Monthly Archives: October 2011

And now for a very special Halloween blog…

It’s been six years, folks.

Six.

Years.

Six years that I have been waiting to once again celebrate Halloween in a climate where autumn is not “hey, it’s only 91 degrees today.” Six years I’ve been waiting to wear a costume without sweat stains. Six years waiting to be able to drink a hot toddy without spontaneously combusting.

And now that I’m in Boston, it’s finally happening. The leaves are changing. The air is crisp. The ground is covered in snow.

Let me write that last part a bit slower, in case you didn’t catch that:

The……………..ground……………….is………………covered…………………………..

………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

………………………………………………………in……………………………………………..

………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……….snow.

Yeah. Snow. That white, fluffy crap typically associated with Christmas and Minnesota.

And not just any snow. Oh no. No, Boston had to have a Nor’easter, which is, as far as I can figure out, basically a winter hurricane.

Not that I’m complaining.*

But this does bring up a rather huge dilemma for me. All of my previous Halloween costume ideas are now kind of moot…especially since I am rather attached to most of my major digits and limbs. Which means I now have to scramble to come up with some new ideas for tonight. Luckily, I started drinking early today, so the creative juices are flowing.

So far, I’ve got:

Slutty nurse wearing a parka

Girl wrapped in comforter

The kid from “A Christmas Story” when he’s wearing the giant bunny costume

Slutty cheerleader wearing a parka and long johns

Snuggie representative

Sweatpants enthusiast

Huge sports fan who feels it’s appropriate to wear all their sports gear at once

Slutty Eskimo

Alaska resident

Girl wearing ugly, giant old man sweater but pulling it off because she’s awesome

Slutty slut in a slutty parka

And if all else fails, my last resort is drunk girl who is drinking until she can’t feel anything anymore.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

*Disclaimer: According to the contract my husband forced made me sign, I’m not allowed to complain about the cold or any other kind of weather in Boston since I used up all my wifely “bitching about the weather” tokens in Texas.

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Making mountains out of mole hairs

And now, a special public service announcement from Aprill’s Mole Hair:

This has been a public service announcement from Aprill’s Mole Hair.

I don’t know how she doesn’t do it

Once upon a time (2010), in a land far, far away (exotic South Texas), there lived a woman (for lack of a better term) who was an expert at juggling many balls (not as dirty as it sounds). From dawn to dusk, the woman ran around (in a most elegant professional-like style), like a giant chicken with its head cut off (albeit in stylish and really, really painful heels).

And then, suddenly one day, the woman…wait!…let’s go with princess…suddenly one day, the princess…who was wicked pretty and owned two THREE ponies!…found herself moving to a much less humid land far, far away called Boston. It was there where her balls (oh, don’t be so juvenile) significantly dropped in number.

But then an odd phenomenon happened. The less balls she had to deal with (OK, yeah, that does sound pretty dirty), the less she seemed able to get done.

OK, OK, the jig is up. Obviously the woman wicked pretty princess (who also had the lips of Angelina Jolie and the boobs of ScarJo) is me.

During that year, I pumped out anywhere from 10 to 15 articles a week as an entertainment reporter (while still wasting a good 40 percent of my week on Facebook and Twitter), worked a second job, sat on the board of directors for the local CASA organization, planned my wedding, actually exercised on a semi-regular basis, did my 365 Project, showered daily (before noon!), maintained a thriving social life and ate socially acceptable breakfast food for breakfast instead of leftover lasagna and potato chips.

Cut to 2011. Now working as a freelancer, where my only two regular duties (heh) are writing weekly for Boston’s Weekly Dig and bi-weekly for the Victoria Advocate, I have turned into pretty much the opposite of that old adage “If you want something done, give it to a busy person.” Because now, if you need something done, dear baby Jesus in the manger, don’t give it to me unless you need it done sometime in 2015. I can’t seem to manage more than one thing a day these days (and that one thing may or may not include showering). Not to mention, today I ate a leftover cheeseburger and Fig Newton’s for breakfast.

For instance, it can literally take me the better half of a day just to read the Sunday editions of the New York Times and the Boston Globe now (and that’s usually on a Monday because God forbid I actually even read the newspapers in a timely manner). And just yesterday, the only things I had to do on my “to-do” list were to pay three bills online and return two e-mails. Naturally, this constituted dread and procrastination on my part until 3 p.m. when I finally dredged up the resolve to sit my ass down for a whopping 15 minutes to do it.

