2 Crabapples and a Possible Recant for the Man in Tube Socks

Loyal readers may recall my pedestrian-bashing rant a few months back, in which I declared my seething disdain for people who abuse their right to press the walk light.

This post was tagged by Universal Hub, resulting in some very nice people informing me that some people are handicapped and require a walk light. True; however, these kind readers missed the point. I am a HUGE fan of using the walk light for its designed purpose. I am not, conversely, a fan of people using the light to purposely make me want to yell, cry, and then possibly kill myself after swiftly doing away with them.

So, today, I got my case in point. Sort of.

I'm driving home from work, and I enter the No-WEEI zone of Mass Ave, an annoying stretch that runs from the Cambridge line a little ways into East Arlington; this zone gives me only static... and about 15 traffic lights within 400 yds. It is about 7:15 and the game has just started. I would like to listen. Even more, I would like to get home because I would like to see what this spankin' new pitcher looks like, and I am hungry (which makes me mean).

I am stopped at a no-right-on-red red light. Dorky man and petite woman standing on the curb, markedly not together. All lights are red, all cars stopped, but no walk light is lit. The nice lady walks; I applaud in my head. The guy stays. I start to get angry. All the lights stay red (nice lady is fully across). Guy is pressing the walk light button like he really-really wants the Funyons outta the snack machine and he thinks by stabbing the button they will fall down. I would prefer that he stop pressing and begin walking, so that I may go when my light turns and not fear his death.

My windows are down and he is next to me on my passenger's side, so in the most immature, passive-aggressive manner possible, I say under my breath, "I hate you"... and then proceed to repeat it at least 23 times. I tap my wheel with my thumb fourteen times... still waiting. It is now clear that the lights may be broken, or at least the walk signal is being an asshole, so after 3-4 more passes of whispered "walk like the lady walked, you fucking toolbox," I say out my window, "Sir, you can go ahead. I think the lights are being weird." He stops from his walklight finger-stabbing, looks at me sidelong, and crosses the street.

It is then I notice this particular toolbox was wearing gym shorts, tube socks, and a plaid shirt. I instantly feel remorse for my anger, for he is very troubled. And then came the musical crescendo and startling revelation, complete with floating gold glitter and perfectly melty brie.

I realized, "This man does not know. He does not know that anyone who is not the natural offspring of Larry Bird and Paul Bunyan should not wear such a combination. And thus, he also does not know that the walk light should not be used to toy with my emotions, cause me permanent mental scarring, and make me want to pull cocoons down from trees and crush them under my heel.

He simply did not know this.

I am a more complete and altruistic woman tonight.
For this, I thank you, Mr.Bird-Bunyan.


17 Pineapples for a Strong Male Lead

Quick!-- What's the worst thing in the world?



Uhhh... Cream soda!


Tuna packed in oil instead of water!


Catching your girlfriend fucking someone else on the sidewalk!



11 Pineapples for Mattie Clement

I know, I know, I knooooow... you want to nail his bony ass with brass bookends shaped like trees.

Cool, cool, me too...
But, hey, listen up.

Matt Clement can teach us many things. Among them, how to give up 9 hits, 4 walks, 8 runs in one game, and also manage to get drilled hard as shit by Bernie Williams in your ankle, and then calmly say: "I'm frustrated" rather than "I fucking suck ass wicked bad." See? Now, that's self-respect.

Another lesson: timing.

And here starts the story (you knew there'd be a story):
So I'm listening to Dennis and Callahan on my way to work this morning, and they're talking about this cool project that one of the interns is working on. They've been having the kid maintain a spreadsheet tracking the time between each of Clement's pitches (starting between 1&2, since 0&1 would include extraneous 'tween batters flimflam). So, you know how Clement is very homely looking and a little bit totally scary? Well, yea, and then sometimes, when he gets in real trouble, it feels like he is taking about 6 hours between pitches and he rubs that ball like he really wants to eat the creamy nougaty inside but isn't allowed to eat the creamy nougaty inside unless he first rubs all the leather off with his fingers in a completely unnerving way?

Yea, well that's actually true. The "he takes a long time" thing, not the cadbury cream egg metaphorical shit.

