Faneuil Hall is one of the better known landmarks here in Boston. If you’ve visited our fair city, chances are you’ve strolled the charming cobbled streets while picking up souvenirs to bring back to the folks at home. If you’ve lived here, it’s a safe bet that you’ve cursed the freakin’ stone streets while hobbling in uncomfortable shoes on the way to meet friends for an evening out.

I had one such evening on Saturday. There are not that many people for whom I’d brave the 40 minutes looking for parking in Boston around Faneuil Hall. Finsy is one of ‘em and her bachelorette party ended up in an establishment in Quincy Market. Ahhh… there’s nothing quite like the smell of urine and sausages on the first day of summer. I’d probably crawl on my tummy through broken glass for that girl. She’s well worth it.

Years ago I appropriated my life philosophy T-shirt ripping-off Buddhist philosophy:

Where ever you go, there you are.

In short, it was a really fun (albeit oppressively hot and sweaty) night of dancing for us. I had several of my signature drink: water on the rocks with a twist. Beverage-wise: I was covered but there was a group of fellow bar patrons who begged to disagree. Literally begged.

These gents had "extra" mixed drink of the green persuasion for which they were trying to find a good looking home. The optimist locked away in the depth of my soul wanted to believe that they had caught the spirit from Oprah’s philanthropy contest and just wanted to pay it forward. After 15 minutes of well-mannered refusals from my girl friends’ it became clear that this particular brood was simply too forward. It was past time to stop trying to give big and just go home. Accordingly, the dainty white gloves came off and my scrappy side came out to play. As great of a character reference as the tattoo on their ringleader’s flabby chest was, we were all pretty attached to remembering the next 12-14 hours. Note to self: there is no polite way to turn-down a free Rufeetini.

For the record, I doubt that there were any additives to the questionable drink in question. They were probably nice, albeit clueless, guys who unfortunately made it well into their twenties without learning that there are certain things you just don’t do:

FOR GIRLS: Do not accept drinks of unknown origin from sketchy men in bars. This goes along with watching your drink being poured by the bartender, never leaving it unattended and grasping the top so that your palm covers the top as you’re walking through a crowded room.

FOR GUYS: Treat every girl you meet as you would like your mother/sister/niece/daughter to be treated as they venture out into the big bad world. In other words, do not seek to disrupt someone to complying with the above rule. If you don’t act like ladies are meat to please you, they will most likely be pleased to meet you.

Do you see the possibilities of this brave new world?

1. Ladies won’t be so defensive and bitchy.
2. Dudes will have a better shot at actually getting laid.

Everybody wins. Let’s make this happen people.

Tags: bartender, Boston, Faneuil Hall

I have always been a fan of milk-flavored milk. It does a body good. Chocolate milk – that’s super-yum too. My roommate drinks a bottle of it a day for breakfast.

I opened the fridge this morning I noticed that the V-man went to Wilson Farms to buy the equivalent to a full cow of his lactose nectar. It was then that I was struck with one of those once-in-a-lifetime brilliant ideas. So brilliant, in fact, that I may be on the verge of being immortalized as a dairy oracle. Get this:

Peanut Butter flavored milk!

If put into the right hands will REVOLUTIONIZE the flavored milk industry. Quik – get on it ya silly rabbit.

Granted, it won’t be allowed within 100 yards of any school cafeteria but I still believe there’s a robust market waiting to be tapped.

BTW- did you know that some visionary actually found a way to milk peanuts? I wonder what that machine looks like…

I guess you can milk anything. It doesn’t even need to have nipples. (You’re off the hook Mr. Jinks.)

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the beverage pioneers at Signs and Wonders are Evangelical Christians. They are clearly doing God’s work.

Tags: beverage pioneers, BTW, Wilson Farms

The other day I took the 83 bus to Inman Square (Cambridge).  I’m not typically a bus rider, but my colors are changing.  It’s not having to worry about parking that sold me.  Add to that the benefit of not having to schlep to and fro a remote/most likely resident permit spot and you have a no-brainer.

When I sat down I rested my umbrella near my feet and reminded myself several times not to space out and forget it.  Hey- it happens… to me… a lot.  Many moons ago (1999) I kicked myself very hard when I left my Monet umbrella on the PATH train.  In addition to my love of impressionist imagery, this particular umbrella had sentimental value.  My mentor and first boss gave it to me as a send off gift when I left for New York “so that (I) would always be covered.”  It’s nice to have such reminders in the big city.  [The real utility ended up being less about staying dry than shielding against having an eye poked out when charged by a herd of harried commuters with their own rain gear.] 

