During one of my many trying-to-define-myself phases, I prescribed to the nouveau hippy lifestyle, by which I mean to say that I was not a radical of the Vietnam era that supported an actual cause, but that I was a wannabe of the late 90s/early 00s that wore flowy hemp skirts, protested at the occasional political rally when I didn’t feel like going to class and smoked a shit-ton of pot. Having realized that those skirts are not flattering and that crossing a picket line for an ice cream cone is frowned on, I evolved - along with a solid portion of that crowd. I like to think that we ex-hippies are a big part of the current green movement. Yes, we work our yuppy, corporate jobs to pay the bills but by God, we also drive Priuses and put our groceries in canvas bags. Or, in my particular case, we get horny about recycling.
Granted, I’m not scaling back on my lengthy showers or going too far out of my way to help save the planet, but that’s exactly what I like about recycling. It takes zero brain power and minimal effort to toss your plastic, aluminum, glass, and paper into different containers. With every sorted Diet Coke can, I am personally keeping 13 grams of waste out of a landfill – and if you’ve ever smelled northern New Jersey, you know that any help should be appreciated. I’ve even trained Beau to rinse his beer bottles and stash them in a separate trash bag!
Having recycling services available in your area and not making use of them seems beyond my conception of the most slovenly, lazy behavior. It seems downright malicious given the results of current research on the environment. Go ahead and make excuses: you’re too busy, your small contribution doesn’t mean anything, you don’t like the look of extra bins in your kitchen. Just don’t come crying to me when the polar ice caps melt and your grand children are carried away in the flood. I’ll be safely afloat in a tiny car that gets awesome gas mileage. I don’t make this stuff up people; it’s science.
One of my particular pet peeves is watching commuters drop their morning paper in the trash as soon as they step off the train. It doesn’t seem to be asking too much to hold onto it until they reach the office where there is inevitably a blue recycling bin under every desk. Imagine my delight when Boston began putting specific newspaper recycling bins on the platforms of most major subway stops for your morning Metro. Despite the fact that a slim percentage uses them, it warms my heart.
On my way out of the subway this morning, I saw a young respectable-looking woman spit into one such receptacle. I slowed to rubber neck and tilt my head to one side in my curious fashion. The dichotomy was fascinating. She was dressed in business casual attire yet had unmistakably expelled saliva in public during the morning rush hour. Is this what we’ve stooped to? Haven't we done enough to the planet already?
I couldn’t help but continue to gawk on my way out. That’s how I ascertained that she was not in fact chawin’ tabacky or anything of the sort. She was in the middle of vomiting. Truly, I sympathized with her predicament, but instead of being grossed out like the other commuters, my secondary emotion was just irritation over her regurgitation ruining a perfectly good bin of recyclables.
Of course, since it’s Friday and karma has a way of finding me at inopportune moments, I’ll probably end up puking a liter of rum directly into a recycling truck tonight.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Dog Pervert
I approach most aspects of life with general neutrality and a seemingly impervious laid back attitude. It’s difficult to get me worked up over most things that titillate a 20-something gal like myself: fashion, gossip, politics, career paths, celebrities. A coworker brought her wedding gown into work the other day. The other entry level female employees swarmed around to bob up and down while twittering with big googly eyes. Then they turned to me and I actually said, “that’s nice” before excusing myself. On the other polar extreme, I sometimes go overboard in pursuit of whatever DOES manage to hold my attention. For example, booze and literature. I’m quite sure that my brain chemistry has been permanently altered from soaking in rum for all of the 21st century. I collect, on average, 1 to 3 novels per week, meaning that they are beginning to crowd us out of our own apartment. Not to mention my willingness to throw many thousand dollars towards a Master’s in Books. Some people are alarmed by the swings in behavior from calm, docile Dangerous K to energized, arm-flapping, shrieking Dangerous K. I’m beginning to get there myself folks.
You see, I like dogs. A lot. Dogs go in the rum and books category. I make friends with people in the neighborhood based solely off of the cuteness of their pet. There’s an old Russian woman down the street who I chit chat with on my morning stroll to the train station because she has the sweetest golden lab (who incidentally has an unpronounceable Russian name that consists only of consonants. Something like Jpyhfnk). In the park, I lower my sunglasses and make suggestive faces at anything furry with four paws. Sometimes I cop a feel as we walk past. When Mrs. First Floor Apartment asks me to watch Chica, I usually scream “YES” before she’s finished with the question. I’ve purposely cancelled plans to do it. So the following story should come as no surprise.
This Sunday, Beau and I woke up early to go yard sale-ing on the Cape. I was perusing a box of paperbacks when some kind of Sheppard mix ran out of the woods and began circling the tables, clearly lost, scared, and dehydrated. The homeowners stopped sales-pitching Beau on an antique Elvis record to get pots full of water before chasing after the dog, shouting and clanging the pans together. He retreated across the street. Who could blame him? While the homeowners were occupied counting Beau’s change, I whistled to the poor thing. He perked up his ears at the familiar sound and immediately sat down. I gently called him over. I was inches from grabbing his collar, looking at his tags for an address, and stuffing him into the car to take to his rightful home when the damn blue hairs starting hollering and running around again. The Sheppard took off into the woods but this time, he didn’t come back out.
