I'm bored. I know, I usually hate it when people start anything off with that or even say that. It makes me want to say, "well, entertain yourself. get busy." But really, I am. I've already responded to every work and friend-related email, have checked gmail, perez, and pertinent blogs about 700 times, have eaten all the food I have (a ham and cheese pocket, chocolate macaroon, two tangerines, and a diet coke - aren't I donning a swimsuit soon? Eesh.), and have even tracked every run I've done in the past two weeks on mapmyrun.com (where else?). At this point of desperation, where I am teetering on being profoundly sleepy, but also full of pent up energy, there are only three things left to do: (1) emotionally eat (which I am not going to do today), (2) online shop (which I am also not going to do today), and/or (3) do gymnastics at work to amuse Veronica. It happened a bit spur-of-the-moment, but as soon as I got into it, man did I get into it. Abbey and Haley will understand this from our ANF days when our boss would come into the office and I'd be in a poorly executed downward facing dog or would be inflating a squeaky fitball. There are days I behave less like a responsible 27 year old and more like an ADD/OCD/Nanny 911 toddler. Brian will also understand, as I spent a good many mornings or evenings giddily chasing him around my room, beckoning him to do karate with me or wiping spit on him (I'm hot like that). Veronica got right into mom/Olympic judge mode. First, she said, "don't split your pantalones." Then, she took out a notepad and started scoring like a pro. Aside from a 0.00 I received on a poorly executed cartwheel (the Auditors were walking by and I wanted to preserve an air of decorum), I received an overall 9.8. Pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.
The weather has been supercoolwonderful the past few days. I'm seriously digging the feeling of fall breezing in, so much so that I think I picked the best time to move. I'll still get to enjoy Boston's fall, which is admittedly gorgeous, and reminds me of so many wonderful things. Here are some of those wistful memories:
Walking home from the State House, through the Boston Common, with Abbey and Haley. Leaves crunching underfoot and us clad in cute tights and dresses and clothes way too cute for state government employees. We'd head to the dog park and watch people with their puppers. Occasionally, in the early stages of our dog park visiting, we'd creep into the fold and see if any dogs came to us. Some did and some didn't, but we always had a great time watching to dogs run in the breeze.
My first apartment in Boston - though it turned out to be the worst place of all time after the plague of roaches, mice, and stoners. On nice fall weekend days, I'd tidy my whole apartment, grab delicious coffee and a bagel for brekkie, and open my big 4th floor windows and either read on my couch or hunker down for a cozy nap on my bed. I could see all the tree tops through the window and watch the curtains blow. Ah, bliss.
More reminiscing later. Lots of work to do!
8.20.2008
8.18.2008
Michael Phelps is A Mouth Breather
Holy smokes, folks. After a very tame, but productive weekend, I'm about to get wild like I promised. Yes, I spent much of my weekend watching the Olympics (Dara Torres - hi, amazing), running (10.3 miles just over the weekend!), juicing (bought some cheaperish apples, et al at Trader Joe's), and getting ready for my vacation. That's right; I'm going to the Bahamas on Sunday. Now, I know when you all think of me, you automatically think of me on a beach with very tan people in Club Med, MTV Spring Break style. It's just so me. Um, not really, but it will be a good time. I bought 3 bottles of sunblock, lots of protein bars, and in homage to the Olympics, bought a racer style swimsuit at City Sports because I realized that I was sick of having to rearrange my bosom in flimsier, cuter suits and just wanted something that I could get my swim on in without worrying about bottoms being whisked away by the tide. Besides, as evidenced by this weekend, my prayers have been answered - the stress of making it in Chicago has made me an asexual being. Hooray!
I say "as evidenced by this weekend" because I had a few opportunities to chat with seemingly interested gentlemen and dismissed myself from the situation to enjoy my own company. Saturday night: I'm browsing beach reads at the Brookline Booksmith (got 2 books for $9.45 total. YES.) and I head over to J.P. Licks for some coffee fro yo topped with an ungodly amount of hot fudge. I sidle into a booth and begin to read. Despite being acutely aware that it's 9 something PM and I'm eating ice cream alone on a Saturday night, I don't really give a shit, because I'm in my own blissful zone. All of the sudden, a dude comes up with his laptop and asks if I'm waiting for someone. Nope, I say, and he then asks (very politely) if I would mind if he sits down. I glance around and there are plenty of empty seats (though surrounded by sugared-up children) and say "no problem." He sits down and starts talking about how he's sorry to be rude, but his boss emails him all the time and this is the only place that has wifi that works, etc etc. I tell him not to worry about it and continue to eat my fro yo in my own zone. He keeps asking me questions and striking up mini conversations. He's very nice and actually quite attractive. The mention of his boss lets me know that he is actively employed, which is cool. He was enjoyable, attractive, polite, and seemingly interested despite the fact that I could've come off (though I didn't feel it) as pathetic. In an unprecedented turn of events, I wish him a good nice, excuse myself, toss my fro yo (I had finished), and away I went. He was even trying to chat with me as I was halfway out the door. I could scarcely believe it myself. I did feel a little badly about it as I walked toward the T, but the guilt of feeling like I should be engaging with eligible gentlemen on a Saturday night in a big city, was overshadowed when I realized that I had 15 minutes to get home to witness mouth breather, Michael Phelps, make history. The plot thickened as I walked home and, in the middle of Harvard Avenue, quite a busy thoroughfare, I spent a good 5 minutes kneeling down trying to move a huge slug from the middle of the sidewalk (I was convinced he was going to get stepped on) into a bush. This definitely elicited stares from normal 20-somethings who were headed OUT for the night. Ah.
I've booked my plucky, exploratory, I-hope-this-works-out-sweet-Jesus, trip to Chicago (10/04 - 10/12). Fingers crossed that I make some serious headway (hello, like a million job offers), because I might even have to take unpaid time for this trip because I'm so low on vacation time. Some might say that this is unwise, but it's worth it to me. I'm moving in November, job or not, so I better get a lay of the land up close and personal. So far, I already have two interviews, and am busting ass to get more and more. Moreover, it's nicely timed, as I will come back and run the Tufts 10K the very next day, hopefully feeling super triumphant because I'll have a job (run, run, run)! I'll also have three besties' birthdays (Amber, Veronica, and Abbey) that week, as well as a fated ticket to the coveted Madonna concert that my lovely and wealthy Texas friend Zach procured because he "want(s) to go with someone fun." I'm fun! Pick me! Oh wait, he already did. So, fingers/toes/and everything else crossed that I can come back from Chicago employed.
