Young & Restless — where 2007 will take me

“Yesterday don’t matter if it’s gone.”

It occurs to me that in all of my fantasies — all my day dreams that linger in my imagination and rise up just before falling asleep at night — I’m a vagabond… a bohemian. (Isn’t bohemian a beautiful word?) I travel the world and read and write with naught but a dog to commit to. (I will always have a dog.) And I’m always really, really happy.

Which is why, one year after I’ve started at my fantastic communications firm, I’m really feeling the itch. It’s not that I’m unhappy here… I do really like my job. It’s not that I’m not learning... my bosses are brilliant women, and simply listening to their conversations is beneficial. And it’s not that I don’t think I’m going places… after one promotion, a raise, and another promotion within reach, I’d be a fool to say I’ve “plateau-ed.” When they day comes to leave this place, I will be a bit sad. But that day will come.

People tell me I’m a fool. They say I’ve got a good thing here, I have a lease on a fantastic apartment, and staying another year would be smart — for my career, for financial reasons, for a personal life.

And yet, I can’t imagine anything worse than being in this same spot at the end of 2007 facing yet another 6 months of sameness. Instead, I see Paris in the summer, learning French. I see Provence in the fall, wining & dining, writing my book and admiring the sails. I also see D.C., enhancing my media skills as part of a political campaign (but for a candidate who’s sure to lose, freeing me from the job by November ’08 — in case I don’t like it). And I see San Francisco, where I’d empower social entrepreneurs while working for the Skoll Foundation. But there’s so much more — I see Chicago, LA, D.C. again to work at the French Embassy, Montreal to polish my language skills (but not for too long — can you imaging the winter?!), and I see myself coming back to Boston. I see a world of opportunities, and I don’t see how people could just pick one.

Is that a bad thing? Is it bad to dream of seeing the world, living in as many places as possible? I think one could argue it’s impractical — and expensive — but not bad. Is it bad to hate commitments? To think of a year as an incredibly long time? People tell me it’s not necessarily “bad,” but it is immature. I argue that it’s freedom.

And, after all, that’s the only way to be.

“There's no time to lose…
Catch your dreams before they slip away…
Lose your dreams and you will lose your
mind.”

The Oil Crisis

I’m not talking “big picture” here. I’m talking my apartment.

I woke up sick. And cold. But it’s winter in New England — it’s allowed to be cold. The trouble was I was inside, my windows are sealed, and we usually have heat. Yet on this morning — this morning when I wanted nothing more than to be warm and healthy — the familiar and gruesome groans of my radiators were silent, and there was no explanation to be found.

The day dragged on, and the rooms grew colder. But the hot water worked. And the other two apartments had heat. It was just us. Left in the cold. I called our gas company. They said that nothing was wrong, and that the house was still getting gas. And our meter was working just fine.

Meanwhile, our landlord died a few weeks ago. His wife, who is terribly sweet, is still very new to the business… and has no idea about anything to do with our apartment. She told us to bundle up, called the plumber who handles our gas heat, and promised help in the morning. “It’s probably just a pilot light or something.”

So I cuddled up to watch the degrees drop from our thermometer, fully realizing this was not the way to get better.

I awoke to a whopping 51° a falling. Tequila and I sought warmth in the confines of my office. Alex stayed home. Soon enough, shit hit the fan.

“Plumber said we’re out of oil.”

“What?” I asked, totally perplexed. “That can’t be. The real-estate agent said gas heated everything. Gas heats the 2nd and 3rd floors. We have gas heat.”

“Yea, but there are two oil tanks down there too, and there’s no gas tank hooked up to our meter,” I could almost hear him shivering and was suddenly grateful to be at work, even if I felt sick as shit. “I called a local oil company who said they can fill the tank up today.”

But that wasn’t going to work. “Those gas tanks are wicked old and unused — and it’ll be unsafe if we fill them and don’t actually have oil heat. Go check it out. The tag says it hasn’t been serviced since March of 2001.”

He paused. “The plumber said we have gas.”

“Look at the tanks. I don’t think they’re in use anymore.”

He checked them out, agreed with me. “Maybe we do have gas? I’ll call Mary.” Mary is our landlord’s widow.

“I’ll call the oil company.”

And I did. They said the last time they’d visited our address was in 2001, and we had switched to gas heat. I called Alex back, but before I could say anything, he gave me his news.

“I talked to Mary, who talked to the plumber again. He’s absolutely positive we have oil heat.”

My report just complicated things.

“I’ll call another oil company, see if we can get some fuel in here soon. It’s too cold to do nothing, Catherine.” I took his word for it.

But it still didn’t seem right. And how pissed would I be to discover we had oil heat! I mean — had we known, we would have filled the tank a long time ago to avoid such tragedies as being caught without oil in the beginning of January! Not to mention I had no money to pay for both oil AND rent — how the hell are we supposed to budget for a utility we didn’t even know we had?! Plus, oil is cheaper than gas. And how come our landlord doesn’t know what kind of heat we have? Why the hell can’t anyone figure it out?!

Not to mention it’s “that time of the month”… which, when combined with the killer cold I was struggling through, made me even more irritable and angry.

N*Star, the people who do our gas and electricity, were especially helpful.

“Hi, I’m calling because my apartment has no heat, it’s friggen cold, my landlord died and his wife doesn’t know what kind of heat we have. The gas guy(/plumber) says it’s oil, the oil company says it’s gas. Can you tell me how we heat our place?”

The man laughed at me for a second. “It says here your address is heated by gas.”

THANK YOU. I was full of pride (for being correct), relief (for not having to pay for oil), and frustration (because no one was addressing the core problem, which had something to do with our GAS furnace. Then the N*Star man said:

“Oh wait, it looks like the other two apartments pay for gas heat. It’s hard to say how you get yours. I suppose it could be oil… although I’m not sure that’s legal.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yea, houses in Mass. aren’t supposed to have two different sources like that. Most people switch from oil to gas because gas is cleaner, safer and less expensive. The only real exception for having two sources is if it’s a really old house and they can’t convert the first floor.”

Good thing I live on the first floor of a house that was built in 1871.

“I really can’t tell from here. Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he said.

“Yea, thanks.”

And the mystery continued. I flipped out. How do we have oil heat and not know it? What do we do now? How come we were led to believe we had gas? And what’s the landlord going to do for us, seeing as we can’t possibly pay for $600 in fuel in addition to our rent?!

Work sent me home. Sick and angry is no way to be in the office. Alex spared Mary from my wrath, but she still promised to help us with our first filling… and she promised to have the oil tank cleaned and checked.

I arrived home just after the oil man left.

“Guess what?” Alex asked as soon as I walked in the door.

“We have gas heat?” I practically expected a yes — which would have really sent me flying.

“No. The oil guy was the one who filled the tank up last year — so now we know we have oil heat.”

“Great,” although I didn’t feel relieved at all. ‘Surprise — you have oil!’ wasn’t exactly the post-holiday excitement I was looking for. “Then why is it so cold in here?” It was still 51°.

“We can’t turn it on until the furnace heats up, and since it’s been empty and cold for a few days, that’ll probably take a few more hours.”

So Alex and I both grabbed an extra down comforter or two, put on some slippers and extra sweatshirts, crashed on the couch and watched TV.

And when that familiar and gruesome groan filled our apartment, we sighed with relief. There is nothing greater than heat.

A Place I can be Proud of

It’s been three months since the mold was cleared out and we moved in. It’s been three months of weekly additions (mostly courtesy of my parents) and frequently cleanings. It’s been a testament of creativity in apartment dwelling.

But, as proven by my most recent weekend with my grandparents, it’s been a success. They spent the evening Chez Nous, soaked in Slummerville, and gave a positive verdict. We even had fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Yes, I’ve had friends spend the night before… but they currently reside in college dorms or ship hulls. Almost anything is an improvement.

This place was once a disaster... now it’s a home.

My kitchen — once grimy, riddled with holes and makeshift goods, and severely lacking in counter space — is now warm and fun, red & black with sun flowers and pictures of Paris. Not to mention our incredible pots, pans, kitchen utensils, portable dishwasher, pantry, island, and window coverings.

My living room — formally ad hoc and overwhelming — is now filled with nice furniture (including a hardly used sleep-sofa sectional found on craigslist for a third of the original price…$300!) and themed decorations — from the cocktail-covered clock to the framed photographs of my favorite French vineyards.

My bathroom — which I feared would never be private or clean — now sparkles and is protected by special film and waterproof curtain. Plus, from the shower curtain to the decorative soaps, it screams beach and French Riviera. All the photographs — two of Tequila, one of Alex and I, and one picturesque Mediterranean shot — have L’Esquinade for the backdrop.

And my bedroom — once a drafty corner too crowded to exist in — is heat sealed and clearly laid out, full of color and fun. That is, after all, what happens when you theme a bedroom after vintage French travel posters...

