The commuter rail is a double-decker train. You walk on the train and have a choice to either go up or down. I always go up.

It’s kind of cool that it is a double-decker.

That way you can move and actually escape really obnoxious drunks … or that guy with the nasal problem that gives me the total heebie-jeebies.

Every time he sniffs, you can hear how dry it is in there, like he’s been snorting blow for 30 years or something. He always has a bloody tissue in his hand.

((shudder))

It’s disgusting.

The drunks are quite bothersome too.

The other night I had some drunk guy behind me yelling things out on the train. At first, I just thought he was nuts. I have the uncanny ability to sit right next to crazy people. I’m always the one sitting right near the lady who’s talking and laughing with her dead Aunt Rosie for the duration of the ride.

This guy, turns out, was just really really drunk. He was banging the seat in front of him and yelling out, “Let’s go!”

It was when he got up from that seat and moved into the seat next to me … face down with his feet in the air … that I moved to the lower deck.

I didn’t want to get vomit on me.

I once saw a really drunk guy tumble down the stairs from the top deck to the bottom deck and laughed my ass of.

Oh stop. He was fine.

And even if he wasn’t, what the hell do I care?

Is there anything funnier than people falling down?

When I fall, I am laughing so hard I can’t even tell if I’m hurt.

I may laugh and say, “Oh I’m hurt.” even if I’m not, because it makes me laugh harder.

I once tripped over the edge of my coffee table and took a header into the kitchen.

I was laughing so hard that I just laid there giggling for a good 5 minutes wishing someone else was there to see it, because telling the story just isn’t anywhere near as funny as seeing the incident. Sometimes you tell the story and people just stare at you like you’ve lost your mind as you collapse into giggles at your own folly.

One time I was getting out of my car in the winter. I had one foot out of the car door and was hoisting the rest of myself out after it. It was winter time and apparently that one foot had landed on an ice patch. As I was heaving the rest of my girth out of the car, that one foot slipped on the ice and I found myself doing some sort of Ice Capade split as I toppled out of the thing.

I was not built to do splits, so the rest of my body just sort of tumbled out of the car and I landed in an icy snow drift with my bags on top of me … and a sore groin.

No one saw it. I laid in the snow laughing until I could contain myself.

… and people wonder why I like Chevy Chase.

The guy wound up physically destroying himself and ruining his career … all for my entertainment.

Thank You Chevy.

Yesterday’s blog was definitely incomplete. There is so much more that needs to be said, that I thought I would make this a series. I was talking to my roommate about this and, it turns out, men really do need a lot of help. Apparently this is a public service.

So …

Here’s part 2.

Yesterday we covered five things not to say on a date.

Today we will cover five things not to do on one.

Things not to do:

1.)                Being rude to the waiter or waitress.

This is horrible. The way you treat a waitress is one of the most important things your date is looking at. If you are rude or nasty, your date has taken note of this.

If you overreact and get all crazy because your baked potato is cold, you may have issues. There is a way to kindly ask the waitress to heat the thing up without looking like an asshole, embarrassing your date, and winding up with a lugie in your sour cream.

Figure it out.

Withholding a tip is not an option

If you do not tip, or do not tip well, your date is also taking note.

No one wants to date a cheap guy.

… or a jerk.

The way I see it, the way you treat a waitress is the same way you treat your mother. If you are a jerk to her, you will be a jerk to me. If you smack her ass as she walks away … you are completely twisted and I will be leaving.

Respect the waitress. Be friendly and nice, but don’t invite her out for drinks with us later, either. There’s a limit, here.

 2.)                Putting your cell phone on the table, texting and/ or answering calls.

Unless you are a surgeon waiting for that donor to die so you can get the kidney into a needy child, your cell phone should never make an appearance during dinner.

Sitting down and throwing it on the table is completely obnoxious.

Ever wonder why women don’t do that?

Because women have an inane sense of what is inappropriate and what isn’t.

There is really no reason for your cell phone to even be on during dinner. If you actually pick the thing up and talk to your buddy, or text back and forth with someone all throughout dinner, you are merely showing your date that you don’t give a shit about this whole ‘dating event’.

It’ll only look like you have no interest in the date or the girl. Whoever is contacting you via your cellular device is far more intriguing, apparently.

Let’s just say your date is in the middle of answering a great question you just posed her. She’s getting passionate now, talking about her dissertation on the migration habits of the African Wild Blue Bill.

Right in the middle of her excitement, your cell phone, which has been sitting on the table the whole time because you are a jackass, pipes up with Candy Shop by 50 Cent.

Now she feels foolish and annoyed.

She feels worse when you answer the thing.

Keep it in your pocket.

Give the girl a break.

Leave it on vibrate if it makes you feel better, but, for the love of all that is decent, DO NOT answer the friggin thing!

(Also – find a place for your keys. They do not belong next to your bread plate.)