In the car on the way to the next yard sale, Beau noticed my uncharacteristic reticence and reached over to pat my leg. I immediately starting sobbing and cursing The Retarded Old People With The Pots And Pans. I was ruined for further bargain hunting and now Elvis is inextricably linked with lost puppies that I failed to rescue.
I thought I spied redemption on our way to the grocery store last night. As we pulled around the corner at the end of the block, I saw a sole Weimaraner sniffing her way through the gas station. I shouted, “STOP THE CAR!” until Beau pulled towards the curb. Before he’d come to a complete halt, I jumped out and speed-walked towards the pooch, whistling. She poked her head out from her hiding spot and tilted her head. I could see her ID tags. As I approached with my hand held out in offering, a well dressed woman rounded the corner with her fists on her hips. While I did some mental math, the Weimaraner crouched down to take a dump. I called out, “Is she yours?” to the woman who just nodded and started to tap her foot. I managed to get out “I thought she was lost” before scurrying back to Beau and loudly complaining that the dog-owner didn’t have to get in such a bitchy huff; I was just trying to be a Good Samaritan.
But let’s turn the situation around, shall we?
You’re out on a beautiful May evening, walking your pure-bred, prize-winning Precious. She’s excited to be out of the house finally and keeps pulling at the leash, so you let her off with full faith in her usual obedience. As you’re passing the gas station, she starts that intent sniffing which could only mean one thing: doody. You’d really prefer she didn’t take a shit at the Exxon but on the bright side, if she does it now, you'll definitely get back in time to see Hell's Kitchen. You stoop to tie your shoe when a dark vehicle comes to a screeching halt about ten feet from your baby. Before it has completely stopped, a crazed looking girl in a tie dye t-shirt and Bermuda shorts opens the door and jumps out. She begins running towards your pet making enticing noises and promising it candy and a new bike if it gets in the car. When she sees you, she stutters a phony excuse about a lost dog and bolts.
You know what that makes me? A dog pervert. Dateline is going to make a show about me.
You see, I like dogs. A lot. Dogs go in the rum and books category. I make friends with people in the neighborhood based solely off of the cuteness of their pet. There’s an old Russian woman down the street who I chit chat with on my morning stroll to the train station because she has the sweetest golden lab (who incidentally has an unpronounceable Russian name that consists only of consonants. Something like Jpyhfnk). In the park, I lower my sunglasses and make suggestive faces at anything furry with four paws. Sometimes I cop a feel as we walk past. When Mrs. First Floor Apartment asks me to watch Chica, I usually scream “YES” before she’s finished with the question. I’ve purposely cancelled plans to do it. So the following story should come as no surprise.
This Sunday, Beau and I woke up early to go yard sale-ing on the Cape. I was perusing a box of paperbacks when some kind of Sheppard mix ran out of the woods and began circling the tables, clearly lost, scared, and dehydrated. The homeowners stopped sales-pitching Beau on an antique Elvis record to get pots full of water before chasing after the dog, shouting and clanging the pans together. He retreated across the street. Who could blame him? While the homeowners were occupied counting Beau’s change, I whistled to the poor thing. He perked up his ears at the familiar sound and immediately sat down. I gently called him over. I was inches from grabbing his collar, looking at his tags for an address, and stuffing him into the car to take to his rightful home when the damn blue hairs starting hollering and running around again. The Sheppard took off into the woods but this time, he didn’t come back out.
In the car on the way to the next yard sale, Beau noticed my uncharacteristic reticence and reached over to pat my leg. I immediately starting sobbing and cursing The Retarded Old People With The Pots And Pans. I was ruined for further bargain hunting and now Elvis is inextricably linked with lost puppies that I failed to rescue.
I thought I spied redemption on our way to the grocery store last night. As we pulled around the corner at the end of the block, I saw a sole Weimaraner sniffing her way through the gas station. I shouted, “STOP THE CAR!” until Beau pulled towards the curb. Before he’d come to a complete halt, I jumped out and speed-walked towards the pooch, whistling. She poked her head out from her hiding spot and tilted her head. I could see her ID tags. As I approached with my hand held out in offering, a well dressed woman rounded the corner with her fists on her hips. While I did some mental math, the Weimaraner crouched down to take a dump. I called out, “Is she yours?” to the woman who just nodded and started to tap her foot. I managed to get out “I thought she was lost” before scurrying back to Beau and loudly complaining that the dog-owner didn’t have to get in such a bitchy huff; I was just trying to be a Good Samaritan.
But let’s turn the situation around, shall we?
You’re out on a beautiful May evening, walking your pure-bred, prize-winning Precious. She’s excited to be out of the house finally and keeps pulling at the leash, so you let her off with full faith in her usual obedience. As you’re passing the gas station, she starts that intent sniffing which could only mean one thing: doody. You’d really prefer she didn’t take a shit at the Exxon but on the bright side, if she does it now, you'll definitely get back in time to see Hell's Kitchen. You stoop to tie your shoe when a dark vehicle comes to a screeching halt about ten feet from your baby. Before it has completely stopped, a crazed looking girl in a tie dye t-shirt and Bermuda shorts opens the door and jumps out. She begins running towards your pet making enticing noises and promising it candy and a new bike if it gets in the car. When she sees you, she stutters a phony excuse about a lost dog and bolts.