Hooray for Michael Phelps. He made history! That's grand. Listen, Michael, you went to UMich, so I at least expect you to be able to form complete sentences (he can't) or start an interview without the use of "um, you know..." (he can't). His bod is hot, but then you've gotta wake up the next morning and have a conversation about what you're gonna name the baby, and that shit could get difficult if all his head thinks is "kick, kick, paddle, paddle, wave." My main man is still Frenchie, Alain Bernard. How are you so tall and muscular and can swim so fast? I'd very much like to find out. Speaking of painful, in an effort to save money ($70, to be exact), I did my own bikini wax. Let me tell you something - I no longer fear child birth or foreign torture. Having to hold your own skin taught while you pull wax to rip out the tiniest hairs is excruciating. I bled, I whimpered, I took a shot of brandy (which only made me sweat, which made things worse), but in the end, I got 'er done. Swimsuit ready and money still in my wallet.
Mwah mwah mwah, little darlings!
I say "as evidenced by this weekend" because I had a few opportunities to chat with seemingly interested gentlemen and dismissed myself from the situation to enjoy my own company. Saturday night: I'm browsing beach reads at the Brookline Booksmith (got 2 books for $9.45 total. YES.) and I head over to J.P. Licks for some coffee fro yo topped with an ungodly amount of hot fudge. I sidle into a booth and begin to read. Despite being acutely aware that it's 9 something PM and I'm eating ice cream alone on a Saturday night, I don't really give a shit, because I'm in my own blissful zone. All of the sudden, a dude comes up with his laptop and asks if I'm waiting for someone. Nope, I say, and he then asks (very politely) if I would mind if he sits down. I glance around and there are plenty of empty seats (though surrounded by sugared-up children) and say "no problem." He sits down and starts talking about how he's sorry to be rude, but his boss emails him all the time and this is the only place that has wifi that works, etc etc. I tell him not to worry about it and continue to eat my fro yo in my own zone. He keeps asking me questions and striking up mini conversations. He's very nice and actually quite attractive. The mention of his boss lets me know that he is actively employed, which is cool. He was enjoyable, attractive, polite, and seemingly interested despite the fact that I could've come off (though I didn't feel it) as pathetic. In an unprecedented turn of events, I wish him a good nice, excuse myself, toss my fro yo (I had finished), and away I went. He was even trying to chat with me as I was halfway out the door. I could scarcely believe it myself. I did feel a little badly about it as I walked toward the T, but the guilt of feeling like I should be engaging with eligible gentlemen on a Saturday night in a big city, was overshadowed when I realized that I had 15 minutes to get home to witness mouth breather, Michael Phelps, make history. The plot thickened as I walked home and, in the middle of Harvard Avenue, quite a busy thoroughfare, I spent a good 5 minutes kneeling down trying to move a huge slug from the middle of the sidewalk (I was convinced he was going to get stepped on) into a bush. This definitely elicited stares from normal 20-somethings who were headed OUT for the night. Ah.
I've booked my plucky, exploratory, I-hope-this-works-out-sweet-Jesus, trip to Chicago (10/04 - 10/12). Fingers crossed that I make some serious headway (hello, like a million job offers), because I might even have to take unpaid time for this trip because I'm so low on vacation time. Some might say that this is unwise, but it's worth it to me. I'm moving in November, job or not, so I better get a lay of the land up close and personal. So far, I already have two interviews, and am busting ass to get more and more. Moreover, it's nicely timed, as I will come back and run the Tufts 10K the very next day, hopefully feeling super triumphant because I'll have a job (run, run, run)! I'll also have three besties' birthdays (Amber, Veronica, and Abbey) that week, as well as a fated ticket to the coveted Madonna concert that my lovely and wealthy Texas friend Zach procured because he "want(s) to go with someone fun." I'm fun! Pick me! Oh wait, he already did. So, fingers/toes/and everything else crossed that I can come back from Chicago employed.
Hooray for Michael Phelps. He made history! That's grand. Listen, Michael, you went to UMich, so I at least expect you to be able to form complete sentences (he can't) or start an interview without the use of "um, you know..." (he can't). His bod is hot, but then you've gotta wake up the next morning and have a conversation about what you're gonna name the baby, and that shit could get difficult if all his head thinks is "kick, kick, paddle, paddle, wave." My main man is still Frenchie, Alain Bernard. How are you so tall and muscular and can swim so fast? I'd very much like to find out. Speaking of painful, in an effort to save money ($70, to be exact), I did my own bikini wax. Let me tell you something - I no longer fear child birth or foreign torture. Having to hold your own skin taught while you pull wax to rip out the tiniest hairs is excruciating. I bled, I whimpered, I took a shot of brandy (which only made me sweat, which made things worse), but in the end, I got 'er done. Swimsuit ready and money still in my wallet.
Mwah mwah mwah, little darlings!
8.15.2008
Your Sleeves are Pushed U-u-u-p. That Looks Pretty Awesome.
I ate some Cape Cod chips for breakfast and now I want more. A tell-tale sign that I drank too many mojitos at last night's fundraiser. Too many mojitos is a tell-tale indicator that I likely shed clothing, spilled liquor, and danced inappropriately in front of fellow Board members and guests. I was well enough to find my way to the bus stop, take it all the way to South Station, change at Park Street, help a blind man (carrying a stuffed animal he called "Molly Malone") from the Westbound side of the Park St. stop to the Eastbound, accidentally get caught on the train I helped him get on to (which was going the opposite direction of where I wanted to go - but we had a nice chat about the Lord and Molly Malone and some other interesting topics), and eventually caught a BO (I'm calling it that from now on - har) line train at Government Center back to Brighton. My recollection tells me that I was less hammered and more drunk weepy. These days, I'm a hideous drunk, since I rarely drink and, for whatever reason (could be hatred for Boston, sadness about leaving, missing my friends, the demise of my relationship, whathaveyou), when I do, I get blubbery. I start listening to the Cranberries on my ipod and feeling very misty. It's in this state that I start placing calls to people I should not. They're not inappropriate calls, they just have an air of patheticism about them that makes me cringe when I wake up the next day. I didn't do any of those last night, so that's cool.
