Five and a half years ago my boyfriend came to my Capitol Hill apartment in Washington D.C. to pick me up and drive me to my new home in Boston. Everything I owned then fit into a rental car. I had only been to Boston once, to visit said boyfriend at graduate school, and my impression was not favorable. But I loved my boyfriend and we were tired of maintaining a long-distance relationship, so - to Boston I went.Now, that boyfriend and I are married. Everything we own no longer fits into a rental car. In fact, we are hoping against hope that it will fit into a 17-foot Penske truck. I still love my husband, although sometimes we see each other so infrequently that it feels like we're still maintaining a long-distance relationship. I've been in Boston for over five years. And my impression?You know what? It's FAVORABLE.No, I don't think it could ever be "home." Yes, there are many things about the city and the people in it that fill me with rage and fury. But overall? When I think about my time here in Boston, especially the past couple of years, I think: I've been happy.I've been happy with my neighborhood, an area just north of the city. Such a strange mix of students, young professionals, and "old school" families complete with grating Boston accents and Virgin Mary statues backlit by patriotic twinkle lights. I have favorite haunts here: the Thai restaurant that serves up my fave "Tofu Square" dinner, the five-dollar second run movie theater, that divine manna from heaven that is Anna's Tacqueria. I've been here long enough to see businesses come and go, friends move in and move away. I've felt safe here, and welcomed.I've been happy with my accomplishments here in Boston. I came here fresh off a year of Americorps service, directionless and unhappy, and I'm walking out as a professional in my field, overpriced masters degree in hand. I came here single, and I'm walking out a real live married lady with two-plus years of honoring and obeying under my belt. I came here barely able to drive in traffic, and I'm speeding out fully able to double-park and run through lights with the best of them.I've been happy with my friends. My first months in Boston were lonely and full of insecurities: how will I meet people? what if people don't like me? is stalking someone an appropriate way to convey an offer of friendship? hey, where are you going?? But a few years of putting my best face forward (and holding back the fart jokes for those few precious moments when they will be truly appreciated) have yielded me a full crop of crazy and incredible people who are now like family to me. I'm so ridiculously grateful to have people in my life who come to my Halloween party dressed as Britney and K-Fed, who fill my email inbox with reply-all affection when I'm having a bad day, who let me be me in all of my ranting, raving, 80s-hairband-loving confusion. Let's be real, if you're reading this right now, I'm probably talking to you. So thanks. Really.About six months or so into the initial "misery phase" of my time living in Boston, I made the announcement that as soon as my husband finished his Ph.D, I would pick him up from his thesis defense in an already-packed U-Haul and we would get the hell out of dodge faster than you could say "wicked awesome." Now here we are, almost six months after the defense, and I keep crying and snotting all over my packing supplies. Moving to a new place is exciting -- but leaving what has become an old standby sure is sad.The computer's getting packed tomorrow, and then it's off to the Windy City we go. When next you hear from me, I'll officially be a midwesterner again. Bring on the hot dogs and deep-dish pizza -- we're on our way.
1.Yesterday I quit.Now I have no income. Yetstill the stomach growls.2.An alarming thing:bills in the mail, no paycheck --Oh well. Daytime TV!!!3.Lunch break? What lunch break?The whole day is my lunch break.Unemployment's fun!