You know what that makes me? A dog pervert. Dateline is going to make a show about me.
Friday, May 23, 2008
A History Lesson: Dangerous K and How She Got That Way
The time has come, little ones, to share the story of how I acquired my pseudonym. You’ve probably already guessed the K stands for my first name. Clever girl. Now gather round for the rest.
Once upon a time, I spent a summer studying abroad in Oxford which I still believe to be one of the most beautiful towns on Earth. My scholarly endeavors consisted of two classes that I attended incredibly hung over, a couple of papers that I wrote with double vision, and nearly vomiting on a world renowned professor. Most of my time was spent at a basement club called The Purple Turtle, located down a charming cobble stone street. Inside there were all manner of seedy staples: pleather couches, drunk men in kilts, dance floor with strobe lights, a visible cloud of smoke hanging below the ceiling, etc.
What dive would be complete without the requisite creeps trying to pick you up? I, unlike someone else who shall remain unnamed, never managed to get my claws into a kilted drunk, but I did attract the attention of another English stereotype: a chav. While waiting for a drink one night, I found myself squished next to the bar with one such individual who was sporting the complete uniform of faux-Burberry baseball cap, oversized sports jersey, gold chain, and vigilantly manicured facial hair.
During our wait, we chatted about ourselves: I learned that he was a local DJ of hardcore electronic music and he learned that I was a lingerie model with a thick Italian accent. When our drinks sloshed onto the counter in front of us, he immediately pulled out a wad of cash and insisted on paying for my drink. This was convenient because I was also about to insist he pay for my drink.
Sensing weakness, I continued to prey on this poor young gentleman for the next hour or so. Why yes, I would like another drink. Blink blink blink. I dare say I’m getting quite tipsy now. I’m not used to this strong, virile English cider. Blink blink blink. Why no, I don’t have any cigarettes of my own. Why yes, I’d love to have one of yours. Blink blink blink.
Unfortunately, he had underestimated my tolerance and was eventually surprised to see his wallet contained nothing but a few loose coins, his pack of Mayfairs was empty, and yet I was not yet intoxicated enough to be taken to a dark alley for a quick lay. With a hanging head and drained resources, he made a last ditch effort (after being told that international phone calls to Italy are actually very expensive, but he was welcome to get in touch with my agent if he’d like to take me out to dinner) and handed me a flyer for one of his upcoming shows in which I could get backstage if I told the bouncer I was a personal-nudge-nudge-hiccup-friend of Dangerous J’s.
With supreme timing, our next round of drinks - and two additional shots (men are shameless) - arrived. I carefully folded the flyer and stuck it in my back pocket before thanking him in the full glory of an unmistakable American accent for a wonderful evening. As his eyes grew wider and crossed a bit, I slammed down both shots, lit a Marlboro, and paid for the last round before winking and disappearing back into the crowd.
Once upon a time, I spent a summer studying abroad in Oxford which I still believe to be one of the most beautiful towns on Earth. My scholarly endeavors consisted of two classes that I attended incredibly hung over, a couple of papers that I wrote with double vision, and nearly vomiting on a world renowned professor. Most of my time was spent at a basement club called The Purple Turtle, located down a charming cobble stone street. Inside there were all manner of seedy staples: pleather couches, drunk men in kilts, dance floor with strobe lights, a visible cloud of smoke hanging below the ceiling, etc.
What dive would be complete without the requisite creeps trying to pick you up? I, unlike someone else who shall remain unnamed, never managed to get my claws into a kilted drunk, but I did attract the attention of another English stereotype: a chav. While waiting for a drink one night, I found myself squished next to the bar with one such individual who was sporting the complete uniform of faux-Burberry baseball cap, oversized sports jersey, gold chain, and vigilantly manicured facial hair.
During our wait, we chatted about ourselves: I learned that he was a local DJ of hardcore electronic music and he learned that I was a lingerie model with a thick Italian accent. When our drinks sloshed onto the counter in front of us, he immediately pulled out a wad of cash and insisted on paying for my drink. This was convenient because I was also about to insist he pay for my drink.
Sensing weakness, I continued to prey on this poor young gentleman for the next hour or so. Why yes, I would like another drink. Blink blink blink. I dare say I’m getting quite tipsy now. I’m not used to this strong, virile English cider. Blink blink blink. Why no, I don’t have any cigarettes of my own. Why yes, I’d love to have one of yours. Blink blink blink.
Unfortunately, he had underestimated my tolerance and was eventually surprised to see his wallet contained nothing but a few loose coins, his pack of Mayfairs was empty, and yet I was not yet intoxicated enough to be taken to a dark alley for a quick lay. With a hanging head and drained resources, he made a last ditch effort (after being told that international phone calls to Italy are actually very expensive, but he was welcome to get in touch with my agent if he’d like to take me out to dinner) and handed me a flyer for one of his upcoming shows in which I could get backstage if I told the bouncer I was a personal-nudge-nudge-hiccup-friend of Dangerous J’s.
