One Falling Star

On the plane, from ABQ to BOS

2009-11-11T21:49:00.000-05:00

I felt a sad thought with a pricking in my eye, trained on the well-oiled hair of a man across the aisle from me. He might have felt it, too, as he looked up from his memorandum and looked over the heads around him.

After leaving the airport bathroom I called Laura and asked her if I could get a second opinion on something. “Sure,” she said, and I told her it was 10AM here, and would it be too early for a beer? She told me it was 12 o’clock somewhere, and we both paused. “Five, I mean. Oh god, maybe you shouldn’t ask me. I say go for it, though.”

Had it not been for my lingering sinus infection, and the acetamenophin-laced decongestants at Hudson, I would have stopped at the microbrewery’s restaurant. I regretted my week without hugging my mother nearly enough, my car ride to the ABQ that was mostly wordless, as we listened to the CD I made her the night before. Singing along to Josh Groban’s cover of “America”. The last time I’d be able to do that without 20-something guilt, I figured. Listening to music my grandmother would have liked, but not in a cool way. In a Yanni sort of way. Almost worse, in a Josh Groban way. Dear god. I would totally have his babies.

I walked to my crowded gate.
I took the pills and ate some Asian snack mix.
I discovered I had to stop in St. Louis. Again.
I called my dad, who was on a walk.

I can’t wait to call my mom. It’s her birthday. She might think it’s funny I find myself in St. Louis by surprise again. I miss her already.

I’m listening to Christmas music, but I allow it because “O Holy Night” knows no season. That isn’t at all true, but it’s still my favorite. And yeah, it’s Josh Groban. How embarrassing, on so many levels.

But at least my ass isn’t so huge I bump into people’s faces on my way to the airplane toilet.

That was uncharitable. Especially because my ass is probably the hugest it’s ever been, and since I have so much time on my hands I should really work on being a bit healthier, body, soul, mind...anything else I’m missing.

Where did all the good coffee shops go?

2008-12-28T16:12:00.005-05:00

All I wanted to do on this unseasonably warm day was go to some cozy cafe and make French flash cards. I might not get around to it, because, after a few hours of considering where to go, I haven't come up with anything. Nothing at all.

Well, one thing. But Curious Liquids doesn't exist anymore. And frankly, since I've thought of Curious, nothing I've come up with as a possible substitute could come close to what I want, which is to sit in one of the little alcoves in the basement on a yellow antique armchair, nursing a caramel mocha steamer for hours and hours.

I used to do this frequently in high school, as either celebration of the last day before some school break or mourning the impending loss of freedom that would come when my folks saw my report card. I could spend countless hours playing board games, reading British teen magazines, and writing prose in the style of Francesca Lia Block, all the while feeling equal parts grownup, in the know, and Dead Poets Society. And I was well looked after there, too. No matter what the situation, I always felt unbelievably safe. Unbelievable because teenage girls never feel/are safe, ever. There's always something eating at them, or someone out to get them. But everything seems okay in the sunny windows of an old building with pink whipped cream on your lips. Everything.

It isn't quite what I'm looking for now, but no cafe in the metro Boston area compares, not even remotely, to what I'm looking for. Isn't Boston one of the top five coffee centers in the United States? Not that there isn't good coffee here. I would even go so far as to say we have good cafes, but few that are set up such that you'd want to stay, and I'm thinking none that want you to stay for very long.

Cafe Vanille, for instance, is a great cafe and bakery. In the summer, it's a lovely place to hang out outside. Inside, though? Sterile and uncomfortable. Grey and a bit clanky. L'Aroma Cafe has a warmer interior, and is a great place for people-watching on the well-to-do end of Newbury, but the espresso? Bad. And the tables, I swear, are built so that you can't balance any books or papers on them.

What happened to the great pastime of lounging in a[n independant] cafe, getting work done, writing the great American novel, or whatever suits your fancy? I'm wondering if I'm imagining a time when this was what one did from time to time in Boston. Was Curious Liquids (may it rest in peace, and maybe be reborn) the only place in Boston that was ever suitable for this? Did that culture die with that perfect Beacon Hill establishment?

Do I have YET ANOTHER reason to move to Paris?

Yelling cyclist, 24, keys trucks parked in bike lanes.

2008-09-04T06:29:00.003-05:00

I wish. The thought occurred to me today as I got rerouted in front of a speeding 18-wheeler on Comm Ave because a Coke delivery truck was making a stop at BU. There was some comfort in thinking I could make Boston a more bike-friendly city by attaching a saw wheel to my right shoulder.

Wait a second: it wouldn't make this place any more bike-friendly than it's ever been. It's tragic, really, that a city as beautiful as Boston can't be enjoyed on a bicycle. It's too stressful. Between drivers that are notorious for doing as they please and defensive pedestrians who won't deign to use the crosswalk (and God, I know, I'm one), a person on a bike in Boston has to be focused so as not to get killed. Even our mayor, while promoting a bike commute as a means of going green and getting fit, got doored by just another driver who didn't take the three seconds necessary to look over her shoulder and see if anyone was approaching. Of course, Hizzoner is an easier target than most people I see on bikes, but it's a sad symbol of the Boston biker's dilemma.

Now hold it: people on bikes are also to blame. Like the defensive pedestrian, many a cyclist has taken a catch-as-catch-can attitude to being on the road. But not all of them. Some people are just DUMB. Too often I see people going against the grain of the traffic, sometimes being bullheaded enough to go the wrong way in the bike lane, which has a picture of a bike going the right way painted on it. Then there are people who blaze through red lights, as if traffic laws didn't apply to them. I was stopped at a red light last week and was told by a smartass freshman that I didn't have to stop. I cannot tell a lie: I flipped him off.

There's no question that the situation would be vastly improved by having bike lanes all over the city, but the truth is that a lot of what makes Boston so charming, its old winding streets, is exactly the reason that those of us on bikes can't enjoy it as we go. There is simply not enough room to add another lane, even if it's only a half of one, on a great many of our most centralized streets. As it is, there are too many one-way streets because we can't fit cars going in two directions. Until we come up with a better solution, we just need to learn to be more conscientious of one another.

Drivers: re-examine your manuals! A bike is supposed to follow the same rules as a car! Bikers, take note: you can't expect folks in cars to be willing to share the road when you ride so aggressively. Please don't give us a bad name. Pedestrians: don't talk to bikers, but listen when we yell "look out!" That should be obvious, but you would be surprised.

And remember: mass biking season is almost over. The wussier bikers out there (such as myself) will be back on the T shortly after first frost.

Suckerpunched by the B Line.

2008-07-17T23:23:00.003-05:00

The good news: I started a new job this week! I can now say I work for an organization that I believe in. Today was my third day.

The bad news: It's on Comm Ave., just before Packard's Corner. I live in Roslindale. There are basically two ways to get from Roslindale to Allston. As the crow flies, they are maybe 15 minutes away from each other. On the T, it can range anywhere between 45 minutes to three hours. These feature three (3) of my four (4) least favorite modes of transportation on the MBTA.*

Option A: Take the bus from Roslindale Square to Forest Hills. Take the Orange Line to Copley (or Downtown Crossing, Haymarket, or North Station), and transfer to the B line (1). Take that to Babcock St.
Option B: Take the bus from Roslindale Square to Forest Hills. Take the #39 bus (2) to the Mission Kill section of Mission Hill. Wait under the bridge until the #66 bus (3) comes. Take that to The Very Worst Part of Allston,** and walk 10 minutes in the stifling heat to Babcock St.

As much as the B line tops the list, I decided to take it. After all, it's only slow because it stops every block, right? It still runs more than any other green line train. Right? WRONG.
Day 1 (Tuesday): I was pissed because I was waiting at Park St and it felt like the center of the earth. NO TRAINS CAME FOR 20 MINUTES. Then when they did come, they were the D and E before the B.
Day 2 (yesterday): At BU Central, they decided the train would go non-stop to Harvard Ave. Because we were on BU campus, the ground was covered in the previous night's vomit, and the smell wafted up to all the people crowded on the ghetto platform.
Day 3 (today): Copley station felt like the center of the earth, only this time there were no fans. Trains came as follows: D, C, E, E, D, B. When we got to Kenmore, everyone had to get off the train because nobody really wanted to go direct to Harvard Ave. at 6AM. I actually shed a few tears.

*The other being the #1 bus.
**And I hate all parts of Allston.

Oh, so THIS is what it means to be a waitress.

2008-07-17T23:10:00.002-05:00

The bar/restaurant that I work for just started making the night I work karaoke night. Of all the people that work there, I am the only one who had something nice to say about it. That's putting it lightly. I was ecstatic. What greater excuse is there to go to karaoke every week? How cool is it to be the hidden talent of the waitstaff? How much more likely is it that I can drag people to visit me at work?

The guy was taking song requests, too, for when nobody else wanted to sing. I asked him to play "Hello Mary Lou" by Ricky Nelson, and I think he didn't know whether to shit or go blind. And, in his book, he had my signature karaoke song: "Hey Jealousy" by the Gin Blossoms. My kickball bar and my regular karaoke bar don't, so this was thrilling.

