i hate birthdays...

...and with any luck, this will be the last...because I will have miraculously discovered how to thwart aging, not because I plan on dying within the next twelve months. You are so morbid!

I'm appalled at your morose fascination...or am I?

he said, with a closed-mouth snicker

Sometimes, I have a spare moment to think. When I do, it results in precious gems of intellect to be collected and studied. On one particular occasion--a walk to Dunkin' Donuts for my regular medium french vanilla iced coffee with cream and sugar--I decided that I wish to be remembered for this quote:

"Males under the age of 45 are all imbeciles, but what they lack in intellect, they make up for in attractiveness and the possession of a particularly excitable (and exciting) body part."

Nicholas Peruzzi, 1984-

Oscar Wilde would congratulate my wit and agree, after inspection of the troves of not unfortunate-looking Cro-Magnons I encounter banging at copy machines each day, that the male specie is endangered.

vagaytion

In preparation for a week in Provincetown, Dan and I have been mulling over wardrobe options and themes. With the inability to choose any one genre for inspiration (or make decisions at all ever), we're basically going to attempt to embody a summer of wealth: French Riviera, 60's yacht clubs, all things nautical, and subtle Americana. I know what you're thinking, and yes, this much thought absolutely must go into sartorial choices for a week in Provincetown at a gay couple-owned B&B with rooms themed for major Shakespearean works. We're staying in the 'As You Like It' room, thus our style will be as we like it; our vaGAYtion will look something like this...

or this...

or this..

or this...

or this...

or this...

There will most likely be some sort of pre-planning runway montage in our 1 bedroom apartment, photos included!

oratory

Bumbling brazenly, stumbling lazily;
Incoordinate motion seeks periphery
amidst the legality of banality.

Sheltering, seemingly, sweltering dreamily;
Staid focus lacks a certain quality,
when given immunity.

Shiftily seeking unwavering speaking;
Clarity deserves a franchise,
merchandising for the wise.

having the time of your life

If you don't think this is the best movie you've ever seen, you have no soul.

the stranger

3 BEDROOMS / 2 BATHS

TO BE BUILT BY MV BUILDERS ON THIS SITE

ROBERT MOGER, OWNER

Above you will find, word for word, what a man with tousled gray hair, a gash on his hand that may still have been bleeding, and a wild look in his eye kindly asked me to write on a giant board for him. Last I knew, The UPS Store did not offer "sign writing" as a service, but I obliged, mostly out of terror. The conversation began with talk of a frustrating one hour wait at Home Depot for this wooden board and quickly spiralled into mentally unstable demands; every marker stroke met with "Is that going to be ok? Can I see the marker?" He proceeded to go over each line with a palsied hand, rendering my perfect print bulky and awkward. Fortunately, his phone rang, keeping him occupied for the writing of the last line. He then handed me three dollars, hesitantly asking if I was unable to accept it "like the Children's Hospital" and staggered out the door, repeating "Thank you" the whole way. Probably the strangest exchange in my days at UPS.

bro-ing and nothingness: an essay on phenomenological ontology

Since my life is relatively uninteresting, allow me to share some philosophical questions that have to do, more or less, with the lives of fascinating friends. First: consider a scrappy young woman with a propensity for gin and a penchant for righting wrongs with her fist. Said young woman was provoked by a young man of questionable character (and consciousness), who refused to share his (now personally unneeded) beer stash, and who, much later, was revealed to be deaf. While beating up the handicapped is generally frowned upon, I have to assume that, at this point in the young man's life, he has managed to correct his hearing problem with aids and should know better than to act like a drunk asshole. The question, though, is whether or not the young lady's reaction was inappropriate, considering the culture behind alcohol-related violence. Would this have unintentionally involved her friends, forcing them to come to her defense simply because she is a woman? Is it unfair that men are typically treated much more harshly for physically retaliating to a woman's violence? I have never been involved in any physical altercation in this way and would love a little insight.