Even Alex’s room, with my brand-new never-used cranberry curtains and green comforter, looks great.

This is a place I can proud of.

Alcatraz

San Francisco

What a Fantastic Hotel!

Halloween

Chrissy arrived & the party started. I love Chrissy.

Of course, my best friend shows up and says, “Oh, um, do I need a costume or something?” (Don’t be fooled by the pictures… she’s actually blond. Or at least she should be.) Meanwhile, I was already putting together my elaborate (and witty) outfit.

What’s a friend to do?

It didn’t take much. After a few drinks and some fancy champaign, we were ready to get the party started. Dress the girl in white. Borrow a floppy hat from Alex. Find some extra pearls. Take a permanent marker to her arm.

Of course, it’s a bit sad when a sketched on tattoo ties an entire costume together…


But we still looked sharp, went out to have our fun.


And FUN we had!



HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

Coolest Costume EVER

I’m not really one for putting thought into getting ready. It’s a rare occasion when I wake up in time to put make up on for work, let alone fuss with hair or pick an outfit out in advance.

Halloween, however, is something I’ve been thinking about for months… literally. I think I first announced my plan back in May. (Yes, you can call me a loser.) But it all paid off — I had to cleverist costume around!

Just look:

I want a girl with a mind like a diamond
I want a girl who knows what's best


I want a girl with shoes that cut
And eyes that burn like cigarettes

I want a girl with the right allocations
Who's fast and thorough
And sharp as a tack
She's playing with her jewelry
She's putting up her hair
She's touring the facility
And picking up slack…

I want a girl who gets up early
I want a girl who stays up late (story of my life…)
I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity


Who uses a machette to cut through red tape


With fingernails that shine like justice
And a voice that is dark like tinted glass
She is fast and thorough
And sharp as a tack
She's touring the facility
And picking up slack…

I want a girl with a smooth liquidation
I want a girl with good dividends
And at Citibank we will meet accidentally
We'll start to talk when she borrows my pen

She wants a car with a cupholder arm rest
She wants a car that will get her there


She's changing her name from Kitty to Karen


She's trading her MG for a white Chrysler La Baron…


I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnnggggggggg jacket


…but then again, who doesn’t?

mwahaha

Weekend #2

Last weekend was a synch. If only things could always be so easy…

This weekend, there were perks… a surprise phone call (thanks!), shopping for Porsche rental-cars (something to look forward to in L.A.), and homemade cookies left by a group of rather handsome Columbia grads who discovered my love for Dartmouth (Ivy League snots…). But there were pitfalls, too.

First, a “military man” who was drunk beyond belief claimed to live in the building, but swore he lost his key. I kind of smiled and waved him off… apparently his “girlfriend” was sleeping and he was there to visit. Then he started flirting with me. I continued to ignore him, so he started talking about how he wants to see his “fiancée.” (Interesting how his story kept changing.) Then he started adamantly hitting on me. Finally, he said he was going to go to bed with his “wife” as soon as he said goodnight to me, and he made to come behind the desk… That’s when I kicked him out. Don’t mess.

THEN — there was the booty call. A man came in claiming his friend left the door open for him to come visit. Sure. Either way, I can’t just let some stranger in off the street… even if it is for a pre-arranged sex visit. The visitor is calling and calling and calling the man in his room, but there’s no answer. It was just so pathetic, I had to cave… so I offered to walk him up to the room and if it was in fact open, then he could wake the resident up, who could then verify that it was ok for the guest to stay. And that’s what we did. Except, as the guest entered the room, I heard the resident say, “Oh, boy, I’m glad to see you. I’ve been dying to get off…” Yuck?

There were other lock outs, but I’m too tired to bother with recounting them now. (Did I mention I didn’t get to sleep more than two hours on Saturday?) I also didn’t mention the random couple who demanded to be let in one of the premium rooms, the calls I had to make, and the conversation I was supposed to have with the multi-millionaire who owns the building. It wasn’t fun. And it’s late. And it forbids me from doing what I love doing most — partying with friends.

Yet, every night as I sit at the desk, engaged in a test of will to stay awake, bundled up by the space heater in an effort to stay remotely warm, glued to my computer ( baby!), I have to laugh… A piece of me really enjoys this.

I’m not ok.


Hah — time to sleep (FINALLY)!

Who says newspapers can’t be fun?

As far as I’m concerned, Stephanie Rosenbloom of the New York Times has the right wit for writing this Halloween season…


For copyright issues, I've included only the first paragraph & last line... but I highly recommend reading more!

October 19, 2006
Good Girls Go Bad, for a Day
By STEPHANIE ROSENBLOOM
IN her thigh-highs and ruby miniskirt, Little Red Riding Hood does not appear to be en route to her grandmother’s house. And Goldilocks, in a snug bodice and platform heels, gives the impression she has been sleeping in everyone’s bed. There is a witch wearing little more than a Laker Girl uniform, a fairy who appears to shop at Victoria’s Secret and a cowgirl with a skirt the size of a tea towel.
. . .
“We’re not just risking our dignity here,” she said. “We’re risking frostbite.”

Déjà vu… aux États Unis

You'll never guess what I'm doing right now. Remember when I was working at the Hotel Sube in St. Tropez? I figured (with encouragement from my grandmother) that being a night receptionist was a good idea. God knows why I thought that held true in Boston.

And yet, here I am. To combat my ever-increasing debt (not helped by my new plans to travel to France in February), I've found myself another job. Thus, I'm employed as the "evening concierge" at a high-end condo high-rise building for the young & hip (& rich — each unit goes for about $1.5mil). It's not rocket science... make sure no one's breaking in, call cabs when needed, get residents mail when requested, deliver newspapers, that sort of thing... but it is tiring (not helped by the hours: Friday & Saturday from 11pm to 7am). Plus, I’ve already entered into a battle of wills with a mosquito.

Except here, the residents all speak English — though a few are native Frenchies, giving me an opportunity to practice un pea de français. Everyone has a dog. (Maybe I’ll bring Tequila in?) And there’s a pro-soccer player who is so gorgeous I may jump the counter one day... even if his wife — whom he loves dearly — is right there. (I am, of course, kidding when I say this...mostly.)

Anyways, I'm sure I'll have a whole lot of stories to share as I continue. Keep checking.

::sigh::

I can't believe I'm home.

Someone figure out how to get me back there? Please?

You know, I have been dying to get back to school...

All Good Things Must Come to an End

And it’s time to go home.

= )

After a year of nothingness, I’m goin back to France…

Anxious Anticipation

I can’t believe I’m going back to France. Just a few days… and few more boxes to unpack before I fill my suitcases with the required attire for Camarat. I will be not only in the South, though – first, two days in Paris. Two days to explore the city, see the people I love, meet new family I’ve heard so much about.

And then my return to the magical place of Camarat…


The world is conspiring for me. Everything is falling into place. Even my computer at work – out of nowhere – has starting making announcements in French… a phenomenon that cannot be explained by our fabulous office manager (Carrie) or our awkward network guy (Ryan).

Perhaps it’s God’s way of saying, “It’s about time you go back!”
At least, I’d like to think so…

Welcome to Slummerville

What a shithole.

This is my new apartment — a mold infested, stinky, first-floor four room dump in a 100+ year-old building in a crummy neighborhood in Slummerville. Here I was, showing my mother my new home — the place I’m supposed to be proud of — and she couldn’t even speak. But don’t worry, voices were heard.

There was a drunk homeless man screaming as he walked past the place.

I later said I’d never have people over. How bad is that? It’s just too gross. I’m ashamed of where I live.

I don’t get it; I’m sure this wasn’t this bad when I picked it out two months ago. Of course, the abandoned building next door looked like someone had been on a long vacation and forgot to mow the lawn… vegetation hadn’t yet creeped into the windows. It had a backyard where Tequila could poop and a garden… I just didn’t notice the back window that provided a clear view of the bathroom. And the tenants clearly didn’t clean the floor or food-stained walls in months. Yuck.

As we commute from home this week, I can’t help but feel defeated. I went from a fantastic, historic and beautiful apartment on Mass Ave in Cambridge, with tree lined streets leading to Harvard, to a shitty place in the one town I never thought I’d inhabit — SLUMMERVILLE. A voice in my head keeps asking, “What have I done?” and “Can I get out of this?”

Answer: “No.”

Good thing I believe in making the best out of things.

HARVARD: Here I Come!

Honestly, I wasn’t one really for school. Ok… that’s not entirely true; I did quite well at BU as well as Dartmouth. But I also partied hard, and I often find myself wondering what would have happened if I tried harder? If I gave up a few nights of fun and spent more time in the library? Would I remember more of what was once taught to me?

