MY, that's a Lovely Shade of Musk You're Wearing

Last week, Sarah and I were going to meet her boyfriend & co. at a bar in Central Square. For whatever reasons, this made us very giggly and girly as were getting ready at Sarah's apartment. We had given ourselves a time constraint of ten minutes, I think. Sarah is many things, and one of those things is a master mixologist. She is always wearing the right amount of perfume and it smells perfect and very come-hither. So I asked her if I could wear one of her many perfume flavors, and she said that she had a musk perfume and a lily of the valley and both of them were her favorites so she would wear whichever one I didn't choose.

Musk is kind of my favorite word, for all of its primal mysteriousness. I didn't even know what musk would smell like, but I knew I wanted to wear it. I thought it would be like the smell of a sweater you somehow managed to steal from your crush before you never saw him again, and then every night for three months you cuddled up with it in bed, practically choking on the nostalgia. After a while, your tears mixed with the boy-sweater-smell and that scent was musk. One can imagine. Ahem.

So S. wore lily of the valley and I went musky and all night long I could smell myself (in a good way).

Apparently, this perfume that I am now obsessed with is called Ultima II Sheer Scent, and it is discontinued from JC Penney (!), and Sarah buys it on eBay.

The Somerville People

When I lived in New York for about ten days, I really got to missing my old Somerville neighborhood a whole lot. I tried to share the nostalgia with new friends, but they would constantly berate me for my inability to "heart" New York.

"But you don't understand!" I would tell them. "Boston and New York are so completely different! There is no Harvard Square in New York!" But they would only gesture around to wherever we were and talk about how much said place had to offer. And I think they were right, there IS so much more in New York, and that's why I didn't like it, because I was so used to Boston's underachievements as a city.

What I really couldn't get used to was the size of the city. I naively thought that living in Brooklyn would be like living in Somerville, the desirable areas of Boston and Cambridge only a hop skip away. But no. In Greenpoint, Brooklyn, it seemed as if there was a secret plot to keep me from getting to Manhattan on weekends and late nights. The G train was the worst. Aside from smelling like radioactive poo half the time, it would run on the wrong side of the tracks, and only come about every three hours. So, I would sit and sit and wait for the train, usually spotting at least one heart-stoppingly humongous monkey-rat in the meantime, and when the train finally came it would be going in the wrong direction. Someone wrote on one of the poles at my stop, "The G creates nothing but misery," and sometimes that line still runs through my mind. Like if I am waiting in line to use the bathroom at a bar, and my bladder is so full it is bringing tears to my eyes, I will think, "The G creates nothing but misery."

If you could even get into Manhattan, once you were there you had to be wearing orthopedic shoes to even survive a single day of "fun." I walked a lot in Boston, but for some reason in New York my feet always hurt. And wherever I was things just usually didn't look nice. Soho shops were crawling with tourists no matter the time, day, or weather. Sometimes I think that the one place that I loved in New York was Washington Square Park (original, I know). It felt how I thought New York should feel, like movie New York and book New York and poetry New York felt (you know fake, unrealistic, and idealized).

I also want to point out that although everyone in New York was always talking about how unfriendly people in Boston are, and how every one in Boston has a "chip on the shoulder," I have never had so many strangers be mean to me until I lived in New York. Like the shop guy who chased me into the street after he sexually harassed me in his store, which in turn made me flip him off (lesson learned: don't flip off people in New York, even if they are doing something as awful as harassing you while you are innocently shopping. They might be crazy, real crazy).

Anyway.

When I used to come back to Somerville to stay with Luke during my hiatus, I would be so stupidly, moronishly happy to be in Somerville. I mean it's only Somerville, but it felt like MY Somerville. I used to pretend that the people in Union Square were marchers in a parade, and Luke and I would sing this song (pretending that they were singing it to us): "WE ARE THE Somerville people and we're marching along! YES WE ARE! We're marching right along." And so on. It made me happy every time.


not the Somerville people parade

Weekly Watch

I totally heart Boston's Weekly Dig. The editor's letter is always wonderful, and it's right at the beginning, so me and the Dig get off on the right foot every time. Love the Media Farm, love the exit polls, love love love. There is one little problem, though. The Dig is in love with the term "douchebag."