 3.)                Dressing like a circus clown.

You are going out to dinner, not to a playoff game. Please dress appropriately.

… and are you serious with the baseball hat?

I love the Red Sox, too, but every piece of clothing I have on is not embossed with the logo.

I’m not telling you to put on a suit and tie, but at least look like a grown up.

If you do not know how to coordinate an outfit by now without resorting to the old sports team tee-shirt standby with the ball cap topper… you probably shouldn’t even be going on a date.

Really.

4.)                Getting Drunk.

Do I really have to elaborate on this one?

Dates are pretty nerve wracking experiences. Two people attempting to get to know each other without making complete fools of themselves is a tough thing.

It is ok to order a drink or two.

It is not ok to order twelve, have your date wrestle the keys from your hand, and then have her pull over so you can throw up on the ride home.

This is dinner, not a frat party.

Learn to control yourself.

5.)                Farting.

Farting should be held off until, at least, after the nipple has made an appearance in the relationship. Until then … you can hold it.

You men need to understand that ‘dating’ is really just a screening process. Consider it much like an interview. If you make it to a second date, you have passed the initial screening … which basically means that we are willing to give you a shot.

If you do not make it to a second date please, for the love of all that is good and holy, stop pouting about it. This girl knows that the two of you will not be compatible. She is sparing you ultimate heartbreak. Be happy she nipped it in the bud.

So, here we go – second date. Here’s where you really need to shine, boys.

And, Guys … don’t get yourself all worked up into a horny froth, here. If she wanted you to be ‘Booty-Call Guy’ you would already be that.

Besides, if she is hot, she probably already has a ‘Booty-Call Guy’.

You are being screened because you have potential.

It is inappropriate, at this stage, to start in with the weird sexual innuendos.

It’ll creep her out.

It’ll give her second thoughts about you.

It’ll make her uncomfortable.

It’ll ruin your chances for date # 3.

Be a gentleman for Christ Sake!

Also, do not assume that you are entitled to a tongue kiss at the end of this date just because you paid.

You are supposed to pay.

That is the deal.

The woman does not owe you anything because you bought her a chicken dinner.

So you want to make the second date a good one.

Here’s some stuff to avoid:

Things not to say:

1.)        “I don’t read.”

Really? How do you get through your day? You must be really good with ‘shapes’.

Hey! That’s a stop sign! Can’t you re…?

Oh … sorry.

See. No.

There’s a problem with that.

If you have never finished reading a whole book in your life, don’t bring it up on the first couple of dates. We’ll figure that out eventually.

It’s not a selling point, but it’s not necessarily a deal breaker for some women.

Me, personally?

If you have never read a book from cover to cover and are actually proud of this … I want nothing to do with you.

But that’s me.

I like the literate men.

I would love to hear about books that you have read, but I don’t need a 40-minute lecture on Robert Jordan, ok? Give me a break.

Enough with the Sci-Fi / Fantasy crap already.

You’re in your 30’s for Christ Sake.

2.)                “I don’t eat fruits and vegetables”

Interesting.

Do you have the scurvy?

Unless you are super-rich and the image of you dying young and leaving the woman you are currently trying to ‘date’ swimming in a pool of your riches can realistically reel through her head … this is not a good start.

There is nothing sexier than a man who takes care of himself.

No fruits and vegetables means colon cancer and heart disease.

Do you really want your date picturing your colon during dinner?

How about artery plaque?

Because that’s what you’ve just done.

Congratulations.

3.)                “I make $___k a year and own my own house.”

Ok. Let me clarify, here. It is okay to say this.

Once.

If it is the cornerstone of everything you talk about, however, it gets old real fast.

If you are a young man, make a lot of money, and own your own house … it is quite impressive. We heard you the first time, though. When this is all you have to offer, we will lose interest.

If you are an older man, single, and never been married, we may still be impressed, but may wonder why no one has bagged and tagged you yet.

Herein lies deeper questions. It is a clue that there is something about you that we don’t know about. There is something about you that is a bit off. We don’t know what yet. But we know it is something.

4.)                “I haven’t been to the dentist in, like, ten years.”

Ok. Ew.

Again … taking care of yourself is key.

Gingivitis is not a selling point.

We already know that kissing you will be gross, so there goes your tongue kiss.

Maybe that’s why you are still single. We knew it was something.

5.)                “I love you”

No you don’t.

Saying that will not make me sleep with you. I am a grown woman, not a 15-year-old girl. Give me a break.

Now, I am frightened.

My extended trip to the ladies room may mean that I have snuck out the back door and hailed a cab.

Thanks for the chicken, though.

Now that I am single and on the open market, so to speak, I would like to give some men out there advice on what they are doing wrong.

This is vital information.

I can’t stand to keep rejecting you people. I think there must be some form of man out there who is not a total jackass.

There has to be!

First, let me address you white suburban boys who want to be Gangster Rappers.