I also did not win the silent auction Elie Tahari orange pebbled leather clutch with cute top-stitching (Abs, you would've loved it). It was paid with a $200 Saks giftcard and Sven and I were bidding as a team so we could cover more ground and split the cost (he gets the giftcard, I get the purse as the spoils), but in the last hour some newbie to the Board outbid us to the max and I hadn't the stamina to keep going, especially when my friend Sarah (who's an ebay enthusiast) reminded me that I could "get it on ebay" for a lot cheaper than what I was bidding. Who let me near the silent auction anyway? And with a drink in-hand! I'm moving and should be saving money for chrissakes. I realized I didn't even want the purse - I just didn't want my competitor to have it because I'm mean spirited like that. She did say something like, "you can take the clutch in exchange for your purse and I can take that" - I'm sure she was being playful, but I wanted to be like, "This is Prada, sister. That's not a fair trade for a fucking Elie Tahari clutch. Throw in a Cartier Love Bracelet and a French swimmer and we have a deal." Shit was getting wild at ye olde fundraiser. Oh, and the dancing. It goes without saying that, if you're my friend or you know me at all, that I need little-to-no prodding to get the dance party started. It must be my pale genes, but I just can't ignore a good beat. In Boston, it's a cardinal rule that women are usually boring. They wear no makeup (please refer to my father's comment about the Avon lady making "a killing" here), loads of polar fleece, and generally have a frigid, fearful social presence which precludes them from dancing (gasp! what would people on the Vineyard think?!), or if they do, it must be in a very tight circle with only people they absolutely know. You'd think that when we get to be 27 or so, we say "fuck it" and embrace the lunacy of dancing like my Uncle George on our Carnival Cruise vacation when I was 8 (he wore pants that were too tight, and proceeded to glide and gyrate around the dancefloor like a madman. It was nuts, but he was happy and thus, everyone else felt at ease to be happy and have fun, as well). No such luck at le fundraiser. Picture this: A bunch of banker girls in a circle wearing Lily Pulitzer capri pants and Tory Birch slide loafers (what? yuck) be bopping from side-to-side to "I Like Big Butts," the whole while sporting concerned looks as if they're thinking, "If I dance to this, will all of the guys here think I do, in fact, have a big butt?" Yes, you do. So, let's get busy.
The guys are not much better. While tall and clad in nice suits, the choicest pick up line of my night was when a guy grabbed me to dance (he was wearing a fedora, which always implies sanity and gainful employment :/) and started doing a bunch of spastic cha-chas while telling me about how he works in "telecommunications" and do I "like a man who lays cable?" har har har. I laughed it off as a courtesy and then he passed me his card with an odd flourish of the wrist, as if I should be so super impressed. As if I call men. Please, hasn't anyone read my blog? I am totally gonna start dabbling in lesbianism. Well, I mean, I haven't done anything yet (and really don't want to), but as I warned Haley last night, I might just get all gussied up, go to Toast on my own on Saturday night, and hang out and see what develops ("hang out in ro-o-o-bes and see what develops" - thank you, Air Supply). Like a social experiment. Like so many impressionable teenagers in middle America, I am heeding the message of Katy Perry. God help us all.
I love casual Fridays. I can wear my converse and my Porsches on the Autobahn belt and jeans and be comfy and eat lots of food. The latter is not really part of the prescribed casual Friday, but it's my own agenda. I also really want to go home and sleep. That, or give in to the siren song of the Traveling Pants. Alas, I have stuff to do tonight, but really really really want to go nigh nigh right now. Mmmm, sweet sleep. Mmmm.
I also did not win the silent auction Elie Tahari orange pebbled leather clutch with cute top-stitching (Abs, you would've loved it). It was paid with a $200 Saks giftcard and Sven and I were bidding as a team so we could cover more ground and split the cost (he gets the giftcard, I get the purse as the spoils), but in the last hour some newbie to the Board outbid us to the max and I hadn't the stamina to keep going, especially when my friend Sarah (who's an ebay enthusiast) reminded me that I could "get it on ebay" for a lot cheaper than what I was bidding. Who let me near the silent auction anyway? And with a drink in-hand! I'm moving and should be saving money for chrissakes. I realized I didn't even want the purse - I just didn't want my competitor to have it because I'm mean spirited like that. She did say something like, "you can take the clutch in exchange for your purse and I can take that" - I'm sure she was being playful, but I wanted to be like, "This is Prada, sister. That's not a fair trade for a fucking Elie Tahari clutch. Throw in a Cartier Love Bracelet and a French swimmer and we have a deal." Shit was getting wild at ye olde fundraiser. Oh, and the dancing. It goes without saying that, if you're my friend or you know me at all, that I need little-to-no prodding to get the dance party started. It must be my pale genes, but I just can't ignore a good beat. In Boston, it's a cardinal rule that women are usually boring. They wear no makeup (please refer to my father's comment about the Avon lady making "a killing" here), loads of polar fleece, and generally have a frigid, fearful social presence which precludes them from dancing (gasp! what would people on the Vineyard think?!), or if they do, it must be in a very tight circle with only people they absolutely know. You'd think that when we get to be 27 or so, we say "fuck it" and embrace the lunacy of dancing like my Uncle George on our Carnival Cruise vacation when I was 8 (he wore pants that were too tight, and proceeded to glide and gyrate around the dancefloor like a madman. It was nuts, but he was happy and thus, everyone else felt at ease to be happy and have fun, as well). No such luck at le fundraiser. Picture this: A bunch of banker girls in a circle wearing Lily Pulitzer capri pants and Tory Birch slide loafers (what? yuck) be bopping from side-to-side to "I Like Big Butts," the whole while sporting concerned looks as if they're thinking, "If I dance to this, will all of the guys here think I do, in fact, have a big butt?" Yes, you do. So, let's get busy.
The guys are not much better. While tall and clad in nice suits, the choicest pick up line of my night was when a guy grabbed me to dance (he was wearing a fedora, which always implies sanity and gainful employment :/) and started doing a bunch of spastic cha-chas while telling me about how he works in "telecommunications" and do I "like a man who lays cable?" har har har. I laughed it off as a courtesy and then he passed me his card with an odd flourish of the wrist, as if I should be so super impressed. As if I call men. Please, hasn't anyone read my blog? I am totally gonna start dabbling in lesbianism. Well, I mean, I haven't done anything yet (and really don't want to), but as I warned Haley last night, I might just get all gussied up, go to Toast on my own on Saturday night, and hang out and see what develops ("hang out in ro-o-o-bes and see what develops" - thank you, Air Supply). Like a social experiment. Like so many impressionable teenagers in middle America, I am heeding the message of Katy Perry. God help us all.
I love casual Fridays. I can wear my converse and my Porsches on the Autobahn belt and jeans and be comfy and eat lots of food. The latter is not really part of the prescribed casual Friday, but it's my own agenda. I also really want to go home and sleep. That, or give in to the siren song of the Traveling Pants. Alas, I have stuff to do tonight, but really really really want to go nigh nigh right now. Mmmm, sweet sleep. Mmmm.
