My Top 5 Brands:

Brands I am an advocate for:

• Apple
  
• Netflix
  
• Wikipedia
  

Brands I am passionately loyal to:

• Coca~Cola
  
• Cannon
  

At least no one can say I don’t love something through and through...

Thoughts of Summer...

Another snowy day in New England and I stumble upont this:

"The Earth Laughs in Flowers"

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

And that's why I love sunflowers.
They're just such happy flowers!

(Yes - I am a loser in desperate need of a warm-weather vacation)

The Flight Risk Factor

I am a flight risk.
How fantastic is that? Other people fear that at any given moment I may just drop everything in pursuit of some far fetched dream in any distant location – across the country or across the ocean.

As I prepared to leave my beloved life in Camarat, I kept my bank account open. It crossed my mind as I did so that it might be foolish. At the time, I planned on returning – perhaps taking that boating job… or perhaps I left it open as an additional incentive to go back. But my life changes – my dreams change – so rapidly, I ought to have known that I cannot afford any ties… especially ties that cost 10€ each month.

My flight risk factor is also why I cannot return to France. If I go back this summer, no employer in the future is going to hire me in their right mind. I may work for a couple months, enough for that firm to invest in me, then drop all and go away. It’s not necessarily a good thing.

As it were, I was doing competitive research the other day for some new business. Apparently my firm hasn’t figured out I’m the last person to assign thtis kind of project to. In researching those who do similar things to my firm, I found future employers. I couldn’t help making a hand written note of these companies and how I could pitch myself to them and where they could take me… a note that I quickly folded up and stored away in my most personal pocket of my briefcase, of course.

I guess this characteristic of mine is another reason why I’m so anxious about joining the gym. Yes, I saved a ton of money by signing that two year contract. But even as I did so, all I could hear in my mind was, “What?! You’re kidding?! Stay in Boston for two whole years?!” But I did it. Because apparently I don’t learn from my mistakes.

I ought to know that I cannot be bound to long-term contracts. That was my problem with leases this summer. That is my fear of commitment. That is why, no matter how much I love this job or this city, I know as soon as I discover an opportunity in some city I never thought I’d live in – Montreal, Chicago, D.C., whatever – I am going to take it.

I just need some experience, money and roommates first…

The Gym

Lately I’ve been feeling like I’ve just been going through the motions. Life doesn’t really exist. Wake up before the sun and rush to get ready. Take the train to work while reading the newspaper. Work hard all day. Go to the bar on occasion for drinks afterwards with colleagues. Take the train home. Have dinner and go straight to bed. Keep track of progress at work in hopes of a promotion. There is no time to stop and reflect on what's going on; I’ve become be a faceless drone in a suit - like Rene Magritte's painting.

I need to do something other than work, commute and sleep. And everyone else in the office always talks about their fantastic gyms, scattered about the city. So what do I decide to do Monday afternoon after a rough day at work? I join a stupid gym.

I suited up at the office. If I hadn’t, it would have been an excellent excuse to just walk briskly to the train station and call that exercise. Who needs a gym?

Upon arrival I encountered my second obstacle. I was impressed I even got to the gym, and now there was a line. A long line. Luckily for me, I whine really well – well enough, in fact, to cut the line and be immediately talked into giving my hard-earned money away. (I guess a long commute and set train schedule helps…) After paying the exuberant fees and signing some ridiculously long contract, I put my beautiful face – hidden below that winter layer of blubber – on a Bally’s Gym Card and called it a day.

I was about to leave when Lauren – my co-worker and fellow gym member – spotted me. “Do you want to put your bags in my locker so you can work out.”

No, not really.

But she has to be so goddamn sweet.

Shit.
I guess I will work out after all.

So I dumped my burden of stuff in her locker, took a quick glance of the facility, and emerged into the “Cardio Vascular Area.” I only had twenty minutes to “exercise” (I feel SO lame saying that word – like I actually care about it. It’s the same with a diet. I don’t diet, and I certainly don’t exercise. And yet, with the help of my suddenly-too-small pants, I’m “eating healthier” and “occupying my time at the gym – to give me a life, of course, not to lose weight.” I am lame.)

The gym is an awe-inspiring place. (Awesome would be an incredible word to write – something worthy of awe – but it’s been ruined by 80s style retro-one-liners.) Emerging from the locker room, the first thing I see is a treadmill row of beat face fatties running to no particular destination, making no progress, deliberately panting for breath, their dimpled legs looking even more like cottage cheese as they jiggle with arduous each step. And there I was, joining them. I, like practically everyone else in my row, laced up the white iPod earbuds to my ears, tuned out the world to some up-beat music on steroids, and joined the endless race to feel better about physical imperfections.

Fuck it. I like my imperfections.

Maybe I will always be a little bit fat. I don’t care. I like my tummy. And my boobs and everything else that goes with it.

I will, however, continue to go to the gym on mornings that I arrive in Boston at an absurdly early hour.

It’s what everyone else does when going through the motions of grown-up life: work, gym, commute, sleep... Who has time for fun anymore?

Helpless

I don’t know what it is about cakes, but to me they’re like a landmark of success. To bake a nice cake for company is like surpassing a certain landmark in life, reaching a certain level of achievement. In France, I tried so desperately to transform that oven into a cake producing machine… and always without success.

Don’t get me wrong, I make delicious desserts. I can create a tiramisu from scratch that you’d die for, chocolate cookies that’ll give you a sweet tooth even if you never had one before, brownies that demand to be fought for. But cakes remain an impossible feat.

