2 martinis + 3 glasses of wine + a dvd of the third season of The Office + Monday night = Rough Tuesday morning.
Traffic today on the Pike was messy, there is a certain spot I get to every day where I know if my morning will be easy or not. I round a corner and can see the traffic that extends ahead of me for quite some distance.
There are days when I am met with nothing but a sea of brake lights and know that I should settle in.
There are days when the traffic ahead is sparse and comfortable, and I will (almost) be on time to work.
The worst days of all are when I can't even round the corner, I have already hit an impenetrable wall of traffic and I resign myself to staying late that day with a sigh. On those days, I always stop for coffee, figuring if I'm going to be late anyway, I might as well spend my car ride pleasantly.
It seems like those days are almost always Tuesdays.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Bumper to Bumper
Stuck in endless traffic on the way home and counting the minutes until the martini was in my hand, in the endless bumper to bumper lurch I had a moment to consider one of the billboards I drive by.
There is the new advertisement for the Harley shop that will be opening on Newbury street, complete with the lurid and leering face of its owner (certainly a great advertisement for a motorcycles- MidLife Crisis? Drinking Problem? Buy something stupid!)and the ever amusing billboard for the 35 foot tall statue of the Virgin Mary in Winthrop (next to the worlds only Pope-o-meter).
My personal favorite, however, is a bit closer to home, a full-sized billboard advertising fireworks, which are not only illegal to buy in Massachusetts, but illegal to set off, except for professionals on holidays.
You can, however, buy them in NH and then set them off when you are drunk at 2a.m. in my parking lot.
There is a lot to love about the small city I live in, small intimate bistro's, hidden cafe's with live music and belgian beer, beautiful old factories being turned into lofts.
And of course there is the crime.
And the cops who love to hate everyone who lives here.
Just last week I was serenaded by a siren at 2:53 a.m. on a Tuesday, a very loud police siren that began going off (what I can only assume was) directly out my back window for at least a half hour. Being that this is the community it is, this may mean that;
a) a crazed serial killer crack-dealing baby shaking maniac has escaped and is in the area and looking for refuge and victims
b) it is tuesday night and the cops are trying to incite violence by waking everyone and pissing us all off
c) somebody is breaking into all the cars (including mine) parked in our "safe" parking lot, and instead of fighting the crime, the cops thought that perhaps by just leaving their siren on it would make them stop.
At 3:25 a.m. it went off, and suddenly it seemed so quiet, like 3:25 a.m. should. At that point, all you could do was hope that whatever made that siren go off for that long, they solved the problem and didn't just give up.
Oh, Boston. Oh North Shore. Between the Belgian beer and the sketchiness, it's probably best not to live here unless you have an excellent sense of humor and possibly a drinking problem. And if you do decide to live here, be sure you have very securely locking doors and wine available to you at all times. You'll need both.
There is the new advertisement for the Harley shop that will be opening on Newbury street, complete with the lurid and leering face of its owner (certainly a great advertisement for a motorcycles- MidLife Crisis? Drinking Problem? Buy something stupid!)and the ever amusing billboard for the 35 foot tall statue of the Virgin Mary in Winthrop (next to the worlds only Pope-o-meter).
My personal favorite, however, is a bit closer to home, a full-sized billboard advertising fireworks, which are not only illegal to buy in Massachusetts, but illegal to set off, except for professionals on holidays.
You can, however, buy them in NH and then set them off when you are drunk at 2a.m. in my parking lot.
There is a lot to love about the small city I live in, small intimate bistro's, hidden cafe's with live music and belgian beer, beautiful old factories being turned into lofts.
And of course there is the crime.
And the cops who love to hate everyone who lives here.
Just last week I was serenaded by a siren at 2:53 a.m. on a Tuesday, a very loud police siren that began going off (what I can only assume was) directly out my back window for at least a half hour. Being that this is the community it is, this may mean that;
a) a crazed serial killer crack-dealing baby shaking maniac has escaped and is in the area and looking for refuge and victims
b) it is tuesday night and the cops are trying to incite violence by waking everyone and pissing us all off
c) somebody is breaking into all the cars (including mine) parked in our "safe" parking lot, and instead of fighting the crime, the cops thought that perhaps by just leaving their siren on it would make them stop.
