Dear Mom, I’m doing just fine in Colorado without a gun

“You hear what happened in Colorado, at that movie theater?” The carpenter working on my Mom’s house stood there looking at me and dangling his paint-smattered hammer.

I said I did, then internally questioned whether I looked like the type of person to ignore national news in favor of reading People Magazine. Probably my hair. Anyway, we were standing in the middle of the living room with my Mom. She had just told the carpenter that I was leaving today, making the move from Boston to Colorado for a change of scenery that I’ve thought about making for a long time.

This is the state of Massachusetts, or as I like to call it “the state that beckons Europe to come get in the van to play with its puppy”

“Let me tell you,” he started, planting his feet apart on the paper-covered wood floor. “Those shootings never would have happened if there were tighter gun laws in this country. It’s ridiculous! Any Joe can go down to Walmart and pick himself up a [insert gun name here — frankly I don’t remember what type of gun he was referring to but I remember using Context Clues to understand that he was talking about a gun].”

I could see that he wanted me to agree with him, because that’s what people on vague/poorly researched political tangents want you to do.

Instead I decided to say what I was thinking.

“I don’t think gun laws would have stopped him, I think he’s just crazy. If he didn’t have guns he probably would have found out some other way to kill a bunch of people.”

The guy had that glassy-eyed, far-off, ‘the-government-is-screwing-us-those-sons-of-bitches’ look that I’ve grown accustomed to as a child of a giant, Irish, middle class family. I knew that face well, and there was no way to reason with it.

Later, I said goodbye to my hair elastic-obsessed cat Ponyo and filled up my water bottle in the kitchen sink. My Mom and I hugged and walked out the door, said a 20-minute goodbye in which she scheduled me to come back for New Year’s, then I had to run inside to get a banana I had left on the kitchen counter.

I bumped into the carpenter in the kitchen. “You know what you need to do?” he said. “Buy a gun.”

I laughed. Then straightened my face because he was serious. “Are you serious? Why?”

“Colorado isn’t like it is here. You go hiking, there are mountain lions and black bears everywhere in those mountains. You need to protect yourself. I’m telling you, buy a gun. And you never know what type of situation you might get into out there when you’re all alone and female.”

I said I’d think about it, and silently appreciated his flexibility concerning gun laws, which apparently should be adapted to different situations.

Looking back, I now realize that the carpenter had painted my Mom a beautiful picture of me being ripped to shreds by wolverines and velociraptors after I innocently decided to hike up a mountain without a gun. Or getting beaten up in a dark alley somewhere, gun-less, and crying out “WHY DIDN’T I LISTEN TO HIMMMM!”

Just to let you know, Mom, the most intimidating animal I’ve seen so far out here while hiking has been a chipmunk with no concept of personal space. At one point he did try to bite my toe, but I came down the mountain unscathed. And yesterday, something bit my right ankle. I’ll admit, after I got bitten I spent the next half hour waiting for the spider/rattlesnake’s poison to travel up to my heart and paralyze me. But it ended up being a red ant bite (so someone told me). You can tell the carpenter that I’m doing just fine without a gun.

Ode to Our Friendly Car Vandal

That hooded sweatshirt really becomes you.

Car Vandal, you are an integral part of Boston culture. I do not care to imagine what our humble city would be like without you. Without you, our crime headlines would be nothing more than reports of bank robberies and suspicious activity in Lynn.

Without you, dear Car Vandal, what would we do in our homes between the hours of 4 and 8pm, when most car vandalisms occur? Piece of mind is highly overrated, and also, for losers. We need fear to keep us alive.

And look, some of my favorite Tweets from @Boston_Police are about you!

And who even WANTS to be on the list of Top 10 Safest Cities? More like ‘Top 10 Lamest Cities.’ No city has ever gained notoriety by being deemed “safe.” “Safe” cities don’t become the backdrop of major biopics about the rise of a game-changing white rapper, OR get featured in Chrysler Superbowl ads. Safety is for losers.

Lose one car vandal, lose onself, lose all.

"Is it 4-8pm yet?"

10 Things No One Gave a Shit About in 2010

What with the BP disaster, Chilean miners, Wikileaks, the Craigslist Killer Lifetime Movie and everything else that was important in 2010 getting a second wind of exposure, I’ve decided to put out my own list of Top 10 in 2010. It’s time to shine a light on those things that had no influence over anyone in 2010.

