with little ability to wake up.  The kind of sleep where you drool all over yourself and have no control over it and dont realize what you’ve done until the alarm goes off (attractive, I know, but it is better than wetting the bed, which has NOT happened… and I can hopefully get off these pills in a few months).  But, enough about my love for my sleepy magic medicine… and onto my story…

So I am out like a fat kid in dodge ball and have been for a few hours… but something manages to startle me awake.  I am not really sure what until I manage to get my wherewithal.  Why is something yelling- do they need help?  They sound in distress…….. *rubs eyes*….. OH.  NOOOO.  It’s just my neighbors with their window some five feet away from mine full on doing the nasty and the girl is apparently enjoying it.  A little too loudly if you ask me.  Eventually they manage to “pause” so they can shut the window and I can head back to sleep… or not.  But really?  You couldn’t have shut the window prior to waking up every man, woman, and child in the neighborhood at 3am?  Heck, that was basically fornicating in public.

But now we get into my issue with this… not only have you woke me from my sleep, which I take incredibly seriously (if I shell out on medicine for it, I am not talking child’s play here)… but you’ve also managed to prevent me from returning to it- and my sanity.  Your sex noises?  DON’T WANT TO HEAR THEM!

You see, I have a problem… call it an overactive imagination or something.  The very thing that allows me to enjoy music so much is a TOTAL mind-f&*# when it comes to the lustful sounds of people bumping uglies.  I cannot, for the life of me nor my sleep, disassociate sounds with mental images.  With music and nature and all of those lovely things, this can be wonderful.  With that other type of “nature”, it is pure torture.

I used to endure one of my past roommates having such loud sex, drawn out for some hours, that you would have sworn you were in the bed with her and her boyfriend.  *Shudders*.  Hell, sometimes I don’t even think they were having sex… I think I was so tormented by it that I just imagined any time they were in bed together that it was happening, and the sounds- they haunted me!  I would have to get up the next morning… my eyes shot and red, and my mind numb… and see both of them talk to me like regular human beings.  Like they weren’t just ravaging one another (loudly) hours ago to drive me to the point of murderous endeavors.  I could not look at their faces while they spoke to me without thinking of the guy making his grunt noises and the girl moaning (in what always seemed to be an overly dramatic effort… you get what I am getting at).  It got so bad I bought ear plugs.

And that is my problem.. my illness.  The other night when they finally shut the window, I thought, “finally, now I can get back to sleep.”  How foolish was I?  Tossing and turning with thoughts of, “I have no idea what these neighbors look like, is it a guy and a girl, or a girl and girl, or a gang bang… or maybe she’s alone!”  People without faces were in these terrible mental images that bothered me for another couple of hours.  What’s worse is that it isn’t like I have anyone sharing my bed with me at the moment… so it isn’t like I can go all revenge on them.  Color me sexually frustrated if you like, but if you don’t look like Fernando Torres or Jake Gyllenhaal, I don’t want to hear your heavy breathing or perverse sounds ringing in my ears throughout the night.  Ever.

It isn’t that Bostonians are rubberneckers or slow drivers really- almost quite the opposite.  Massholes, as MA drivers are affectionately dubbed, are oblivious and self-centered.  It is as if the road was created only for their car and no one else has, is, or ever will drive on that road while they are on it.  To a true Masshole, the turn signal is nothing more than a perplexing question on a driver’s ed test.  They couldn’t even tell you where it can be found in their car.

In MA there is a pedestrian law that allows someone to walk through the crosswalk whenever they damn well please.  However, there seems there is an unwritten law that Massholes can hit and run on these pedestrians whenever they damn well please.  Turns out those laws conflict… or match up nicely, if you are a Masshole.  To the Boston driver, cyclists are effectively potholes.  The only reason they aren’t hit as frequently as pedestrians is because the bike can really do a number on the axle and underside of a car.

Logic doesn’t apply to driving- moving forward always applies to driving.  There is always that one asshole that stops for me to cross in the crosswalk and gets pissed that I don’t take that moment to walk… into my impending death because there is an ENTIRE STRING OF ONCOMING TRAFFIC NOT STOPPING COMING THE OTHER WAY.  Oh, why thank you for being so kind as to obey the law… let me just demonstrate what my insides look like at 40pmh.