Second: consider a proper young woman of the creative and well-bred variety. Would it be totally inappropriate for her to pursue a relationship with a man most might describe as a "dude" or "bro?" His poor fashion sense, relatively simple-minded outlook, and enjoyment of sports seemingly have no place in the life of a lady known for literary insight, impeccable style, and adoration for thin, arty, and bespectacled Amherst graduates, however, it seems the intellectual stimulus necessary for the woman's general happiness might be adequately fulfilled by friends and a career. This "dude" might be the perfect financial supporter for those with creative folly, though money is merely the beginning of his potential offerings: the ability to let loose around him, the obvious "throw-down" factor these boys normally possess in the bedroom, and the fun of slowly molding his behavior for the better. The questions then become, "Will the embarrassment simply be insufferable?" and "When attempting to help him become a gentleman, how far can you go before he feels inadequate and frustrated?"

Important life questions everyone must ponder in pursuit of a master's in duderonomy. That, or, I need something actually interesting to happen to me.

why don't you evah call ya mutha?

Comments like "I'm very disappointed in you" and "When can I expect to hear from you?" are normally reserved for occasions such as dinner with grandma or weekends at mom's, especially if either of these ladies practice in the Judeo-Christian tradition. It came as quite a surprise to hear similarly guilt-laden and dripping-so-much-with-sarcasm-you-get-drenched phrases out of someone who can barely speak English.

The UPS Store that I work for has a particularly disadvantageous location just around the corner from an English Language School. I suffer through one stuttered conversation after another, usually ending in huffy misunderstanding. Today, a young gentleman (of an ethnic origin I shall leave unknown so as to avoid stereotype) demanded various retributions for his apparently lost package. It was as clear as day that the recipient simply needed to find the location of the leasing office for his apartment complex in order to retrieve the package. Despite the problem's easy solution, this gentleman still managed to cut down my boss, me, and the customer service representative he had on hold with "I'm very disappointed in you" and "This will determine whether or not I ship with UPS in the future."

It was a level of guilt not even Grandma Peruzzi could imagine, as she holds her wooden spoon and shouts over a Manhattan, gold crucifix dangling from her neck. What are they teaching the students at these English language schools? Are they subjected to hours of Will & Grace and Everybody Loves Raymond, inevitably teaching them that parental guilt pervades American society? Also, I didn't realize that a sub par knowledge of English warranted speaking to others as only their mothers are allowed to speak to them. The only solution is clearly a cage match: Judeo-Christian Mothers vs. English Language School students. I think we all know who has the upper hand.

the customer's always right

As my customer service career comes to a welcome close, I feel the need to reassess all the foibles of the profession, perhaps to understand how I went this long without attempting suicide with an elaborate set up involving bubble wrap dispensers. A small incident occurred this afternoon that assuaged any complicated hang-ups I may have been harbouring, and it's all thanks to one of my frequent special guests--you guessed it!--crazy trust-fund, thick make-up, hobbit lady.

Beads of sweat glistened on her inhumanly colored forehead as she set down three shopping bags from the Boston College bookstore (the woman owns more paraphernalia than a proud alumni father) and began to explain, once again, that she has too much homework. She completed her weekly scratchy, scrawly fax quicker than usual, but had to go digging around in her cavernous purse for ten more cents in order to settle up. A line developed behind her, but I continued to smile and nod in her general direction in response to whatever she may have been mumbling over the faint honk of the marching band music sounding from her headphones. She finally left, and I was able to help the next customer, who commented: "You're very nice. Most people aren't."

It was as if my years of servitude suddenly paid off; I have probably been brightening days left and right, giving a tiny speck of respectability to retail (the latter portion could be speculation). Her comment nearly moved me to tears, which is why this line of work is no longer for me--an oversensitive, hyper-analytical sweetheart with a cheery demeanor that shouldn't be wasted on the 90% of my customers who come in demanding services that don't exist at prices that can't exist. Farewell, customer service. You taught me lessons I never wanted to learn.

speakeasier

It was hardly my intention to have this blog develop into a sort of "why Boston sucks" forum, but one post on that sordid subject, and it just spiralled out of control thereafter. While I'm on the subject: it seems the secret speakeasy trend has been totally overlooked by all of Boston's greedy restaurateurs. Unfortunately, vegetarian lesbians are allowed to run rampant here, causing organic, cage-free, and other politically correct food-word restaurants to sprout up like Starbucks locations, thus neglecting the wealth of cuisine and beverage to be gained from the speakeasy movement.