Early Sunday evening, the husband and I were headed out for a night of games and fun at my friend Dori's house. Dori lives about a five-minute walk from my house, and normally I make the trek between our apartments on foot; however, Sunday evening was gray and cold and rainy, in keeping with what seem to be the general themes of Autumn in Massachusetts 2005. So... I dared to propose to my Sierra-Club-backpack-wearing, National-Geographic-subscribing, compost-bin-appreciating husband that we (gasp) DRIVE to Dori's house. So began Shamefest of the Century:Him: You want to drive to Dori's?Me: Yes.Him: To Dori's?Me: Yes.Him: DORI'S? Like, down the street Dori's?Me: Um, no, to multiple blocks and intersections from our apartment Dori's. It's freezing! [Pause] What?Him: Nothing.....Me: No, seriously, what?Him: It will take longer to get into the car than it will to drive to Dori's.Me: Shut up.Him: You know, you're the reason gas prices are so high.Me: Shut UP.[Long pause until after we have bundled up and headed to the door, at which point he breaks out with his piece de resistance:]Him: Our soldiers are dying in Iraq because you're driving to Dori's.Subtlety, thy name is Liberal Arts College Grad. I mean, it's not like I drive laps around Boston in my Hummer every day just for fun -- I usually commute to work on the subway, and the car that I share with My Husband, Savior of the Planet only has a few thousand miles on it nearly a year after it was purchased. But on occasion, when it's gross outside or I'm tired or just plain grouchy, I reserve the right to sit my ass down and take the lazy way out.Sadly, however, my husband does not always agree. And as you might imagine, Sunday evening was not the first time we had such a discussion. When, upon arriving at Dori's house Sunday night, I told her about my marital disagreement over how best to transport ourselves short distances, Dori clapped her hands together in glee and exclaimed, "Oooh! Remember the race?"I did, after a brief moment of reflection, remember the race. The race occurred when Dori, the husband, and I were headed to our friend E's house one night a few months ago. Although the summer weather was perfectly fine and the sun was shining brightly, Dori and I firmly maintained that E's house was much too far away to reach comfortably on foot. (It was.) The husband believed otherwise. (He was wrong.) Words were exchanged. As Dori and I headed to the car, the husband defiantly announced that not only was he going to walk to E's house, but he was going to get there FIRST. Dori and I looked at each other, all "um, challenge accepted, FREAK", and sped off on our way.I don't need to tell you who won. Because, people, please. But I will tell you this: the image of my 6'3" adorable husband I saw in my rear-view mirror, power-walking past the Taco Bell/KFC with a look of sheer determination on his face, will be a memory I will cherish for several lifetimes. The Sierra Club's got nothing on that.
I just came from a lovely bridal shower, held in honor of a girlfriend of mine from college who is to be married in a month. The party was held at a fancy restaurant in Cambridge -- the food was delicious, the other guests were friendly, the party favors were copious. My gift (a vase) was appropriately suited for the occasion. And despite my normal pattern of feeling like the underdressed socially awkward second-cousin of the bride at these kind of affairs, I seemed to hold my own at this one.However, I will admit to a moment of alarm when, upon seeing the bride start to tug at a ribbon tied around one of her gifts, the guest sitting to my left let loose a piercing shriek. "NOOOO!" she yelled. "DON'T RIP THAT RIBBON!" The bride dropped the present like a hot potato. Guest To My Left looked aghast. "You CAN'T tear your ribbons," she repeated. "Every ribbon you tear represents a child you will have."Where do people come up with these things? I mean, I had seen the whole "make the ribbons from your shower presents into a bouquet for your rehearsal" thing before, but I had never heard that tearing said ribbons resulted in the creation of offspring. And Guest To My Left was not simply laughing over silly folklore -- she was soberly reporting on the future. Unless the bride wanted a veritable litter of babies, she was to treat any and all ribbon with the utmost care.Over lunch, some other guests at the shower made reference to another odd (I think) wedding tradition: eating old cake. You know, taking the top of your wedding cake, putting it in the freezer, and then eating it on your one-year anniversary. I'm sorry, but what is that about? Like, if I made brownies today, stuck them in the freezer, and then took them out again a year later and tried to feed them to dinner guests, I think it's fair to say that it would be seen as poor form. And also, gross. But it's supposed to be romantic to celebrate a year of marriage by feeding year-old freezer-burn-riddled cake to my husband? Weird.My own wedding shower was very rural-midwestern: I got towels. Lots and lots of towels. My husband likes to look at the pictures and laugh: "Hey, there's you with the blue towel. Man, that's a great towel. And there you are with the green towel." After the towels were opened, we ate sweets and played a game where guests rearranged the letters in my name and my husband's name to make words that represented wishes for our marriage. It was nice. And I behaved very well, fully resisting the temptation to form the letters into curse-words or references to porn.At least out loud, anyway.
