I hate winter. I know, I know, I shouldn't be living in New England, then. The fact is, the only time I find snow acceptable is between Thanksgiving and New Year's. After that, I'm ready for the big thaw. Which is unfortunate, since many years, things haven't even completely frozen over by then.
This extremely rational loathing of the season is particularly strong now that I live on the corner of two streets that are subject to winter weather parking bans. Maybe someday I'll get to City Hall to get a resident sticker (problematic, since my address is West Roxbury, but the resident parking streets are Rozzie); however, considering that would require me taking a bit of PTO at work, I am inclined to instead panic over every storm and park on the one street that isn't resident-only or parking-ban prone, and get scolded by one of its residents, Ms. Don't Park Across from My House Lady (she scared me so much the first time, that I didn't think I could park on that street ever again...and then in the midst of one snowstorm, I asked a man who lived on that street if he knew of any good parking places, and he told me that his street was perfect....rendering that lady a complete and utter PITA).
So far this winter, my parking experiences have been rather painless--a miracle, really, considering the amount of storms we've already had. Still, I have one winter traveling story that I shall now recall (buckle up, folks).
My family lives in rural Maine. The Western foothills, as it were, and not particularly near anything of note. I was able to obtain a few days off for Christmas, and made my way North. Christmas Eve rolled around and lo and behold, there were threats of ice storms coming from the TV. My family, long time Maine drivers, seemed unconcerned, since it hadn't begun in the afternoon, and decided that driving the 45 minutes of back roads (and I mean, over-the-river-and-through-the-woods back roads) to and from Christmas Eve service would be completely achievable.
I should mention that I am the oldest of seven children, all of whom were home for Christmas, and the family car is a Kia Sedan.
It was decided that, since one of my brothers had taken his large SUV to his girlfriend's house for dinner, I would be the second driver. Two brothers piled into my Honda hatchback, and the rest somehow crammed themselves into my parents' car. I followed my father along the twists and turns, and despite a few slips and slides up and down hills (some roads are rarely plowed, it would seem), we made it safely to church just as the rain began.
Before we left after the service, I told my father that my car is terrible in winter weather, and that I would have to go unbelievably slow in order to assure a safe return, since the rain was now begin to ice over. He suggested that he would follow behind my car, so that if anything were to happen, they'd be there to help out. I told him I'd rather him not follow me, since it makes me nervous to have other people scrutinize my driving from behind (also, I hadn't slept much the night before, and was in a foul mood). He insisted, I obeyed.
Sometimes, fathers really do know best. About 6 miles or so from home, I was only going about 10 MPH, as I descended a slight hill on the backest of back roads when all of the sudden things were spinning around, and I found myself face first in a snowbank. Thankfully, I had been going slow enough that the impact hadn't harmed the body of the car (though cosmetically speaking, nothing would bother me, Ethel the Civic has had a lot of trauma in her day); more importantly, my brothers (aged 21 and 18) and I (age not important, though dangerously close to 24 these days) were unscathed. But my car was half way down a banking (filled with slush and about 3 feet of snow), and there was no getting her out.
Because my father had been following me, he pulled over and informed me that he had hit the same ice and almost plowed right on into me, so we should definitely not be waiting near the car. So we walked down to the nearest driveway (about 150 feet or so away from the car, at the bottom of the hill), as I proceeded to get all weepy. Nobody was home at the house, which was the only house for quite a ways. It was, after all, about 8 PM on Christmas Eve. Most people aren't spending it in snowbanks.
In an unlikely turn of events, nobody had their cell phones on them--except for me. It should be noted that my father, mother, and two of my brothers all own and regularly carry cell phones. Because they live in rural Maine, they have services that actually work there. My phone, however, is on permanent roam anywhere north of Portland (and we certainly are north of Portland). I had one battery bar left, as I winced and called AAA. First of all, the operator had no idea how to find me. I was on a rural route (quite literally, RR 14o, in fact), and not at all in Massachusetts. I was informed that it would be 2 hours before a tow truck could get to me.
