39 Pineapples for Secret Sangria

SO.

Here in Boston, the college crowds are back.
And... I'm so sorry to report, they have not received the memo about leggings (that they are NOT cool).
I have seen enough leggings to wrap a building, Christo-style.

But enough about that. yo.

I have been meaning to make an announcement.
My new favorite restaurant (for right now): Croma. on Newbury.
I just said "on Newbury." I suck.
No, but really. It's great. and reasonable. and has quite a nice menu. and secret sangria (white, rose, and red... but GET THE RED). I say "secret" because it's not on the menu and now you can order it and feel all-cool, too. Like I do, kinda.
And... (LISTEN!!) They have an appetizer called "dough balls." I don't even need to say anything... you know that sounds good.
Anything with "dough" in the title is fantastic-times-twelve.
Let's tally:
cookie dough
Pillsbury Doughboy [products] (like, um, cookie dough)
okay, shit, forget it.

WORD.

Now-- This just in.
Guess what graduating year the original Saved By the Bell cast was?
Do it.
It'll make you feel old and horrible.

22 Crabapples for the Registry of Bitchass Freaks

This is just to say...

I renewed my license on July 20th.

Um, yea... I still don't have a new license.

My lame-o temp license they emailed me has expired.

I have waited on hold for the RMV no less than four times (at least an hour a pop) for them to tell me it's on the way.

I had to use my PASSPORT like a stupid fuck at the liquor store last night. With a picture that makes me appear 14 years old, pale, and kinda like a flu-ridden, placenta-encased baby emu. I don't enjoy whipping it out. In fact, I do not "whip it out"; rather, I wean it from my purse like a piglet from it's momma.

So, if anyone reading this works at the RMV:

a. please, please, please help me!!
b. I hate you. Implacably.


**Flickr thanks to cheetah100.
Cool 'mu!

59 Crabapples for Unoriginal Cereal Ideas

A few quick thoughts since I'm STILL without my gentle, loving webbernets at home.

1. This week marks a shift from Teen Tournament Jeopardy to Tournament of Champions Jeopardy. My self-esteem has been irreconcilably shot. Not only do the questions get harder, but the categories get way broader. For example, last night the final Jep-Cat was "Science." Tomorrow, we may see "Things You May Have Learned Along the Way."

2. This morning, I saw a sign at Toscanini's in Harvard announcing their new pizza bagel. It read something to the effect of: "This pizza bagel hails from a planet far, far, away. Actually, it comes from [Something-Something] Bakery in Chelsea. But Chelsea's kinda like another planet."
HMM. Not that funny. If you're gonna be all informal with your advertising, kinda be funny, right?
But speaking of not funny and informal language, here is one of the greatest posts ever; it is both the opposite of not funny AND about informal language where it doesn't belong.
Man, I got a kick outta it, and I think you will too.

3. General Mills has come out with a breakthrough new product called "Fruity Cheerios." CRAAAAZY. Uh, I've had those before, assholes.
They're called FROOT LOOPS.

10 Crabapples for the House of Marbles, Pottery Road, Devon, England TQ13 9DS

The home webbernets have been kaput for 4 days now.
I have tried power cycling. I have tried resetting endlessly. I have tried troubleshooting with the barely 13-year-old girl on the RCN tech helpline. I have tried pitching a minor fit. I have tried drinking wine and eating chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

I think the last one almost worked.
[And, I gotta admit to y’all… I just went so far as mixing whiskey and Reisling, just for the fuck of being gross and troubled. It made me feel, astonishingly, gross and troubled. And… uhh... Shut up.]

In fact, my webconnection comes in for about 34 seconds per 2 hour interval (I know because I try about every 34 seconds), so maybe I will get to post this sucker (which, btw, is being written so annoyingly inelegantly in Word) in a divine moment inspired by the Weblord of Corachua.

