The Best Laptop Ever (In Memoriam)




Me and Steve during happier times.

For those of you who follow me on Twitter or like me on Facebook, you were expecting the first in a series of blog posts about that marriage book the anonymous commenter told me to read.

Of course, if you follow me, then you also know tragedy struck this weekend. My laptop, Steve (he also liked to be called Magic Mac) died.

Did you all know I called my laptop Steve?

I give a lot of inanimate things names, however I don’t really use them. But when I was working from home for the year, I often spoke to (and of) my co-worker Steve.

Keep Philadelphia Beautiful, Guys

So, now that it is finally warming up on the East Coast, I think it is time to address something that has long bothered me when I am running on Kelly Drive.

No, not the crazies, or the horn honkers, or the high school rowers who walk six across on the path. I’m talking about something I can actually do something about. 

Guys. Running. Without shirts on.

I understand running is a sweaty activity, and when the mercury climbs you want to be wearing as little as possible. So, if the PECO building is flashing a temperature above 90, I will give you guys a pass. I'm even a little jealous.

Eighty-nine degrees and below, fellas, and I'm telling you, cover it up.

And this isn’t just for me. It's for you, too.

A Moment for Boston

Rue La La is selling these tees
if you are interested (proceeds benefit
the Emergency Medicine Fund
at Massachusetts General Hospital).

I have a couple of posts due to you kids, but as a runner, I felt the need to address this first.

I sat at my desk yesterday afternoon fighting back tears. I don’t know it if was all the calls and texts asking me if I knew anyone running Boston, or my sister emailing me about how happy she was that I didn’t qualify for Boston this year, or the tweet I read from a reporter passing folks on the street in Boston on their phones all saying the same thing: Mom, I’m okay.

Yep. Just typing that makes the tears well up.

Regardless, like many of you, I was saddened by what happened at the Boston Marathon yesterday.

Then I was angry.

This Symbol Means I Support Marriage Equality, Not That I Love Bacon

There have been a number of times in my past when I wished I was gay. Most of these times coincide with being hit on by a hot, accomplished, funny female and wondering why I can’t simply be attracted to her.

But never in my life had I wanted to be gay more than last week.

See, last week, as you all know, the Supreme Court heard arguments to strike down both Proposition 8 in California and the federal Defense of Marriage Act. Like so many others, I changed my Facebook profile picture to the red equals sign.

Why Didn't He Call?

Show of hands: Growing up, who asked their
 parents for this phone? Keep 'em up if you got it.

Guys. I think I’ve been pretty helpful over the past couple of weeks – show of hands, how many of you took my advice about Valentine’s Day.  All four of you? That’s what I thought. So, now I’m going to ask you to help me solve one of the great riddles that has perplexed women since Alexander Graham Bell first asked Mr. Watson, “Can you hear me now?”

Why do you ask for our phone numbers and then never call?

Now, because this is something I have been researching extensively for the past 20 years or so, I will tell you, I understand in some instances it is a play to get in the panties. You’re out, you’re talking to a woman you wanna bang and in an effort to close the deal, you ask for her phone number, hoping she will take this to mean you aren’t just looking for sex and will take you home to make the beast with two backs.

And for every time that has worked for you, I say well-played, sir.

It Gets Better, Preston

The post from the other day got me thinking – no, not about how I’m setting myself up to fail – but about young men in general – and no, not that way you perverts.

Clearly, Preston (the author) is hurt. His girlfriend got tired of sitting around the house with him and out of the blue dumped him for an older guy who has to wear a suit to work every day. Preston didn’t see this coming and so after a night of heavy drinking, he took his pain out on his keyboard.*

I’ve been there, Preston. I get it.

How Women Set Themselves Up To Fail

Wow. I mean. Wow.

So, Theresa sent me a link on Facebook – I’m still debating posting it – of an article on how women set themselves up to fail.

First, I think it is a great show of maturity on my part that I’m not nearly as angry about this post as I would have been, say two years ago. From the beginning when he calls all women crazy (yes, those are the first three words of this post), to the part where he tells me, I (as a woman) have been brainwashed, to when he points out that we (women) all lose our looks after 26 (no brainwashing there, Preston), I didn’t scream or punch the back of the neck of the guy sitting in front of me on the subway, or use the eff word, or even throw my phone down in disgust.

Mostly I just laughed, because I feel terrible for this poor, simple, 20-something (my guess and hope as if he is in his 30s, then I feel scared for our future) idiot.