IsRoommate got her nephew a GI Joe for his birthday, and this has inspired some fairly serious debate around here.

Is GI Joe a doll or an action figure?

Girls call it a doll. Boys call it an action figure. I'm not sure there's really a difference beyond semantics.

I know that I used to steal my cousins' GI Joes because I thought Ken was a lousy date for my Barbie. GI Joe in the 70's had the cool fuzzy velcro hair and Ken just had that molded plastic. Sometimes he just got to wear an apron and come to the tea party. If nobody was around, though, GI Joe might get to score with Barbie just a little bit.

Or whatever scoring means in the mind of a 6 year old girl.

And sometimes I dressed him in drag, which resulted in the inevitable beating from my older bo cousin who couldn't believe I had gotten his action figure into the pink Superstar dress.

The IsBoyfriend argued passionately for several minutes on the topic of the GI Joe as action figure.

Right up to the point where The Suz's sister called and we could hear her niece shouting in the background "I wanna play with Stewie's Man Barbie!"

And so it continues. I hope those two crazy kids can work it out.

The WB is showing this documentary right now about the making of The Two Towers, a film which I am eargerly awaiting.

The cast and crew enjoyed the attractions of New Zealand. The guy who plays the elf went skydiving. And the guys who play the hobbits went surfing.

Surfing Hobbits.

Surf The Shire!

Everybody's going surrrrfin'.... Surfin' Middle Earth! (sing along. you know the words.)

Yeah. I know. I really need to get out more.

The Suz was telling me about how she and IsBoyfriend are somehow having an argument that she was unaware of.

Apparently he is angry with her because his friend's wife bought a $500 table cloth.

The logic of his argument is, clearly, questionable.

More questionable is where does one obtain a $500 tablecloth? I'm a pretty good seamstress and I don't even know how to obtain $500 worth of fabric.

What does one do with a $500 tablecloth?

You can't serve FOOD on it. What if someone spills? That's a $500 tablecloth. You can't place it in the line of fire. Besides, who cooks food fine enough to warrant serving on such a tablecloth?

I'm sure some people do. I just don't think the IsBoyfriend actually knows people like that.

Now the wife of the IsBoyfriend's friend wants matching napkins, and this precipitated the argument. Apparently this somehow indicates that the IsRoommate is somehow irresponsible with money.

I don't think I could feel comfortable wiping my mouth with a $100 napkin.

Warning: Today's fun and games are not for anyone who doesn't understand the global ramifications of the JesusBurrito paradigm within an overly quotable Simpsonian matrix. For everyone else-- both of you-- enjoy.

Coming in Summer 2004 (or whenever I can get a better summer job than the one I have now): More Than The Sum: The Motion Picture

It's an action/adventure/romantic comedy/science fiction/fantasy/mystery/farce.

Exterior: Shotz Brewery
A dark haired woman in a suit walks out of the front doors of the building. As she lights a cigarette, the building bursts into flames. She saunters to the getaway car, and they speed away. In the background we see the Shotz Brewery still standing, indicating that the flames sequence was all in the woman's head. Cue music-- She's So Cold by the Rolling Stones-- and roll opening credits.

We're hoping to cast Brad Pitt as "Joe" though Jennifer will undoubtedly be angry with us for making him grow back the Grizzly Adams beard. And George Clooney would be great as Raving Lunatic #6. We're also in negotiations to get the Verizon Spokesferret or the Geico Gecko to play Office Worker/ Ex-Not Boyfriend #3. James Earl Jones will reprise his role as The Voice of the Magic Taco, and I'll have a small but meaningful cameo as That Dog With The Shifty Eyes.

I guess it was only a matter of time. I live in a city that houses pound for pound the meanest people on the planet. And this is not an uninformed opinion. I've seen a lot of the planet.

I lost my bankcard last week-- turns out I left it at the convenience store up the street and they gave it back the next time I was in the store, but that's not the issue here-- the issue is my bank.

