My First City Parking and Snow Experience

I lingered over my Saturday morning bagel even longer than usual today because I dreaded what awaited me when it came time to move Grandmother's Car from its snowy parking place. I'd watched the snow coverage. I'd packed up the KitchenAid to ensure easy Christmas cookie baking. Resigning myself to my fate, I put on my clashing snow pants and big winter jacket and went outside.

Due to my own laziness and stupidity, I hadn't purchased a shovel before the storm hit, so all I had to get myself out from under 10 inches of snow was one of those orange foam Sno-Brooms. Luckily, I'd had the foresight to grab a spot just before a driveway, so nobody could park in front of me. I figured I'd just pull out of the spot instead of getting the snow jammed under my wheels while navigating between two cars.

I pushed the fluffy stuff off the windshield. I got as much off the roof as I could reach. I started the car, then used the Sno-Broom to clear some of the drifted snow away from the wheels. After surveying the scene, I got in the car, removed my gloves, and shifted into drive.

"Come on," I said to the car as I eased on the gas. And without any trouble at all, I was free of my spot.

It couldn't possibly have gone that easy, could it? Is this just dumb luck? How did I get a non-SUV out of ten inches of snow without a shovel? Although I kind of needed one to get out of the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot on my way to the highway. It was eerily reminiscent of the demolition derby pits I have seen.

Once I get my laptop working on the home WiFi, I'll post some pictures of my epic 2-hour drive. It was captivating stuff.

You Are Now Free to Move About the Commonwealth

Susan Wornick just said clarified the meaning of the State of Emergency declared by Gov. Deval Patrick. It means he can activate the National Guard and apply for federal disaster aid.

"It does not prohibit travel, so you are free to move around the state," Wornick said. Thank goodness. I have to celebrate my 10,000th day of life this evening.

Is it wrong that I really want to hop in the car and check out the two inches of ice that fell in other parts of the state? Because I'm seeing the pictures on TV, but when I look out my window in Somerville and see only puddles, I can't believe it looks like that only a few miles away.

I'm Your Weathergirl

After an epic struggle to get back to East Cambridge on the E Line, I stood and waited for the bus. Next to me stood a guy named John, who was chatting with one of his buddies about a kid who'd just strolled off the train wearing nothing more than a gray wifebeater and gray sweatpants.

"Lookit that kid. Strollin' around and showin' off his muscles. I did that when I was a teenagah too. I'd go and wait for the bus in Ahlington and when it was late, I'd sit there and shivah," John said.

His quieter friend nodded. Then John changed the topic.

"It's a beautiful sunset, isn't it? Look at the blue. See those clouds?" The skies were full of clouds that looked like speedbumps or ridges on a washboard. "Those are serious clouds. That means in two and a half days, we'll get snow from the Great Lakes. You watch."

So, there you have it. Some guy named John says it's going to snow Monday afternoon.

Bedlam at Market Basket

I had no choice. After an afternoon of hunting for a window fan (my old one died and it's so hot in my apartment I sleep with the fan on me-- please direct all criticism to my landlord) and picking up A's new cat, I had to make one last errand: to pick up some food at Market Basket.

On an average Sunday, the Market Basket is insane. Even walking through the parking lot is taxing. Clerks run and try to complete the Sisyphean task of collecting carts as overflowing cars jockey for one of the few vacant spots. Huge families pile out of their rusty SUVs and grab a couple carts and slowly file into the store.

When there's a snowstorm on the way, however, it's a complete madhouse. Carts abandoned so shoppers can grab an item down a jammed aisle. Children stopping abruptly. Old women banged into without apology. During last month's nor'easter, I made the mistake of picking up too many items to use the express lane. After spending half an hour in line as two people in front of me loaded their completely full carts onto the belt, I knew better than to make that mistake again. I may not have everything I need for the week, but I had a delicious taco dinner tonight and have some veggies and whole wheat pasta for tomorrow.

Come and get me, Mother Nature. You can't frighten me more than the people at the Market Basket.

Nor'easters: Better Than Adderall?

Those of you who've been reading Boston Daily (all of you, I hope) know I had tickets to see A Celtic Christmas Sojourn today. Unfortunately, God has smote me and decided to send every manner of precipitation to New England and my Mom couldn't make it up to see the show. Instead of slogging through the mess to see it alone, I hunkered down at home and ate the $50 I spent on the tickets.

