I've just come to the delayed realization that I have a different "voice" for different situations/people in my life.
When I answer the phone at work, my voice sounds all breathy and fake uber-solicitous, almost like a foreign phone sex operator. (Except instead of repeating slang for various parts of the human anatomy and making moaning noises, I say "ok!," "great!" and "no, thank you!" and perform my fake titter laugh (ha-ha-ha-ha-ha).
The exception to my 9am-5pm voice is when my cell phone rings during those hours and it's 1) my Aunt Melanie, looking for computer help or 2) my grandmother, calling to say hello -- either of which I'm happy to talk to at any time because my aunt has a beach house in Boca Grande and my grandmother is, well, my grandmother.
If my cell phone rings while I'm at work and it's not Mel or Gram, then inevitably it's Shell or Ry.
Shell gets the "I'matworkI'llcallyoulater" hiss, which I've gotten down to 3.2 seconds if I leave out "hello" and "goodbye" and don't let Shell get a word in edgewise.
Ry gets only slightly more time, and a "hi," though I let him do most of the talking since I'm convinced everyone at work is listening in on my conversations. (They are.) In fact, I've given him the "I don't like talking on the phone at work" speech so many times, he can probably recite it back to me, along with the names of co-workers who are in closest proximity to my desk and which one is most likely to make comments about my conversation once I'm off the phone.
After 5pm, I don't usually answer the phone unless it's my roommate (and I'm hoping she'll say, "I got a pizza" or "I'm bringing home champagne" -- even though it's usually, "what the hell is wrong with people in Boston?!"). Roommate knows I don't like talking on the phone, respects it, and keeps our conversations short. She usually gets the normal Erin voice (I can't really say the "happy" voice, because I've yet to try that one out.)
I also answer the phone in the evening if it's Ry, usually because I feel bad about being short with him on the phone earlier. Unfortunately, he doesn't usually call until around 10pm, so he gets the "I'm tired and just want to go to bed" voice. How we maintain any sort of relationship with only seeing each on the weekends and talking less than an hour on the phone during the week, I'll never understand. Thank goodness for text-messaging.
Last, but not least, my mother gets the exasperated voice. Always. But I also talk to her almost daily, so I'm pretty sure that this voice is passing for normal.
This card is so my life, I had to send it to myself.
I'm not what you'd call "outdoorsy." I don't sleep in tents, eat baked beans heated over a campfire, hang extra food in trees to avoid bear attacks, squat in the woods to pee and go three days without a shower only to wax poetically about the beauty of communing with nature.
While I didn't move into a big city to necessarily get away from nature, I certainly don't go looking for it.
Unfortunately, nature has come looking for me.
For those of you uninitiated in City Nature, let me give you a quick primer on the pseudo-wildlife I usually encounter on my daily walks through Boston Common:
Sparrows: At first glance, these tiny birds seem cute... until you realize that speck on the ground they're pecking at is a small scrap of week-old, moldy pizza crust. Don't be fooled by their diminutive stature -- these birds are territorial and will go straight for your eyes if you get in the way of their next meal.
Pigeons: Rats with wings. They group together in massive flocks that blot out the sun and veer back and forth across open areas of the Common, sending out rogue scouts to dive bomb unsuspecting passerby. One came so close yesterday that it nearly took my nose right off. I'm totally not kidding. I've already accepted the fact that one day soon I'll be featured in the Globe under the heading, "Pigeon Attacks Area Woman; No One Comes to Her Rescue."
Dogs off their leash: Let me be the first to propose a new Massachusetts state law that makes it legal to shoot dogs that are not on leashes. And their owners.
Squirrels: Squirrels mean business in Boston Common. They are not shy. I've seen squirrels run up a person's pant leg, sit on another person's knee, eat out of a child's hand and worse. This is not a petting zoo! These animals are not tame! Woe is he who runs out of nuts.
Rats: I knew there'd be rats in a big city, I just didn't realize they'd be scurrying around in broad daylight.
The homeless: Boston Common doubles as a bedroom/drug den/fighting cage/porn movie set for the city's homeless population. Enter after dark at your own risk.
Horse shit: I've never actually seen the equines that leave these piles all over the park sidewalks, but the stench tells me they must exist.
Seriously, I'd take a black bear, panther, moose or other backwoods animal encounter over a citified critter any day. I may need to plan a camping trip just to get away from all this.
It's 7am on Saturday morning, and the Boston Fire Department just left our apartment.
For the second time this week.
As much as Ris and I would like to snag a pair of Boston's finest to put out our own "fire," the only reason we have four very hot firefighters in our bedrooms is because of a faulty CO2 alarm. (Yes, this time they were attractive - now we know that if we do have a fire, we want it to happen in the early morning on the weekend. Preferably when we are wearing cute pajamas, and not when I'm in an old Hooters tank top and sock monkey slippers and Ris is in a dirty white robe.)
Alas, they did not ask for our phone numbers. But they did ask us to get a new CO2 alarm, and to stop calling 911 until we did.