By the end of the night...
I made more money than I did during the NBA playoffs.
My boss kissed me. Twice.*
A customer asked me to be in his band.**

All this time I've been sitting at the hostess desk, eating nachos and reading books. THIS is what waitressing, as I always imagined it, anyway, is all about!

* I could do without this.
** Pretty cool, actually. As his band is not of the Gin Blossoms cover variety, I think he will soon see that he doesn't want me in his band.

My age-old secret.

2008-05-28T20:02:00.003-05:00

Remember, I was busting at the seams?

My mother is getting married in 38 days. I am happy for her. I really like Steve. I no longer entertain the idea of my parents ever getting together again. That was done, years and years ago. And, up until now, I've been really positive about this whole situation.

Okay, I've been walking on eggshells around the house, because I got a save-the-date card and really couldn't put it on the fridge. And I got a formal invitation to the wedding, but I couldn't leave it out anywhere. And I'm a bridesmaid, and I can't tell Dad how the dress search is going. And I had to book a flight to New Mexico, but I couldn't talk about the soaring cost of flights to Albuquerque. Not that my dad hasn't been dating someone for a really long time, or that he isn't a grown man who doesn't need to be protected. But I know my dad, and he's nostalgic for their marriage and the way things used to be.

My parents' marriage, as I experienced it, is only 20% of my life, really. I remember my parents talking in the front seat of the car as I slept in the back, my mom chewing watermelon and buttered popcorn jelly beans from Ogunquit. I remember Christmas mornings with Gumby and Pokey, and Irish soda bread with the Sheas, and Talking Heads dance parties, and Ring Around the Rosie. I remember my father's 35th birthday party, the day we got Sammy, training her to shut the door behind herself. I remember the day I asked permission to drink chocolate milk upstairs and instead sitting on my bed, talking about how things were going to change. I remember the feeling of chicken pox forming the day my mom moved out.

To hear my dad talk about it after dinner every now and again, they were the dream team, and very much in love. That's why they married less than a year after they met. That's why it wasn't so big a disappointment for my father to be leaving the Brothers for good. And I came along a few years later, and they were the dream parenting team. Every time we go to Doyle's, we hear the John and Eileen method of taking a kid out to dinner.

It's sad sometimes to hear my dad talk that way. A lot of family and friends tell me he never got over my mom, but I don't think that's true. The way my mom tells it, they sought counseling, and when they were asked to separate "loving each other" from "wanting to stay married". Mom says she said she thought she still loved him, but didn't want to be married to him anymore. She says Dad said the opposite. My dad is kind of in love with being in love, maybe, and forming habits with someone he cares about. I think that's reasonable, and not at all pathetic.

That aside, I haven't been nostalgic for that time of my life since I was eight, maybe. Today I found a picture of me and my parents. It was taken in Torrington, to the side of my grandmother's house on Chelton St. None of us seem to care that anybody might take our picture. We look so candidly happy - and to think all those years I never thought much of it.

So I guess in a way, the closer I get to my mom's wedding date, the more I come close to mourning my parents' marriage. What did Kubler-Ross says about grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance? I'm beginning to think it's been an awfully long period of depression.

I'm glad I have my best friend as my date. Who knows how I'll feel in July.

Your love life will improve if you dreamed of an avocado.

2008-04-23T21:49:00.007-05:00

I've stepped outside myself in the last week or so, taking risks I wouldn't have taken in all walks of my life, including those risks that are the result of inactivity, like not returning the phone calls of the HR manager who took a shining to me a month or so ago. Risks aren't always smart, and I'm far too often aware of that, but sometimes they're good.

Taking on an extra source of income, and one that supports one of my passions, at that, is a huge risk. It comes with its benefits. I got to go to an avocado dinner the other night, and it was delicious (I even tasted, but did not bite, three kinds of fish - and ate duck and cactus and avocado ice cream! Risks, all, for a picky eater such as myself)!

What's wrong with an avocado dinner? Dreaming about it a week later, when you're trying to show people from work all the different dishes, and each literal dish sticks to your fingers and the checkered tablecloth, so as you try to gesture to each course, there's a clashing of plates and forks, and ceviche and guacamole spill everywhere, and everybody tries to be nice and pretend it didn't happen, but you can't stop talking about your damned avocados. And what does the dream dictionary say?

Your love life will improve if you dreamed of an avocado.

Clearly, this dream dictionary is a fraud. Why I am I dreaming about people from work, anyway? What do they have to do with avocados, in any sense? Why are the plates sticking to my fingers? Why are they being so polite? Blow up, already!

Why am I looking for an explosion?

Back from Paris, and busy again.

2008-04-14T19:33:00.002-05:00

I thought I would be less busy when I came home, having been certified to teach English as a foreign language (read: I have my Saturdays back!!). Not so! I'm up to something new! A few somethings, actually.

Remember when I was interviewed by one of my best friends for her MenuPages blog? I'll be writing the odd entry there now - about nine a week, in fact. So check me out there.

I'm looking for any English or French tutoring I can get my grubby paws on. Suggestions? Let me know.

In particular, I need to go back to France without delay. Preferably on a closer to permanent level. Anyone know of a school in France that would help a nice and funny American girl get her EU working papers? Let me know sooner.

À Paris, malade.

2008-04-06T14:11:00.003-05:00

I am in Paris. I have looked forward to this trip since November. I have the following ailments:

Conjunctivitis (in both eyes)
Sinus infection
Sore throat
Cough

Yesterday, it was just the conjunctivitis (in one eye) and sinus infection (for which I had medicine already). I drag myself to the pharmacie.

Moi: J'ai mal aux yeux.
Elle: Oui, je peux le voir.
Moi: J'ai besoin du medicin.
Elle: (En francais, bien sur) You will need this eye wash. Rinse out both eyes three times every day - you never know, the other one might be infected already. Also, apply this antibiotic to your eyes every day.
L'autre femme: Et la Baccide!
Elle: Ah oui. La Baccide est pour les mains.
Moi: Ca coute combien?
Elle: 18.60.
Moi: [Shockee, because I got OTC antibiotic and more. For so little!]

And then today, at Place Blanche...
Moi: J'ai mal de gorge. Et aux yeux, mais j'ai deja le medicin pour ca.
Elle: Vous avez difficulte avaler?
Moi: Pardon?
Elle: Avaler (makes swallowing motion).
Moi: Ah oui.
Elle: (Aussi en francais, bien sur) You will need this syrup. It will ease the swelling, and make it easier to swallow. Three tablespoons a day.
Moi: D'accord.
Elle: Avez-vous de l'aspirine?
Moi: Non?
Elle: Voici l'aspirine. Trois fois par jour.
Moi: D'accord. [Note later: this is fizzy, comes in two Airborne-like tubes, and containes vitamin C]
Elle: Et des pastilles. Merci. Au revoir.
Moi: [Shockee encore, parce que le medicin goute tres bien]

It's insane. And if I wanted to go to the doctor, it wouldn't cost much. And for the French, it wouldn't cost anything. I don't want to leave, ever.

It sucks that I'm sick on vacation in Paris, but there is probably no better place in the world to be sick.

One drawback of laughing gas.

2008-03-07T14:15:00.001-05:00

So I've had to go to the dentist an awful lot in the last two months. I have always been petrified of the dentist, scarred for life by the ghosts of dentists past. I finally sucked it up and went to a new dentist, who I like very much. Apart from my dentist and his assistant's phenomenal chairside manner, my office visits have improved with the help of laughing gas.

It really calms me down. It is, as my dentist told me, like a couple glasses of wine.

I think they turned it up a little high the other day, because I admitted I was especially nervous. As they left the room to let the gas kick in, I lay listening to the satellite "blend" station was on the speakers. I found myself drifting off to the sound of Jimmy Buffet. Looking for my lost shaker of salt.

WAIT.

I HATE JIMMY BUFFET.

But for that period of time, I was wasted away again in Margaritaville. And it was calming. And yeah, I liked it.

Don't worry - I'm normal now. Even laughing gas can't make a parrothead out of me. Not permanently, anyway.

An open letter to theknot.com.

2008-02-10T20:53:00.000-05:00

Dear Knot,

I have loved you - I have! When you debuted when I was in high school, I was one of the many dorky unlovable teenage girls who signed up as members with their crush as their fiance and set some random wedding date after the year 2000. What a great idea, right? Like a wedding planner for girls who don't want wedding planners. Everything bridal at the bride-to-be's fingertips, complete with a personal organizer and free couple's webpage. Genius!

I signed up, I forget who I said was my fiance, I forget the date I claimed I would be married, but I had a TON of fun looking at dresses with outrageous prices, gazing all day at that off-the-shoulder, 3/4-length sleeved Reem Acra gown I had originally found in Martha Stewart's Weddings magazine. Logging in and seeing "Welcome, Jessica & Cuteboy" was bound to have me reeling in a daydream when Mr. Cuteboy and I would someday be living in a house with all the things I'd registered for, looking at albums of me and my bridesmaids in their gowns I had so carefully chosen.