At 3:25 a.m. it went off, and suddenly it seemed so quiet, like 3:25 a.m. should. At that point, all you could do was hope that whatever made that siren go off for that long, they solved the problem and didn't just give up.
Oh, Boston. Oh North Shore. Between the Belgian beer and the sketchiness, it's probably best not to live here unless you have an excellent sense of humor and possibly a drinking problem. And if you do decide to live here, be sure you have very securely locking doors and wine available to you at all times. You'll need both.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
"Did you know that you talk funny?"
It is that time of year again, when a city very close to my own becomes over-run with the necessary evil of tourists. Normally I don't mind, and have even been known to approach a confused looking pair holding a map upside down to see if they need help, and offer up directions or pointers on where to get a good beer. I generally like people, and tourists are people, for the most part.
There is a particular tourist that I simply cannot stand, however, and yesterday John and I had an encounter of the too-close kind with a set of those I cannot stand, that peculiar strain of asshole that, when vacationing and encountering anything they are unfamiliar with, find the need to point out loudly how strange and bizarre they find their surroundings. Almost as though they wish they had stayed home.
Often prompting me to wonder, "Why didn't you?".
As we tried to enjoy lunch at a local watering hole in beautiful, historic Salem, a gaggle of fanny-pack and loud shirt wearing mid-westerners were led to the table next to ours. Now, I understand the attraction to Salem as a weekend getaway, although this is a bit early in the season for the Halloween revalry. I think, however, that if these people were around for Halloween they might just break out their holy water and bibles, and pray to their blonde, blue-eyed Jesus to forgive them for their proximity to the infidels.
The people were two middle aged couples, a mustachioed Lothario in a Witch City t-shirt with a no-nonsense fanny pack, his tanned, blonde and hungry looking wife; and a slightly older unnattractive woman with, by what all appearances, was a very flamboyant gay asian man. I believe they probably enjoy a sexless marriage for reasons no one but them understand. They were seated directly next to us, the blonde wife in her velour outfit complaining that they weren't by the window, where they could see the lovely Salem parking lot.
Never know when one of those pagans might walk by.
Their waiter (also our waiter), probably a gregarious, beer-guzzling Salem State college student named Vinnie, came over. Vinnie is all Massachusetts, probably has family in Southie who taught him how to talk. He is annoying in that way that some waiters cannot help but be, and he saw midwesterners and turned up his accent a bit, giving them the show they came for.
"Hello folks, I'm Vinnie and I'll be your waiter today" he smiled down at them, hoping for a tip that John and I already knew he wouldn't be getting, not from that table. The asian man looked up at him, in all seriousness, and said "Did you know that you talk funny?". They all laughed, and tried to mimick their best Boston accent, which invariably makes people sound as though they have swallowed golf balls in their effort not to pronounce the letter "R".
I hated them immediately.
Seriously who says that? Who but Americans would think it was acceptable to tell someone that they talk funny (funny here to mean "Not exactly like me"). Can't wait till I go down south again and can say "Boy you all sound so stupid! I mean, I'm sure you're not, at least not all of you, but you sure sound like it!"
My hatred grew throughout the meal, as they spoke at near shouting volume, despite the restaurant being relatively empty and their close proximity to each other.
The conversation was fairly expected,
the blonde- "Oh I didn't jog enough yesterday to have bread with a sandwich"
the mustache "what do you mean you don't serve Bud? Thats just plain un-American."
the asian "What, no baked beans? ha ha ha ha ha ha ha"
The blonde "So, Salem is North of Boston?"
The mustache, "Yeah. Right where the Pilgrims landed"
It got worse when John and I received our burgers, and the blonde loudly exclaimed "OH. MY. GOD." (punctuation and all) "LOOK at all that food! It is DISGUSTING that anyone could eat that much in one sitting."
