80 Pineapples for a San Francisco Treat That Doesn't Involve a Creepy Hand-Puppet-Thing Pawning Rice

Guess What?!

What what what what? UMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

Jason and I just booked tickets to go to San Francisco.
I have never been to California.
Or anywhere remotely near it, for that matter.

In January.
I have heard that it will be warmer than here.

Now, everyone give me travel advice and shit to do.

Maybe a Pineapple or Two, Maybe Not

Tonight I'm heading to Martsa on Elm for dinner.

If I get back and feel all talky about it, I will tell you what I got and if it was good and so on.

If I get back and don't feel like it, I will ignore the subject altogether in my post tomorrow.

On an unrelated note, the goal is to get out my first podcast up over at BMA tomorrow, all clean and shiny and new. So yea, it'll be cool.

4 Pineapples for Turning All of My Posts into Prose Poems Because I'm Outta Juice

I never wanted a pony when I was growing up.
I always wanted a metal detector.

When I was in Kindergarten (a German word meaning "child garden"), I stood at the bottom of the fireman-pole-thing on the jungle gym, wearing a plaid jumper, and got red-level-pissed that I couldn't slide down the pole in my white tights.

I can't wait until everything is wireless. If there's one thing I hate it's wires. If there's two things I hate, then the second is mushrooms. Especially floppy ones.

The weekend weatherman on NBC looks like a pale, shriveled potato.
I can't look directly at his head.

800 Crabapples for Paris and Brit in Leopard

I'm so fucking bored of blogging right now that I could kick a bird.

A half-hearted pineapple to Michael Vick for his half-hearted apology.
Whatever, we're over it.

800 crabapples to Paris and Britney's newfound BFF status. Dude, Brit, that dress is just plain stupid.

My head hurts.

Um, okay, focus.

300 pineapples for my anticipation of Casino Royale. But 82 crabapples to psychoanal "fans" who nitpick like Canadian Geese over tiny mistakes. Shut up and enjoy the movie. I'm betting it is awesome.

HA! Look at that beagle jump with the stuffed bunny. HA!

Fuck.
I'm still totally blog bored.

16 Mulligans For Those of Us Rendered NFTB By Any Means

I'd like to use my post today to expound upon a topic that I brought to light yesterday, slumped on my couch, feeling un-tastic.

Yes indeed: NFTB.

The concept of Not Fit To Blog could be quite useful in the judicial system, falling just about smack-dab-center in the spectrum of Normal Person to Criminally Insane.

In my opinion, a severe case of NFTB is far worse than NFTUOC(P).
Not Fit To Use One's Cell Phone.

But it is less severe than NFTGNBANDI.
Not Fit To Go Near Bleach And Not Drink It.

It hovers right around NFTBTNTGOAYRWASAS, but proves to be far more concrete and traceable.
[If you couldn't figure that one out, that would be:
Not Fit To Be Trusted Not To Go Outside And Yell Random Words At Squirrels And Shrubs.]

See? NFTB is a perfect middle ground.

If the Supreme Court ends up implementing this (which they assuredly will), I expect royalties.

I'll buy you all lunch.

A Mulligan, Etc, and So On.

I'm NFTB right now.

That's right.
Not Fit To Blog.

But you can all go ahead and consider this a post.

I already used up my "blah blah blah" schtick, so this is all I can muster.

Real words tomorrow. Promise.

68 Pineapples for Impaling Your Enemies

Even though I wouldn't go near a store today even if you promised me free soft serve ice cream and a vat and a half of Maker's, I will kick off the shopping season by adding an item to my Christmas List.

It is this.

Obviously I want the dog one.

Also, even though I don't want this personally, I think this may be the perfect gift for my godson. He is 7.

Talk about awesome copy: "The Avenging Unicorn Play Set has everything you need to use the power of the unicorn to rid your life of irritations! Put the posable, hard plastic unicorn on a flat surface and then impale one of three soft plastic figures included (businessman/boss, new age lady and mime)."