Ok. Are you serious?

Your name is ‘Brad’ for Christ sake.

You wouldn’t last 8 minutes in the real hood, even if you had a gun and a guidebook.

Knock it off.

And while I’m at it, may I also address this interesting look you fellows have acquired over the years?

Some of you can’t even ride down an escalator without fear of being completely consumed from the pant cuff up. I’ve seen jeans so big that I literally think they could swallow at least six of the men wearing them … then beg for more.

Buy some clothes that fit you. You look preposterous.

For some reason, to complete this ridiculous outfit, you choose to wear a bright white (or black) ‘Do-Rag’ on your head. You know the things. They look like Mom’s knee high, stretched over your head to form a foolish looking little ‘hat’. How cute.

How can you leave the house looking like that? Do you really think you look good?

You look like an idiot-child who’s been playing in Mommy’s sock drawer.

This is not a good look.

Grow the hell up!

And speaking of growing up; You guys who have mastered the long hair / concert shirt / belly hanging slightly over your faded what were once black Levis 'look' … enough already.

Even Metallica cut their hair.

You just look like the guy who used to hit on me in 10^th grade study hall – only fatter ... and creepier. And I rejected him then.

Get over it. High school is long gone. Though you may pine away for the days of smoking cigarettes in shop class while working on a carburetor and sneaking joints in the bathroom, you need to move on. I’m sure you are fondly remembered by the gear heads from the Voc. Tech, but no woman in her right mind will date you.

You are not a ‘Rocker’.

You are a ‘Loser’.

And while we’re at it, let’s discuss facial hair.

You guys with the full beards? Ok – are you a lumberjack or a Dungeon Master?

Either way, just stay the hell away from me. I have no interest in either.

A mustache is fine … if you’re gay. You have no interest in me; I have no interest in you. It works out perfectly.

No.

‘Mustache Rides’ is not funny. It’s creepy.

If you are a straight man, please, shave the friggin thing. You look like a sleazy 70’s porn star.

No. That is not a good thing.

Clean-shaven is good, but not all guys look good clean-shaven. Some guys look kind of weird, so a goatee or something similar is ok as long as it is well groomed and trimmed. For you older guys; a little gray in your goatee is ok. Don’t sweat it.

It’s food and general debris that is troubling. Please keep it clean.

Also, for you older guys; Please pay attention to your eyebrows! For the love of God! When you start looking like that freaky ‘juicer guy’ from the three a.m. infomercials, it’s time to take these matters into some serious consideration. Have someone help you!

I’m not kidding.

Here’s another tip; if all you eat is Burger King and vending machine food, your complexion will give you away. Women do not like shiny men. Grease is not an aphrodisiac.

Take care of yourself, for God Sake.

But don’t go too far.

If you are so ripped that you can’t lower your arms, there is a problem.

Really.

And, easy on the tattoos, there, guy. There’s nothing wrong with a few, but when your chest and arms are so covered with tattoos it looks like you have a really tight ugly shirt on, there may be some issues.

We get it. You’re wicked cool. 

... and tough, too.

I hope some of these pointers have helped a few of you lonely-guys out there to realize why you continue to be so.

Be pro-active, here, guys. Help us women out a little.

We’re as tired of this crap as you are.

 Here's exactly what not to be!

(click to enlarge ... or maybe you shouldn't)

I'm very tired tonight and I seem to be having technical difficulties, so we're only going to do a small rant tonight.

Promise!

So, can anyone tell me why it is that your face decides to create a zit the night before something important is going to happen?

Zits in general just really bother me. No matter how many times people tell me that it is just a clogged pore, I just don't understand it. It's a big red swollen pussey growth on your face --- hopefully your face.

I'm just not even going to discuss other options for zit locations.

I'm not going to do it.

We are going to stick to the facial area alone.

Ok?

Ok.

I mean, how many things on your body excrete puss and are still considered perfectly normal? If anything on me is oozing anything out of it, I am running to the emergency room like my ass is on fire. Luckily, this is not a common occurrence.

Zits, on the other hand, continue to follow me into adulthood.

The funny thing about them is they tend to be recurring zits. They always crop up in exactly the same places. I could have a zit on my chin, for example, in October and the thing is back again in January.

Someone who doesn't see me that often could say to themselves, 'Hey! I know that girl. She's the one with the zit on her chin."

It's a shame that they didn't get to witness the November / February zit that recurs over my eyebrow. They would have seen me in a whole new light.

Summer brings a whole new batch. Often, to my extreme delight, multiple zits at once. I could have the eyebrow and the chin zit both going at the same time! Sometimes the one next to my nose also makes an appearance.

... and I am a picker, too. I can't just leave well enough alone. Even though I tell myself that it'll only look worse once I'm done with it, I have to pick at the thing anyway.

I'm gross.

And I've never been very good with the whole 'Cover Up' thing. Whatever I try to do to diminish the puffy redness only results in a more obvious blemish.