The only bars I seem to sample whilst visiting NYC are those sporting a Prohibition-era vibe and incredibly difficult entrance; my friend and I had to call the day of our reservation at one particular location at 3pm and 3pm only, then make an awkward telephone call to the other side of a red British phone booth nestled in the back of a seedy hot dog restaurant. The gimmick is hardly the reason to don your finest flapper dress--it's the cocktails! With the re-introduction of absinthe and creme-de-violette in the US, cocktail culture has seen a resurgence. Bartenders are now artists with the most palatable palette. My favorites thus far have been cucumber-infused gin & tonics (so refreshing!) and the aviation cocktail: gin, lemon, and creme-de-violette, which gives it the scent of Spree candies and the taste of heaven.

Luckily, I chanced upon one bar in Boston experimenting with these new ingredients, as well as old favorites. 'Deep Ellum' looks like a dive from the outside, but is quite nice inside and boasts a cocktail menu to rival any secret speakeasy in NYC. Of course, without the exclusivity and showiness, 'Deep Ellum' pales in comparison to New York's 'PDT,' 'Back Room,' and 'Hotel Delmano.' Yet again, Boston achieves a unanimous 'almost.'

________________________

Aviation Cocktail:

1 1/2 oz. gin

1/2 oz. lemon juice

1/2 oz. creme-de-violette

1 tsp. maraschino liqueur

amber waves of vom

Last night, I got food poisoning from the Sicilian slices at my favorite pizza place. Is there no justice? Pepperoni is not nearly as enjoyable when eaten in reverse. This case of F.P. is also outrageously debilitating--it took approximately 20 minutes to type these few sentences--which is making me feel less-than-independent on this, the Eve of July 4Th. Boston may very well be the death of me...the death of me (said in a quivering whisper).

terror train, part II

Last week, three people were struck and killed by MBTA trains in three days. Then, a C-line operator was caught asleep at the wheel. Really? On a related note, I will be drafting my will over the course of the next week, so I suggest remaining in my good graces before I'm plowed over by a negligently driven train, which should be in a week or so.

a regular rodney dangerfield

Tell this one at parties:

You: "Ask me why I'm such a talented comedian."
Unsuspecting Victim: "Why are you such a...?"
You (interrupting): "TIMING!"

T.M.I.

I learned from an early age that I have the kind of face which encourages strangers to disclose their deep-seated fears and aspirations. In customer service, this "gift" often causes full-blown psychoanalytic sessions over seemingly simple transactions. Today, a frequent customer of mine sarcastically responded to "How are you?" with "Oh just lovely," and then proceeded to grocery-list the assignments she'd just been given in her class. First of all, I only required a one-word answer to my insincerely polite question. Second of all, this woman is a squat hobbit who wears brightly patterned moo moos, mismatched jewelry of the extraordinarily large variety, headbands to tie back her frizzy nest, and lipstick with no particular boundaries (see above photo). I love bold fashions, unless it's obviously unintentional; this woman may or may not have severe psychological disorders fueling her wardrobe choices. Today, rather than write a seven page fax to her lawyer in illegible serial-killer script, like she usually does, she sent out some trust fund related documents (now it all makes sense). Afterward, she fussed for a while, with musical theatre blaring out of her headphones and jewelry jangling a beat to match the Gershwin, then finally spilled it: "I'm just so upset about all that work. I mean, I went to prep school, and I've never encountered anything like that. The professor is normally a psychotherapist, so where is her real psychotherapist's empathy? I'm going to see my psychotherapist now, so that'll be good." Mind you, this is not an uncommon monologue; I'm her best friend.

On a totally unrelated note, in so far as it only has to do with another customer; I overheard the most repugnant cell phone conversation, which should have been had in the privacy of the woman's own home. Let's just say that the phrase, "She got herself into this mess because she likes dick so much," was uttered more than once.