10. Poor hamburger phone connectivity

I’m tired of all these wireless providers getting all the attention. I’m having a serious hamburger phone connectivity issue here! I can’t make outgoing calls, I can’t get incoming calls, and anytime I hear dialtone it sounds like an orca whale and a fire alarm are mating on the other end of the line. I do not appreciate prank calls, Hamburger Phone Network! If you had a Twitter account, I would not hesitate to Direct Message the shit out of your interns!

9. Rhett Akers’ basement videos

Rhett Akers is on the fast track to Internet Stardom with his Youtube videos, filmed in what appears to be the basement apartment of his parents’ house. And there’s more where that came from, ladies — follow @RhettAkers on Twitter for some more guitar/shirtless action! Red hot!

*If you’re insinuating that I found Rhett Candy by chance today, you are correct

8. Maatia Toafa is elected Prime Minister of Tuvalu

I know what you’re thinking. Tuvalu? Why didn’t this make headlines?!! Well, it’s likely that the news was slightly overshadowed by the record-setting billion-dollar campaign ad expenditures on the other side of the world.

7. Knitting with Dog Hair trend takes off

Meredith Biggelsworth and son

Largely spurred by the 1997 publication of Knitting with Dog Hair: Better a Sweater from a Dog You Know Than from a Sheep You’ll Never Meet, the knitting with dog hair trend reached a pivotal point in 2010, with one final influx of midwestern stay-at-home-moms to the Internet. It was a historical day for the cult phenomenon when on November 23, 2010, 7 total pictures were uploaded to Twitter since 1997.* Says Anne Montgomery, author of KWDH,

“Buster passed on January 12, 1994. It was a painful time for me, as it was right after the holidays and I was also going through a separation period from my now ex-husband. I looked around the house and the solution was right there in front of me. I gathered up Buster’s fur, picked up my knitting needles, and began working away. Now I can have Buster close to my heart whenever I need him.”

Montgomery is currently working on a guide to making jewelry out of hamster feces.

*Source: Twitter Trends

6. How many times I wore these socks

To estimate the number of times I wore these socks in 2010, I will multiply their level of softness by the approximate coldness of my apartment floor, divided by the number of pairs of other socks that I own, minus two days (days I have owned these equally warm slippers, thanks Mom), equals 17.6. I think it’s safe to say that they’ve paid for themselves!

5. It became okay to abort a twin

What would the world be like if selective reduction had been around for the first trimester of Zach and Cody?* I do not care to imagine such a dark place… I remember exactly where I was when I read the editorial about selective reduction in the back of Elle Magazine. I don’t even know why I began reading the story, I tend to ignore all text in that magazine because it’s usually nonsense written by girls who have cotton balls for brains. Anyway. It was a story about a woman that found out she was pregnant with twins, and was considering the option of aborting one of them. Spoiler alert: she goes for it. Now, I’m fairly open-minded and have a range of liberal views (if you get my gist), but I was shocked, disgusted, and frankly, scared when I reached the end of the story. Regardless of what a parent may say, one way or another, the kid is going to grow up and find out that they should have had a brother or sister. Cue emotional destruction, stage one. What’s weird is that selective reduction is nothing new, the procedure was developed in the 1980s, but it’s becoming more popular. I give it 10 years to further unfold into a Brave New World dystopian scenario.

*It was around, just not popular yet.

4. Spanky resurfaces

Remember the 90s Little Rascals movie, and that kid Spanky who was soooo cute? … That is all.

3. I slept with a bunny

2. MOBA acquires its newest piece

Hollywood Lips is about one woman’s inner battle between light and dark, partially owed to the fact that she resembles a palm tree and has weird, angry eyes. Kids can be cruel.

1. This roll of tape ran out

Me: This Year’s Made for TV Christmas Movie

Go ahead, sit back and relax with a bowl of Pop Secret. This Christmas, you won’t need to turn on your TV set to watch this year’s spectacular Christmas event. Because the way things are going, I am this year’s ABC Family Original Christmas Movie.

