You're Gonna Die Probably

Oh, poison? In your tap water? Is that what you're asking? Yeah. Probably. Probably poison in your tap water. 

Time Out!

Has Two Can Anne been on a time out or what? What did we do wrong? Paint the white sofa with our own feces? Come on! One month is far too long to go without posting! And for that I am very sorry. Mommyhood plus a brand new intolerant firewall at XYZ Company has made it nearly impossible for me to update you daily let alone weekly. Toss in an arthritic right thumb (Blackberry Thumb) and it's game over. That delightful side-effect of old ladyhood cropped up this summer and man, I'm in so much pain I can hardly type (spacebar? ouch!) let alone change John's diaper. We all know which activity wins in the end. Have you met my new best friend, Ibuprofen? We've been dating on and off for awhile, but here's a secret: we're about to get very serious with each other.  Seriously! Right after my visit to CVS in the morning. Heh. And you thought I was single.

Poverty Loves Company

The Census Bureau reported today that the poverty rate in the United States climbed to 14.3% in 2009 (the highest it's been since 1994) and that women continue to earn significantly less than men.

"NO SHIT!" replied the woman eating a bowl of radishes for lunch at her desk.

Mmmm. Radishes! They taste like broke. Spicy broke.

I'd Post an Adorable Picture Here But

My camera (a Canon PowerShot SD880 IS Digital Elph) crapped out again. Well, let me explain. First it was awesome, then flash started popping and smoking just like one of those old square flashbulbs that you'd put on your Dad's Polaroid camera. Then it was too late to return it, so I just took photos without flash unless absolutely necessary and then with good warning to all involved. Then the camera crapped out a few weeks ago. Now, when I say "crapped out," it still takes photos, but I can't get them off the camera without removing the disk and putting it directly into a printer (or new camera) because of a "communication error." Who doesn't communicate with errors from time to time, eh? Then suddenly a week later or so it started downloading pictures and uncrapped itself. But last night it crapped itself again and still today I get a "communication error" message when I try to download photos. On the upside, the flash still smokes, which makes using the camera sort of fun still and dangerous.

New camera: Still on the list of things that I'm sure once I own will make me deliriously happy and satisfied in life.

In the meantime, I will continue to take pictures with El Smoking Cam Cam that may or may not be seen by the public. Stay tuned.

UPDATE:

"Communication error" problem fixed! I did some research on the internets and found some advice someone had given another someone about the same problem, stating that storing over 1,000 photos on a memory card will prevent the photos from being uploaded via the camera onto a computer. So I deleted about 500 old pictures and you know what? We're back in business! (The flash still smokes. No idea what to do about that other avoiding taking flash pictures to close to the subject or spraying your hairdo with AquaNet at the same time)

Two Fights in Two Days

When I had braces at 13, my orthodontist Dr. Tenenbaum would twist the little screws on my teeth a tiny bit on each visit over two years instead of jacking them up to 11 all at once, presumably to prevent excruciating pain. Nice man, that Dr. Tenenbaum.

Conversely, my pelvis felt like separated itself overnight on Monday.

It turns out it felt like it did, because it did. I can blame relaxin, a hormone released to make ligaments loosey goosey for the baby's luge run. I guess my body orthodontist doesn't use the same technique as Dr. Tenenbaum. Maybe it's because I don't have two years to work with, perhaps not even two weeks or two days. It's up to baby. At any rate, now I walk like I can't, because my legs certainly can't be very well attached to their sockets.

Thus, for the purpose of this post, please picture a wobbly-legged woman smuggling a men's NBA over-inflated but regulation-sized basketball under her coat. That's me. Now picture me yesterday, fresh off the 5 train waddling my way through Grand Central for my now weekly visit with my obstetrician. As I passed Papyrus, the stationery store, I noticed a youngish woman pushing one end of a valet cart stacked with recyclable boxes. She had a helper in tow who was carrying a garbage bag. At some point during my waddle, I heard in a very bitchy Valley Girl tone, "Excuse me!"

In New York, we're unofficially trained to ignore people, so natrually, I ignored this.

"ExCUSE me!"

Certainly this person couldn't be talking to me.

And a third time, "EXCUSE ME!"

At this point, I assumed I dropped something, so I turned to see not someone running up to me with my wallet--or my uterus--but the woman with the cart and the helper, right behind me, totally up my ass. Really? Grand Central is such a tiny place that my path is the only one to wheel your shit around in? Is it not called GRAND Central for a reason? Her "excuse me" was essentially a "Beep beep!" for me to get out of the way, and not a friendly "Beep beep" which wouldn't have mattered anyhow. My fuse is short these days. I responded in kind at the top of my lungs with, "I'M EIGHT AND A HALF MONTHS PREGNANT, AND YOU'RE A BITCH!" As she passed, she had no comment, obviously.

That was yesterday. This morning, I had another adventure. I walked onto the 6 train and stood in front of two occupied seats in the corner. A teenage girl and a man in his 20's. Both saw me, my belly, and quickly closed their eyes to pretend they were sleeping. I felt like tapping the one chick on the shoulder to ask her how her fake nap was going, but I was more concerned with monitoring the rest of the train as we approached the next stop to see if any seats would open up. One did, and I approached it, as fast as I could waddle.