I am no longer 16, and while I'm not getting married any time soon, it's time for me to visit your site again. This time, for real. I'll be a bridesmaid twice over, and while my mom isn't doing any sort of planning that might require your assistance, my dear friend Emma has sent me a number of pictures of potential bridesmaid dresses. In order to see them, I had to suck it up, and bite the bullet.

I was relieved I didn't have to humiliate myself by making up a phony account. I was glad I could choose "bridesmaid", even though I had to distinguish myself as one "playing the field" rather than any of the other corny relationship status titles I could have chosen. But why did I have to tell you when somebody else was getting married? They haven't set a date yet, so I had to make it up again.

And WHY oh WHY is it that when I sign on, I'm greeted by "Welcome, Jess &"?? Is it not enough that I already had to establish myself as the girl who is always the bridesmaid and never the bride? Are you trying to make me feel incomplete? I don't have any anxieties about this, normally. Or I should say, I didn't. Why do you do this to me?

I feel betrayed, Knot. And I know I'm probably going to have to make use of your invaluable services someday.

That is, if I ever get married. Because, you know, I'm a mulletted, Skoal-chewing shortstop playing the field in what is projected to be sky blue taffeta.

Bite me,

Jess

February 5th comes so quickly!

2008-01-28T20:35:00.000-05:00

I catch up on my presidential candidates on an individual basis. I come up with an opinion on each without comparison to the others, and then later I compare the ones I can still stand.

I'd written off Edwards as soon as I heard about that enormously expensive haircut. Or no, it was when he was the first person to be openly badmouthing his opponents in his ads. No wait, it was when the fact that he was southern didn't win us a democratic president in 2004. I don't like him. He rubs me the wrong way. And for someone whose most admirable political plan is to end poverty in 30 years, he sure spends an awful lot of money on things that don't matter too much.

Hillary - I like Hillary. She's a politician, yes, and she seems to calculate her every political move with no apology or regard for those affected. But! That's almost what I like about her, that tenacity. I think politicians give up their integrity the minute they enter the big game - in particular, I think progressive candidates give up their integrity when they raise and spend so much money for the purpose of getting a job when such huge amounts could put a serious dent in any of our causes that are lacking in funds. So I'll say it: I respect her, and as she was the second-to-last candidate I reviewed for myself, I was totally in her corner, near ready to vote.

I knew that Obama could end up being my decision for next Tuesday. I knew because all of my friends have already supported Obama on their Facebook profiles, because he's a moving speaker, and because he's against the war in Iraq. But all this time I have been wary. I've been burned before - by Howard Dean, by Felix Arroyo, and by Deval Patrick. By the time I decide to jump on the bandwagon that every other liberal in my generation has jumped on, they go crazy, they get lazy, or they have a new commuter rail line as their crowning achievement in their first year in office. And frankly, I have had it!

That isn't Barack Obama's fault. But that is why I saved him for last. I still haven't read "The Audacity of Hope", but I plan to before I vote. I was actually going to start tomorrow, and then I heard on NPR/read in the Globe/saw on CNN and the BBC that Ted Kennedy is officially endorsing Barack Obama.

Ted Kennedy is who I want for president. Obviously this cannot be. And obviously Kennedy's endorsement does not make Obama Kennedy. But my bandwagon skepticism has waned considerably thanks to this new development, mostly because Ted Kennedy hasn't made an enormous rash decision since 1969.

I hate that I'm so easily swayed by that, but I am. Anyway, on to Obama's "Hope".

At least I meet somebody's requirements...

2008-01-27T09:54:00.001-05:00

I'm on a job application kick like you wouldn't believe, and as I have had, on average, one interview per 50 jobs I've applied for (really!), I'm just going to keep applying willy-nilly until somebody offers me a job.

That said, I made the first step in applying for a flight attendant position with Delta. My favorite question was:

Are you willing to serve peanuts?

Really.

Me che naav Jess!

2008-01-13T21:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I started my TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) certification course. I can speak a bit of a few languages, but not enough to teach English in a language that isn't English, so the idea behind this style of language instruction is to use the communicative method, speaking nothing but the language being taught.

The day started with a lesson taught in Kashmiri. Just to show what it's like to be on the other side of the classroom. I knew it was going to be difficult, but WOW. On the other hand, the style has got to be very effective, because in 35 minutes I learned a lot!

My name is Jess. Me che naav Jess.
What is your name? Tze kati che naav?

Also the numbers 1-16 (there were 16 of us in the class - my favorite number was 8, pronounced ü-uht), talking about where we live, what we do, etc.

So cool! But it confirms my suspicion that I am mostly incapable of learning a language in a totally different alphabet.

Shabaash. (Good.)
Shukriya. (Thank you.)

Deliverance

2008-01-09T09:41:00.000-05:00

I'm calling in an order to a publishing company in Virginia, and the hold music is "Dueling Banjos".

I'm worried that this might set the tone of the day.

I'm also worried that they don't realize how funny that is.

Lovely day for a scooter!

2008-01-08T09:02:00.000-05:00

Sure wish I had one.

I've had about a gallon of coffee today.

2008-01-07T17:53:00.000-05:00

That's disgusting. And true.

In light of Iowa.

2008-01-06T13:52:00.001-05:00

I don't know who I intend to vote for. I loathe Mitt Romney to such an extent that on my birthday last year, my dad blacked out his name in the newspaper so that I wouldn't see it first thing and be pissed off all day.

Those who are also undecided should check this out. While I'm pretty sure you can't take it as gospel, and of course there are plenty of candidates who have dropped out since the quiz was made, it's at least a starting point. All the ad campaigns and caucuses can be pretty overwhelming.

Here are my results:
Score Candidate
Disagreements
Unknowns, Other
67 Kucinich
Disagreements: (0)
Unknowns/Other: (0)
55 Gravel
Disagreements: (0)
Unknowns/Other: (5) ANWR Drilling, Assault Weapons Ban, Guns - Background Checks, Wiretapping, Minimum Wage Increase
45 Obama
Disagreements: (3) Patriot Act, Border Fence, Same-Sex Marriage
Unknowns/Other: (2) Torture, Iran - Military Action
32 Edwards
Disagreements: (4) Death Penalty, Patriot Act, Iran - Military Action, Same-Sex Marriage
Unknowns/Other: (1) Border Fence
31 Clinton
Disagreements: (5) Death Penalty, Patriot Act, Border Fence, Iran - Military Action, Same-Sex Marriage
Unknowns/Other: (0)
26 Biden
Disagreements: (4) Death Penalty, Patriot Act, Border Fence, Same-Sex Marriage
Unknowns/Other: (3) Iran - Military Action, Same-Sex Civil Union, Universal Healthcare
26 Dodd
Disagreements: (4) Death Penalty, Patriot Act, Border Fence, Iran - Military Action
Unknowns/Other: (3) Same-Sex Marriage, Same-Sex Civil Union, Universal Healthcare
24 Richardson
Disagreements: (5) Death Penalty, Assault Weapons Ban, Patriot Act, Iran - Military Action, Same-Sex Marriage
Unknowns/Other: (2) ANWR Drilling, Iraq War
8 Paul
Disagreements: (10) Abortion Rights, Embryonic Stem Cells, ANWR Drilling, Assault Weapons Ban, Guns - Background Checks, Citizenship Path for Illegals, Border Fence, Minimum Wage Increase, Same-Sex Marriage, Universal Healthcare
Unknowns/Other: (1) Same-Sex Civil Union
-20 T. Thompson 7/12
-21 Giuliani 12/1
-23 Brownback 13/2
-24 McCain 12/1
-35 Cox 11/6
-48 Huckabee 15/3
-58 Tancredo 18/1
-60 Hunter 18/2
-61 Romney 17/2

So thanks, Matt Waterman, for giving me a starting point. Now I don't need to read every candidate's well-timed autobiography before November.

Accomplishments of the year to date.

2008-01-01T23:15:00.000-05:00

1. Almost spelled accomplishments "accomplischments". Still not sure why.
2. Won terrific Dexter boots on eBay.
3. Got ready to go out in less than 20 minutes.
4. Went to a show with no guarantee that I would know anybody there.
5. Finished "The Amber Spyglass", and therefore the "His Dark Materials" trilogy - for the first time!

I know there are other things that are personally list-worthy. Not that any blogrollers might be into.

Stuck in my head for a week: "Little Dawn" by Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Not complaining.

Back from Illadelph.

2007-12-27T12:51:00.000-05:00

Dear Jess,

Welcome back to Boston. We, the powers that be, would like to show our gladness for your return by granting you a miserable, cold, Londonesque day of rain and wind. We heard you liked that sort of thing.

Love,

New England Weather
If you don't like the weather in New England, wait a minute!

Damn it feels good to be a hipsta.

2007-12-09T18:29:00.000-05:00

I'm not a hipster, actually. I have plenty of hipsterish friends, enough hipstery leanings in fashion and music, but a hipster I am not.

