Someone kick me in the shins; I'm turning into the patriarchy.
This afternoon at work I wrote an article about wedding dresses--for 12-year-olds. No, I wasn't encouraging them to get married at 12. I was just telling them what their dream dress says about them as a person and what kind of wedding it means they want. It felt just as dirty. At least I managed to avoid mentioning men anywhere in the story.

Weird Wheels
This weekend, I spotted two vehicles in my neighborhood that just don't make sense. The first offender was a white minivan with neon green ground effects. (I think that's what it's called anyway.) Who pimps out their minivan? The second was an SUV taxi, which just seems stupid and unnecessary.

An Amazing Feat of Self-restraint
I went to this amazing thrift shop in Williamsburg today called Beacon's Closet. I'm a bit strapped for cash at the moment, so I promised myself I'd just browse. I was doing very well until I picked up this cute corduroy skirt. It was a Marc Jacobs skirt. For $21 dollars. And it fit me. (You knew I'd have to try it on.) But the zipper was broken. Which would be easy to have fixed. I only had $20 in my wallet, but I was sure I could borrow a couple dollars from Tanya. But that $20 has to last me until I get paid on Friday, so I wouldn't have enough money for the bus this week, which would be a problem. This debate went on for a long time. But finally reason prevailed. The skirt was cute, but it wasn't cute enough that I'd want to spend $20 (well, $30 once I got the zipper fixed) on it if it wasn't Marc Jacobs. So I put it back. I had to leave the store pretty much immediately before I changed my mind and had to spend a week hitchhiking back from Jersey.

Too pretty to be a dentist
I went to get my teeth cleaned on Friday. My new dentist looked more like an aspiring actor or model than someone who went to dental school. Perhaps he was just hanging around the office doing research for a new role on a soap opera? Nope, he was actually my dentist, which made me worry. He looked way too pretty to be smart enough to know how to clean my teeth. And thinking that made me feel like a bitch. But then it turns out I was write. It was the most unpleasant cleaning I've ever had. He had me lying completely flat, which made me think I was going to choke on my own spit. Everything he did hurt. And he really only cleaned the front of front teeth. Um, yeah, good job.

Now that's what I call classy
The St. Patrick's Day parade ends in my neighborhood, so it's packed with drunks pretty much all day. It can be highly entertaining. I headed out to meet friends for dinner in Woodside at about 7:30, and on my way to the subway I saw these two things in the space of about two blocks. 1)A girl smoking outside a bar with her friends fall over into a giant pile of trash. 2)A guy peeing on a Jeep. He was standing between two parked cars and acting like no one could see that he was peeing in the street. Um, sorry, buddy, not really an effective hiding spot.

Seriously?
An editor who works two cubes away from me has started bringing her dog to work. It's a Chihuahua. It wears a sweater. It follows her around. Thankfully, I haven't heard it barking. But what confuses me the most is that I ride the bus with her every day. She commutes an hour from Brooklyn every day--with her dog. OK. We get it. You really like your dog. But give me a break.

Oh yeah, now I remember.
I knew there was something else I was going to blog about. Fake St. Patrick's Day. Hoboken celebrates it the first weekend in March each year. Basically it's an excuse for people to start drinking in the street at 10 in the morning. I don't get it, but I approve. The parade was a bit disappointing (not enough crazy floats, way too many old guys in kilts). I had plenty of beer and got to see one of my favorite bands and shake it to some awesome Irish tunes. It was such a good time that I was asleep by 10:30. I'm still more excited for real St. Patrick's Day, though. (Friday! Woodside! People with real Irish accents!)

Road trip
I went to Boston over the weekend with the boy. We met up with Marijane (who I hear has a blog now. I want the address!) and Brian. We ate at a hippie organic pizza parlor. We went to Salem, which has lots of witch museums and some good beer. It was a good trip. Until the boy got sick. That wasn't as much fun. Overall, though, a really good time.

I should be packing right now
But what I really feel like doing is blogging. It's been way too long, but I just haven't had a chance. It's not that life has been particularly exciting or eventful lately. It's just that life feels like it's spinning by so fast and I haven't had time to pause and catch my breath. I'm hoping that changes soon. I think if I just get a chance to finish my taxes and my laundry and straighten my room, I'll feel a lot better. I finally finished the baby blanket last night, so that should free up some time.

Snippets (or stories I've been meaning to blog about for the past couple weeks but now are so old that you're just getting the short version)
-I met Sarah Magill's dopelganger, and I don't mean her twin sister. She's from Spain, and she's dating one of the boy's friends. Unfortunately, I had no fellow FARCers around to back me up on this.
-Screw you, Ticketmaster. You don't seem to want my money. First, both the Saw Doctors shows sell out. Granted, I should have bought those tickets earlier, but that doesn't make it entirely my fault. But still. And then I find out Wilco's playing in New Jersey, and one of the boy's friends has a car and also loves Wilco. Score! But when I try to buy tickets, Ticketmaster isn't working, and the next morning, they're already sold out. Bastards.
-Paintball rocks. I went for the first time the other weekend with the boy and a bunch of his friends. It was way too much money, but we were at this awesome place out in the Pokanos (Is that even how you spell that? I don't even care enough to check right now.)I even shot the boy. Ha! And by the end of the day, I was getting a lot better at it. In one of the last rounds, I killed three people. Nothing like a baggy camoflauge jumpsuit to make you blood thristy. We played from about 9:30 to 3, though, so I was unbelieveablely sore the next couple days. I felt like an old woman.

So dirty out of context
The news is on as I type this, and the anchor just said, "I like that boy. I want to taste his chicken." Eew.

Um.
I feel like I have more to write about, but I'm drawing a blank.