Filed under: Uncategorized
“Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communism, health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hypnotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, conducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yogurt, Beethoven, Back, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart. People had to find things to do while waiting to die. I guess it was nice to have a choice.” from his novel Women
For those of you that know me, chances are good you have wondered where in God’s name I have been. But c’mon, did you really think I wouldn’t fall off the map for at least a little while?
For those of you that don’t know me, and read my blog, this post is an update on my life. It is largely insignificant in the blogging world, and probably unimportant– unless you are stalking me, in which case, you may already know this information but could use it to gain some kind of understanding into my psyche.
Where to begin? Working two jobs only proves itself stressful when A) a bike accident has left your knee in a crippled, swollen, sliced up state and B) you’re hungry because working two jobs means you can’t purchase any groceries. For instance, right now I am eating pretzel M&M’s out of the party size bag. This is breakfast. Mostly because I cannot fathom eating another peanut butter sandwich. Thankfully my knee isn’t aching in its typical, sharp-as-a-knife manner– rather, this is more of a dull roar.
Oh god, there is a point where one may have consumed too many M&M’s for breakfast. Someone bring me a glass of water.
Even if I consistently felt shitty (and thankfully my allergies have gone away), this week could not be anything less than fantastic. Shawn went to Alabama and left me with his Border Collie, Hot Sauce. Hot Sauce has been my favorite little buddy. We play with bubbles and frisbees in the back yard, go for long walks, and leave the bulkhead open so we can meander and get fresh air at night. He is as charming as he is sweet. No one cuddles quite so well. I have zero intention of returning him. This dog is mine now.
It’s not that my priorities or goals have fallen by the wayside, but I live to work (and work to live) now. Today is the tenth consecutive day that I have worked either job. It’s hard to find time to write or read or journeys to uncharted territory when you sleep eight hours (back to normal!) and barely fit in showers. (SIDENOTE- I’m not dirty or stinky, but realistically, it’s difficult to squeeze in a shower or two every day.) I do laundry when I have no underwear left, but that is nothing new.
After work, I don’t want to sit down and write four or five pages or expound useless crapola about life into the blogosphere. I want to socialize with the guys I am
forbidden too busy to really talk to while at work. I want to play with mallets (pronounced malLAYS) on deserted beaches and swim in icy ocean waters and kick back an adult beverage or two. Or six. But I’m young and I bounce back from shit like that. Mornings aren’t painful, nor should they be. That might mean I am burning the candle at both ends.
I know how that turns out.
When I think, or find myself having the time to think, I think of ways to get in trouble with old friends; seduction tactics; lyrics to Phish songs (the most fitting include “There’s a blank space where my mind should be” and “’bout as faithful as a slot machine, pays off once in a while but then she’ll rob you clean”); how I really should clean my room; how I really should eat something; the direction of my own life compared to the wanderers around me; obscure sandwich ideas; ways to obtain ‘beach waves’ in my hair without actually going to the beach; ways I can get more beach time in per week; babysitting; bathing suits; and anything that qualifies as “Something I would do in my free time, if I had free time.”
Aunts, cousins and friends alike, they ask me when I can visit, when they can visit, when am I free.
If I had an answer, I would tell you. But I don’t have one. For all intensive purposes, I am not free. I am a machine, running around, working like a little bee-eye-tee-see-aich. I am free after eleven and before eight thirty. Are you a night owl? Do you mind sharing a twin sized bed? Are you bringing friends? Any aversions to cold?
I invite you all to visit, but I warn you that I cannot hold your hand and I cannot devote all my attention to you.
Alas, I find time to cook steaks and potatoes and onions on the grill and to share wine and potato chips with friends and roomies. We can sit in the yard and talk about college and moving forward and understanding what it means to capitalize on ones time. We can recount tales of stupid love and stupid times and stupid stupids. I’ll make you dinner, because I like to cook, and I like you, so it seems natural that the two coincide. It’s too bad I can’t drop everything to make this happen– because you know that I would.
Today I am bringing back the fresh white t-shirt. I swear no one ever looked so nice and felt so clean.