So, because I was sad about my current state of disconnect, I felt the need to steal things from innocent people. Sometimes it’s rawhide candy from puppies; sometimes it’s pastel binkies from infants; sometimes it’s cans from tiny, tiny goats. Today, though, it was nothing other than the MARBLE GAMES COMPENDIUM from my building’s laundry room.

Yea, what, get that, what, yea, wha, come on yo, whaaaaaaat?

You heard me, brothers and sisters: the MARBLE GAMES COMPENDIUM.
What’s up NOW, huh?

So this is how the robbery went down:
I go downstairs to switch my laundry from washer to dryer, as “people” do.
There are two minutes left, so I get antsy.
I pace.
I notice that on the table near the couch and bookshelf (cool, right? Laundry prizes!) there are the following things:
1. a spongebob pillow-buddy
2. a picture involving tie-dye and loaves of bread (that’s all I know./that’s all I can tell you.)
3. a marble game kit (sealed) circa, like, 1954, containing a little booklet entitled the MARBLE GAMES COMPENDIUM.

See, though, this is funny, right? Compendium?
When I think “compendium,” I think chestnut leather chairs, fat cigars, and a man who is the perfect combination of Winston Churchill, Wilfred Brimley, and the Masterpiece Theater guy.

I also a little bit think about a metronome, but that’s probably because I mesh together “pendulum” and “composition” and I think about what those words would be if you combined them linguistically (compendium) and definitionally (compendium).

So, as any asshole would do, I put it in the waistband of my mesh shorts and walked upstairs (like, um, someone might "catch me" if I was just, say, like, holding it.)
OK. WAIT.
This is why I stole it: I think it might be a total riot.

Get this, amigos:
And I quote:
[from the introduction] “Marble games are generally played with cheaper glass marbles, but where expensive marbles are used in games in which fines are imposed, or where marbles are lost and won, it should be agreed in advance that fines or losses should be paid in cheap marbles.”

Wait, really???

Let me rephrase:
“Drinking games are often played with Keystone Light, but when Ketel One shots are used-as-props in Asshole, or Never Have I Ever, it should be agreed that fines or losses should be paid in ass-beer from the rolly cooler.”

Hold it.
There’s more:

[Shooting Strategy] “When aiming, it should be remembered that the target should be steadily looked at, its exact position being thoroughly taken in by the eye while the marble is held in the hand. The eye directs the brain which automatically directs the hand.”

Yo, MARBLE GAMES COMPENDIUM author: Uh, um, Sir Isaac Newton called;
He fucking HATES you, man.

The moral of this, quite obviously, is that Boomer parlor games are all philosophically dour.

As a final exercise, let's compare...

MARBLES: "The marble is held above the first joint of the thumb by the tip of the forefinger, The top of the thumb is held by the middle finger. The hand is kept quite still with the knuckle on the ground. The thumb is released with the required force. With practice, great accuracy may soon be obtained with this method."

HUNGRY, HUNGRY HIPPOS: "Hit the white plastic thingy on the brightly-colored hippo. hard. wicked fast. get marbles in the hippo's mouth. also wicked fast."

I'm so fricking glad to be a child of the 80s.


**Flickr thanks to i_love_naples.

36 Pineapples for a Puppy Diddy

I'm fine now. I watched this.

I want the one swinging on the stick!
Dog on a stick! Woo! Dog on a stick! Woo!

AHAHAHAHAAHAAAAA.

888 Pineapples for a Spirited Red Ranger

Well, suckers, I'm back from vacation. And yes, true-so-true, that makes me the sucker.
Fine.

Today I had a thought that I haven't had in years:

I should really start thinking and acting more like a Power Ranger; specifically, the red one.

And I'll tell you why.

Lately I've been pissed.

Pissed at the City of Cambridge for towing my car when one fucking millimeter of my crap-ass bumper was over the Somerville line, pissed more when they gave me TWO tickets on top of the $95 towing charge, pissed at traffic when it forced me to sit in 5+ hours of itself EACH WAY going to-and-fro North Conway this past weekend, pissed at the Assface Car Inspection Man when he failed my car because I was missing a little obscure piece of something that "needs" (oh fuck you) to be attached to my little side light on my front bumper, pissed more when he told me that the piece of nothing needed to be ordered and would come in "within 10 days or so," and pissed that I'm having a hell of a time lately standing up for myself and not ducking and covering like a pussy when I can't get a straight answer out of anyone.