I just love the word impale.

Also: New Age Lady.
Someone define that.

[photo cred]

14 Pineapples for Lolita and Pie

I'm watching Lolita. The Kubrick version. It is a Thanksgiving classic.

Hope everyone enjoyed their turkey and pie.

Not to brag or anything, but my carrots were crinkle-cut.

12 Pineapples for Real Cranberry Sauce.

Blah blah blah Thanksgiving blah snoopy balloon blah blah gravy blah.

Blah blah I don't even like stuffing (so very sorry, Kate), blah blah but I do blah blah squash blah.

Turkey!

Blah blah narcotics and blah vodka shots blah blah.

Thanksgiving blah: May the blah be thanksful blah.

19 Crabapples for Fitness Lips

This is just to say:

If you wear glaring hot pink lipstick at the gym, you should be shot dead. In front of all of the other gym-goers. With your body left as blatant evidence of what went wrong.

Come on, lady, you could tell it was freshly applied.
Prissface on fire.

10 Pineapples for the Frog

I've been an absolute weirdo since I woke up this morning.
Mostly because "woke up" is loose phrasing for today.
Instead, I think I've been at about 40% capacity of aliveness, tops.
My head has spent every minute since 7am questioning the ground, the sky, and this dull, throbbing ache which has slowly and effectively emcompassed the upper right-hand quadrant of my head.

It's been the type of day when I'm just sitting there, working on something, and suddenly it becomes completely crucial for me to know the average life span of a daschund (12-13 years; see, I'd think they die young) or a donkey (45!), or the percentage of Americans who currently own a gerbil/hamster (approx 2%).
Okay, maybe not "crucial," but more "generally helpful in the propulsion of the day at-large."

And now I'm sitting here drinking hazelnut coffee (which I don't like), while watching Deal or No Deal (which I loathe) in a definitive act of lack of a better idea.

[On a side note, I hate this Kay Jewelers commercial with the old movie and the diamond circle pendant. It makes me gag audibly. I'd go so far as to say "wretch."]

I think this all started because I saw this leaf on the way to work that I was certain was a dead frog. But it wasn't. It was a leaf (as I said at the beginning of this paragraph, thereby ruining the story). But yea, and then I was disappointed. Not because the frog wasn't dead, but that it wasn't a frog at all. See?

And I could read, I guess. But the book I'm reading chronicles the dissolution of a marriage. And the crumbling of a family.
That probably won't help.

And it's strange. Because I'm in a fantastic mood. Just foggy and amazingly unfocused.

Tomorrow I'll try wearing bright colors. And loud shoes. And possibly finger cymbals?

Whatever. I probably just need more biotin.

58 Pineapples for the CCAE

I look forward to it every season like a very good child waiting for a soft-baked cookie.

The Cambridge Adult Education Catalog.

The thing's a certified riot.

I swear they string eight random words together in some sort of fucked-up Surrealist drinking game and then call it a class.

For example, I give you (from the Winter catalog):

Covering Up with Native Vines
[huh? Is this gardening or Creationism?]

The Methods of Psychology of Succeeding with Your Boss and Succeeding as a Boss
[This should obviously be split into two classes. I absolutely assure intra-hierarchy wartime here.]

Adult Children of Alcoholics
[Adult children? Wait; What? I thought I understood that class, but no. Okay, wait, yea, okay, I get it, but it's badly worded.]

The Educated Back
[yea, like, your back. Meh?]

Change Your Inner Talk: Change Your World
[I'm just gonna leave that one alone.]

Nightclub Two-Step [aka "Grinding Up on Others in a Group Setting"]

Passion & Purpose: Creating a Road Map for the Rest of Your Life
[In a Saturday afternoon? Suuuuure, I fucking dare you.]

Appalachian Dulcimer for Beginners [What?! No advanced section??]

The Possibilities of Polenta [REALLY? I mean, uhhh, intriguing?]