It was still raining, mind you, and there was no place to go for cover. There are no street lamps, so the only light was coming from the emergency flashers on my half-buried car. It was determined that, rather than make my parents and three siblings who were crammed in the back wait for 2 hours in the storm, that they would go home and my father would come back in his Jeep to check on us, and possibly just take us home should AAA never arrive.
So they drove off, leaving me with two brothers and nothing to do but wait.
Eventually, an SUV coming from the opposite direction pulled over. A man and his wife, probably in their upper forties, asked us what happened. After I explained, they said that the town (Canton, Maine) was terrible about sanding during storms, and this had happened before when it's been icy. They said they knew the people who lived in the house we were standing in the driveway of, and lead us up to their garage to get some shovels out. We found two, and my brothers each took hold of them. The couple suggested we that go shovel out the front of my car, so that when someone comes to pull us out, it would be easier. They said they would call the town to have them sand, but even better--they would call a neighbor who happened to have the tools and vehicle necessary to yank me on out of that ditch.
Soaking wet, and shivering, my brothers and I began to walk on the side of the road up to my unfortunate little car. About halfway up, a car came from the other direction down the hill. It hit the ice--and began sliding right at us. It was something out of a movie--headlights coming helplessly directly at three bewildered youths on some abandoned road. "JUMP!" I yelled, and all three of us, and the shovels, went running and flying down into the banking below as the driver miraculously regained control of his car and avoided taking us all out in some sort of Christmas Eve tragedy.
We continued to walk up the road, only this time when we saw the fog illuminate in the distance, we knew to pre-emptively head down the banking. This time, the driver could not regain control, and about 20 feet above my car's flashing lights, another car began blinking as it discovered it, too, had spun around and gone halfway down a ditch.
Now we have two cars down a ditch. The SUV couple decided that enough was enough, and went to drive up the street to where the closest neighbors were to ask them to put their car out with flashing lights so that people would know that it is dangerous ahead. As they left, my brothers began shoveling. I watched. And started to feel really, really hot, about to vomit, dizzy, and blacking out around the corners. I've only fainted twice before (once after giving blood, and once when bleeding profusely after a bagel-slicing incident went awry), but I knew that was what was about to happen. I sat down into the snow and shoved my face into the white stuff, hoping to snap myself out of it.
The SUV couple returned, and soon after, a Jeep with a rope tow and silent elderly driver with a cigarette in his mouth arrived to the relief of us all. Since I was sitting in a stupor with my face in the snow, SUV man got out and asked if he could drive the car while cigarette man towed me on out. I mumbled something, probably a "yes, please," but could just have easily been something about Christian Bale or bunnies. Either way, he got in the driver's seat, and my car was, with a few quick tugs, removed from the snowbank of doom, as the SUV man drove my car safely into the driveway where we had stood for so long before.
Just when I was beginning to think the ordeal was over, about three steps into walking down to my car, I lost my footing and fell completely flat and sprawled out in the middle of the road. Head and tailbone thoroughly pavement-smacked. Contents of my purse flying everywhere. Rain now falling directly onto my face. Despite the pain and the surprise and the weariness and the sheer embarrassment of it all, I had to laugh, collect my things, and continue walking.
As the Jeep yanked the other car out, I got on my cell (now flashing "low battery") to call home to inform them that, if my dad hadn't left home yet, he didn't need to. He had, of course, it was now 9:15 or so. I tried to call AAA to cancel their service, and my phone shut off. So, shivering, wet, with numb extremities and a head rush, my brothers and I blasted the heat in the car and waited for my father to come.
About 20 minutes later, he did. Just after a sand truck, thanks to the call of the SUV people, went past. In what might have been the cutest thing ever, he had brought all of the extra blankets in the house with him, assuming we had been standing out in the rain all of that time.
My brother offered to drive, an offer I normally would not have taken up (I'm nervous about other people driving my car because it has no power steering and is a bit of a tricky little beast), but gratefully accepted. Not going above 15 MPH (I gasped aloud whenever he would begin to accelerate), and my father's trusty Jeep's lights right behind us, we finally, finally made it home. At 10 PM on Christmas Eve.