I actually think it's the standing up for myself thing in general that's getting me all low. Which is why I'm leaning on The Red Ranger today. Actually, more like a combination of The Red Ranger and Christina Aguilera in her new single. Because, really, perhaps all I need is a smooth brass section and a shiny resin helmet.

I just, well, don't dig the way I'm feeling. So I'm thinking I need to start standing up straighter, stop letting myself get kicked in the shins, verbalize my valid complaints while stifling the bullshit, treat myself and others better... and, of course, buy a sweet red jumpsuit.

As seems fitting, I'm going to launch this new plan with one more glass of whiskey, a few prose poems, and maybe a little stretching.


**RedRanger thanks to brainpipe.

90 Crabapples for IRL FL Mirrors

I'm feeling a little angry/antsy combo tonight, and I'd kinda rather just be reading my book, but I'm going on vaca tomorrow, so I feel obligated to say at least a little something, since I will be out of the blogosphere for 5ish days.

So, in light of the cranky pisserocity I'm feeling, I give you:

THINGS ON THIS EARTH THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST EXCEPT IN CARTOON FORM:

1. full-length mirrors (because cartoon mirrors are always fun and shiny and make you look glossy and clean; real full-length mirrors are weapons created by the same group of secret policemen who created scrunchies and patterned Keds...Sorry Mischa....Holy shit, what a fucking horrible site. If you didn't clicky on that link yet...don't; it's fingernails/blackboard quality.)
2. snakes
3. calamari

Okay, shit-on-shit, you caught me. I simply needed a circuitous way to express my disdain at full-length mirrors and bad retail lighting because they pissed me off for a solid 30-40 minutes today, even though I went nowhere near a clothing store (okay, fine, I was near The Gap at one point this evening, but let's not get manically technical). But I failed in my circuitocity (as opposed to, of course, Circuit City). Because let's be honest, I stole "snakes" from the whole Snakes on a Plane hully-gully, and cartoon calamari could be easily mistaken for:

a. a hula hoop
b. a blanched onion ring
c. a halo

And, let's face it, when angels wear seafood, we all die a little inside.

And with that, I'm going on vacation. And it will be sunny and warm, and insects will dance, and cats will fly, and chipmunks wearing lobster bibs will rise from the ashes and greet me with a Manhattan with two (no, three) cherries.

It could happen.

**And yes... in-real-life-full-length mirrors.

88 Crabapples for Pepsi Jazz

Today, I made one of the biggest mistakes of my silly little life.

It happened at the Store 24 (or, as I often say, the Sto' Twenty-Fo').

I was minding my own business, being thirsty, as I walked my radicool, liquid-hankerin' self to the drink cases. I decide that I want something awesome, something different and new, something that is not Fresca, and not Arizona Green Tea, and not any ol' brand of bottled water.

And then. AND THEN. And then it happened.

I reached for Pepsi Jazz: Strawberries and Cream.

What is Pepsi Jazz: Strawberries and Cream, you ask (nicely)?

Well, Pepsi Jazz: Strawberries and Cream is this...

a. awful fucking totally killa bad
b. offensive to humanity-at-large
c. a mixture of carbonation, sucralose, dogfood, Assorted Berry Tums, caramel-color, water, ester of wood resin, Red Dye #5, and pure devil-inspired sin.

After drinking three sips of the aforementioned poison, I scolded myself fiercely.
But see, I knew it was going to suck. I just thought that because it so obviously sounded and looked like it would taste like asshole-and-fishsauce-and-berries, that it might possibly be good.