I reported the lost card. They issued me a replacement. The replacement arrived. The letter that came with the replacement card said all I'd have to do was use the card at an ATM.

What they neglected to tell me was that they were also reissuing my PIN. This would have been helpful information.

I went to the bank on Saturday at 12:55. The branch had locked their doors, even though they didn't close until 1:00. I did not expect the ATM to reject my new card, as I was unaware of the PIN stipulations. So when I pecked on the glass window at 12:58 I was hoping against hope that the nice people inside might take pity on me and help me out.

The man that came to the door told me we wouldn't-- not couldn't, wouldn't-- help me because they were closed and that I should call the toll-free number on the back of my ATM receipt.

I made the call. In the process I also managed to reveal my social security number and mother's maiden name to the guy using the maching in the vestible at the time. The operator who took my call politely told me that he was very sorry but the branch office was authorized to issue me a new PIn, but he was not.

So I hung up the phone and tapped on the window again.

The man at the bank yelled at me that they were closed and he couldn't help me.

Perhaps I was aggressive in the way I placed my hand on the door when he opened it. I thought I was just leaning there.

Perhaps I was intimidating in the way that I asked him what time the branch would open on Monday.

It's possible.

He yelled at me to let go of the door-- presumably afraid that, being denied my PIN, I would rampage right into the vault and begin stuffing my pockets.

To my knowledge there are no federal regulations regarding placing one's hand on a door and asking a question about opening tme of a business.

Perhaps he thought I was going to kick him repeatedly in the dingding.

I thought about it. I won't lie.

But I was already late for lunch.

I'll be going in on Monday morning not to get a new PIN, but to close my account. They will ask why, and I'll point and say, "Yeah, you don't get to keep my money anymore because of that guy."

And that's petty. But so was he.

I'm not upset that he couldn't give me a new PIN. The guy on the phone couldn't give me a new PIN and his dingding is in no immediate danger. I am upset that it is acceptable for people in a service oriented society to treat the people they're supposed to be serving so poorly. So I issue the following rules:

1) Don't lock your doors before closing. I know it's a pain in the ass to deal with people who wander in at the last minute. But if you want to close at 12:55 then post 12:55 in your window.

2) Don't assume you're on a first name basis with me.

3) It's not necessary to act as if I might possibly kick your ass unless you know that your behavior is an ass-kickable offense. And if you know that, then you might want to change that behavior.

4) A smile and an I'm sorry go a long way-- even if it's not sincere.

In other words, I think all service personnel should go to service personnel boot camp in the South, so they can learn the fine art and craft of trating the public like shit without the public being any the wiser.

Yes that's right, I am a good citizen.

I vote in elections and on Tuesday I donated blood.

I'd like to say that this was a noble gesture. That if one is eligible to donate blood then one should. That I share my office with a woman who needs periodic transfusions due to a disorder in her liver that I don't fully understand.

The truth is that I didn't have breakfast on Tuesday morning, and they were giving away little bags of Cheez-Its. I do like Cheez-Its and the price seemed to be right.

The other excuse is that donating blood means I don't have to be good and drink Amstel Light. I can have all the Guinness I want and that makes me happy.

I know they tell you you're not supposed to skip breakfast on the day you donate and you're not supposed to drink for at least a day after.

I had the Cheez-Its before they poked my arm.

And my friend Chris, or maybe it was Tim, or Nigel or whatever, in London used to talk about how they gave his mother Guinness right after she gave birth to him. That's not beer. That's nutrition, that is.

So I got Cheez Its and a Guinness. And The Suz's IsBoyfriend came over and made us dinner while I lounged on the sofa knitting. So all in all I think it was worth all the questions and the needles.

They gave me a t-shirt too.

Yesterday the new Harry Potter movie opened all over the country.