For instance, this is one of the funny-because-it's-truest things I've seen in a while (especially because it is modeled after Monty Python's Upperclass Twit of the Year):

I don't even like going to shows anymore because I've been having a growing distaste for all the people dancing on me, the ones that elbow me in the face and get mad at me when I push back, the tall ones that don't let four inches get between my face and their backs, the ones who sing so loudly that I can't hear anymore, the ones who go to shows to catch up with old friends, etc.

That being said, I really do like going to the Middle East. I like going for dinner Upstairs or at ZuZu. I like ZuZu's Roots and Razors night every other Wednesday, I like the belly dancing on the Corner, I like that the crowd space Downstairs is raked so you can see better from the back. I like the bartender who used to play bass for the Charms. I like that somehow, everything is connected, and that nobody really yelled at me for sneaking through the kitchen from the Corner to the Upstairs, but rather I was told that I couldn't leave. I like the local art, the bright colors on the walls, the people-watching opportunities, the staff that's been there forever, and I like the food, the wine and the beer.

I spent most of my weekend on the corner of Mass Ave and Douglass, and had I not had the Plague, it would have been a near-perfect couple days. Granted, the Raging Teens X-Mas Party was at a freezing cold TT's, but it was the same crowd. One of the people I saw there was in the band I saw the next day. I like that about the Middle East, too. You always know somebody, if not by having ever spoken to them.

I'm glad, however, that I don't know the schmuck who wrote the one review of the Middle East on Menupages. This person, who might be the world's biggest tool, said:

This joint ain't bad. It has the funk I love. Great mix of customers of all stripes (and plaids). Pretty fair food. Unbelivelaby indifferent service. Music is the balls downstairs however. Eclectic (did I say eclectic? Oh my! If I use the word ambience tickle me till I'm pink). Where can you see Gogol Bordello, a band from the circus and a young student singer-songwriter under one roof? Service downstairs is worse than the upstairs. Haughty hotties give perfunctory service. Never the less downstairs is close, crowded, loud, hot and wicked fun.

I'm glad you like it, sir. But "haughty hotties" is neither clever nor respectful, you cannot spell, and self-conscious parenthetical musings have no place in restaurant reviews. And tell me you didn't call it a "joint".

Busting at the seams.

2007-12-01T15:34:00.000-05:00

Don't you hate when someone tells you the most remarkable secret you've gotten your hands on in years and it's amazing and happy and you can't tell anyone?

When that happens, I mean, it sucks.

Or as a hypothetical...

Never mind, I wish I could publish this secret here. Now I have to wait a week. Picture a Brechtian silent scream. That's me right about now.

Christmas songs WROR can play all they want.

2007-11-21T09:37:00.000-05:00

(In no particular order.)

Nat King Cole : The Christmas Song
U2 : Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)
Boston Pops : Sleigh Ride*
The Ronettes : Sleigh Ride*
Mariah Carey : All I Want for Christmas Is You
The Kinks : Father Christmas
Frank Sinatra : Jingle Bells
Stevie Wonder: Someday at Christmas
Elvis Presley: Let's face it - anything.
Bing Crosby and David Bowie : Little Drummer Boy
Rosemary Clooney : Sisters**
Rosemary Clooney and Bing Crosby : Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep**

* Note the absence of the Johnny Mathis version.
** I know they won’t.

A note I made at work some time ago.

2007-11-16T15:37:00.000-05:00

My coworker just reminded me of a post-it I left for her after spending a day placing publisher orders. On this particular occasion I had been placing an order with Perseus Distrubution for a book on prejudice.

My note read like this :

The word was prejudice.
She pronounced it « Pray Judas »
Then she corrected herself,
Pre-Justice.

How much of this response is canned, I wonder?

2007-11-15T11:47:00.000-05:00

Hi Jessica ,

Thanks for listening to 105.7 WROR and thanks for your comments about our programming.

Here at WROR, we find Christmas fun and worthy of celebrating. With Thanksgiving next week, we thought it we’d get into the spirit now. Led by Loren and Wally, we are all excited to celebrate the season by having some fun and playing Boston’s Favorite Christmas Songs. I’m sorry you don’t agree.

We will try to vary up the list, although there are only so many Christmas songs that are good and that people like.

Hopefully, when the spirit of fun touches you, you might join us. Santa will be available to talk to kids of all ages weeknights from 6 to 8.

I appreciate you taking the time to write and appreciate your loyal listening over the years.

We will return to playing Boston’s Greatest Hits on December 26.

A letter to the Program Director of 105.7, WROR

2007-11-14T16:59:00.000-05:00

Mr. West,

Let me first say that I listen to WROR at home because I like some of the music that is played - in particular the Beatles at 9 and 12.

As yours is the only station apart from FM Talk that my place of employment gets any reception for in the basement, we play WROR all day long on our store's loudspeakers. I know that somebody far higher up the Greater Media ladder, likely someone who doesn't even live in the city of Boston, made some decision back in June that WROR would play Christmas music before it is socially acceptable - that is to say before Thanksgiving, even. So I'm not even going to touch that one.

My complaint is this: of all the Christmas songs out there, is it really necessary to repeat so many throughout the day? I'd heard three renditions of "Frosty the Snowman" by 2pm today. In the space of 10 minutes, WROR played the same song twice ("I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" - by the Ronettes at 4:17 and by John Mellencamp at 4:25)! I heard that ridiculously high-pitched song from "Mame" - "We Need a Little Christmas" - twice today as well. I'm pretty sure that wasn't even a different artist.

This is driving me crazy. I'd turn the radio off, or change the station, but as I said, WROR is all we've got. And if you want your target demographic to be listening more, you should give them more [variety] to listen to.

Sincerely

Jessica Mullen
Boston, MA

A good idear.

2007-11-14T10:03:00.000-05:00

So I may be late on this, but I was just turned on to what may be the most constructive site ever, freerice.com.

I’m a big fan of the Hunger Site, and its brethren, the Breast Cancer Site, the Child Health Site, the Literacy Site, the Rainforest Site, and the Animal Rescue Site. You know, you go to the site, which is covered in ads to support it, and you click on a big button that donates 1.1 cups of staple food to the hungry (or a mammogram, healthcare for children, some educational funding, protection for 11.4 square feet of rainforest, or .6 bowls of food to rescued animals). These sites are a great idea ! Freerice.com takes it to another level.

Freerice.com makes a game out of it. Human beings are naturally competitive, constantly trying to prove their skills, and freerice.com banks on that. Go to the site, and you’ll see a multiple choice vocabulary question (some of these words, for all three years I took Latin, are really quite hard !) – if you get it right, you donate 10 grains of rice to the hungry.

I know : 10 grains of rice really isn’t that much. But think of it as 10 points, and look at the bottom of the screen, and it keeps tabs on your vocabulary level. In the space of 5-10 minutes yesterday, I had donated 600 grains of rice. That, dear reader, is a lot. For those of us with boring desk jobs that have us on hold on the phone all day, we can do a lot of good.

Better still, if you get it wrong, they give you the correct answer, so you, the benefactor, can build your vocabulary and do even better the next time you engage in competitive philanthropy.

Wh-why, exactly?

2007-11-10T18:38:00.000-05:00

Yeah I know: I suck.

2007-11-05T23:02:00.000-05:00

Why does the start of NaBloPoMo have to coincide with my attention span in French class slipping to the point at which I need to spend most of my free time studying?

And also: why did my computer have to break down before the start of this semester so that I would have to use my dad's computer while he was in the next room talking to the woman he's cheating on his girlfriend with on the phone? What does that say for what stock I put in men when my own father cheats on his girlfriend?

My concentration is nil.

This sucks. I know it's not just me.

I already talked to him about cheating. I hate this! This is probably the number one reason I need to move out.

I'm not built for this. My heart hurts.

Eyebrow waxing: the cure for the common cold?

2007-11-02T13:52:00.000-05:00

A couple weeks ago, my kickball division had a party. In the weeks leading up to it, the mid-season party was pretty much all I could talk about. My friend Rachel and I spent a good five hours in the Copley area looking for the perfect shirts to wear. I slept regular hours and tried to drink less - all so I could be in tip-top shape for the party.

And then I got sick.

I suppose it wasn't that bad a sickness. Just a niggling cough and stuffy nose and headache. But when I get sick, it will be just that - for a month! Miserable, horrible, kill-me-I've-forgotten-what-it's-like-to-breath-normally kind of sick. And so when this sick started four days before the party for which I'd been so well-prepared, I was pissed. I drank a gallon of water before I even left the house in the morning. Airborne tablets, horse-sized zinc pills, 10-hour nights of sleep. Two days of that and I still felt like trash.

"No," I said to myself, "I'm not going to get any better. That's the kind of pathetic and worthless sack of shit I am. I will go to the party with a tissue permanently attached to my red and chapped nose, nobody will want to talk to me, the Walking Plague."

But I was still going. I was helping to run it, and I was working the first door shift. I had to go. And my eyebrows were a mess.

