So, I generally don't wear nail polish. It chips too easily and I can't afford regular manicures. And I pick the hell out of my cuticles so I don't generally like to draw attention to my hands. However, I have always been amused by nail polish names. My friend Heinz created some fictional racist polish colors after discovering that "Black Rage" was, in fact, a real color. I'm more entertained by OPI's recent country- and region-themed collections which take bad puns to a whole new level.
Consider, for example, the colors in their new Swiss collection:
From A to Z-urich, Color So Hot It Berns, Just a Little Rösti at This, William Tell Me About OPI, Ski Teal We Drop, Diva of Geneva, Lucerne-tainly Look Marvelous, Glitzerland, Yodel Me on My Cell, and Cuckoo for This Color.
GROAN. And I thought Carrie Bradshaw's puns were bad.
Inspired by OPI, however, I'd like to propose some Boston-themed colors:
Ben A Fleck of Gold Boston Teal Party M.I.Tease Brooklime Creamy Chowdah Mayor Menindigo BU-tiful Blue Red Sox Rage Louisa May Top Coat Saugus Chartreuse Orange You Glad You Don't Live Off the Orange Line Kelly's Roast Beef Green Jamaica Plain Beige Concord Grape Sam Adams Apple Red
I'm sure I'm missing some obvious ones....fellow Beantowners, feel free to chime in in the comments!
There is a dearth of brunch places in Boston. In NYC, brunch is HUGE. Entire weekends are planned around brunch. There are restaurants that specialize in brunch. There are hundreds of awesome prix fixe deals where you can get a cocktail, a coffee, and Eggs Benedict for under $15.
Brunch is my favorite meal. Like Christmas, it doesn't happen every day -- only on weekends. That's what makes it extra special. Brunch also combines three of my all-time favorite things: sleeping late, midday drinking, and breakfast food. Brunch is about freedom. It's about choices. You feel like a burger and I'm in the mood for french toast? No problem -- at brunch, we can both get what we want! Isn't freedom delicious?
And yet in Boston, home of the Freedom Trail, it is downright difficult to find a good brunch place. In Allston, there are breakfast spots (like Herrell's, which serves breakfast all day) but only one place that serves an real brunch and has a brunch menu. This, sadly, is Big City and the brunch is sub-par and geared toward extremely hungover frat boys. They have a horrifying egg-and-bacon-pizza that will raise your cholesterol just by looking at it.
You'd think in bourgeois Brookline, brunch places would be as common as baby strollers and cute dogs. I mean, brunch is obviously an upper-middle class invention. But shockingly, Zaftigs is really the only option -- and because it has no competition, the wait to get a table for brunch is often over an hour. And the food isn't even all that good.
There is a brunch niche that needs to be filled, Boston. I shouldn't have to go into a bar to get a Bloody Mary on a Sunday afternoon.
Just spent 10 consecutive days with my mother and though she is a great lady (and a reader of this blog!), I admit that I'm a little wiped out. My mom has a lot of energy and charms most that she meets, but we are very different people. Emotionally, we are wired the same way -- to put it bluntly, I get my "crazy" from her. Which might be the best part of me and also the part that I struggle to keep in check. Though incredibly smart, my mom leads with her heart and makes no apologies for it. And while her irrationality can be exhausting (for instance, when she refuses to take public transportation because while radically more expensive and slower due to traffic, cabs *seem* more convenient), it's also sometimes refreshing. Logic schmogic!
My mom is also very vocal and opinionated -- whenever I watch a movie with her, in a theater or at her home, she can't resist commenting on everything. This tendency is now referred to in our family as "mom-mentary" and it came out on this trip, when I took her to the comedy club where I used to work. My mom....well, she kind of heckled. The mom-mentary comes from a good place and my mom was just trying to participate, but her outbursts led one comic to pronounce, "We've got a live one!" I was a teensy bit embarrassed. But also a little proud.
