A Typical Weekend @ 6 Providence

It was the same as most nights.

The lights were all but out; dancing flames of candles lit the beautifully decorated, color-coordinated – down to the cloth napkins - dinner table. My brother searched through albums of CDs before finally settling on Van Morrison, turning up to volume so his romantic lyrics echoed throughout the house. My father was back in the kitchen, finishing dinner, sizzling onions through a smoke cloud of mouth-watering aromas. My mother and I sat in the living room, still sipping our white wine, wrapping up the bits of French cheese left over from our appertifs. For the Michel’s, this is what family meals should always be like.

Dinner, as usual, was delicious. Meat and potatoes… gourmet style, paired with bottles of smooth red wine. We talked for hours about everything as the bottles just kept emptying themselves into our stomachs.

We took our coffee and dessert in the living room again, opening more wine and talking for hours. Suddenly we realized that we were hammered, and that it was 2am.

I smiled.

In this family, this is what we do best: enjoy life.
Always exceptional company, interesting conversation, amazing wine…

Of course, today finds me a bit different. Both Alex and I are too hung over to enjoy our traditional Sunday breakfast of pancakes, sausage, bacon and fresh squeezed orange juice. Instead we’re restricted to laying out motionlessly watching hours and hours of Lord of the Rings. But even this is fun…

Life’s too short to live any other way.

Dreaming of a White... Halloween?

Alex and I ate breakfast some time after 11. We laughed through the whole meal; my family is crazy. But we have a damn good time.

During the eccentric planning of the day that was discussed during our breakfast, my mother and father were playfully bickering about “them” – our new, endearing term for the two dogs.

“You promised them that you’d go!” my mother whined on the four-legged beasts’ behalves, encouraging my father to take them for a walk at the dam.

“Like they remember,” my father replied wickedly, laughing at himself.

“They so will.”

“Then they can remind me this afternoon.”

“It’s going to rain this afternoon.”

“Wrong,” he retorted through smiling teeth. Apparently my father still hasn’t learned that your wife is always right, even after 25 years of marriage.

“Am not!” her eyes sparkled with laughter as she made her tiny hands into fists and placed them defiantly at her hips. “I watched the news and the weatherman said it’s going to precipitate.”

My father’s face shown all too proudly. “Percipitate yes, rain no.” Then with a dramatic gesture of his arms, “It’s going to snow.”

That’s when Alex and I started laughing too.


Not too long ago we were in short sleeves. I just wore my Rondini sandals out last week for a walk. Snow? No way. It was too warm of a summer for the snow to start in October… right?

Wrong.

Sure enough, it’s snowing outside. Looks like a blizzard. It probably won’t stick and even if it does, it’s going to be 65¬ºF the day after tomorrow.

Welcome to New England.


I really do miss France.

TGIF - Mendon Style

A friend of mine told me the other day to basically get off my ass and update my blog. As boring as Mendon is, I’m quite capable of making my own fun.

So here I am.

When Tony was here, amusing myself seemed easier. Or at least there was someone else to share the nothingness with. We did stupid things – like carve pumpkins – or very Tony-the-boat-builder things, like look at more boats in that one week than I’ve seen in my entire life, but it was still fun.


Last weekend I got to see my girls. They’re amazing. I love having wonderful friends.

But since then – NOTHING. I’ve been trapped in the confines of my home, carless, in a town where public transportation doesn’t exist. Yes, the area is beautiful this time of year. Unfortunately, it’s cold and wet also. Just me and two dogs, watching the world go by.


I have cleaned my room, a place in which I have not lived since I was 16. Down come the ballet slippers, stuffed animals, nostalgic pieces of a girl now grown up. I’ve replaced my doll collection with coke bottles, my childish games with DVDs and books, my decorative heart boxes with photos from around the world. But it was a fascinating adventure, to tear apart this place and find things I had all but forgotten about. Pictures of old boyfriends whose hearts I’d broken. Toys that still intrigue me as an adult. Bits of jewelry my irresponsible self lost long ago.

Of course, I am still far from responsible and will continue to lose expensive jewelry until the day I die. Just the kind of girl I am.

I thought about my friend’s advice to just go out and make my own good times. He’s right. Back to the old me – the one who’s used to being alone in a small town – but that’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

Tonight Alex and I are going to go get sushi. Then we’re going to go get drunk.
Thank God for brothers.

My Next Battle

I’ve always been a fighter. It’s just in my nature, I guess. I fought to graduate early, petitioning to the B.O.E. and superintendent and everyone else. I fought in college to earn credit I needed but didn’t properly attain. I search for loopholes in all structures of society and see how I can wield them to my benefit. And now I’m on a mission once more.

It started as a joke a week ago. I told Shannon my personally hardest part about adjusting back home – and she said, “It’s just not fair! You should be able to make like an appeal or something!”

After this weekend, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I don’t get it. I have sampled a vast array of wine’s from all over the world and feel comfortable talking about a glasses’ grapes, nose, … I can mix dozens of cocktails, tell you details about a myriad of alcohols, explain the differences between call and top shelf booze. I’ve always been able to out drink the boys – or at least keep up. And, unlike the boys, I do know when I should stop. At Chez Michel in Mendon, a meal isn’t a meal without wine. I can’t even remember when I started having a glass with dinner so long ago or a beer with Chinese food or pizza it’s been so long. I mean, c’mon now! I’ve picked out the perfect bottle in dozens of package stores and educated some of my freshly-turned-21 friends in both the ways of beer and wine. I like to drink and always have. Plus, I’m damn good a drinking games.

