It’s too hot to type.
In my esteemed writer’s opinion
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It’s too hot to type.
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I declare myself the sandcastle superintendent
I went to the Big Sister Summer Picnic the other day. It was at a beautiful camp on the beach. There was a pool, a huge grassy field and a beach overlooking the Boston skyline. It would be a nice place to relax, but there was no time for that. Sandcastles do NOT build themselves.
I’m amazed at the size of the sand toys. They look like my old sand toys on steroids. There’s a bucket so huge that when filled with water I can’t lift it. A bunch of little sisters decide to fill it with rocks AND water. I try to help carry it. They frown with dismay when I mention pouring some of the water out. This sandcastle building business is serious.
I stick to making castles. I’m confident I can do this. Then I help with the moat. One of the girls orders,
“Deeper. You need to dig deeper.”
I’m digging and hauling and building. It’s 10am on a Saturday morning and I’m covered in sweat. I sit down. The little sisters continue to work hard. The girl who was monitoring my moat digging saunters up to me,
“Are you going to help or what?”
Hair, that is enough sass out of you
The other day it was hot and I hadn’t washed my hair. I piled it on top of my head and went off to work. A regular remarks,
“Your hair is up.”
“Yeah.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. I didn’t wash it.”
“You look very Victorian.”
“Thank you?”
“It’s a compliment.”
“Thank you.”
Several glasses of wine later it is clear that the regular is a little tipsy. When she’s tipsy she gets a little feisty. She stands up to leave. She points her finger at me and shouts,
“JESSICA!”
“Yes?!”
“Take CHARGE of your hair.”
Probation for everybody
My boyfriend and I head out for my birthday dinner. I glance over at a table a few feet away from us. The older couple really looks a lot like some regulars from my bar. I stare. No. They ARE the regulars from my bar. They catch my stare and exclaim,
“Jess! What are you doing here?”
“It’s my birthday! What are you doing here?”
Seeing your bartender free in the wild is kinda like running into your kindergarten teacher at the grocery store. The world feels upside down and inside out.
I introduce my boyfriend. My regular asks me,
“Is he good enough for you?” She turns to him, “You’re on probation.”
Back home I recount the story to my mom. She swells up,
“No! That lady is on probation.”
Reenacting the Revolutionary War. Who knew I’d be great?
I am officially 31. It feels a lot like 30 which feels a lot like 20 which feels a lot like 2 except I don’t wet my pants anymore and I only play with my dolls once in a while.
The romantic vacation for three plus one dog was a success.
My boyfriend and I head out on a couple kayaks. I put on an oversized sun hat. I’m ready for some paddling and a lot of relaxing. We find a secluded beach and get the relaxing in right away. Then we paddle farther up the river. My boyfriend asks,
“How far does this go?”
“I don’t know. Did they give you that map they mentioned?”
“No.”
We paddle farther. We paddle under a bridge. We paddle under another bridge. We talk about turning around and decide we want to paddle past one more bridge.
Then it comes time to turn around. Whoa that’s a strong wind. I start paddling slowly but surely into the gusts. I think that kayak off in the distance is my boyfriend. I stop paddling. The wind blows me backwards. I should keep paddling.
My boyfriend waits for me. He starts paddling backwards. It’s all I can do to paddle forwards, I’m not sure if I’ll ever see land again and he’s going backwards. Yeah ok I’m on a river and there’s land as far as the eye can see, but not the land where I return my kayak. I tell him,
“You just wait until I’m on a jet-ski tomorrow.”
I’m not sure what that means but I know I’ll be going faster. I push forward, my sun hat blows up. We finally reach our starting point. I glance at the map. It shows the second bridge. I read the caption,
“Only experienced kayakers beyond this point.”
We rest on the hill overlooking the river and all the other kayakers. A woman comes paddling along. Her sun hat is blowing up. My boyfriend declares,
“Her hat is doing the same thing yours was.”
“Yeah.”
“You looked like George Washington crossing the Potomac.”
“WHAT?”
“Like a cute George Washington.”
Tomorrow
I’m back. I meant to blog today, but I ate blueberry pie instead. I’m sorry. Now I have to go to work. I’ll talk to you tomorrow if anyone is still reading this besides my mom.
Romantic dinner for three
It’s my birthday week! Last year I had a birthday month, so really I’m scaling back.