My mom is a huge foodie and we went to a number of awesome restaurants when she was in Boston, including Cuchi Cuchi, Maurizio's, and Top of the Hub (read my Yelp reviews here). We also took a day trip to Salem, where we took an odd pedicab ride with a tattooed guy named Jimmy who knew very little about Salem's history and couldn't pronounce "Episcopal" ("Here on the right is the, uh, Escobal Church"). We ate oysters and drank raspberry martinis. We also took in a Jane Monheit show at Sculler's Jazz Club. All in all, it was a fun visit. I'm probably ten pounds heavier, but whatever. It's not quite swimsuit season yet.
I have 3 brothers and used to wish for a sister, but ultimately, I think I prefer being the only girl. I get to see a special side of my mom and we have a unique bond because I'm her only daughter. If I didn't exist, whom would she give crazy gifts to, such as my collection of Barbie dolls dressed as Scarlett O'Hara? Or this wooden plaque that I hung above my shoe rack:
In short, my mom rules. p.s. This is my 100th post! Thanks for reading!
....the discovery of a Borders gift card from Christmas fills you with joy because you realize you can use it at the Borders cafe and eat something other than Craisins and stale tortilla chips for lunch.
I understood when I decided to go to graduate school for poetry, as opposed to law or business, that I was committing to a life of financial struggle. Even published "successful" authors have to teach to support themselves (which is fine with me, I love teaching) and book advances are not as lucrative as they used to be. When I went to my five-year college reunion last June and told my fellow classmates that I was starting an MFA program in Creative Writing, most people responded in awe: "Wow, that's so brave!"
I guess it is brave...certainly, my life is more suspenseful than when I worked a regular job and received bi-weekly paychecks. Freelance writing is tough in terms of cash flow-- sometimes you get paid promptly. Ok, sometimes is a little generous. I just got paid last month for a story that ran in Time Out NY in September.
And you can't control when you'll be working -- for instance, I have a pretty sweet gig writing 700-word articles for an internal Smithsonian publication called The Torch. They pay well and it's the government, so the direct deposit does usually come in on time, but things can still go haywire. Like last month, when the person I was supposed to interview for a profile decided to leave the country for three weeks without telling me. I couldn't make my deadline and the story is now indefinitely postponed. Which means $500 less in my bank account, which means readjusting my lifestyle and becoming a Lady Who Lunches at Borders.
I am not implying that I deserve sympathy. I love what I do and I love being in school. Paying off my loans won't be a picnic, but I have a couple of years before I have to worry about that. And poverty does breed creativity -- this past weekend, when my brother (also a broke student) was in town, I found a number of free activities for us: Sam Adams brewery tour and tasting, the Freedom Trail, a friend of a friend's open bar birthday party. We did a lot of drinking and sightseeing and I sent him home on the Fung Wah bus properly hung over, like a good big sister.
I have friends and I have my health, so I guess in George Bailey terms, I'm the richest (wo)man in Bedford Falls. My birthday is coming up -- March 1 -- and I hate getting cash. But I do accept hugs, cards, home-cooked meals and cocktails. I mean, what kind of writer would I be if I didn't have a drinking problem?
I have now lived in Beantown for a little over three months, so it seems like a good time to reflect a bit on my life here and how the adjustment has been going. For the most part, it's been a smooth transition, though there are things I miss about my old life in New York. Specifically:
1. 24-hour subway service
2. 24-hour restaurants
3. 24-hour life in general
Being a student again is fun and it's nice to feel like I've matured since my undergraduate days in terms of my study habits. I still write papers the night before they're due, but I generally think about my thesis and create an outline a few days in advance, which makes the writing process easier. And I'm much more comfortable speaking in class. And much better about attending class. On time. Having done the reading.
But being a student in Boston is as annoying as being an actress in New York. In New York, I used to not admit to being an actor because, well, EVERYONE is an actor. Responding to the question of "So, what do you do?" with "Well, actually, I do theatre" usually results in an eye-roll which translates roughly to "yeah, you and every other asshole. Let's just cut to the chase where you give me a freakin' postcard for your next show so I can deposit said postcard into the next trash receptacle, k?"
Since Boston is a city of students (about half a million, to be exact), all you generally hear people talking about (on the T, in coffee shops, anywhere) is 1) their classes and 2) how wasted they were last night ("Seriously, I was so wasted last night. For reals. I mean, I don't remember anything at all. Except how wasted I was.")