Filed under: Things I Like | Tags: Falmouth, feels like summer, happiness, life, summer, work
Even if I had never been to Falmouth before, I would still know that it is Memorial Day Weekend.
I’m sweating (finally) and cars are driving by as I attempt to best ride Jackie Wilson down Main Street after a long day at work. What ever happened to brisk nights when it was me and the road and the occasional drunk stumbling out of the Towne Tavern? Cruising past the harbor, distant music drifts as the band jams on the porch at the Boat House. 7-11 is hopping with the same amount of life. I wonder if they have ever done so much business at 11 PM on a Saturday.
Work is another story. Everyone is running– and I mean running– down the line and through the kitchen and out of the walk-in refrigerator. Nearly a hundred people come in and out of the restaurant in a matter of hours. There’s cursing and messes and humidity. No one is angry– or at least no one is showing their anger(yet) — but everyone is on edge, at least a little bit. But, at the same time, kitchen dogs and servers alike rejoice in the fast paced excitement.
I wouldn’t have to go to work or ride my bike to know that it’s Memorial Day weekend. If I stand outside, with my eyes closed, the buzz of the world crescendos and I just know. It’s here. It’s time. It’s Memorial Day weekend.
It is finally summer.
I can breathe a sigh of relief and say ‘I’m back. I’m here. This is everything I’ve been waiting for.’
-I am so fucked if I hit a pot hole. I wish I had a stinkin’ head light so I could see something.
-Next time I go down Maravista, I am bringing a steak knife with me. This is sketchy.
-Fool. Bring a damn sweatshirt.
-If those idiots steal my bike while I am in the store, shit is gonna blow up.
-How much is a can of spray paint?
-I need more friends with cars.
-I need to get a life.
Filed under: College, Late Night | Tags: complaining, Falmouth, future, happiness, moving out, summer, work
-Do I stay up tonight and feel like shit in the morning, or just go to sleep now? This is a problem I have faced every day for the last five years. Anyone who has ever been my age will understand completely.
-Do I write ‘exempt’ on my tax return and get most of the money I earn, or do I write ’1′ and get a nice hefty tax return next Spring? Today I started my second job. I immediately put down ‘exempt’ on my W-2. Why? Well, the whole point of having a second job is for extra dough. I want to spend this money. But only this money. It is a great way to budget, don’t you think? However, I wasn’t expecting to have to fill out another tax form at my job from last summer (Glass Onion.) I mean, they already have my data on file somewhere. Why would I fill it out again? Alas, Josh approached me with all the paperwork I need for taxes and to return to the payroll. So now I am faced with this dilemma– and I have no idea what to do. While forced savings are nice– there is no doubt in my mind that my tax return was anxiously awaited and
thoughtlessly spent this Spring– I would like to be able to see all my earnings from the Summer on September 1st, as opposed to waiting. Which is the better choice? I cannot decide.
-Is this something that my parents would approve of? Well, I find whenever I have to ask myself that question (which is less than even I would expect,) the answer is usually “no, they would not.”
-What do I want to do with my life? Perhaps I will ask myself this very question every week of my life until I am 54, but it seems to pop up every hour at the moment. I finally moved out (finally! I’ve talked about it on my blog for years, and I know that you were all as excited as I was when I finally broke the news) and my roommates are… smart. Ambitious. Destined for unbelievable things. And I, I work at a restaurant and schmuck around beaches and walk on sidewalks. A few years ago, I had wild dreams for myself, but now, I am content with finishing a book, or enjoying a day of laying in bed and watching Instant Netflix, or ranting via skype to my best friend (who is at school in Scotland) about nothing in particular– although we especially love to rant about how we don’t envision the same things our parents that had/have in mind for us. I confessed to my roommates that I once had ambition and drive, just like them, but my summers in Falmouth were likely the cause of my sudden… lack of any kind of motivation. They laughed. The only two desires I am certain of are publishing a novel and being happy. Nonetheless, I still don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I am confident that coming to Falmouth for the summer is at least a step in the right direction for the latter goal…
-Am I dying? Sometimes I think that I am. Thankfully, people like Chicken remind me that even Wayne Campbell thought he had mono, and it turned out he was just really bored. I did get one decent beach day in last week, as I meandered Falmouth, seeking entertainment of any kind, and wondering when in God’s name I would finally go back to work again. Ironically enough, once the sun finally came out (though for only a day), I got the call to come back to work for Saturday night. I’ve worked two G.O. shifts and I have doubts about if I would like to work all summer or not… Perhaps this is due to some strife with friends (yup, give me a week, and I will make you hate me. It’s easy,) but at the same time, I question how fabulous it will really be… And I swear, this has nothing to do with the fact that I am picking the spores of portabella mushrooms out from underneath my finger nails.