Here is what I accomplished today by not leaving my house:

Spent a leisurely morning with coffee and my bagel, though my Sunday Globe was conspicuously absent. Guess my paperman didn't want to deal with the snow either.

Watched Mitt Romney on Meet the Press.

Baked chocolate cherry cookies.

Baked peanut butter cup cookies.

Made risotto.

Did all those dishes.

Loaded Arthur's annual Christmas CD to my iPod.

Paid my bills.

Scrubbed my kitchen sink.

Vacuumed.

Washed the floors.

Cleaned the bathtub and bathroom sink.

Remembered my PIN for the library's website, so I can reserve books online again.

Reserved a bunch of books.

Watched the Pats.

Emailed and chatted with friends.

Packed my bag for tomorrow's epically long day.

Now I'm watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Then I'll probably take a bath, read, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. What an exciting life I lead.

Where's the Cold?

Long-time readers of this blog know I like it warm. I enjoy a day at the beach, sunning my pasty flesh to various shades of red that I fully expect to regret in my later years when I walk around like Nelly because I've had cancer spots frozen off my face. But I also enjoy seasons. After all, without cold, we cannot know warmth.

So any time the weather wants to cool down, I'm ready for it.

Come on, Ma Nature. It was cute a couple of weeks ago when I went apple picking and didn't need to wear a coat. It's kind of nice to have it warm because I can't afford a whole new fall wardrobe, so being able to wear my t-shirts for a while longer is nice. But it's dark before 8 p.m. and leaves are scuttling across the ground while I'm padding around in my flip-flops.

October baseball is all about the chill in the air, dramatic photographs of an athlete's breath hovering. The Sox aren't even wearing their red turtlenecks for the most part. One does not think of earth-shattering end-of-the-world baseball when it's sweltering hot out.

And my flannel sheets are on my bed. I want to pull the covers over me without needing to chug water when I wake up because I sweat so much.

Halloween should be cold for full effect.

Leaf peepers should be able to enjoy a hot cider after peeping all day.

Fall in New England is cold, Nature. So hop to it. But if you could warm it back up, I'd appreciate it.

Get Right

I swear to God, if I check the weather midweek and hear "Great weekend! Sunny and warm on Saturday, slightly less warm on Sunday" and make plans then only to have the forecast change on Thursday again, I am going to lose it. I don't know if networks are looking to boost ratings by keeping us riveted to our television sets or if the weather people are just stupid, but it's not cute. What is also not cute is me, sitting on a beach with my friends in a goddamn hoodie in late June because of this forecast. You can also file my appearance as I walked all over Boston today sweating because today was the warm day under not adorable. I left my house with all intentions of walking to channel 7's health expo and telling the weather team that it's especially stupid to biff a forecast when they have to face the public for a whole weekend, but $140 and a hot leather bag later, I found myself unable to get riled up.

I walked through the North End, watching tourists watch me. I then walked by the Phantom Gourmet barbecue festival in City Hall Plaza. At first, the smell of cooking meats was enticing, but then I realized paying a $10 cover to then pay additionally for delicious meats was stupid. Redbones is a short T ride away and they don't charge me a cover to eat their meat, and I wouldn't get seared alive in the hot sun.

I then took a detour through Downtown Crossing. The last time I was down there, I found the selection to be pretty dismal. Nothing cute, everything full price. Today I had the opposite problem. I walked through H&M's sale racks and picked up about four items to try on. I then walked through the rest of the store and picked up some dresses. Since starting so many new jobs, I realize that I got away with wearing some pretty grungy clothes for a long time. While I don't like running up more charges, I also don't like looking like I just graduated from college, so for the next month or so I'm allowing myself to invest in work clothes. All this is to say I bought two adorable dresses for $70 at H&M, which are going to have to last until I'm forty.

After my bonanza at H&M, I should have known better than to go to the Basement. But it's closing, and I figured I'd snap a couple pictures of the old-school signs to remember it by. I went in a few weeks ago and found nothing, so I figured it would be safe for me. That was until I found the Cole Haan bags.

Generally when a nice handbag finds its way to the Basement, it's because it is so trendy that the store couldn't move it even on sale. While the Basement had some pretty heinous trendy bags, it also had some fairly classic pieces that won't look ridiculous next month. I grabbed a black doctor bag and a brown bag. I admired my sweaty reflection in the mirror. I kicked myself for giving a coworker the additional ten percent off coupon out of the Globe on Friday. In a panic, I grabbed my phone and called A.