*dramatic reenactment

There is also the asshole that speeds up when you are in a crosswalk.  He’s a good mile down the road, but by the time you’ve taken some 3 steps across the street, he is beeping at you for having taken your right of way.  What were you thinking?!  But seriously, what is this- a game of chicken?  Is the goal that I then stay in the crosswalk as long as I can like a staredown?  Is that how I win?  In a way it is kinda cool, because I sort of feel like I have some magnetic pull on vehicles.  They can’t help by speed up to get closer to me.  My only hope is the good fortune to get a little love tap from the Masshole that drives a Bentley. Mmm, guaranteed trust fund…. for my children’s children’s children!  I should be so lucky.

There are also the Mass drivers that give me pedestrian rage.  Imagine this, if you will (cue the Wayne’s World dream sequence sound effect).  You woke up late TOTALLY forgetting you had to do something at your office in 5 minutes.  Problem- you live 20 minutes from the office.  You throw on something that resembles an outfit you picked out yourself when you were 3 y.o. that your mom didn’t have the heart to tell you was ugly as sin, grab your bag, and make the mad dash to work.  You’re making pretty good pace when you realize you are nearing an intersection and would prefer to stay in one piece, so you look both ways.  Damn, you gotta stop until the little white dude shows up on the traffic light.  Well, maybe not- there’s only car coming up the road and maybe it’s turning.  Oh no, no turn signal… looks like you have to wait.  Hold on- what?  WHAT?!  You just waited for that prick to turn left when you could have been AT the office already.  But no, now you have to know that kind of Masshole exists.  You could have lived happily in your existence, and the driver in theirs, never having had to worry about the other… but they destroyed this dream you have had for your life.  Crushed it.  You try explaining to your boss that you are late because of an asshole that crushed your dreams, but it is too late- you’re fired.  Until you tell them you are a pedestrian, and then they completely understand your plight and hire you again.

So what does all this have to do with my new fear?  Tonight was the third time in so many days that I saw an ambulance or firetruck encounter the dumbf**k driver that thinks, “I can make it, I can make it, if I just try!”, and shoots out into the intersection or street just in front of the emergency vehicle and inevitably has to pull over to the side of the road anyhow, so they should have stayed where they were planted.  Oh, but they can’t pull over, because everyone else with a morsel of a brain has already done that and there is no where left to go, creating a total roadblock.  Thanks Masshole, I’m dead now.  It was just a simple grease fire when you were stationed in the parking lot, but now my apartment is only a memory made of embers and ashes, courtesy of your “I think I can” attitude.

my apartment

What’s that up there, you ask?  Oh, well that is a picture of our weather right now.  You aren’t seeing things… which is precisely right.  That’s a picture of a blizzard.  Right now we’re having a fairly decent one- much better than the one we had approximately a year ago that was more a windstorm than anything.

Living in Boston for the past 5 years, I’ve learned a thing or two about winters here.  Some folks will have you think that it is quaint and picturesque, but that is only when it snows, and only until a snow plow inevitably comes by and dumps some dirt on the roads and then sprays it all onto the sidewalks.

Lots of people are also unaware about how snow works in a city… it usually doesn’t.  All that pavement conducts a lot of heat, and while Boston has a chill factor, it’s due to wind more than anything else.  Yup- snow usually turns to slush here if the temperature hovers somewhere around the freezing point and doesn’t go arctic.

So now we’re talking about dirty, muddy, mush and slush- but that’s not all.  The crime of all crimes I’ve learned of in this city of dog lovers is that, at least in East Cambridge, snow means you don’t have to pick up after your dog.  I am not sure why this is, but apparently I don’t need to- I just need to dodge the landmines underneath a pristine snow-covered surface.