Today was no exception. With my grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins coming for dinner, wine and football, I figured it was a special enough occasion to make dessert. And since I just received business cards and media coverage yesterday at work, I was feeling pretty powerful. It was time to take on the cake.

My mother was cleaning upstairs. My brother and father were rooting my cousin on in his college basketball game. I had just finished a bit of weekend-work and found myself a box for yellow food cake – figuring if it came from a box, there was no way in hell I could screw it up. Wrong.

Despite following the directions perfectly, when I took the cake out of the oven, I noticed its deformities. It didn’t exactly rise… still a dense, moist sponge-like coagulation of batter heavy on the bottom of the pan. And when I tried to shake it out of the tin, some stubbornly clung to the sides and creases, leaving me with a lopsided, ovalish mound of yellow fluff.

Don’t worry: Because it’s my family and they still like me despite my cake-making-debilities, we ate it anyways ~ frosted with a good round of laughter and buried under Strabucks’ Java Chip ice cream.

Both dinner and game ended a while ago but I can’t leave the kitchen. This cake is currently on the counter mocking me. Half the size it should be and propped up by a MilkyWay, it’s a reminder of my failed obstacle, unaccomplished goal.

But I ain’t sceerrred. I’ll dominate that cake mix next time.

You’ll see.

What the ????

This about sums up my night:


It was the strangest New Years I’ve ever celebrated.

Most people approach New Years Eve with a mixture of dread and delight. On one hand, it is the greatest party evening of the year, a night to get formal and drink champagne, an excuse to find yourself unbelievably wasted with your favorite friends. On the other, it’s hyped-up and almost guaranteed to be the biggest letdown of the year. Tears will be shed. Someone will get drunk and do something stupid. And – guaranteed – potentially awesome plans will fall through.

Me? I always look forward to New Years. I think it’s an awesome idea, composed of two things I love to do: dress up and drink. To me, it’s a guaranteed good time – whether I’m playing pong in the basement with my family or partying hard in downtown Boston. This year I couldn’t have cared less.

The morning of New Year’s Eve, I told my brother I’d do whatever he told me to do. Seizing the opportunity, he barked out orders: “Get ready. We leave in an hour and a half.” I needed no further explanation.

I loved the sexy little red top I wore, but apparently I forgot whom I was going out with. Alex had me zipped to my chin in a black sweater before I even left the house to meet his two friends from college, Amy and Scott. We took the train into Boston, looking forward to a small “dance party” among friends. Trouble is, we had no idea what these friends of Scott were like.

To tell the truth, if we had known then what we know now, I’m not sure we would have bothered.


It was hilarious. A half a block from South Station we found their apartment – a decrepit death trap on the sixth floor of some ancient, abandoned warehouse. Taking the elevator to their place, we feared for our lives when we realized there were no stairs, no fire escape, and an easy tumble through the gigantic windows overlooking the trashiest part of Southie. I saw my body splattered on the cracked cement below, bumped out by some drunk kid. Trouble is, there were no other kids with whom we could get drunk.

Scott’s two friends, the only people at the party, showed us the apartment. The walls were decorated with “paintings” composed by their “artist” roommate (who lived in some cave-like loft above the main – and only – room in the apartment). These paintings – which the boys swore were for sale and brought in a bit of money – were all of a dinosaur (though we only knew it was a dinosaur after it was explained to us) that looked like it belonged in a book crossed between Shel Silverstein and Kurt Vonnegut. Our kind but grungy guests offered us drinks – poured from a 40oz beer bottle – while stringing up a disco ball to fall from the ceiling at midnight. We had visions of shattered glass.

Having brought our own wine, $40 tequila and Johnnie Walker Black as gifts, we promptly helped ourselves to our own offerings. Except when I went into the community kitchen/bathroom to make ice of the scotch, the water coming out was far from the kind of water I’m used to drinking… in that it wasn’t clear. At all.

(This is us crying for help:)

Long story long, we quickly left.

We found ourselves in the common just in time for the fireworks (beautiful!) and managed to make our way into one of the local pubs for food and beers. After hours of making fun of drunk people on the slow path of becoming some ourselves, we decided it best to return to the party. (This, of course, was after I ran into someone I went to high school with… small town Mendon haunts me everywhere I go!) On the way back we played “Price is Right” guessing how many additional guests would be at the party since our departure. I had the low of 3. I figured it was possible Scott’s friends had goth-like girlfriends and the third “artist” roommate was bond to return at some point. Scott, having more faith in his high school pals, had the high of 8. We were both wrong.


At this late hour, it was a dance party. Except it was a dance party unlike any I’ve ever seen… let alone be a part of. Girls in little black dresses, fishnet tights and hot pink pumps spazzed out on the floor while never-before-heard music blared out of speakers I had previously mistaken for side tables. Awkward men in stiff button-up shirts and silly looking ties attempted the robot. There were drums and video cameras and… well, all I really know is I promptly found my scotch.


We parked our asses on the coach and spent the remainder of the night doing just what we did in the bar – making fun of people while desperately trying to grow intoxicated. When our butts began to hurt and our mission proved unsuccessful, we left.


I spent New Year’s Eve in South Station, eating McDonalds and waiting for the 12:45 train.

We also brought red keg cups and our booze.

Needless to say, it was yet another incredibly fun New Years full of uncanny stories and lots of laughs ~ just a First Night I never could have imagined.