I once saw this girl in the bathroom at work wipe off her coverup to reveal a GIANT huge, red acne zit --- only to reapply and make it completely disappear.

I was fascinated!

I've never been able to do that.

If I have a zit, the whole world knows about it.

I like to just point it out right away to avoid any awkwardness in conversation.

I do that if I suspect I have bad breath, too.

It's just easier.

Now that I have totally grossed everyone out --- I'm going to bed!

 This is a Very Very old picture of me with a Band Aid on my horrible recurring eyebrow zit.

(click to enlarge --- if you dare!)

You know how as you start to get a little bit older you start to have those two day hangovers?

The first day is the “let me sleep – don’t call me – give me water – leave me alone – I think I can make it to Wendy’s” day.

The second day, however, is a combination of things.

For me, I am usually still dehydrated. All I want to do is drink water and intermittently nap, which doesn’t always work out since the second day is usually a Monday.

Monday means work.

The second day, for me anyway, is usually a functional day, however.

Unlike the first one.

The first one I wake up wanting to put a gun in my mouth to end the suffering.

I also frequently discover mystery injuries acquired some time during the previous night’s Drink-a-thon.

Sometimes I’m so banged up I look like I fell out of a window into a shrub or something. I also always have that weird sensation that my nails have begun to separate from my fingers. It feels like I have been vigorously scratching something. Possibly myself, possibly others. I am never sure how this happens.

This weekend I awoke on my first hangover day to discover that I had cut my foot open on something. Although I have a vague recollection of when I first noticed the cut, I have absolutely no idea what I cut myself on.

I find that interesting.

I also find it a bit disturbing, as images of rusty pipes, infections, tetanus shots and high fevers course through my head.

Here’s another thing; I bruise like old fruit. I remember whacking my arm on my car door thinking “Ooo … that’s gonna leave a mark.”

It did.

When I woke up on hangover day it looked like someone had tattooed a giant purple mark on my bicep … right where an anchor should be! (If I were that kind of gal).

The weird thing is that this wasn’t the only bruise I found. I encountered quite a crop of bruises on myself in various places.

I know I bruise easily, but when I wake up covered in bruises for no apparent reason, I start to wonder if I should get checked for Leukemia! I have to calm myself down by reminding myself that I have always been this way.

My friends know this about me.

It used to be a little joke.

I remember I once whacked the back of my calf really hard with a car door, essentially slamming my leg in the door. That was one MOTHER of a bruise. The thing was black and purple and horrendous.

One of my more sympathetic friends said, “What happened? Did the cat brush up against you?”

Funny guy.

Considering that I am now a grown woman and am no longer partying in the woods and being chased over fences by the local cops, I should not be waking up looking like a car crash victim.

No one beat me.

No one touched me.

I did not run from anyone or anything …

I was not shaken, punched, grabbed, knocked down, picked up, jumped over, shoved aside, or in any other potentially harmful scenarios.

What the hell happened to me?

Well --- question for the ages aside, I still had a good time. There is nothing like hanging with my best friend, having drinks and staying out until all hours. It’s so worth it in the end.

You just get used to the whole hangover thing. I actually take time out of my schedule to work it in. I have one day in my week where I should not be expected to do anything or speak to anyone. That, I feel, is my right.

Ok – I have to go put some Neosporin on this thing … not gonna panic.

NOT GONNA PANIC, I SAID!

Here’s the thing.

I’ve been doing Customer Service jobs for years now. Which is really ironic if you know me.

It’s not that I don’t like people. It’s just that people are people. Ya know? They suck. We all suck.

Everyone thinks they are special and the goal of Customer Service is to actually make them feel that way. Not my strong suit, normally.

But strangely enough, I am very good at what I do.

I used to do face to face type Customer Service, but that got extremely draining after awhile. One jerk could ruin your whole week. I would stop going to work for a few days after a particularly insulting dick-wad experience.

Face to face can burn you out.

So, I switched to phone-type customer service.

I answer phones.

I ONLY answer phones, as opposed to answering phones and doing half a million other things, including face to face interaction with assholes who think they are special.

It’s a different kind of jerk altogether.

(chorus) "It’s a different kind of jerk!"

(sorry, couldn’t resist)

This jerk is only a jerk for about 3 minutes, and, luckily, I have a mute button, so I can swear at him/her without him/her knowing it. (I Love That!)

So, because, by nature, I am a rather easy going person and because I have been doing this customer service gig for so long, I expect other customer service people to be at least competent. I’m not asking anyone to kiss my ass or polish my shoes. I just want what I came in to get sans the attitude, Thank You Very Much. I figure – If I can do that, than anyone can do it.

Ok – I go into Dunkin Donuts today to get a caramel flavored ice coffee – black.

NOT a tough order.

