Worst two words in the English language?
Wintry mix.
Yes, Christmas came early here in Boston in the form of our first winter snowstorm. A friend visiting from out of town kept asking if this is what they call a "nor'easter," but even after being up here more than a year I still have no idea what that really means. I think it's similar to the blanket "it's freezing!" statement Floridians make whenever temperatures drop below 50 degrees.
The storm wasn't actually that bad. What was bad, however, was the fact that my umbrella broke not three minutes after I left the house (with rain and wintry mix falling steadily from the sky) and, in their first test of the season, my new "all-weather" boots proved not to be, in fact, all weather. They also superbly lack any sort traction, making my daily walk to and from work a slippery spectacle that Michelle Kwan herself could have choreographed.
It's going to be a long winter.
I flew back from Florida late Monday night and somehow ended up in the rear of the plane seated next to an asshole.
Two assholes, actually, who proceeded to grope each other the entire flight -- I'm talking grabbing crotches, stroking derrières, slobbering all over each other, moaning with pleasure making out.
The. entire. flight.
I'm not good at bargain hunting. I don't like going to stores like Filenes Basement or TJ Maxx and spending hours rifling through racks of last season's fashions to try to find the one great deal hidden beneath layers of skinny jeans, poofy sleeves and burnt orange jumpers.
I'm also no good with haggling -- last week I was at the Fishermen's Feast shindig with some friends and street vendors were selling fake Prada, Coach, Louis Vuitton and other designer bags. My roommate had her eye on a white Chanel wallet, and since it's expected there be some back-and-forth on the price in these types of situations, we tried to oblige with our best efforts.
He knocked off three dollars.
However, when it comes to bargaining with myself, I'm a pro. Mad skills, y'all. Take, for instance, the fact that just yesterday I joined a new gym. This morning, with every intention of hitting said gym after work, I packed my sneakers, sports bra, tank top, gym pants and ipod, lugging it all to my office in Newton. Earlier today I checked out the class schedule to see if anything looked interesting. Something did: Total Body Conditioning at 6:30pm. Perfect! My body totally needs conditioning.
Now, a few hours later, the haggling in my head begins.
"Maybe I should skip the gym and go to the bar."
"No! You just joined! Go to the gym."
"But I want to be social! I feel like going out!"
"Go to the gym and then go out."
"But then I'll have to wash and dry my hair again, and that takes forever."
"It takes 20 minutes! You'll feel better if you go to the gym."
"I'll feel even better if I have a beer!"
[As a side note, this would be the exact same conversation I'd have over the phone/on IM with hedre if I were to ask her opinion. EXACT. It's a little scary. Hedre - you're the voice in my head! Ack!]
So, anyway, as the day goes on, I'll continue this inward struggle with the age-old debate of nature vs. nurture. Three pints of beer or three sets of squats? Do I bond with my bartender or my trainer? I can go to the gym and lift dumbbells, or go to the bar and chat up a... dumbbell.
Either way, I think I lose. Or maybe I win. I don't know.
This blog is for you, JJBates.
Once a week, I volunteer as a PAL (Playspace Activity Leader) with homeless kids that live in a shelter. Basically, it means that for two hours on Wednesday evenings I get to play with legos, building blocks, playdoh, bubbles, toy cars and puzzles. I also get to color and look at picture books.
Jealous?
Anyway, last week, after a particularly rambunctious evening building forts and playing with the parachute, Ethan, a portly three-year-old who's incredibly sweet and likes to run in circles around the room, comes up to me at the end of the session and tugs at my shirt. I look down at him and smile. "What's up, Ethan?"
He lifts his cherubic face up to me, bats his mile-long eyelashes and then stutters, "Uh... I'm... um..." He looks confused for a second, obviously unable to remember what he was going to say. I smile encouragingly, raising my eyebrows in anticipation, and then he kind of shrugs, sighs to himself, and improvises: "You're fat." Then he giggles and runs off.
I'd be insulted if it hadn't come from a kid who'd peed his pants not ten minutes before.
This week was a somewhat more subdued session of making rocketships with legos, train tunnels out of jenga blocks and having a contest to see who could build the biggest pyramid. We spent the last half hour or so coloring on old stationary, my large bottom (extra large, if you ask Ethan) squeezed into a child-size chair, knobby knees scraping up against the top of the child-size table. It was during this time that Khum, one of my favorites (even though we're not supposed to pick favorites), looks up at me, tilts his adorable head to the side and points at my chest.
Uh oh. This is not going to be good.
"Your shirt looks funny," he says, starting to laugh.
"My shirt looks funny? Whaddya mean?" I ask, knowing I'm not going to like the answer.
He is now in hysterics. "It's funny! You shouldn't wear it." He is almost falling out of his chair, he's laughing so hard at my implied style faux pas.