I had this idea a while ago that I wanted to do a Weekly Dig "douchebag" watch, because it seemed as if every time I flipped through the free weekly's inky pages, I found gratuitous offerings of the word to describe almost anything. A quick search at weeklydig.com comes up with 38 hits for the word, and honestly I bet there are more, because the website doesn't always have all the captions that the print version does, and you know what word can really sum things up in a caption? Yup. Douchebag.

A sampling of doucheiness:
Late at night, you are roused from an uneasy sleep. You have seen The Void. 'Holy shit,' you exclaim, 'John Kerry is a douchebag!' Alan Blevins feels your pain. He too has grappled with Kerry's doucheitude, and he is here to hold your nose as you pull the lever for Kerry in November...
this paragraph actually uses the word and variations of the word a total of 5 times, even though "doucheier" is incredibly vowel-y awkward.

and

Now that summer’s here, we’re in for several weeks of unbearable heat and flaring tempers, forcing us to smile politely at every douchebag who cuts us off in traffic, just in case he’s packing.
just a minor douche offense here, but you get the point.

Apparently at Dig HQ, it has been decided that in the spirit of our times, douchebag=hilarity. So of course after getting the idea to call them out for it every week, I've been scouring the pages for the word, and come up douche-free every time. But that doesn't mean that there isn't anything else to report.

The Dig's [words] section is harmless, really. Just a listing of events on half the page and ads on the other, actually. But there is something odd in this week's paper (though not available online). They have a reading by hot author Marisha Pessl listed at the top with a pink "dig this" sign, so we know it's Dig-approved. Ok, I've read about her in the NYTimes, and Luke bought her book last week and is now probably harboring a secret literary crush on Pessl. Whatever. Pessl is actress-pretty, and when smart people who do things are cute, it makes other people want to print pictures of them to spread the cuteness. Good for her, I say. But why does the Dig have two pictures of her, actually just the same picture, one panning out and one close up of the hotness? I don't know why, but it's weird. No reference to any "douchebags" though. Darn.

Coupla Things

Every time I listen to WFNX lately, I hear Miss Julie Kramer shilling for Dial-a-Mattress. The idea of a Dial-a company just sounds unsavory, like the Dial-a-Pizza that I used to live down the street from in Somerville. If it had just been a "Pizza Place," I would have thought it was fine, but it wasn't. It was a Dial-a-Pizza. Now, who in the world would want to dial a mattress? The last time I checked, mattresses were expensive, like in the low thousands. Why would a person want to just phone one in, rather than test it out, and buy it from a respectable storefront, rather than dial one up to a shady warehouse?

Every time Julie Kramer starts in on her mattress pitch, she says something along the lines of, "All you students out there are getting ready for school. Now, there's a lot to figure out, but you shouldn't have to figure out where to get your mattress from..."

What I want to know is, where are these campuses that you have to bring your own mattress?! If I had shown up for freshman year with my own bed, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have made it very far before some RA told me to get it out of there. But 1-800-mattress.com even has a back to school special. So. What. Is. The. Deal.

also, the Shins are playing in the McCarren Park pool tonight in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Makes me miss Greenpoint a tiny bit. Not the summer stench though. I'm living just fine without that.

Roof-eee-OOHHHH

Sunday night, Entourage:
Luke: That's the artist who made the shoes.
Me: The real artist? Is it a real artist?
Luke: I don't know.
Me: That's no artist, it's Rufio!

(and by popular opinion, I'm right about the Ruf-ster, that lewd, crude, rude, bag of pre-chewed food, Dude.)

Missed Connections: Animal Kingdom Edition

Sometimes, one finds a missed connection so perfectly surprising that one wants to share it with the world. Take, for example, a highlight from this MC posted today on Boston's Craigslist:

MC with my dog's shit - 25

I placed my hand inside a baggy to use as a glove in an attempt to pick up her poop. The thing is, you can't "pick up" liquid, especially when you have tiny 8-year-old-esque girl hands. I did the best I could...squatting over the sidewalk while everyone watched me smear crap around like fingerpaint.

yucks.