Coming to theaters near you! Rated G

Siskel: “An unforgettable event”

Maybe you’re a bit unfamiliar with the concept of ABC Family Original Christmas movies. Let me help you out. For starters, starring in every ABC Family Christmas movie is a B-list TV actor on the downward slope of his or her career (such as Melissa Joan Hart and A.C. Slater in Holiday in Handcuffs). Each movie generally begins with a series of simply hilarious follies or mishaps such as leaving a perm in too long or having to run from the law because of a botched felony (Christmas Caper starring Shannen Doherty) — absolutely hilarious! The mishaps continue, at least two unrealistically matched people fall in love (Christina Milian and Chad Michael Murray in this year’s Christmas Cupid) and the family stops fighting to remember the true meaning of Christmas, etc. etc.

Upside: Didnt have to use ice in my ice water. Downside: Everything else

My Christmas Story begins in the wee hours of Thursday night, when a big pipe decided to become a deadbeat dad and neglect heating his entire family of apartment building pipes. (Or at least that’s how I see it, because the mechanics of hot water is Spanish to me.) Friday… Saturday… Sunday… Monday….. Tuesday night the hot water comes back on. What luck! Just in time for the worst day of the week!

Rewind to Saturday morning. I am sitting on my couch. My roommate Chad wakes up and comes out, telling me about a fight our other roommate picked with him last night. Chris (known inside my head as Loose Cannon Guy on The Real World) yells from his room that he’s coming out “to talk.” (Loose Cannon usually sleeps until 2pm most days — so this change in behavior leaves me scared). He busts into the living room zipping up his jeans and throws his finger in Chad’s face, using a certain N word in that special Texas way. Chad says nothing, and Chris goes back in his room. Chad and I start to clean up the kitchen. Chris barrels in again, this time appearing to quote directly from a poorly written screenplay about a disturbed youth. It was like watching a bad Real World audition tape.

Skip ahead to Monday. A series of Facebook messages and texts leaves me worried for two days that I might have to find another apartment in less than a month, and during the jolly, ever-so-warm Christmas season. Still no real update on this situation. I wait around for a landlord that never shows up (to address the hot water situation) and feel guilty for going in late to work, then arrive outside to find an orange Christmas card on the windshield of my car.

I hope a bird shit on you while you wrote this

After work on Tuesday, I head to the gym for my first real shower in 5 days. No, I do not put in a workout.

At home, I light a few candles in my room and go to wash my face for bed. I open my door to see flames shooting up from the poinsettia that is in a vase on my bookcase. It’s not even real poinsettia, so it’s not like the petals could have fallen off. Yes, I’m pretty sure I am being haunted by a Christmas ghost who wants to see me die in an ironic way. Luckily, I am able to smother the flames with an Ikea candle holder. They are useful in so many ways.

And so the story continues. I expect things to get increasingly worse over the next 11 days until Christmas (special thanks to Ebay for letting me know the countdown, assholes), with a final scene of me being on the street pushing a cart of bottles and cans like those Asians that I constantly grumble at for waking me up at night. And in case you were wondering about any potential love interests, I think it’s safe to say that my luck in that department will sally forth clear into the New Year.

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The Budding Career of a Professional Greeting Card Writer

My parents are trying to sell our house. I know this because A) I found The Idiot’s Guide to Buying and Selling a Home in our living room and B) turning up all over the house are things from the past — things that have spent years gathering dust in corners and closets underneath stacks of old National Geographic magazines. This means that they must have already read Chapter 8: How to Get Rid of all the S–t You Accumulated over the Past Twenty Years. I was looking for a stamp today when I came across a ziplock bag filled with a snapshot of my childhood. Here’s what I found.

All signed by me.

Which led me to the shocking conclusion… As a kid, I wanted to be a professional greeting card writer. For some reason I repressed this memory — I remember always wanting to be A Writer as a kid. Which is, still, far less cool than wanting to be, oh a firefighter or professional soccer player, you know, something unattainable for the average person but at least it sounded cool during recess. On second thought, maybe I repressed the memory after everyone laughed at me during recess.

Anyway, here’s your chance to be floored by the budding career of an aspiring professional greeting card writer.