Well, the bottom line is that I always subscribed to the theory that college is an experience – much more than just classes. It’s just now that I wish I had tried harder and learned more. In an effort to avoid being consumed by regret and guilt (things I hate to do and adamantly preach against), I’ve decided I’m going to re-immerse myself in academia and take some classes.

SO – as of yesterday afternoon – I am officially a student of my local night school. And – on September 26th – Harvard, here I come!

To Read

I noticed today a new Paulo Coehlo book out… The Devil & Miss Primm – a story of temptation. Also, another Stephen Clarke book examining with clever wit life (and love) en France.

Tip #1 for Getting Girls: Don’t EVER be like this

I went out with my girl last night. That’s right – after however many months in Pittsburgh, Chrissy’s finally returned to Massachusetts, and we spent the evening getting drunk and dancing. Nothing beats a girls’ night out.

And it was fun. An impromptu Cambridge pub-crawl ended in downtown Boston with free booze provided by her sister’s bartending boyfriend, and the evening wrapped up with an incredibly ridiculous walk/stumble home. But mostly I’m going to tell you about the T-ride to start off the evening… where we met the model of a man you NEVER want to talk to.

To set the stage:
I don’t have a boyfriend. Some will argue it’s because I’m not easily approachable. (I may or may not have a bit of a bitch side.) Others will argue I talk to more strangers than anyone else – and that’s because I am one of those weirdos who walk down the street smiling, and I always make I contact – even to the men and women walking down the sidewalk beside me. The combination of smile and eye-contact apparently equals an open invitation to converse.

Last night, while waiting for the T, I noticed a reasonably attractive man meandering cluelessly down the platform. I smiled and made eye contact. Big mistake.

He came over with some lame question on how long the train takes. Ok, so he’s not very good at breaking the ice. Chrissy and I took pity, and continued to chat with him. He explained he wasn’t from around here and was meeting all his awesome friends near Park Street. I could tell already he was a big arrogant, but whatever… many men are. Hell, I’ve fallen hard for a couple of extremely arrogant men.

Then he looks at me with this suave smile and says, “Where do you go to school?”

Maybe you had to be there to hear the condescending intonation, but I responded with pleasure and a forced smile, “Oh – I’m out of school, honey.” (That may be the bitch side I mentioned…or the start of it)

“Oh, well, I go to BC.” After this point, I was no longer invited into the conversation he was having with my best friend, who admitted she was still in school. He turned his back to me and stared at her, talking and talking away. The things that came out of his mouth were incredible, pompous, and hilarious.

Somewhere he slipped in – totally in a place where it didn’t belong – that he played minor league baseball. When Chrissy and I obviously weren’t interested in his sports skills, he proceeded to tell us for what team. He then told us that’s why he’s at BC – with a full ride, no less – but he made enough money in the minors that he can easily afford nice things… like his sports car and brand-new apartment, which he needs since he got kicked off of campus in the one semester he’s been at BC. He continued to talk about why he was kicked off, how he’s a wild child, all the while throwing in references to his skills as a pitcher in places they clearly didn’t belong.

He at one point said that UMass was a terrible school, and that’s when Chrissy said she went there. He tried to save himself with, “Oh, but UConn is worse.” I laughed. He had no idea what was coming to him.

Chrissy goes, “Really? Because that’s where my sister goes.” Chrissy was obviously pissed, and I was obviously laughing at him. But he still didn’t give up. (Maybe we ought to give him some credit for his persistence… but honestly, he was just pathetic.)

At a 5-secod break in his arrogant ranting, I quickly struck up a conversation with Chrissy that he clearly couldn’t be a part of. For all intensive purposes, it was about panties or tampons. But none-the-less, he interjected:

“I’m the second oldest of nine children.”

Seriously. Is that something we’re supposed to care about?

And then he proceeded to name them all.

I’m not even kidding.

I thought it couldn’t get any worse. But it did. I rolled my eyes several times right in front of him, and yet he still wouldn’t leave us alone. He was about to get Chrissy’s number when – by the love of God – we arrived in Park Street. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care, or he just wanted to follow Chris and I to whatever party we were going to. No way in hell I was going to let that happen.

He was mid-sentence when I said, all serious- and condescending-like, “This is you’re stop.” That’s one way to halt conversation.

For the first time since the “I go to BC” comment, he looked at me. I continued, “You have to get off now.”

You can always count on me to scare men away, make them feel awkward, and be mean.

But honestly, this time it was completely appropriate.

After he finally left, Chrissy and I laughed about it for a while, and proceeded to have a kick-ass GIRLS’ night out.

Boys – never EVER be like that.
Confidence/Arrogance only gets you so far.

The Day I was Rescued by Firemen

Here is my adventure du jour:

The way my apartment is set up, you walk up the main stairs in the building and down a hallway to my front door. To get to my porch, you have to walk through the apartment, through my bedroom, out the back door — which leads out to the back stairs — then to our private porch. All these doors have locks. So, the other day I'm sitting out on my porch, having a glass of wine with my dog, and the fire alarm goes off. I rolled my eyes.

Chances are, the building's not actually on fire, and everyone would be standing out front waiting to get back into the building while the firemen come and clear it. Since I’m not technically supposed to have a dog in the apartment, I didn’t think it would go over well if I walked out the front door in front of all those people with Tequila. Plus, if the building was on fire, it’d be dangerous to go through the apartment. So, I decided to take the back stairs… they’ve got to lead somewhere, right?

Wrong. I walked down the sketchy back stairs and came across a rickety old door just below ground level. Looking out the tiny window, I saw nice granite stairs leading up to a patio, but I couldn’t see what was beyond it. The door was unlocked. “Maybe we have a backyard I never knew about?!” I thought to myself, excitedly.

Walking up the stairs, all excitement faded. The backyard, which was entirely fenced in by a 6+ foot wood fence, was overgrown with 4-foot-high weeds. It was quite gross, actually.

But I was out of the building, so I figured I could walk around and get out to the sidewalk somehow. There must be a gate — and there was… a rod iron gate laced in chains and padlocks. I tried to scream and get someone’s attention from the sidewalk (just around the corner of the building), but no one noticed.

I looked up, saw no smoke billowing from the windows, and figured it was safe to walk through the basement. I returned to the door from which I came… only to find the handle was rusted off on the outside.

I was trapped in my backyard…in pajamas, with my dog, and looking like a total idiot.

I could see the flashing lights of the fire truck from the gate, so I figured if I sat on the stairs, one of the firemen would notice me as they clear the building. No fireman came.

Long story short, I eventually called the fire department. As expected, the dispatcher asked: “Is this an emergency?”

“Well,” I said, “it really depends how you look at it. My life is not in danger, but I know there’s a fire truck here on an emergency call.”

Of course, by this point the firemen had already left, so the dispatcher had to ask them to turn around and come get me. I sat by the gate waiting for them, looking pathetic. They came out the backdoor.

“What number are you? We’ll get you back in.” Apparently they thought I was locked out of my unit.

“Oh no. I have my apartment keys… I’m locked out of the building.”

“What do you mean — out of the building?”

“I mean the door back in is broken.”

“What do you mean it’s broken?”

I smiled wickedly. Sure enough, the three firemen who came to rescue me turned around to realize that they too were trapped in my backyard.

They whipped out all their fancy firemen tools and tried to gracefully knock the door down, but it didn’t work. The captain called to see why it was taking so long, and of course they responded: “The situation it totally under control, Cap’n.” Right. Eventually they had another fireman come, walk though the basement, and let the four of us in.


So yes, I was recently rescued by firemen (and they weren’t even hot)… But honestly, who else does this stuff happen to?

Keys Please?

I woke up periodically throughout the night in cold sweats. I felt gross at 6 a.m. when it was time to get up. I could tell it was going to be a rough morning.

I showered, put on the clothes I was going to wear to work, balked at the idea of food (no way my stomach could handle it), said goodbye to Alex as he left for work, and took the dog outside for her walk. It was going to be a short one – I was sick. Really sick. Could I honestly go in to the office?

There was so much work to do! Not to mention the staff meeting – which I pathetically look forward to every month. But there was no way… I was too sick.

Tequila and I wandered around outside. It was a beautiful day… slightly overcast, but the fresh air was soothing. I called in. Then, because I’m a big baby, I do what I always do when I don’t feel well or something goes wrong… I called my Mommy.

We chatted, I walked around some more, got hit on my several strange men, spoke French to some passing strangers, and headed back towards my apartment. It was about then that the shit really hit the fan.

My pants had no pockets. So, in an effort to not loose my keys, I attached them to one of those big, heavy-duty bangladiers and clipped them to my waste. As I reached for them to let myself back into my building, I noticed the clip was broken… and the keys were gone.

Shit.