Does that sound like a tough order to you? I mean, it’s black for Christ’s sake. There’s not even any work to it, really. Throw some ice in a cup and pour the friggin coffee in it. Slap on a lid and call it a day. If you can do it all with a smile, even better. If not, that’s ok. I didn’t come in here to look at you. I just want what I want.

This is an extremely low maintenance order, I guess is what I am trying to say. Generally, I am an extremely low maintenance person.

I knew something was a little fishy when she said,"$3.03".

I thought to myself, ‘Man! Prices have gone up since I was here last!’

And even though I said, “For an ice coffee?” the girl just vacantly smiled and nodded, so, stupidly, I gave her the $3.03.

Then she wandered off for awhile.

All of a sudden she spits out at me in what was probably the best English she could manage, “Whip cram on dat?”

I assumed she meant ‘whipped cream’ and I said, “No. Wait. What are you making?” and see this elaborate iced dessert with a big pile of caramel at the bottom.

“No. That’s not what I wanted.” I said, seeing that not only was it a caramel laden, fattening dessert-type drink, but that it was most definitely not black.

So she tries again. I said, “A caramel flavored iced coffee. Black.”

So I see her over there pouring the thing.

She says, “Sugar?”

I said, “No! Black!”, and I look at the lady next to me and say, “You heard me say black, didn’t you? Did you hear me say that?”

She said, “Twice.” And gave me that sympathetic ‘we’re in this together look’. God love her.

So the Dunkies Girl comes back with another cup which may have contained the caramel flavored ice coffee I so desperately desired, but it also was a nice creamy color.

I sighed and said (quietly), “That’s not black.”

I wanted to scream in her face, “SPEAKIE DA INGLIE???”, but I would never really do such a thing, although I am sure she is illegal and taking this job from some local high school girl who could use the cash to buy cool ring tones for her cell and music for her ipod. That's what keeps this economy alive, people!

Well, that and the Big Dig.

At this point, another Dunkies girl has to help the one, who I oh-so-luckily got saddled with, out. After a flurry of foreign tongue, I finally got the caramel flavored ice coffee in black form.

The girl also gave me a dollar back because she had so ridiculously over-charged me for the simplest order in existence.

Now, I ask you, was I really asking a lot of this poor girl?

Really?

I further ask you: Why did  I feel bad about the whole transaction??

It really helps to be fluent in Portuguese when entering a Dunkin Donuts around here.

Man! I’ll have to brush up on that, or I’ll never get a decent coffee again.

 (click to enlarge)

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am a weird chick.

I’ve had a bit of a sore throat lately; having these small bouts of laryngitis and what-not. I don’t know if it’s the 17 packs of cigarettes I smoke while sitting at my computer or an actual sickness.

Anyway, I decided that I wanted some homemade soup. So I went to the grocery store and bought all the ingredients, came home and made myself some soup. It is simmering as I type this.

Sounds pretty normal.

The weird thing is that it is 2:30 in the morning.

My tagline “The Rantings of a Crazy Broad from Boston” is only partially true.

I do rant.

Oh boy, do I rant.

I don’t think I am actually crazy, though. I mean, I’ve never been diagnosed as such. I really just throw that label on there because it is so much easier than trying to describe how I just don’t seem to think, live, act or observe like the average person. I’m sure there are other people out there who are like me.

And I am sure they find that they either call themselves crazy or have heard others call them crazy.

I’m here to assure you that you are perfectly fine … and probably happier than most. So don’t sweat it.

I am not, in reality, a ‘broad’ either. Around these parts ‘broad’ has somewhat of a negative connotation to it.

But damn if it’s not a really funny word. So it stays.  

Technically, I am not from Boston either. My rantings and witty observations frequently take place in and around Boston because I work there, but I am actually from, and live in, The South Shore … which has connotations all of its own.

It’s not like I am from some small mid-western town or anything. I grew up about 20 miles south of Boston, but we pretty much all knew each other and dated each other and so forth.

There were families who were famous for having hundreds of children. We were mostly the kids of Irish and Italian descent, so big families, though not quite as prevalent as they once were, were still a somewhat common occurrence.

You could say, about a few families in my town, “You can’t swing a cat in (insert town name here) without hitting a (insert family name here).

You can pretty much still find these people at the local corner bars … or local corner AA meetings. No one has left.

It’s just much easier to say I am from Boston, that I am crazy and that I am some broad who rants.

I don’t mean to intentionally misrepresent myself. I just figured it was close enough.

Apparently ‘Close Enough’ counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and tag-lines.

So, anyway, I went to the grocery store to get some soup ingredients at about 2:00am.

I try to be very selective when grabbing a cart because I have the uncanny ability to choose the absolute worst cart in the place. I either get the shimmy, the wobbly wheel or the screech.

Tonight I got the screech.

I was hoping the stock guys were aware that I was in the store shopping and didn’t panic thinking someone had just started a chainsaw in aisle 6. The thing was loud --- but deceiving! Because I had gotten most of the way through produce before it started!