I went across the street to the Northeastern local tanning salon, which had waxing services as well, and felt even more miserable and disgusting and ugly while surrounded by Northeastern barbie dolls who were waiting for their turn in the buzzing tanning beds. I was led into a back room (for the pasty ugly people, I'd figured), and had my eyebrows waxed. While the lady tweezed I had to sit upright and sneeze, like five times in a row. Afterward I was led out to the counter, where I paid. The girl asked me if I'd used their tanning beds before.

I had to laugh. "Do I look like I've ever seen a tanning bed before?"
"No," she admitted, "but we always have to ask."

Time out. I made a joke! And I laughed! This was not the same person who walked in. This was someone who was getting better!

I left the tanning salon with such a spring in my step it was like I was walking on a stairway of air. I could beat this nonsense cold. It had only just started, and I was already kicking its ass, I could tell.

And anyway, I was a human being, not some odious and snivelling splat of pond scum, worth bringing back to health.

Cold was gone by Friday morning, and better still, it hasn't come back. Take that!

Because I'm too busy for NaNoWriMo this year...again.

2007-11-01T06:34:00.000-05:00

NaBloPoMo is similar to NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), but for lazy people like me or for people who want to jump start their blogs, etc. You can learn more about National Blog Posting Month at nablopomo.com.

I wish they had a badge that didn't feature a cat. I hate cats.

Antennae don't work in the cellar.

2007-10-09T10:09:00.000-05:00

Is there anything more soul-sucking than starting your week at work with only FM TALK to listen to? I'm all about NPR, BBC, whatever - anything but FM Talk.

I complain about our radio at work a lot. We don't get many stations, as we're in the basement. WBOS is okay most of the time because I like some of the music, and even the music I don't like is at least in the right mood for work. Then there's WROR, which I like, mostly because there's a Beatles break at 9 and noon. Oh, and Mambo Time (!) at 5:05. I put up with Toto and "Lady in Red" (hell, I might have even grown to like "Rosanna"). The problem with both those stations is that, with all the music they have in their studios to play around with, they follow a basic schedule throughout the day. So it's like Groundhog Day.*

Another problem we encounter with the few radio stations we get is that there are horrible morning shows, bad enough before you've had your tea, but worse still when replayed in the afternoon. You know, in case you missed it (ahem, WROR and WBCN). Usually my pick is WBCN because nobody ever complains about the music, but it is always changed when Opie and Anthony or whoever are on. Because you know what you don't want to hear when you're shopping for insignia apparel for your kid that you're finally shipping out of your house? Overgrown adolescents. Yelling.

So I'm not sure why we're listening to FM Talk, because it's basically a barrage of half-witted polemics with cutting Boston accents. As if re-entry after a long weekend weren't difficult enough, as if my brain weren't already applesauce, as if I wanted to be here in the first place...

You see where this is going. I'm not much better.

*I like to say a prayer and drink to world peace.

My day is like a seesaw.

2007-09-10T09:26:00.000-05:00

I was happy to hear French spoken at Whole Foods, and then elated to summon up enough French in my memory to wish my cashier a good day.

Then there was a dead skunk in the middle of the road, and if you'll pardon the Louden Wainwright III reference, it actually was stinking to high heaven. And it was cute, it was so sad.

And now I'm at work. I feel like I'm being yanked by the scarf.

Best lines from 12.5 hours of work.

2007-09-04T22:01:00.000-05:00

It's rush. In college bookstore lingo, that means that classes at Northeastern are starting this week and my life at work is sheer hell. Though not so much this fall, which is eerie and unnatural. I provide you with quotes of the days as they go - these quotes bring me angst as they happen and joy as I reflect on them.

A girl, looking for her Third Year Writing (ENG U301) books, disagrees with one bookseller when he advises she look for them in the English section: Is it English or is it W?

A girl, after my friend Chris helps her find what she is looking for (meant to be statements, both): There is an insect on my hand. Would you please remove it. [NB: Chris is still not entirely sure if this exchange happened, but if it did, he removed the ladybug and flicked it to the floor, then walked away in a medicated fog.]

A girl, to whatever boy she was dragging with her so she wouldn't be talking to herself: Omigod, this books is so tight, you know?
Some other friend starts talking to her, then, and says she would love to see her apartment. In reply, the first girl says: My apartment is sweeeet. [No irony should be implied here. In either case.]

Me, stirring lentil soup at 10:30PM, to the tune of "Hot Cross Buns": I hate my job, I hate my job, one-a-penny, two-a-penny, I hate my job - fuck, I've LOST it.

I'm sorry that I can't include any Northeastern boy quotes. They don't seem to talk so much as grunt and slur.

Best Voicemail Ever

2007-08-01T15:47:00.000-05:00

I skipped my usual Tuesday plans at Whitney's in Harvard Square because I got tickets to the Best of Boston party on Carson Beach. This morning I got the Best Voicemail Ever.

Jonny K:
So, --Lindsay Lohan
You are going to some party in Southie...on the beach?
You ditched your friends?
Do you know - do you know what you're making me do? I have not smoked
In six weeks
And I am going
Across the street
To 7-11
And I'm going to buy a delicious delicious pack of Camel Lights
And then I'm going to smoke them outside
In your absence
And every single one of them, I will be like
Mmmm, Jess. Mullen.
And then I'm going to put on that fucking CD that
You owe me
Oooooo
I'm dumb, she's a lesbian
Yeah, the Pink Triangle song?
Josh says I'm so drunk but this is the only way
I can get you to feel
GUILTY
Yeah. Yeeeaaah.

So yeah, I'm gonna smoke outside
And sing the Pink Triangle song
And be like so.......

Alright.

Whatevuh.

You can be in Southie.

You better be wearing a bikini
Because, y'know, that's uh
That's what you uh
I mean, honestly, that's what I'd wear, like
A bikini and a sarong
And like five-inch stiletto heels
Like that'd be hot
.....in Southie,

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
HAHAHAHA!!

You should hear like what everyone's say--
No
Anyway alright bye
Wha--
No, but like
Bikini Southie sarong?

Yeah you're working that party
Yeah
Yeah
That's good

Oh my god
My goodness my Guinness
Where's the Guinness?
There's like a lobster--

Emma:
Goodbye. Goodbye, Jess.

Exeunt.

Smell? Oh, that's my new perfume...Bog.

2007-07-30T08:55:00.000-05:00

When I got home last night, my key didn't work in the door, my dad wasn't home, and my roommate was asleep. My roommate is the lightest sleeper I know. I rang the doorbell, I threw myself against the door, I called the house twice, and I was yelling on my porch, which is right under her (open) window. I was BEYOND pissed. Eventually I called my dad and he came home from Brighton and figured it out, but basically my day started off on the wrong foot at midnight.

This morning I got to work and the office had flooded, rendering all my books on hold trash, the carpet wet, and the air mildew-tinged.

I can't wait for this day to take a good turn.

It's been a long, long, long time.

2007-06-24T06:38:00.000-05:00

I can't say that I'm going to describe pretty much any of my journey in this entry. I am still in Paris, it's my last full day, and I'm very sad to be leaving tomorrow.

10 days is a long enough time to get really used to a place, and I consequently have gotten really used to this place. I have 20 euros left to my name, have to pack all my things back together in some semblence of order, and do something that makes me happy today. And I don't know what that something is, but this melancholy I feel just has to stop.

I don't want to go home tomorrow, and it's nothing personal to the folks at home.

But come on - Paris.

Four days!

2007-06-11T19:16:00.000-05:00

For those not entirely in the know, I am leaving for Paris in four days. On the 15th. Two weeks from today, which is not so far away, I will be returning.

Surely from reading an entry or two, or even my profile, you know what a francophile I am. And I've been itching for an excuse to go to Paris for a couple years now. Out of nowhere, three excuses appeared: my friend Rachel, from New Zealand, has been on a research grant there all year, my friend Emma is visiting her mother, who has been teaching a course at the Sorbonne all spring, and when I got my tax refund it covered airfare during peak times such as this week. It seems to be in the stars (dans les etoiles, si vous préférez).

What's been on my mind recently is this: Why is everybody telling me that about the love I will find there when I say I'm going to Paris? Even my mother and her boyfriend are telling me to be careful with those French boys. As if I can speak enough French to talk about more than the weather, to begin with. I told my mother that, and she said she's not worried about me speaking. I got an email today from a friend that had love as the subject line and closed with "love awaits - bring a good camera!" And naturally I will bring my most useful camera, if not my best, but... Honestly, a publisher rep who I know and like, but don't know well enough that his saying this would be normal, told me he hopes I fall in love and can stay forever.

Who wouldn't want to stay forever?

As much as I would love for an easy way to French citizenship (in spite of this Sarko nonsense), acquiring it by means of anything romantic - or by any other means - really hasn't been a part of my thoughts in the four months I've been planning this trip. It's an impossibility - MY FRENCH SUCKS.

In the meantime, my clothes are all over the floor, my passport's over here, my ticket is over there, who knows where I put my Paris Moleskine last, and I've had a little wine and am more than a little tired. I hope I make it on the plane in one piece.

The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball.