Full Body Massage Techniques with a Partner [um, because that's not awkward.]


Winter term begins January 8th. Go ahead, enrich yourselves.

A Mixed Basket Of Pines and Crabs for Debatable Cuteness

Sometimes I love cute things, and sometimes I don't.
See, here's how it is:

A few weeks ago, I came across this site, which, apparently, is one of the highest trafficked sites out there in this vast webbynet. That I did not know; seriously, I hadn't even heard a whisper of buzz about it.

Then again, I typically avoid blogs about the following (but not limited to):

1. Babies, especially babies just sitting doing nothing, drooling all over themselves. If your baby can hand-jive and name all of the presidents chronologically, then perhaps I want to hear about it. Perhaps not.
[Listen, I responsibly read all of the baby posts in my "regular" round of blogs, and sometimes I even genuinely admit cuteness and glee; however, as a rule, consider me unmoved. Sure, this may change; I understand that.]

2. Kittens. Now, Kate, this in no way knocks Friday Cat Blogging. In fact, I very much look forward to Friday Cat Blogging. (Where was yesterday's, huh?) Because Kate is witty and quirky about it. What I just can't tolerate: "Look at my pretty kitty. Ain't she darling? I bought her a cat toy and she used it!!! SEE?"
Yea, no shit. And yea, I fucking see.

3. Pining for Love. Now, I need to qualify this one, too. Because one of my favorite regular reads is Charming But Single, which, at heart, is a search-4-luv blog. BUT, butbutbut, Charming is sharp and wry and vulnerable, which is the polar opposite of the gratingly lachrymose blogs I loathe:
If I don't find my Mr.Right within, like, 6 minutes, then I am convinced that I am an undesirable, insufferable, scabby fatty.
Listen, finding love is hard. It will continue to be. For all of us.
Now go ahead and shut the fuck up.


So, back to the post at hand: how do I feel about Cute Overload?
Really great actually.
I mean, I don't want to visit it everyday. But sometimes they have puppies that you could just eat up they're so adorable. And puppies are at least 17 times cuter than kittens, at the least.

That's just true.

[flickr thanks to Tostie14.]

1 Mulligan for One Davis Square

For those of you in the Boston area, remember One Davis Square? Okay, fine, I live here and I don't either... I mean, I think it was brown, and maybe some brick. Or stucco. Or not. I don't know.

Um, anyway, this is what it looks like now.
A gaping hole, representing fear, death and nuanced apocalyptic memories of dismemberment, blood-stained trousers, and hidden jewels.

Mmm hmm.

I wonder what it will be now?? I hope it's an ice skating rink with an ice cream stand and a hookah lounge and a petting zoo. And a beach.
Definitely a beach.

1550 Pineapples for This Dog

I met this dog at Starbucks today.

I do not know what her name is, but she's quite pretty.

Also, she has a cup right next to her, so I assume her to be a beggar.

Unless that cup is for water, in which case I feel bad for dropping in a nickel.

Sure, Pineapples, Yea. How about 12? Great.

So sometimes I like to type in random crap into my browser to see if they are real sites.

Whatever. Shut up.

So, recently I have learned:

www.dogfood.com: owned by PetSmart
www.uglyiguana.com: a website design company
www.treesaregood.com: homepage of the International Society of Arboriculture
www.dragshowpuppets.com: nope. damn it.
www.lollipopcircus.com: fuck. nothin'.
www.sandwichorburrito.com: I'm buying that domain.
www.logicalkitten.com: This game is getting less fun.
www.magicaloatmeal.com: F. F you. Fine. No more compund URLs.
www.muffin.com: muffin stuff. super lame.
www.takealongwalkoffashortpier.com: HA. Not even kidding... Business and government software.
www.dude.com: NOT A SITE?!

And neither is www.dudethatscool.com.

I am a certifiable waste of space.

Desiring a Mulligan.

I want to go back to Paris.
I mean, come on, look at this.