I am NO LONGER (mark my words) giving ANYTHING the benefit of the doubt.
Rule of Thumb: If you look like you suck and you walk (sit in the cooler) like you suck, you, well, suck.

F you, Pepsi Jazz; my tastbuds are pissed.

16,532 Crabapples for the Return of the Leggings Leviathan

First off, I'd like to take a moment to expound upon my On Notice board.
And thank you, kate.d for seconding: LEGGINGS. Dontcha, dontcha, dontcha know? Leggings are wrong. And horrible. Actually, no... they were horrible in '89... They're just straight-up-smack-down unacceptable this time 'round.

If I saw a girl walking down the street wearing leggings (no, no, patterned leggings!) and ankle-strapped shoes and-and a SEQUINED BAG and-and-and A LUNCH BOX (okay, I don't know why she'd have a lunch box, and, actually, that might be kinda cool if it was maybe like a retro plastic TeenWolf lunchbox or something, but no, I mean, like, a plasticoated-lifevest-material flourescent green and pink Kooler bag model)... Yea, if I saw that... I would unapologetically bean her in the head with a mace tasteful pebble.

Your Takeaway: SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO many crabapples for leggings, all of their various hipster/punk/urbanoutfittery permutations, and everything that could possibly be paired with leggings.

What's next-- bodysuits?
I will. I will puke.
Don't test me, Irrefutably-Drunk-and-High-Fashion-Industry.

I know I began with "first off," but I'm too angry to continue.
When I see poor little Katie Holmes wearing leggings and a flippy-flouncy skirt, I will know the apocalypse is upon us.
Already, I hear horses.

**Flickr thanks to Malingering for capturing the horror.

1 Mulligan for Blatant Bandwagoning

I won't even be pretentious and call it a "meme"; In this case, I'm just a total follower.

80 Crabapples for Vague Curb Use

Rarely do I come upon a word I do not know.

For example, I just asked Jason: "Give me a word you think I do not know."

His reply: "Pedantic."

Me: "I know what that means."

Him: "I know. I got nothing for ya."

Exactly.

***

So, why am I bragging?
I'm not. It's just that I came upon a word I did not know the other day. And it was a simple word that I should know. A word as simple as "the" and "and" and "obseqious."

It is this: CURB.
In the context of "please curb your dog."
See:

[Flickr woo to sectionz.]

I see the signs all the time, and as a major dog person, I should know what that means, right? I mean, doggie jargon comes with the inherent love. Or should.
Like, does it mean to not have your dog poop at all (like, curb as in "stop")... or does it mean to pull him over to the actual physical curb to have him go?

I did not know.

So, I goog'ed.

I learned this:

Curbing is the polite term for a canine waste disposal method that really should be called the Shove-It-Into-the-Sewer approach. A curbed dog is one who's been taught to poop in the street, right by the curb, so that the next rainstorm can sweep his deposits into the nearest gutter. Once in the gutter, the poop and lots of other waste wind their way through a city's sewer system and, eventually, into nearby creeks, streams, and rivers. Those final destinations are one reason curbing is a questionable canine waste disposal method.

*Thanks to Housetraining for Dummies.

Really? Does anyone's dog actually know how to do this? Really? Or is this an antiquated practice? This just seems very difficult. And ridiculously lofty. And I do believe that it very well may stifle creativity.

When I get a dog one happy day, I will let him choose his spot of his own free will. And I will pick it up with a baggie and a smile.

180 Pineapples to a Couple of Jolly Dawgs

Dogs and dawgs alike, this post is for you.

So, just last night, Jason and I were discussing how both of our dads have a long-running joke about eating dogs.

Okay, wait, wait… I mean, like, both of our dads pretend to eat their own dogs. Or, like, hmm…. how do I make this not sound completely, completely twisted?
Here:
Both of our dads make jokes to their respective dogs like “look at that meaty leg of yours… I’m a’gonna eat it!”

Um, uh, just forget it.

Anyway, in reverence to whatever the fuck I just said, I have two dog things to show you.

First, there is this.

Then, there is this.