2007-05-26T09:54:00.001-05:00

Certain readers have expressed an interest in reading a brief recap of Sunday's game. The way I've been telling my friends is this:

There is a mercy rule that says you can call the game if you're 12 runs behind or more. They told us about it at the end of the first inning, because we were 11 runs behind. There are five innings. The game is 45 minutes long. We shaped up a bit after that, but the score (which refs stopped counting after 20) was 21-1. Eek.

The blurb I wrote for the newsletter was this:
What can we say? What we lack in sheer talent we make up for in enthusiasm! It goes without saying that our MVP would be the scorer of our one goal, Greg Kindel, but that doesn't mean that we weren't all thrilled to be playing the game for the first time since Jurassic Park came out! We denied the mercy rule, which was offered to us at the start of the second inning, for the love of kickball. Thanks to Josh Lavin and Seth Opitz for stepping up to the mound when the rest of us were mildly afraid, and a very special thanks to all Lemurs that showed up and waited in the rain for two hours with nothing but Irish coffee to warm them. A good time was had by all, and we look forward to being pantsed by Fourth Base this Sunday. It is also worth mentioning that our kickball skills cannot hold a candle to our staggering flipcup ability.

It was fun. I'm looking forward to tomorrow's game.

And now to get some color, so I don't blind the field tomorrow or next week, and so that I don't blind the nation of France in THREE WEEKS.

I bring you good cheer...

2007-05-19T20:32:00.000-05:00

Huzzah!

My computer is back, functioning at full capacity! I am pleased to announce to my two or three remaining readers that I plan on writing a whole lot more, starting today. This coincides beautifully with the end of my class for the semester, and the start of an official summer off...from school.

While I do plan to spend four hours less of my week in Boylston Hall, possibly just as much time will be used at Nunziato Field, on the corner of Summer and Vinal, in Somerville. My friend Sarah and I started a kickball team, the Space Lemurs, as a part of the Minuteman Division of the World Adult Kickball Association. In addition to our captainly duties, causing a ruckus with our team (of 20!), and generally losing every game we play (but with gusto, because we know what we're getting into), Sarah and I have also joined our division's board. She is our charities chair, as I am the editor of the weekly newsletter, Ghost Man On Third (GMOT). I'll let you know how that goes.

Our first game is tomorrow, it's rainy and too cold to be spending multiple hours outside, and our team shirts are a) not in the color we wanted, and b) not available til next week. I can't say I'm terribly optimistic, but I'll be there at 1:30, as planned. With many layers of clothing under my brown Pink Floyd shirt from Target. Why doesn't anybody sell brown shirts anymore?

GO SPACE LEMURS!

Say it ain't so!

2007-05-17T08:25:00.000-05:00

Tell me a drag queen didn't win America's Next Top Model and that Melinda did not just get kicked off American Idol and that Bob Barker is not done hosting"The Price Is Right"!

This is why I try not to sit down and watch TV.

No news can be good news. But so can good news be good news.

2007-04-11T14:01:00.000-05:00

It sure has been a while. To make up for that, I have two pieces of exciting news, and they are totally unrelated!

First of all, I just got word that my friend Rachel, with whom I will be staying when I go to Paris in 65 (that's 6-5) days, lives on the same street as the Cafe des Deux Moulins. You might remember it from my favorite movie of all time, Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain. I do. This means that my base will be in Montmartre. I am SO excited.

Secondly, and I mention it secondly so that you can go check it out when you're done reading this, I was interviewed by Leila Cohan for the Boston chapter of MenuPages.com's recently launched blog. Leila's blog also covers such important pieces of Boston gastronomy as the Tasty (RIP), food review haiku, and seasonally relevant restaurant tips (eating around Fenway, for instance - GO SOX!)

Excitement abounds, and Spring has sprung! Sort of. In a New England kind of way.

Please, let me explain!

2007-03-23T09:36:00.000-05:00

1. My computer is currently on bed rest.
2. It has been since late last week.
3. My father's computer, which I have been using in the meantime, does not go to sites I find important, namely Gmail, NEUmail, and Blogger.
4. It really isn't right to update at work.
5. I am sorry.

The problem with Lent for lapsed Catholics.

2007-03-11T15:05:00.000-05:00

I don't know if this is true for real Catholics, but for me, Lent is a second shot at making a New Year's resolution. It's shorter than a year, and for that reason it's less daunting. At the same time, it's long enough to form a habit. Best of all, nobody will sabotage your goals of giving things up, because for all they know, it's for religious reasons.

This year, I thought it would be a good time for me to give up cookies. Not that I want to go the rest of my life without cookies, but I'd like to feel like I could live a day without Famous Amos. It's a weird addiction of mine, one that I don't really like, one that actually gives me the shakes if I try to stop. I've been doing well, except...

IT'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIE TIME.

I mean, hello, forget Famous Amos. I woke up this morning with visions of Egg Beaters and toast dancing in my head, and sitting on my kitchen table were two boxes - Caramel deLites (misleading!) and Thin Mints, my two favorites. I told my roommate about my predicament, the green box already torn in my hands, and she told me her mother bought her some she didn't want. Lemonades. The ones they just came out with that I wanted to try so badly but didn't want to blow four dollars on in case they suck (which I'm sure they won't, because Girl Scout Cookies categorically taste good and have crack as an unlisted ingredient, I'm sure).

Sabotage, I tell you.

I don't feel guilty about it, but damn nevertheless.

Readership at historic lows.

2007-03-10T23:45:00.000-05:00

Why is it that as soon as I pledged to my dear readers that I would post regularly, both for their entertainment and my need for masturbatory ramblings, absolutely nobody visited this site at all?

Not that anybody cares that much, but I had grown used to getting about 10 hits a day, if mostly for the lyrics of "Would You?" and "Spooky". It's as if the real joy of people who read my blog is finding only purely accidental entries made by me, and that even Google is boycotting One Falling Star on account of its recent resolution to ramble on purpose.

I bought a new CD!

2007-03-10T23:30:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I've done this. And it took me a long time to realize that I needneedneeded "Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs". Two years, in fact.

I don't know what I like most about this CD. Could be the Rufus Wainwright-esque voice, or the fact that M. Ward is thanked in the liner notes (which, by the way, are peppered with drawings as delightful as the cover). It could just as easily be the song "Fake Palindromes", which Jon had me listen to in the text office at the Coop, and which was still the only song I'd heard off the album until about ten minutes ago.

With that in mind, I'm sure it's too early to pick favorites. I can, however, say that this CD is already ranked among my favorite CDs that I own, and it isn't even on my iPod yet.

What's scary right now.

2007-03-08T23:19:00.000-05:00

Bodily concerns are not something I worry my head about too frequently. I do alright for myself. I play by the rules, may cut a few corners, but for the most part, I'm a healthy individual that doesn't give her body much thought because I can almost guarantee that I'm [physically] okay.

I recently discovered that a friend of mine is at risk for cancer. Cancer.

Oh, my grandmothers both died of it, my mother has had countless biopsies that came out negative, but somehow I am so much more detached from those situations than I am from my friend's.

Possibly it is because she is so near to me in age. Possibly it's because I am suddenly one to rely on. My mother secretly relies on me, but I was born, conceived, in her care. There's something almost unnatural about the idea of her leaning on me in a time of personal struggle. Not the case with my friend.

She is in many ways my rock, and I hers, though admittedly not as often as I should. And now, being put to the test leaves me wishing there was something more personal, something more, period, that I could do to make the fear and the scarier speculation disappear.

You see, I think it's hard, in a way, to be the one who isn't going through it. I can see why she's upset, I can see why she's afraid. Already she is handling this better than I ever could, but I can't help in such a way that I know what it is like for her, can tell her everything will be okay - who am I kidding, I wouldn't be able to do that anyway. But I really wish I could try.

In like a lion...

2007-03-01T14:35:00.001-05:00

Without a doubt, it has been too long since my last update. I hereby announce my new month's resolution (because, in spite of evidence to the contrary, I am quite often a realist): For the month of March, I will update my blog at least three times a week. I'm not counting this wimpy half week.

I started this blog so that I would have an outlet for my more structured commentary and otherwise creative writing, but it doesn't work so well if I do not apply myself to it. It is with this in mind that I pledge to you, dear readers, that you will hear a whole lot more from me.

At least for this month.

I must have a fever...

2007-01-16T09:57:00.000-05:00

...because I talked to the boy on the train.

And I am sick, and I look it, because my hair is a mess, my skin is dry, and my eyes are all watery. But when I saw him on the train for the first time in a month I thought nothing of going up to him at Mass Ave station's turnstiles and asking him if he played the trombone.

Miss him, miss him...

2007-01-14T22:23:00.000-05:00

At around 10 tonight, a call came through. I checked the caller ID and saw a Maryland number. Martha Mullen. Aunt Martha. My cousin calls her his stepmonster. I like her, but I can see why he'd feel that way. She's my uncle's keeper, and as a result, I never see him.