I’m off to the Cape to spend a romantic weekend with my boyfriend, my dog and my mom. I’m taking several bottles of liquor, wine and way too many clothes. It should be a good time. And if not, it won’t be because of an underwear shortage.
Yes, stranger things have happened
A woman at the bar is halfway through her third drink and finishing up her dinner. A man walks in and approaches her,
“Hi. Are you Sarah?”
“No.”
He wanders off and sits further down at the bar. I hand him a menu. He tells me,
“Thanks, I’m waiting for someone.”
Yeah, Sarah, I heard. I joke with him,
“That would be weird if your date started eating without you.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
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| Are you my date? |
Everyone please keep your pee to yourself
A regular comes back from the bathroom. She’s shaking her head. She looks upset. I ask,
“Are you ok?”
“No and I’m feeling feisty. I’m tempted to go find that woman.”
“What woman?”
“I usually check the toilet seat, but this time I didn’t and I sat in that woman’s pee.”
“Do you even know who did it?”
“Oh I saw her come out of the stall and she needs to know that she is not allowed to pee on my butt.”
No more dirty underwear for me
My roommate and I may have gotten a portable washing machine. It sounded like a great idea when we first thought of it.
It arrives. There is a 75 pound washing machine in the entry way. Somehow it needs to get up to my third floor apartment. My roommate mentions my boyfriend. Yes. That is why I have a big strapping man in my life. BUT he is working and this washing machine is blocking the entire doorway. Somehow, in the 90 degree heat, I manage to get the thing upstairs. Don’t mess with me.
We unpack it. All seems to be going well except that it looks like we need an adapter of some sort to connect it to the sink faucet. I take the washing machine hose and the end of the faucet and walk a mile to the hardware store. The guy at the store is very helpful and seems to know exactly what I need. He starts searching through parts and trying different things on. He keeps trying. Twenty minutes later, he turns to me,
“I’m sorry, we don’t have the parts you need. A plumbing supply store will have it for sure.”
“What do I need?” And he says something about a 15 and 3/4 adapter for the 1/2 inch adapter or some such numerical nonsense. I nod as if I know exactly what he is talking about and leave.
I walk another mile to a plumbing supply store. I hand over the hose and end of the faucet to the guy. He looks at them for a second and hands them back to me. He says,
“You don’t need anything. It should fit just like that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Did you try screwing it in the other way?”
I will now.
I head home feeling silly, but not as silly as that guy at the first hardware store should feel.
I try to screw the hose to my faucet. I turn it the other way than I tried before. It works. Now to get down to washing. Do I leave the sink on the whole time? The instruction booklet doesn’t say. Google and youtube don’t know. I must use the last resort and call the customer service hotline. A foreign guy answers the phone. I ask him,
“Do I leave the sink turned on the whole time the washing machine is running?”
“May I put you on hold while I look into this?”
Five minutes later he returns,
“Hello. Thanks for holding.”
“No problem.”
“What do you mean by ‘sink?'”
We get disconnected. I call back and get ‘Bob.’ At least I feel confident Bob will know what a sink is. Bob asks for the model and serial number of my machine and puts me on hold. Five minutes later he returns,
“You shouldn’t have to worry about turning the water on or off.”
“But then how does the machine get water from the sink?”
“Oh, is this a portable machine?”
Two loads of washing later, I’d say besides the guy at the second plumbing store, I’m the most qualified washing machine consultant around.
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| If only I had whatever musical instrument this is. |
A tricycle may be just the thing
My birthday is coming up, just so you know. I mention to my boyfriend that I’m getting a new bike. He asks,
“Is it because the one you have keeps crashing?”
You know it’s a good blog when I’ve used the word ‘chair’ eight times
The fashion show was a success in so much as I looked nothing like a chair. I’d say I complemented the chair. I looked like a person who could sit in a chair without anyone saying,
“Oh heavens, can you believe she’s sitting in a chair wearing THAT?”
Never mind that the actual chair that inspired my un-chair-like outfit wasn’t even there. I posed next to a love seat I’d never met before.
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| Who are you and what did you do with my tall slender chair? |
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| Don’t tell me I don’t look like a chair. |
I would also make a great floor lamp
Big Sister fashion show tonight!
Yesterday I went to Ann Taylor for a fitting. The store manager pulls out her ipad and shows me photos of eight chairs. She asks,
“Do any of them speak to you?”
Considering I’m going to be dressed like one of these chairs, the prettiest one better speak to me. It does.
A stylist appears out of nowhere.
“What chair are you?”