The real problem here is two-fold: as an illegal sub-leasee, I have no idea who our landlord or super is. And, as the apartment is pet friendly, even if I did know how to get in touch with them, I couldn’t – unless I was willing to have them meet Tequila. Either way, I wasn’t in a good spot.

So much for my nice relaxing day on the couch with Animal Crossing and ginger ale.

So what did I do? Called Mummy again. “Only you, Catherine. Only you.”

Heading her advice, I retraced my steps. Twice. No sign of the keys. I called the Cambridge Public Works – they wouldn’t know if keys were found until the end of the shift… at 3:00 p.m. I tried Harvard – no sign of keys there.

Sitting on a bench in Cambridge Common, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Honestly, this just figures. This stuff happens to me all the time. I was sick, given the opportunity to rest up by calling in, and now stuck outside losing the keys I had acquired over my lifetime.

What was on them? My whistle from the good old days of serving as a lifeguard at the Mendon Town Beach. My key to my parents’ house in Mendon, which I finally got just months before, having somehow survived my teenage years without one. No car keys… I don’t have a car. A St. John’s lanyard – a gift from an ex-boyfriend that I was long overdue to rid myself of. And – most importantly - my apartment key, of which we had no spare. Alex was my only hope.

Of course he didn’t have his cell on and he wasn’t at his desk.

I didn’t have any money, so I could take the T. I didn’t have money, so I couldn’t buy water for me or my dog – who was crying with exhaustion. I didn’t have any money, so there was really no hope of me doing anything but wander the streets of Cambridge with my dog.

Mummy to the rescue! My mother, who swore she’d never drive into town, promised to come in and get me, and together we’d show up at Alex’s work and demand the spare key. I decided I’d walk towards her in an effort to lessen the time she’d spend city-driving, which she hates.

At 11:00, over three-hours after Tequila and I left the apartment this morning, I finally found my mother. Together, we headed towards Waltham.

When I called Alex, I left messages that got increasingly more panicked as time went on. “Alex, it’s Catherine, call me when you get this.” “Alex, it’s your sister, call me as soon as you can – it’s important.” “Alex, I’m in a little trouble and need your help. Please call me. It’s urgent.”

My mother called twice. First, she left a message: “Alex, it’s your mother. Your sister lost her keys and has been wandering the streets of Cambridge for hours with her dog, and she’s sick. Call me.”

The second time she called the operator. “Hi, could you please page my son?”

Let me tell you – that got him on the phone fast.

Of course, getting quickly to Waltham was another story. Mum, Tequila and I were lost, driving through Waltham, for another half hour or so.

Long story long, we found my brother. We went to some shady locksmith where they’d make a couple copies of the key – despite the “DO NOT DUPLICATE” warning on the back. We called my dad, and the four of us had lunch in Waltham.

And around 6:00 – just before I’d normally be coming home from work – the four of us arrived back at my apartment for dinner… without having rested at all. Some sick day.


But it is a testament to what a wonderful family I have – my mother leaving work to rescue me, my father making special trips to ensure my mother wouldn’t have to drive home, and today my brother bought me a new bangladier… but one with a clip that screws on instead of springs.

Met myself a man... unfortunately

All I've been thinking about the past week is my time in France... and how I can't wait to go back. I've even started thinking in French again.

That's just my paradise, and I long for it. In the rain and smog of humid Boston days gets me down, I remember how beautiful everything was there - always. When I hang out with friends, I remember how much fun it was meeting new people from around the world When work stresses me out, I remember how everything in Camarat is carefree. And when I'm feeling lonely, I think about how almost every guy I met there - for better or worse - made me feel like I was an amazing woman. (It was the accent, I'm sure of it.)

I was absorbed in a day dream about St. Tropez (as usual) while at the Harvard Yard with Tequila. She chased the squirrels, played with the little dogs, and then quickly moved on to the big border collie that arrived with some dweeby looking asian kid. After about twenty minutes of letting them just sniff each other and hang out, he asked me what kind of dog she was.

"She's a golden, but I took her home from France - which is why she looks so different."

"Oh really?" He looked immediately interested. "Are you French?"

I pretend to be sometimes. I mean, "No, but my family is."

"So you were visiting when you got her?"

Haha, kind of... more like an extended stay. "I was there for about six months, staying in the family house and hanging out with all the family who came through."

"Where were you?"

I figured Camarat was no place he had ever heard of. Many people don't even know where St. Tropez is. So I generalized: "The south."

"Really, where?"

His interest took me off guard. "Um, outside St. Tropez."

"Really?" he started laughing. "I just came home from St. Tropez a few days ago!"

Turns out, he was actually vacationing with his family in Gassin. He made it to L'Esquinade, Millesum, and a couple of the bars I used to haunt - but not to the Sube or Le P'tit Club. He even took the walk along the paths of the beaches of Pampelonne to the lighthouse - probably passing right by
le Chene en Croix. We talked for another twenty minutes or so... about the market, about Ramatuelle, about les Voiles de St. Tropez and everything else I love about that place. And then I did something silly.

I gave him my number.

Let me make something clear: I was in no way at all in any shape or form attracted to this kid. But what's even funnier is that - from a man's prospective - I was probably hitting on him. He just got me so wrapped about about Camarat, I didn't realize what I was doing. Totally honestly, I asked "Do you have any pictures from your trip?"

Obviously he did. After that line, he probably figured I was throwing myself on him. "Sure, you want to see them?"

"Yes!" It didn't dawn on me that this was 'flirting.' (Am I that out of practice?) "I wonder if you really did pass the house?!"

"Great, sure! We'll take a look at them together sometime. I'll give you a call." And then came the dead giveaway that made me realize I was in trouble: "What's your number?"

Oh and don't worry - I gave it to him.

Hah.

Walked right into that one, didn't I? Now I've got to figure out how to dodge this man who I've unintentionally led on. Suggestions?

Fourth of July - Fireworks, Family... and tons o' fun!

As a kid, the 4th was one holiday I could never wait for. What didn’t you love about it? It always included tons of barbequed food, several hours on the beach, wiffle ball with the cousins, and an evening watching the fireworks explode over Cape Cod’s canal. Fourth of July brings memories of corn on the cob, waving flags and sparklers in the back yard of my aunt’s cute little Cape Cod home.

Then, I turned 14. Suddenly, Fourth of July with the family was way less fun and instead a punishment – a weekend away from my friends. The best was when the family would get together and I could stay home hanging out with my friends. I suppose this behavior is typical to teens.

But now, Fourth of July is quickly climbing the ladder of awesomeness. One, I’m way more psyched to spend time with the fam – grandparents, aunts, uncles & cousins alike. Two, I love BBQs. Three, it’s still a great excuse to go to the beach – though now I’m far more concerned about getting a tan than catching crabs. And last but not least, the 4th is way funner with alcohol in the picture.

Not even kidding. The cousins still played an awesome game of wiffle ball… but with a buzz. While the little kids set off their sparklers, we cracked open more Corona. And as the children and their grandparents stared at the sky, the cousins clinked bottles, toasting good health and good times.

And then we went back to the house, put the grandparents and kids to bed… and Fourth of July got even better. The hilarity! Incidents in open bathrooms, crazy stories from ages ago, dreaming of the perfect fast food feast…

Aw, growing up is still so much fun…

Please Read This:

What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done for a job?

Emotionally, it may have been my phone call today.

One of our clients is a really interesting community development organization that establishes public and private partnerships, funds neighborhood-based initiatives, strives to sway publish policy, and generally works to revitalize low-income neighborhoods. Since last year’s hurricane season, they’ve also worked extensively rebuilding the Gulf.

Part of my job is to find interesting angles of their work that we can highlight in an effort to get the organization some media coverage. One such angle was their work with the Mennonites, who they brought to the Gulf to rebuild houses. One house belonged to a 40-something-year-old woman, her husband, and her seven kids – many of whom have “special needs.”

Today, we got a request from a freelancer who was looking to feature women who lost their homes in Hurricane Katrina in an upcoming article. She wanted to talk about how they rebuilt their lives – and, since our client was involved in the rebuilding of her home, I thought this might be a perfect opportunity.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anyone within our client’s organization that could help answer some of the more detailed questions. So instead, I called the woman herself.

Now THAT was tough.

Karen Rosser, her best friend/husband, and their nine children – four of whom are adopted, the rest are foster children who they hope to adopted soon – lived pleasantly in her grandparent’s house for years. It’s a modest brick house just behind the Port of Iberia, and it was spared by Katrina.

Rita, however, had other plans. The hurricane completely destroyed the home, displacing the family for who knows how long. Karen struggled endlessly, fighting constantly to keep all of her children, finding hospice in her boss’s home. They didn’t know what they were going to do. Live in the FEMA trailer? That wasn’t a long-term solution. Look for new houses? She started sobbing on the phone just thinking about how hard it was to consider giving up the sentimental value of her family home.

