Just a Fool

While I'm exhausted and looking forward to wearing color again tomorrow, I am happy to report I held it together well at the funeral today. Aside from a few sobs during the hymns and after watching my friend's dad kiss his wife's coffin, I was okay. I was able to talk reasonably with my friend and even comfort another friend.

My friend's Mom was a loved lady. Cars stretched far in front and behind us as we drove from the church to the gravesite, and the line of well-wishers at the wake was out the door. While I wish there could be some way for her to have had more time, all any of us can hope for is to be so loved while we're here.

Crying Fool

I wish there were some way I could practice getting better at dealing with death. I guess the only rehearsal any of us gets is imagining what it will be like to live without a loved one while he or she is still here. But that doesn't work for me.

I thought about this on the way to New Hampshire for the wake of one of my best friend's mother. She called me on Saturday morning to tell me her mom had finally lost to the cancer she'd been battling for more than two years. As her voice cracked on the other end of the phone, I immediately started to sob. I got myself together only to immediately lose it again when I called a mutual friend to pass along the news. I was watching something on TV I wanted my mother to see, and cried again when I told her.

Stupidly, I decided to see There Will Be Blood last night, and was trying to finish the Charles Schulz biography I was reading (spoiler: he dies of cancer), leaving me so emotional that I was that person who cries quietly on the train while other passengers look away. I woke up this morning, hoping I could keep it together in front of my friend and her family at the wake.

I was fine until I started looking at the pictures of my friend's parents on their wedding day. They both looked so cute and so young, and it wasn't that long ago they were married. I got it back together until I waved at my friend, who sadly waved back. A friend handed me a tissue as I got close to the casket and I composed myself enough to hug her family and choke out an "I'm sorry."

"Don't cry," my friend warned as I started to lose it again after I let her out of a hug.

I hate being the emotional basketcase when people die. I wish I could just mist up at the appropriate times and save the sobbing for the privacy of my apartment. I want to be able to hug my friend and be strong for her, but I can't manage to do that. Instead, I'll be hiding in the back of the church tomorrow at the funeral. I know the most important thing is that I show up and show my friend I care. I just wish I could accomplish that without sobbing my way through a box of Kleenex.

Eureka!

I've finally learned why I'm broke.

If you're sad and shopping, watch your wallet: A new study shows people's spending judgment goes out the window when they're down, especially if they're a bit self-absorbed.

It's like they know me.

Now to find a way to justify my credit card balances as a legitimate mental problem so I am no longer responsible for paying them off.

Ouch

Um. What the fuck just happened?

Pride Goeth Before Being Triple-Charged

Yesterday, I read all about commuters who couldn't buy their T passes yesterday morning because all the Charlie Card machines were overloaded. I smugly noted that I'd bought my T pass on Thursday night, so I was all set for February. Suckas!

Alas, my smugness has come back to bite me. When I checked my bank account this morning, I found that my T pass charge had posted on Thursday night. But there are two pending charges from the MBTA. One $59 charge is marked as a deposit, and another is marked as an additional withdrawal.

I hope that all works out. I can't even begin to fathom trying to reconcile the two most inefficient entities I deal with on a regular basis—the MBTA and Sovereign Bank.

Hillary Clinton Has a Vagina, As Do I. So What?

Most of my political reflection has been confined to the work blog lately. But one thing that's been bothering me during my endless searching around the internet for Mitt Romney's latest misstep is the idea that women may feel like a traitor to their sex if they don't vote for Hillary Clinton.

Finally, I've found a story about how black women voters are sick of hearing about their internal conflict over who to vote for. CNN ran a story about black women voters who must be so torn about whether to vote along racial or gender lines. The reaction was quick, with one CNN viewer hitting it right on the head.

"Duh, I'm a black woman and here I am at the voting booth. Duh, since I'm illiterate I'll pull down the lever for someone. Hm... Well, he black so I may vote for him... oh wait she a woman I may vote for her... What Ise gon' do? Oh lordy!"

I can't speak for a racially motivated vote, but Hillary Clinton's gender doesn't really matter to me. Yes, as a woman I'm happy to see a viable female candidate. But that doesn't mean she automatically has my vote. I'm still not sure who I want to have the Democratic nomination, but I'm going to decide who to vote for based on their stand on the issues, not by the candidate's genitalia or skin color.