-What the fuck is in the corner? Well, last week, this question was more along the lines of ‘what the fuck is that sound?’ This house creaks and howls in the wind and makes terrible sounds… all the time. Especially at night. But yesterday I moved from my cozy, awesome upstairs bugalow (which was a little small), to the fantastically spacious, though chilly and slightly frightening basement bedroom. But I have a huge closet, a tv, and plenty of space for chairs and guests and maybe even another mattress for friends to stay. Reed has suggested I enter and exit strictly via bulkhead. Once it’s warm and sunny, I may actually do that. To be honest, that’s the fastest way to the fridge in the kitchen, anyway.
-What will happen if the Bruin’s lose? Possible answers: Rachel’s Dad has a heart attack, swaths of fans riot in the streets of Boston, I cut off my finger with a kitchen knife because I made the mistake of listening to the game on the radio while cooking. (Thankfully, they won Game 2 tonight.)
Here’s something you should do: relax.
Contrary to popular belief, you are not Atlas, and you do not carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. So please, stand up straight and walk with a little purpose.
Finals can make even the nicest, most Betty Crocker-esque ladies into wild beasts. You’ve seen them battling (bitching) each other out in the wilderness (quad). So don’t be afraid to eat pizza and ice cream, because honestly, if you don’t, you might explode out of pure, unadulterated frustration. And I would hate to see that happen.
You’ve studied long and hard, so by now, if you don’t know it, then you probably never will. These tests will not make or break you as a human being, future entrepreneur or lifetime achievement award winner of the Deep Sleep Role Model for Sealy Posturpedic mattresses. So please, stop making yourself sick over these things which you cannot control. (Ok, so you can control them a little, but you get the idea.)
Please note that summer is a reward, and you have earned it. You have worked diligently all year, and it is time you give yourself a stinkin’ break. Go hang out with your friends. Stop being such a loner schmuck on weekends. When you get home from work, take a shower and whip out a copy of whatever book you borrowed from the library that week. I fully expect your CLAMS card to look well-worn, as if a dog chewed on it and as if it were lost in the ocean for several weeks. Make creative book marks too. People like that shit.
It will make your life, and Shawn’s life (poor guy listens to you all the time), a lot easier if you can just go with the flow. Summer is summer. You are an ace with summer. You like beaches, sunshine, the outdoors, tomfoolery, and food. All the things lined up on your agenda are things you are good at. Roll with it.
Once your finances get in order in a few weeks (you’re going to know the ins-and-outs of balancing a check book and Bank of America fine-print in no time), buy yourself a new pair of sunglasses, a bikini and a hammock for the back yard. Embrace this time while you can.
Being young only comes around once.
I’ll be sending you more e-mails to check up soon.
Good luck with the weekend and your last final,
Before I knew it, I was kissing Stanley.
It was not a passionate, tongue-tied, obscene kiss, though that was what I wanted. But you just don’t kiss like that when you are standing in the middle of some crowded room and men with white gloves stare at you, you who is smiling and laughing and making peace fingers as you lend your mouth to a stranger. It’s just not acceptable to kiss that way in such a situation. Though, in my mind, it was the most passionate, greatest, most life altering kiss I ever had. Other girls had told me kissing Stanley would be one of the luckiest things I’d ever experience, though I was skeptic. I was a fleeting, chaotic moment. I didn’t have the time to stick around, I had to go. I wanted to sit with him for another hour, but I walked away. I took one last glance from the doorway. His shine lit up the room.