A is very good about talking me out of a financial tree. "Think about your credit cards. Put it down and walk away." When I called her to report a pile of Cole Haan bags, she said "Don't you buy that bag. But I'm coming down there. Can you find me a coupon?"

I set the bags down as other women descended like vultures upon my lovelies. I walked to Winter Street and checked the Metro box for leftovers from Friday to get a coupon. Other people had that same idea and the box was empty. I saw a discarded Filene's coupon in the trash and seriously considered picking it out to save another eight bucks. As I strolled toward the Common, I started to feel better. Maybe putting that bag down was my first baby step to financial solvency. Finally, at age twenty-five, I'd learned to say no to a gorgeous leather bag that felt like God's butter for well under half price but still beyond my means. As I maneuvered my way through tourists, I felt the dawn of a new day.

Then I found a Metro box with leftovers. I took two copies.

A made it downtown and we went back to the Basement. She grabbed a cute black bag and I found my brown one again.

"That is really nice," A said.

"I don't have a brown bag at all," I said.

"And that will last you forever," she replied. "I'd say it's okay. But nothing else!"

We purchased our bags and hauled them around with guilt as we slogged through the city. After walked to the Pru, we stopped at the Pour House as channel 7 dismantled the health expo. I silently cursed them out for their forecast as I sipped my cider. Next time, I'll just spend both days at the beach. At least they don't have automatic markdown there.

Even My Sweat Smells Clean

I am tired. Not in the typical twenty-something sense of tired, that "oh, I worked all day and now I'm just going to watch TV" tired, but in the ageless, yet childlike, "I have not stopped moving for twelve hours and am going to pass out in my applesauce, thanks" tired. Replace "applesauce" with "verde sauce on my enchiladas" and that's me right now.

I slept in after going to bed early last night, then took a quick shower, ate a bagel, and met some friends at the Reservoir for a walk. People did laps around us by running, but it was nice to just stroll along. A bat flew overhead, kind of freaking us out since it was broad daylight. We saw a family of turtles playing in the water. Extremely large dead fish floated at near the shore. I stuck my arms out in front of me, begging for a tan.

After doing a couple laps around the Reservoir, we stopped at Dunkin' Donuts to get some drinks and their new tater-tots (delicious!) and walked to Dean Park for a while. Kids waved to us as their parents strolled them home. We cooed at puppies who sniffed around our bench. Eventually, I had to leave to babysit, but my friends and I promised to dine al fresco for dinner. On my way out of the park, I ran into Marianne.

"You're looking a little sunburned there," she said, pulling aside my straps. I shrugged it off and found my charges at home in their backyard. I was supposed to have Boy work on an art project, but he begged me to let him play with my blue mini-football for an hour. We went to a playground with a basketball and mini-football. Eldest's best friend was riding around on her scooter, so they ran off to play together. Baby, Boy, and I tossed the football around (Boy has a great arm for a kid who's thrown a football twice, Baby tried her best to catch my shovel passes). I ran around to catch the football, but the real work started when we played "basketball." Boy is too short to make baskets, but he's pretty good at dribbling. The only times I got the ball away from him was when he'd let the ball bounce too high while moving along. Then I'd grab it, amazed by how quickly I remembered how to pass the ball between my hands, how my body remembered how to twist and change course suddenly. Granted, I was outmanuvering a seven-year-old, but it felt good to have my muscles working. I felt the strength in my legs as I pounded over the pavement, kind of showing off for a hot guy I hoped knew the kids aren't mine, watching with pride when Boy managed to dribble the ball between his legs for the first time.

We packed it in after an hour or so, then finally did some work on the art project. After getting the kids cleaned off, I left to meet my friends for dinner. A few minutes before we were supposed to meet, they called to say they were on the same train a couple of stops away. Instead of making them get off the train, I booked it down the road. I'm not much of a runner, but I'm a good sprinter. Between my speed and a lucky break in traffic, I made the train. I had my first glass of warm-weather sangria at Sol Azteca today. I walked most of the way back from St. Mary's street, stopping to buy a magazine and a book. My skin is bright pink. I'm tired and I think I have heartburn. But I haven't felt this physically tired since I was hiking all over Italy, and I'm glad to have that kid-tired feeling again. Just in time for an 80-degree Monday. Swell.

Stormy Weather

Dear Channel 7's 7-day forecast,

Go die in a fire.