I think this poor girl was secretly just looking for an excuse to post pictures of her incredibly cute, albeit pooping, puppy.

The Spanish Caller

Has this ever happened to you?

Luke and I occasionally get a phone call from an unknown area code. We don't answer it, then we get a message left on our voicemail in Spanish. We both have our own cell phone, and it has happened on both of our phones. Luke even went so far as to save the message and play it for some of his Spanish speaking co-workers. They couldn't understand what it said. He played it for a bunch of different people at work, and some people thought it was a calling card message.

I haven't heard from the Spanish voicemail in a while, but last week a number called my cell every day listed as "unknown." I would have answered it, but I kept missing the call, and when I tried to call it back, my phone said "no number." Then today, I get a phone call from 773.703.7421. I was sitting with Luke, and I didn't answer it because I get weird about talking to someone on the phone when someone else is in the room. Like if it was a long lost high school friend, then I would have to have my polite phone voice on, and I hate it when someone I know really well hears my polite phone voice masking surprise and probably regret (at deciding to answer the phone). I just really hate talking on the phone.

So, I try to call it back after I see there's no message. My call cannot be completed. Phone sleuth that I am (and slightly nervous that it's a creditor calling to tell me I owe someone somewhere money), I plug the number into google. 773 area code is in Illinois, apparently. Then I find this website, www.whocalled.us and plug in the number and there are all of these comments about the number calling people's cell phones. Some comments say that they get a message left in Spanish.

One extremely awesome person, "Bill," went so far as to comment:
we are in AMERICA, and we should NOT be receiving calls in another language that is not the language of this country! this is 1,000 times worse than a regular telemarketing call

Wow.

What is the key to the mystery of the Spanish caller?

Quick Question

Q. Why is Gawker fake promoting Fake Writer James Frey?

A. Because their sporty brethren Deadspin is featuring a piece by Frey on Monday. Is it just me or does this whole post reek of cross-promotion irony? Fake irony, that is.

How can Gawker even gawk itself in the mirror? For shame.

Parking Parade

Yesterday, I drove to that beacon of jail-house chic architecture, Umass Boston. It had been a long time for the UMB and me. Maybe too long?

I was happy to see that they had put in a light at the 93 north Umass exit offramp, where years ago I would just close my eyes and hope for the best, flinging the car into a lefthand turn. I was unhappy to see that all of the garage parking was closed. Having no other choice, I began to circle around the campus. Then I saw a sign for parking. $6.00 FLAT RATE, it screamed at me, and I screamed back.

"Where can I park that's cheaper?" I asked the attendant, outraged at the price. After all, this is just a shitty campus in South Boston, not Newbury Street. Dude just shook his head. Fine.

So I registered for a graduate education class. There was this woman being advised by two administrative type people, and so much to-do was being made over what classes she had to take. She had a paper in her hands that listed everything she had to take. "What's the big mystery?" I wondered. Then a princely little admin signed me up in two shakes, sent me to the bursar's and I had nearly forgotten about the whole flat rate thing by the time I was ready to leave.

I got a handsome note from the chancellor on my way out of the lot. Apparently, Chancellor Collins is looking forward to welcoming me back on campus for what he knows will be an exciting year. Only one little snag, though. Umass, everyone's favorite campus built above sea-level, may cave in on itself at any moment. See, senior colleagues have inspected the parking facilities, and they have found them unfit for cars. To fix the substructure would cost 160 million dollars, which wouldn't be "fiscally prudent." Chancellor Collins does his best to assure us that the foundation is structurally sound.

I'm doing my best to understand all of this jargon, but my heart of hearts is telling me that the foundation is in fact the parking garage. So how will I know that those depressing asbestos-laden walls of Wheatley Hall won't be the last thing I ever see when I start school this fall? Well, I guess I won't.