8.13.2008
Everything You Need Is Already Inside
I've already admitted to my addiction to the Olympics (though I draw the line at women's water polo or flat water), but I failed to relate how this addiction also (perhaps with more fervor) extends to the commercials that air during the Olympics. I alluded to this with my vivid description of a fictitious lesbian affair with Brandi Carlile (fingers crossed - apparently she's taken. B00.). Anyways, I'm really quite taken with the Nike Courage ad (yes, with the Killers aptly in the background). I love it so much, I might get the tag line as a tattoo. Not to sound like Tony Robbins, but I employ this little phrase daily (even before the freaking Olympics) and have begun to use it even more on my Chicago journey. Job hunting in a city you've never lived in before is a process fraught with self-doubt. Cold calling people, emailing out resumes, networking - all of it takes courage and a lot of unshakable faith in yourself. Since I've set my sights on consulting and Foundation work - both fields that are very cliquish and difficult to break into even for local folks, I've had to steel myself and go balls out on saying "Yes, I know I haven't the consulting experience you usually look for, but I'm a pragmatic and strategic thinker," or something like that. Yatta yatta. Anyways, this blog post serves more to pump me up. I've devoted a good chunk of my day to pimping my credentials out and I'm writing this post as a hooray for me. Haven't you people learned by now? I'm Ashlee fucking Piper and if you tell me that I can't do something or that something is "difficult" or "off limits," I'm gonna make it happen. Shoo, child.
Oop! Amber just called me to let me know that she's seeing apartments with her brother and she is gobsmacked by the hugeness and awesomeness of Chi-town apartments. "I'm standing next a claw footed tub, like the antique ones you like, in a bathroom about the size of your apartment. In an apartment three times the size of your apartment in Boston. And it's $1000 and allows dogs." Is it sad/strange/funny that the real clincher was when she said the place was near a Tuesday Morning? Har! So, I'm feeling pretty at ease and very excited about Chicago from a social and housing perspective. As much as I am trying to heed Haley's advice about appreciating and soaking up Boston as much as I can before I go and then getting psyched for Chicago only a few weeks before, I can't help but give myself over to fantasizing about going to the shelter (there's one called "A New Leash on Life" - hee!) and locking eyes with the puppers meant to be my little Banjo (a peek on PetFinder.com had me falling in love with lots of dogs, including a tree hound named Sassy who carries around her "baby" (a scrap of an old dog bed) and even takes it with her when her foster parents take her for a run)? Is it so bad that I have plans to spray paint some chairs I rescued from the dumpster marigold orange/yellow and am picturing them in a lovely apartment with window boxes full of basil and clover and Marimekko curtains blowing in the breeze off Lake Michigan (give me a break, my mom's an artist)? I think not. After all, what is a goal if you haven't any expectations for how it will come to fruition?
You'll be happy to know that the left side of my face has fully regained feeling, so I can smile big and proper. There's a Big Sister fundraiser tomorrow night that's gonna rock. For a cool $75 you get an open bar, all you can eat goodies from Legal Seafood, and a DJ and cool peeps. I'm excited and, like the exemplary Board member that I am, plan on getting good and shlockered to get my money's worth.
It's a beautiful day today and I can't wait to get outside (after all this rain!) and take a few laps around the Reservoir. The last few times I ran there, little chipmunks the size of my palm would leap out and scurry across to the water right as I was running near them. I was worried I was going to step on them! They're funny, dear little things that look nothing like the cartoons (no hats, no sunglasses). So, fingers crossed that I don't accidentally injure one and have to take it to the vet. Because you know I will.
Also, what is this bizness with China telling the 7 year old chickee who really sang the song for the Opening Ceremony that she's not pretty enough to be seen as the real singer? I've never heard of such bullshit! And, not like it makes a difference, but she's a beautiful little girl. Crazy world we live in.
8.12.2008
"This Must Be What Botched Botox Feels Like (um, no pun intended)"
The entire left side of my face is numb. It's amazing. Like, wow. And, as to be expected, anytime you lose the ability to move or feel a part of you, funny shit happens. Like when I stopped into Cosi to eat a piece of free bread and as I was walking out and chewing (I'm usually a very good closed-mouth chewer), bits of soggy bread start careening down my chin. In the middle of the talent that scurries around the Financial District. Me, my sweater vest, my sassy little polka dot headband, my athletic shoes (function over fashion), and bits of bread on my chin. Like a toddler. That's the hotness, folks. Right there.
My Dentist (who, for the record, is not Jason Guynes) is a middle-aged, tres effeminate Jewish man who does not freak me out or bother me though he talks incessantly in a high-pitched voice and stares down my top (I wore a high neck and sweater vest today to combat any leering disasters). I actually get a kick out of him. And, as evidenced today (this is when I realized, Good Lord, I need to get laid), he actually kinda in the teensiest little way, makes me feel young, fierce, and super attractive. As he's got his hands in my mouth he says in his sissy voice, "Beautiful! Beautiful! You've got gorgeous teeth - surrounded by a gorgeous girl." I muster a "ah-ank oo" while his latexy hand is jammed in my mouth, drill drill drill. Any other healthcare professional and I would feel all creeped out, but as he continued to bathe me in compliments, despite leaving with a drooly, numbed face, I left that office feeling like a million freaking bucks. There's something very gratifying in knowing that a dude who is inches from your face and open mouth, on a day when you haven't bothered to wash your hair or do a particularly fine makeup job, is still feeling you in a major way. Yes, some of you are going to say that I'm sick, but hey, I'll take the compliments. He even said that before I move to Chicago I have to let him take me to a Red Sox game. As if! Anyhoo.
I did a bang up job cleaning my desk (it's the headband and the mouth numbness that is making me productive. The headband because I feel neat and pulled together and the mouth numbness because it impedes my eating my salmon and brown rice lunch, which might make me sleepy and not wanting to work) and it looks awesome. I will get to the doing work part a little later - perhaps around 3pm. As I was on the T this morning, listening to Danzig's "Mother" of all things and really rockin' out, I thought of all of the things I could put in my little bloggy. Should I write about ex-boyfriends and their funny little habits (I could turn this into my very own chick lit blog!)? Should I write about my impending vaca to the Bahamas? Should I write about work? Nah, droll. I prefer to write about my new obsession with the French male swim team. I love cockey French bastards with Silver medals. That is all.
I'm going to try to chew some food now and likely listen to Morrissey on repeat. Then I will do some work (gasp!), pick up my dry cleaning, and run. I am oozing sex. Or that could just be saliva oozing down my chin. Rad.
My Dentist (who, for the record, is not Jason Guynes) is a middle-aged, tres effeminate Jewish man who does not freak me out or bother me though he talks incessantly in a high-pitched voice and stares down my top (I wore a high neck and sweater vest today to combat any leering disasters). I actually get a kick out of him. And, as evidenced today (this is when I realized, Good Lord, I need to get laid), he actually kinda in the teensiest little way, makes me feel young, fierce, and super attractive. As he's got his hands in my mouth he says in his sissy voice, "Beautiful! Beautiful! You've got gorgeous teeth - surrounded by a gorgeous girl." I muster a "ah-ank oo" while his latexy hand is jammed in my mouth, drill drill drill. Any other healthcare professional and I would feel all creeped out, but as he continued to bathe me in compliments, despite leaving with a drooly, numbed face, I left that office feeling like a million freaking bucks. There's something very gratifying in knowing that a dude who is inches from your face and open mouth, on a day when you haven't bothered to wash your hair or do a particularly fine makeup job, is still feeling you in a major way. Yes, some of you are going to say that I'm sick, but hey, I'll take the compliments. He even said that before I move to Chicago I have to let him take me to a Red Sox game. As if! Anyhoo.
