Monthly Archives: June 2013

Veggie Tales…of HORROR!

I blame ice cream. You ever have ice cream? Of course you have. You’re not dead. Or stupid.

So you can probably understand where I’m coming from when I blame ice cream for my hatred of vegetables. You feed my 3-year-old mouth that magical creamy substance made from unicorn laughter and puppy dreams and then a few hours later expect me to be happy when you shove some green beans in there?

Yeah. Nice try, Mom.

As you can see, my relationship with vegetables was tumultuous starting at a very young age. There was the Great Tomato Stand-Off when I was 6, where my mom and I sat staring at each other from across the table for hours, a lone tomato slice sitting in between us. After what felt like a lifetime, the tomato slice was gone but I had vowed to never eat another tomato as long as I lived. A vow I took with my hand resting on “The Children’s Illustrated Bible” so my mom knew just how serious I was about it.

There was the Epic Onion Picking Out Adventure of 1993, where I methodically deconstructed my Taco Bell burrito and then hunted down every single tiny chopped onion there within when the cruel, uncaring teenage workers messed up my order.

And then there was the Legendary Mushroom Vomit Incident in high school, which for your sake, dear reader, I’ll leave the details up to your imagination. (HINT: It was gross).

Of course, as I’ve gotten older, it’s gotten a little bit better. For example, my husband finally convinced me to try guacamole, a major feat considering my inherent suspicion of any and all things green. I actually ended up loving it, so much so that my husband hasn’t had so much as a bite of the stuff since then because I grab it out of the waiter’s hand every time we go to a Mexican restaurant and guard it with my body like Gollum protecting his precious.

I also now like hummus, once I found out that hummus is not the same thing as haggis (Google “haggis,” kids, if you never want to sleep again).

I even will voluntarily eat a salad from time to time, as long as the main feature of said salad is meat of some sort.

But despite these advancements in my palate, I am still at heart a carnivore. So much so in fact, that while most food pyramids looks like this..

Food pyramid

…my food pyramid looks like this…

Food pyramid 2

Meat is my first love and is the main staple of all my meals. The rest of the stuff on the plate? Garnish, pretty much. For example, here’s a typical conversation between my husband and I:

Him: “What do you want for dinner?”

Me: “Steak.”

Him: “OK, what else?”

Me: “I don’t understand the question.”

Which is why when my friend DeDe came to visit me here in Boston a few weeks ago and informed me she was now a vegetarian, I entered full-on freak out mode. Not because she was a vegetarian. I had plenty of friends who were vegetarians. And some vegans. And even for awhile some who were hardcore raw foodists.

No, I was freaking out because I had never had to feed a vegetarian for a week. I kept trying to think of meals I could make for her but my limited knowledge of the food in the produce aisle hindered my attempts significantly.

“Is corn a meal? Can I just make her corn? Or…um…salad? But what else goes on salad besides meat? Is chicken considered meat? I guess I could do something with a potato. But do people actually eat potatoes without bacon bits? Oh god, she’s going to starve to death!”

Luckily, I eventually figured it out.

Kind of.

I did make her a lovely eggplant parmesan (or at least I think it was lovely…I have no idea how it was actually supposed to taste), where I discovered that eggplants are not that pretty purple color all the way through much to my disappointment. We also ate out a lot. And ordered a lot of delivery cheese pizza.

And the girl probably ate more fruit than is healthy for a human since the other options in my fridge were less than desirable (“Hey, here’s some cottage cheese. It expired three years ago but it’s probably fine”).

But the point is, she survived. And I survived. And thanks to this experience, my horizons regarding food have been widened even further. I mean, who knows where it could go from here? Maybe now I’ll even figure out how you’re supposed to eat that zucchini that’s been hanging out in the back of my fridge.

Or is it a cucumber?

Oh, nope. You know what? I bet it’s that leftover corn on the cob from last summer.


There were a lot of things I noticed when I first moved to Boston. The accent. The history. The proliferation of daydrinking. The drivers with little-to-no regard for your well-being. The accent. The outrageous rent prices. The beauty of the city. The accent.

The one thing I didn’t notice? That gay marriage was legal here.

Of course, I knew it was legal in Massachusetts. It was a historic moment watched by the rest of the country when it finally passed. But it wasn’t really something I noticed in my day-to-day life here other than when I befriended same-sex couples, they introduced each other as “my husband” or “my wife” (which, having lived for most of my life in parts of the country where being openly gay was a fairly dangerous gamble and as such, partners were generally referred to as “my close friend,” was quite refreshing).