Also, I had nearly forgotten how big the Eiffel Tower is.
See? It is very big.

Now I am all filled with wanting.

First Want: a hot crepe with powdered sugar from a street vendor.

Second Want: a long stare at Notre Dame.

Third Want: a walk along the Champs-Elysees, preferably with a light drizzle and slight fog.

gosh.

5 Mulligans for 5 Things, None of Which Are Even Real Topics

1. I don't even really love cheeseburgers, but I just saw a commercial for the new Wendy's double jalapeno burger, and I just drooled all over my pajama pants.
Gross. And gross.

2. Let me clarify my Iron Chef prediction from yesterday. Fine, I was very wrong. BUT ....(Tom and Samantha)... I do not like Mario. It's really that simple. He and his crazy red ponytail can pony themselves right into the Crocs store. And wade in buckets of hard colored plastic ugiliciousness. And then he can wrap himself in endive leaves and a port reduction and wallow in his overgrown sideburns.

3. Hey STORES, don't make me think about Christmas yet.

4. I think my favorite kind of cake is white cake with chocolate frosting. I was thinking about this today after ruminating thoroughly upon Erin's cake tasting experience. Thank you, Erin, for inspiring me to do such rigorous soul-searching.

5. What's a good housewarming gift for a guy? [Jason, pretend you don't read my blog; also, you are not allowed to comment with "a hot car."]

25 Pineapples for the Joy of Miniature Baking

I fondly remember the small brownies, the small cakes, the small cookies, the small pan, the small heat lamp thingy... and the small joy of making a fun treat out of powdered chemicals, dirty fingers, and love.

Congratulations to the Easy Bake Oven for being inducted into the National Toy Hall of Fame!

That's great and everything; I mean, bravo, etc... But the fact that this induction made NPR headlines? Hmm. Are we really in that much of a post-election news dip?


ALSO: Tonight on Iron Chef... Giada de "Huge Noggin, Lil' T-Rex Arms" Laurentiis vs. Miss OverPerked Rachael Ray. My money's on Giada.

[flickr thanks to E. Witcher.]

3 Mulligans for My Asshole of a Knee

The Indian cooking experiment last night went very well taste-wise, although my counters and kitchenware are now permanently jaundiced. Also, I'm pretty certain that my apartment will smell strongly of curry powder and tumeric for at least the next 16 centuries.

So, I haven't blogged about this yet because it makes me pissy and unlikeable, but I need to...

My knee is broken. Major kaput.
What this means is that I can't run on it. And for those who know me even in the slightest capacity, you know that this makes me unconsolably sad and angry.

In fact, for the past two months since this injury occurred, I am convinced that my eyes have hardened into apoplectic slits; it's all I can do to not throw potted plants at people as they walk by simply because they are people and I am currently a wild, unreasonable wench.

I am trying to be nice; I really am. And I am being better with this than with past injuries (which is absolutely frightening). But I still get so fired-up every time I see someone running and I can't that I want to grab them and throw them to the ground and hold them there with my heel and get all in their face and scream "DO YOU APPRECIATE THIS? DO YOU APPRECIATE YOUR TWO GOOD FUCKING KNEES? HUH? HUH? YEA. I FUCKING THOUGHT SO. YOU ASS."

Thankfully, my (now yellow-curry-flavored) kitchen cabinets are stocked with vicodin and wine. And more vicodin.

And to everyone I have mentally or physically bitch-slapped in the past 2 months, please don't take it personally.
Even though I hate you.

112 Pineapples for the Glory of Paint Fumes

I walked out of my apartment into my hallway today and smelled the sweetest smell there is...

Fresh Paint.

So yummy.

I don't care... oil paints, house paint, spray paint... it's all delicious to my nose.

My close runner-up is a campfire, but those are harder to come by in Somerville.

Tonight I'm attempting to make Indian food, so the mix of smells should be absolutely awe-inspiring.

199 Crabapples for the Fact that THIS Almost Made Me Kill Myself.

Now I am going to try to learn how to put this in a feed.