So, in short... the results of this cool analysis:
When he's going strong and pulling strikes: 20-21 seconds between pitches.
When the likes of Cabrera and Jeter scare him and he starts to pee his tight white pants a little: 38+ seconds between pitches.
Almost double! And the consistency of this study, over multiple games, is staggering.

The lesson here seems like it's gearing up to be something terrifically trite and Madonna-esque: "Get into the Groove"?
Nopers. Sorry Madge.

The lesson is this: Dave Wallace, you've done this same analysis, right?



40 Pineapples at the First Commercial Break

Two quick wardrobe comments:

1. Katharine McPhee has on black pants that make her ass look unbelievable. I'm talking fantastic. What's that site where you can get Hollywood knock-offs for not a bagillion dollars? Shopbop.com? Is that right? Because I think I would even pay a bagillion.
And, yes siree bobby, "the bagill" is a newly added button on your local ATM.

2. Taylor's purple velvet jacket is gross and scary. Way, waaaay too metrosexual Catholic priest on Easter.



91 Crabapples for Falafel Foolishness

So, today I was thinking about that horror story for little kids where the young girl walks around with a ribbon around her throat at all times and will never take it off... and then, at the very end, she takes it off and her head falls off.
Wait-- does that story actually exist?
Yes. Right? Yes? Yes.

Okay, and because that is what i've been thinking about... well, that... along with an uncontrollable craving for chicken nuggets and a raging urge to jump on an outdoor trampoline... I've chosen to steal someone else's story tonight. Believe me-- it's safer this way.

This story comes by way of one of my coworkers. For this purpose, let's call him "Mark," even though his real name is Dan.
Oh shit. Sorry Dan.

So, "Mark" leaves to get lunch. Noble so far, right? Right? Yes.

Now, I will move to the part of the story that is narrated by "Mark", who has so kindly given me permission to use his retelling of the story, since I, like, wasn't there, etc.

Here goes:

*** i was at soundbites with "Tom" (Steve) and "Joey" (Max), it's a breakfast/lunch place...we go there often for lunch.

usually they pass out lunch [mostly middle-eastern specialties] and breakfast [american diner food] menus, they look the same except one is yellow and one is orange. last week a co-worker told me the middle eastern combo is the best thing to get there. i usually get an omelet.

today i wanted to try the combo though, and they didn't pass out the lunch menu. I thought that was just a mistake.

the owner takes our order.
they order breakfast, i nonchalantly order hummus, falafel and taboulleh combo. the owner looks startled for a brief second but writes it down and takes the order no problem.

20 minutes later as we are eating. a woman from two tables away comes right over to me. she asks me in a really annoyed and insistent tone:

"what is that?" "is that falafel?"

me: "yes"

"WHERE did you order that? i didn't see it on the menu."

me:"i didn't see it on the menu either. actually it's on the lunch menu and we didn't get one."

"oh. well now I'm REALLY ANGRY."

she storms away and makes her way to the owner.

"You gave him the falafel because you are sexist and he's a man!!"

owner: "No I am not sexist I treat woman better than I treat men!"

customer: "Yes you are"

owner: "No I am not. You can sue me!!"

customer: "You must know him and that's why you gave him the falafel combo lunch"

owner: "No I do not know him. I never met him.
owner (directly to me): "Have I ever met you in my life before, Mr?"

me: (instinctively keeping my head down at this point): "no"

owner: "You see I have never met him. You can sue me."

customer: "I will."

during this whole thing their voices were raised really loud and the whole rest of the cafe (about 25 tufts students) was silent while the two of them were yelling and pointing at my plate from opposite sides of the room.

after it dies down the owner went over to the woman and said "I am sorry for raising my voice towards you..(she gives him nasty look here I think, and then he says)...but you can still SUE ME!"


I'm back. See? A fab story if you're gonna steal a story. (thanks dan)

SO SO SO... who can guess why this story made me throw my pen down on my desk (a Vytorin pen that, incidentally, I stole from the UPS guy by accident after he asked for it back twice and I still habitually tucked it into my ponytail... and...what's Vytorin? Oh, and the pen is sooo so smooth...) and get angry inside?