Get well soon — Feel free to wipe your germ-infested boogers on this card

Congradulations on your recent marriage!! Your ex-wives from your last three marriages sent these razor-edged pinwheels in honor of your newest matrimony

[Inside]:

Wishing you all the happiness that life has to offer to two people with a bastard blonde child; why do you think we picked out a card with a bride in a yellow wedding dress? That dirty whore you’re marrying obviously isn’t fit for a white one and you’re too busy giving mustache rides to Wendy’s employees to know the difference

[Inside]:

Nope, I’ve had funner

And two postcards:

Hello! from Hallucinating Rainbow Island, Tennessee and Bad Acid Trip Shards of Glass Raining from the Chicken Pox Clouds, Minnesota

Even Homeless People Need a Coffee Break; and Other Things I Learned on my Eurotrip

That Fateful Day - see bulletpoint #3

Oh hello, I’m back from my 2-month Eurotrip. Back to reality where money has to be made rather than spent on French wine, inflated museum admissions, and Croatian conditioner, the latter which I mistakenly used as shampoo for about 2 weeks. Feats accomplished:

• Accidently visited a male strip club/potential gay brothel in Rome
• Realized that sour cream does not compliment a day at the Croatian beach (should have gone with the container that said “Jogurt”
• Was homeless with a guy named Jeff for 22 hours in Croatia. He wasn’t homeless; we got separated from our two friends who had the address and directions to the apartment we rented. Though I write this now in good humor, let me just say that you would probably never want to get lost overnight in a foreign country while wearing a little black dress. That being said, here is the postcard that I wrote to my best friend while Jeff and I were taking a homeless coffee break.

Sunset over the Adriatic Sea - Photo by Me - For Actual Postcard Please Visit MyiPhoneDeletedHalfofMyEuropePictures.com

JUNE 12, 2010

The arrow that you see on the front of this postcard is where I slept this morning from 6 to 8am today. Yes, this means that June 11th, the day of my birth, was spent walking the streets of Zadar in Croatia (never go here) trying to find the location of the obscure

Aw, look how happy I was just hours before wanting to KILL MYSELF

“B&B” where we paid for 2 nights, without an address or street name, only the first name of the 62 year-old proprietor “Jozo” who we met at a bus station upon arrival in Zadar (don’t go here). The night began swimmingly with wine and bread and cheese, and I saw my first sunset over a sea — the Adriatic. Myself and a Canadian named Jeff left our 2 friends to use the banya, and that’s when we last saw them. However, our friends were kind enough to leave us our bottle of wine (minus half) and a pack of cigarettes, which would sustain us for the next 15 hours of wandering the city. We still haven’t found our friends. We don’t know where we’re sleeping tonight. I love you, wish I talked to you on my birthday. [Then I bought a phone card and called her]

• Decided I hate Croatians At Work:

Croatian Taxi Driver: “My shift, it is over. You must go. I will leave you here” [at a random neighborhood bar miles away from town]

Croatian Train Worker, Job Description Unknown: [Enters train compartment, mutters something in Croatian, I pull out my ticket and give it to her]. “Passport.” [Eyes close halfway in annoyance. I give her my passport.] “You must take off your shoes before you put on the seat.”  I completely agree. These chairs are nearly spotless, there are definitely no pen marks or mysterious streaks of brown crud embedded into the casino carpet -colored upholstery.

And any attempt to order a coffee from a Croatian Barista has been an absolute sham. The response to “espresso with cold milk” or “espresso with milk and ice” — even spoken in Italian — is always “No.” Is there a run on ice in Croatia?

"Really? Did you really just flip me the bird? And get down from there, don't even pretend like we're the same height, because we're not"

• Saw major French penis at a nude beach then bought some pretty perfume
• Rode the train through Tuscany listening to this Ludacris song
• Had an affair with Italian chips
• Decided against kidnapping a stray dog in Venice and naming him Ciao

Of course, while travelling I Found Myself blah blah blah — no, but mostly the trip emphasized something I had learned a couple years ago while travelling within the US. No matter where you go, everything is exactly the same. Whether you’re in Massachusetts, North Carolina, or Arizona, shopping plazas are the watering hole of suburbia, Walmart is always down the street and you’re never completely lost until you don’t hit a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts after 5 minutes of driving. It’s good to get the f–k out of the US every once in awhile, or at least once in a lifetime. I personally can’t wait to go back. :)

Manarola, one town in the Cinque Terre, Italy

Trevi Fountain, Rome

Hot Dog only 3,50 - Street Food in Paris

Cape d'Ail, my favorite beach in the South of France

Noli, a beach in Liguria Italy

The Science of Cuteness: Part Two

Welcome to the second installment of The Science of Cuteness: Baby Edition, soon to be a major motion picture starring Justin Bieber. If you’re new here, thanks for stopping by — I think the last time I got 70 comments on something was when I gave myself a boy haircut in the wee hours of a Saturday night. That being said, behold — the remaining laws of The Science of Cuteness.