Ok, as I mentioned … I wanted ingredients for soup, which I got.

I spent $56.

Am I not aware that a can of soup costs about a buck?

I am a weird chick.

(click to enlarge) 

Let’s just say there is a certain person you see in your day who may or may not have a crush on you. Needless to say, bad hair days and wrinkled clothes are no longer an option. You’re looking sweet, let’s just say. You’re dressed really nice, for a work day. You look good. You feel good.

You’re hungry.

It’s lunchtime, so you head down to the caf to grab some grub off the salad bar. Plate filled to overflowing, you head on over to your usual spot to dress your salad and devour it.

You notice that a drop of vinaigrette has spilled on your nice new pants.

You grab the closest napkin in the vicinity to wipe it off.

Before you know it, your entire leg is oil stained because, unbeknownst to you, the napkin was covered in vinaigrette. What you’ve actually done, instead of wiping the offending dressing off of your clothes, was create a rather large and unsightly salad dressing smear on your nice new pants.

Panicked, you run to the bathroom to try water. Knowing that oil and water don’t mix, you grab a paper towel, wet it, add a little hand soap and start scrubbing at the oil stain on your leg.

What’s this now?

The paper towel is starting to dissolve with the soap and water combo and the bits of flakey white towel are now being rubbed into the wet oil slick on your pants. They are sticking to the increasingly growing wet spot like they have been infused into the fabric. Not to mention the white smear from the soap you foolishly used.

More water only makes things worse.

You abandon the soap and water approach and start furiously rubbing the spot with your hands. You suddenly notice that the bottom of your new shirt is now sopping wet as well. You try to wring it out, and with wild abandon you wipe at your eyes, smearing your makeup across your face.

Noticing your makeup in the mirror, you decide to focus on cleaning your face up instead, but the wet paper towel approach, again, is a disaster. What you actually manage to do is smear more mascara under your eyes to create a somewhat wounded raccoon look.

Now you also have big puffy red splotches under your eyes from the less-than-gentle paper towel rubbing you ensued in.

So, you have a rather large, flakey, white oil slick down the leg of your pants and you look like you've just been weeping hysterically on a Slip and Slide in the ladies room.

Frantically glancing at your watch, you realize that you’re lunch hour is over.

So, defeated, you give up and head back to the office to hide behind your desk until you dry out, and un-puff.

Head down, you walk to your office as quickly as you can - trying not to look humiliated at the debacle you've just created.

Oh Look.

There’s Crush-Guy.

Isn’t it sweet how he pretends not to notice you?

… and I still have five hours until I get to go home for the day…

 (click to enlarge)

So I was opening my medicine cabinet to get at my contacts ...

Yes, I wear contacts.

I have pretty bad eyesight, actually.

I was resistant to the whole ‘wearing glasses’ thing for such a long time. I’m amazed that I was never in a serious accident. Driving at night was not my forte.

My friends used to make fun of me. I’d hold a clock up to my nose, squinting and saying “What time is it?”

It was bad.

I finally decided to get some glasses when a friend of mine said, “Look! That lady is waving at you.” I went to return the wave, but upon closer, (and squinty), inspection, I realized that it was the cleaning lady from the office next door … washing the windows; her arms, stretching to wash the upper-most corner of the window, suspiciously mimicking a wave.

… or maybe I was just blind.

I got the glasses.

I wore glasses for a long time, but I got vain all of a sudden. I had taken off a lot of weight and thought, for some reason, that glasses were hindering my pursuit of a viable man. (I now know that glasses have nothing to do with it. Most ‘viable’ men are either married, gay, or psychopathic.)

I decided that touching my eyeball wasn’t as nasty as I had originally thought.

Well, I mean, I got used to it.

The first time they put those things in my eyes, I literally thought I would just have to die with them in there, because there was NO way I was going to ever manage to get them out again.

I eventually figured it out.

Now I can’t imagine life without them.

So, as I mentioned, I was opening my medicine cabinet to get at my contacts.  I don’t know if I was overly eager to have vision, or if I just don’t know my own strength, but I tore the thing right off the wall like Lou Ferrigno in a rage.

The cabinet door flung off the track. The little handle was still in my hand as the entire door pendulumned off the wall and slammed into the toothbrush holder cup, which houses my toothbrush, my tongue scraper, and my roommate’s toothbrush. I then watched in horror as the cup flew through the air and the toothbrushes went flying. I looked on as my tongue scraper, in slow motion, mind you, flew up in a perfect arc and landed in the toilet.

(I told a friend of mine that story and she replied, “Note to self: Buy new tongue scraper.”)

My toothbrush landed in the sink.

Lucky me.

I put everything back together, super glued pieces back onto the toothbrush holder cup (again), meekly replaced the cabinet door, and decided not to speak of the incident.