The mustache replied, "I used to be able to eat that way." The asian man shook his head loudly.
I had to quickly restrain myself from turning and yelling "I CAN FUCKING HEAR YOU, YOU KNOW! WE ARE SITTING RIGHT HERE! TWO FEET AWAY." It was that or eating everything on my plate at the fastest speed possible, even if it hurt.
They did other things over the course of the next ten minutes, including yelling "EXCUSE ME!! HEY!! HELLO??" at the waiter, because he forgot the blonde's extra ranch salad dressing (so much better than bread) that she never asked for.
We left, leaving our new friends behind to enjoy the rest of their lunch, and then all that Salem had to hold. Which, actually is a lot, including parades and costume balls this Halloween, haunted houses, psychic fairs and even a Halloween Carnival.
The Annual Salem Witches Ball at the rumored-to-be-haunted Hawthorne Hotel sounds like it will be especially fun this year. And, if we run out of fun things to do, we can always give tourists incorrect directions, or throw things at them.
There is a particular tourist that I simply cannot stand, however, and yesterday John and I had an encounter of the too-close kind with a set of those I cannot stand, that peculiar strain of asshole that, when vacationing and encountering anything they are unfamiliar with, find the need to point out loudly how strange and bizarre they find their surroundings. Almost as though they wish they had stayed home.
Often prompting me to wonder, "Why didn't you?".
As we tried to enjoy lunch at a local watering hole in beautiful, historic Salem, a gaggle of fanny-pack and loud shirt wearing mid-westerners were led to the table next to ours. Now, I understand the attraction to Salem as a weekend getaway, although this is a bit early in the season for the Halloween revalry. I think, however, that if these people were around for Halloween they might just break out their holy water and bibles, and pray to their blonde, blue-eyed Jesus to forgive them for their proximity to the infidels.
The people were two middle aged couples, a mustachioed Lothario in a Witch City t-shirt with a no-nonsense fanny pack, his tanned, blonde and hungry looking wife; and a slightly older unnattractive woman with, by what all appearances, was a very flamboyant gay asian man. I believe they probably enjoy a sexless marriage for reasons no one but them understand. They were seated directly next to us, the blonde wife in her velour outfit complaining that they weren't by the window, where they could see the lovely Salem parking lot.
Never know when one of those pagans might walk by.
Their waiter (also our waiter), probably a gregarious, beer-guzzling Salem State college student named Vinnie, came over. Vinnie is all Massachusetts, probably has family in Southie who taught him how to talk. He is annoying in that way that some waiters cannot help but be, and he saw midwesterners and turned up his accent a bit, giving them the show they came for.
"Hello folks, I'm Vinnie and I'll be your waiter today" he smiled down at them, hoping for a tip that John and I already knew he wouldn't be getting, not from that table. The asian man looked up at him, in all seriousness, and said "Did you know that you talk funny?". They all laughed, and tried to mimick their best Boston accent, which invariably makes people sound as though they have swallowed golf balls in their effort not to pronounce the letter "R".
I hated them immediately.
Seriously who says that? Who but Americans would think it was acceptable to tell someone that they talk funny (funny here to mean "Not exactly like me"). Can't wait till I go down south again and can say "Boy you all sound so stupid! I mean, I'm sure you're not, at least not all of you, but you sure sound like it!"
My hatred grew throughout the meal, as they spoke at near shouting volume, despite the restaurant being relatively empty and their close proximity to each other.
The conversation was fairly expected,
the blonde- "Oh I didn't jog enough yesterday to have bread with a sandwich"
the mustache "what do you mean you don't serve Bud? Thats just plain un-American."
the asian "What, no baked beans? ha ha ha ha ha ha ha"
The blonde "So, Salem is North of Boston?"
The mustache, "Yeah. Right where the Pilgrims landed"
It got worse when John and I received our burgers, and the blonde loudly exclaimed "OH. MY. GOD." (punctuation and all) "LOOK at all that food! It is DISGUSTING that anyone could eat that much in one sitting."