What the hell is up with New England? First, we have to worry about radiators, and how they have to be "all on" or "all off," because anything in between leaves us with a sound like a gremlin is hiding inside it with a giant wrench, banging full-throttle on the pipes.
This past Tuesday morning, Ris and I learned about the effects of carbon monoxide.
Or at least the effects of having one of those stupid CO2 reader boxes in the apartment.
We don't have to deal with this kind of shit in Florida. I didn't even know where carbon monoxide came from, until I had it explained to me by a member of the Boston Fire Department.
At 5:30am in the morning. Inside my apartment.
So, Ris has the carbon monoxide (CO2) indicator box in her room, and I guess it went off at like 3am. She did what any good Floridian would do: she yanked it out of the wall and went to sleep on the couch.
Around 5:30am she comes into my room, wakes me up, and says that she's worried about it and thinks we should call someone. I am still half asleep, stumble into her room after her, and am like, "Why are you worried about this now?"
Ris: Would you rather me have done it at 3am when it happened?
Me: No, I'd rather you'd have done it at 7am, when I was already awake. It went off at 3am. If something was really wrong, we'd be dead by now.
Ris: I'm calling 9-1-1.
What is it with cupcakes?
Don't get me wrong - I love cupcakes. Hell, I'll eat just about anything made with a pound of sugar and coated in pink frosting.
But when did cupcakes become trendy? There are probably about a dozen new bakeries in Boston alone touting their cupcake creations -- mojito cupcakes (which I can personally vouch are delicious, thanks to Hedre), pumpkin cupcakes, lemon cupcakes... s'mores... ginger... vegan... gluten free... carob cupcakes for your dogs... catnip cupcakes for your kittens. Is it just me, or is this becoming an epidemic?
My question is, what happened to cake? Sometimes a girl doesn't want a cutsie little cupcake you can eat with your hands, but a big fat slab of cake that requires a sturdy plate and -- gasp! -- a fork.
I just don't believe that dessert is the right time to be dainty.
I am repulsed by smushy fruit.
Normally I'm pretty good about feeling up a firm apple or gently squeezing a ripe avocado, but, lately, the last few bananas I've had have nearly all been gooey and brown, practically liquidated inside.
Not only is it nasty, it's not natural.
It isn't just that I like a hard banana, either -- what I'm most disturbed about is that these bananas seem to be suffering from some sort of scary viral disease.
Which can only lead me to one conclusion: Miss Chiquita must shop her ripe fruit ALL OVER town. Dirty girl.
I have a great group of friends.
These girls are gorgeous, smart, successful and fun to be around. We all know enough about wine and champagne to be dangerous, have great fashion sense (or so we like to think) and can spot a fake Fendi a mile away.
What we can't spot is a loser.
For all our street and style savvy, our overall good taste is marred by the men in our lives. Addicts, assholes, cheaters, con artists -- we've dated them all and have the scars to prove it. [A few years ago, one of my friends even got married to someone who, unfortunately, turned out to be a rough amalgamation of all of the above. But, like I said, my friends are smart. So now she is single again.]
Most of my friends are at "that age." Our mothers are constantly checking in with us to see if we've "met someone special," old friends from high school and college are flooding our inbox with birth announcements and baby shower invitations, and every guy we go out with is immediately judged, sometimes subconsciously, on husband potential (which is an entirely different blog).
Now, none of us are ready to race down the aisle. At the moment, we are all quite content living in our respective big-city apartments, kicking ass in our careers and living the life of a single girl. Which means we can travel when we want, eat what we want, shop where we want, date who we want. And therein lies the conundrum.
"Casually" dating is supposed to be fun. It's casual! Not stuffy and uptight like a real relationship! It implies an easy-going, smiles-all-the-time, no-commitment-necessary good time. Dinner dates with different John Does every night of the week. Guilt-free, no-strings sex. A blackberry full of phone numbers. As my brother would say, we are "living the dream."
The thing is, though, taking the casual approach to dating takes a lot out of you. In fact, every time someone tells me they're "casually" dating someone, or I say it to someone else, I get a mental image of that episode of Friends when Monica makes a poor attempt at leaving a "breezy" message on her ex-boyfriend's machine and ends up actually saying the words, "I'm breezy!!"
Believe me -- being breezy is not easy.
For one thing, you're not allowed to get attached. This is the first rule of casually dating. Becoming attached is the kiss of death to a casual relationship.
This is also the hardest rule to follow, especially for women, because the problem with not forming attachments is that it goes against an innate female need of wanting to be attached.
So, basically, you can like someone enough to see them once a week (twice, tops), enjoy a meal with them, maybe catch a concert or sporting event, and have sex with a condom. Once you start daydreaming about a weekend away in the Bahamas or flirt with the fantasy of bringing them to a work function and introducing them to your boss and coworkers, it's time to cut 'em loose before you do something really stupid and voice your feelings or, worse, ask if they want to be "exclusive."
Believe me -- they do NOT want to be exclusive. Because why buy the cow when you can casually date the whole herd?
A few weeks ago I visited my first "community soaking tub" at a spa in Inman Square, Cambridge. [I've only recently recovered enough from this experience to be able to blog about it; though I may still be repressing a few key memories, I will relay the events that took place as best I can.]