Now, I’ve nothing against dog owners- I’d even like to become one myself one day when I have the desire to wake up at 6am and pick up warm, steaming poop, with only a thin layer of plastic between it and my hand (my hand that I type with, shake hands with, and eat with).  But beyond that and the extended financial strain a doggy would create, I at least recognize that it’s part of owning a dog and being a responsible human being.  I don’t dump my cat boxes out the window and onto the sidewalk, but I might need if I keep finding petrified poops under snow mounds or worse yet, the kind that start melting and trickling across the sidewalk with the snow.

For the love of cheese and all that is holy- pick. up. your. dogpoop.

After years of experimentation and pondering, I think I’ve finally pinpointed my reason for disliking public transportation…………. it’s public.  Other people are involved with it.  Other people who are terribly inefficient at the most menial tasks, like say, walking.

I was pretty upset that Morgan Freeman hadn’t written me back yet.  Surely he wanted to remain penpals- why else would he have written me that nice email about our common interest in US Soccer?  I was crushed, until…

In other news… I was looking for new wallpaper for my bedroom and I think I found the best candidate for the job.  Fourth picture down: http://indiegeniusprod.com/BestMoviesEver/love-drugs-movie-review/

So who’s coming with me to see Love And Other Drugs?  The entire female population… that’s right.

An important realization I had last month:

And finally, it looks like I am making waves with my new blog format after all

UPDATE: learned that the movie poster is a fake, but that it apparently worked well to get them more viewers.  Great Photoshopping skills!

Firstly, apologies for the long break in posts.  I know, I know… I always say that I am going to keep up with posting just before I neglect my blog for months on end.  But you have to admit, I had a pretty good streak there for awhile.  Such is life though… blogging is like dating.  You are really exciting to be with this new person at first, then you get a little bored of them, and then maybe they win you over or you move on.  Thus explaining how this is my 4th blog, I think.  Anyhow, as consolation for my absence (since I know you were hurting so), I come bearing gifts…

Austin, TX is apparently a city that dubs itself as “weird”, but I really think “pervy” is what they meant.  And that is the kind of city I can be down with.  Catch some of the good finds in advertising and info below, in “Inappropriate Signage; The Austin Edition”.

Not sure if this one was intended to be naughty or not, but because I have the sense of humor of a 3rd grader, it was definitely on the edge of naughty:

Awesome little pizza joint.  Even better bathroom signage.  Creative, these people…

Thank you to my friends for eying this suggestive little number:

And last, but not least… definitely not least!  Another thanks goes out to my friends for this beauty:

Wrong:

Wronger:

Most Wrong:

Check out the tag’s link below to see what others people came up with:
#moviesinmypants

Now hipsters are no laughing matter.  Who am I kidding?  Of course they are!  And that is my biggest beef with them.  As some hipsters made fun of me the other night because I happen to dye my hair red (oh, like what hipster hasn’t dyed their hair) and I couldn’t truly know what it means to be a red head… and because I spit out the residue of a shot of rum in the sink and they thought I was ralphing or something at the bar (I save that for home, thanks)- it dawned on me that I hate them because they take themselves far too seriously.  And what is there to be serious about?  They listen to pretentious, barely-discovered music and pretend they have an ear for what you should be listening to, but it turns out the band is really just their brother’s cousin’s friends that play in their moms’ basements in Arlington.  That band won’t even get to play the All Asia Cafe.  Everyone gets to play the All Asia.

They think they know how to pick out a scrumptious vintage outfit, but they can barely make out of the thrift store with the real thing and instead head over to American Apparel and Urban Outfitters to stuff their wardrobe with layers of lace and wool and other uncomfortable fabrics they pretend are comfortable.

They think they have some discerning taste in food and beer, but they are quick to jump on the bandwagon and claim they love dive bars and grease traps and avoid fancy establishments.  I’ve yet to go to a dive bar that holds my favorite import.

I’ve been accused of trying to be a hipster too… after all, I do like Indie music, I too wear layers and shop sometimes at Urban Outfitters (basement only, I’m cheap), and wish I could be a wine connoisseur even though I am really just a simple country bumpkin.  But if there is one thing that automatically disqualifies me from being a hipster, it is that I am a real, genuine article, and do stupid and silly things… that loves guilty pleasures in music, movies, and pop culture, and laughs at myself ALL the time.  Hipsters don’t have actual fun, and so I am gonna have fun at their expense.