That's not entirely the fault of Aunt Martha. I only get two weeks of vacation, and I spend one with my mother in New Mexico, one with my father's family down the shore. Unless Uncle Jimmy shows up during that one-week window, another year will pass in which I don't see him. Usually, though, the reason he doesn't make that trip is because they're visiting Martha's kids in Myrtle Beach, or something.

He moved out of Chesapeake City about nine years ago, and I still haven't seen his new house.

This mostly sums up our relationship at the moment, I think. I love my Uncle Jimmy, enjoy his rare company, laugh and cry at his stories, and take the few things he says to me to heart. But he's never there, and in a family that is otherwise so tightly knit, it hurts to even admit that ours is a made-up relationship. One that should be, could be, but isn't, unless feigned in an awkward phone call.

That's why I wasn't going to pick up the phone. He was going to ask for Dad immediately, and Dad wasn't home, and so he'd be stuck making small talk with me for a whole two minutes. On the other hand, it was late, and it might have been an emergency. I picked up.

Me: Hello?
He: Jess? That you?
Me: Yeah, hi! How are you?
He: How you doing?
Me: I'm doing -
He: Your dad home?
Me: - alright.
He: Good, your dad home?
Me: No, he went someplace to watch the game.
He: Oh, he's not back yet, okay. I thought he would be by now.
Me: Guess not. Haven't seen him since he left, so...
He: So how are you making out up there?
Me: Alright, I'm making out alright.
He: Well good. You sound like you're doing alright. I'm gonna try your dad on his cell. Goodnight! Love you.
Me: Love you too.

I wanted to cry.

He's my godfather, and while that doesn't mean he would be particularly close to me (for instance, my other two godfathers never pay me any mind*), I would think it means at least that he somehow should be keeping track of what I do, to some degree. Occasionally my dad will tell me with much enthusiasm that Uncle Jimmy asked for me. When I ask for elaboration, it's usually, "we were on the phone, and he said 'How's Jess doing?'"

That's not enough. I miss my uncle, who I'm not sure I know anymore.

*Yeah, I have three godfathers. This one is the only blood-related uncle I have, so that makes sense. The other two were dating when I was born, and my mother thought it would be cool to have two gay godfathers. Since then, they broke up. One got married (to a woman), had kids, and moved to Wisconsin. The other is kind of a recluse without the first.

Thanks, that was fun.

2006-12-27T12:20:00.000-05:00

The annual trip to Philadelphia this year was more fun than usual, mostly because I could escape the family and experience the city proper as it should be experienced by somebody my age. You know - ordering lagers like it's your job, not going home, clicking your heels in the street.

Well I click my heels. I think that's normal.

The family wasn't so bad, either. In the grand scheme of things, my family is not really one of those intolerably nutty and smothering clans that people make holiday movies about ("Fuller, go easy on the Pepsi!"), but since I am used to an unusually small family most of the time, entering into the loud Irish rabble can be jarring. Fortunately, Emily and I have made a habit of taking wine and cake into her room and listening to music while laughing at the drunken nature of our relatives. This year there was a lot of Yo La Tengo and Povel Ramel*.

Re-entry has been kind of ick, if only because everybody's stressed out and a day ahead of me in work acclimation. On the plus side, Andrea made me some new friends to add to my growing desk menagerie:

The big owl is Armen, named after our former buyback manager, who is the sweetest old Armenian I've ever met. The little fuzzies have yet to be named (any suggestions?), and the shark is due to be shipped out to New Jersey tomorrow.

*We bought his CD at Swede Things, since we had so enjoyed our last Scandinavian CD purchase. Because we didn't understand any of the titles on any of the CDs, we had to buy it based totally on his face.

An Open Letter To the Conservatory Boy On My Train Every Morning.

2006-12-11T22:35:00.000-05:00

Dear Sir:

Every morning you race onto my train at the last minute. We sit or stand within ten feet of each other, usually looking straight ahead, but often enough making eye contact and looking away abruptly. We both get out at Mass Ave, go up the back stairs, and head down Gainsborough Street until we reach St. Botolph, at which point you take a right to St. Botolph Hall, and I take a left into Northeastern territory. The same thing happens every morning. And I'm not complaining.

Well Ill say it: I like you, and I know I don't have any real reason why. Remember that time you smiled at me as we stepped off the train, and I grimmaced? I'm sorry. Really I am, but I was flustered. Because I like you, and since I decided that, I haven't been able to smile at you or talk to you or anything, because what happens if I grimmace again? And anyway, it's been damn near impossible.

It's the angles, you see. The angles are all wrong. I'll stand next to where you're sitting, or vice versa. Smiles exchanged at these angles are creepy. Or that fat guy who stands in the open doorway blocks any possibility of nonverbal communication. For pete's sake, I always have a seat free right next to me. Sit down! So much easier!

On top of that, we move in parallel lines. Always we are side by side. We step off the train in tandem, walk up opposite sides of the staircase, only getting mixed up when we reach the turnstiles. And no, I can't talk to you at the turnstiles, because it's just too late. If I'm going to talk to you at all, it has to be right at the get-go. Am I right, here? We go down the stairs on the other side, this time you on the right and I on the left, matching each other's down-going patter. I walk down the left side of the street, you on the right, and at one point we are on the same line, going in oppposite directions. Someone should write a poem about that.

I'm not sure what to say, but this isn't working. And I'm too much of a neurotic perfectionist to be comfortable initiating conversation with you in anything short of faultless circumstances, so I'm afraid it's up to you.

My heart is still a-flutter from this morning,
The Other Redhead In the Car.

ALTERNATE VERSION: Picture me standing on the orange line with a boombox over my head playing Touch and Go's hit single, "Would you...?":

Um
I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
I've noticed you around
Um
I find you very attractive
I find you very attractive
Um
Would you go to bed with me?

I've noticed you around
Um
I find you very attractive
Would you...?
Um

I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
Would you...?
Um
Um
Would you go to bed with me?

I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
I've noticed you around
Um...

Today I...

2006-12-06T01:58:00.000-05:00

Got lost in "Takk..." by Sigur Ros. Especially "Glosoli".
Froze to death.
Felt wrath when my friend's compassionate nature was being abused.
Decided to kill the girl responsible.
Turned doing nothing into a worktime sport.
Had the best sandwich of my life.
Got a soy chai for free.
Wore the outfit that boosts my self-esteem 10-fold.
Took a test and maybe didn't fail.
Hung out with Kate for the first time in ages.
Got drunk off Guinness at the People's, as it is meant to be.
Talked to an old man about "Visual Thinking" and Bob Dylan.

Truth be told, the only thing that mattered was that I got to return your smile outside Jordan Hall for the first time in months.

Maybe my priorities are out of order, but I must admit I'm rather enamored of a stranger on the T, and I'm okay with that, in part because in doing so I realized I miss the oboe something awful, and in part because it's about time I felt butterflies in my stomach again.

A little more about my family.

2006-11-17T13:20:00.000-05:00

I sent my mother the link to my grandfather's enlistment record online. I explained to her that Dad was unsure about the truth of both the age and marital status discrepancies. I thought she would find it interesting, as I did. I received the following email in response:

Hi Jess,
I know for a fact that Me-Mom and Pop-Pop didn't get married till he got back from the service, (Uncle Jimmy was almost 2) which is why there are no wedding photos. It was a shameful thing back then, and I discovered it the summer we visited Uncle Eddy and Aunt Betty in California (Aunt Betty told me -- ) Me-Mom never spoke of it to me, and I'm not sure if Aunt Grace even knows...your Dad didn't till I told him...years later...
So...tough news to be getting, eh?
I think that's when Uncle Jimmy and your grandfather had their falling out when he 'had' to get married, and Mom-Mom told him the family secret...but it's still pretty closeted...
I don't know who knows and who doesn't know...yikes!
Love you, we'll talk soon...face to face, no less!!!
Mom

This news isn't tough to get. What's tough to get is why I haven't heard this before. My grandparents are dead, and we live in a time and place in which this is not shameful as much as it is a frequent occurrence (especially in my family). I don't understand why this has been kept from me.

I had confronted my father with this and his answer was ambiguous. I'm an open-minded adult who can keep mum.

I think I'll dig around Aunt Theresa's basement soon.

And I really wish they had taken pictures.

Baby REALLY got back.

2006-11-16T15:41:00.000-05:00

The highlight of Tuesday's outing to the People's Republik was actually the walk to the Central T station afterward. As Josh, Emma, Rob, and I walked down Mass Ave., an older homeless man walked into our path, arms outstretched as if greeting old friends.

"Excuse...me...while I kissss...the sky..."

We passed him, smiling.

"I like...big...butts and I can...not...lie..."

We laughed. A lot. Especially after I checked my bag and noticed that it covered my ass completely.

About my family...

2006-11-07T16:44:00.000-05:00

Every family has its fuzzy bits of history that can't be explained.