With supreme timing, our next round of drinks - and two additional shots (men are shameless) - arrived. I carefully folded the flyer and stuck it in my back pocket before thanking him in the full glory of an unmistakable American accent for a wonderful evening. As his eyes grew wider and crossed a bit, I slammed down both shots, lit a Marlboro, and paid for the last round before winking and disappearing back into the crowd.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Bad Day 180° Mix
Let me preface this by saying, my day wasn’t really that bad. I was just overwhelmed with work that I’m being seriously underpaid for and irritated that while I was trying to organize a 50 page section of the magazine, I still had coworkers making messes in the kitchen and whining in my ear that they need me to order batteries right this very moment. To decompress on my commute home, I put together the following play list which should take you from a miserable day in the office to a happy evening elsewhere. It worked for me.
1) Nine Inch Nails, "Head Like a Hole"
Good for: slamming the door on your way out of the office, making respectable looking men in business suits edge away from you in the elevator
Relevant lyric: I’d rather die than give you control
2) Tool, “Hooker With A Penis”
Good for: stomping from the office to the subway
Relevant lyric: All you know about me is what I've sold you / Dumb fuck
3) Hoobastank, “Crawling In the Dark”
Good for: scowling at strangers on the subway, rolling your eyes, exasperated sighing,
Relevant lyric: Is there something more than what I've been handed?
4) Dead Kennedys, “Take This Job & Shove It” (it's a remake - but an excellent one)
Good for: mentally cussing out your boss, distracting you from the smelly homeless guy that got on at the last stop
Relevant lyric: Let's all go use our sick leave up / And then we'll shoot some pool
5) Chumbawamba, “Tubthumpin”
Good for: shoving through crowds at the train station, fighting for a good seat, putting a bounce back in your step
Relevant lyric: I get knocked down / but I get up again / you’re never gonna keep me down
6) Queen/David Bowie, “Under Pressure”
Good for: commiserating feelings
Relevant lyric: Insanity laughs under pressure we're cracking
7) Frou Frou, “Let Go”
Good for: getting your heart rate back to normal, taking a deep breath
Relevant lyric: There’s beauty in the breakdown
8) Pete Droge, “Going Whichever Way the Wind Blows”
Good for: lowering your blood pressure, strolling back to the house
Relevant lyric: Let it go, it will get easier
9) Savage Garden, “Crash & Burn”
Good for: walking in the door with a smile and immediately hugging your sweetheart/calling a family member/making drinking plans with a friend/petting the dog
Relevant lyric: If you need to fall apart / I can mend a broken heart
1) Nine Inch Nails, "Head Like a Hole"
Good for: slamming the door on your way out of the office, making respectable looking men in business suits edge away from you in the elevator
Relevant lyric: I’d rather die than give you control
2) Tool, “Hooker With A Penis”
Good for: stomping from the office to the subway
Relevant lyric: All you know about me is what I've sold you / Dumb fuck
3) Hoobastank, “Crawling In the Dark”
Good for: scowling at strangers on the subway, rolling your eyes, exasperated sighing,
Relevant lyric: Is there something more than what I've been handed?
4) Dead Kennedys, “Take This Job & Shove It” (it's a remake - but an excellent one)
Good for: mentally cussing out your boss, distracting you from the smelly homeless guy that got on at the last stop
Relevant lyric: Let's all go use our sick leave up / And then we'll shoot some pool
5) Chumbawamba, “Tubthumpin”
Good for: shoving through crowds at the train station, fighting for a good seat, putting a bounce back in your step
Relevant lyric: I get knocked down / but I get up again / you’re never gonna keep me down
6) Queen/David Bowie, “Under Pressure”
Good for: commiserating feelings
Relevant lyric: Insanity laughs under pressure we're cracking
7) Frou Frou, “Let Go”
Good for: getting your heart rate back to normal, taking a deep breath
Relevant lyric: There’s beauty in the breakdown
8) Pete Droge, “Going Whichever Way the Wind Blows”
Good for: lowering your blood pressure, strolling back to the house
Relevant lyric: Let it go, it will get easier
9) Savage Garden, “Crash & Burn”
Good for: walking in the door with a smile and immediately hugging your sweetheart/calling a family member/making drinking plans with a friend/petting the dog
Relevant lyric: If you need to fall apart / I can mend a broken heart
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
That Which Does Not Kill You, Only Makes You Stronger (Try Telling That To a Person With a Stab Wound)
For 2 weeks now, I have been sitting cross-legged, desperately waiting for Grad School to cash my moderately obscene deposit check and thereby confirm that they have received my acceptance of their acceptance of my application. The money is still sitting in my bank account, festering away and not being spent on rum or books or those adorable metallic ballet flats that I saw in DSW. Every time I check my balance and realize its still there, my left eye twitches a bit harder. To say money burns a hole in my pocket is a gross understatement. To say my Chili’s budget alone is close to $1000/year is closer to the truth.
And this is just a taste of what’s to come. I’ll be going to school full-time in the fall and hopefully have the first of two required internships, so it would be really, really peachy if I didn’t have to work. At all. If I have the slightest chance of doing that, now is the time to stuff my purse full of cash and not let it out. Even when I can hear its muffled screams for a merciful shopping spree, I will continue to chant the five pillars of my new existence: food, shelter, transportation, health insurance, textbooks.