I wasn't fast enough.

A tall 30-something hipster dude with Peter Jackson hair and a stupid trendy raincoat started his descent into the seat. Before his fat ass could touch the plastic, I tapped him with, "May I sit down?"

"Umm...But I was going to sit down," he said incredulously, snarkily, totally prepared for a confrontation.

I paused.

"Are you also 8.5 months pregnant?"

"OH! So sorry, I didn't notice. Yeah, sorry about that. And I get really mad when people don't give up their seats and yeah, sorry..." his voice trailing off as he stood in front of his lady friend whom he was hoping to sit next to.

"Thanks," I quipped, as I whipped out my copy of Pregnancy & Newborn. Needless to say, the small talk between him and his lady friend was awkward at best. On their way off the train to catch the express, he tapped my knee with another apology, "I'm really sorry about that. Have a great day."

"Yeah. Thanks." I wanted to then say to his lady friend, "He's a keeper!" in the most sarcastic tone I could muster (my specialty). Fighting a petite woman who politely asks for a subway seat you know you're only using for two more stops? Then to give it up only when I tell you I'm with child? I've got to provide a doctor's note? A-hole.

I hope his trench got caught in the subway doors trying to squeeze his ass onto the 4Train and his body was violently dragged down the platform ending with a big splatter of brain matter and Peter Jackson hair, but it probably didn't.

I guess I'll have to wait for him to develop an enlarged prostate.

Needn't It?

Amtrak' Quiet Car So Quiet Everyone is Snoring

THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!

Are we freakin' snorious?

The only way I can deal with it is to quickly snap my reclined seat back into its upright position. The 85 year old dude behind me doesn't know what the hell is going on or why he's woken up from his nap 6 times in an hour but a girl's gotta save herself.

If You're Stepping on the Back of My Shoe

You're too damn close.

Dear HBO's Entourage

fuck. off.

Larry David and the Bluetooth Talker

See, the thing is, I think I was way more tolerant about when I was doing my Qi Gong regularly, but these daysl this type of crap, this public cellphone conversation junk? It's completely pushing me over the edge. I, like Larry, don't tolerate it well. Instead of talking to an imaginary friend, I instead repeat out loud exactly what the offensive person says on their half of the call. It's good. 

"OMG, so my doctor? he totally told me that I might be hypoglycemic? I know! And I was like..." --skank

"OMG, so my doctor? he totally told me that I might by hypoglycemic? I know! And I was like..." --anne, repeating after skank

Years ago, I did this to 2 offensive folks seated near me on an Amtrak train from NYC to Boston. One dude stopped when he heard his own words subtly echoed. The other was too self important to notice how obnoxious he was, too wrapped up in how important he was and how thrilled he was to conduct his personal business on a public train. Mr. Self Important (a "big" Broadway composer type--generally known as a theater fenoik--shall remain nameless. Why? Because I'm kind, of course) left his cellphone number repeatedly while leaving voicemail messages for others. I heard that number no less than 20 times and it was seared in my memory enough to share it with my friends (I have a lot of friends). No doubt the nutsack was a little bewildered when he started receiving dozens of voicemail messages at all hours, from all sorts of random numbers, in totally random male and female voices, about

1)Mom's recent eyeball surgery---they did something to the cornea, the doctor says recovery should take about 3 weeks

2) The flowers that the brother supposedly sent Mom while she was in the hospital--did they arrive?
2) The brickwork that he and the boyfriend are replacing around the fireplace--it looks amazing, but there is an issue with how long the job is taking
3) The grey pinstripe suit that needs to be picked up by his assistant from Today's Man--was it picked up yet? It's been hemmed and it's ready...

but I guarantee you he was the only one who was bewildered. F that guy. Stupid jerk. 

The Ultimate Wish Burn

Let's say you're a mediocre piano player. When it comes to singing, carrying a tune is the only compliment you can garnish from anyone. And yet you've always fantasized about being a rock star.

One afternoon, while wearing some festive/functional lederhosen and hiking your way through a lush forest in Denmark, you encounter a strange toad monster ogre dude who leaps out from behind a bush to make your wish come true (I don't know, I'm still filling in the details here).

Ok, fine, he can't make you a rock star. But he can make you a rock star's girl. Which is better in many ways than being a rock star yourself, and you don't even have to pay/blow the strange toad monster ogre dude for the honor.

Then you find out you're Coldplay frontman Chris Martin's girl.

Ouch.

And there ain't enough poker faces in your arsenal to say with conviction time and again that you love your man and his music

No, seriously, Chris? OMG, Darling? You guys rocked tonight! Your new album is amaaaaazing, and honey, you sounded incrrrrrrediblllllle, and you are sooooooo hot! Seriously, the crowd went wild! God, you're amazing. You're sooooo talented and amazing, and you sooooo totally rock! I love you! Everyone loves you and your music! You're the best. You're amazing. I love you.*

...because you don't. And not only do you not love your man's music, you think it's the worst, worse than a pile of poo. And you think your now rocker-boyfriend man Chris Martin sings like a whining sack of doo and that his band sucks tremendous, big, bouncy balls. And simply hearing just a few seconds of one Coldplay song on the radio--even though it's a mind-boggling cash cow which is paying your ride through life--results in a skull-busting, emergency room-visit migraine every time.

