This really gives my “car-ma” category new meaning.


Our neighbor knocked the sideview mirror off our car. And by “our car” I mean “B!’s car” by which I mean the Focus. To be fair, the mirror hadn’t attached properly since August 2006 and had been held on with metal screws since sometime in 2007, so it probably wasn’t the most solid of things. But still. I mean, you break your neighbor’s car, you should tell them, right? Maybe apologize? Because, I mean, this mirror thing effectively totals the car. Without it, B! can’t pass inspection, and without that, he can’t drive the car. Right? Right.

So our neighbors effectively totaled our car.

Now, I’m no stranger to the “hit and run” mentality – this one time, after college, I was late to work and accidentally backed into the rear driver’s side door of this car parked behind our driveway. And, I’ll admit, I panicked. I drove away. But I was SO RIDDLED WITH GUILT that after work I spent an hour driving around the neighborhood so I could find the car I hit and leave a note with contact information. Turns out it was a good thing I did, because that car belonged to MY neighbor, and, to make matters, worse, he was standing at the front door when it happened. I paid for his bodywork out of pocket – no small feat, on my waitress salary – but the financial burden at least helped to alleviate my guilt.

I’m not saying that our neighbors should pay for a new mirror, or that they should buy us a new car, but really. If you break something that belongs to somebody else, you should at least have the common courtesy to tell them. If this is karma, it’s not well-balanced. Don’t you think?

In my NEW car, you can use any door you like.


I had to work all weekend, but I forced B! to go out and get us a Christmas tree. He didn’t really want to – he was  into the aluminum tree idea – but I was adamant about a REAL tree. Because I have ORNAMENTS. That hang on a REAL tree.

Or so I said.

So anyway, he comes back with the tree, all huffing and puffing, and I’m like, what’s wrong? Well apparently, somebody at the tree place had opened the rear passenger side door of the car, the door you’re never supposed to open. Ever. It hasn’t closed properly since 2008 sometime, and while I’ve grown used to shrieking door-opening warnings to anyone who might pass my way (sorry, girl who I picked up at the airport that time), B!, apparently, had not yet developed that reflex. So the door had been opened, and then, hey! The door wouldn’t shut.

“So what’s the trick?” he asks me.

The trick, dude, is to not let anyone open the door.

I told him so.

Then we set up the tree, drank some truly putrid mulled wine (free advice: add some sugar), like, duct-taped the door shut or something, and went to bed.

Today I made him do our laundry, because I’m just that giving and wonderful, and, after he dropped off our clean clothes, he set off for the repair shop. You know, to get the door fixed. Because it’s obviously broken.

Should I be ashamed that in the fifteen months or so that door’s been broken it never once occurred to me to take the thing in and have it serviced? (Like seriously. Never crossed my mind.) Or should I just be thankful that, once the hinge finally shit the bed, it wasn’t my problem anymore?

I lean towards the latter.

This day is not going well.


I’ve been feeling really stressed lately. I have two high-test jobs with two high-profile producers, I’m actively seeking more freelance work, and I have no less than 4 weddings to edit. Plus I’m looking for an apartment, trying to find time for my friends, and I gained all this weight so none of my pants fit me anymore. The latter is unrelated to the former or anything else, but contributes to my discontent in a way that only weight gain can.

Each day, before getting out of bed, I check my email. Usually it’s just mailing list spam-crap, but today there was an email from my producer. It wasn’t a happy email. And it’s my fault that it wasn’t a happy email. If there’s one thing that makes me feel worse than wearing ill-fitting pants, it’s feeling totally inept, and so if he’s not happy then I’m not happy and nobody’s happy. So let’s take that as a start.

Then I had this job interview for some freelance work. I’m feeling like a fat slug, I have nothing to wear, it’s pouring rain, and my hair has all the bounce and body of a dead rat. Plus, I’m like, why would anyone want to hire ME? I can’t even do basic MATH, it’s a miracle I can even put my SHOES on in the morning without HURTING somebody. I sucked in my gut, buttoned my old trouser jeans, and resignedly pinned back my bangs. I looked like shit. No lie.

So the interview went OK I guess, and then I went to Starbucks to do some work, and got yet MORE bad news from the boss. So feeling less happy. Feeling a little panicked, in fact. Feeling, for the first time in months, like an Ativan might be in order.

Instead, I turned to retail therapy. There was an Urban Outfitters near the Starbucks, and Lo! A sale on jeans! Things looking up! Except for how they had no jeans in my new, bigger size. Except for how, en route to the Urban, I got a CALL from my producer. Still not happy. So I’m still not happy. Even if they HAD my size at Urban, I STILL would not have been happy. Work is more important to me than well-fitting clothes, you see.

But I was scheduled for a lunch date with Shanna and baby Hayden, and baby therapy seemed like not such a bad thing. She’d asked me to pick up some sandwiches for us, and a bag of chips, and I was all set to do that until the lady in the sandwich store yelled at me for not closing the refrigerator. So I forgot all about the chips, and felt like a huge asshole.