Though it may get tricky when the time comes and my purse strings are tied even tighter against the leering gaze of my favorite bar, for now I’m actually looking forward to this as a challenge. In my emo adolescence, I would often stare longingly past my stereo and towering music collection and out the window of our lovely suburban townhouse wishing my upper middle class family was less fortunate. It’s so easy to use Dad’s credit card for lavish amounts of clothing. Where’s the drama in that? Where’s the glamour? Where’s the poverty stricken but quietly ambitious child graciously sharing a bowl of peas with her fifteen siblings and then huddling next to a wood stove for warmth? No, no. Living in the lap of luxury was far too average. I knew it would never make for a decent introduction to the movie based on my life story. But welfare might.
Of course, now I have the opportunity to fulfill that foolish day dream, now that I’m quite sure that spending Daddy’s money on designer hand bags is ABSOLUTELY better than the poor house. I have my chance to embrace my impending pennilessness as another adventure to chronicle in my eventual memoir. I will keep that in mind months from now when I’m subsisting on Ramen noodles and doing my homework in a cardboard box down by the river.
And this is just a taste of what’s to come. I’ll be going to school full-time in the fall and hopefully have the first of two required internships, so it would be really, really peachy if I didn’t have to work. At all. If I have the slightest chance of doing that, now is the time to stuff my purse full of cash and not let it out. Even when I can hear its muffled screams for a merciful shopping spree, I will continue to chant the five pillars of my new existence: food, shelter, transportation, health insurance, textbooks.
Though it may get tricky when the time comes and my purse strings are tied even tighter against the leering gaze of my favorite bar, for now I’m actually looking forward to this as a challenge. In my emo adolescence, I would often stare longingly past my stereo and towering music collection and out the window of our lovely suburban townhouse wishing my upper middle class family was less fortunate. It’s so easy to use Dad’s credit card for lavish amounts of clothing. Where’s the drama in that? Where’s the glamour? Where’s the poverty stricken but quietly ambitious child graciously sharing a bowl of peas with her fifteen siblings and then huddling next to a wood stove for warmth? No, no. Living in the lap of luxury was far too average. I knew it would never make for a decent introduction to the movie based on my life story. But welfare might.
Of course, now I have the opportunity to fulfill that foolish day dream, now that I’m quite sure that spending Daddy’s money on designer hand bags is ABSOLUTELY better than the poor house. I have my chance to embrace my impending pennilessness as another adventure to chronicle in my eventual memoir. I will keep that in mind months from now when I’m subsisting on Ramen noodles and doing my homework in a cardboard box down by the river.
Friday, May 9, 2008
A Proud Day
My Friday was off to a bad start when I showed up at the train station to find that my normal rush hour train had been cancelled. No explanation, no apologies. There was just a note on the scrolling marquis telling us to catch the next one which was standing-room only and incidentally got me to work almost an hour late.
While I sipped my morning cup of coffee, I checked on the ol’ blog and discovered something that swelled my heart and permanently cheered me for the rest of the day: my first piece of hate mail. It was posted earlier this morning in the comments of my last entry. I’m so proud I’ll share it with you here:
OK. It’s not all that hateful really, but it’s my first piece of negative feedback and I’m entitled to gloat. That line about proper research certainly seems a bit rude, don’t you think? (For the record, we had an array of brochures and maps and a fully loaded Blackberry – research was not the issue here). Anyway, I’ve long dreamed of being the type of blogger that can incite displeasure in others. Especially Canadians! Their anger has extra flavor crystals. Today I am happy to announce that I have achieved that goal early on at the tender age of 24.
So, thank you Madam or Monsieur Anonymous of Toronto who googled “Montreal French” this morning and stumbled across my little piece of cathartic heaven. Please enjoy your hidden cheese shops and stronger currency. You got my Friday back on track.
While I sipped my morning cup of coffee, I checked on the ol’ blog and discovered something that swelled my heart and permanently cheered me for the rest of the day: my first piece of hate mail. It was posted earlier this morning in the comments of my last entry. I’m so proud I’ll share it with you here:
“Mmm... maybe some proper research would have helped? Montreal is an amazing city, full of farmers markets, cheese shops (yes!), great commercial streets, etc. it seems you missed all the great spots...”
OK. It’s not all that hateful really, but it’s my first piece of negative feedback and I’m entitled to gloat. That line about proper research certainly seems a bit rude, don’t you think? (For the record, we had an array of brochures and maps and a fully loaded Blackberry – research was not the issue here). Anyway, I’ve long dreamed of being the type of blogger that can incite displeasure in others. Especially Canadians! Their anger has extra flavor crystals. Today I am happy to announce that I have achieved that goal early on at the tender age of 24.
So, thank you Madam or Monsieur Anonymous of Toronto who googled “Montreal French” this morning and stumbled across my little piece of cathartic heaven. Please enjoy your hidden cheese shops and stronger currency. You got my Friday back on track.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Le baguette, le baguette? LE FROMAGEEE
For the first time since Christmas break, Beau was granted a day off by the Evil Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named. He spent all week muttering to himself and secretly researching on his laptop with shiftier eyes than usual. This suggested he was up to no good. You see, when I have a day off, I like to do things like putter around the apartment, read in a corner, or watch 11 hour marathons of ANTM. Not Beau – his precious little free time is spent outside the house engaging in normal human activities. And that’s how I ended up in Canada last weekend.
