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

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

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