Piss off,
Amy

This shit ain't right. I have a four-day weekend this weekend. I start my new gig on Tuesday. Marathon Monday is my favorite holiday of the whole year. Seriously. No need to buy expensive gifts, no cards, no sense of familial duty, no religious connotations. Just a reason to have a day out of the office on a fledgling spring day, the ability to watch a Sox day game in the comfort of your own home (or Local), a reason to start drinking at 10am, the putt-putt-putt-putt of helicopters hovering over Beacon Street, the cheering of little kids and psyched adults as the first wheelchair racer comes by, then the elite male runners, then the elite females, then the droves of regular joes running for charity or their own goals, with marriage proposals scrawled across their arms, pushing through muscle cramps and bleeding nipples, the crowd cheering them to keep moving, keep going.

But no. This year, many of the regular-guy runners will just decide to stay home and watch the Sox since it's going to be about 40 degrees and rainy. Many of the spectators will just stay inside and root the runners on from their couches. The fun, as-close-to-Mardi-Gras-as-Boston-gets atmosphere will be dimmed. All the winter we missed in December has been tacked onto the end of April. When I need the sun on my shoulders most, Ma Nature decides to have the rain come down. What if the Sox get rained out? What will I do all day? It's not as fun to get drunk to Ellen or reruns of the Cosby Show. I guess I'll just hunker down in my friend's covered stoop and watch the miserable marathoners slog down Beacon Street along a sparsely populated route.

Whatever. I'm still going to enjoy my little break. Friday I am going to babysit and get my hair cut. Saturday, I am going to sleep in, sit on my fat ass and watch Phantom Gourmet (Am I the only one who has a deep, disturbing crush on Dave Andleman?), bake some complicated strawberry cupcakes, dye my hair, and go out to dinner. Sunday, I'm staying at a fancy-pants hotel downtown to give myself a relatively inexpensive change of scene. Monday, despite Mother Nature's best attempts, I am going to watch the Marathon. I will stand in the freezing rain in my big ugly winter coat I swore I'd not wear again until late 2007, beer in hand, yelling my fool head off for the dedicated and crazy souls who still come out to run. It's the least I can do for them.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Learn it. Live it. Love it.

What did the meteorologists tell you? They warned you it was going to get really cold after the twelve inches of slush fell on Boston yesterday. They warned you to shovel your sidewalks and clear off your cars before it got cold because it's hard to move ice when it has a death-grip due to temperatures in the tens. Did you listen? Well, I don't know about you personally. Nobody at the MBTA listened because the Washington Square T stop was buried under two inches of ice. Nobody on my walk to the train listened as I nearly fell on a patch of smooth glare ice. I was stuck behind a kid walking to school who wiped out four times in five steps she took. She gave up and just crawled along on her knees.

What is it about bad weather in New England that makes people's decorum go out the window? Last night as I rode the train to my hot date with Ryan Seacrest, someone in the back of the train pulled the cord and the train didn't stop. One person went to the front of the train to explain that they had missed his stop quietly and politely, and the T driver said something about her not hearing that a stop had been requested due to a problem with the equipment. I didn't think this driver was being difficult-- she'd opened the door for me to run onto the train instead of motioning for me to wait. Another guy who was further back in the train took a different tack when faced with adversity.

"I pulled the cord for my GOD-damn stop, lady! And you blew right by! You tell us to pull the cord for our stop and even then you don't fuckin' stop!" As he disembarked at the next stop, I'm pretty sure he called her a cunt. I hope the guy fell in a snowdrift and is frozen like a caveman. Assholery doesn't solve assholery, jackass.

To further enrich my commute, this morning everyone whose train went out of service decided to cram into my train at Kenmore. Which I understand-- Kenmore station currently resembles a bombed-out building from WWII-era London and is just as drafty-- but not to the point when I have to support some fat jackass who shoved himself into the train with the one arm I was holding a rail with. Somebody's breath was foul. I suspected another guy of trying to rifle through my purse. I prayed that a song that would blow out my eardrums wouldn't come on my iPod because there was no way I could reach it in my coat pocket to turn the volume down.

I have to remember the good times yesterday, though. I was repeatedly grateful for my Marc Jacobs wellies, which represent the best $35 I've spent in the past six months. While dainty women who couldn't bear to look like the Gordon's Fisherman as I did weaved around waist-deep slush pits, I stomped right through. On my walk home, I kicked the rock-like chunks of snow the plows kicked up, relishing how they exploded at the toe of my boot. Yeah, I looked so ridiculous that a two-year-old giggled when she saw me, but I was warm and dry. It was also fun to watch cars pull to the curb and get stuck in two inches of rapidly freezing slush. There were easily four cars I saw in my brief travels last night spinning their tires in futility. I traipsed along in my rubber boots triumphantly, trying to enjoy what little winter we've got.