Friday morning we clambered into the car for the 6 hour ride to Montreal with a full arsenal of snacks and maps but lacking one important feature. The stereo was busted. No radio, no CDs, no iPod. Just a happily driving Beau and a caffeinated, chattering Dangerous K. Here are a few ways we kept ourselves busy:
1) Singing acapella versions of such favorites as "Climb Every Mountain" from The Sound of Music and Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline" and a consequent discussion of what my voice most resembles (verdict: a cat being stapled to a wall).
2) Mooing at every cow we passed in Vermont and debating their top speed and any possible factors that might affect their top speed. For example, do angry bovines move faster? I don’t know for certain but T would say yes and he speaks from experience involving an ill-aimed snowball and a very ticked off bull.
3) Anticipating increasingly dramatic road signs. First we saw “Deer Crossing” then “Moose Crossing” then “Bear Crossing." I spent half the trip bouncing up and down praying for “T-Rex Crossing.”
4) On that note, explaining to Beau the applicableness of Jurassic Park quotes to instances to every day life. I memorized the entire movie years ago.
5) Debating preferred qualities in babbling brooks such as rocks to babble over and valleys to babble through.
I’ve been to Mexico a few times but I’ve never visited our northern neighbors so I didn’t really know what to expect. Still, I was surprised when we crossed from the verdant wooded mountains of Vermont into the stark farmed flat lands of Canada. Luckily, every tiny run down village we passed through featured shacks boasting French phrases which we would repeat aloud to each other with snorting laughter.
We dropped our belongings off at our hotel on Sherbrooke Street, which appeared to be the main drag through town on the map and wandered off in search of food. The streets were lined with thousands of cafes, each empty except for an exceptionally dressed couple or two. Assuming our grungy jeans and t-shirts might be frowned upon in such establishments, I turned on my Irish pub radar and immediately honed in on Ye Olde Orchard where I quickly discovered Canada’s only accomplishment: a local cider brewed in Quebec which had been given such a long, unpronounceable name that I forgot it after only one pint.
A meal and several pints later, it became clear that Beau was intoxicated. In his prime Beau could put a frat boy to shame. Now he has a couple of drinks and starts singing along to Queen songs and shouting “le poissons” at onlookers. I didn’t let that stand in my way though, so I kept him sitting there getting drunker until I was good and ready to drag his wasted body back through the streets of Montreal to crash into benches and mumble broken French at stop lights. He clambered into bed and quickly fell asleep while I lounged in the sitting room reading (Oh yeah, we totally had a fancy suite. With a couch. And a bookshelf. Thanks for those hotel points, Evil Accounting Firm). Finally, I turned off the lights and groped my way into the pitch black room, completely disoriented and managed to land on the edge of the bed.
Moments later, Beau’s friendly little arm landed on my head and I swatted it away. We repeated this several more times until silence ensued. Then the bed springs creaked and I heard Beau scuttle around the room. Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle. I was about to open my mouth and complain when instead, Beau opened his mouth and vomited on the night stand. MY night stand. He had graciously scuttled to my side of the bed and unable to find the bathroom door, heaved a mere 6 inches from my head.
I escorted him to the bathroom and, upon seeing that my Armani glasses had been hit by the storm, became a bitch for about 10 minutes. By the time things were cleaned up and the lights were out, I was laughing too hysterically to maintain any façade of anger.
In the morning, I awoke to an embarrassed and apologetic little Beau who promptly showed me that he had sterilized my glasses. We set off for the Biodome which was advertised as an indoor zoo of immense and wild proportions. And they had penguins.
The Montreal subway was easy enough to navigate but was tricky to actually get into. There were no ticket machines and the lone ticket booth lady informed us she only had one daily pass left. When the passes were eventually obtained they looked more like scratch lottery tickets except instead of cash prizes, we won entry to the subway.
A train transfer later and we were at the Biosphere… and eerily alone. As we walked through the scenic entry garden we wondered aloud about the lack of crowd. It must be an off season for tourists. It must be the rainy weather. It must be a hidden gem of Montreal. It must be closed?
No, it wasn’t closed. $20 later we were granted entrance and the lonely ticket girl even talked us through the brochure of exhibits and shows. Our heads tilted together confidentially as we wandered off towards a display on water conservation or some such nonsense.
“Where are my penguins, Beau?”
“Hmm… I don’t see them on the map.”
“But, Beau, where are my penguins?”
“We’ll find your penguins, honey”
Of course, we never found them or any other exotic animals because we had mistakenly gone to the Biosphere not the Biodome. Why would a city have two tourist traps with nearly identical names? That’s just mean. Montreal is a bully.
15 minutes later we scurried past the disappointed ticket girl who had just let us in. I suspect she’s used to this kind of rejection. Our next target was historic downtown Montreal. How can you go wrong there?
After being unable to find any books and getting scolded by a security guard at the National Library and Archives and nearly breaking an expensive looking vase in the Marché Bonsecours we ventured out for a spot of lunch. As we walked down a square lined with cafes, waiters popped out from every doorway to “bonjour” at us and it was all I could do to keep myself from responding, “There goes the baker with his tray like always…” (that was for you Bologna. Don’t say I never did anything for you).
