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?