I did a bang up job cleaning my desk (it's the headband and the mouth numbness that is making me productive. The headband because I feel neat and pulled together and the mouth numbness because it impedes my eating my salmon and brown rice lunch, which might make me sleepy and not wanting to work) and it looks awesome. I will get to the doing work part a little later - perhaps around 3pm. As I was on the T this morning, listening to Danzig's "Mother" of all things and really rockin' out, I thought of all of the things I could put in my little bloggy. Should I write about ex-boyfriends and their funny little habits (I could turn this into my very own chick lit blog!)? Should I write about my impending vaca to the Bahamas? Should I write about work? Nah, droll. I prefer to write about my new obsession with the French male swim team. I love cockey French bastards with Silver medals. That is all.
I'm going to try to chew some food now and likely listen to Morrissey on repeat. Then I will do some work (gasp!), pick up my dry cleaning, and run. I am oozing sex. Or that could just be saliva oozing down my chin. Rad.
8.11.2008
Driving In Your Car, I Never, Never Want to Go Home; or Too Much Feminist Fiction Makes You Gay
So, I finished "Fear of Flying" by Erica Jong this morning. 448 pages of feminist thought packaged in the seventies. I bought it in college thinking that it would make me look especially gender studious and intellectual (which, oddly enough, I thought would be attractive to dudes sitting near me in the Thayer Street Starbucks - poser!), but never deigned to read it until last week. A few orgies, a damaged marriage, lots of talk of psychotherapy, and a judicious use of the "c word" later and I feel thoroughly satisfied that I finished the damn thing. I also feel confused, as I often do when I read this feminist stuff, as to whether or not I am "liberated" or just play-acting or going through the motions of supposed liberation to eventually put it all aside for eventual marriage and all that jazz. Not like I really care if I'm being feminist or not (being feminist is kinda passe and has been replaced with being green, which is much more fun) or like I really believe in marriage or love or anything but adopting dogs and children and recycling and objectifying Michael Phelps for his unbearably sexy bod (shoulders you can rest horizontally on and huge hands. I love him.).
Aside from feminist theory, I'm obsessed with the Olympics. I ditched my Sistas of the Traveling Pants variety on Friday night to come home and watch the Opening Ceremony and Parade of Nations - both of which always make me cry (in a good way). There I was watching little countries with one or two olympians carry their flags so proudly. I fucking heart the Parade of Nations. Represent, Vanuatu!
I have been doing some productive things with my time. Like running a comfortable 3.5 miles every other night. To some this seems like child's play, but to me, this is FREAKING AWESOME. Moreover, I've broken out ye olde juicer in an effort to shake my coffee addiction. The problem(s): A giant Starbucks (black and strong, please. NO MILK) is like, $3 or something. A glass of juice in the morning requires the following: a head of romaine, 7 stalks of kale, an organic lemon, ginger, two apples, etc etc. For one glass! This becomes expensive, and though I live near a Whole Foods, I've put myself on a tight leash when it comes to spending there. The juice is actually not bad and, I have to say, I felt better running (only running, though, I felt like shit most of the day) than on other days, but that could've just been because I was imagining myself running in some Olympic event (as if!) and perhaps the spirit moved me? Anyways, I'll stay with juicing long enough to use up all my produce, but the clean up is bumming me out, too. I mean, who wants to wake up, chop up a bunch of veggies, and then push them through a machine that sounds like you're chopping up a human arm, to make a puny glass of green juice, only to clean up the guts of all the produce from the filter or whatever? I'm going back to Muesli and a huge coffee by Thursday, me thinks.
I've also been good about saving money. I kinda regretted doing the "leave my debit and credit cards and cash at home" thing this afternoon because on my walk home, I encountered two really needy homeless folks that I would've given serious cash to. The first was an old guy in a walker/wheelchair contraption. He had a veteran hat on, which always makes me sad and I had nothing but a penny or two. And I had just spent my dollar+ on hash browns at Dunkin' Donuts (they're awesome). Anyways, I sat and chatted with him a bit and gave him my hash browns. Which worked out well, because he seemed to really like them and I didn't need them, going to the Bahamas in a week or so. We say our goodbyes and I walk a block down and there's a freaking pregnant homeless gal. I mean, spewing forth with child any day now prego. And I had no money to give her. I did ask her if she had a safe place to stay (working for the state has at least given me a good knowledge of the shelters, etc), WIC, food stamps, etc. She said she lived in Somerville, but the place was crappy, and she was due in 4 days. FOUR DAYS! I felt like a total tramp that I had no money to give her. Then, I realized, a-ha! Work fucked up my t pass a few days ago and gave me a replacement $10 card that had just been hanging out in my bag. I gave it to her and she seemed decently pleased. So, now I am going to bring some cash with me so I can either (a) give it to homeless folks or (b) buy myself hash browns. The moral of the story is: always be nice to the homeless. Why? Just because, DB!
Now, it could be the feminist literature, the overall disenchantment with all things Boston (which obviously includes the men here - especially the ones who wear khakis that are too tight and short and knock into me on the sidewalk on the way to work, thereby causing me to spill my juice and lose the bottle cap in the road. I mean really, where were you raised and who gave you, fashion disaster of the free world, permission to ram into me without apology? It's a damn good thing I don't own a taser.), but I have a girl crush. Easy now, I'm straight, but if, by some miracle, the Lord comes down and takes away my overwhelming (and very annoying) love/lust for men, I have found my candidate for best girlfriend ever. Yes, she sings the song in the GM commercial that airs relentlessly during the Olympics (see? It all ties together, the complicated intersections of life!). Yes, I like that song. Scratch that - I love it. So much that I googled and found my missus. And while I can't fathom (yick) doing lesbianish things with her, I want her to be my little girlfriend. Pale skin, brown eyes, brown hair. She's like my male ideal in female form. And her voice is rad. And she has a certain 'fuck convention' air about her that I dig (catch her wailing on the last verse. Hot). Yes, I have given this far too much thought. No, I am not "turning gay," as my Dad would ask me when I hadn't shaved my legs during my entire Freshman year of college (even I shudder to think now). Yes, I wish that I could (imagine the clothes! the girl talk! the emotional openness! HA.). But I know that the second anything randy would happen, I'd be horribly disappointed at the absence of penis. Take that, Erica Jong! I'm liberated! Pshaw. It won't stop me from loving my little cowgirl of a girl crush - we'll go live on a ranch together (right next to Robert Redford) and ride horses and wear cute cowgirl shirts and go to country gigs where we can line dance with sawdust on the floor.
