This morning Mr. H and I signed the lease to our new place. Our very nice landlord, who looks like Moby, handed over the keys even before the check cleared. Now that’s small town livin’.
The place looks like this:
We have the second floor. The turret room is for the cat, or visiting crazy relatives. I could go on and on, but the kitchen is uncarpeted, and that’s good enough for me. Party invites to go out as soon as we rescue our stuff from storage!
-xxoo
Last night I went to the towniest bar on the entire planet with my sister-in-law. We watched a cover band, and overweight women throwing bras. I can’t even make this funny. I get uncomfortable around people with bad hair.
We’ve given the heave-ho to the evil, deceitful apartment people. They are refunding our money, but hemming and hawing about reimbursing us for the storage fee for our crap for the month we stupidly waited. I am thinking of calling the local paper and asking for the Bone To Pick Department. Now it’s off to look at ten or twenty apartments this afternoon. I am totally opening all the medicine cabinets and checking for water pressure.
Oh, confidential to Mr. Baby’s parental units: I am sure you get lots of parenting advice, and maybe you’ve already done this, but don’t you think it’s time to photograph him in a roasting pan or a soup tureen? I mean before he gets too big. I can’t tell you how often I fondly look back on my “kitten in the microwave” series and wish I’d thought to pose her in the toaster oven too. Now she’s just plain huge.
-xxoo
It is a terrible story. The Story of Nicholas. (as told by Mr. H and his parents)
Mother: One day the boys came home, and they asked if their friend Nicholas could come over and play. I said “who the hell is Nicholas?”
Mr. H: So we pointed out the window, at the kid in the yard.
Mother: I said “Isn’t that Johnny? His name is Johnny. Why are you calling him Nicholas?”
Mr. H: We said “we don’t know.”
Mother: Then I realized– and I said “Don’t call him that anymore, his name is Johnny, call him that.”
Me: I don’t get it.
Mother: He was the only black kid in Acton!
Father: sotto voce, in loud restaurant: Nigga lips!
Me: Oh my God.
Mr. H: I wondered why I’d say “Hi Nicholas!” and he’d hit me!
Me: *snorted Chardonnay out of my nose*
Mr. H: The big kids used to tell the little kids to call him that, and we thought they were saying Nicholas.
Poor Johnny.
-xxoo
Yes, I have a new thing to bitch about. You must all be thrilled. But no one’s making you read this, bucko.
I don’t mind the length of the train ride to and from Lowell at all. I enjoy spacing out and staring at the industrial squalor out the window. Funny, there are no NICE houses along train tracks. Why is that?
But getting the train home in the evening is a bit of an ordeal, because it pits the regular “we don’t run enough trains because we are capricious and terrible” MBTA against the German precision of the Commuter Rail, which is apparently run by another concern that contracts with the MBTA. And they are fined when they are late. I missed a 5:45 train by 2 minutes last night, and that was with a mad dash from the Green Line. I think I hurdled over a twin stroller and kicked a seeing eye dog on my way, but my only reward was the painful squeezing of my still-recovering lungs and the sight of a train pulling away.
Now you’d think allowing 35 minutes to travel 5 stops would be more than enough time to get me to North Station from Arlington street, but not when there are sports fans involved. It aroused my ire still further to see that the same people who insisted on jamming in the doors at each stop so the train could not proceed were even too early to be let into the Fleet Center proper. The escalators weren’t even unlocked, but it was so important to be first in line for an event for which they hold ticketed seats that they could not cede their spot on the subway to someone who might be trying to just go home.
So I sat on a bench in the cold for an hour, under the monitor that details which train is at which track. It became a bit demoralizing because people would rush in and start swearing in my direction when they realized they were too late. Women tend to say “Jeez” or “Dammit!” but men really cut to the chase with “Shit” or “Fuck!”
Oh well. I am all for self-interest, except where it violates my self-interest. I try to remember “other people have lives too,” but surely their lives are not as shiny and valuable as mine! Then again, I don’t mind having the excuse to leave work any earlier. Today: 4:30, unless Alex goes ballistic as promised.
-xxoo
I beg to differ, Lambchop, Allston did not used to be Berlin. That is wishful thinking on Allston’s part. But everyone knows that Lowell is the new Prague! I am trying to convert people to move up there and open a transvestite disco with me. And I say “up there” like it’s the great Arctic circle or something, really it’s 30 minutes from Boston. Why, you could all hop on the train and be wearing a lampshade in my living room in no time. As soon as I have a living room. And some lamps. Speaking of lamps, Happy Fun Lamp has a spiffy new design.