Mine is no exception. My mother's mother was born fresh off the boat in Charlestown, the child of an Irish immigrant whose name was Eileen (like my mother) Finnegan. Or was it Houlihan? I couldn't tell you. My great-grandfather, who abandoned Eileen within months of finding she was pregnant, was a Greek immigrant whose name was Paul. My grandmother was given up for adoption, and lived like Cinderella with an idiot adopted brother. It's been said that Eileen had written to her daughter over the years after moving to the midwest, and that Ms. Hatch, my grandmother's caregiver, had burned the letters to shield her from what pain they might cause.

It's all a mystery to me - heard in snippets from my mother and aunts. I'm used to that grey area in my family's history.

On my father's side, the only remotely interesting story is that my great-grandmother was on this national watch list in Ireland because she was in love with a British soldier at an inopportune time, and was therefore a ticking time bomb of treason in the eyes of the Irish Republic.

At least, I thought so, until I tried to locate my father's father's military records. The only Army enlistment for James T. Mullen of Philadelphia was a man born in 1920, a private who was single and had no dependants.
I knew Me-Mom and Pop-Pop married before he enlisted because they were expecting Uncle Jimmy at the time. And Pop-Pop was Catholic to the letter. And I thought he was born in '21, but I'd have to check with Dad. And he was a sergeant, too - not that he was when he enlisted...

I called my dad.

"Dad, it's not that important, but when was Pop-Pop born?"
"Um...I don't know."
"Da-ad! You were born in '48, I know that, so when was Pop-Pop born?"
"Well, nobody really knows..."

What? I then explained the record I found in the National Archives.

"You know, that's probably him."
"But he wasn't single -"
"We, uh...we don't know that, actually..."

I think I just opened a big door that had been bolted for years. I am excited and confused.

But mostly excited.

2006-11-04T23:33:00.000-05:00

Bill Cosby - Dentists

This is what I've been watching all weekend - really, all my life - made so much better by my fear of dentists.

We all need to make our lives more interesting.

2006-11-02T13:01:00.000-05:00

Today at work is dedicated to placing book orders for the winter quarter. I've been calling publishers all over the country, and the process is usually boring - a form dialogue that has artificial inflections to make it sound like it's two people talking rather than two machines.

Then I called Blackwell, in Vermont. I told the man on the phone that my name was Jessica, that I was calling from the Northeastern University Bookstore, and that I would like to place an order for a book.

"You would, would you," he said.
"Yes."
"And you require my assistance to accomplish this nefarious deed."
I laughed. "Yes, I do."
"I just found that word in the dictionary, and now I'm using it all the time."

Now, I do that, too. Every morning I check Merriam-Webster's word of the day, which I have on my Google home page. Yesterday's word was rhadamanthine.

"I see."
"Nefarious."
"It's a good word," I said, hoping I could place my order and hang up soon.
"Well, I've always been a sucker for a pretty voice, so I'll help you. But if we get caught, I'm squealin'."

I placed my order, and he went through the motions of explaining shipping options.

"So you're down in Massachusetts. Heck, I could drive that down there and be back in time for dinner!"

When I told Sarah about the odd man, she said she didn't realize Blackwell employees could drink on the job.

Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little girl like you.

2006-10-31T12:44:00.000-05:00

I am disappointed at the number of people who have approached me with exclamations regarding my attire today. That is, as a redhead, no, I am not wearing orange. I am not in costume. I am not wearing fangs. Being the youngest full-time employee at the bookstore, it is expected of me, and I just didn't feel like it this year.

I did, however, wear my Starlight Mints shirt, complete with kind of creepy logo. Nobody noticed that. Granted the logo is on the side, which is what I wanted when I bought the shirt, anyway. Their loss.

There are a number of reasons I didn't dress up this year:

1. Nobody ever gets what I'm supposed to be. I hate explaining things, usually.
2. I have a midterm tonight, and I'll be damned if I take it with glitter in my eyes.
3. This year breaks my three-year streak of wearing the Absinthe costume. I even gave my green wings to Sharon so that she could wear them to Costumed Gays for Patsy (contra dancing at the Unitarian Church in JP).

I am looking forward to drinks with friends this evening, though. Points to Josh and Emma for their gender-bending couples costume, Kermit and Miss Piggy. I have my camera charged in my bag as we speak.

Boo! And happy Halloween.

Ah, the decline of the academic paper.

2006-10-23T22:24:00.000-05:00

So tonight, in order to quell my own poetic fury, I accompanied my outline-writing with a glass or two of wine. It was working really well...

"Both Ajax and Pentheus reach the same fate they planned for their enemies, presenting the strongest female characters the greater grief and real, not divinely inspired, madness of their own."

...until later, when I decided to expand on each bullet point...

"Ajax stabs himself when he would have stabbed Odysseus, Menelaus, and Agamemnon, thereby causing his wife and mother to wail madly and lose their shit."

Perhaps it's time I go to bed.

Procrastination is painful.

2006-10-23T11:23:00.000-05:00

I have always been one to procrastinate. Even when I was little - my dad called it "the Jesse Parade". Even now he calls it that.

I do so much to break through. Last night I meditated to clear my head, turned off the music, cleared off the table, and compiled a to-the-minute schedule of how I would write the two papers that are due Wednesday night. When it was time to get to Time Block One: Making the Outline, I stared at the page for a solid thirty minutes. That was half of Time Block One. I was going to be behind schedule all over again, and a new schedule would have to be devised.

It's terrible to be me working on a paper.

I have an active imagination, which is usually a blessing. I would have had such a lifeless childhood without it. The problem is that I don't need physical distractions to make my mind wander. It has never been classified as ADD, and I have never considered it as such. I always thought it was this sort of intellectual hedonism that drew my mind into things that pleased me more than the task at hand.

Yesterday my Furor Poeticus paper on the near-equivalence of femininity and madness in The Bacchae and Ajax was clouded by thoughts of the third book of the Maisie Dobbs series, which I had finished Saturday afternoon. The books satisfy all that I want in a book: I am taken to another place, in another time, I am discovering new things, I am learning about something I'd never considered, and I can't put the thing down.

Maisie is a sleuth/psychologist in late-1920s London who still suffers from memories of the Great War, in which she served as a nurse at a casualty clearing station in France. Her approach to solving cases is mostly meditative and empathetic, and determining who the Bad Guy is takes until the very end of the book, as each suspect is considered without bias.

Recently the books by Jacqueline Winspear have stimulated a latent curiosity about World War I, about which I really only learned while depressed one summer in London and Belgium. And now I wish I had felt more of an interest while walking the trenches in Ypres or looking at the paintings in the Imperial War Museum. At any rate, I don't have any time to learn what I want to at present.

I have a paper to write.

She's gone.

2006-10-12T11:02:00.000-05:00

Samantha (Sammy) Mullen. March 2, 1989- October 12, 2006.
My girl.

The right mots.

2006-09-19T23:29:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago I had the following things to say and fret about:

Last night I dreamt about the Northeastern student I sometimes refer to as the love of my life, which put me in a positive mood for the day. And then he actually came into the store! And I was so excited, because we had actually built up this cool mutual acknowledgement in the hallways thing, and our eyes met, and I smiled, and he said, "can you point me in the direction of mathematics?" And a part of me died inside.

Tonight, in French class, I found the words to describe what happened. Il me vouvoie.

On the way to Cape May. . .

2006-08-07T10:13:00.000-05:00

I'm down the shore, and I love it!

Actually I feel a little like crap. My throat is swollen, I'm tired, I want to hide from my family.

Not all my family - not the babies. My cousins have the cutest kids in the world. And I've only seen one of them, because the rest are tired and napping when I'm awake, and vice versa.

This is a boring post. My apologies. I'm in an internet cafe and time is running out.

A bientot.

It's nice to be noticed.

2006-07-25T09:12:00.000-05:00

Anyone who has ever taken a writing class has been strongly encouraged to do at least one of the following things daily:

Write down your dreams.
While out in public, describe your surroundings in a journal.
While out in public, eavesdrop on a conversation and write it down, word for word.
For half an hour, don't stop writing. Get all the junk out of your head so you can write the real stuff later.

All good advice. All great brainstorming techniques. I am embarrassed to do most of them most of the time because I will invariably make up stories about the people around me, and if they were to read over my shoulder, I would be devastated.

On my way into work, I was sitting next to a man who was engaging in some such writing exercise. He was writing about me. I was almost flattered, but then again, I was the closest person to the guy. Naturally I read over his shoulder. It said something like:

She was wearing a necklace of yellow beads, a denim skirt, sunglasses. She was likely on her way to work like the rest of us. Reddish hair...she boarded at Roslindale Square. She seemed -

That's all I got! Of course it's nice to know that somebody was looking at me at all, taking note of the details to which I devote so much time in the morning, but I was just getting to the first impressions bit. What vibe do I send out when I'm sitting on the T? That man was going to tell me, however unintentionally, and I was going to know at last if I really look as much like a bitch in public as I feel I do.

As you might have guessed, it was at that point that the bus stopped at Forest Hills and I had no choice but to leave.

Check it out!

2006-07-24T15:23:00.000-05:00

I've always wanted to be a new kid on the block. Now, obviously, I am.

More later ... I swear I'm more interesting than anybody's first blog entry can make them seem.