Yet I can’t go out into a bar. I can’t have wine with dinner in a restaurant. I can’t be caught drunk or heading to a party where I plan to get drunk. I can talk the talk but can’t walk to walk because the law won’t let me.

Just because I’m not 21.

I don’t get it. In France waiters pushed wine on you for lunch, dinner and – well – it wouldn’t surprise me if for breakfast too. I bought so many bottles of liquor without once being asked for an id. Yet back here, the drinking world is like a totally separate entity that should be kept – at all costs – from all who don’t meet the stringent age requirements, regardless of special circumstances, level of maturity, past experience. I know a hell of a lot of 21-year-olds who should be allowed to purchase alcohol. And I know at least one 20-year-old who should have been able to since a long time ago.

It’s never really stopped me. I’ve already drank at some of the hottest bars and restaurants in Boston. I’ve had four years of college. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve lived in my own apartment, been responsible for my own self, adopted my own dog for crying out loud! I’ve worked in PR firms as more than an intern. And now I’m hesitant to move to another city and get another job because honestly, how would I make friends? When you start something new, don’t you usually meet people by going out after work for a drink? But how can you when you’re too young?

I would love to pass the winter working in a wine shop. I’d love to sell wine and learn more about it – and I’d love to be able to buy tons at discount prices. But – oh yeah – I’m not old enough. So now what?

I hate talking about it. I hate it when my family calls me out on it. I’d rather continue pretending that I’m 22 or 23 and ignore my birth certificate – which I’d like to legally change (people legally change their names, it can’t be that different?). It’s my most sensitive weakness, my deep dark secret, the thing I don’t tell anyone. I know, I have a complex. Just ask anyone.

But that still doesn’t make the whole 21-to-drink thing fair.

So that’s it. I quit. I’m ridiculously frustrated. I’m appealing to my congressman for an exception. I’ve gotta be above the law or something… ; )

I’m an Asshole

Or else this is what you get for being stupid:

My best friend from forever, Chrissy, studies at UMass Amherst. That's where I am now. Shannon, my best friend from college, came too. Chrissy lives in a sweet little apartment with a bunch of other girls and they had some of their girls come over for a party last night. I couldn’t live with this many chics - I have no patience for girls – but Chrissy seems to be ok with it. However, when their friends arrived, she realized all the girliness was getting to me so, as the amazing hostess she is, she suggested, "Let's us three go somewhere quiet."

Shannon Chrissy & I retreated to the TV room with a bottle of wine. We had hardly poured our first glass when the other girls discovered us. They came rushing in in a parade of shrieking laughs and unrelenting giggles and perfect hair and lipstick and nails. This one girl, Razz, is ridiculously wealthy and loud and I knew from the first handshake that she was the type of girl that despises me. Of course, I didn't do much to help that...

She burst in with flowing locks and all of a sudden collapsed virtually on top of Shannon. Shannon had never met her before. Shannon is also the type of girl who hates to be touched (not even big into hugs and such, unless it's with someone she's really close with) so immediately I had to smirk. We were chatting about birthdays and this Razz brought up the fact that she had an uncle who was born on leap year so he's technically only 16 or something. And then in her loud, thick, New York accent - hands flaring animatedly about her in an effort to emphasize her thoughts - she said (these words exactly) :

"It's so stupid. Leave it to the Americans to come up with something as stupid as Leap Year. I mean, it's not like they have leap year all over the place."

It just took me over. I immediately began silently shaking with laughter, bending my head low as to not let anyone see I was just flat out laughing at her.

But she didn't stop. She kept insisting that only stupid, ignorant Americans would actually celebrate (apparently one celebrates it) leap year. The more she pushed it, the more (silently) hysterical I grew. I was trembling with laughter now, burying my face in my glass, hoping no one would notice me. I couldn't stop or breathe to correct her, or comment at all. Finally I was laughing so hard I had to leave the room and she noticed and goes, "Wait, am I like wrong or something? Do like they not have like leap year in like Europe and stuff?"

I was around the corner in the kitchen hiding my face in my hands still listening to her words. No matter how much I tried to stop, I couldn't quit laughing. Honestly though, I still can't keep from laughing every time I think about it. I'm literally laughing as I type this. I am an asshole.

Or else that’s really funny.

Culture Shock

I feel like I’ve been gone for an eternity. So long, in fact, that I feel like a guest in my own home.

Nothing in this once-so-familiar place looks the same. NOTHING. All the rooms are freshly decorated, some repainted, newly arranged. The forks look bizarre. Foreign. The plates are huge and the wine glasses look like crystal I’ve never set eyes on before in my life. Cleaning up the kitchen surprised me; all the appliances are so sleek, clean, modern. The inside of the dishwasher shines. Since when do kitchen appliances shine? Weird.

Even the family dog looks like something completely new. Her features are so sharp and I swear she shrunk. I can fit her whole face in my hand. Obviously this is because I’m so used to my giant and have not seen Cloey since May. But I fed them both last night and swore I was going crazy – over exhausted from the trip maybe. The coquettes – called dry dog food here – were miniscule. Even the canned dog food was bizarre – itty bitty slices of meat. I burst out laughing. I just couldn’t help it… this is weird.

It was weirder going shopping today. I walked through the aisles formulating the questions I needed answered in French, forgetting that the employees here speak English. You get the point. It’s difficult for me to adjust back here, which is odd considering this is home. This should be the place I slide so easily back into. Honestly, it was easier for me to adjust to France than its been to adjust back to here…

Get Ready Guys:

I'm back.