And then I am going to make podcasts for Wiffiti Blog. And then real podcasts for here, too.

I am sweating.

Podcasts are harder than I thought.
This blogging shit seems like cake now.

Podcasters, I raise my glass.
If I hadn't already smashed it on the ground in horrifying tech-anger.

I am now so psyched. Stay tuned for CFCasts.

6 Mulligans for the Old Lady Who Kicked My Ass With Her Ug Green Car

We all have a list of special "firsts":
First Kiss
First Real-Person Job
First Hangover
First Time Eating Biscuits and Scrambled Eggs [gaaaaaaaaaaaahyum]
First Time You Started Questioning "Life" on a Daily Basis

Sure.

Well, today I added a new one to my personal tally:
First Time Getting Hit by a Car

Now, understand me here, I've been in more car accidents than you can shake a dangling bumper at, but I've never had this happen...

I'm walking to work this morning through Davis Square, waiting to cross the street by the Somerville Theater. Walk light walkifies. As I step off the curb, the car in the righthand lane goes. Directly into my thigh. You betcha. I look the driver in the eye: a 482-year-old woman wearing a dumb hat and glasses as thick as all get-out. Still, she does not stop. Meh. So, I hoist myself up onto her hood. And then she notices. And starts screaming... "I'm sooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrry OH MY GOD, Oh MY God!"

Yea, that's pretty much the end of it. It was fine. I'm fine. Moo.

I continued my walk to work, and was slightly weirded out for a half-hour or so, because, like, that was weird.

But, by 10am, I'm thinking, "wow, rad, I got hit by a car today..."

"Sweet... NaBloPoMo is all set for tonight."

Also, I have a neato bruise on my ass, which is pretty cool.

50 Crabapples for So-Not-a-Bake-Sale

I have a bone to pick.

"With crying babies?" you ask.

No.
But almost kinda close.

With Bake Sales.
Or, at least, with the Bake Sale I ended up at today.

I voted at an elementary school today on my lunchbreak. Because I was trading foodage with voteage, when I saw the glitter and puff paint "Bake Sale Today" sign, I followed it. I thought, "yayaaa, I will get a homemade cupcake with sprinkles and green frosting and sugary doo-dads. Maybe there will even be a frosting-outlined picture of a cat or a bell or something on it"
YO BITCH: WRONG.

Instead, on the table, I see:
1. "Brownie Bites" brand brownie bites
2. Little baggies of Chex Mix
3. Single-serve packages of Chewy Chips Ahoy (which..fine...are very good, but...)
4. Juice Boxes
5. A tray of individually-packaged PB Cups.

What the fuck?

I mean, whatever, I know "people are busy" and crap, but then don't call it a fricking Bake Sale. Call it what it is: a wicked shitty convenience store in a smelly elementary school lobby.

Moooooo.


[So, what's up with the pic? Well, I was searching for "cookie" on Creative Commons, and instead found this Cookie. Thanks go to Jose Oliveira.
Also... Brit, nice call with the filing for divorce thing. Long overdue.]

880 Pineapples for a New Kirstie

Kirstie Alley: what. is. up?

Ser'sly... a velvet bikini on Oprah? (You can view the vid there, too.)

She's 55. She just lost, like, 4 jajillion pounds.
Kirstie, I don't even honestly like you all that much on a general level, but daaaaaaamn girl... you, like, GO.

So, in the post below (see below), I requested input for a wine bar with a fireplace and some accompanying friends to come play with Jenny and I.
AHEM.
Un-naploblopomomono yourselves and join in!

100,000 Pineapples for Slithy Toves and Sauvignon Blancs

I had such a wonderful weekend.
I really did.