The Science of Cuteness: Laws ONE-SIX

4 1/2 inches long for your playing pleasure.

SEVEN. Babies make cankles look good. Their legs are like those squishy tube water balloon things which years later you realized might have been a rejected sex toy prototype. We probably shouldn’t, but we poke and squeeze and tickle the crap out of that baby fat. Secretly, we probably envy them for fearlessly parading around their enormous milk-bloated tummies at the beach in a pink polka-dotted bikini. Without getting the stink eye.

EIGHT. Reactions to the sound of their own oral gas expulsion or flatulence. There are few things more hilarious than the look on a baby’s face after he rips a blanket bomb. (Yes, I did have to consult the Fart Thesaurus for that one). And remember, babies are the only ones who can get away with unleashing a trouser cough during that pivotal Church moment when Father Greg is breaking Christ in half. Remember that next time you “innocently” crop dust some poor innocent soul while muscling your way through the $5 DVD bin at Walmart, aight?

NINE. Attachment to inanimate objects. Linus and his blanket. Tommy Pickles and his screwdriver. My nephew and “his” kitty stuffed animal, which he totally stole from me, and I’m still pissed about. Bedtime just DOESN’T HAPPEN without their favorite little toy. There is a negative correlation between level of cuteness and age of the child. Exhibit A: 1 year-old clinging mercilessly to his Bankie. Subject achieves a cute coefficient of 10. Exhibit B: A 40 year old clinging mercilessly to his Bankie — cute coefficient of 1.

TEN. Tiny clothes. I’m not talking about the vomit-inducing (mine, not Jack-Jack’s) onesies that say “iPood,” but rather the miniature adult outfits such as the three-piece suit (which should work nicely at his job interview next week?) or my personal favorite, this little number

which pretty much guarantees the little guy’s future position as “Catcher” during kickball because he’s too fat to run from years of gorging himself on Twinkies after the kids at school made fun of his clothes. ‘Poop and pee’ must have been the color combination that Mom was shooting for when she knit 25 of these for Etsy. Poor kid. But I digress. Fact is, the U.S. baby apparel industry is estimated at $45.4 Billion dollars as of 2009 (see Yahoo Finance to support the fact that I made that number up) and growing. Women just love to buy mini-clothes with mini-buttons, mini-zippers, mini-pockets, mini-hoods… I think it’s safe to say that half the fun of having a baby is buying baby clothes.

ELEVEN. Belly buttons. At the risk of being accused of posting juvenile belly button porn:

TWELVE. They’re self-esteem machines. I can pretty much guarantee that even the C.E.O. of the Taliban has made a baby laugh at least once in his life. Due to embarrassingly bad cognitive skills (the baby’s not the terrorists’s), a baby will laugh at anything as long as it sounds musical and involves a peek-a-boo. Theoretically, you could even read Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders as a bedtime story if you follow these techniques. However I would advise against this particular book as it could either cause your child to form a quasi-commune for aspiring murderers at KinderCare or cultivate an unhealthy adolescent obsession with The Beatles while other kids are listening to a mutated hybrid of late-90s Cher singles and Lady Gaga; two outcomes that are equally harmful.

And there you have it, the twelve laws of The Science of Cuteness. If you’ve made it to the end, thanks for reading! Figures that I’d get Freshly Pressed the week before I leave the country for a solo backpacking trip through Europe. In between dodging projectile lava from the Eyjwtfffffffff volcano and putting the finishing touches on my plan to shanghai Jake Gyllenhall at the Cannes Film Festival, I’ll be blogging. Topics may include: dirty hostel haiku, inappropriate photologues of whoever pisses me off at the hostels, and pictures of doodles I draw on napkins while on the train.