Again, this borderline-rude comment is tempered by the fact that fashion-conscious Khum is wearing a shirt spotted with semi-dried chocolate ice cream stains.
Maybe the boys' off-the-cuff observations are the equivalent of them pulling my pigtails on the playground, which means they really like me. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
I was drinking fruit-flavored martinis last night at Noir in Cambridge with two friends and somehow we got on the subject of saying the Act of Contrition. Why? I don't know. Probably just practicing for that cold day in hell when we stop drinking at a respectable hour on a Saturday night so that we're able to roll out of bed on Sunday morning in time to make it to mass.
Anyway, my two friends were arguing that there are two versions to the Act of Contrition (incidentally, one friend is a non-practicing Catholic and the other is half-Jewish) -- an old version and a new version. I, of course, decided to settle the matter by drunk dialing my mother.
So, ma, this one's for you:
- O my God [Mom], I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God [Mom], Who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen.
After a few too many, most people drunk dial ex boyfriends at the end of the night. I drunk dial my parents.
I walk through Boston Common every morning on my way to catch the bus into Newton, where I work. (The fact that I have to do a reverse commute is a sore subject, so we won't talk about that.)
Anyway, I walk by the same homeless man every morning on my way to work. I actually pass by quite a few homeless men and women, but I notice this one in particular because he claps his hands and asks, "how are you?!?" in a very excited, very sweet voice, to everyone that walks by. If you make eye contact and say hello (or give any sort of response, really), he giggles, rocks back and forth with a huge smile on his face, and claps even more.
I look forward to seeing him in the morning because, frankly, he makes me happy.
There are, of course, the days when he doesn't look up and smile, or clap, or ask how I am. Probably because he's too depressed about being homeless or something.
I just moved into my new apartment and have discovered I have a roofdeck. A roofdeck! I plan to spend as much time up there as possible until the weather forces me to retreat in front of my fireplace.
Funny thing about roofdecks - they're a total reflection of society. There are the small roofdecks, and the big ones. The landscaped roofdecks, and those with a few dead potted plants. There are the young roofdecks, with empty UFO and Sam's Summer Ale bottles, and the old roofdecks, where one-too-many white-wine spritzers are consumed. There are matching chaise lounge roofdecks, and those with a growing collection of yard sale furniture.
In my neighborhood, we even have redneck roofdecks (not me this time, but I'm worried they might have followed me here from Florida). Swear to God - in the middle of Beacon Hill, river views and Citgo sign in the distance, senators and celebrities mere doorsteps away, there's a good 'ol boy with a pale leather La-Z-boy that's always in the reclined position, a junky plaid couch with a US flag draped on the building wall behind it and -- of course -- a hibachi grill. Even better, as if to protect these precious possesions, he's pulled a blue plastic tarp that flaps in the wind across the space in what I'm assuming is a makeshift roof.
The white-wine spritzer sector must be in complete uproar. I wonder if they'll be a revolt?
Last night I fought and landed my first tarpon (see post below about being a redneck). The beast measured 60 inches and 85 pounds -- not a bad catch for a girl (though I did comment on how pretty it was once we brought it alongside the boat). I even baited my own hook! I am such a badass.
Atlantic tarpon are known as the the "silver king" (they are greenish or blueish on top and silver on the sides) and resemble something out of the Jurassic period. They jump when you hook them, and put up a spectacular fight. Anglers have been known to battle them for hours before landing them (it took me about 20 minutes, I'm happy to report, resultling in temporary loss of feeling in my left arm).
I hooked four, and actually "jumped" two of them, but only landed the one. I screamed "Fish on!" just like a pro and then proceeded to curse like a sailor. Captain Frank said he'd never seen someone dance around in the chair as much as I did (that'll be the name of my first boat: Chair Dancer). I couldn't help it -- when you're trying to reel in something that weighs almost as much as you do, it's hard to always keep your feet on the floor and your ass in the chair.
At one point in the middle of trying to reel in the fish, my leg started having muscle spasms and tapping involuntarily, so I imagine I looked something like an epileptic with tourette's as I danced all around the chair, pulling back slow with the rod and then reeling in as fast as I could, leg tap-tap-tapping away, and screaming profanities everytime the fish got another bout of energy.
I'm now completely hooked on the sport, no pun intended.
I was thinking about this last night, as I stood barefoot on a boat, laughing at Jeff Foxworthy jokes Captain Frank was telling (and unfortunately relating to them), downing a Budweiser in celebration of landing my first tarpon, and counting down the hours until I could go into the local Orvis shop and get a small silver tarpon to pin on the rim of my ratty baseball cap.
Incidentally, the Bud was in a bottle, not a can -- I'm not trailer trash.