I would be happier to relate that yesterday I picked up the Suz from the Shotz Brewery promptly at 4:30 to race off to the local bookshop to stand in line with the delegates from grade 3 to obtain a copy of the new Harry Potter book (which, I believe is scheduled for completion about 6 days after the Big Dig) instead we were off to the nearest cineplex to stand in line with the delegates from grade 3 to obtain movie tickets. I would also like to take this time to relate that the cineplex nearest the Shotz Brewery looks like the kind of place that should serve PBR on draft, but they won't because I'm not in charge.

This post is not about the Harry Potter movie. The best part of that was when the Suz was fidgeting with a rubber band she found in her bag and it made a daring getaway. To the man in the 9th row, aisle seat, we offer humblest apologies.

This post is also not about my dismay at the inavailability of Junior Mints at movie theatres these days. What IS that, anyway? Junior Mints are an integral part of the moviegoing experience. What else am I supposed to eat with my popcorn? Either get the Junior Mints back or offer sugar on your popcorn like they do in the UK.

Honestly.

No, in this post I want to ask a serious question. I saw a trailer before the HPM promoting what can only be a cinematic tour de force called Daddy Day Care. Does anyone else think there's something a little surreal about the fact that Eddie Murphy is now a kiddie hero? I'm not saying that I didn't find the whole Dr. Doolittle thing amusing. And I am glad to see him back in heavy rotation, because I like Eddie. But I have to say that I find something unsettling about the fact that the man who made Raw, which my 13 year old self had to see late at night when my parents were out on a bootlegged videotape my friend Nix made for me so that I could acquire my favorite multipurpose part of speech, is now making films that I can watch with said parents and not blush once. This is the man who said back then to tell Bill Cosby to shut the fuck up, and now he is Bill Cosby.

No swearing. No Junior Mints.

Am I the only one who suspects that American Civilization might just be in decline?

I've known the Suz for 7 years. She has always been very vocal about equality between the sexes, from her comments in class about how girls are treated in school and Shakespeare's heroines to the more recent frustration as she bangs her head against the glass ceiling at the Shotz Brewery. So imagine my surprise when she brought home not one but two issues of Cosmo.

"I get it every month now."

Now, I don't judge.
And I don't read Cosmo.
Except sometimes late at night when nobody's looking.
And always on an airplane, because I'm afraid to fly, but somehow feel that I will be soothed if the plane goes down and the last thing I'll remember is that I am leaving a world with Cosmo in it.

I think we're looking for ways to figure out how to navigate through the maze of IsBoyfriends and NotBoyfriends and this thing called Modern Life. I think a lot of women don't know what to do if they're not out there trying to get married. So, if not marriage, at least The Relationship remains the brass ring for most.

And if that's your thing, then that's fine.

But I don't know if Cosmo and its ilk are the best road maps any of us could be using, regardless of our ultimate goals.

The damn things have more contradictions in one issue than, say, the entire Bible.

Here's a good example. On one page there's an article advising women to play hard to get. A few pages later is another article telling them about how to be really good in bed.

I know that doesn't really narrow it down and I'm not making commentary that hasn't been said in better ways by many many women before me. It just seems hard enough to know what to do in the boy-girl arena without all these mixed messages telling us that whatever we're doing, it's not the right approach. I spend weeks in an agony spiral after a breakup with someone I wasn't seriously dating anyway trying to figure out what I did wrong. According to these magazines, everything I did was wrong. I didn't play the right game, or I shouldn't have played games at all and men like mystery and men like women who are straightforward and I think it's just enough already.

And don't think I don't know that they're getting the same mixed messages over there. I know that. I don't blame them for thinking we're confusing. I read a magazine like that and think that every assumption that every man ever had about me, while probably wrong, wasn't entirely unjustified. They're getting fed the same ideas through marketing and entertainment and it's a wonder anyone ever ends up with anyone else at all.

I want the marketers out of my bedroom. I want to sit down with someone and not have to double check my every action, say what's on my mind and hear what's on his mind. It's just dating.

Not like it's something crucial, like the World Series or the Final Four.

There are several problems with hiring someone to clean your house.