But other than that, it never really crossed my mind. And while I have been accused of being fairly oblivious in the past (my dog literally has to place his food bowl in my lap if he doesn’t want to starve to death), even I’m not THAT oblivious. It’s simply because gay marriage is no big deal here.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean that in a facetious way. I know that if the government had told me for years I was a second-class citizen and unable to marry the love of my life and then they finally reversed that decision and I suddenly had the freedom to stand up in front of all my family and friends and declare my love for my husband and have it legally binding, complete with all the benefits that particular institution bestows, it would be A VERY BIG DEAL.

But what I mean by “no big deal” in this context is that it’s a natural part of life here. It’s normal. Par for the course. You love someone and want to spend the rest of your life with them? Well, duh. You marry them then.


As far as I can tell, when Massachusetts began defining marriage as a legal contract between two people, not just between a woman and a man, it didn’t result in a sudden free-for-all on quote unquote “unholy” unions. The requests to marry one’s brother or father, one’s goat, one’s Japanese body pillow or nine barely legal buxom blondes were negligible. Boston didn’t suddenly resemble Sodom or Gomorrah (fraternity keggers notwithstanding). Nor was everyone suddenly forced to be gay or accept the gay lifestyle against their will. Nor were churches suddenly forced to perform gay marriage ceremonies in their houses of worship.

And as for it ruining the “sanctity of marriage,” my marriage to my husband still seems pretty sanctified.

(We sanctified it just last night…twice…HEH-HEH-HEH).

So while I’m sure DOMA being struck down will cause handwringing on a massive scale and “downfall of civilization” proclamations and hateful rhetoric from certain sectors of the population, I can say from personal experience that it actually changes nothing.

Correction– It actually changes everything for the GLBT community. As for the rest of us, it changes nothing in our day-to-day lives (other than being able to hold our heads up a bit higher because America is finally walking the walk and not just talking the talk of true equality).

Here’s to hoping the rest of the country soon realizes that as well.

The 32 Things I’ve Learned in 32 Years

Well, despite my attempts to thwart it once again, my birthday is right around the corner. And so in honor of this very important day that only I and my mother really care about, I’ve decided to impart some of the wisdom I’ve gained over the years.

Here are the 32 things I’ve learned in my 32 years on Earth:

1. The book is always better than the movie.

2. Everything tastes better with bacon. Everything.

3. It’s not drinking alone if you’re on the phone with somebody who is also drinking.

4. If you’re having more than one wedding shower or more than one baby shower, you’re doing it wrong.

5. Superhero franchises should not be rebooted so often that you can still fit into the same pair of pants at both premieres.

6. Before you marry someone, make sure you enjoy doing boring, mundane crap with them. Because your marriage will be composed of 10 percent magical moments and 90 percent doing boring, mundane crap together.

7. No amount of digital remastering can change the fact Han shot first.

8. The quickest way to kicked off a singing competition show is to attempt a Whitney Houston song. You will never sing as good as Whitney Houston. Hell, toward the end of her life, even Whitney Houston couldn’t sing as good as Whitney Houston.

9. No, ladies, you do not deserve to be treated like a princess. You deserve to be treated like a human. Get over yourself.

10. Travel as much as you possibly can.

11. A slow Internet connection might be the ultimate first world problem, but it still really, really sucks. Like, REALLY sucks.

12. If no one will publish your book, publish it yourself. If no one will cast you in a TV show, start your own web series. If no one will sell your art, sell it yourself. There are no excuses anymore.

13. Never become so jaded and callous that you don’t give the homeless guy the spare change in your pocket.

14. It is absolutely impossible to resist yelling out “Leonard Bernstein” while listening to “It’s the End of the World As We Know It” by R.E.M.

15. Dog fur is the most resilient substance on Earth. No matter how much you use a lint roller, it will still be there on your pants. Even if you’re murdered and dumped in the ocean and found two years later, police will still be able to identify you by the dog hair they find on your pants.

16. Tweet like no one’s reading.

17. Don’t pay too much attention to statistics. Over 64.7 percent of them are made up on the spot.

18. Never put too much stock in winning awards. Just remember: Kathie Lee and Hoda have won multiple Emmys.

19. No one can make you feel guilty. Only you can make you feel guilty. Unless it’s your mom. Mom can always make you feel guilty.