Winter Whining

I have long said that winter should be over after Christmas. No more snow, no more cold, an immediate start to the budding of leaves and the sun setting after 8 p.m. But since it doesn't work that way, I've got a bad case of the winter doldrums. I get up. I go to work. I go to the gym. I go home. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I'd love to go on vacation, but I've got no money. I know George Bush is allegedly going to send me a few hundred bucks, but I should pay off my soul-crushing credit card debt with it instead of flying to some tropical island for a weekend. Or buy a new laptop, since mine is struggling to process my keystrokes fast enough as I write. And I want to buy an XBox so I can buy Rock Band. I played it at a party last night and have determined I must have it. So if Congress could be so kind as to add another 0 on my rebate check, I'd be grateful.

All this has put me into hunker-down mode, trying to save my money. I don't go out much. I try to eat cheap at home. I'm plotting selling my eggs for some quick financial relief. Since I don't think I'm ever going to use them, somebody should be able to utilize my superior genetic material.

At least there's football today, and American Idol is back. I may be single and broke, but Tom Brady and Ryan Seacrest are going to help me through these trying times.

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.

Late-Night Train Travel

Last Friday, my friends and I went out to see Juno. (Cute movie—highly recommended.) Our show got out around 9, so we proceeded to hit the Intermission Tavern for some post-movie drinks. A's boyfriend got out of work around 10:30, but didn't end up at the bar until 11. After ordering some fries and another round, we realized the last train to Oak Grove would be coming by soon. We hastily paid our tab and went around the corner to the Chinatown stop.

It was around midnight when we got to the station, but we saw that the gate was still open. We walked downstairs and found no T employees around. After paying our fare, we saw some other people waiting around for a train.

We stood around in the cold train tunnel. A couple of T cops walked onto the platform, then walked away. A train went by on the opposite track. By the time 1:15 rolled around, we decided if a train didn't come in five minutes, we'd grab a cab.

Just then, a T official came into the station and told us we'd missed the last train. Naturally, we freaked out.

"We've been waiting here for nearly an hour!" my friend M spat at him.

"There's no sign upstairs that says what time the last train arrives," A pointed out.

"And some T cops were just here and didn't say anything," I said as we were herded up escalator to the street.

The T official was patient with us. He explained to us that the T doesn't have the money to staff both the Chinatown and Downtown Crossing stops that late, so he has to shutter the Downtown Crossing stop then drive to Chinatown and close that one up too.

I brought up the T cops who'd come by. "They don't care," the official said bitterly.

He did give us one piece of advice. When the last train gets to Downtown Crossing, it stands by for a little while. So if you think you've missed the last train out, head toward the more northern stops and you might still have a shot. I'm still not pleased that the T doesn't staff one of its sketchiest stops late at night, but I did learn that a cab to Wellington doesn't cost too much from downtown either.

Of Fingers and Neighbors

Oh noes!

So the apartment I live in was damaged by a fire. Thankfully, it was before I moved in (this time). The owners of the building fixed the place up nicely, and in my tiny studio alone there are several fire detecting apparatus. When the fire alarm goes off in one apartment, it goes off in all the apartments in the large building.

I know this very well, because for the second time in a month my neighbor set off the fire detector in the wee hours of the morning by cooking bacon. While I certainly understand a love of fried cured meats in a morning meal, come on, dude. At least today he set it off at 7:15, nearly a full hour later than the time he set it off last month while I was in the shower, mid-hair-sudsing.

Bacon is equally delicious when cooked on paper towels in the microwave, and much less smoky. If you must pan-fry your meats, open a window and keep the smoke to a minimum. Please.

My Globe delivery guy kind of sucks. I think. I can't tell if some hoodlum is filching my paper off my stoop or if he's not stopping at my apartment, but at least once a week I go downstairs to find nary a newspaper in sight. It's infuriating because instead of having an idea of what's going on as I get to work, I have to grab a copy when I get to the office and slog through it once I'm here.

Today was a newspaperless day, so I put in my headphones and spaced out on my commute. As I rode the Green Line, I noticed a guy who was holding the pole had a gnarly fingernail. After I turned away, something occurred to me.

That guy's gnarly fingernail was on a second thumb.

Not wanting to stare but desperate to confirm what I saw, I turned my head back toward the man. Indeed, there was an additional thumb on his hand. It was a short thumb, kind of only like another of the top joint, and looked a lot like a tree branch. The man got off at the next stop, leaving me with the single most strange sighting I've ever had on the MBTA.

Belated Holiday Cheer

Despite my best intentions, I didn't make it to ye olde blog to write up my typical holiday post until after the big daddy of holiday ends. But I hope you'll accept my slightly buzzed and very full tidings of comfort and joy. I know I've been horrible at writing here despite my promises to keep at it, but I do appreciate the five people who still check back here to see what I'm up to.