The first is that someone else has access to your home. We get past that problem around here by installing a revolving door.

The other problem is that you have to do some serious cleaning before the cleaning lady comes. Partly because there are things she won't do and partly because there are things you'd rather her spend time on than doing your dishes.

And then there's the worst part, related to part one. That's the part where she judges. And you know she does. That crud you have settling undeneath the couch-- she judges that. And the contents of the refrigerator-- or lack thereof-- she judges that too. Probably judges the still half full coffee cups resting comfortably on the counter tops and the tables in the den.

You have to get rid of those. And you have to take out all the trash. And when you're done you're thinking how many times a year you could go to Europe if somebody would just pay YOU $20 an hour to do these tasks.

Yesterday was a pretty standard day off.

I got up early and took The Suz to work at the Shotz Brewery (always a dubious task as it runs the risk of running into Ex-NotBoyfriend #3, recently christened the ferretweasel by The Suz). Stopped at McDonald's for an Egg McMuffin (yes I know I'm not supposed to support soulless corporate America, but a girl needs protein sometimes). Came home. Took a nap. Got up. Took a shower.

The route from my bathroom back to my bedroom takes me through the front hall, past the door.

What IS that smell?

That can't be me. I just had a shower! What kind of soap was that?

Is that coming from The Suz's room? Did the IsCats do something unholy in there?

No. It seems to be creeping in around the door.

Open the door to the hall.

Hoo boy!

The downstairs neighbors-- the same ones who called the landlady a few weeks ago regarding my loud stereo and please it's not like I was up here playing Hendrix at full volume it was the new Coldplay CD and that's very soothing I listen to it when I'm trying to go to sleep and the IsBoyfriend is here and don't those people ever sleep?-- they have need of storage boxes apparently. That's reasonable.

What is not reasonable is the part where they went to the local supermarket and obtained said storage boxes from the FISH COUNTER. These boxes are now sitting on the second floor landing filling the entire building with the olfactory memories of Nova Scotia smoked salmon that was once fresh but has long since been purchased and consumed.

Did I mention it was 70 degrees and humid yesterday?

But rainy, so going outside is not an option.

How do you call the landlady to complain about an intrusive and distracting odor?

You don't. What you do is run your obligatory ninja mission back to the Shotz Brewery in the afternoon because you have to have some sort of escape and even bumping into the ferretweasel is preferable to the smell of ass at low tide creeping into every surface of your home. Then you got to the market for provisions.

"Lemon?"

"No, Manda, we want to neutralize the fish, not make it savory."

Got something called Mountain Breeze or whatever.

I hope they don't actually USE those boxes for storage.

The Suz and I have been noticing a fairly disturbing trend in the greater Boston area.

It started in that new Irish pub down the street.

And then we were over in the Back Bay the other day having lunch and we noticed it there as well.

These are not thug bars.* These are nice places that we are going to.

So can somebody explain to me why they're serving PBR on draft?
Did we not move 900 miles to get away from the land of red necks, white socks and Blue Ribbon beer? Was that not the plan?

So I didn't say anything when Suz brought home IsBoyfriend, who is a bubba, I don't care where he grew up.
And the Suz didn't say anything when I brought home Ex-NotBoyfriend #3, the guy who likes to fish.

But THIS. This is too much. I don't know what kind of twisted retro yuppie trend this is, but you people out there have to know that this must stop. It is one thing to bring back the fake wood paneling and green shag carpet low budget porno movie decorating scheme. I might even be able to understand the sleeveless t-shirt bit on a really really hot day-- like when it's 300 degrees outside. But PBR is the nadir of good taste. We didn't even drink it when we were broke and bored in college. There's always a better way.

I know the economy sucks right now.
You're still not that broke.


*thug bar-- n. A hole in the wall, or shack by the highway. Features only domestic beers and is decorated primarily with neon signs advertising said domestic beers. Chipped linoleum floors, peeling, probably lead-based paint in a dingy green and/or dark wood. Lights are dim. There's at least one pool table and maybe a pinball machine. Dart board is optional but recommended. Will have the best jukebox ON EARTH. If you see my dad there, tell him I said hi.