Just when I was starting to feel devastatingly sad about leaving Boston, the universe stepped in to remind me of one of the reasons this place will never be home. In this case, the universe happened to be driving an SUV through a right turn from the left lane at a red light, forcing me onto the sidewalk where I almost hit a bicyclist who was illegally crossing the street against the light while flipping me off.Today's commute also featured a moment when, upon pulling out of the parking lot at my work, I was almost hit by two cars coming at me simultaneously from either direction. The driver of the minivan on my left was distracted by the movie playing on a little screen hanging from her inside windshield -- because, I guess, maneuvering a ton and a half of minivan isn't enough to occupy her attention. The driver of the hummer on my right was distracted by the sheer size of his car, which is big but not nearly big enough to accommodate what is assuredly his humongous penis.Driving in Boston is a circus. I bought my first car here after I had been living in the area for a few months. The first time I drove myself to work, a commute that was at the time about twenty minutes' worth of highway driving between two 'burbs, I was so terrified that I arrived shaking and short of breath. For months, the only route I would even attempt to navigate on my own was the one between my job and my apartment. I didn't know how to handle the traffic, the angry and impatient drivers, the inexplicable one-way streets that pop up without warning, the streets that morph into other streets before leading you into some alley behind a Dunkin Donuts. When I did finally work up the courage to drive myself somewhere new, I would always "test-drive" the route with my husband (then my boyfriend, who consistently agreed to sit shotgun despite the clear and early indications of my bat-shit craziness) first. These test-drives would often end with me pulling back into the parking lot of our apartment building in tears, rocking quietly in the driver's seat until I was coaxed out with snacks or things to kick.Five years of living and driving in Boston have done a lot to rid me of that initial tear-stained fear -- but my righteous and indignant sense of moral outrage still pulses through my little midwestern heart. Who do these assholes think they are? Why do they think that traffic laws don't apply to them? And why the HELL is this old guy in front of me driving so fucking slow on I-95 during rush hour?!? Get off the road, Grandpa!!! Don't make me ride your tail all the way to Revere!As I was saying...
1. Why do people keep casting poor Toni Collette as the Ugly Girl or the Girl With Big Problems in movies (i.e. "Muriel's Wedding," "About a Boy," and most recently "In Her Shoes")? She's cute, right? Am I alone on this one? I mean, she does have that odd teeth thing going on, but other than that -- perfectly pretty. It's like when Janeane Garofalo used to get cast as the weird freak-girl (back when she used to get cast at all) in things like "The Truth About Cats and Dogs" and "Romy and Michelle," when she is and has been all along (I think) totally hot.2. Have any of you heard this new song by the Black Eyed Peas, called "My Humps"? I heard it on the radio this morning. It's so gross it even offends MY moral code, and I listen to Tenacious D, watch South Park, and occasionally kick kittens. If you haven't heard it, google the lyrics. If you have heard it, my question is this: when the singer says she wants to get me "love drunk off [her] hump, [her] lovely lady lumps," are the lumps and the hump the same body part, or are they separate things? Any suggestions are welcomed, as correct interpretation of musical genius is always my goal.3. Why has no one ever shared with me before the pure, unadulterated joy that is "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer"? The husband and I never saw it while it was on TV, but we watched six (6) episodes on DVD on Friday, instead of packing.4. Speaking of packing, why do I own so many cassettes labeled only as "Mix Tape"? Why do I own three Walkmans (Walkmen?)? About a million unused three-ring binders? A cheese dome?