Also, Lambuel forgot to mention one other shared fond spot for us: drinking under bridges. Why, when she was accepted into graduate school at Yale, what did we do? We shared a bottle of grape-flavored Mad Dog in a paper bag, nestled under the Swan Boat bridge in the Public Garden. Also, we had plastic knives. For protection. We met a lot of wackos that day, go figure. There was the guy who staunchly believed in the Kirlian camera. A brigade of fur-coated women mincing along with tiny dogs glared at us.
Oh, and then the next week there was an official celebratory brunch. We stayed up all night doing things that are bad for us, and popped out for the New York Times and a box of Munchkins as the sun rose. As the various roommates woke, we were doing the crossword puzzle and polishing off our 40s. Then during the brunch, the omelettes started talking to me. I had to excuse myself.
-xxoo
Two weeks ago, a butterfly flapped its wings in Moscow. Today I impulse-purchased a Volkswagen. And you know what? I instantly started to drive like a total asshole. Like I’m from Cambridge. For my next trick, I’ll pop out a few kids and let them pull shit off the shelves in Bread & Circus while I yap into a cellphone headset.
Oh, the car. It’s Galactic Blue (hooray for Science!), with lots of bells and whistles and even jimcracks and doohickeys. And technically it was not a purchase, but a lease. So at some point over the holidays I’ll have the pleasure of explaining to my parents and other older family members that I do not actually have “anything to show for it.” It’s the matrix, ma.
Another plus: we got rid of Mr. H’s Ford Focus. Now the family of spiders that lives in it is someone else’s problem. Shudder. I am certain Super Townie at the dealership plans to set the white whale on fire and roll it into a lake. And he’d be right to do it.
-xxoo
Well, not really. Not at all. But Mr. H and I are fleeing thickly settled Somerville at long last! We’re moving to beautiful downtown Lowell. Yes, that’s right, Lowell. We just put a deposit on a loft in an old factory. And don’t get me wrong, this is a yuppie loft. It might sound all industrial, but I have no interest in sledge hammering out my own breakfast nook. There are people to do those things, and those people thankfully already did them to this place. Nothing to do but figure out what art to hang on the walls and enjoy paying less than $1 a square foot per month because it’s LOWELL. Also, there is a surveillance system. I’ve always wanted to hover my finger over the button marked “hounds” when various relatives pitch up. Or to be fair, my own relatives as well, although they are easier to anticipate because they are usually blowing on jugs.
I’ve noticed there’s a baseball series of some sort going on, and it seems to involve a Boston-New York rivalry. How quaint! I don’t really follow the sporting world aside from hating figure skating, but I have heard the strident hooting in the streets.
The fact is that I don’t think Boston cares that it’s not New York, and that infuriates New Yorkers infinitely. People who enjoy Boston enjoy it for what it is. It’s city-lite, with just enough historical nonsense tossed in to feel legitimate. I’ve lived in Boston for about seven years now, sticking around after college like everyone else. I’ve lived in the Fenway, in Brookline, in Beacon Hill. I’m an around the way girl. It’s been good, and I am lucky.
So I must recognize some of the acceptable things about Boston. It’s so cute and manageable, so clean. Ridiculously easy to get around, provided you keep your intended use of public transportation to civilized hours. We have adorable miniature similarities to New York things without all the fuss and bother of muggings and traffic. They have Central Park, we have the Boston Common and Public Garden. They have the Statue of Liberty, we have…um…that phallic thing in Bunker Hill. They have the Empire State building, we have (oh jeez) the Pru. They’ve got Chinatown, we have the Fung Wah bus drop off and a stone lion or two. Hey, we’ve got a bridge and a tunnel. We’ve even got hipsters and eurotrash, for chrissakes!
Essentially Boston is like a cunning little souvenir snow globe filled with people with hilarious accents. A snow globe with lucrative employment opportunities and overpriced real estate and bars that close shockingly early. Don’t make it out to be something it’s not, be ye Bostonians or flatland touristers. Boston is forever doomed to be irritating Scrappy Doo, but New York is doomed to be Bluto. Pick on someone your own size for a change.
And…I’ll be in Lowell, opening a Sushi Samba rip off. Hahahahahahahahaha.
-xxoo
The two feet of snow Boston received a few days ago are still snarling things. Last night it took a full hour to drive from zee Back Bay to Mr. H’s house in Slummerville. There was honking and gesticulating, and failure to yield to emergency vehicles. And then there were the other drivers, ba dum dum. No, I’m teasing. Of all the rages I am known to enjoy, road rage is not among them. I did read about one severe case of snow rage. In Framingham. Isn’t that the town where people kill each other at their kids’ hockey games? Go figure.