So I got tired of the whole bar thing and decided to try this online personals thing, because people say it's easier than the bar thing.

Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.

I made a decision. NotBoyfriends are great. I like having NotBoyfriends for the same reason I like having a cat. They don't hang around all the time wanting something and you don't have to clean up after them all that often and they don't seem to mind if you go away for days. I don't want an IsBoyfriend for the same reason I don't want a dog. Seems cruel to keep something like that in a place without a yard.

But meeting a nice NotBoyfriend is not as easy as it looks.

So I made another decision. I decided not to buy into the myth of The Nice Guy* any longer.

I don't want any more surprises, so I am now actively seeking the most blazing, raving lunatics I can find. Let's put all the dysfunctions right out there on the table and see if we can make a good story to tell later.

I am bored. I want to be entertained. Bring on the psychosis!


* The Nice Guy always claims he is a nice guy in the same way that dumb people talk about how smart they are and boring people talk about how weird they are. The Nice Guy is nice for about 3 minutes and then he surprises you by coming over with 7 or 8 bags of old girlfriend trauma, parental issues and hangups and habits.

"... And the singer went home early..."

Okay, so I'm not a singer. Except in the shower when I'm doing my famous redition of "Mercedes Benz," but that's really none of your business.

I am tired of being responsible.

I am tired of being the only one who can't stay at the bar until 1:30 on Wednesday night because I have to work in the morning and I can't call in sick and I miss all the good stuff like the shots of whiskey bought by our mysterious rich friend who is jetting off to London in the morning.

People wouldn't lecture me on how I shouldn't be out at a bar at all on Wednesday night.

I want to jet off to London in the morning.

I am so bored.

If I were anyone else I would buy a motorcycle and pack a bag. I would ride to some little place in the midwest and change my name to Lerlene. I would dye my hair redder and wear a beehive and get a job working in some truck stop diner. And when that got boring I would get back on my motorcyle, and I'd color my hair something else and change my name again and go to Washington and can peas or something. And when I got tired of that I'd walk barefoot on the beach in Key West and scratch a manatee's tummy in the marina on my break from serving people cocktails with little umbrellas in them.

I could learn to play poker and improve my pool game.

Nobody would blink if I up and decided to shave my head.

I could wear the same jeans and black t-shirt every day.

And I wouldn't have to hear the radio station play "Pinball Wizard" again in an attempt to get me and all the other poor slobs out there to get excited about where they're going. Maybe I'd even learn to like that song again-- in time.

Last night I put $5 in the jukebox at the bar, and that got me 15 songs.
15 songs at an average playing time of 3-4 minutes made me the master of the bar for nearly an hour.
These choices aren't just about personal taste. These choices are about setting the kind of mood for an entire evening of merriment for possibly hundreds of people.
Lots of people left during that Phish song some guy begged me to include. I'm sure this had nothing to do with the time being after midnight.
Everyone sat back and smiled at their neighbors for "No Woman No Cry."
People got their grooves on for James Brown.
They sang along with "Blister In The Sun."
And I like to think I helped a few poor souls seal the deal when Van Morrison sang "Into the Mystic." (The Suz says never underestimate the power of Van Morrison as a pickup vehicle-- I wouldn't know in this particular context as I was fending off a perfectly nice boy who made the mistake of showing up and aggressively resembling Ex-NotBoyfriend #3).
Money in the jukebox is power. You can send the crowds screaming to another bar. You can make them buy another round. You might even help get them laid.
For those people-- and you know who you are-- you're welcome.