“We had nothing, no where, and no idea of what was going to happen.”

That’s when someone from church said she could help Karen and her family. “I just starting crying, asking over and over again – ‘You mean you can really help me?’”

This woman was involved with the Southern Mutual Group, who organizes volunteers from the across the country to come to the Gulf and rebuild homes. Soon after, Karen had people from Canada, Vermont, Pennsylvania, Iowa, Michigan, and many more come to rebuild – piece by piece – her family’s home. The Mennonites were one such group. “They did the closets,” she said, “but everybody did their piece. I’m so grateful to all of them, because each group did a little work that brought us a little bit closer to having a home again.” Before the storm, they had put new wood floors in and bought new furniture for the boys’ bedroom. After the storm, with the help of these people from all over, they built a new kitchen and revamped the girls’ room. “We even had kids who decided to come help us instead of go one spring break. I mean, we even had 15-, 16-year-old kids workin’ on the house.”

She was so grateful that she's now volunteering herself to rebuild homes, and she donates anything she doesn't need herself to other victims - from hammers and nails to spare doors and other goods.

“Everyone was so nice, so wonderful, so helpful,” she said over and over. She was so grateful, so happy there were good people in this world. “At Christmas,” she paused – and I feared the phone was disconnected. But a moment later, she continued – her voice broken by sobbing tears. “At Christmas the sixth grade at the kids’ school – they attend a Christian school – they sixth grade came together and bought Christmas gifts for all my kids.” Her tears were evoking an inexplainable saddness in my own heart… I was about to start crying with her. “They came over, too” and her voice grew stronger, “and sang Christmas carols and did that sort of thing. They were so good.”

What do you say to a story like this? Here I was in my expensive clothes with a new pair of old Prada sandals, living in the heart of Cambridge with my dog and hardly a care in the world... and there she was, a true survivor of Hurricaine Rita.

I heard her husband ask in the background, “Who are you telling our life story to?”

“I’m doin’ an interview,” she said so proudly. “We’re gonna be on Oprah.”

I laughed a little bit. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try!”

“Oh I know, and thank you!”

The thing is, Karen was so hopeful. She talked about her children, about the 2- and 9-year-olds who suffer daily from intense special needs, about her home that’s still missing doors and cabinet covers and flooring, and she was so full of hope. “God has blessed us by keeping this family together and introducing us to so many good people who helped rebuild this house,” she said, “and we’ll just take whatever’s to come next.”

Every once in awhile during our conversation she had to stop to manage the children, who I could hear playing in the background. She sounded like such a good mom, so loving.

She’s still in the midst of a battle. In that area, hurricane insurance apparently didn’t cover most of the damage, since the houses were technically ruined in large part due to floods. Now, Karen must raise her home six feet in order to not be dropped from her insurance… but doing so wont bring the insurance cost down at all. Raising her house is particularly challenging not only because it’s brick, but also because she has a son who’s special needs means he operates at the level of a three-year-old; how is she to ensure that he won’t fall off and seriously hurt himself?

“Please, Catherine,” she asked, crying again, “share my story. It’s a story of hope and of good people, and we don’t see enough of that.” She promised me the DVD of her husband approaching the house by boat after Rita struck, exploring the remnants and describing – in detail – the disgusting aromas that took over her beloved home.

And I thought about how our client would never be mentioned, meaning it’s something that I can’t do during business hours – because we have no one to bill it to.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.

Somebody has to be interested in speaking with a woman who gives extremely compelling interviews with video footage to match, and has a story of hope for the hurricane that is too often overlooked.

Chip at Department Shoe Warehouse

Some people know how and when to shut up. Then there's people like me.

See, I told Dianne I'd go shoe shopping with her after work. No, I don't need shoes, and I had no intention of buying any, but I know how sometimes us money-strapped women who are just starting up need the moral support of a girlfriend when purchasing hard-earned cash on sandals. Since Dianne's a fabulous girl – who carried my drunken ass from Porter to Davis Square – I really wanted to be there for her. Turns out, I'm the one who'd leave needing moral support.

At the DSW in Downtown Crossing, I found a rain hat. (Who wouldn't want a rain hat?) It was a little stupid looking, but it'd definitely keep me dry. Well, my hair, at least. So, after asking Dianne if she'd still be my friend if I wore a rain hat, I decided to purchase the item. Unfortunately, it was broken and the last one. It had some crappy little pin attached that was falling off, that I assumed I'd just cut off anyways... after I received 20% off.

I brought it to the register and showed the nice black girl named Jennifer behind the desk the problem. She showed Chip - her boss. "Mark it damaged," he said curtly before briskly rushing away. So I stood behind the counter, waiting for her to ring up my damage discount.

"Did he say discount or mark it damaged?" she asked her coworker, who was standing beside us.

"Uh," the colleague said, looking around cluelessly - but in a totally innocent way. "I think he said damaged."

Jennifer turned back to me. "Um, I'm sorry honey, but that means we'll send it back."

"But I want the hat."

"Yea, um," and she started calling Chip again. Chip couldn't have cared less.

This is when most people would know not to push. But I liked the goddam rain hat. So I left the hat on the counter and walked up to Chip. "Chip?"

"I'm with a customer." He said it so cruelly heads literally turned. I didn’t move. "I'll be with you when I’m through."

Taken aback, I returned to the counter. "I'm a customer," I retorted under my breath, but loud enough for all the customers around me to hear in an effort to save my pride.

Jennifer looked apologetic... and scared. "I'm sorry, he'll be right over."

He took his sweet ass time. But he did come back to the counter, and – when words failed Jennifer's suddenly shaky voice – I explained the whole situation. His response: "We get full price for this hat when we return it, so why would I sell it to you?" (Honestly, what kind of manager says that to a customer who has money out in hand?)

"Because I want the hat." Was this not clear?

"Well you can pay full price for it too."

"But it's damaged, and I do want to buy it, I'm just having a hard time doing so without a discount."

"I'm not going to give you a discount, so do you want it or not." It wasn’t really a question.

"Can I think about it?" Honestly, I was still being nice and friendly at this point. I’m often not nice or friendly, but I really was at this point.

He turned to Jennifer, who hadn't said a word yet. "Mark it damaged."

"But I want the hat." Now my voice was rising.

"Then buy the hat." His face was a little redder, clearly annoyed and anxious to walk away.

"Are you going to get more?"

"Yes."

By this point I think it was clear I wanted the hat. Should I have really have had to ask when?

"I don't know." He probably thought he had sufficiently answered my question, or at least that I wasn't worth any more time... despite my wallet still being out and poised for purchase. But I stood fast, and grew increasingly angry.

"Ok," the polyester hat felt especially smooth under my sweaty fingertips. "Can you let me know when you do?"

His words were quick, like he was hoping to lose me. "No, we don't do that kind of thing and we don't have any idea when. We don't order them ourselves so it's out of our hands."

"Do other stores have them?"

"I don't know."

It was about then that I really thought about how I was going to cut the bow off anyways, so why waste a normal hat? But if I couldn't successfully get the bow off, could I take it back since it was already damaged?

"Our return policy is 30 days with a receipt."

"Ok, thanks." I think I was still sounding cool and collected, whereas he was still in full-fledged jerk-mode. "Can you please just write 'damaged' on it or something?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know," /cut it off... "try to fix it? Maybe make a tack on there or something?"

"You can't return it without the bow though, we won't give you your money back, obviously."

"Yea well," I looked at the ugly, glittering point of discussion, "I figured that."

"Well you didn't figure the other thing."

Excuse me? How dare he – a man so intelligent he’s the assistant manager of a shoe-store in a crappy part of Boston – talk down to me – a recently promoted college graduate who received her first official promotion before the time she turned 21? Maybe I’m being arrogant and sounding like I think I’m better than him – but how dare he be so condescending? Am I the customer? Yes. Am I the instigator here? No. I just wanted the hat. And I wanted a rightfully deserved discount, though I wanted the $20 hat more than not. Plus, he was a huge dick and was starting to really piss me off. "Alright, fine, bye."

"Excuse me?" Like I had some nerve. Buy that hat? How dare I!

"I said fine, I want the hat."

"Bye?" He looked so offended I had to crack a smile. "I work here. I'm not going anywhere." Funny, he was in such a rush to leave before.

"Fine." I retorted - much sharper than before, but still not in bitch-mode yet. "And I shop here, so I'm buying a hat."

All offended and pissed off, he demanded, "Then what'd you say 'bye' for?!"

"Because you clearly want to be somewhere else and you're being less than helpful." Now the head-shake-thing was starting, and the attitude rising.

"Not being helpful? Excuse me?"

"Yes," I looked him in the eye. Honestly, don't ever fuck with me. Just don’t do it. You’re life will be better. "I just had a simple question. I want this hat, it's broken, can you give me a discount or find me another one."