Here's why:
Lady, do not throw down the sexist card when it so obviously had nothing to do with your damn gender. You...uh... didn't order it. Stop it with the whole "that man is mean to women" bullshit. He'll start being mean to you if you keep up the 'tude though... not because you're female, but rather because you're fricking obnoxious.

I have two more things to say (because I always have two more things to say):

1. Lady, who needs falafel that badly? I mean, falafel's cool and everything, but, honestly, like, not that cool. Or, more importantly, not that rare; actually, it's not rare at all. Not at all. It's chick peas...or fava beans. Or something that comes in a can for 50 cents. And then fried. And you're upset? Stop it. And anyway, it's not like you woke up in the morning and the first thing you thought was "wow, hey now, the sun's out...54 degrees...FALAFEL!! How dearly I want FALAFEL!!" Did that happen? No, no it didn't. You know it didn't. And if it did, know what you could have done? Yup: asked for falafel. You ordered eggs or whatever because eggs or whatever were fine. and you kinda wanted eggs anyway (don't even tell me you didn't).

2. How sad am I that I wasn't there to see that in person? Very.
Because I think I would have been 89% tempted to either:
a. throw my fork in the air and yell "brown cow, brown cow, blue duck, aaaaand knickers!"... simply to create an equivocally absurd situation to what was happening around me.
b. start yelling at the top of my lungs that the restaurant owner guy was the best lover I had ever had... and he ALWAYS treated me like a lady. And fed me falafel. in bed.

but, um, only if I had the proper orange menu.


43 Pineapples for not having that scary hair like in the Lady Marmalade video

Enough already.
"I wanna be Apple... i wanna... i waaaanna..."
No, bitches, you can't.

That's like dressing up like Marilyn Monroe for halloween. And, like, being for real about it.

Wait, that just happened.
And, to give credit where credit's due...
Hats off to Christina. And, um, everything else.

In other news, I'm happy to see Lil' Ashlee and Ms.Christina back to their blond ways. The world is round again.


232 Pineapples for Ben

ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod...

I got home from work tonight to find a hugeass box blocking the entryway into my apartment building. I look down. It's addressed to me! Jayne!

I think: "Jayne, did you order something?"

I answer: "Yes. Running shoes."

I think: "Are they that big?" (as in, bigger than your standard 3 year-old child).

I answer: "No. For I am not Shaq."

So, I look at the return address: Hasbro Toy Shop.

Holy shit... wicked fun.

I think: "Did I order one of those robot dogs when I was drunk?"

I answer: "Yes, you definitely did. Cool."

100% convinced.

So I walk up the stairs, and promptly drop the large package right back down the flight of stairs. (I kid you not).

I say: "Sorry my new puppy."

I walk the box up the stairs -successfully this time- and skip to my apartment (no, no, really... okay, wait, no one thinks i'm kidding). I throw the puppy-to-be on my bed and run for my scissors. I rip through the tape and scuffle aside the styropeanuts...

WHAT????!!! No puppy?

Nope. Better!!!

The entire Play-Doh Make-a-Meal factory!!! Complete with an oven, a grill, a pasta machine, a taco station, a toaster that really pops up Play-Doh toast, and... a lunch box! Whaaaaaat?

See, right? Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!

And a card: "A gift from Ben"

Ben!!! This is the best thing ever. I was still feeling greatly indebted to you for changing my tire on that 168 degree day when I just wanted to go to Dairy Queen. Not to mention all the times you were purposefully late to our 1:20 class so you could catch the last 10 minutes of Elimidate for me. And all the times you convincingly humored me into thinking my windingly odd diagrams about Chaucer and dogs and post-modernism made any semblance of sense... Seriously, thank you!

Remember a few weeks back when I was complaining about eating tomatoes for dinner and longing for Play-Doh cavatappi and hamsteaks? Now I can have them! Every night!

My favorite part? My new oven has only two settings: boil and fry. HA.


75 Pineapples for a Kat MacPhee La-Di-Da

Quick note during the commercial break:

Katharine McPhee is back!
I just cried--- cried, i tell ya ---during her rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow".
Also: She's pretty.