Anyways, czech her out. She is really good and from an aesthetic perspective, I'd looooove to find out what skin care she uses. Behold: http://youtube.com/watch?v=fja-KazVMYU
And as an aside, here are some songs I've been listening to a lot during my commutes:
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths
Tonight - Lykke Li (makes me cry a little bit)
I Kissed A Girl - Katy Perry (I know, the theme of this post is freaking even me out)
Damaged - Danity Kane (to add a splash of class)
Too Shy - Kajagoogoo (because it's a daily addiction)
Glamorous - Fergie (what? oh yeah)
Stand Back - Stevie Nicks (I heart Stevie Nicks. I used to listen to "Edge of Seventeen" when I was like 20 and rock out, while also wondering why anyone would want to score with a 17 year old dude? I mean, really? I've heard the stamina argument, but these days, if you're not an Olympian or don't have a job, I really can't be bothered to drop trou...)
Rapture - Blondie
Holding Back the Years - Simply Red (yes, this is the strangest one on the list perhaps, but for whatever reason, I like it. My parents used to listen to it a lot when I was growing up)
Oh, and I'm definitely getting stuff crack-a-lackin' with Chicago. I've quit my gym and other local-ish memberships and the networking/job hunt chain is full steam ahead. I feel really grateful - a lot of lovely people have done one hell of a job pimping out my resume or finding me friends. Just this morning, I received three emails from chipper peeps who were also moving to Chicago around the same time (from Kansas, Nashville, and Colorado respectively) and did I want a roommate? Do I run? Do I have a dog? Everyone seems very nice so far and best of all, I've found organizations that I really, really want to work for. Consulting is looking more and more promising and the favorites are ones that do work with private sector companies to maximize positive social impact. Shoo, child, that'd be freaking awesome. At first moving to Chicago was just a whim and I needed to sink my teeth into a new adventure. Now, it's proving to be a smart career move - there's so much more going on there than here. Banjo, here I come!
Have a wonderful (rainy, if you're in Beantown) Tuesday, folks! I, on the other hand, will be getting FOUR (yes, I am ashamed) cavities filled. Yes, I brush and floss. Apparently, using natural toothpaste (and the absence of fluoride therein) has rotted my teef and I have to visit Mr. Dentist who likes to talk about politics and stare down my shirt in two painful installments to remedy the problem. Hrmph!
8.08.2008
A Companion Unobtrusive
I confess I've recently engaged in some of the seemingly sad activities of a spinster. While some sigh and their inner monologues say, "poor thing," I really dig doing things alone and am not weirded out by it. Mind you, it's not my normal state, but I do appreciate the quiet comfort of a meal alone or watching a chick flick at home enjoying my own company. Last night was no different. I went to the mall to take advantage of the beloved Gap bra sale (I now own 3 new-fangled silky support systems), use my free Aveda Purefume Spirit gift card (so today I smell of jasmine and rose and sandalwood - yum - for free), and buy an unexpected and totally darling Gidget-esque spotted headband for the Bahamas (to be glam when the hair gets unruly). I then trekked home, watched "The Age of Innocence" (such torment! such bliss!), and polished off chips and salsa, all with the rain serenading outside. In my opinion, it was a near perfect evening. Tonight, I might just do the same freaking thing. My bod's become a real fan of not imbibing every weekend evening and waking early to run on Saturday morning - and now that the N shows new Degrassi episodes on Friday nights, there's more than good reason to hunker down at home. It's like I'm dating myself and good lord, am I treating that bitch right.
Tonight, I might even go see "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Deux" by myself. Yes, I have friends who would go see it with me, but I don't feel like conversing and would prefer to indulge in the gooey chickness of it all solo. Fuck, I might even get a lovely Lebanese dinner on the way to the movie. Or, I could always fore go the flick and take a long run in the dreary weather. All of it sounds awesome and while, just a few months ago, so much alone time would've made me all conflicted and restless, I am now digging it profoundly. Does this mean I am getting old? Sure. Does it mean I'm pretty removed from Boston since I decided to move? Perhaps. Does it just mean I'm tired of talking for once? Possibly (who knew it could happen?). Fear not, though, Saturday night I've much debauchery planned, including cramming myself in my small jeans and very high shoes. I might even paint up my face like Kenny Rogers used to warn about.
So, that's my ditty about enjoying your own freaking company. hurrah!
Tonight, I might even go see "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Deux" by myself. Yes, I have friends who would go see it with me, but I don't feel like conversing and would prefer to indulge in the gooey chickness of it all solo. Fuck, I might even get a lovely Lebanese dinner on the way to the movie. Or, I could always fore go the flick and take a long run in the dreary weather. All of it sounds awesome and while, just a few months ago, so much alone time would've made me all conflicted and restless, I am now digging it profoundly. Does this mean I am getting old? Sure. Does it mean I'm pretty removed from Boston since I decided to move? Perhaps. Does it just mean I'm tired of talking for once? Possibly (who knew it could happen?). Fear not, though, Saturday night I've much debauchery planned, including cramming myself in my small jeans and very high shoes. I might even paint up my face like Kenny Rogers used to warn about.
So, that's my ditty about enjoying your own freaking company. hurrah!
8.07.2008
Musings on Chicago
Some quick things I've noticed since networking this past week:
(1) People are so fricking nice. It's awesome and this is evident in two major ways.
Laypeople: Friends of friends parents and cousins and acquaitances (who I've never met before) have offered me places to stay (for free), use of their vehicles (for free), and in one interesting and unsolicited instance, offered up their similarly aged son to play docent to my visit of the city (I'm assuming/hoping for free). People have offered to show me the city in some of the most exciting (and non-creepy) ways. An example:
"There are lots of cozy neighborhood spots we can check out, for instance an Ethiopian place down the street from my house features Phil Cohran (of Sun Ra fame) playing trumpet and various homemade instruments to a (usually) unsuspecting audience on Friday nights."
Someone even recommended some great animal shelters because I mentioned in passing that I wanted to get a shelter pup.
Professional Networking: Even the most seemingly buttoned-up business people have offered to take me out to coffee or pimp my resume out. One man stayed on the phone with me for an hour and a half spouting suggestions, asking my desired salary range, etc. and then sent me an email a few hours later with a whole bunch of cc'd people and suggestions. People also seem to react very well when I say that I have chosen to move to Chicago for the simple (and kind of naive sounding - I'm aware) reasons that I've always liked it there and I am ready for a new adventure. The encouragement I've received when I spill this news is awesome - "What moxie!"