For my birthday, my good friend Hedre got me a 12-pack of passes to the aforementioned community soaking tub. (This was a very cool, very hip gift, the only kind Hedre gives. In fact, Hedre is the coolest, hippest person I know. She's also the smartest person I know, and if I didn't love her so much, I'd hate her.)
Apparently, these soaking tubs are "the big thing" in San Francisco and "everybody does it." Like recycling, or buying organic produce. Some of the San Franciscan soaking tubs are even clothing optional, a fun fact that, when relayed to me by Hedre, I blanched and opened my mouth in a silent scream until she reassured me that the Cambridge soaking tubs were not as progressive as California soaking tubs and do, in fact, require clothing. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Another good friend of mine, Justin, lives in Inman Square, so I asked if he wanted to do brunch before I was to try out this new-fangled soaking tub. I stumbled over myself trying to explain the benefits of sitting in 104-degree water that I didn't quite understand myself, but it turned out I needn't have bothered: Justin is a soaker himself. He agrees to go with me.
We have a tasty, hugely-portioned brunch at East Coast Grill (always a great idea right before putting on a bikini) and then walk over to the spa. I am nervous. The spa is nice enough, the people are friendly. I am less nervous. They take us to the community soaking tub room, point out the changing rooms and shower, and leave us. I take a deep breath and head into the changing room.
Let me take this moment to point out one very important thing about community soaking tubs: you can't choose your community.
I walk out of the changing room, rinse off in the shower, and ascend the stairs to the tub. This is where things take a turn for the worse...
Already in the tub is a (ahem) large, older woman with really long, flowing gray hair. Flowing gray hair that is waving around her IN THE WATER as she floats on her back in the tub. I cringe, inwardly and outwardly (her eyes are closed, she doesn't notice), but try to stay positive and stick a toe in the tub. The water is crazy hot, which I use as an excuse to get in slowly. Very, very slowly, in the hopes it will take me the entire 30 minutes of our time to get in past my ankles. Justin, the old pro, gets right in.
I (finally) ease myself into the water, sitting straight-backed against the side of the tub, all my muscles tensed in flight-ready status. I give a half-hearted smile to Justin, who, lounging with his arms outstretched, looking totally relaxed, obviously finds my discomfort hilarious. We try to make small talk. I stare at the clock, counting down the minutes. I do not relax.
The next thing I know, the woman in the tub with us floats her arms out from her sides, angelic-like, to reveal about a decade's-growth of underarm hair. I start hyperventilating and the rest is a blur.
Addendum from Justin, aka JJ Bates:
Oh poor Erin. Poor poor, full from brunch, hot tub loungin' Erin.
Actually, her account is pretty much dead on, but I will fill in the blank spots. In a fruitless effort to help Erin relax I skirt around a number of topics and end up telling her about how the house hunt is going, and how far eRock and I are with our wedding plans. Frankly, I would have told her just about anything to make make her relax. I am pretty sure I could see every single muscle tensing up. So saying that she resembled this http://www.popstarsplus.com/images/HulkHoganPicture.jpg would be an understatement. Anyway we had an amiable conversation as this other woman frolicked in her area of the hot tub. After a while, she looks slightly less uncomfortable and I thought the remaining 20 min would be fine. Well that was until our hot tubby friend needed a few minutes to cool off so she climed out and sprawled on the short deck. I think I may have passed out briefly here too. I came too and decided some cold water would be good for us and offered some up to Erin who took it but couldn't seem to avert her eyes. No matter how hard she stared at the clock, time just would NOT move faster and her eyes were drawn back to the giant purple bathing suit.
With about 10 min left, our new friend became vocal, telling us how she was a psychotherapist and how this was great for relaxing. I don't know how good of a therapist she was to not see that Erin was basically in rigor mortis and would stay that way until well after she went home and cleansed herself repeatedly, but she was congenial. We chatted a bit and finally with about 4 min to spare we called it a day. Sadly, I had to bolt on outta there and catch a bus (which ended up being a cab) otherwise I would have taken Erin directly to the Irish pub for a pint of the cure. Poor Erin.
Ok, so in the past my excuse for not reading the news has been that I found it too depressing. Murder, corruption, scandal... whatever happens to highlight the lowest common denominator of human existence at the time. Who wants to start their day with that crap?
Lately, however, I have been making an effort to keep up with current events and usually find myself perusing drudgereport.com a few times a day to see what the latest goings-on are.
Here's what I find most depressing about today's news: Not the reports of murder, corruption and scandal (two out of three of which are revolving almost exclusively around NY Governor Eliot Spitzer, the idiot), but the fact that a large majority of "news" being reported is, well, bullshit. Here are a few other top headlines today:
-- A middle school kid has been suspended for buying Skittles candy from another middle school kid.
--There is a new "no saggy pants" law (LAW!!) in Riviera Beach, FL.
-- A small town in Iowa is offering a stray cat bounty of $5 per animal.
This is the news worth reporting? Seriously? How depressing.