I have never been in the Christmas spirit as much as I was when I got home and changed into warm, dry clothes and drank some wine that my mother had opened for our return home. It was my own little Christmas miracle. I was George Bailey coming home at last.
A large part of that Christmas miracle was the SUV couple. They got the road sanded, got us shovels, got us safely out of the ditch, and gave me comfort when I was losing my mind. I never got their names or address, and I desperately wish that I had--a gift basket of thanks would no doubt be on their front door by now. I think they represent, in a huge way, the generosity of the Maine people. Here in Massachusetts (at least in the greater Boston area), if I went off the road, and halfway into a ditch, I have a feeling people who would drive by would just honk because I was somehow in the way. There is little doubt in my mind that nobody here would give up an hour of their evening on Christmas Eve to help a slightly incoherent out-of-state stranger get out of a ditch.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Just call me Mr. Kotter...
...And welcome me on back.
I wish I could say I had a legitimate reason to have inexplicably quit blogging with nary a warning. Technically, I suppose I could say that and y'all would never know since the Internet is ambiguous like that; however, I'd like to think that I am above lying. Unless it is to children.
The truth is, I was lazy. Well, I am lazy. But now I slightly more motivated. It's a new year. I'm about to get a new hair color. I am unstoppable, or at least slightly-harder-to-stop.
And what is bringing me out of posting slump? A tight-knit community full of idiots, farmland, and (in one particular household) chocolate crunchy bars.
"But, Annie," you begin, after looking in the upper left hand section to remember what my name is, "I thought you lived in West Roxbury? Idiots and chocolate bars abound, but farmland seems an odd description."
And that is when I tell you that I am speaking of someplace fictional. Someplace glorious. Someplace that is not in West Roxbury, Massachusetts, or even this country.
I am writing, of course, about Dibley. "The Vicar of Dibley" is a long-running BBC program helmed by Richard Curtis that you might have seen, might have heard about, or might know nothing about. I recently discovered this gem of a program while flipping through channels, and with one brassy laugh from star Dawn French, I became smitten.
I implore you to Netflix, BPL, or otherwise obtain this series on DVD if at all possible, and give it a thorough viewing. If not within your means--you are in luck. PBS (both WGBH and NHPTV) around here airs it on at least a weekly basis. Tuesday evenings, for example, NHPTV (channel 11, see how easy I am making this for you...) airs it in a lineup of Britcoms. Practically nothing else is on Tuesday evenings, so you have no excuse to skim by it.
This show warms the cockles of my heart (if such a sensation actually exists). It's cold out today, and there's an ice storm coming tomorrow--a little cockle-warming could do you good.
More posts, less TV-centric content to come. I hope.
I wish I could say I had a legitimate reason to have inexplicably quit blogging with nary a warning. Technically, I suppose I could say that and y'all would never know since the Internet is ambiguous like that; however, I'd like to think that I am above lying. Unless it is to children.
The truth is, I was lazy. Well, I am lazy. But now I slightly more motivated. It's a new year. I'm about to get a new hair color. I am unstoppable, or at least slightly-harder-to-stop.
And what is bringing me out of posting slump? A tight-knit community full of idiots, farmland, and (in one particular household) chocolate crunchy bars.
"But, Annie," you begin, after looking in the upper left hand section to remember what my name is, "I thought you lived in West Roxbury? Idiots and chocolate bars abound, but farmland seems an odd description."
And that is when I tell you that I am speaking of someplace fictional. Someplace glorious. Someplace that is not in West Roxbury, Massachusetts, or even this country.
I am writing, of course, about Dibley. "The Vicar of Dibley" is a long-running BBC program helmed by Richard Curtis that you might have seen, might have heard about, or might know nothing about. I recently discovered this gem of a program while flipping through channels, and with one brassy laugh from star Dawn French, I became smitten.