I like when the girl dog talks about liking red. AHAHAHAHA.
And the boy dog likes judo! That's classic comic elegance.
90 pineapples to each dog. And a pork&beef chewie stick.

59 Overly Referential Pineapples for The Grand Prix Cafe

There's this new coffee/panini/other stuff place that just opened on Mass Ave, right on the Cambridge-Somerville line, and I desperately want it to succeed.

Guess what it's called.

The Camberville Cafe?

NO.

Outsida Davis?

NOO.

Ummmm... The BookMonger?

No. But sorta close.

The Grand Prix Cafe.
True.

Okay, so why do I want this place to succeed so bad?
Simple. Their logo, which, if you look at the bigger version on their homepage, is actually smoke furls interwoven with a silver race car, makes me think of Futurist sculptor Boccioni, which forces me to then reference Nike of Samothrace, which is one of my favorite works in all-of-all-time-everywhere. But the whole shift relies on a common ol' coffee cup, which gives it this other cool pop-arty layer that isn't there on the Nike of Samothrace cum Unique Forms of Continuity in Space evolution.

Billowy becomes sleek, and movement is captured in metallic angles. It's like 6 degrees of dorky art history allusions...AND they have grilled chicken and pesto paninis.

Now tell me that's not a win-win.

26 Mulligans for Weird Mind-Over-Matter Bodily Condition Crap

Yo: This weekend was weird.

It started well&good enough, with some fantastico food on the patio at Croma, complete with sparkly red sangria and a 5-month old puggle sitting next to us. Her name was Mila and her mom said she is really cute when she swims; that, I do not doubt.

Anyway, then there was this odd incident with the cat across the street who is affectionately referred to as Krazy Kitty, but that's really neither nor nye-ther here nor there. More there, actually.
uhh. yup.

Okay, so. So I wake up on Saturday morning convinced that I had contracted some sort of madcow-birdflu palsy while I was sleeping. My right eye was drooping well below my nose, and my eyelid looked like a parka. Like parka-puffy. Quilted. You know.

Grow. OH. OH. Ess.
Gross.

And there was a little bug-bitey thing on it, so moral of this story is obviously that I got bit by a scorpion that was either residing in the fur of Mila or Krazy Kitty.

It went away by 6pm.
Whatev.

SO then at 8pm I decide to break out in icky lines of rash all over my arms. Bumpy lines. Red. Itchy. Disgusting.

To that, I say, "F that."

I also say (tersely): "Gross."

and, because my head is powerful and can do special things like make faeries (of the medieval variety, of course) out of pasta and other such tricks... I was able to freak out vehemently enough so that the rash got worse and worse and worse until it was so icky that i had to stop looking at or I was going to lose my cookies (or, actually, ice cream... i had had ice cream; yes).

it went away by midnight.

and then at 2am I had a firedrill and lost my keys and was super-sure (because I was raised as a conspiracy theorist) that i had left them in my door and someone in my building stole them and then pulled the fire alarm so they could rob me.

It was all too, too obvious.

I found them by 3am.


Sunday was fine, save for a small Existential crisis.
Hey, at least it's Monday.


**Oh, and that's not a puggle-dog. It looks more like a long-haired daschund mix type character, but there is a patio involved, so it's coo'. Thank you hsiqueira.

4 Pineapples for Not Reevaluating My Hatred of Large Poodles

I just noticed Blogger's new "Change Language" option.
Whaddya think-- Italiano?
Si? Oui!

Spurred by an unfortunate incident at work today in which I maowed through a container of tic-tacs in, hmmm, let's call it 45 seconds, while I may or may not have blacked-out... I have decided to compose a pert lil' list of unimportant shit that I am terrible at.

Henceforth, let's start with:

1. not eating (chewing furiously) the entire roll of lifesavers/certs/mentos or a whole container of tic-tacs within 12 minutes of purchasing them (esp. the lemon&lime kind, which is very European). Altoids I can hold onto, but merely because my mouth would likely shuck itself off in layers if I tried to be a 'toids rager.