It was increasingly unnerving to be one of the only dozen or so tourists in the city. We were conspicuous walking targets. We longed for a buzzing epicenter of angry businessmen and shuffling panhandlers. There wasn’t a single crowd of Japanese people furiously snapping pictures. Standing completely alone in front of these massive historic structures was a little like being the sole survivors in one of those end-of-the-world movies. It was creepy and unnerving and made us just a little bit uncomfortable.
Having failed at the entire day, we gave up, bought bathing suits at the local Old Navy, and retired to the hotel’s indoor pool before eating an early dinner and renting Juno (which is Canadian so I think it counts as sight seeing). Along our walk back to the hotel, the atmosphere continued to confuse us. It appeared that 90% of the city was covered in graffiti. There were a disproportionate number of crazy old men wandering about. And the map suggested that this was the good part of town.
We peeled out of there at 9:00 am cursing the French. I’ve never been so appreciative of America. It’s not that we had a bad time. Not at all. It’s just we didn’t understand Canada. Why was the country strictly populated by teenage hipsters? Didn’t they know that hip and Canadian are diametric opposites? What had driven a previously prosperous city to such a state of disrepair and shabbiness? Were the crazy old men a result of nationalized health care? Where were the cheese shops? Where were my penguins?
Friday morning we clambered into the car for the 6 hour ride to Montreal with a full arsenal of snacks and maps but lacking one important feature. The stereo was busted. No radio, no CDs, no iPod. Just a happily driving Beau and a caffeinated, chattering Dangerous K. Here are a few ways we kept ourselves busy:
1) Singing acapella versions of such favorites as "Climb Every Mountain" from The Sound of Music and Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline" and a consequent discussion of what my voice most resembles (verdict: a cat being stapled to a wall).
2) Mooing at every cow we passed in Vermont and debating their top speed and any possible factors that might affect their top speed. For example, do angry bovines move faster? I don’t know for certain but T would say yes and he speaks from experience involving an ill-aimed snowball and a very ticked off bull.
3) Anticipating increasingly dramatic road signs. First we saw “Deer Crossing” then “Moose Crossing” then “Bear Crossing." I spent half the trip bouncing up and down praying for “T-Rex Crossing.”
4) On that note, explaining to Beau the applicableness of Jurassic Park quotes to instances to every day life. I memorized the entire movie years ago.
5) Debating preferred qualities in babbling brooks such as rocks to babble over and valleys to babble through.
I’ve been to Mexico a few times but I’ve never visited our northern neighbors so I didn’t really know what to expect. Still, I was surprised when we crossed from the verdant wooded mountains of Vermont into the stark farmed flat lands of Canada. Luckily, every tiny run down village we passed through featured shacks boasting French phrases which we would repeat aloud to each other with snorting laughter.
We dropped our belongings off at our hotel on Sherbrooke Street, which appeared to be the main drag through town on the map and wandered off in search of food. The streets were lined with thousands of cafes, each empty except for an exceptionally dressed couple or two. Assuming our grungy jeans and t-shirts might be frowned upon in such establishments, I turned on my Irish pub radar and immediately honed in on Ye Olde Orchard where I quickly discovered Canada’s only accomplishment: a local cider brewed in Quebec which had been given such a long, unpronounceable name that I forgot it after only one pint.
A meal and several pints later, it became clear that Beau was intoxicated. In his prime Beau could put a frat boy to shame. Now he has a couple of drinks and starts singing along to Queen songs and shouting “le poissons” at onlookers. I didn’t let that stand in my way though, so I kept him sitting there getting drunker until I was good and ready to drag his wasted body back through the streets of Montreal to crash into benches and mumble broken French at stop lights. He clambered into bed and quickly fell asleep while I lounged in the sitting room reading (Oh yeah, we totally had a fancy suite. With a couch. And a bookshelf. Thanks for those hotel points, Evil Accounting Firm). Finally, I turned off the lights and groped my way into the pitch black room, completely disoriented and managed to land on the edge of the bed.
Moments later, Beau’s friendly little arm landed on my head and I swatted it away. We repeated this several more times until silence ensued. Then the bed springs creaked and I heard Beau scuttle around the room. Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle. I was about to open my mouth and complain when instead, Beau opened his mouth and vomited on the night stand. MY night stand. He had graciously scuttled to my side of the bed and unable to find the bathroom door, heaved a mere 6 inches from my head.
I escorted him to the bathroom and, upon seeing that my Armani glasses had been hit by the storm, became a bitch for about 10 minutes. By the time things were cleaned up and the lights were out, I was laughing too hysterically to maintain any façade of anger.
In the morning, I awoke to an embarrassed and apologetic little Beau who promptly showed me that he had sterilized my glasses. We set off for the Biodome which was advertised as an indoor zoo of immense and wild proportions. And they had penguins.
The Montreal subway was easy enough to navigate but was tricky to actually get into. There were no ticket machines and the lone ticket booth lady informed us she only had one daily pass left. When the passes were eventually obtained they looked more like scratch lottery tickets except instead of cash prizes, we won entry to the subway.
