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…