"And I answered the question and you didn't like the answer and now you're giving me attitude."

Actually, you didn’t. But I didn’t want to get into details. "Look, I'm buying a hat here, what do you want?"

And he huffed and stormed off. Here I am, tension rising, embarrassed in front of all the other customers, and still buying the goddam hat - at this point more for pride than anything. "Honestly, is he always such an asshole?"

Jennifer kind of nodded discreetly; her team manager was standing behind her on the phone. He, however, stopped mid-sentence, cupped the receiver and looked at me strongly. "Yes," he said. "Yes he is."

I smiled. "I am the customer here, still buying the hat, aren't I?"

"Yes," Jennifer chimed in - her voice much stronger now. "I'm really sorry that happened to you. Here, I'm writing 'damaged' on the receipt, so please feel free to return it. And just let whoever takes it back know that you spoke - for better or worse - with the manager on duty. I'll even sign it for you. Again, I'm really sorry."

Some people are so nice. "Thanks, I appreciate it. And don't worry - I'll be calling about 'Chip' here." She passed me the receipt. "Thanks again."

"No, thank you, Miss." She looked at me and in her big black voice, she said, "And really, you have yourself a really good day."

Chip sucks.

And now DSW is gonna know about it.

Let this be a message to the Chips out there: don’t suck.

The Weekend Ends...

Hahahaha – does it really have to end? Do I have to stop partying? Do I really have to go back to work tomorrow? DOES CHRISSY REALLY HAVE TO GO HOME?

The answer, of course, is yes. We’re just returning to the apartment after our casino adventure and God, will I be hurtin again as I wake up tomorrow/later today.

I’m torn – so happy, and so sad. It was so good to see my friends, so fun to celebrate with my fantastic family, and such a relief to know that no longer will I hesitate before going out. Never again will I feel uncomfortable if a coworker – or a client – asks me to meet for a drink. Never again will I have to lie to get into a bar, or recruit my friends to sneak me in. Never again will I suffer the anxiety of being a professional woman who can’t even legally drink.

And yet at the same time, Chrissy went home. I miss her already – how I found such a great friend, God knows.

And I’m so grateful to have met Dianne. She’s my girl, too – one of three. She’s fun, sweet, and we get along so well. She wrote me the nicest birthday card. I really appreciate her friendship.

It was fun tonight/last night to see Jon – who’s always hilarious – and his roommate – a rather handsome policeman who was hitting on my only other girlfriend – Shannon. Plus, casinos are always a good time.

But – for the first time legally – I gambled! Somehow I was rather good at roulette, although while playing I lost track of the important things in life… i.e. my purse.

See, I never carry a purse. My phone and wallet fit nicely into my back pockets, which over course is neither very flattering or safe. So my mother bought me a Coach “wristlet” for my 21st birthday (along with a BEAUTIFUL necklace!) Wrapped up in the game of roulette, I put my brand-new camera on the chair beside my purse, stood up and focused on that hypnotizing spinning wheel. When I turned around sometime later, I notice no one was watching my precious belongings and thought to myself: “Wow, someone could walk right by and steal my camera!” (I mean, who would want a purse, right?) Being cautious, I wrapped the camera around my body. When it came time to walk away, I noticed the purse was gone.

Thankfully, the purse had nothing in it but eyeliner, a debit card and my crappy-ass phone, which – as everyone later reminded me – no one in their right mind would want. All my cash and chips were on my person. For that, the security card applauded me as he scanned over the millions of films recording the roulette table, searching for the thief. It didn’t take long for the problem to be solved: just as I finished the paperwork a man approached the security desk and said, “Uh, I found this thing under a toilet in the men’s bathroom.” That thing was my purse, with everything still inside.

All they were after were cash and chips.


Funnier still was our adventure at the craps table. I was gambling, and sucking at it. (Apparently I can’t throw dice?) But, some young man across the table obviously thought Chrissy was cute.

Nerdy as he was, he asked the ‘dealer’ (what do you call those people?) “Can I put 5 up for that fine woman to throw?”

Can you call that ‘crap’py flirting?

With a chip donated to her name, Chrissy rolled. And she rolled and she rolled. The table loved her.

Some $40 later, her dynasty finally fell… to me, who promptly sucked. The table went cold, Chrissy lost all her winnings, and off we went… until her “sponsor” tracked Chrissy down.

I was ready to stay by her side, rescue her, protect her from strangers… but the boys dragged me off, promising it was funnier this way. “Right, until she gets kidnapped and raped.” “Cameras,” they said, “cameras.”

This man was young, tall and lanky. Awkward. “So, uh, what’s your name?”

“Chrissy.” She was obviously less than interested.

“Really?” he snorted out some combination of a grunt and a laugh. “That’s so funny! My name’s Chris.”

“Uh huh.” She raised her eyebrows and ran away.

What can I say? You just can’t buy Chrissy.


Aside from the continuous hilarities caused by Jon and his roommate Steve, the only other story I have is our walk though the pen of a poker room. That’s dangerous. Here we were, three girls looking hott, dressed to the nines and smokin’ anyways. We strutted through to the poker room, a basement-room cut off from the rest of the casino, radiating confidence. The place was packed full of dirty old men with hungry eyes. Caged animals. What do you expect from locking adrenaline charged gamblers in a tiny room with cards, beers, and other men? Bored quickly with Jon and Alex’s cards, Steven escorted us ladies out… and, just to prove a point, popped his collar and strutted like a pimp, while each of us clung an arm.

Yes, we got hollered at. Gotta love boobs.


We left the casino around 3. Stopped off in Mendon to rest up, then drove Chrissy to the airport for her God-awful-early flight. Now, finally crawling into my bed after three solid nights of playing, I feel the exhaustion set in. And just think – I have to wake up soon to go home and get my new NOT-vertical license from the Mass RMV. Hottness…

Casino, friends, bright lights and booze - what more do you want from a 21st birthday weekend?

Thanks ~

That was fun.

And it’s not even over yet.

I’m sitting at home – in Mendon – reveling in the extended birthday of 21. Last night was blast… and tonight promises to be just as fun.

We woke up this morning in a state of disarray. At 9:00am when I dragged my sorry ass out of bed (but in decent shape – thanks in large part to Chrissy), I ‘may or may not have been sober’ still. So I showered, thinking that might help.

It didn’t. I retreated to the futon, joined shortly later by Chrissy – who also could barely move – and followed by Alex, who takes the prize this weekend for being the best brother EVER.

Not many older brothers would play the role or host, bartender, chef, guardian, chauffer, and … for their obnoxious little sister’s twenty-first birthday. But mine did.

Last night he picked up the tab (for everyone except Chrissy and I, who got most of our drinks at the bar), mixed drinks at the apartment for everyone both before and after the bar, welcomed everyone and helped me stumble out the door to say goodbye, and – for better or worse – when men were hitting on me at the bar, he was right there to step in.

And this morning, when Chrissy and I were too hung over to do anything but groan and play Mario Kart, it was Alex who made us eggs and cinnamon toast.

Talk about nice, right?


And after Alex’s breakfast brought life back into our alcohol soaked bodies, we wasted the remainder of the day playing three-way video games.

Until now, of course, when we’re preparing for yet another fantastic dinner on the porch before Alex will drive our sorry butts to Foxwoods with Shannon, Jon and his friend.

Are we in for another party or what?

21. THANK GOD.

God, it is good to have Chrissy home. LOVE that girl. She arrived with bountiful presents and a particularly intriguing card - a simple white piece of homemade paper, with a black and white photo on the front of a photo of a sleeping baby... and a bottle of beer.


Inside: "My childhood was a blur." Appropriate, huh? But better still was her note: "Don't worry, I'll be there to pick your drunken ass off the streets of Boston." The foreshadowing - though slightly off - is immensely ironic.


After a delightful dinner with the fam outdoors in the Back Bay, the “youngins” returned to my Mass Ave apartment for the real festivities. My friend Dianne came, with her friend, and her friend’s friends. The more the merrier.



At this point, I can’t quite recall what we were drinking… but we drank. Heavily. Dane Cook was on Saturday Night Live. And that’s about the time I realized it was midnight – so off to the bars we went.

The Temple is a nice bar lost in the no-man’s-land between Harvard and Porter Square. Love the ambiance, but in my quasi-drunken state, the service sucked. 20 seconds at the table and I was already abound for the bar (with Chrissy at my side, like the incredible friend she is) – where, as usual, they didn’t card me.

“Guess what?”

Like the bartender cared. But he responded with a polite, “What?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Ooooo, how old?”

I smiled wickedly, ran my fingers along the mahogany bar. “Guess?”

He finished the cocktail he was mixing, leaned his hands on the bar and took a few seconds to gaze at me. “Twenty three.”