The Science of Cuteness

I’ve been doing a lot of serious thinking lately about why babies are cute. It all started with this poor excuse for a stock image that I found randomly the other day.

cringe

Yea. I don’t know what happened here. I think maybe the cute baby had a cold so they had to use the unphotogenic stand-in baby or something. Or maybe the photographer was his Dad or something, you know, in that ‘I really don’t understand how Tori Spelling is an actress oh wait her Dad is famous’ kinda way. And this photo ignited my synapses into an explosion of activity, leading to the creation of a manifesto of sorts.

The Science of Cuteness: Baby Edition, Copyright May 2010, Samantha McCormick. All Rights Reserved.

Puppies, kittens, blind little inchworms patting their heads around on your skin to find who knows what. Fuckin cute, right? But when it comes to babies, it’s not so simple. Take that baby in Trainspotting. Drug-induced hallucination of a swivel-headed dead baby crawling on the ceiling aside, that baby was just plain ugly. Personally, I think it would have been more effective in the creepy department if it was a cute baby such as either Zach or Cody pre- The Suite Life. Anyway. There is a science behind the reason we find certain babies cute, and certain babies, shall we say,’Walmart catalog material.’ Behold, the laws of cuteness.

ONE. Everything is disproportionately small on a baby. (I totally just made you think of his weewee.) Take his little feet, for example. Small enough to fit in that shiny little Christening shoe, or that miniature white Nike, if your child is of the ghetto nature. Then consider his head. HUGE. If you take the size of his little foot and compare it to the size of his head, that’s like a ratio of 1 to 10. Now consider the size of YOUR foot, in relation to YOUR head. Unless you’re kind of ugly or have awkwardly small feet, that’s probably a ratio of 1 to 4. So disproportionately small equals cute (in regards to a baby, nothing else..) Because if babies didn’t have disproportionately small features, they’d be shrunken versions of adults, like this:

Which is definitely NOT CUTE.

TWO. Button noses. At the baby stage, I guess genetics aren’t even factored into the equation yet because I’ve never seen a baby with a huge nose. Not once. Barbra Streisand, Tori Spelling, and Ashlee Simpson were all cute babies, and that’s a fact.

THREE. Baby babble. Cute little nonsense sounds strung together with drool and that little spit bubble that she’ll later amuse herself with during Times Tables drills. Imagine for a moment that babies could speak perfect English. Childbirth is over, the nurse hands you your little bundle of joy, and — “Hey Mom.” Yes, for some reason it’s easy to wrap our minds around the fact that five minutes ago that little thing in blankets was chillin inside a uterus full of amniotic fluid, because it’s like he really doesn’t know any better since his brain is basically mush, evident by the fact that he can’t talk yet. So when you imagine a baby carrying on a full adult conversation, things get a little tricky.

FOUR. The downy little hairs on his head that you just can’t resist petting. Only acceptable on a baby’s head, and only acceptable to pet when on a baby’s head. Because that would be weird if you went around trying to pet girls’ heads, I mean you’d probably exist somewhere as a registered sex offender and would one day turn into a serial killer which the Boston Herald would  ‘cleverly’ refer to you as “The Head Petter,” or something else completely unoriginal. Mom’s just gotta make sure the ‘do doesn’t get too out of control (see Photo 1).

FIVE. Uncontrollable limbs. Babies are automatically forgiven for kicking and fist-pumping at us when we’re changing their diaper because they’re just having a ball trying to figure out what the hell to do with themselves. Like a drunk girl putting on lip gloss, it’s kind of funny to watch a baby reach for something that they want. Reach, miss. Reach, miss. Roll a bit. Get stuck. Haha.

SIX. Poor etiquette. Watching a baby eat is fun.

***

There’s more where that came from. Stay tuned for the next installment of The Science of Cuteness: Baby Edition. Read my freshly-posted The Science of Cuteness: Part Two. Because this blog post is getting frighteningly long and it’s an hour and a half past my bedtime. Still to come: The Science of Ugly: Celebrity Edition.

Whoever did this trailer needs to change professions

The Company Men.

I vote that it should have been a commercial for natural male enhancement. Special thanks to Ben Affleck, Kevin Costner, Tommy Lee Jones, and Chris Cooper for making out with my home city of Boston and hucking the loogy you call The Company Men.