The mustache replied, "I used to be able to eat that way." The asian man shook his head loudly.
I had to quickly restrain myself from turning and yelling "I CAN FUCKING HEAR YOU, YOU KNOW! WE ARE SITTING RIGHT HERE! TWO FEET AWAY." It was that or eating everything on my plate at the fastest speed possible, even if it hurt.
They did other things over the course of the next ten minutes, including yelling "EXCUSE ME!! HEY!! HELLO??" at the waiter, because he forgot the blonde's extra ranch salad dressing (so much better than bread) that she never asked for.
We left, leaving our new friends behind to enjoy the rest of their lunch, and then all that Salem had to hold. Which, actually is a lot, including parades and costume balls this Halloween, haunted houses, psychic fairs and even a Halloween Carnival.
The Annual Salem Witches Ball at the rumored-to-be-haunted Hawthorne Hotel sounds like it will be especially fun this year. And, if we run out of fun things to do, we can always give tourists incorrect directions, or throw things at them.
Almost 10 p.m. for this Night Owl Gal in blog posting #1.
I'm sitting at home, listening to my washing machine spin and nursing last nights hangover this evening, trying out a night of self-imposed house arrest to force me to clean the loft. I live in a building that was once a factory, with beautiful brick walls and giant beams and hardwood floors, just north of Boston in a bedroom community that is at once dangerous and "hip". Our building is comprised almost completely of gay couples and hip singles, with "us" being one of only 3 straight couples in the building. Everyone is constantly popping in and out, a little like Melrose place, stopping by for cocktails and gathering information to make snarky comments about to each other later. Who got new blinds, who can't keep their loft looking stellar, who shops (god forbid) at Ikea. Cheap cheap cheap. Me, I'm a Target kind of gal and have been trying to ignore the (I'm sure) well-meant and pointed comments in my presence lately about how great people's cleaning ladies are. I don't need a cleaning lady, I live in one big room for the sake of all that is holy. I should be able to keep one big room clean!
It is so dissappointing to hear yourself lying.
The guy makes it somewhat harder, loving to collect receipts and scraps of paper with unimportant things written on them. The clutter drives me insane, and I will gather his lovingly-collected and maintained mountains of tiny pieces of paper and place them in the kitchen on the island for a week before I begin throwing them away. I see no point in keeping receipts from Starbucks, and the MBTA. He twitches when I throw them away, and hours later I often find him standing above the garbage can, reviewing what I've disposed of and wondering if I will catch him if he digs them out. I don't know what it is about the scraps of paper that he loves. I guess it's a man thing.
I'm sitting at home, listening to my washing machine spin and nursing last nights hangover this evening, trying out a night of self-imposed house arrest to force me to clean the loft. I live in a building that was once a factory, with beautiful brick walls and giant beams and hardwood floors, just north of Boston in a bedroom community that is at once dangerous and "hip". Our building is comprised almost completely of gay couples and hip singles, with "us" being one of only 3 straight couples in the building. Everyone is constantly popping in and out, a little like Melrose place, stopping by for cocktails and gathering information to make snarky comments about to each other later. Who got new blinds, who can't keep their loft looking stellar, who shops (god forbid) at Ikea. Cheap cheap cheap. Me, I'm a Target kind of gal and have been trying to ignore the (I'm sure) well-meant and pointed comments in my presence lately about how great people's cleaning ladies are. I don't need a cleaning lady, I live in one big room for the sake of all that is holy. I should be able to keep one big room clean!
It is so dissappointing to hear yourself lying.
The guy makes it somewhat harder, loving to collect receipts and scraps of paper with unimportant things written on them. The clutter drives me insane, and I will gather his lovingly-collected and maintained mountains of tiny pieces of paper and place them in the kitchen on the island for a week before I begin throwing them away. I see no point in keeping receipts from Starbucks, and the MBTA. He twitches when I throw them away, and hours later I often find him standing above the garbage can, reviewing what I've disposed of and wondering if I will catch him if he digs them out. I don't know what it is about the scraps of paper that he loves. I guess it's a man thing.
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