Friends, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.When last we left the drama-filled suckfest that was Melinda's Attempted Cell Phone Purchase of 2005 three weeks ago, I had just been informed by Cell Phone Provider that I could not cancel my unfilled order because it had been, and I quote, "shipped out that morning." This was after weeks of waiting, calling, waiting, cursing loudly into the phone while on hold, and waiting some more. Cell Phone Provider informed me that my only recourse was to refuse the package upon its delivery by FedEx. I held back from informing Cell Phone Provider that I could certainly think of many, many other forms of recourse, only some of which involved traditional Western-style weapons.So, a few more days passed and lo and behold: no phone. I called Cell Phone Provider using the toll free number I now knew by heart, and this time was greeted by the smooth mellow voice of Latrell. Latrell, he had some interesting news to share. See, when I gave Latrell my order number, the same exact order number I had been referencing for weeks, Latrell could not find it in "the system." He tried finding my account numerous different ways: by name, by email address, by order date. They all turned up nothing. "You're not in our system at all, ma'am," Latrell told me. "We have no record of you ever having ordered from us. Your order number does not exist."After listening to about five minutes of my increasingly hostile laughter, Latrell realized that this was not a "funny ha-ha" moment but rather a "funny uh-oh" moment. He offered up a steaming plate of compassion: "I'm so sorry you had to go through all this. You know, I'm a consumer too, and as a consumer I'm angry on your behalf. The good news is, you can wipe your hands clean of this whole thing now. Your order is gone." I hung up, still fueled by an undying rage but nevertheless determined to get on with my life.You can see where this is going, right? Well, I didn't. Until today, that is, when I received an email from Cell Phone Provider with the subject line: "Order Shipped."I. shit. you. not.Right this very moment, a cell phone that I ordered over a month ago, that I no longer wanted as of three and a half weeks ago, and that I was told no longer existed as of three weeks ago, is on its way to my place of employment. My debit card has been charged. When I received the email informing me of this, I called Cell Phone Provider on the direct line I had installed in my brain expressly for this exact purpose. I spoke to Sam in the Colorado Springs call center. Sam sure is sorry, ma'am, but there's nothing he can do. Complaints department? Well let me see... no, we don't have one of those. But you can send us an email through our web site -- just click on the "comments" box on the Help page...Poor Sam. He never saw that mental death ray coming. He's young; he'll heal.
Have you read Dori's post yet over at Strongly Worded about shame-inducing television shows? If not, go read it now and then come back so we can discuss.Done? Ok, great. So let's get one basic thing out of the way right off the bat: if you've read this blog at all in the past, you know that I have what is known in hippie-vegan-co-op circles as a Television Problem. Meaning: I like TV. And we're not just talking PBS here, although I do like that too, especially when it involves an "Anne of Green Gables" marathon. No, primarily we're talking about your run of the mill, downfall of society, waste of time TV. Do I watch it until my eyes glaze over and bedsores form? No. But I can channel-surf all you haters into a corner any day, faster than you can say "carpal tunnel syndrome."Like any true appreciator of the television arts and sciences, I have a handful of shows to which I am wholeheartedly devoted. These shows I will defend with my head held high, dissecting them with colleagues at work or enjoying them as scheduled events with my friends or family. My show of shows, my favorite, "The Amazing Race," is an indulgence that the husband and I share on a weekly basis. We also love "24," or at least we used to, before it got all lame and preachy and whatever-y. Sadly not premium cable subscribers (you've got to draw the line somewhere), we enjoy critical hits like "The Sopranos" on DVD. I will admit all of these things to you without shame. These are not the sins for which I must repent.These, however, are:"Newlyweds with Nick and Jessica" -- Like Dori, I am saddled with equal parts self-loathing (am I seriously watching this episode? again?) and concern (work it out, you two! stay together for the kids!) when I watch the marital exploits of Nick and Jessica unfold onscreen. They are shiny and pretty in a somewhat alien way, and I am obsessed with the idea that they purportedly have sex, with each other, despite the fact that a) jessica clearly hates nick and b) nick clearly hates girls. Plus, Jessica's lips twist around all funny like a horse when she sings."American Idol" -- Yeah, I vote. What? It's called civic participation, losers, and it's the cornerstone of our democracy. And yes I did go to see the "Idols Live" tour when it came to Worcester after Season 1, and yes I do own both Kelly Clarkson CDs. Jealous?"America's Next Top Model" -- This is a show where a bunch of tall girls compete in weekly photo shoots to win a modeling contract. It has a cult following of gay men like no other. Once every season, host Tyra Banks invites her mama on as a guest. During this guest appearance, Tyra's Mama usually brings the contestants to tears with a talk on Rising Up From Poverty, Finding Your Inner Strength, and Chasing Your Elusive Dreams. Then the girls call each other bitches and make fun of each other's weaves.All of those stupid overly-meta countdown shows on VH1 and E!, like "25 Most Awesomely Bad Love Songs," or "50 Greatest Movie Moments," or "100 Greatest Countdowns of Greatest Moments Like This One Right Now" -- These things are on all the damn time, and there are like a million different ones to choose from, so you would think I wouldn't feel the need for repeat viewings. But you would be wrong.Ice skating -- This I cannot explain. It just is what it is.And finally, Lifetime Made-for-TV Movies -- I've covered this before. My stance remains the same: it's all fun and games until I find myself in an area where the standard cable tv package includes the "Lifetime Movie Network" (which, yes, does exist). At that point, someone needs to stage an intervention.