The Morrill Mansion in Portland was brimming with unreal awesomeocity. The place was immaculater than immaculate, with unbelievable attention to detail. The bed was so very comfy, and it was topped with a softer-than-baby-chick blanket. There were fresh-baked brownies in the sitting room. The furniture in all of the rooms was gorgeouser than gorgeous. We had a jacuzzi tub. There were chocolates in a little container on the side table by the window (with a view of the water). There was a homemade buffet breakfast with scones and apple crisp and eggs and the-best-oatmeal-bread-my-mouth-has-ever touched. And tasty coffee. There was a cute little (real live) pug with his tongue just a little too long for his mouth. They offered a nice selection of DVDs to watch if you wanted. There were bronze horse statues. The shampoo smelled like candied lemon and eucalyptus. And the innkeeper, David, was probably the nicest man... like, in the world.

So that part was pretty good.

I have a couple pictures, but I need to wait until my Official Blog Photographer hooks me up.

We ate dinner at Fore Street, which was seriously-you-shut-up good. It was an open kitchen, so you could see the cooks going to the veggie closet and getting fresh ingredients... and pulling rustic bread loaves out of the big brick oven... and grating cheese right from the block onto salads. I could go on and on and on. And on. I won't, but I will say that I had [excellent] swordfish with bacon and onions and roasted turnips. It's hard to make turnips memorable; but, with a tart cider glaze, these were.

And Jason had a venison ragout thing that he definitely would have taken home and made love to if it wouldn't have made a mess on the nice sheets.

Then we went to a wine bar (aptly named "The Wine Bar," and sat in front of a cozy fireplace on cush-chairs).

We spent the rest of the night at The Purple Caterpillar, an Alice-and-Wonderland-BeatGen-and-Beatles hookah lounge. We had vanilla. And I was put to shame by Jason's fresh-from-Dubai shisha skillz.
Bonus: Jabberwocky written on the wall in the bathroom so it could be read rightways in the mirror.

The bounty we brought back: 7 bottles of wine from Old Port Wine Merchants. The owner, (a Georgian named Jacques) was possibly the nicest man in the world...
next to David the innkeeper, of course.
Trying to get ahold of a hard-to-find wine? Call him: 207.772.WINE.
As a side note, I wish that was my phone number.

I am sad that it is Sunday night, because I wanted to stay forever and ever and ever. And now I have the stressful task of switching back and forth between the Pats and Iron Chef.

But this weekend:
'Twas [totally] brillig.

133 Crabapples for Someone Stealing Kanye's Binkie*

Oh, Kanye, you fucking huge fucking baby.

Someone needs a simple lesson in an art of picking your battles.


*I hate the word "binkie."

23 Pineapples for a Less-Than-24-Hours Vaca

I don't typically write about my blahblah(blah) day-to-day, but tonight I have little else.
So.

While dinner is cooking (salmon with JB honey bourbon glaze and baked cajun sweet potatoes... TAKE THAT, Bobby Flay), I'd like to show you where I'm going this weekend:
It is here. If you want to stop by, we'll be staying the the Back Cove Room. Come!

Yea... don't.

But if you want to have fun anyway this weekend, I suggest you get this.
And watch it in stupified amazement as it blossoms into hardened spherical iridescence.
And wantonly drink the liquid in the can like they tell you not to.


[photo cred.]

3 Crabapples for Being All Self-Referential, and Not in a Cool Magritte Way

I am a bad person and I suck at NaBloPoMo.

This is the last time I will do *this* just to have a post.

I'll be honest: I am betting that I fail in this game.
Perhaps even tonight.

4 Mulligans for the YMCA, 02144

Tonight, I went swimming at the Somerville YMCA, and:

1. The woman at the front desk asks me, "you're a high school student, right?" [no.]

2. The old man in the lane next to me spent at least 30 minutes doing handstands in the exact center of the pool. [what a diva.]

3. The guy sharing my lane wore a white swimsuit. [you moron.]

4. I forgot a towel so had to dry myself with the stupid hand dryers. [which blew cold air.]

But overall a wonderful experience.


On a sidenote, know those new Pampers diapers with "caterpillar flex"? I would die for a pair of black pants with that.