I implore you to Netflix, BPL, or otherwise obtain this series on DVD if at all possible, and give it a thorough viewing. If not within your means--you are in luck. PBS (both WGBH and NHPTV) around here airs it on at least a weekly basis. Tuesday evenings, for example, NHPTV (channel 11, see how easy I am making this for you...) airs it in a lineup of Britcoms. Practically nothing else is on Tuesday evenings, so you have no excuse to skim by it.
This show warms the cockles of my heart (if such a sensation actually exists). It's cold out today, and there's an ice storm coming tomorrow--a little cockle-warming could do you good.
More posts, less TV-centric content to come. I hope.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Cabin-ish
Every so often, I get into a mood I call "cabin-ish." It's exactly what it sounds like, so long as it sounds like I want to be tucked away in a cabin in the woods instead of where I am at the present. If I was really being honest, I'd say that I am at all times relatively cabin-ish, but the level of cabin-ish changes on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis.
Currently, my cabin-ish level is somewhere between moderate and severe, and if it would only take a very small thing to tip me headfirst into the dangerous severe territories.
I am not a city girl. I'm just not. I pretend to be, and can even pretend that I am so well that I begin to believe it for myself. I enjoy trips to the Other City, but that's solely because of the theatre and cultural experiences, and has nothing to do with the pavement and subways. I like saying that I live in Boston (well, West Roxbury--I know some people take issue with whether or not that is truly considered Boston living), but the fact that I get emotionally stirred thinking about small cabins in the middle of nowhere makes me realize that liking to saying it and liking to live in it aren't really close enough.
The fact remains--I majored in theatre in college. I have student loans that are far higher than any income I'll ever actually make in that field. I have to pay them off. To do so requires a job that pays. To do so, I must live and work here. Once my loans are paid off--the world is my oyster (at least, the low-to-moderately priced world); however, if I ever want to make some sort of an income within my field of interest, I'll have to stay in a city. Not necessarily this one (in fact, probably not this one), but I can't be both a cabin-dweller and a theatrical professional.
Unless, of course, I'm a Nathan Lane or Patrick Stewart, who can easily afford to pop between both worlds.
I like to think I could start some kind of rustic theatrical group--touring through fields and forests to perform for the woodland creatures and A list directors (a sort of theatrical Robin Hood), but the day of minstrels has ended.
Today, the air is heavy with moisture (again), my eyelids are heavy with sleepiness (always), and my heart is just a little bit heavy with the knowledge that someday, I'm going to have to choose between my cabin-ish nature and my love for performance--and because I'll have to choose, I think I'll always be just a little restless.
Currently, my cabin-ish level is somewhere between moderate and severe, and if it would only take a very small thing to tip me headfirst into the dangerous severe territories.
I am not a city girl. I'm just not. I pretend to be, and can even pretend that I am so well that I begin to believe it for myself. I enjoy trips to the Other City, but that's solely because of the theatre and cultural experiences, and has nothing to do with the pavement and subways. I like saying that I live in Boston (well, West Roxbury--I know some people take issue with whether or not that is truly considered Boston living), but the fact that I get emotionally stirred thinking about small cabins in the middle of nowhere makes me realize that liking to saying it and liking to live in it aren't really close enough.
The fact remains--I majored in theatre in college. I have student loans that are far higher than any income I'll ever actually make in that field. I have to pay them off. To do so requires a job that pays. To do so, I must live and work here. Once my loans are paid off--the world is my oyster (at least, the low-to-moderately priced world); however, if I ever want to make some sort of an income within my field of interest, I'll have to stay in a city. Not necessarily this one (in fact, probably not this one), but I can't be both a cabin-dweller and a theatrical professional.
Unless, of course, I'm a Nathan Lane or Patrick Stewart, who can easily afford to pop between both worlds.
I like to think I could start some kind of rustic theatrical group--touring through fields and forests to perform for the woodland creatures and A list directors (a sort of theatrical Robin Hood), but the day of minstrels has ended.
Today, the air is heavy with moisture (again), my eyelids are heavy with sleepiness (always), and my heart is just a little bit heavy with the knowledge that someday, I'm going to have to choose between my cabin-ish nature and my love for performance--and because I'll have to choose, I think I'll always be just a little restless.