It was a good Christmas. As always, I went overboard on buying for my Mom and brother, but they seem really happy with their gifts. We got my Mom a GPS, which is helpful since she has no sense of direction and is therefore scared of driving to new places. I got my brother a cool hoodie. In a selfish bent, I got a teeny tiny HD TV for my teeny tiny apartment. I guess I'll have to splurge on actual cable now.

But the best gift I may have gotten this year was a hand-made bowl from my grandfather. It's made from a maple that was just beginning to decay, so it has this amazing marbling on it. I probably won't use it that much, but I'll put it right next to the sewing basket my grandmother made out of a gourd ("In an effort to domesticate you," she explained when I opened that a few years ago). As I watch my family age and wonder what it will be like when they're not around, I love to get these things they made for me, that will outlast the expensive television and sweaters.

That's enough sentimentality for now. I'm off to plan how I'm going to spend the money gifts. (Pay off my credit cards? Whaaa?!)

A very Merry Christmas to you all. And, since I may not get back here before, a very happy new year.

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.

Gorging Myself on Thanks

So it's officially the holiday season now, eh? A and I were cruising the aisles of Target last night, cooing like dorks over the cute wrapping paper and Christmas cards. With yesterday's snow, I'm giving myself a pass on the early holiday excitement. But I wanted to take some time to ruminate on what I'm thankful for this year.

• My job. My job my job my job my job my job. My job. My awesome job.
• The people I babysit for. Had they not taken me in, I would have moved home to Rhode Island after ditching the rat-infested basement studio.
• My family.
• My friends. Without them, I would have even less faith in humanity than I do now.
• My apartment. I love it. I hope I don't have to leave until I'm able to pay for a place with an actual bedroom.
• Pumpkin beer.
• Hot coffee.
• My Mom's health.
• America's Next Top Model.
• Gossip Girl. XOXO.
  
• MIKE LOWELL!!
• 24-hour Christmas Story marathons.
• Pizza.
• My iPod.
• Zipcar. (I can use it again!)
• My Mom's mashed potatoes.
• Free laundry all weekend.
• The fact that, as broke as I am, I don't need to worry about where my next meal will come from.

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday full of food and safe travels.

Question and Answer

You should have to ride the T with your fans, sir.

Question: What's worse than your rush-hour commute on the T?

Answer: Riding a Green Line train full of Dane Cook fans. If I'd remembered he was playing the Garden last night, I would have taken the bus home from Brookline. Between them and the two college-aged hippies drinking gin out of Poland Springs bottles, I've pretty much decided I'm not having children.

Everybody Get Random

I feel kind of awkward when I blog here now. I'm like that grandkid who never comes to visit—it just feels awkward when I show up. But I've been doing some really good stuff on the work blog, as have my internet-savvy cohorts. It's all the snark you've loved here, but with less first-person narrative.

Of course, I can't write about all the news items of note at Boston Daily, so I figured I'd give you a little taste of the things I've read that have made it onto my radar screen lately.

The one thing that had me muttering "Oh, GROSS" and scaring the interns this morning was this item. [via Jezebel]

Everyday thousands of people come to Disneyland to make life long memories. Apparently, some of those people want those memories to last forever, as in an eternity.

Scattering someone's ashes at Disneyland is strictly prohibited. But apparently that doesn't mean some people aren't trying. . . .

"Well it's been going on for awhile, it started sporadically with the Haunted Mansion and lately because of the spectral nature of the 'Pirates of the Caribbean' films, there's been this been this connection between people and that," Al Lutz said.

I've never been to Disneyland, but I've been to Disney World. And it is the last place I would want as my final resting place. To anyone over the age of 20, it is downright creepy. The entire experience is so carefully manufactured and happy happy happy that instead of having fun, I feel like I've walked in to the Stepford Wives on LSD. Also, for fuck's sake. Kids dip their hands in that water, lady. Find a Mickey-shaped shrub for Aunt Mert if you must leave her in the Magic Kingdom.

And John McCain started a small kerfuffle, laughing after one of his supporters asked "How do we beat the bitch?"



The camera is right up in his face, so he clearly thought he was going to get away without some flack for going along with the joke. A quick "that's disrespectful" would have done him a world of good. But McCain isn't looking to impress female voters, so he probably appealed to a lot of his supporters with his reaction.

Last week, I got a call from my grandmother while I was at work. My initial reaction was panic that someone had taken ill or died with her business-like tone. Turns out, she was calling to give me marching orders.

"Your aunt is coming home for Christmas," she said. "We're busy before Christmas, but after we want to come up to Boston for a day. Maybe your other aunt will come too. We can make it a girls night."