“WRONG!”

And Chrissy whipped out the passport, perfectly on Q.

“Oh my God, 21?!” He was genuinely surprise – then laughed quietly. “And I suppose this is the first time you’ve ever been in a bar?”

Needless to say, he gave Chrissy and I some shots for free… before charging us for the cocktail we brought back to the table.

We sat as a group in that bar for God knows how long. Shots, martinis, a blur of laughter in a haze of great times. That about sums up the night.

I decided one more drink at the bar was appropriate. My friend the bartender asked what we were looking for and, though I don’t remember it, Chrissy said I demanded wine. Not just any wine, though. “I only drink French wine.”

So he poured me a glass of Chilean red. Once finished, the group decided it was time to leave – to go to some place “livelier.” (I think the girls had dancing on the bar in mind.)

And this is where Chrissy’s card comes in.

We were walking towards - as people know tell me – Davis Square, strung out along the sidewalk like a parade. Chrissy was up front with one of the guys, leading the way. Behind him was Dianne’s friend Mala and the other guy. Then me, and Dianne and Alex brought up the rear. I stopped to take in the evening.

It was about then that I noticed the world was a little blurry. Lights streamed across the dark sky - like car lamps in still photography. I turned around to face Dianne and announced with disturbing accuracy, clarity and poise: "I may or may not be sober right now."

And then I fell.

But it wasn't just any fall - it was a drunken fall that would never of happened to one who had not consumed martinis, shots, bottles of wines and possibly some beers.
I lost my balance. A sober person would have found their feet. Mine gave way.
I feel to one knee. A sober person would have risen. I was still thinking about my feet.
I feel to an elbow. A sober person would have put the other hand down, but my hand failed me.
And that’s when I gave up, and - while still staring Dianne in the eyes - I fell flat on my face.

Oops?

I rolled onto my back and looked up from the dirty streets of Cambridge, thinking of Chrissy's card, and met the laughing faces of both my brother - who refused to help me up it was so funny - and Dianne - who quickly came to the rescue.

"That made my night," she said through tears of laughter. "Because now I definitely know that you're fall-down-drunk on your 21st birthday."

: )

Mummy’s Birthday (& it begins!)

CHRISSY CAME HOME (again)! AND it’s my mother’s ## birthday. (I won’t mention the exact number for fear of her wrath…)

But the bottom line is, nothing feels better then having my family – Chrissy included – at home, around the porch table, sipping wine, eating cake, and having a grand old time on a nice summer night.

I love these guys.


Now… get ready for a great birthday-bash weekend!

YEA ME!!!

Hahaha!!!

Sometimes people are lucky to find something they're really good at. Sometimes, some people are lucky enough to love what they're good at doing.

I LOVE my job. I adore the people I work with. I'm surrounded by brilliant women who are poised to take on the world. My superiors are encouraging, caring, and (mostly) patient mentours. My peers are fun, fresh and full of life. And - as of today - my "underlings" are bright, eager, and ready to learn.

That's right: today I got PROMOTED!!! My direct supervisor - the wonderful Leslie - told me so. As assistant account executive, I will have more repsonsibility, more and greater opportunities, and people that I will have to manage.

Already, I've been told that - as a manager - I'm "easily approachable." That may be the first time I've heard that in my life, but I love it! My intern said I was nice, encouraging, and fun. I do my best to give him interesting projects in addition to the photo copying and "bitch" work. And when the new girl starts next week, I'm her "direct boss." Can you believe it?

I am just so thrilled that I can truly say - five years from now - that I received my first promotion before I turned 21.

Now that's hott.

Determined fun.

It's rained for days.


As a member of the Fun Committee, it was my job to cheer everyone up. So, with the rest of the Fun team, we decided that first thing Friday morning, we'd lay out little packet of sunshine-related gifts on everyone's desk so when they come in, they'd at least have something fun to brighten their day. This bundle of goodies was to include: directions for the sun salutation (some yoga move - don't ask me), a small cardboard sun, some oranges, and a sunflower.

Unfortunately, I was responsible for collecting and distributing all these gifts before 8:00am in the morning.

Being the good little worker I am, I started well before Friday. I picked up the cardboard suns Wednesday evening. Thursday - the first dry day in weeks - I printed, stapled, and folded the sun salutation instructions. I figured I would have plenty of time to collect the flowers and fruit from one of the markets downtown before coming to work in the morning. But what do I know?


When I began my commute this morning it wasn't raining. However, when I got off the T in Downtown Crossing without an umbrella and wearing my leather jacket, it was pouring. AND the market by the T stop was out of sunflowers. Figures. Still, I picked up 20+ oranges (which - by the way - are not easy to carry along with two of my own heavy bags) and moved on. Through the torrential downpours I trekked to the other Downtown Crossing market three blocks away. Apparently they never sell sunflowers. However, I realized that from this market, I could walk directly to work and pass a tiny flower shop on Franklin Street, so off I went. But they were out of sunflowers too.


This is the point when I think many others would give up. But how could I? The team was counting on me, man! And my hair was already dripping wet, my gym bag was already soggy, the oranges already strained my back, and my sneakers were already soaked through. What was the point of quitting now? It wasn't like I could show up at work looking decent or dry.

So I walked another several blocks out of the way to the IP flower shop. The florist didn't look up when I walked in the door. It was before 8; he was still getting ready to open up. "Wet day, huh?" he asked. As if the raindrops still falling off the tip of my nose weren’t an obvious enough sign I wasn't thrilled to be there.

"I need some sunflowers."

This is when he finally looked at me. Drops of water fell off my curls and ran down my cheeks. "Yes," he said, "Yes, you do." I forced a wet, soggy smile. There are no funner flowers than sunflowers. "How many?"

Twenty sunflowers and way too much money later, I found myself back in the rain heading towards the office. It was already 8:15 and people would start arriving any moment. Time was short. But miraculously all four sunny fun gifts ended up on everyone's desk before they showed up with coffee, and overall, the Fun Committee was successful again.



*check out more pictures at Boston.com

CHRISSY CAME HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!

YEA!!!!!


(AND I've kidnapped her for several nights over the next few weeks... : )

TIME

I read the annual “100 People Who Shape the World” edition of Time on the train home.


What a great tribute to the movers and shakers of this world. Wrapping up the last page, I smiled to myself: “Someday,” I thought, “someday I want to be listed in this.” And somehow the idea creeped into my mind that maybe someday, if I truly work hard enough, that may just be possible.

There is something wonderful about believing the entire world is truly at our fingertips.

Bring on the Sun!

Some people gaff at the way I think. I like to think they're just ignorant, but sometimes — just sometimes — they may have a point.
 
Take today, for example. Today I woke up and decided it should be nice out, all warm and sunny and summery. So, I wore flip flops and a tank top to work. I figure: Maybe if I dress for summer, it will be summer?
 
However, while walking the half-mile from the train station to work on this clear sunny but nearly freezing day, I realized my wardrobe alone couldn't turn the seasons.
 
Everyone else would have to wear flip-flops too.

Alvin Ailey

Sure, my birthday isn’t for another two months. But it’s a big birthday, and we might as well start celebrating sooner rather than later… as in now.

I met my mother – whose birthday is two days before mine – across the street from South Station. With four-inch heels, hardly any sleep, and a good ten-hour day, I was not exactly oozing energy. She was. And rather than pay $5 for cab or $1.50 for the T, my mother decided we’d walk on the rough cobblestone sidewalk to get where we were going. (As my arches seared with pain, I couldn’t help but to think of a comment by the Wonkette blogger, who noted that a woman wearing heels was like an animal’s “learned hindrance” used to attract a mate.)

On the walk to Boston’s Chinatown, the weather picked up. Rain, grimy streets, wind… and my mother wears contacts. She hid behind me and started walking slower than my limp, which is when I knew something was really the matter. Being the loving daughter I am, I stopped to shield her from the passing crowd of Asians and soot-carrying wind. “What’s the matter?”

She rubbed her eyes. Through the bustle of Boston streets and the mumbles of her voice, I heard: “Nothing, sorry, I’m looking ridiculous…dirt in my contacts…hurts.” She picked her head up, looked at me through blurry eyes and – loudly and clearly – continued, “I look stupid walking around with all slanty-eyes.”

Not exactly what you want to say in Chinatown.

But, city-slick girls we are (not!), we emerged unnoticed. My Aunt Carol – the orchestrater and gift giver of the evening - was waiting for my mother and I at some mildly famous restaurant decorated in a tropical, festive, tikki theme. The menu was more Asian than Chinese, including everything from Tai to Korean and beyond. But the real party didn’t start until after dinner, when we ventured to the old Wang Theatre – where I once dreamed of performing the Nutcracker – to see Alvin Ailey.