Friday, July 25, 2008
At least it wasn't Big Bird.
Whoever the new voice-over non-automatic voice-over man at Back Bay Station is at around 5:25 PM, I think I am in love. Where once there was a woman with little humor, now there is a man with a great deal of it. Even if he wasn't any more helpful than previous commuter rail announcer lady, he made a Friday rush hour delay into a bit of a lark with phrases such as:
"Stoughton train is just sittin' at South Station not going anywhere."
"Stoughton train boarding next on Track 3, I hope. (pause) Please ask the conductor what train it is before boarding."
"If all goes well, the Acela Express will board next on track 1."*
Speaking of a bit of a lark--my reward for recyling (in the spanking new mother of all recycle bins...if I don't decide to renew my lease, it's probably big enough for most of my possessions and my short little self) the moment that I got home from the Friday work rush was a facial wound caused by a renegade sparrow of some sort. I'm just hoping it's not a West Nile renegade sparrow.
Still in my "conservative corporate casual" attire (a la Ann Taylor Loft and Old Navy instead of Ann Taylor the Official and Banana Republic), I carried my recycling out to christen the new recycling bins with copious amounts of empty seltzer cans. I lifted the lid. I dropped my bag 'o cans. I felt Willy the Sparrow (Feature Film for Families anyone?) thwack my face before I saw him coming. Apparently, he was lurking in the bush next to the giant recycling bin waiting for an environmentally friendly victim to come along and fall prey to his evil beak of doom.
It's a good thing I have a pretty durable face. I've been left with merely a scratch from where Willy the Sparrow launched his attack. I saw him fly off into the back yard. Probably to return to his Sparrow brethren and tell them how his plot to thwart Al Gore is moving forward nicely.
Seriously, though--a BIRD CUT MY FACE!
I'm sorry Audubon Society, I have a valid reason to not give you a donation ever again (you can take away the "again" part if you want to get technical).
"Stoughton train is just sittin' at South Station not going anywhere."
"Stoughton train boarding next on Track 3, I hope. (pause) Please ask the conductor what train it is before boarding."
"If all goes well, the Acela Express will board next on track 1."*
Speaking of a bit of a lark--my reward for recyling (in the spanking new mother of all recycle bins...if I don't decide to renew my lease, it's probably big enough for most of my possessions and my short little self) the moment that I got home from the Friday work rush was a facial wound caused by a renegade sparrow of some sort. I'm just hoping it's not a West Nile renegade sparrow.
Still in my "conservative corporate casual" attire (a la Ann Taylor Loft and Old Navy instead of Ann Taylor the Official and Banana Republic), I carried my recycling out to christen the new recycling bins with copious amounts of empty seltzer cans. I lifted the lid. I dropped my bag 'o cans. I felt Willy the Sparrow (Feature Film for Families anyone?) thwack my face before I saw him coming. Apparently, he was lurking in the bush next to the giant recycling bin waiting for an environmentally friendly victim to come along and fall prey to his evil beak of doom.
It's a good thing I have a pretty durable face. I've been left with merely a scratch from where Willy the Sparrow launched his attack. I saw him fly off into the back yard. Probably to return to his Sparrow brethren and tell them how his plot to thwart Al Gore is moving forward nicely.
Seriously, though--a BIRD CUT MY FACE!
I'm sorry Audubon Society, I have a valid reason to not give you a donation ever again (you can take away the "again" part if you want to get technical).
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Welcome back to the Spirit of America
I was in Prince Edward Island yesterday morning. Things are green there. Oh, so green. And peaceful. And just...lovely. This is a fact that keeps running around my brain in potentially record-setting laps--and also a bit of knowledge that only enhanced my city-dwelling misery today.
It all started with wearing the wrong shoes. I left in a hurry this morning for my first day back at work (after an all too fleeting vacation), and slipped on a pair of shoes that didn't match. On the train, I noticed that there was a giant stain on the upper right bosom area of my dress.