Then I had baby therapy and a beer, and I ate my whole huge sandwich and felt like a beast, and then I got my hair cut and realized I had no cash for a tip, meanwhile, I’ve gotten ANOTHER email about the work situation and things are NOT looking up but I still have to go to the post office and mail this DVD this client’s been asking about for like MONTHS and maybe I can bring the tip to her tomorrow before I leave for DC? Then holy shit I still have to pack and what do I wear and what do I have that fits me and at least my hair looks a little better now but SERIOUSLY JUST SHOOT ME IN THE FACE BECAUSE IJUSTCANTTAKEITANYMORE.

Aaah. Now I feel better.

Call me a masochist, I call me awesome.


On this lovely, sunny, temperate Massachusetts Friday, I’m sure that most people had asked for the day off. Or left work early. Or, at the very least, took it easy on themselves. It’s July 2 for Chrissake, I mean, everybody and their brother is staring down the barrel of a three day weekend. Bring on the party, right?

You know, or not.

I woke up with a most inauspicious to-do list:

1) bikini wax
2) car shopping
3) massive server migration at BLPI

The third part of my plan went horribly – I’d forgotten that each dropbox user only has 2g of storage space, so at the 11th hour I had to re-think the whole operation. Big ups to Katsumi, who helped me through with phone support. Eventually I got everything working fine (I think), and with any luck I’ll be able to work remotely during my upcoming Arizona vacation.

The first part of my plan went as comfortably as one might expect when a smooth-skinned European woman spends an hout working her way around your nether-regions with a tongue depressor and muslin strips. (Read: hey, at least I remembered to take Advil first)

And the second part of my plan, well….


Hello “The Only Manual Yaris Sedan in the Greater Boston Area (Which Also Happens To Be Black) (Which Also Happens To Be My Favorite Color)”, you will be mine on Wednesday, July 24. I think I’ll call you Alexis.

Just when you thought it was safe to get back in the Focus,


I just had the most unpleasant altercation with a huge African cab driver. I was driving back to the office and slowed down along the way to see if there was parking in front of the convenience store. I like a Diet Coke with my meal, although, if they had it, a beer would have been preferable. The realization that there WAS no convenience store parking came simultaneous with a horn blast from the cab behind me.

While I try to avoid making generalizations, I feel like I can honestly say that the vast majority of cabs I’ve taken have been piloted by bigoted, misogynistic assholes, and it gives me a bad feeling about cabbies in general. Driving in Boston for the last nine years has done little to alleviate my distaste. If you’re a nice cab driver, and I know there are a few of you, I apologize for my wide net. But by and large, cab drivers: you are douchebags.

Back to moments ago. The driver lays on his horn, and, once I register that the offensive noise was directed at me, I immediately slam on my brakes. I realize this makes me an asshole driver too, but, emboldened by the impending retirement of the Focus as it stands, I’m don’t find myself in a position to give a shit if the fucker rear ends me. I return to the posted speed limit and continue. The (one lane) road widens briefly, and the cab takes the opportunity to try and pass me on the right. Oh no sir, I say, and swerve into his path of travel. Then, of course, he tries to pass me on the left. Did I mention the road is one lane? I mirror his movements and thwart him again. At the stop light ahead, I make sure to block the entire path of travel so he can’t get around me on either side, but the crafty bastard pulls halfway into oncoming traffic so that our windows are facing.

Before he’e even there, I’m giving him the bird. Arm outstretched, finger pointed skyward. He gets out of the car and wow.

I’m not joking. This guy is built like a linebacker. HUGE. And through his accent I can hear him asking if I’ve got a problem. I should probably shut my mouth at this point, but there’s no stopping once you wind me up.

“YOU’RE my problem!” I shout, retracting the offensive digit. “What the fuck were you beeping at me for?”

The car in front of us edges eastward. I nudge the Focus up to its bumper. The cab driver hops back into his car and pushes forward, barely grazing my sideview mirror. I stare through my rolled-down window into his car.

Unable to contain himself, he leaps out once more and, gesturing wildly, tells me that next time he sees me in the street, he’s going to pop me one.

“Oh, REALLY. REALLY? You’re going to hit a woman? Come on, go ahead man! Let’s see what happens!”

I’m totally ready for him to pull me out of the car. He’s screaming. I’m totally ready to be punched in the face – broken nose, fractured jaw, bruises on my arms and torso. He’s moving towards my car, I’m daring him to finish the job. I’m totally ready for it. It’ll make headlines.

Traffic moves. I pull left, cutting off a Volkswagen in my race to beat him out of the gate, not caring if the cab’s bumper leaves marks all down my car. As he scrambles into the driver’s seat, he shouts the words that are still echoing in my ear:


I have problems with anger management. Bad problems. And I feel it’s a testament to my continued progress that I didn’t throw it into reverse and back the fuck into his driver’s side door. I know I’m a woman, you sideswiping, loudmouthed, bullying piece of shit. The world won’t ever let me forget it. And you, you must be one hell of a man.

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