Slept until 10:00 AM.Ate donuts.Watched an hour of "Laguna Beach."Met my friend J. for lunch. Came back to my apartment afterwards, googled all of our high school boyfriends, compiled the photos we found onto a word document, and emailed it to our husbands at work.Shopped for pug puppies online.Stared at the wall.Ate another donut.
Today I made my first ever sale on CraigsList: my dining room table and chairs, to a college student in a rented van. It was not a smooth transaction. First, I couldn't figure out how to remove the leaf extension from the middle of the table, a process that ultimately involved me lying on my back under the table, dripping sweat and saying "shit" a lot, while the college student looked on. Then I couldn't figure out how to get the damn thing out my front hallway and through the door. I am horrible at this kind of stuff -- figuring out just the right way to angle an oddly-shaped piece of furniture so that it can be squeezed through a small space. Whenever we move I always let other people deal with that, while I take care of other important matters like carrying pillows and complaining a lot.But alas, the husband was at work this afternoon (yes, on a saturday, welcome to my life), so I had to soldier on alone with my bulky table, my four chairs, and my college student. With much effort, the college student and I managed to maneuver the table into the hallway. When we got to the front door, though, I somehow managed to wedge the college student into a corner, where his thigh was firmly pinned to the doorway by an errant table leg. I tried to move the table to set him free, but only succeeded in further smooshing him backward, nearly making a pancake of his poor college student leg. He was none too pleased, and indicated this with a moderately-volumed bellow of pain.We did finally manage to get out the door and into his moving van. Money exchanged hands quite quickly, as the college student seemed eager to get the hell away from the crazy lady who cursed a lot and then tried to flatten him with furniture. So now I have a big empty dining room, all the better to clearly see the deep scratches we have inflicted on the hardwood floors. Moving is fun!!By the way, does anyone want any boxes of secondhand books on feminist theory, British history, or random new-agey Native American spirituality from my one college semester of American Studies? How about "Little Women" (from my days of Winona Ryder obsession) on VHS? A judo gi? Ask and ye shall receive.