Shit. Those guys are good. The girls are beautiful, fun, graceful. The men – God, I have never seen such bodies… and despite their dance skills and homosexual mannerisms, their athleticism and energy were seducing. And there’s just something so amazing about a woman who looks that beautiful with a shaved head.

Seriously, watching these people dance to their heritage – from old African tribal songs to Ella Fitzgerald to good old gospel – and look so beautiful and have such a good time… well, it made me want to be black. Even the “fat girl” looked phenomenal. And damn, those girls can dance.

But nope… I’m just a lil white girl, a thoroughbred country bumpkin pretending to belong in the city.

The Alchemist

Some words of wisdom from my all-time favorite and inspirational book, The Alchemist:

* To realize one's destiny is a person's only obligation
* No matter what he does, every person on earth plays a central role in the history of the word. And normally he doesn't know it.
* When you are loved, you can do anything in creation
* The world we live in will be either better or worse, depending on whether we become better or worse
* When we love, we always strive to become better than we are
* Most people see the world as a threatening place, and, because they do, the world turns out, indeed, to be a threatening place.
* People are afraid to pursue their most important dreams, because they feel that they don't deserve them, or that they'll be unable to achieve them
* The fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself
* Everyone on earth has a treasure that awaits him
* When you are in love, things make even more sense
* Making a decision is only the beginning of things.
* If you can concentrate always on the present... Life will be a party for you, a grand festival, because life is the moment we're living right now.
* It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting
* The world was huge and inexhaustible
* It's the simple things in life that are the most extraordinary
* Everyone seems to have a clear idea of how other people should lead their lives, but none about his or her own.
* It's this: that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of what's happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. That's the world's greatest lie.
* When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it
* I'm like everyone else - I see the world in terms of what I would like to see happen, not what actually does...
* This isn't a strange place; it is a new one.
* He was learning a lot of new things. Some of them were things that he had already experienced, and weren't really new, but that he had never perceived before.
* I'm afraid that if my dream is realized, I'll have no reason to go on living.
* Every blessing ignored becomes a curse
* It's easy to understand that someone in the world awaits you, whether it's in the middle of the desert or in some great city. And when two such people encounter each other, and their eyes meet, the past and the future become unimportant. There is only that moment
* He tried to deal with the concept of love as distinct from possession, and couldn't separate them
* When a person really desires something, all the universe conspires to help that person to realize his dream
* It's no what enters men's mouths that's evil. It's what comes out of their mouths that is.
* Love never keeps a man from pursuing his dreams
* One is loved because one is loved. No reason is needed for loving.
* Men dream more about coming home than about leaving
* There is only one way to learn. It's through action
* It is said that "the darkest hour of the night comes just before the dawn."
* When you possess great treasures within you, and try to tell others of them, seldom are you believed
* "Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time."

Apartment Hunting

Now THAT was a cool place.

I’m determined to live in the city for the summer. There is nothing like Boston in the warmer months, when people spend all day reading in the Park, watching Shakespeare in the Commons, strolling down Newbury, or eating outside at one of the many downtown restaurants. It’s no Camarat… but it’s a hell of a lot better than Mendon, where our summer highlight is the opening of the zoo. They have llamas, you know.

Tonight, I dragged my darling brother to see a beautiful apartment in Harvard Square. Right on Mass Ave., it’s surrounded by the amenities needed for city living: bars, outdoor cafes, grocery store, laundry-mat, you name it. The best part? It’s a corner building, one side facing the bustling main street, and the other opening up to a neighborhood full of green grass, cherry blossoms, and quiet streets. And, since the place is pet friendly, that’s where I’ll be running Tequila.

I can’t wait. I am already dreaming about evenings after work when I can come home to that screened in porch and sip some nice red wine. Two big bedrooms, an enormous living space, all hardwood floors. The current tenants, a beautiful and witty Harvard Law student and her friend Chistoph from Minneapolis, keep the place sparklingly clean and will leave everything – furniture, glasses, pots and pans, towels, etc – for us to use this summer.

That’s where things get tricky – who’s the us? I do need a roommate… but hell, that’ll come later. Right now – bring on the fun!

Pride & Prejudice

I’m sonot into girly movies. Seriously – chic flicks, especially romantic comedies, are just not of interest to me. Sappy love stories I can usually tolerate (I liked Shakespeare in Love!), but I’m not going to go out of my way to see them.

However, seeing as Mom and I were the only ones home on this Monday holiday (Patriot's Day, aka Marathon Monday), it only seemed fitting that I netflix something appropriate for the occasion. Thus, we found ourselves watching the new Pride and Prejudice, with beautiful Keira Knightly.

She was definitely good. She is beautiful, and she is fun – hell, she played a main role in the funnest movie EVER (which is, of course, Pirates of the Caribbean – can you wait for July?! I can’t!). The movie itself was interesting, gripping, moving, etc… or some combination that made the lengthy flick pass quickly. Or, at least, a hell of a lot faster than the novel. And let me tell you – it certainly made you want to fall in love with that Mr. Darcy.

Anyways, that’s my brief movie review for the moment. I’m off to dream about falling in love with some romantic man who will sweep me off my feet…

Of course, I have to write this entry with a disclaimer. For all the romanticizing and dreaming about true love that – did, she never found it herself – she never got married. Ever. Talk about irony. Depressing, isn’t it?

Polish Easter

Some people say Christmas is all about family. It is, I suppose. But in our house, if you show up to our door on Easter morning, you are family.


Of course, it's not something I'd advertise - for your sake. We are crazy. The polish family lives for Easter, and we live it up. We spend days - literally DAYS - cooking the food for the feast. This year, it was a three-day affair… slightly shorter than the time we used to allot for preparation before we discovered the polish deli who'd hand-make some of the tasty treats for us.

And when we do holidays at Chez Michel, they're always done right. Damn straight. Our table(s) - we had to make an awkward combination of three in order to seat all of our guests - were dressed in pastel clothes: pale green, chic yellow, soft white. We dressed it with our baby blue runner, found some colorful candles, laid the china out, and even dared to use my mother's beloved antique pink cherry blossom depression glass. We live for having parties.

So the table was set, the food prepared, the family - and then some - poised for the feast. Between girlfriends of cousins (I only have one girl cousin), family friends, and Jon Dias… well, it was crazy. We were actually screaming down the table to have conversations with those at the other end. Think of “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” - but make it Polish.

However, the conversation decreased in correlation with the food. As we emptied the platters of food - enough to feed 60 - we could do naught but hold our bellies and sigh… and prepare for the next meal.

I think now is a good time to talk about what we eat. Get ready.

We wake up in the morning, (theoretically) go to church, and by 10:00 we're at the table for breakfast. It's called Barscht. Basically, it's soup… kind of. The table is lined with plate upon plate of meat: smoked shoulder, veal, bacon, smoke kielbasa, plane kielbasa, Easter kielbasa, you name it. We fill our bowls with huge chunks of meat, throw in some red and white horse radish (which my uncle continuously tries to get people to eat place, calling it “Polish ice cream”), pour in the “broth” (and I won't tell you how that's made… it's just nasty), and add a hardboiled egg.

But, being Polish, and to keep up with traditions, we can't just crack open a hardboiled egg and dump it in. Oh no. Instead, we have egg fights. Seriously. We parade around the table with these hard boiled eggs securely fastened in our fists, and challenge a relative to a duel. First, the challenger takes a crack - no pun intended - at the other person's egg. Then, the eggs are flipped and he-who-was-challenged then uses his egg to try and crack the challengers. Whosever egg doesn't crack, wins… Of course, that means they got to keep fighting until they find someone who beats them at egg cracking.

There are, of course, neat little trick and strategies to ensure that you are the winner - or that you are the loser in the case that you're desperate to eat. My brother and father have mastered the tactics necessary to cheat to win. Ah, competitive men…

I remember as a kid, all I wanted to do was have egg fights. Forget the food - I'd just run around the table with egg after egg trying to beat every member of my family. It hardly ever worked. And today, watching my cousin's darling kids - Michael and Abby - run around and do the same… well, it was sweet. Really sweet.

Afterwards, we had to get my cousin drunk for her 30th birthday. It's only right. Me, for one, was ready for a trip to Foxwoods… but for some odd reason everyone else thought drinking AND gambling on Easter was just sacrilegious. So to the bars we went.

We ended up at my cousin's - the birthday girl's brother's - for some beers. Joe married a fantastic woman, Kathleen, who is really just an amazing and fun person to hang out with. Their kids, Michael and Abby, are so bright and polite. And they have a turtle. Which is awesome.

And Tania - after several drinks erased her fear of ending her twenties - was a blast. I love hanging out with the family. We have fun.

So that's that. Tomorrow I get another morning to sleep in… while the boys have to go to work. Sucks for them. That's what they get for taking a week off to go golfing in Florida!