Pwah-ject One-way

Last night, girlfriend Alison was robbed, ROBBED by evil villain Vincent. If I could have 60 seconds alone with Heidi and Michael, I would simply say, "The V-Man is never going to do for the show what Santino did. So put all your eggs in Laura's basket. She's talented AND bitchy."

Is there no merit in this world? Allison has consistently done good jobs, and then she has one minor freakout and she gets the boot. Vincent is in the bottom two every time, and he is and odd duck.

Alison on Today today:
"I really liked my dress, I thought it was great." Um, what? Come on. At least Kane had the decency to say "I just really hate my dress." I hate it how the losers never admit they didn't do a good job. Like when that hollywood glam/goth kind of Ad Frank-ian guy got kicked off, he didn't just say, my dress looked like poo, which he should have because it was true.

Backpedaling

As my sister's and nephew's plane from Georgia landed today, an extra-special report from Logan Airport: FLIGHT DIVERTED.*

My mother called me with an elevated alert-sounding voice and asked if I had seen the news. Knowing she was calling from the airport, this was enough for me to suffer a mini-panic attack. She didn't know what was going on, but said that there were cameras everywhere, bomb-sniffing dogs, and traffic, traffic, traffic. She wasn't sure if Kim's plane would be able to land.



*no real terrorism threat here folks. Just a kooky 60 year-old woman who may or may not have had hand lotion on a flight from London, may or may not have had "a letter from al-Qaeda," as early reports said (more likely a Koran), and may or may not be brown-skinned.

Watch, as the news reporters backpedal to make it seem as if they aren't racist, ignorant, and alarmist!

More on Paint; Plus the Prodigal Daughter etc.

This week, my family will be reunited in Massachusetts. I have one sister living in the elbow of Brooklyn (which is much better than the arm pit), and one who escaped to the peach pits of Georgia. My brother and I are both here, with everything and nothing in common; several mailing addresses and opposing philosophies fraying like split hairs between us.

On Monday, little sis took the amtrak due north. She brought to my new apartment the most Martha of homemade gifts: granola made from scratch in one of those cute ball jars with the recipe for it tied to the lid and a note that said "Hive Sweet Home." Why is that so cute? Well, just look at it.

Gigi, my mom, and I were exiled to the sun room for coffee time with library books. Lots of design books, before and after redesigns, how-to paint furniture, and how-to crochet little pinwheel patterns books aplenty. It was a crazy windy day, and the heavy-duty blinds that remind me of being in a rec hall at camp were rattling all around us. We discovered that the wooden walls in the sunroom used to be painted teal. Later our coffee adventures brought us down to the basement (where we found an old old frigidaire the color of the seventies, unplugged) we realized that those nether-regions were ex-painted in the same teal. Curiouser and curiouser! Or, just a regular old paint and re-paint situation.

Why dwell on walls when things like this are happening though?


I think I've finally lived here long enough to lament the passing of one institution to another decidely more corporate quasi-sex positive exploitative/kiddie porn/working wage/in the end just bad T-shirts corporation. Harvard Square now has about ten banks, several over-priced wanna-be Euro shoe stores (I'm looking at you, Tannery and Adidas), one up-and-coming uber restaurant, and a T-shirt factory where art students who couldn't get a job at Urban Outfitters will smirk at, well, probably everyone for, you guessed it, anything.

F-ing commas. Sorry about that.

Walls and Walls

1) When Jill and Erik saw "Funny Ha Ha" they said that it really looked like it took place in Boston because all the apartments had weird gross colors on the walls.

2)The number of apartments I have lived in in (sorry double "in") Boston: six. The number of those apartments that had weird gross colors on the walls: three.

3) Current wall situation: normalcy all around.

One Not Like the Others

New York Times top headlines from my Google homepage:

Plot to Bomb Jets Is Thwarted in Britain

Aircraft Bomb Plot Thwarted in Britain

A Chinese Outcry: Doesn’ta Dog Have Rights? (typo theirs)

well...doesn't she?