Lately I’ve chosen to stop beating myself up about misplacing that particular possession.  Thanks to emotional object permanence, I don’t need it.  Better yet, I’m glad I lost it.  Now I am reminded of the thought behind the gift every time it rains.   Furthermore, acknowledging that umbrellas are transitory objects is a more positive way to frame the issue.  They belong to the planet at large instead of the individuals who carry them.  

One is blown away by the wind and boomerangs back with live-in childcare.

Don’t have kids? 
Grieve your lost umbrella with a fruity cocktail.  You’ll likely get a small one as a lovely garnish.

Tags: bus rider, Cambridge, Inman Square, New York

I sure hope those boys get paid time-and-a-half for working on Sunday.

‘Scuse me, would somebody be so kind as to pass the Doritos?

Date of Original Publication:
Mon 07 Aug 2006 06:35 PM EDT
Multiple Choice Section of Your Pre-Flight Examination

TSA Officer: Do you have a butter knife in your bag?

Winnie:

A) I butter not.
B) All the better to eat you with!
C) Allah Akbar?

(Upon finding and confiscating said knife)
TSA: Technically, I’m supposed to call a state trooper over to clear you for your flight…

Winnie:
A) Is he single?
B) Will this involve a full body-cavity search? In that case, there’s something I need to tell you….
C) Go ahead, tell him there’s a Sheriff in Nevada that’s got dibs.

Tags: body-cavity search, Nevada, Sheriff, TSA Officer

Maybe 75-100 is closer to the mark but I was in no shape to judge, let alone count. Two weeks later and I am only now recovering from Davis Square’s communal celebration of late summer: Birthdaypalooza.

From the moment I was assigned the making of the punch, I became the mixologist of my own destruction, the architect of my undoing. The recipe was based loosely on something from one of those plastic bound fundraiser cookbooks no doubt compiled by disarmingly matronly pillars of the community. To the extent that I can recall, the recipe was as follows:

• 1 big bottle/jug of orange juice
• 1 quart lemonade
• 1 gabillion quarts Iced Tea – I used Pomegranate Juice tea bags & brewed the vat of it in my unairconditioned kitchen. (I do not recommend repeating said conditions.)
• 1-2 cups creme de cacao
• 2/3 bottle of apricot brandy
• the remainder of a handle of Bacardi dark rum
• 1 bottle Gosling light rum
• garnish with chunks of fresh coconut
• season to taste with a few generous splashes from another handle of light rum (adjustment courtesy of the Zoo Mass alums)

The result? A punch with serious kick. A kick, that I might add, gave me 32 smacks in the ass (and an extra one to grow on.) I’d just as soon not grow any this year so the last one was overkill.

It may have also been the straw that gave the camel a bad back. Had a been younger, I might have suffered through the hangover. However, the wisdom I have garnered in my first 32 years help me to steer clear of that as I slept through the entire next day, waking at 10 pm.

My first meal was typical hangover fare (the closest thing to me which required zero preparation): Betty Crocker chocolate frosting straight from the can. The dark side of my brain took over as I imagined a scenario in which my untimely expiration came about mid-container. I know it wouldn’t be funny for whomever found me deceased under the covers with a partially frosted face and hairdo befitting the bride of Frankenstein. Sugar rush tends to bring about inappropriate reactions and this image thoroughly amused me at the time.

As an advocate for getting one’s daily allowance of the frosting group, this would normally not be problematic behavior. I, however, must fit into the dress pictured (in teal) on September 16th for friends’ wedding. Finding a $498 Elie Tahari dress on sale (relatively close to season) for $36 is the equivalent to coming across the holy grail while cleaning out your parents attic. Would a size 4 have been more comfortable? Yup, but the size 2 did zip up when last I tried it. For $36, I’ll wear a girdle whilest sucking it up (and in) for the afternoon/evening…

I’m also going to lay off the frosting. That should prove helpful.

Tags: advocate, architect, Betty Crocker, Davis Square, fundraiser, USD

There’s something in the air in New Harmony. I need to find a web community of nappers so that I can report how much I napped from Thursday through Sunday. Upon hearing the stats, they will surely crown me their queen. It wasn’t a lazy kind of weekend either but I’ll be damned if I can account for all the time there. That relaxed stress-free kind of busy is so rare that I put the stopwatch down and enjoyed. Taking pictures around town… riding around in my aunt’s golf cart… browsing in antique stores… writing… visiting with my aunt and grandmother.

Mr. Jack delivered my wake-up call this morning when his thick yellow tail smacked my face as he surveyed the room, hoping to find a unsecured sock/towel/other doggie contraband item. That’s his favorite game: to snatch something and go to the nearest person, “subtly” drop the item loud enough to catch their attention. When the foolish human takes the bait, the fun begins. He may not be the wild man he once was, but he’s still a rogue at heart. Now he’s just a rogue who naps more, runs a little slower and barks a tad bit less.