Erstwhile, Taylor's rendition of "You Are So Beautiful" left something to be desired.
Why did the judges just dole him pineapples? I hereby express my full disagreement.

And while I have their attention... Paula: I've memorized your "Opposites Attract" video-- the one with the jazzy ska cartoon cat -- yea, yea, I'll show you whenever you want. Call me.


6 Crabapples for a trailer that doesn't show J-Wahl until the end

I know that by writing about The Hills three times in a week, I risk losing much of my audience. Listen---please stay. I just need to dwell on this for a bit. I've been thinking way to much about hard things, and I need to recenter myself with some relationship drama and 19-years-olds who say things like, "It's different this time, ya know?"

I couldn't find the good trailer that I wanted to show you, but this one is pretty a'ight. Jason's not in this one until the end, and that's really what I'm latching onto right now. And the other trailer highlights the wedding dress trying on thing and lots more heavy make-out sessions between LC and J, so I wish I could find that. But I can't. I'll keep looking though... I know you're all dying to see it.

Know what episode that I'm dying---DYING--to see? The one where LC and Jason are at a little bistro table... and LC's all, like, "So why did you call me?" Ten bucks says that J's explanation is no more than that shrug that they show us already. Although I've love to hear what he says if he uses his words.

The countdown is on.


18 Crabapples for Menino's Model Massacre

Dear Mr. Menino,

I promise to never hit my girlfriends, my mom, or young girls. In return, please let me buy cute shirts. And---OMG!---guess what?! The advertisers were using images of girls pushing, shoving, and then making out because people think that's sexy. Except these researchers, whose parents obviously dropped them directly on their foreheads as infants.

Kindest regards,

Girl who likes the way FCUK shirts fit her body, and is willing to put up with stiffly photographed ads of tall chicks acting mean, aggressive, and purposefully plasticky... in order for them to continue manfacturing said shirts.

[thanks AdRants]


2 Crabapples for a Necessary J-Wahl Update

Now I feel dumb.

MTV has released a new Hills promo spot that includes no less than 62 shots of Jason and LC together. What happened to the mystery? the allure? the mystique?

Just, just, just... everyone please note that I called that on promo spot 1.

and be impressed accordingly.

41 Crabapples for the Return of J-Wahl


When did I start talking about when The Hills would debut? Last November?
Alas--- a promo spot. The ball will drop May 31st at 10. What day of the week is that? Wednesday! Oh, so good. That will be the week after the ANTM finale, so I will officially still have one hour of guaranteed paper-thin goodness to look forward to each week.

AAAAANNNNNDDDD-- okay, so there's this quick :15 montage of the season, and I notice LC kissing a boy, but you can kinda only see the back of his head.

You know who it was?
I do.

You heard me.
That's right.
Jason Jason.

Lauren Conrad, if you're out there, here is my plea to you...

Listen to me: NO.


He is a player's player's player. And he speaks in monosyllabic malapropisms.
Good god, if you're gonna date an asshole, make sure he has a really good vocabulary.
Everyone knows that.


6 Crabapples for 6 Tomatoes

Tonight is a night of unparalleled mourning.

I missed ANTM because I was still at work. I am cranky about it in an unhealthy way right now. And I just ate 6 plum tomatoes with salt because that's all that was in my fridge. Plum tomatoes are good and whatever, but right now... fuck them.
No, seriously. Fuck them.

Really, the one thing holding me together right now is that I learned today (via AdFreak) that Play-Doh is coming out with a perfume. Holy daggone mother of pearlescent purity--- Thank God. I've been rubbing it on straight from the can for years now, and frankly, it's getting a bit messy. You know, after you open it a few times it starts to crust over a little...and bam...the allure is gone. well, not gone...it could never be gone...but..um...diminished.

OHMYGOD! I would give my left eye to play with the Play-Doh Pasta Factory right now. I would make spaghetti and cavatappi and meatballs. Green meatballs! And hamsteaks! (sold separately)

Also, let's hear some comments on this here couch. If you hate it, I need reasons; If you love it, I do not.
This should be my new relationship mantra.

I should not post when I am sad about shitty TV and produce.
It makes me less of a person.