So I am in charge of finding a show or exhibit for my grandmother and aunts. While this sounds like a lame day, I am actually afraid it will lead to a criminal record. The women in my family like to party, and I fear after a few drinks they'll be accosting every single guy in the bar for me or my single aunt. Or my grandmother, for that matter. So if I end up in the papers, it's all their fault.

On a similar note, please remind me that drinking several girlie drinks leads only to headache, stomachache, and woe. Thank you.

Not So Zippy

A few weeks ago, I got extensions put in my hair for work. The salon that did it didn't have a location within range of the T, so I relied on my trusty Zipcar membership to get me there.

That's where it all went wrong.

The nearest Zipcars to my office are in the basement garage of a hotel. I hate getting cars out of this location-- you have to go into the hotel lobby and validate a parking ticket to get out, and the automated arm is hard to activate. The garage itself is hard to navigate as well. It's tight, and the Zipcars are located in a far corner that requires a lot of finagling to get in and out.

That day, I'd reserved a car that was parked next to a pole and a wall. It had been backed in by the last person who used it, and the space was so small I had to climb in the passenger door to get in. I got out of the garage, and hoped one of the other cars would have left its space when I got back.

No such luck. I got back to the garage and was faced with the narrow spot. My appointment at the salon had taken longer than I anticipated, and I was focused on getting back to work. As I pulled into the spot, I heard a crunch.

I'd hit the back passenger door against the pole.

I looked in the rearview mirror, and saw I was wedged against the pole. I tried to back the car away, but it continued to damage the car. Figuring I was already on the hook for what I'd done, I pulled the car into the spot with another squeal.

The back door was covered with yellow paint, and a four-inch gash was under some yellow flecks. Being the chronically honest person I am, I called Zipcar to tell them I'd messed up the car.

"Well, we'll put a hold on your account until we decide if we'll charge you the $500 deductible," the operator told me.

After a week, I got an untitled email (geez, guys way to make it easy for my spam filter to delete it) saying I'd be charged the deductible.

"Fuuuuck," I said.

It's going on my credit card, which is the last thing I needed. I can barely afford my apartment, and I've been very good about not charging things and putting what I can toward paying them off. Now I've got another huge chunk to rack up interest.

Another issue is that I want to get these extensions out of my hair, which I can't do until Zipcar reactivates my account, which may not even happen if they decide I'm too much of a risk. So if anybody's going my way, let me know. And if you want to organize a fundraiser for me, I'd be grateful.

I Can See the Destiny You Sold (Maybe)

Last month, I went to see my friend's band play a show at the Middle East. I'm one of those women who don't fancy themselves as easily attracted to musicians, but when I'm presented with a guy who I wouldn't normally pick out of a crowd on a stage playing an instrument I am totally smitten. One of those men was playing bass with my friend's band.

I'm of the age when I have to do the compulsory wedding band check. Much to my chagrin, I saw what was clearly a wedding band glinting on the bassist's left hand. Dammit, I thought to myself, and tried to assure myself that one of these days I'm going to meet a guy I'm attracted to who isn't married or in a relationship. I enjoyed the rest of the set, and went to talk to my friend when he was done clearing the stage.

The bassist was hanging around, so we were introduced. We chatted for a while, drank some PBR, and enjoyed the next band. I didn't get the married vibe from the boy, but that band kept catching my eye. He didn't mention a "we" or a "my girlfriend/my wife," so I didn't know what to think. I left the bar, figuring I'd run into him again.

Which I did earlier this week at another show. He wasn't playing bass for the band, but he was in the audience. We started talking again, and I noticed something strange.

The wedding band had moved to his right hand. He had a nomadic wedding band.

Gentlemen, it makes it difficult on us single ladies if you wear rings that travel between the "don't flirt with this guy lest his wife shiv you" and the "I just like silver bands" fingers. Pick a hand and go with it. I gave him the benefit of the doubt-- maybe he didn't want bookish writers hitting on him at gigs, so he wears the band to weed them out. But if he were single, wouldn't he want to meet cute girls at shows? My mind reeled.

I asked questions that could have led him to say that he had a girlfriend, but he didn't mention a significant other with a propensity for knives, so I dropped my number. He didn't seem scandalized by the move, but he hasn't called me either. Hey, at least I have a new story for the dating archives.

(But cute bassist, I'm around this weekend. Call me!)

Perspective

I feel like I do people a service with my job. I write about fund raisers, keep tabs on local politicians, and provide general amusement.

Yeah, I was wrong. A friend of mine from high school is in Uganda, running a school for teenage mothers who were abducted and raped by Ugandan rebels. Read up on what she's been doing in the Providence Journal. Good for you, Sonya.

And Here It Is...

Your moment of Zen. Taken yesterday at the Sullivan Square busway (aka, the First Circle of Hell).

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.