I hereby introduce you to… Hipster Attack!  It’s like a zombie attack mostly- only you live to tell about it… barely (because you almost gouged out your eyeball waiting for them to order their fancy soy free trade coffee for their girlfriend while they pretend to take their coffee black and strong, but really it’s just over-roasted).  Enjoy!

Whether the red wine be mine,
whether the red wine be not,
whether the red wine be bold,
whether the red wine be a lot,
whatever the better of red wine, the redder,
I drink even if I should not.

Some wines are red, some are white too,
those that aren’t red won’t always do.

… Hope you enjoyed poetry hour with April, and her reflection on the impact and importance of red wine in her daily life.  May you too reap the fruits and benefits of red wine!

I got to thinking about how I could finally have the family of my dreams, taking little family vacations and doing little family photos…

What a good lookin’ group of husbands.  Getting everyone to look at the camera was near impossible.  Sufjan and I never got the memo that we weren’t supposed to come in color.  Christian and Andrew were not entirely pleased.  Benny is sort of happy-go-lucky and oblivious anyhow, so he didn’t care either way.  I was pretty upset I got a bad hair cut, so my enthusiasm deflated.  But I’m psyched about my hubbies.  Good finds… all of them.  Who knows who else may get to marry in?  Now accepting applications for awesome/gorgeous/talented husbands.

And ladies? Let’s take this reverse polygamy thing all the way, eh?

PS- I know what you are thinking… “Wow, I can’t believe April wasted so much time putting that image together.  She must be off her rocker.”

You couldn’t be more wrong about part of that statement.  It really didn’t take that long to put that picture together.

UPDATE: Well, this is embarrassing.  Not sure how I managed to do this, but I totally forgot to send the invite for the photo session to one of my husbands… Jake Gyl-aaahkjahsdkjhal.  I am still unclear on his name and too lazy to look it up, but I’ll gladly take it and spend years figuring out the spelling.

My accidents seem to land more on the “seriously? no, no really, I have to wear this thing?” side of things.   Because I like to make fun of myself and catalog my worthlessness for all to laugh at, I thought I’d put my highlights on this blog.  Also, any future injuries or accidents captured and documented will, rest assured, find their rightful home on this blog.

That’s not really an injury as much as an accident and insult to humanity.  Basically, I was terribly drunk on my birthday, but the caution tape says it all.  Thought it would dazzle up this article for the grand opening of this category.

This here is my bandaging and splint I had to wear after I stabbed myself.  That’s right.  Stabbed.  Myself.  Funny story really… I was hating on life and— noooo.  I was watching Top Chef and thought it was a great time to make guacamole.  But the TV was not in viewing distance of my kitchen so I had to take my gear to the couch.  I got the avocado cut and managed to pit the first one.  I slipped a little, but barely skimmed my hand.  Below is basically the approach I took to get the pit out.

On to the second avocado.  Feeling enough confidence from the first attempt, I decided I could use the same method and just then, my then-roommate walked through the door in some sort of drunken stooper going on about her butt-pain because she fell on the ice outside.  OOOOOUUUUUUCCHHHHH!! I@$#$*@#*(@*#!!#* and other expletives.  Like slow motion tragedies, the avocado falls to the floor and I drop the knife and run for the bathroom to wash the cut and get a look at it.  I’m thinking it looks gross but a bandaid should suffice.  Back to the living room and my roommate is still talking about butt-pain and other things, oblivious to my hand that is already covered in blood again.  Okay- new bandaid.  20 minutes goes by before I blubber like a baby and call my mommy to ask her what to do.  I’ve never had stitches- how am I supposed to know what qualifies as stitch-worthy?  All I know is that I see the fat cells from under my skin, which seems terribly wrong and inside-out.

So yeah, that was a fun night at the ER explaining how I got a puncture wound at 10:30pm.  Oh, I made it to the hospital and back without slipping and getting butt-pain in the ice storm.  As luck would have it.