Well, it doesn't have a garbage disposal, but we've agreed to call it home all the same. The Great(?) Apartment Search of 2005 came to a close yesterday with the signing of a lease on a lovely apartment. It has two bedrooms, one office, one rear porch, and shiny shiny new appliances. It is managed by an off-site company that employs real-live maintenance people who can fix things. For real, like, with tools. It is within walking distance of a subway stop, two bookstores, and four ice cream shops. It does not appear to be crumbling, leaking, or for sale.The apartment was a lucky find in a three-day marathon of viewing-related angst. Remember back when the husband and I first visited Chicago, how we marveled at how inexpensive all the apartments were compared to the ones in Boston? Yeah, well, there appears to be a reason for that trend. Let's just say we saw some ass, people. Exhibit A was a huge and tasteful 3-bedroom garden unit, located exactly one block from a subway stop on one side and four blocks from Lake Michigan on the other. Sounds fabulous, right? Except for the fact that between Lake Michigan and the subway stop stretched a plot of dirt, city street, and Pure Unadulterated Bleh the likes of which I have seldom seen. On the map, the apartment had looked as close to perfect as could be, and I was determined to keep an open mind despite the delicate combo of stench and clamor assaulting my senses. "We'd be really close to the beach," I offered to the husband. He looked back at me. "We'd also be really close to that bottle of Hennessy," he said, guiding me away from the shards of glass at my feet.Exhibit B was advertised as a "2 BR +" unit. The building looked attractive enough as we approached to wait for the person who would be showing us around, and it was certainly centrally located with a subway stop just a few blocks away. However, as we ascended the front stoop we heard a "Psssst" and looked up to find a head poking out at us from a window above. "Are you guys looking at an apartment in this building?" the head stage-whispered. We nodded, ready to run at the first sign of the head belonging to a body that was either naked or heavily armed. "DON"T MOVE HERE!" the head cried out, desperately. "I'm moving out. I've got cockroaches. My neighbor has ants."We blinked up at the head, not sure what to do. Just then, a woman arrived at the door to usher us quickly inside to look at the apartment. She was not the landlord but the previous tenant, and she seemed unenthused at the task laid before her. She showed us around: "This is the back bedroom. We called it 'the padded cell' cause it looks cold and sterile like a mental institution. Yeah, sorry about that mess, I guess somebody's been sleeping here or something. It was supposed to be empty... I don't know..." Unidentified squatters and potential cockroaches aside, the husband was still somehow willing to give Exhibit B a chance due to its [understandably] low price tag -- but I put my foot down when, two hours later, we received a call from the building's landlord asking us to disregard the desperate pleas of the head-poking-out-the-window guy, as he was "not a good person." Um, ok - click.Day One of our apartment search also found us utilizing the help of a free apartment-locating service, where we were assigned to an agent named Mia who would help us find our "dream home." Mia sat across from us at a small desk and spoke in an alarming and disaffected monotone, as if reading from a series of cue cards: "You had better just cancel all your other apartments right now, because we are going to find you the perfect apartment this afternoon. What do you think about that?" We stammered out a response, and were then ordered into Mia's car, which she proceeded to propel through traffic like a bullet. Mia showed us three ho-hum apartments, made fun of us for insisting on carrying our backpacks with us wherever we went, and then sent us on our way sans dream home.Day Two of our search concentrated on an entirely different neighborhood and consequently yielded significantly better results. Not only did we find the apartment that we ultimately ended up taking, but we also saw a number of other very nice apartments in the same neighborhood, thus restoring our good humor and our belief that we would not have to take up residence at the Naperville Extended Stay. It was through a viewing of one of these apartments that we were introduced to the concept of Breaking Up With The Landlord. The apartment in question was a very nice three-bedroom in a two-family home. The landlords were a friendly young couple with two energetic kids, and we immediately clicked with them in conversation. In particular, the female half of the landlord pair was funny, sweet, and rocked an adorable hair cut and funky pair of glasses that I could never pull off. In short, I wanted to pay them $1250 in rent per month just to be my friends. Ultimately, however, the husband and I decided not to take the apartment because the building was owner-occupied, a feature we had decided to avoid at all costs due to the Debacle of Our Current Rental Situation. Yes, we and the nice young landlords might have ended up best friends... but we also might have ended up crowded by a lack of privacy, constantly begging them for repairs, and passive-aggressively calling them ugly while standing next to the radiator where we know they can hear us. Not that I would know anything about that.Anyway, the day after we saw the place, the nice young landlords called us up to tell us that they really liked us and wanted us to take the apartment. My husband answered the phone and found himself with the unfortunate task of having to Break Up With the Landlords, telling them that, sadly, we had decided to go with another place. We had decided to see other apartments, so to speak. As he was breaking the news, I leaned over and whispered "Tell them we really liked meeting them. We can still be friends!" He looked at me like I was crazy. I guess that might have been overkill.Regardless, in the end it all worked out. We have a place to live, one that will accommodate us, two guinea pigs, and a hypothetical pug. Now all we have to do is pack everything we've ever owned, sell extra furniture on Craigs List, finish up at work, forward all of our mail, say goodbye to all of our friends, and start a whole new life. No sweat. Pass the funyons.