These would have been trivial inconveniences on a normal day. But tonight I was meeting with a friend. A male friend. The kind of male friend who pays for my meal and holds the car door for me, and not the kind of male friend who considers me asexual and/or has similar taste in shoes as I do.
Halfway through the day, I went to use the restroom and discovered, much to my chagrin, that my good ole period decided to make itself known.
I should have mentioned that I was wearing a white dress.
Incredibly, the situation hadn't gone beyond all hope. I remedied it. I still had mismatched shoes, and the boob stain was still there, but at least I didn't have the Red Red Robin Beep Bop a Lobbin Along my backside.
My friend was leaving on the last bus home from South Station at 6:15. I get out of work at 5:15, and learned via mbta.com that I could pick up the Providence line to South Station at Back Bay at 5:27, which would give us a little less than 45 minutes to grab a quick bite in the station and see one another (this friend lives out of state, you see, until September). I waited. And waited.
I text messaged him to say that the train was running late, but since they hadn't made an announcement, it wouldn't be long.
Five minutes later, an Acela Express seemed to be stuck on our tracks.
He called. Apparently, I sent the text to a wrong number. He was still waiting for me, wondering where I was. I explained the situation, but said I'd be there as soon as I could--and the train pulled in.
I boarded. I waited. I was informed that the train would be canceled, and to take the T instead. An option I didn't consider earlier, because even if it was a bit late, the commuter rail would be much faster than taking the Orange Line and then changing lines at Park Street to the station.
It was now 5:55. There was no way to get to him. I called to tell him I couldn't make it.
I should mention now that had he not been waiting to see me, he could have left Boston at noon.
So I went, sticky from the heat, needing some aspirin something terrible, over to the other track to await the 6:00 train home.
No such luck. Not only were several trains of delayed passengers waiting in the oppressive platform air, but our train was announced to be 15-20 minutes late.
I grumbled, but I waited. And my phone rang. It turned out to be some guy named Ryan. Whose number I mistakingly text messaged. He told me that I sounded "hot." I spent the first half of the conversation thinking he was my brother (who shares a name with the boy I was seeing that evening), so I thought he was just being a prankster. And then I realized it was not, in fact, my brother.
He sent me a text message that had his picture on it.
At 6:30, the train pulled in to take me home. The A/C wasn't working.
To sum things up:
-Left the house looking bad, returned to the house 11.5 hours later feeling worse.
I need my rice and beans to finish cooking so I can eat. That's another thing. Because I was away, I have no food in the house.
Oh, PEI, how I miss thy blue skies and green fields and red cliffs and fresh air and strangers who initiate conversations that don't involve asking for money or explaining, in no uncertain terms, how they would "tap" me.
It all started with wearing the wrong shoes. I left in a hurry this morning for my first day back at work (after an all too fleeting vacation), and slipped on a pair of shoes that didn't match. On the train, I noticed that there was a giant stain on the upper right bosom area of my dress.
These would have been trivial inconveniences on a normal day. But tonight I was meeting with a friend. A male friend. The kind of male friend who pays for my meal and holds the car door for me, and not the kind of male friend who considers me asexual and/or has similar taste in shoes as I do.
Halfway through the day, I went to use the restroom and discovered, much to my chagrin, that my good ole period decided to make itself known.
I should have mentioned that I was wearing a white dress.
Incredibly, the situation hadn't gone beyond all hope. I remedied it. I still had mismatched shoes, and the boob stain was still there, but at least I didn't have the Red Red Robin Beep Bop a Lobbin Along my backside.
My friend was leaving on the last bus home from South Station at 6:15. I get out of work at 5:15, and learned via mbta.com that I could pick up the Providence line to South Station at Back Bay at 5:27, which would give us a little less than 45 minutes to grab a quick bite in the station and see one another (this friend lives out of state, you see, until September). I waited. And waited.
I text messaged him to say that the train was running late, but since they hadn't made an announcement, it wouldn't be long.
Five minutes later, an Acela Express seemed to be stuck on our tracks.