(2) Everyone, even hardened Bostonians, have nice things to say about Chicago. People who had lived there and for whatever reason left, send me long emails about how they miss it and what in particular they miss. The only thing people have boohooed about (after much prodding) are: the winter and the "dictatorial" municipal government (one man said, "Mayor Daley reminds me of Louis XIV." This was followed by, "you might find that vexing because I know that Massachusetts is well-known for having such an effecient and uncorrupted government" (and he meant it, too). Hi, winter? Bring it. And municipal government isn't my bag anyway. My public servant days are over as of November. Hello, cushy world of navel-gazing Foundation work or consulting!
(3) People seem normal. Granted, this is an observation based upon preliminary emails/phone calls, etc and I am in a particularly rose-colored state of mind, but hi, no one has yet to exhibit signs or symptoms of OCD/Schizophrenia/excessive use of psychotropics. I cannot say the same for my similar job hunt in Massachusetts, where one woman in particular stands out as having mentioned, while I was in an informational interview, that she doesn't touch doorknobs because "they're filthy" and can I "open the door and ask her assistant to do something for" her? Yikes.
Alright, I have to run, but these should suffice for now. Needless to say, I'm beaming. I'm sure it will wear off, as all hype does, but I am excited that this is starting to come together and with such great response, too! And, I am going to one of my favorite places in Boston (hi, Chacarero) with one of my favorite peeps, so Boston ain't so bad. :)
(1) People are so fricking nice. It's awesome and this is evident in two major ways.
Laypeople: Friends of friends parents and cousins and acquaitances (who I've never met before) have offered me places to stay (for free), use of their vehicles (for free), and in one interesting and unsolicited instance, offered up their similarly aged son to play docent to my visit of the city (I'm assuming/hoping for free). People have offered to show me the city in some of the most exciting (and non-creepy) ways. An example:
"There are lots of cozy neighborhood spots we can check out, for instance an Ethiopian place down the street from my house features Phil Cohran (of Sun Ra fame) playing trumpet and various homemade instruments to a (usually) unsuspecting audience on Friday nights."
Someone even recommended some great animal shelters because I mentioned in passing that I wanted to get a shelter pup.
Professional Networking: Even the most seemingly buttoned-up business people have offered to take me out to coffee or pimp my resume out. One man stayed on the phone with me for an hour and a half spouting suggestions, asking my desired salary range, etc. and then sent me an email a few hours later with a whole bunch of cc'd people and suggestions. People also seem to react very well when I say that I have chosen to move to Chicago for the simple (and kind of naive sounding - I'm aware) reasons that I've always liked it there and I am ready for a new adventure. The encouragement I've received when I spill this news is awesome - "What moxie!"
(2) Everyone, even hardened Bostonians, have nice things to say about Chicago. People who had lived there and for whatever reason left, send me long emails about how they miss it and what in particular they miss. The only thing people have boohooed about (after much prodding) are: the winter and the "dictatorial" municipal government (one man said, "Mayor Daley reminds me of Louis XIV." This was followed by, "you might find that vexing because I know that Massachusetts is well-known for having such an effecient and uncorrupted government" (and he meant it, too). Hi, winter? Bring it. And municipal government isn't my bag anyway. My public servant days are over as of November. Hello, cushy world of navel-gazing Foundation work or consulting!
(3) People seem normal. Granted, this is an observation based upon preliminary emails/phone calls, etc and I am in a particularly rose-colored state of mind, but hi, no one has yet to exhibit signs or symptoms of OCD/Schizophrenia/excessive use of psychotropics. I cannot say the same for my similar job hunt in Massachusetts, where one woman in particular stands out as having mentioned, while I was in an informational interview, that she doesn't touch doorknobs because "they're filthy" and can I "open the door and ask her assistant to do something for" her? Yikes.
Alright, I have to run, but these should suffice for now. Needless to say, I'm beaming. I'm sure it will wear off, as all hype does, but I am excited that this is starting to come together and with such great response, too! And, I am going to one of my favorite places in Boston (hi, Chacarero) with one of my favorite peeps, so Boston ain't so bad. :)
8.06.2008
Like a Condom On a Collection Plate
My father arrived home from Prague tonight and despite being jet-lagged, called to tell me he arrived safely. This call was accompanied by his usual (often un-politically correct, completely inappropriate) southern phrases (my dad is not from the south, per se, but has adopted local yokel phrases to feel indigenous, it seems) and since I've sworn my life over to the care of this blessed blog, I had no other choice but to catalogue them for you fine people (person? imaginary friend?). Drum roll, please:
(1) Of the "I wouldn't..." variety:
"...piss on his/her guts if they were on fire"
"...beat a dog in the ass with that" (he doesn't beat dogs, but I digress)
(2) Of the religious variety
On marriage: "I've been down the aisle more times than the church sweeper"
On fitting in: "I stood out like a condom on a collection plate"
(3) Of the academic/intellectually critical variety
Taking LaVonna (his girlfriend) to the Louvre/Vatican/any cultural site: "was like shoving 10lbs of shit in a 5lb bag"
On the town he grew up in: "it's like a two-tooth minimum"
(4) Of the "chicks are pretty ugly here" variety
On Boston: "An AVON lady could make a killing here" (I tend to agree)
(5) Of the drug variety
In the seventies: "I was higher than a pussy on a ferris wheel" (you can't make this shit up)
(6) Of the "I'm bored" variety
Talking to (my) your grandmother (was so boring) it "made me want to run a warm bath and cut my wrists"
More charmers to come. (My Dad actually is a pretty cool, kind dude).
Don't Hate the Player
My friend Jason from my Texas days is a very special boy. He's allergic to mint, once had Scabies, and used to throw me and my cheap jewelry in his backyard swimming pool (out of anger? out of adolescent lust?). Here's him scolding me for blogging and a link to his HOME VIDEO. The end.
