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The other day I was thinking about how some bands name themselves after genitalia, things that go into genitalia, and/or the various fluids that come flying out of genitalia. You’ve got your Steely Dan, your Cream, your Slits, and so forth. So then I was thinking about the band 10cc and how I had heard conflicting reports that the name either did or did not represent the average amount of semen per ejaculation. So then I was thinking about The Lovin’ Spoonful and I thought, “I wonder which kind of spoon they were referring to?” A teaspoon is equivalent to 5cc, and a tablespoon is 15cc. So 10cc is purporting to be either twice or two-thirds as manly as The Lovin’ Spoonful. Which one, I guess we’ll never know, but I for one will always wonder.

After engrossing myself in this mental exercise, I realized that the only reason I know how to convert spoons to cubic centimeters is because of nursing school. They make you learn these ridiculously outdated apothecary measurements like drams and grains, and you also learn how to convert ounces into milliliters and whatnot. Aside from a few calculations here and there, I’ve virtually never had occasion to use these conversions in a medical setting. But because I retained some of the basic equivalents in my head, I am able to ruminate on which band is a bigger spooge-braggart. My professors would be proud!

History Channel program about space:  “Jupiter is essentially a giant gas ball.”

Jared and I, to each other:  “What’s up, Jupiter?”

(There comes a point when you realize that your marriage consists mainly of predictable one-liners and a series of inside jokes and nicknames that are funny to no one but the two of you.  If you’re lucky, you and your partner are both very easily amused.)

There is a wall of windows in our dining room that faces out onto the backyard and all the houses on the street parallel to ours. Two of the windows are roughly standard width, but the main window is very large. When we moved in, it was clear that we’d have to get some kind of custom blinds/curtain situation going, which as of yet, we haven’t done.

Our bathroom happens to be right next to the dining room, such that if you are in the bathroom with the door open, any of the people living in nearby houses could theoretically see you through their windows. Since no one ever seems to be looking, and since I am lazy and don’t care, I very frequently make the post-shower walk out of the bathroom and past the windows without bothering to cover up.

There are a couple of elderly people who sometimes hang out on their porch and could potentially see my naked ass while I do this, but aside from them I have literally never seen anyone looking out of the many windows that face into our house. That all changed a few nights ago. I had been standing in the bathroom either naked or close to it, and was heading to the bedroom when I noticed something in a neighbor’s window. It was an unclothed male torso, and one arm was manipulating an unseen object around waist-level with a distinct back-and-forth motion. My curiosity got the best of me, and I admit I stood there and looked for a few seconds to try and confirm the burning question of “Is he really?” While I watched in horror, he reached for a small bottle on the windowsill, poured some liquid into his hand, and resumed his repetitive hand motion. At that point I understood that I had gone too far, looked too long, and should never have been looking in the first place. But in the very next moment, I had a much needed epiphany and realized what he was doing: washing the dishes.

This disturbing and intriguing event made it clear that we really do need to get some window dressings, however custom and difficult to obtain they may prove to be. Not because I’m worried about people looking in at us, but because I don’t want to be able to look out at them and see whatever activities they may or may not be engaging themselves in.

Jared came home the other night and announced, “This weekend, I’m going to live out your life-long fantasy!” My immediate thought was, how did you get Hugo Weaving to agree to go on a date with you and wear the V for Vendetta costume? But then he continued: “I’m going tuna fishing!”

It has never been my dream to fish for tuna, though I do love to eat it. It was, at one time, my dream to drive up to Gloucester and seduce some young fisherman who would keep me in fresh fish for the rest of my life. When I met Jared, that dream was shot to high hell, but I still eat fish on a regular basis (though with mixed emotions, as it is the only kind of meat I eat and I sometimes consider giving it up). I used to eat tuna every single day and it became my office persona, such that when I came down with a mysterious illness my coworkers planned to prank call me, posing as my doctor and saying that a tumor made of tuna had developed in my body. Bitches.

But I digress: Jared went on to explain that the fishing boat was leaving at 3 a.m. on Saturday morning, and that he was going to be on it. My initial response was to laugh in his face. My next response was to ask if I would be getting any tuna out of this deal. He said probably not. This angered me, but I focused on the real issue at hand: the fact that there is virtually no way that Jared is going to get on a fishing boat at three in the morning, especially after a week that included a business trip to another state, and working until as late as eleven p.m. and generally getting little sleep and no leisure time.