So I guess it's fair to say that I miss the social diversity of New York. Boston feels like one big mostly-white campus sometimes. Which in terms of the abundance of cheap beer is a good thing...but otherwise, gets old fast.I do not want to move back to New York -- that I only see happening if I mysteriously come into a large sum of money. Which now that Barack Obama is President, I guess could happen. I mean, according to this woman, all my financial woes are pretty much behind me:
As one international student whose college admissions essay I was editing wrote, "The road is long and hubbly," my friends. That applies to me and our new President-elect. Hubbly, hubbly, hubbly.
This past weekend, I journeyed to Beantown to explore apartment options and attend a housing workshop sponsored by Emerson, where I will be starting grad school in the fall. The purpose of the workshop was to learn about the various neighborhoods in Boston and also meet potential roommates, i.e. other students new to the area who might be less suspect than weirdos on Craigslist.
I arrived at the workshop promptly at 10:00 am, when it was scheduled to begin. I was showered, casually but cutely attired, and looking as friendly-but-laid-back as possible. Upon arrival, I was handed a packet containing information about all the other Emerson students seeking housing. Turns out, most were actually undergrads and transfer students and too young for me to consider living with. Don't get me wrong, at 27 I'm still very much in my salad days and green in judgment, but I have no intention of rooming with a 19-year-old from Ohio who *hearts* Goldfrapp.
No matter, I thought, I can still maybe learn something here about what parts of Boston might be worth investigating. But alas, even that portion of the workshop was clearly designed to benefit 19-year-olds who listen to Goldfrapp and their anxious parents. There was, for example, a brief tutorial on how to ride a subway. Since I have lived in New York for the past five years, I long ago mastered not only how to ride the subway, but also how to ignore the guy on the 7 train platform in Times Square taking a dump into a pizza box. I left the workshop at 10:30 so as to avoid the icebreaker games scheduled before lunch.
Perusing ads on Craigslist later that day, I started noticing a trend: everyone describes themselves in EXACTLY THE SAME WAY and as a result, sounds totally nondescript. Just browse the roommates/shares section, and you'll see that coincidentally everyone is clean, but not a "neat freak," likes to go out with friends sometimes and also enjoys staying in, and is into really unusual things like music and film. OMG, me too!
Despairingly, I began to flip through my Emerson packet. Maybe I was being ageist. Maybe I could live with one of these youngsters, and be like that cool older sister that buys them beer. I considered contacting Doug, a rising senior from Boston, who thought it was important to note on his form that he could "beat 10 ninjas in a fight." My heart went out to Jessica, age 20, who described herself as "awesome," wrote that she "likes pina coladas" and then (adorably) crossed it out. And then there was the form filled out by someone I will call "The Fun Police," which read in part:
I'm 22 years old and despite my age I do not go out on a regular basis. I'm looking for a roommate who is over the bar/club phase because I certainly am.
I mean, props for being honest, but come on! College is all about making poor choices. Ultimately, the person that appealed to me the most was Ross from upstate NY, who seemed to be finding the whole roommate-finding business as ridiculous as I was. He wrote, in jest presumably:
I shower on a regular basis, and condition. I am trustworthy, and loveable [sic]. I don't walk around naked, ever. I do my laundry and don't pee on the toilet seat. I prefer Equal to Splenda. I like to meet new people, even head cases, as long as they have good hygiene. I love cats. Diet Coke beats Diet Pepsi. I don't play any sports. I'm nice.
I fully plan to look this dude up once I'm on campus, if only so we can talk about our shared preferences with artificial sweeteners.
After a lot of soul-searching, I decided that I'm just too damn old to live with strangers and waste time doing other people's dishes. I put down a deposit on a little studio in Allston and got on the next bus back to NYC.
**Special thanks to Daniel at Exit Realty for proving me wrong re: the existence of no-fee brokers, which I had previously believed to be as real as unicorns.
From A to Z-urich, Color So Hot It Berns, Just a Little Rösti at This, William Tell Me About OPI, Ski Teal We Drop, Diva of Geneva, Lucerne-tainly Look Marvelous, Glitzerland, Yodel Me on My Cell, and Cuckoo for This Color.