Tomorrow it begins.
Tomorrow they'll all be out ranging free in the neighborhood. Up and down the halls of my building.
Short people playing make believe.
They've spent the last three months planning their costumes. They've been thinking about this night since Nov. 1 last year.
The parties. The dress-up. The bobbing for apples. It all seems so innocent.
But I've seen the gleam in their eyes for weeks now.
And they'll be out there in gangs roaming the streets. They'll be looking to score some M&Ms. There will be drive by toilet paperings and pumpkin smashings for the kid who gets the last tiny Snickers.
And then the worst will emerge. One of them will produce Pez paraphernalia.
There will be no stopping them once they get their hands on the Pixy Stix and LifeSavers. Blood will be shed over a Three Musketeers.
Oh the humanity!
And we-- the tall people-- will be powerless to stop it.
The sucrose will win.
It always does.
Lock your doors. Watch the Twin Peaks marathon on Bravo. It will be far less scary than what's happening outside your door.

I’ve spent some time seeking enlightenment.

I tried meditation. It made my butt numb.

I tried yoga. It made my jeans fit better, but the path to the palaces of wisdom is not to be found in a pair of Levi’s.

I walked the earth until my feet bled. I saw priceless works of art. I conversed with the locals. It gave me a great collection of postcards.

I read Plato, Aristotle, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard. It gave me a headache and eyestrain.

What I have found is that the truly profound moments happen in the routine of getting through from day to day.

Today did not feature one of those moments.

I picked up The Suz from work, because it was my day off and she tends to complain less about the fact that I have been at home all day and the dishes are still dirty if I am willing to stand between her and the experience of watching that guy who eats his own face on the subway.

I’ve told her and told her not to play with my stereo.

Click. “0% apr if you buy before January 2003…”
“No.”
Click. “Coming up in a minute we have 30 minutes of uninterrupted music, kicking it off with the new one from
“Noooo….”
Click. “You’re just like a pill…”
“NO!”
Click. “Glory days, well they’ll pass you by…”
“Oh, c’mon Suz. Not Springsteen.”
“There’s nothing else on. Besides, he IS the Boss.”
“Not the boss of me….”
“I knew this girl that lived up the block, back in school she could turn all the boys’ heads…”
“This is a really depressing song, you know?”
“Yes. Why don’t you change it?”
“No, listen. It’s like, I used to know this beautiful girl. She grew up. Had kids. Got fat…. Later he’ll sing about some guy who lost his stuff in a war or something…. and then there’s the guy who wants to rock. But he ends up smashing rocks in the local penti-tent-tairy instead.”
“That’s very insightful, Suz.”
“Yeah. So what do you want to do tonight?”
“I dunno. What’s on TV?”
“Nothing. We could go to the Laundromat.”
“I guess so. We got any beer?”
“Nope.”
“Damn. We can stop off and get some, right?”
“Sure.”
“Life must really suck in Jersey.”
“Which is why I’m so thrilled to be living in Boston today.”
“Yeah.”
“So why don’t you find us a new song?”
Click.

I went to London a few weeks ago because I was tired of holding my life together in the confusion of being a Grown Up. In London I am not a grown up. I am perpetually 22 years old and fabulous. I can walk around the city and eat when I'm hungry and drink when I'm thirsty and sit on benches and write and look at beautiful nteresting things. In London I don't worry about the next thing I have to accomplish, and I feel like the best possible version of myself.

I told Suz I thought men should be more like London, but she said:

If men were London, we would have never had women's lib.

If men were London, we would take the orgasm for granted.

Unless there were two men who were London, you and I could not be friends.

If a man could be London, he would only be London for a second or two and
then he would realize he was London and then he would become a dick about
his Londonosity.

And then London would begin to suck.

And civilization would, obviously, have to crumble.

There would be anarchy.

Screws would fall out all of the time.

In our quest to escape the sheer Londonishishness of our existence, we would
run to whatever was different from the man who was London.

We would run to the Weaselboys and the Head Cases and the Guy From Control Who Talks
About Banging Girls And Holding It Over Their Heads just to escape the
original sucky man.

And we'd be right back where we started.

With men who suck.

But this time there would be no London to run to.

And we would go to Paris.

Parlez vous francais?