Those of you who know him, please back me up. We have twenty-three hours until we find out if he’s a man of his word, which I am virtually positive he isn’t. The shocking conclusion to this tale will be posted as it occurs!

Here’s a video you may enjoy of Dick and Rick Hoyt, a father-and-son team who have run the Boston Marathon for the past billion years and also compete in various triathlons and other events. Rick has cerebral palsy and, as I work at a cerebral palsy program, reminds me of a few of my clients (though CP is an incredibly varied condition; some clients can talk and walk, some are severely mentally retarded, some are college graduates, some are married, etc). Dick is well into his sixties but is still a much better athlete than I’ll ever be, and an incredible parent; the only word for the dude is Hard. I can only imagine how embarrassed they both were at the cheeseball production of the video, but I recommend it just the same.

There’s some footage of Rick using a device that allows him to type by moving his head. Some of my clients use similar devices, and while they take a lot of time and endless patience to operate, they are a pretty brilliant piece of technology. People who don’t know any better tend to look at a guy who can’t speak, who has spastic limbs and who drools on himself, and assume that he is mentally incompetent, or “like a child” (I can’t express how much that phrase fucking grates on me). I find it terrifically gratifying to see that same guy employing perfect spelling, grammar, and syntax and proving the richness and intelligence of the thoughts that faulty nerves and muscles once trapped inside his head. I see this every day at work, and perhaps seeing it in the video will give you a tiny inkling of why I love working with “alternative” populations.

(On the other side of that coin, most of our clients are retarded, and don’t have perfect spelling or any spelling at all, but are still among the most good-natured, caring, impressive people I know. So as a favor to me and to them, opt not to use the word “retarded” when what you really mean is “stupid”. It makes you look like an asshole; nay, a stupid asshole. Slurs and derogatory language don’t tend to bother me, but this always did, long before I ever had this job.)

I want you to experience the overwhelming joy of viewing this mashup of a modern hip-hop track with a 60’s variety show dance routine. There is some serious dropping it like it’s hot taking place, and it’s being dropped by chicks in bell bottoms who are probably very old now, and it’s just fantastic.

Praise be to Erin for the heads-up.

What the hell was the point of getting married if Nstar won’t give me my account number over the phone because only my husband’s name is on the account? They didn’t seem to have any problem cashing a check I wrote and signed in my name, yet they won’t give me the frigging account number so I can set up online bill payment and give them even more money from my bank account which is in no way associated with my husband or his name.

What the hell, indeed.

The mister and I had dinner at Bukowski’s last night. I had my back to the wall and at one point noticed Jared looking at something above my shoulder with an extremely amused look on his face. I turned and read the following poem, which was painted on the wall as part of the Bukowski mural motif:

all the way to the grave

Tolstoy’s wife was a nag
and one bitter cold night
she started in on him again
and he left the house to
escape her and
caught the pneumonia which
killed him.

then she wrote a book about
what a son of a bitch
he was.

Slightly put off by my husband’s decision to meta-rib me with the words of a dead poet, I turned back to my Franziskaner and grilled cheese, and we resumed our meal. Some time later he made a disagreeable statement, which I refuted, and when he mocked me in his usual fashion for my abundance of strongly-held opinions, I pointed a finger towards the wall and said, “Refer, if you will, to the aforementioned poem,” and we both shot a meaningful look at each other.

It was awesome.

When you get to work in the morning, there is no one sitting in a wheelchair wearing a blood-soaked shirt with several frantic people standing around them who cry “Thank god you’re here!” when they see you.

Also, since my readership consists largely of computer geeks: you probably make much, much more than I do. But for the record, I would never want to trade places.

I witnessed an extremely unusual celestial event while driving down Somerville Ave this evening.

It rained earlier today, and all afternoon and early evening there was blue sky at the periphery of the horizon with a gray blanket of clouds above. At the time of my drive, it was getting late but headlights were not yet necessary. Ahead of me, mostly obstructed by buildings and construction equipment, I could see a patch of pink sky. I looked a bit closer and noticed that there were clouds in this pink sky with thick, cartoonish neon borders drawn around them in blazing pinkish orange. It was completely surreal and unnatural in appearance and caused me to adopt a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and wonder if I’d finally, mercifully lost my mind.

I figured the sun was setting directly behind these clouds and causing the weird outlining effect, but then I realized there was still blue sky and, now, sun behind me. Some time later I assessed the sky again and found a bright pink patch in a sea of blue; again I thought I had located the setting sun, but in fact sunset was taking place on the other side of the sky, to glorious technicolor effect.

Curiouser and curiouser.