20. Violence is never the answer. Unless the question is “What should we do about Kim Kardashian?”

21. It’s always better to look your age than to look like you’re desperately trying not to look your age.

22. Shelter pets make the best pets.

23. Fellas, if the woman you are marrying is a bridezilla, don’t be shocked when she continues to act like an entitled brat for the rest of your life.

24. You should automatically unfriend anyone who uses hashtags on Facebook.

25. If you’re worried about your privacy, posting rants about privacy on your Facebook page probably isn’t the best solution.

26. Don’t give your kid a stupid name. Just…don’t.

27. Sometimes living life to the fullest includes 18 hours straight of watching “Arrested Development” on Netflix.

28. You’re not officially old until Bingo becomes fun.

29. Leggings are not pants. I repeat, leggings are not pants.

30. Don’t bother keeping up with the Joneses. They’re jerks anyway.

31. Never let Christmas morning lose its magic.

32. Never get a tattoo of an Internet meme. YOLO looks dumb on your wrist now and will look really dumb 30 years from now.

You never forget your first time

This is a bit embarrassing but up until a few days ago, I was a 31-year-old virgin. Yes, I had never been officially “F”-ed. I told myself it was because I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared for the way it would change my life.

But the truth is, I was ready. More than ready. Hell, I had been ready since the day I moved to Boston over two years ago, all bright-eyed and innocent, ready to shed my small town girl image for a sophisticated city gal persona.

I just wasn’t sure if, after all this time, I would even know what to do. If at this point, I would just be making a fool of myself, trying to fit in with everyone else who had vastly more experience with this kind of stuff than I did.

And then, like most things of this nature, one night one thing led to another. Drinks were had. Suggestions were made. Tickets were bought.

And before I knew it, I had lost my cherry to Fenway.

Don’t get me wrong. I had been around a few baseball stadiums at this point so I wasn’t completely innocent. In fact, my fifth-grade teacher was such a die-hard Cincinnati Reds fan that every year he took his class on a field trip to a game. I also once went to a Houston Astros game with not one but TWO of my guy friends. But since we weren’t really fans, it got kind of awkward and no one really knew where to put their hands.

But neither of those times had been like this. Never like this.

Fenway was not gentle. It was not sweet. It didn’t bother with the pillow talk, let alone cuddling.

But it did believe in plenty of foreplay. Stepping onto Yawkey Way before the main event was like stepping back in time, into a street carnival straight out of the 1930’s. All that was missing was a bunch of young boys in newsboy caps rolling a hoop with a stick down the street. I was being seduced on all sides by the sweet sounds of vendors yelling out their wares and being caressed by a thousand touches as already drunk fans barreled into me.

I was in love.


Sure, call me a masochist if you must, but as it turns out, I like a little pain with my pleasure. And no where was this more abundant than when we got down to business and assumed the position.

You probably already know this, but the seats at Fenway are not for the faint of heart. They are not for the fair weather fan. They are not even for humans. The engineer who came up with these seats not only didn’t have a butt himself, but had also never met anyone else with a human butt in his lifetime.

Judging by the amount of leg room, he also was a hobbit.

Forget water boarding. You want a terrorist to reveal his secrets? Let him sit in one of those Fenway seats through an entire game WITHOUT the saving grace of the seventh inning stretch and watch how quickly that canary sings.

“OK, OK! Yes, I will give you all the names of my fellow terrorists and where our secret weapons cache is. Just please…PLEASE…let me stand. I can no longer feel my lower half, my back is on fire and I will probably never be able to poop normally again!”

But it didn’t matter. I was already emotionally attached. We were still in the very middle of the act, not even the fifth inning yet, and I was already fantasizing about kids. Raising my kids as Red Sox fans. Dressing them up in tiny Red Sox onesies. Bringing them to a game as a family.

I was even ready to make the ultimate commitment of season tickets.


Of course, after the game, the magic I saw in Fenway started to fade a bit. Leaving was extremely awkward, what with trying to make a graceful exit from the stadium and then trying not to vomit as some drunk fan on the Green Line kept shouting in my face with his rancid beer breath about how awesome the game was and also how he noticed I had boobs. Two of them, in fact.

But I still have faith that Fenway and I can make this work. And I plan to be back for more.

Maybe even switch it up a bit to keep things spicy and go to an early game for a little afternoon delight.