It’s like my new non-9-to-5 life has fallen under the rules of some mysterious universal law; much like Murphy’s Law, only named after someone less gooberish-sounding, like Ricardo, where the less you have to do, the less time you have to do it. I can’t tell you how many times my husband has come home from work and asked me “so, what did you do today?” And even though I felt I had a productive day, suddenly I realize I didn’t when I have to respond with “well, I cleaned the kitchen and then wrote half a blog and then…um…put on makeup…and…well…I…reTweeted a bunch a stuff…”

Not, mind you, that I’m complaining. I love having more free time. I just have no idea where that extra free time is going. My theory is that little gnomes are sneaking into the space-time continuum and stealing minutes from my day when I’m not looking.

Because me being lazy and not able to handle an unstructured life sounds just pathetic when you’re 30.

But luckily, I have a plan. Just like I did when I was a productive member of society, I’m going to schedule my day down to the minute and stick to it, no matter what. Which I will do as soon as I find the time.

Stupid gnomes.

Yogurt that helps you poo and other joys of aging

A few nights ago, my husband and I had a small dinner party. Just a few friends, a delicious meal comprised of appetizers, ribs, mashed potatoes and cheesecake as well as some bottles of wine. It was a wonderful time and by midnight, we were snug in our bed.

The following morning, we woke up exhausted and suffering from indigestion, a major headache, and sore muscles (from the effort of stirring and standing on our feet for more than half an hour apparently). All of which we remedied by swallowing a ridiculous amount of pills with two gallons of black coffee.

Oh, the joy of growing older.

I’m not quite sure when it happened, but at some point, our bodies stopped functioning on their own. Now that we are in our 30’s, it seems they require aids on almost a daily basis in the form of over-the-counter pills and creams.

For example, over the years, our medicine “cabinet” has slowly turned into a medicine “drawer,” going from a bottle of aspirin and some vitamins that expired in 1998 to the following: Maalox, Pepto, Pepcid AC, Advil, Tylenol, Tylenol PM, Ex-Lax, Ibuprofen, One-A-Day vitamins, B-Complex vitamins, Fish Oil pills, Tums, Metamucil, Midol, Rolaids, DayQuil, NightQuil, Zicam, Caladryl, Icy Hot, L-Lysine pills, four varieties of allergy pills and heating pads (just for good measure).

And that’s not even counting our anti-aging regiments, of which mine is comprised of various expensive anti-wrinkle creams and lotions designed for every inch of my body, from my face to my feet, and pills and powders designed to amp up my metabolism, which decided to screech to a halt sometime around 2008; and my husband’s, which is comprised of Chapstick and a bar of generic soap.

And while we have thus far avoided actual prescriptions from doctors, I realize that day can’t be too far behind judging from the ever-growing pharmacy popping up in my mom’s house and the arsenal the majority of my friends are building against depression and anxiety (or as my friend Michelle recently lamented, “Pills and creams! Pills and creams! That’s all my life is now!”).

Even sleeping can now be a dangerous activity. Ol’ Schnookum Bear and I have not insignificantly injured ourselves more times than I care to remember simply because our neck was tilted two degrees the wrong way on our pillows all night.

It’s official. Our bodies have betrayed us. Or as my husband summed up, “the older you get, the angrier your body gets.”

Oh sure, I realize some of it has to do with lifestyle choices. We still eat like we did in college, exercise is now considered doing laundry (in our defense, we do have to climb stairs to get to the washer) and “oh, I’ll just have one glass of wine” is not in our vocabulary.

But still, it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I can no longer treat and/or neglect my body horrifically without consequences. Circle of life and junk, I suppose.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run to the store to buy some more Aleve and that old people yogurt that helps you poo.

Occupying the Occupation

Well, for those of you who picked Oct. 11 at 1:30 p.m. as the moment I would officially become the cliché of the unemployed writer typing pretentiously away at my keyboard as I sip a triple mocha latte in a Boston coffeehouse, congratulations.

You won the office pool.

(Added financial bonus to those of you who also picked that I’d be the douchebag taking up the entire couch in the corner with my backpack, camera and pretentious copy of “The Best American Nonrequired Reading”).

Yes, today I opted to finally climb out of my beloved sweatpants and put on my other “big girl” pants (sans the elastic waist), hike it ALL the way to the subway and finally interact with other human beings. So far, I got two out of three (unless you count the homeless guy who thought we would make a beautiful baby together).

But it wasn’t just on a whim that I decided to exert all this effort. Oh no. Momma does not actually brush her hair and slap on some lipstick on a “whim.” I left my comfortable hermit digs on a mission. After following the Occupy Boston movement in the news and on the Twitter, I decided to go check it out for myself. Not necessarily to join…yet. I don’t know that much about it to put my incredibly questionable reputation behind it. But to simply go, hang out, talk to some people (or in other words, as my friend Billy put it, to occupy the occupation).