Soon after waking my mom and I said our goodbyes and hit the road. All that rest, relaxation and fresh air were distracting enough that I almost forgot the real reason for the visit: to transfer my grandmother’s car to Richard. Perhaps it’s best that I put that part out of my head. Now it’s inescapable as tally the sheep: last count – 237,234 (or some other arbitrary high #). No matter how comfortable a hotel bed is, it’s no substitute for a real bed in a real home. I can’t wait to get back to mine tomorrow night… maybe I’ll even make it to burger night (wishful thinking but the bold must dream).

Tags: Jack, queen, web community

Woke up in MA. Drove to RI and then flew to BWI. Changed planes and flew into Louisville. (Note: I did not fly into Loo-we-ville. I flew into Lou-a-vul.) Mom made the two hour drive to pick me up without complaint. She was thankful it wasn’t the 4 hour drive to Indianapolis where my father had booked my original ticket.

Meeting up was the usual drill: Mom describing every detail around her except the minor stuff, like the fact she was in front of the baggage claim. You know: the big area with a crapload of signage. It’s a wonder that she has spent so much time with me and has yet to figure out that my brain short circuits when I’m asked to visualize the layout of a place I haven’t been. I also hate getting driving directions verbally. Each new factoid pushes the previous one out of my head. Next thing I know, I’m trying to turn around in the loading dock of a slaughter house with the knowledge that at some point I was supposed to go right/left/straight at the big tree/rotary/supermarket. Remembering this puts any annoyance felt in the moment into perspective. Running up and down the escalator with two bags digging into my shoulder was uncomfortable: yes. When compared with the alternative (impatient truckers honking and inhaling that special scent indicating that I am, in fact, too up close and personal with the food chain), it’s a winning lottery ticket.

The drive back was standard: I-64 to the Grayville exit were we stopped at the Dairy Queen and then Super Walmart. Of course, we drove by the little brick house that, coincidentally, used to be home to the Brickm*ns. Going to Walmart is always a part of any visit here since it’s the only place where there’s a reliable cell signal.

While I was in the dairy section of Walmart, I paused for a second while I pondered several matters of moderate philosophical importance:
—I was currently 4 hours away from the nearest Trader Joe’s. Mind you, I haven’t been to Trader Joe’s in at least a month or two, but the fact that I can stop by any one of several convenient locations is comforting.
—Trader Joe’s Vanana yogurt is super yum. Despite having survived many a fortnight without any, I wanted it and I wanted it right then. Why? You guessed it: cause I couldn’t have it.
—This made me think of how good it was that I no longer applied this flawed thought process to selecting potential dates. Pining for lowfat yogurt is much more compatible with emotional well-being.
—If Edy’s Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookie is available in the boon docks of southern Illinois, then there’s no good reason for it not to be stocked in Boston metro area grocery stores. Note to self: make request to supermarket management upon return.
—20 minutes of sleep isn’t nearly enough before a day of travel. I paced between the dairy cooler and detergent aisle at least 5 times. The nice woman stocking shelves asked me if I needed any help. From the expression on her face, it was clear that I must’ve busted out my “I’m-an-open-mouth-breather” look as I was trying to remember what I was searching for in the first place. Clearly, I needed help but how do you ask a stranger to go back in time 24 hours, sing you a lullaby and tuck you into bed before 10pm?

Post Walmart, we drove from White County, IL to Posey County, IN. The best part of this particular stretch is passing the former international headquarters of Bula Records. Long before Indie bands discovered pomade and enrolled in ‘MySpace Marketing 101′ there was an eccentric woman-of-a-certain-age who recorded and released a vinyl single on her own dime. If my Dad were recounting the story he’d sing the song’s refrain in a warbly falsetto twang: “It Hurts to be Hurt”. Truer words have yet to be spoken. Close your eyes and recall the last time you were hurt……. Okay- you can open them now. Try and tell me Bula wasn’t on to something.

Should you want to pilgrim to this Americana landmark just keep your eyes peeled for the un-lit yellow flourescent sign reading “Bula Records” in boldfaced type in the front yard of a pink delapidated house. Seriously, you cant miss it: it’s between the road and corn field. I wonder if her kinfolk have kept the sign standing as a sentimental tribute to a wacky relative or if the new occupant(s) was bequeathed this strange sign by default. Once past Bula’s, the single lane bridge over the Wabash marks that my 10 hour vision quest to New Harmony is almost complete. As entertaining as the journey was, this is bar by far the best sign I’d deciphered all day.

Tags: Boston, Dairy Queen, food chain, Grayville, headquarters of Bula Records, Illinois, Indianapolis, Joe, Louisville, Massachusetts, Posey County, Rhode Island, Trader, Wabash, White County