Notes from a Coffee Shop

It's January in Boston and it's finally snowing. It started out slow, brows furrowed, the expression of "Am I actually seeing this?" Then the flakes dropped faster, following the wind into curls and drafts as people walk down the street with their eyes narrowed against the stinging wind and flakes. Nobody looks upset by the snow, but they look relieved, glad to finally see some evidence of a normal winter. A family ducks into the coffee shop, pulling together two tables, rounding up extra chairs from occupied tables. A small boy in a orange sweater quietly plays with an action figure and eats a cookie. Customers gather toward the windows, glancing up from their coffees and conversations to take in the snow. It begins to cling to handrails and leaves of ivy on buildings. Hats get pulled over heads, gloves are pulled from coat pockets as people prepare to go back outside.

Hot Times in the City

If I may delve into water-cooler talk a little bit here...

Where is winter? I love warm weather but this shit is ridiculous. It's the second week of January and we've only had trace elements of snow. While I don't relish snow, I do like snow football, sledding, the carte blanche to be late to work, the hush it gives the City, and the fact that I can bitch about something other than the T. Depending on who you ask, there are many factors that could be causing this. The woman I babysit for called this year a "statistical anomaly." Al Gore thinks it's the global warming he's been trying to stop with his pie charts. I personally take the moderate route out and think it's part global warming, part just a warm winter thus far. (I'll take bets on it snowing about 20 feet when I have to move out of my apartment at the end of the month. Winner gets to help me find stray dogs to act as my dogsled team.)

The Globe has a great opinion piece today by a media critic named Monica Collins that accuses the local news media of playing dumb on the fact that this weather is really out of the ordinary and not mentioning the possibility of global warming. Of course, she rags on my boy Pete Bouchard a little bit, but even I have been screaming at the TV. "For the love of God, man, can we at least discuss the possibility that the ocean could flood the rats out of my apartment at any time? I AM AFRAID, PETE!"

Some choice highlights (I would tell Ms. Collins to tone down the Big Words a little, but that's just me)...

By design, the weathercast is a temperate zone, a bastion of prognosticative bromides [WTF?] without any controversy. Weatherpeople tell you to watch out for drizzle during the morning commute. This has been the extent of their cautionary role. They are promotional tools, teasing their forecasts throughout prime time. They are encouraged to chat chummily with the anchorpeople in calm periods and go into full froth during blizzards, thunderstorms, and other disturbances. Each local TV meteorologist presents the image of a weather jockey who loves the ride in severe conditions. ...

In these times, you do need a weatherman to tell which way the wind is blowing. TV meteorologists are uniquely positioned to make sense of what's happening outside our windows. They have the tools to put the weather into climatic context. With global warming an omnipresent threat, their role becomes more crucial.

Come on, Pete. Don't let that Ken Barlow jerk make you look a fool. Teach us the ways of climate change, O Bald Chief Meterologist, and how we may look to change things now before the bar graphs become more disturbing.

Sleighbells in the Drizzle

I don't usually ask this question. If you try and remind me that I asked this question in two months, I will deny it, no matter how many links to this post you send my way. But it's December 15, Christmas is ten days away, Hanukkah starts tonight, and I have only one question.

Where is the snow?

Snow is something I enjoy only between the last Thursday in November and December 25. Every Christmas special takes place in a snowy environment. It's snowing in Whoville. It's snowing in Charlie Brown's neighborhood. It's snowing on Sesame Street. Why isn't it snowing in Boston in December? Not only is it not snowing, it's not even cold enough to snow. It's downright warm outside. While I love not needing a big coat and gloves to step outside, something just feels wrong about Christmas shopping in a light jacket. I put up with the bone-chilling cold in the winter to enjoy snowy holidays, now make with the snow!

Pete Bouchard has gleefully declared the warmth every night this week, but I'd really like him to say "Yes, it's really freaky that it's this warm in the dead of winter and I am very concerned about this trend" but he just smiles and shrugs it off. Is anyone else worried about this? I want to go sledding! I want to peg snowballs at my little brother. I'm going to get desperate and resort to grating ice cubes and forming them into snowballs in the kitchen if this keeps up.