That was the last time I saw Stanley in person.
Little did I know, in fact, it was a life altering kiss. I would never be the same person again.
That night, a man poured a beer on my head at Mulligan’s. It was not like he spilled on me in passing, or he tripped over a barstool and beer flew everywhere, or that he even thought I was someone else. Some drunk idiot poured a beer over my head. I was furious.
‘WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR!?’ I shouted in a blonde rage, as he pointed at me and laughed between hiccups.
My white t-shirt turned a shade of dirty yellow as beer seeped into the cotton threads.
The idiot stood there and continued to laugh. His red flannel shirt did nothing to hide his grotesque beer belly — I guessed it was rather hairy underneath — and his entire body pulsated as he cackled. The whole bar watched him, his laugh echoing off the wood paneling of the walls. The music seemed to have stopped.
Two guys in polos and chino shorts walked over, picked the idiot up by his arm pits, and without a word, carried him to the front door. It seemed like a rather unlikely scene — two guys I’d never seen before hoisting the village drunk (or who I assumed to be the village drunk) out of the dive. The music returned and I didn’t give it another thought.
Someone handed me a wad of brown papertowels from the bathroom. They were the same water-resistant kind I had used all my life in school. I attempted to push the beer off me, but I was still sticky and rather wet.
Laura passed me a pint glass. “You need this,” she said, grimacing. “So much for good luck.”
The bartender took one look at me and poured me a double of bourbon. “Sorry about that,” he said.
I silently sat at my bar stool, gazing in the mirror at the strangers behind me. The beer dripped down my back to the waist of my jeans. The yeasty smell of hops was potent. My head buzzed with the sensory overkill. I suppose my jack and cokes didn’t help either.
Without a word, I stood up, grabbed my red leather clutch and struggled through the crowd toward the door. I could hear Laura calling my name, but I didn’t bother to call back to her. She knew where I would be.
A tall man stopped me in my tracks. Him and his buddies were clustered in a circle, like a flock of teenage girls.
“Excuse me, but will you get the fuck out of my way?” I said, as I stood, wringing more beer out of my t-shirt.
He turned around.
“Well that isn’t a very lady-like way to talk,” he said with a subtle southern twang. His buddies snickered. I said nothing, just stood, mouth agape, staring. He was very tall. And he was one of the guys who had escorted the idiot outside.
“Do you want a ride home?” he asked.
“Yes, please.” He was quite possibly the most attractive man I had seen in Littleton in all my life.
He took my hand and pulled me with him through the hoards of people, out the door, and into the fluorescent lights of the parking lot.
Turns out, getting a beer poured on my head was one of the luckiest things that has ever happened to me. This guy’s name was Mark Tynan. He drove some kind of convertible Cadillac from the 60s. Without even asking, he went to the nearest McDonald’s drive through and bought me a hot fudge sundae. He told me about himself– like how he was fascinated by New England lighthouses and the history of sailboats, and how he watched reruns of childhood cartoons when he couldn’t fall asleep at night, and how he one time saw a hawk devour a pigeon while walking home from the gym.
By the time he dropped me off at home, I was completely won over. Apparently he liked me too, because he asked for my number and if we could meet up the next night for dinner.
He took me to a French restaurant, right on the water, where we ate duck confit and foie gras. I tried foods I didn’t even know existed, and every bite was delicious. Mark confessed he was an avid Bruins fan. I asked him when Bobby Orr’s birthday was; he came up with the right answer, and I knew right then and there that he was the man for me.
Six months later we were engaged.
I never told Mark about the day I kissed Stanley. I never told Mark about the years that I had lusted after Stanley. I didn’t want Mark to get any ideas about me being obsessed or anything. (I did think about that kiss often.)
Yet one morning, at breakfast, Mark smiled at me and said “I am so glad I went to Littleton that day.”
“Why were you even in town that day, anyway?” I asked, smiling back. I poured coffee into his red mug.
“I went to see the Stanley Cup,” he replied. “I was lucky– I got to kiss the Stanley Cup that day.”