Two days later, I noticed that the roommate had gotten himself a new toothbrush, which helped immensely in alleviating the guilt I was suffering from not telling him that his old one had landed behind the toilet in the scuffle with the medicine cabinet door.

I can’t help but wonder what prompted the sudden purchase.

I also can’t help wondering why my contacts suddenly feel funny and my toothbrush tastes like dirt.

Hm.

Karma.

(click to enlarge) 

I was so hungover today that I didn’t think I would be able to provide a rant worthy of this blog, but then I remembered that everything is funny.

Even my hangover.

(Did you know that spell check does not recognize the word ‘hungover’? I just don’t understand that. What would be the past tense of hangover if not hungover? Though we tend to have our own little phrases for it, I believe that ‘hungover’ would be the correct word.

Please. If you know of the correct term, fill me in on it.)

Anyway, the crappy thing about my being hungover today, was that I had put off my laundry and grocery shopping, which meant that I would have to actually get out of bed and try to accomplish something.

It was also the first day that I have seen sunshine in, like, three months.

Such a same.

I couldn’t even enjoy it.

It was so bright that my head immediately cried out in agony and my eyes slammed shut, as I groped furiously for my sunglasses, which turned out to be not quite dark enough.

Being dehydrated on the first day of the year that the temperature hit above 80 was also not a picnic.

I eventually decided that I would do my laundry out of necessity, but would put off the grocery shopping until midnight tomorrow. I really don't like being in a supermarket during peak hours anyway. The place is just mobbed with people; children, the elderly ... those people who still have rollers in their hair.

Who the hell still uses rollers?!

Everyone is in my way and much too loud for my liking.

Forget it!

Let’s just get this laundry thing over with.

Have you ever seen what people wear to the Laundromat? It’s borderline obscene. You know that one girl who shows up every Saturday in her Acid Washed jeans, pegged at the ankle, and some horrific “Bike Weekend” ribbed wife beater type T-shirt from Laconia circa 1982?  

Let’s face it; we all do it, really. Once all of your viable outfits have been soiled enough to warrant a trip to the much dreaded Laundromat, you have precious few items worthy of donning for the occasion. I am as guilty of this as anyone else.

So, one neon aqua ‘Frankie Say Relax’ tee shirt and a pair of parachute pants later, I stuff all of my dirty outfits in a garbage bag, and wearily head off to the Laundromat.

Laconia Bike Weekend girl is there, rather modestly today, wearing a very long, coffee stained, what was once white tee shirt, with a faded, but perfectly legible “E.T. Phone Home” printed in purple across the front. The pink sweat pants she chose for the occasion hadn’t seen true elasticity for a good fifteen years. But she was dressed, and good for her!

It’s never easy to go out in the condition I was in. A true hangover is something that should be nursed like the flu. I am well aware that booze is still seeping from my pores and that my breath smells like a combination of flat Amstels, overflowing ash trays, and the eggs I had ingested at four a.m. from the local IHOP, but there is no laundry fairy.

No matter how much I wish for one.

If I am going to dress myself for work this week, this is a task I must accomplish.

I skirt by the girl in the leg warmers, pass the guy in the nut-shorts/sweatpants combo with the J. Geils Band T-shirt topper, and head over to my usual washer. I stuff everything in with a lack-luster contempt for the whole ordeal, drop my $4 in quarters in the machine, and go out to my car to weep and intermittently guzzle large mouth fulls from an enormous bottle of spring water brought along for just such a purpose. The whole experience was making me weak and trembley.

Those nut-shorts didn’t help, either.   

I eventually got the task done and headed home, inevitably napping on a giant heap of now-clean, but unfolded clothes.

I HATE laundry day!

I am not a morning person.

It’s just not me. No matter how hard I try to conform to the way things should be done, I always wind up slipping back into my old habits. I am a night person. I’ve tried to be a day person, but I hate it. It’s impossible. It’s like a Hamster trying to be a Blue Jay. It just doesn’t work.

Every opportunity I get to sleep all day and stay up all night I take, whether it is a conscious decision or not. Oh sure. I can get up in the morning if I have to. It’s not like I am completely irresponsible. I get to places on time. I show up to appointments. I go to classes … never before 10:00 am, of course. --- and even that is stretching it a bit. But I am, by nature, a night person.

I have blamed my mother for this. Apparently, when she was pregnant with me she slept all day and was up all night. I guess it just stuck. I have never changed.

(She gets mad when I blame her for stuff – like my prematurely graying hair – SORRY MUM! She knows I love her though. She’s a good kid.)

I actually had a day job once. One of those horrific 9 to 5 deals where you sit at a desk looking busy doing nothing and collecting a generous paycheck. Sounds nice, huh?

I hated it.

I mostly hated it because I had to get up in the morning hours. I eventually hated it for a few other reasons not appropriate for this rant.