Then what do you do?

Oh, life. How cruel and unfair it can be.

*good grief i just barfed a little burrito up there. did he notice? did you see that? i had total sweaty mouth. and the rocking that comes with the feeling that you have to puke and the dry heaving, drooling, wretching. holy crap. good god coldplay sucks so bad i want to die. seriously, somebody kill me

So You're an Extreme Breeder, Nagger, & Failure...

Tell me something I don't know, because I read the news because I like news. 

So, we get it. Are you gonna shut your piehole now, Kate?

You too, Jon?

Here's hopin'!

Read about how to nag effectively here.

Kate Gosselin on NBC's Today Show

Doodle Says Give the Creep 158 Years

...Or Tyler Hayes Weinman will be murdering broads in no time. You can't rehabilitate someone with crossed wires like that. He's simply unrepairable. For example, if you bought a brand-new Tyler Hayes Weinman at Best Buy and didn't realize until you got him home just how incredibly fucked up he was, they wouldn't even bother re-directing you to the manufacturer when you brought him back. They'd just toss him in the garbage and give you store credit. Or better yet, a refund.

Don't Even Get Me Started on This Jon & Kate Plus 8 Stuff

And by that, I mean start it up, because I'm about to rip 2 people 8 new ones. Neither of those people is you, and neither of those people are me, and neither of those people are the 8 innocent spawn born to these incredible a-holes. More tomorrow when I have the time and proper energy for a double shot of  the "I'm Gonna Rip You a New One x 4" Party. 

Bravo's Real Housewives of New Jersey

Real Housewives of New Jersey on Bravo? Fuggeddaboudit: I knew I'd be hooked, and I am. When there were only 3 minutes remaining in the series debut last night, there was a tear in my eye; there's no possible way they can show all this stuff they showed before the commercial break in 3 lousy minutes!!! Tease! If you missed RHONJ because you lead a fulfilling life, go to bed early, or don't enjoy loving to hate terrible awesome stuff, here's a molto bravo recap of the season premiere by Richard Lawson for Gawker's Defamer.

Sometimes I Think This Horoscope Stuff is Horseshit, Seriously

"Pisces:

You’ll find that you have the opportunity to do something rather out of the ordinary at some point today, which will be a welcome break from the routine. Activities that bring you closer to the great outdoors will appeal: from ice-skating to paint-balling, you should embrace your adventurous side!"

Paint-balling. Paint-balling? Paint-balling! Please. I haven't been paint-balling in two weeks! Substitiute "riding the downtown local bus 25 blocks in 45 minutes with bluehairs and teenagers" is more like it. Totes the "welcome" break" from the routine I was searching for! And so refreshing, too! Like a slow, dry, greasy breeze. 

30 Days for 30 Minutes Challenge: Today's Results

I get an F for yesterday, no exercise to speak of. Do Kegels count?

It doesn't matter how much or how little you use it; you gotta keep your stuff tight, kids! Question: Is there such a thing as Kegels for the face? Because truthfully, one of my biggest, deepest, darkest fears about getting old isn't getting wrinkles: It's getting "Old Person Mouth." Otherwise known as "Old Man Mouth" or "Old Lady Mouth." Or the "Bug Zapper." I see it in the office, I see it on the subway, I see it on Broadway, and it's not a pretty sight; Old Person Mouth is downright disturbing. And if you're my friend, the very moment you see me shuffling around going about my business catching flies with my droopy lax jaw and my mouth agape, you will either:

1) Fund a small, non-invasive, cosmetic procedure that will fix my problem (which is, when you think about it, your problem actually, because you're the one who has to look at me).

2) Insist I'm only seen in public wearing a stylish hat/creepy bonnet/helmet with chinstrap

3) Drag me out into the street and shoot me right in ye olde wide-opene piehole.

Thank you all for your cooperation in advance.

Tonight, we Kegel AND snowboard!

When Did The Creepy Hillside Honda Salesman Lose Your Attention?

Me?

0:56

Why My Neighborhood Sucks...For Me

When I moved here, it was all old people, so I guess change was inevitable. It does answer the question, "Why don't we go out in your neighborhood, Anne?"

Convo Killer, Q'est-ce que c'est?

Some folks don't enhance a conversation, they kill it.

Example:

"There's a really good Mexican restaurant in New Jersey near my house? Well, it's not actually near my house, it's closer to my boyfriend's house? But it's awesome. There's always a line out the door, and they have chips and salsa and stuff? It's like really good."

Um...the restaurant you describe? It's in New Jersey, so...nobody here in Manhattan actually gives a fuck. Notice how your story ended right there because there weren't any follow up questions? Did you hear tumble weeds rolling by? No? Well, they were a rollin'.

Sorry.

End of story.