**
me: relying on old material
typical
Jason: whatever at least i don't have a BLOG
like a real actual one
me: right, well, I mean
wherever would you find the time
making home movies and all
Jason: right
plus who wants to read about me going to see G-rated movies in the theater by myself and chubby-chasing at country bars in fort worth?
me: I certainly do
don't forget staying in the closet for this long
Jason: yeah, but it's one meticulously organized closet
**
Much better use of time than blogging... (kind of genius, but whatever)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NxISW9j180
**
me: relying on old material
typical
Jason: whatever at least i don't have a BLOG
like a real actual one
me: right, well, I mean
wherever would you find the time
making home movies and all
Jason: right
plus who wants to read about me going to see G-rated movies in the theater by myself and chubby-chasing at country bars in fort worth?
me: I certainly do
don't forget staying in the closet for this long
Jason: yeah, but it's one meticulously organized closet
**
Much better use of time than blogging... (kind of genius, but whatever)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NxISW9j180
MBTandA
I confess that I spend most of my time doing the following things: working; sleeping; talking on the phone and writing emails (also know as "communication"); and (unfortunately) riding the T. Yes, folks, TWO FULL FUCKING HOURS OF EACH DAY are devoted to riding that Dan Grebauskas shitstorm on wheels. Of all of the lines on the T that one could ride, I feel I ride the worst: the B line. There are days I'd rather be slashed by a gang banger's knife on the Orange Line or stand under the armpit of a tatted up Irish townieperson (usually reeking of KOOLs and Bushmills) on the Blue Line, but no such luck. Instead, I spend my days on the B-line - watching scores of Boston University students and "young professionals" (recently graduated BU students working at temp agencies) show me what it really means to be young, stupid, discourteous, and endowed by equally stupid parents. Some of my friends (Abbey) were thrown a similar fate and eventually found a job that made her more miserable, but at least allowed her to drive to work. Other friends (Haley) avoided the T all together. I used to accuse her of being a Brahman-elitist, but really she's right; the T is a fucking soul suck, better avoided all together.
Last night, while spending a good portion of the after-work hours walking around and enjoying the delicious weather, I boarded the T at Government Center to head home to Brighton. Ruh Roh - Sox Game. This simple scheduling fact makes riding the T a nightmare for anyone who works downtown and needs to go west to get home. A sea of red shirts and townie taint fills the T cars like "10 lbs of shit in a 5 lb bag," as my very prone-to-southern-phrases father would say. And none of them, man, woman, or their spawn, will give up their seat to the occasional disabled/prego/elderly person just trying to get from point A to point B in this blasted city. Last night, a woman who was both elderly and disabled boarded the train with her walker and everyone averted their eyes so they wouldn't have to give her their seat. Well, she was wearing a visor, so you know she means fucking business and is pretty awesome anyways. She began yelling, "what the hell is the matter with you people? I worked all day and I want to sit down! You're just going to a baseball game!" It was as if I was staring into my future, which was kind scary because (a) nobody said, "Right on, lady, these people are idiots!" and (b) everyone laughed at her. I was standing nearby and felt that she needed back up. After all, I agreed with her. If I had a seat, it would've been hers and really, does a pock-faced dullard from Billerica really need a seat for the three stops it takes to get to Kenmore? So, I looked at this group of kids that were laughing at her (all with very tight ponytails and Coach knock-offs) and said, "Don't make fun of her; she's absolutely right." The kids got quiet and did that obnoxious thing that middle-schoolers do where they look around like my fly is open. This, of course, makes me also think that kids should be locked up from the ages of 8 until they're 21. Those formative years annoy the hell out of me. The woman looked at me gratefully, but the downside is she also wanted to converse with me for the rest of the 45-minute ride like we were besties. It was through this awkward conversation that I realized she was sort of crazy, but hey, who cares? She was still right. The moral of the story: Red Sox fans are a waste of space. No no no. As Triumph says, "I kid."
Last night, while spending a good portion of the after-work hours walking around and enjoying the delicious weather, I boarded the T at Government Center to head home to Brighton. Ruh Roh - Sox Game. This simple scheduling fact makes riding the T a nightmare for anyone who works downtown and needs to go west to get home. A sea of red shirts and townie taint fills the T cars like "10 lbs of shit in a 5 lb bag," as my very prone-to-southern-phrases father would say. And none of them, man, woman, or their spawn, will give up their seat to the occasional disabled/prego/elderly person just trying to get from point A to point B in this blasted city. Last night, a woman who was both elderly and disabled boarded the train with her walker and everyone averted their eyes so they wouldn't have to give her their seat. Well, she was wearing a visor, so you know she means fucking business and is pretty awesome anyways. She began yelling, "what the hell is the matter with you people? I worked all day and I want to sit down! You're just going to a baseball game!" It was as if I was staring into my future, which was kind scary because (a) nobody said, "Right on, lady, these people are idiots!" and (b) everyone laughed at her. I was standing nearby and felt that she needed back up. After all, I agreed with her. If I had a seat, it would've been hers and really, does a pock-faced dullard from Billerica really need a seat for the three stops it takes to get to Kenmore? So, I looked at this group of kids that were laughing at her (all with very tight ponytails and Coach knock-offs) and said, "Don't make fun of her; she's absolutely right." The kids got quiet and did that obnoxious thing that middle-schoolers do where they look around like my fly is open. This, of course, makes me also think that kids should be locked up from the ages of 8 until they're 21. Those formative years annoy the hell out of me. The woman looked at me gratefully, but the downside is she also wanted to converse with me for the rest of the 45-minute ride like we were besties. It was through this awkward conversation that I realized she was sort of crazy, but hey, who cares? She was still right. The moral of the story: Red Sox fans are a waste of space. No no no. As Triumph says, "I kid."
The real moral is: Dear people of Boston, please stop being self-centered douchebags and remember that that old person on the T who is standing is some one's Grandma or Grandpa. That pregnant woman on the T is carrying around 20+ lbs on her midriff and would likely appreciate a place to 'take a load off'. That person with a red state-issued cane? Yeah, he's blind. And ya know what's difficult? Riding the T when you're blind and standing up. In other words, stop being self-serving assholes.
Oh, on the upside, the Gap is having a buy 2, get one free event starting tomorrow. Um, so that's unrelated, but cool as hell.
Oh, on the upside, the Gap is having a buy 2, get one free event starting tomorrow. Um, so that's unrelated, but cool as hell.
Secret Handshake
So hurrah. I finally caved. Some of my friends have blogs and what I used to criticize and publicly shame as being a waste of time, I've now taken up as part celebration and part therapy (oh, and part killing time at work when the nary undershirted communications guy requests things of me). You see, this ain't just no blog about moving. It's a blog about a whole life transition. And you get to come along for the ride (lucky, lucky) and hear all of the edge-of-your-seat stuff about storage units, job hunting in a city where I know no one, and the quest to lease a lovely Prius and an even lovelier, far more destined (not to be leased) shelter dog. There will likely be rants about Boston in between. LET ME JUST SAY IT NOW: Much as I bitch and moan about Bah-ston and its inconsiderate, shiteous occupants, I have had a lot of great experiences here and there are some things that I truly, truly love. That being said, I'm moving to Chicago in pursuit of...in pursuit of what? I dunno. Erica Jong calls it a "hunger thump," my religious grandmother used to call it "a quiet knowing," and one of my friends called it a "firm belief in picking up and moving." Sometimes I think it's just that if I ride the B-line any longer I'll explode. Whatever the catalysts are, it's no great epiphany - I just know it's time and I'm excited!
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