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.