He called. Apparently, I sent the text to a wrong number. He was still waiting for me, wondering where I was. I explained the situation, but said I'd be there as soon as I could--and the train pulled in.
I boarded. I waited. I was informed that the train would be canceled, and to take the T instead. An option I didn't consider earlier, because even if it was a bit late, the commuter rail would be much faster than taking the Orange Line and then changing lines at Park Street to the station.
It was now 5:55. There was no way to get to him. I called to tell him I couldn't make it.
I should mention now that had he not been waiting to see me, he could have left Boston at noon.
So I went, sticky from the heat, needing some aspirin something terrible, over to the other track to await the 6:00 train home.
No such luck. Not only were several trains of delayed passengers waiting in the oppressive platform air, but our train was announced to be 15-20 minutes late.
I grumbled, but I waited. And my phone rang. It turned out to be some guy named Ryan. Whose number I mistakingly text messaged. He told me that I sounded "hot." I spent the first half of the conversation thinking he was my brother (who shares a name with the boy I was seeing that evening), so I thought he was just being a prankster. And then I realized it was not, in fact, my brother.
He sent me a text message that had his picture on it.
At 6:30, the train pulled in to take me home. The A/C wasn't working.
To sum things up:
-Left the house looking bad, returned to the house 11.5 hours later feeling worse.
I need my rice and beans to finish cooking so I can eat. That's another thing. Because I was away, I have no food in the house.
Oh, PEI, how I miss thy blue skies and green fields and red cliffs and fresh air and strangers who initiate conversations that don't involve asking for money or explaining, in no uncertain terms, how they would "tap" me.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Bellevue Blues
http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2008/06/25/train_fatally_strikes_boy_15_crossing_tracks_in_roslindale/
That's my station. Those are my train tracks. That's my neighborhood. That's around my commute time (it happened not long after I got off of the outbound train at around 5:45). I have brothers who are his age.
This hit home. Literally, really, since that's right around the corner from my apartment. I heard a lot of sirens not long after I got home, but since the police station is right next door and there are hospitals every which way in close proximity, I didn't think anything of it.
I don't know who that boy is, but I am so so saddened by this tragedy. My heart goes out to his family, and to his friends--especially the one who was with him when it happened.
This morning, there was no sign that it had happened--just a couple police officers surveying the scene (I don't know what for, except maybe they expected people to investigate the tracks themselves?).
That's my station. Those are my train tracks. That's my neighborhood. That's around my commute time (it happened not long after I got off of the outbound train at around 5:45). I have brothers who are his age.
This hit home. Literally, really, since that's right around the corner from my apartment. I heard a lot of sirens not long after I got home, but since the police station is right next door and there are hospitals every which way in close proximity, I didn't think anything of it.
I don't know who that boy is, but I am so so saddened by this tragedy. My heart goes out to his family, and to his friends--especially the one who was with him when it happened.
This morning, there was no sign that it had happened--just a couple police officers surveying the scene (I don't know what for, except maybe they expected people to investigate the tracks themselves?).
Friday, June 13, 2008
FAIL
I won't lie. I gave up on the Celtics last night. I had to tune into So You Think You Can Dance between 9-10, and during that time, I used my commercial breaks to check in on the game. After SYTYCD ended, I flipped permanently to the game. I was tired. The game was depressing. I turned it off.
Why oh why did I turn it off?
I regret that decision oh so very much.
I want them to beat LA very much. I do. I think they're uber-talented. I think that Boston deserves this after the Superbowl fiasco. I think Kobe Bryant is a tool.
And yet, I gave up on the boys in green last night. I should have remembered that our mascot is Lucky. Although, Heaven knows, from what I've read in the game recaps, luck had very little to do with it.
Why oh why did I turn it off?
I regret that decision oh so very much.
I want them to beat LA very much. I do. I think they're uber-talented. I think that Boston deserves this after the Superbowl fiasco. I think Kobe Bryant is a tool.
And yet, I gave up on the boys in green last night. I should have remembered that our mascot is Lucky. Although, Heaven knows, from what I've read in the game recaps, luck had very little to do with it.
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