I mean, for a small town girl, the fact that I’m in close proximity to something like this is…well, I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t go check it out (because honestly, no one wants to someday answer their grandchildrens’ question of “Where were you when the Occupy movement was happening?” with “On the couch, eating Cheetos…but I did reTweet a bunch of other people’s experiences.”).

I mean, this is a MONUMENTAL moment in our history! People are taking it to the streets! Damn the man! Save the Empire! ATTICA! ATTICA!

Except…that’s not really what I saw. Well, not at first anyway. When I got there, it seemed to me more of a “Dude, corporate America sucks! Let’s, like, make signs and junk!” kind of deal. This was not, in fact, helped by the fact I encountered no less than four college-aged hipsters walking around downtown Boston in barefeet within the first three minutes. Granted, this is my own prejudice. I love me some odd characters but I draw the line at anyone who takes their shoes off in a situation that does not call for it. (And for you barefoot hipsters reading this, that is most situations).

Luckily, I stuck around. And talked to people who felt shoes were pretty much a necessity as well. And just observed.

And somewhere down the line, between reading the signs and overhearing conversations, I swelled with a feeling of…well, as close to patriotism as a jaded writer and journalist can get.  

Because that’s when it hit me. The most important part of this protest in Boston and other cities, is that it is happening at all. It’s the process itself that’s making the point. People are PISSED. At their government. At corporate greed. At the government and corporate greed being in bed together and having crazy monkey sex.

Say what you will about their message or their methods but you know what? No revolution or major change ever happened because a bunch of white guys/college kids/soccer moms/post-op trannies sat around a bar bitching.

And in my opinion, they are making some pretty good points. You (and by “you” I mean the “guvmint”) can’t keep telling the younger generations they have to go to college if they ever want to have a semblance of a decent life only to have them emerge deeply in debt and without a job prospect to be found. You can’t keep thinking those same generations (and most of their parents) are going to be OK with you pouring billions of dollars we’ll have to pay back for wars the government keeps bungling. You can’t expect them to be all right with the fact that by the time they reach retirement, there will be no social security. And seriously, you can’t honestly believe no one would notice that the top one percent keep getting bonus checks bigger than what most of us will make in our entire lifetimes when they really, truly suck at their jobs.

Will the Occupy movements change anything? Probably not. At least not right away. But what it is doing is getting people off their complacent asses.

And that, in my book, is already a victory.

And the best part is, if you don’t like it –to steal from William F. Buckley’s famous line “cancel your own goddamn subscription” he wrote in response to an angry reader –then start your own goddamn movement.

Bridesmaid Revisited

They say nine times a bridesmaid…hmm. Well, I guess they don’t really say anything about that. Probably because there are only a very, very select few women who are crazy enough to agree to be in nine weddings.

Readers, meet Crazy.

(Although, I guess it could be nine times a bridesmaid, three times never a bride…or never a bride times three…or a bride cubed…I don’t know, math was never my strong suit).

Yes, today I will be walking down an aisle in an unnaturally poufy dress that I can’t breathe in because I refuse to accept I am no longer a size six for the ninth time (which actually would have been 11 but I had to turn two down due to one overlapping another wedding and the fact that the other was in Montana, where, like, legit wild animals live).

To be honest, I’m not quite sure how it got to this point. It’s not like I set out to be in nine weddings. Most little girls don’t grow up dreaming about the days they prevent a hyperventilating friend and/or family member from murdering their mother-in-law and then spend the majority of the reception lifting up 40 pounds of tulle so the bride can pee.

And it’s not even as though I’m that popular or even that good of a friend. It just seemed to happen that women in my life got married right at the moment we were at the height of our friendship. Or, in my friend Ben’s case, I was simply the token chick groomsman because I bested three out of five groomsmen in a burping contest.

So why do I do it? Well, for one, the open bar. That may not seem like good fiscal sense, considering the cost of the dress, shoes, airfare, gifts and brown paper bags (bought in bulk for all the bride’s freak out needs) far outweigh what you save by not paying for your hooch for an evening. But hey, free beer is still free beer.

Two, I happen to look really, really good in colors not found in nature, such as teal and neon electric pink.

And three, and possibly most importantly, I LOVE acting superior and sneering my nose down at all the “regular” wedding guests who were not important enough to be asked to button up 417 individual buttons on the back of the bride’s dress.

But Misty’s wedding today should be the last one. All my good friends and cousins are now hitched and any new friends I make are instantly told “Hi, I’m Aprill. Please don’t ever ask me to be in your wedding. What’s your name?”

With this being the last wedding, however, it is a bittersweet moment for me. On one hand, I think I’ll miss all the pomp and circumstance and excitement that surrounds these weddings.

On the other, I will never, ever have to help a fully functioning adult pee ever again.

That is, of course, until 50 percent of these couples start divorcing and remarrying.