A train transfer later and we were at the Biosphere… and eerily alone. As we walked through the scenic entry garden we wondered aloud about the lack of crowd. It must be an off season for tourists. It must be the rainy weather. It must be a hidden gem of Montreal. It must be closed?
No, it wasn’t closed. $20 later we were granted entrance and the lonely ticket girl even talked us through the brochure of exhibits and shows. Our heads tilted together confidentially as we wandered off towards a display on water conservation or some such nonsense.
“Where are my penguins, Beau?”
“Hmm… I don’t see them on the map.”
“But, Beau, where are my penguins?”
“We’ll find your penguins, honey”
Of course, we never found them or any other exotic animals because we had mistakenly gone to the Biosphere not the Biodome. Why would a city have two tourist traps with nearly identical names? That’s just mean. Montreal is a bully.
15 minutes later we scurried past the disappointed ticket girl who had just let us in. I suspect she’s used to this kind of rejection. Our next target was historic downtown Montreal. How can you go wrong there?
After being unable to find any books and getting scolded by a security guard at the National Library and Archives and nearly breaking an expensive looking vase in the Marché Bonsecours we ventured out for a spot of lunch. As we walked down a square lined with cafes, waiters popped out from every doorway to “bonjour” at us and it was all I could do to keep myself from responding, “There goes the baker with his tray like always…” (that was for you Bologna. Don’t say I never did anything for you).
It was increasingly unnerving to be one of the only dozen or so tourists in the city. We were conspicuous walking targets. We longed for a buzzing epicenter of angry businessmen and shuffling panhandlers. There wasn’t a single crowd of Japanese people furiously snapping pictures. Standing completely alone in front of these massive historic structures was a little like being the sole survivors in one of those end-of-the-world movies. It was creepy and unnerving and made us just a little bit uncomfortable.
Having failed at the entire day, we gave up, bought bathing suits at the local Old Navy, and retired to the hotel’s indoor pool before eating an early dinner and renting Juno (which is Canadian so I think it counts as sight seeing). Along our walk back to the hotel, the atmosphere continued to confuse us. It appeared that 90% of the city was covered in graffiti. There were a disproportionate number of crazy old men wandering about. And the map suggested that this was the good part of town.
We peeled out of there at 9:00 am cursing the French. I’ve never been so appreciative of America. It’s not that we had a bad time. Not at all. It’s just we didn’t understand Canada. Why was the country strictly populated by teenage hipsters? Didn’t they know that hip and Canadian are diametric opposites? What had driven a previously prosperous city to such a state of disrepair and shabbiness? Were the crazy old men a result of nationalized health care? Where were the cheese shops? Where were my penguins?
Thursday, May 1, 2008
How About The Ones I Sold to Hustler?
I gave myself an asthma attack yesterday after running through South Station for my train, hauling myself uphill through a fog of evil, evil pollen spores, and then, the clincher, opening my mail of the porch where I found the acceptance letter from my new grad school.
Beau herded me up two flights of stairs and helped me look for my inhaler while I wheezed, “They let me in. I’m gonna be edumacated. Wheez. Yay! Wheez. Suckers.”
A few hits later and I felt strong enough to call Bologna who congratulated me heartily and my father who quickly turned the conversation to himself, like usual. Bless him.
I floated into work this morning and found a new use for my good news: pissing off Boss Lady, who you may remember, is none too fond of me. I found her and Bell stirring their morning coffee in the kitchen where I promptly spilled the beans because I am physically incapable of keeping secrets or good news pertaining to myself. Bell hugged me and smiling said, “Good for you, honey! Oh, congratulations!”
Boss Lady said “Yay” and walked out of the room. That means I win.
After exhausting the orientation website, I decided it was time to mail the form (the one saying I accept their acceptance of my application) but first, I had to fulfill their request of a small photo of myself. I browsed through my pictures and came to a horrible, terrible realization. I am drunk in every photo of myself. No, but seriously:
Beau herded me up two flights of stairs and helped me look for my inhaler while I wheezed, “They let me in. I’m gonna be edumacated. Wheez. Yay! Wheez. Suckers.”
A few hits later and I felt strong enough to call Bologna who congratulated me heartily and my father who quickly turned the conversation to himself, like usual. Bless him.
I floated into work this morning and found a new use for my good news: pissing off Boss Lady, who you may remember, is none too fond of me. I found her and Bell stirring their morning coffee in the kitchen where I promptly spilled the beans because I am physically incapable of keeping secrets or good news pertaining to myself. Bell hugged me and smiling said, “Good for you, honey! Oh, congratulations!”
Boss Lady said “Yay” and walked out of the room. That means I win.
After exhausting the orientation website, I decided it was time to mail the form (the one saying I accept their acceptance of my application) but first, I had to fulfill their request of a small photo of myself. I browsed through my pictures and came to a horrible, terrible realization. I am drunk in every photo of myself. No, but seriously:
Internet, I don’t have a problem. If anyone here has a problem, it’s you. You have a problem judging others. Let me have my fun now before my funds are sucked dry on things like tuition and books and thick framed glasses to make me look smarter. Anyway, I finally found one lone solitary picture taken 3 years ago during my summer abroad in England that sufficed but sorry ladies, I had to crop you out:
That’s the one they’re getting unless of course, they find my blog in which case they can have all of my other ones too.
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