Now I work nights, and though I get a good ration of shit from --- let’s call them ‘Normies’ --- I have never been happier or felt more normal.

I grocery shop at midnight and have not seen a bank teller face to face in years.

Here’s the thing I get so much crap about. I go to bed every night between 2:00am and 3:00am.

There. I’ve said it.

But if you think about it like this, it makes perfect sense.

Say you work a 9 to 5 job. You get home from work, let’s say, around 6 or so. What do you do?

Do you go right to bed?

No.

You probably fart around the house for awhile, eat some dinner, watch a little TV, read a book or whatever you do with your brain dead time, play on the computer, etc. You probably go to bed around 10 or so. Maybe 11.

So I get out of work at 10. I get home at 11 or so. Are you telling me that I do not have the right to fart around time? Because I disagree!

In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, “We are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different.”

If average Joe Ninetofive gets to have his fart around time, by God I will have mine too!

I’m not hurting anyone. I’m a good person. I pay my taxes and give change to the homeless (sometimes). Why do people have to mess with me because I would rather sleep until 11:00 a.m. than get up at the crack of dawn and have a long and miserable day?

Since I was old enough to realize that I could make my own decisions in life, I have tried extremely hard to live life in a way that I could be happy and not hurt anyone. Among the things I realized were being forced on me as a child / adolescent were:

1.)    Eating meat

2.)    Smelling bacon cooking

3.)    Television

4.)    Chinese Food

5.)  Using Fabric Softener

6.)    Eating Fish (gag)

7.)    Waking up Early

8.)    Doing the dishes

Well, I still have to do the dishes. There’s really no getting around that. (I don’t have a dishwasher, dammit!) But at least no one yells at me when I let them go for a day … or two. No one cares and no one gets hurt.

And though it is really no one’s business how late I sleep, people still have to give me a hard time about it. Well, ya know what? Go ahead. I don’t care. I’m happy with the way I am. I spend a good portion of my life running around like a lunatic between school, work, and whatever else I happen to have going on in my life (... or whoever). If I want to sleep till noon on a Sunday --- leave me alone. And don’t you dare call me!

No. It’s not funny.

It’s just really really annoying.

What if I called you at three a.m. and said, “Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?”

I’m a little tired for a full fledged rant tonight, but I promised a rant-a-day, so you’ll have to take what I have to give.

I think, rather than go off on one of my increasingly famous tangents, however, I will merely make a couple of interesting observations.

Note the date, please? Have you done that? Have you seen that it is June 8?

Good.

Could someone please explain to me what happened to summer? I think I saw it one day back in April.

Might’ve been a Tuesday.

Then it rained. That was the day my umbrella broke.

Since then it has pretty much rained non-stop.

I seriously don’t think I can take it anymore. Several people I know – myself included – are on the brink of suicide from this.

Is it the End Times or something?

This morning I woke up early because my bedroom was windy.

I thought, ‘Well, this shouldn’t be.’

I looked out the window and saw Noah with my cats.

It was ridiculously windy, like hurricane  windy.

On my walk to work, I literally had to fight against the wind. I felt like I was doing some cheesy 80’s dance move from Breakin’ 2.

What’s particularly annoying about all of this is that there is really no one to complain to and no one to write a nasty letter to. We are on our own. All we can do is look at each other and say mundane things like, “NICE DAY, HUH?!” as we yell over the wind and rain, looking for some empathy.

So, my interesting observation (relatively speaking) was at South Station tonight.

As I was waiting for the Commuter Rail, I was wandering around the station a bit.

There is this small outside area with benches and such. There is a large building next to it. It’s where the smokers go, because if you smoke at South Station anywhere near the tracks, Ping Pong the Butt Cop writes you a citation (rant for another day). Anyway, this area apparently acts as a sort of net. The wind throws things at the building, and the thing thrown is then blocked and falls to the ground.

What I saw there was interesting.

Broken umbrellas.

Eight of them.

All of various sizes, colors and price ranges.

It looked like a colorful little umbrella grave yard.

… just not something you see everyday …

I stood there wondering many things. I pictured all the people who just had to let the thing fly out of their hands, because on a day like it was today, an umbrella will do nothing good for you. It is really just another thing to carry, and will probably bring more harm than anything else.

I also wondered who got the job of cleaning up all of the dead umbrellas. ‘Will they be there tomorrow?’ I wondered.

I found the whole thing almost mesmerizingly interesting. Some of the umbrellas were tattered to shreds! Others were inside out with the prongs flapping in the wind. They were all completely destroyed.

I wished I had a camera --- though you are not allowed to take pictures at South Station (that is true!) or one of the station guards will have a ‘talk’ with you.

It almost would have been worth it.

So, though this is not a rant, I felt like sharing my umbrella graveyard observation with you.

Ok … maybe it was a little bit of a rant.

At least I am not the only person running around Boston sans umbrella.

For some reason that makes me feel a little bit better about it all.