And I won’t even get started on the T. The rage has disipated to a collective ennui. If it had a sound, it would be a low-pitched whiny “nnnnnnnnnuuuuuuhhhh.”
It’s finally warm enough to go out without gloves and a ski mask, so to celebrate living through a hellish drive, we walked to Rudy’s Cafe, the margarita mecca of Teele Square.
On the way back, I noticed a salon called “Skin Skedaddle.” What is the meaning of this? “We extract to the point of disfiguration. People will skedaddle when they see you!” That’s almost as good as Hair-azz, which briefly existed next to the Outback in Burlington. And let’s not forget what always, always cracks me up in Porter Square: “Long Funeral Service.” It used to be Long-Hurley, which was passable, but I guess there was some sort of schism.
But yes, I’m just rambling. Must be hibernation wearing off. Must focus. On…who won the Bachelorette! I’m going to subtitle this: And Shamu makes 3
Good God, who would have thought she would choo-choo choose Ryan? Â He’s a poet, and he don’t even know it. But Charlie, Charlie had a serious hair problem. I kept flashing back to the footage of melancholy sea birds after the Exxon Valdez. Anyway, any guy who can tolerate the booming cadence of her biological clock totally deserves her. My stomach crawled up into my throat during the scene where she and Ryan, or maybe it was Charlie, were feeding bread to ducks. She cooed “Ready? Over here!” and I could picture her perfectly in maternity overalls, herding tow-headed children around on an “educational” experience.
I topped off my evening with a nightcap of “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!” Melissa Rivers blinked back tears as she realized she was there to be “humiliated” by having creepy crawling bugs and rats stuffed down her pants. Zen. And you bet your ass I will also tune in tonight to watch the Bachelor “follow-up” with Aaron and tearful Helene. I’d like to say I have something better to do, but somehow this has become important to me.
xxoo
Ok, this is not a typical rant, but I need to vent. I’m planning a motherfucking wedding, and I’m awash in a bilious sea of taffeta and shrimp puffs. $120 per person to feed Uncle Burt, Aunt Henrietta, and Big Fat Cousin Susie and her own unruly brood? I haven’t seen these people since New Year’s Eve 1986 (I’m not even kidding). I really see why women freak out (who watched Bridezillas last night on FOX? Admit it!) when confronted with all of these horrendous options for commemorating your nuptials. Today I’m at the point where I realized I just don’t care anymore, I want to hire a wedding coordinator, give them a budget, and we’ll just show up on the right day, stinking drunk. So I go Googling for Boston wedding coordinators, and I find…drumroll please….Klasi Events of Attleboro, MA….Dorna Love’s Wedding Daze of Lynn, and most notably Phat Katt Productions. Holy Fucking Shit. Not only do they cater to the big fat bride, they remind you that a basket of ladies toiletries in the restroom is a must for one’s guests!
Yes, you can’t throw a wedding without handiwipes. Now I don’t think I’m asking for much…an outdoor location in September for 75 people that will allow us to bring our own booze and have bar-b-q catered by Redbones. So if anyone out there has a palatial backyard they feel like renting out, let me know! Believe me, I’ve already lobbied for Vegas. Shot down. We are destined to have some unholy jamboree. Stay tuned as I unravel mentally over the next few months.
Oh, and yes, I’ve been to Indie Bride. Didn’t help! Feh. A pox on wedding bullshit.
Oh, boddyyy…why do you not wish to discuss your bottom? Are you feeling SHY? You??? I love to discuss my bottom. It’s a very important asset! A great giant asset. I mean a sleek, supple asset. I do not want to give our readers the wrong idea! You will vouch for my bottom won’t you? And yes, cock, we should talk about that too. When we do there is always trouble. Elbow-patched English majors in wire framed glasses look askance! Or people just assume we are common prostitutes.
I was driving home the other day (ok, my boo was driving me), and we passed a sign that read “HC” in big green letters. And then under that “24 hours.” So we were trying to think of what HC could mean? Hard Cock… 24 hours of hard cock? A non-flaccid zone. Violators will be ticketed! We weren’t even in the Fens! Speaking of the Fens, I just spent today helping my post-ironic pal move to a 4th floor walkup in the Fenway! eeeeee. I won’t be able to move tomorrow after bearing that heavy load (heh heh I said load). If I manage to get some HC today as well, that could compound the situation.
Ah well, I am exhausted…I must go make myself a shandy and retire to the veranda. Who am I kidding, I won’t make it myself. That’s what boos are for!
xxoo