I show her and she flits about grabbing all sorts of outfits. I try on a beautiful pink dress that makes me feel nothing like a chair. The stylist declares,
“I think that’s perfect, what do you think?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Would you like a belt?”
Yes. A chair needs a belt and probably a shiny gold necklace.
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| Like me: tall and lightly padded |
I’m reading a book on Teddy Roosevelt next. I fear for the worst
Yesterday was a sad day. You will understand after you read this post.
We were at my boyfriend’s parents’ house. He was working from home and with John Adams in hand I commandeer the porch swing overlooking the ocean.
For hours I’m immersed. I finish the book. Still sobbing and wiping snot away with the back of my hand I head inside. My boyfriend thinks I have a cold. He asks,
“You have the sniffles?”
“No. John Adams died!”
“You’re crying because John Adams died?”
First rule of stalking, never admit to it
I walk one block from my apartment to the dry cleaners. As I’m coming out of the dry cleaners I walk into a regular from the bar. He exclaims,
“What are you doing here?!”
“I live here. What are you doing here?”
“Stalking you. … I probably shouldn’t say that.”
Hi, I’m a lounge chair
Being a Big Sister mentor has it’s perks: it’s fun, rewarding and I get to be in a fashion show next week.
I got an email from Big Sister saying that Boston Magazine is doing a fashion show and would like a few big sisters in it to raise awareness. Would I be interested? So you’re saying people are going to do my hair and makeup and there’s free food backstage? I’m in.
I tell my bar manager at work I’ll need the night off. He wants more information: like what sort of fashion. I read him the email:
“Statement jewelry and decor-inspired looks.”
“Decor? You’re going to be dressed like furniture?”
“Huh. Yeah, I’m not sure what that means. Maybe I’ll get to be a couch.”
“Or maybe outdoor furniture.”
“It is summer.”
Used, washed, still bloody
After living in a hostel for a year and traveling around the world for two years there’s not much that grosses me out. I gave up on shower shoes a long time ago, except in places where the shower is also the toilet.
Now back in the first world life is easy, except today was appalling. I may have to cut my hand off.
I head to the laundromat. I peer in an empty washing machine. There’s a piece of tape on the inside of the washer. Without thinking twice I grab it and rip it off. GAHHH! It is NOT tape. It is a USED PANTY LINER.
Interesting enough to get laid
The regular whose passport renewal took priority over his Viagra refill tells me,
“The good thing about dating a doctor is that she supplies the Viagra.”
“That is convenient.”
“And cheaper.”
“Perfect.”
“The only problem is I don’t think she finds me interesting.”
Eat. Bathroom. View. Done.
Museums are not my favorite thing. They have a lot in common with history.
Although now after having been enthralled with John Adams and having a small desire to go see his farm in Quincy, I’m open to the possibility that I’m still developing as a human being. Maybe someday I’ll feel different about museums. It hasn’t happened yet.
Along our bike ride, my boyfriend and I go past the JFK Library. He remarks,
“I want to go in there sometime.”
Noted. We keep riding. On the way back he circles around the outside of the museum. I offer,
“We can go in if you want.”
We go in. I see a sign for a cafe. I tell him,
“I want to go there.”
We have a snack. We look out at the view. I ask,
“Do you want to go into the museum part?”
“No. I’m ready to go.”
“This is my kind of museum visit.”
I fought a chain link fence. The fence won.
When’s the last time you fell off a bike? Can’t remember? That used to be me too. Maybe I was ten? Or twelve? Who knows? That is until this past weekend, when I fell off my bike.
I’m on a beautiful bike path along the ocean just behind my boyfriend. The path veers off along a jetty. There’s water on both sides and a chain link fence along the path to stop crazy people from riding their bikes into the ocean. It’s gorgeous! Look at the kite surfers! Look at the cute dog! Look there’s ice cream! BOOM chain link fence.
I topple over onto my side. The fence works. There are so many concerned pedestrians. My boyfriend looks back to find me on the ground.
I recover as quickly as possible. There’s only a small amount of blood. And it’s a miracle, my expensive tennis skort that I thought was perfect for a bike ride has survived.
I recount the story to a regular. She exclaims,
“Were you wearing a helmet?!”
“Yes.” But my head was the only body part that did not make contact with the ground or my bike.
I straighten my bag on the back of my bike. My boyfriend asks,
“Did you lose anything?”
“Only my dignity.”
Good Times with Jess 