2. also, not feeling kinda wicked stressed out that I ended the paragraph 2 above this one with a danglin' prep'.
whatever... that's where it's at.

And now, more things that I have mad bad skillz at (yo):

2. Resisting tarty magazines at the supermarket. I buy at least four every month. I'm talking Cosmo and its corresponding brethren.

3. Actually just ponying up and getting subscriptions to all of these magazines. Because that would be giving in.

4. Not silent-mouthing "i hate you i hate you i hate you" when I am merely trying to say it over and over in my head. This mostly happens when I am watching a sandwich-shop person make my sandwich wrong. Unwanted mayo makes me hateful. I also say it to most birds that aren't beautiful.

Also... [list over, btw] this morning I saw a regular poodle and I didn't like it at all. So, for those of you curious about the status of my poodle hatred, it's still thriving, though I'm doggedly working on it.

Yea....that's right... I said "doggedly." I didn't mean it... Let it go.

78 Crabapples for Not Liking Puns. At All.

Everyone's all talking about the heat and crap, so I will too. But the opposite. Sort of.

Okay, so, I have no hot water, which, at this point in the weather pattern of our Great Nation, can't really be considered a problem. Or, like, it can't be considered a problem that can be addressed in any way other than: "oh yea? shut the fuck up."

But a freezing cold shower is really not a lot of fun, games, or ponies however you spin it, so I called my building management company this morning to report the prob.

I begin: "I know this is kinda a wicked stupid thing to report, since it's, like, I don't know, 4 million degrees out... but I have no hot water."

Lady: "Is this an emergency?"

Me: "No. Of course not."
I titter a bit. Is she required by customer service script to ask that question or is she forcing me to confront my own lameness?

Lady asks for my name, address, blood type, ring size, etc.

Lady: "Okay... so you have no hot water. That's the problem, right?"

Me: "Yes."

Lady: "Is there a complex name?"

Me: "Wait, what?" [I chuckle like a nerd.] "You mean, like the name of the complex for people who complain about cold water in a ridiculous heat wave?" I break out into a full-on, punchy giggle. (Listen... I'm fricking tired.)

Lady: [now stern] "No. The name of your apartment complex."

I think: "She hates me so wicked bad."
I say: "I don't think there is one."

Lady: "No?"

I think: "I think no?"
I say: "Like, like The Colonnade or The Riverside or something?

Lady: "Yes."

Me: "Okay, yea...No."

Lady: [skeptical at this whole exchange] I'll file a report. [hangs up.]

I don't expect to wash dishes in anything but ice water tonight.


**Flickr nod to Adonis Chen. Would someone like to look into this movie further? I fear that I should not do so at work today.

55 Crabapples for a Complete Lack of Grace

Thanks to Salon's Video Dog, I had a chance to use some exciting and multifarious curse words this morning!

As you watch this video, I recommend tying your hands with twine or rubber bands (or your headphone wires, as I opted for) so that you can quell the uncontrollable need to punch your computer screen trying to punch Nancy Grace, but then need to punch yourself because punching tech equipment isn't fulfilling enough and you need to punch flesh.

Just watch. And be proud of Elizabeth. And send Nancy evil mindvibes that could wipe out a village.

48 Mulligans for the FDA

Lollygagging, lolligagging...
But vaguely promising.

I could make snippy comments about each one of these bullet points, especially the packaging bullshit, but it's too early... so I'll let y'all do that yourselves (courtesy of msnbc.com):

"Before the FDA can reconsider Barr’s application, the company must make the following changes:

* Restrict sales of the medication to women 18 and older, not 16 as it had sought.
* Package the nonprescription and prescription versions of the pill differently, though both would be kept behind the pharmacy counter.
* Provide details on how the age restriction would be enforced and on its plan to restrict sales to certain pharmacies."

And btw, 48 mullys is my absolute limit.
So, uh, FDA, don't make me pull out a crabber.