Day 1
Breakfast: Hot Cinnamon rolls, provided by Brian. Coffee.
Mid-Morning Snack: Thing of yogurt.
Lunch: 1 large breadstick, provided by coworker as compensation for watering my plant with balsamic viniagrette dressing while I was away last week, because ‘things just got out of control’.
Afternoon Snack: Several chocolate covered cherries sent by a Supplier. Wedge of cheese and pieces of sausage, provided by same.
Dinner: Bruschetta purchased at Mike’s Restaurant in Davis Sq on way to Lydia’s. Also stale popcorn, chocolate shortbread cookies and two mugs of eggnog with whiskey.
Evening Snack: Glass of orange juice.
Last week, my laptop got a virus, and there was nothing I could do except hope that it would get better if I turned it off for a couple of days to give it some ‘rest’. I worried. I fretted. I wrapped a blanket around it. I put a hat on it. Not for it, but it helped cheer me up. Finally I called my friend who knows about computers. (Actually, I called him on the afternoon it happened, but I had to whine for a few days and promise nachos before he would come over. Let’s be honest here.)
I sat with my brows knitted in concentration as he worked on my computer, deleting files and asking me questions I couldn’t answer for the life of me. Questions like, “Do you recognize this file?” and “You really don’t know how to use a computer, do you?” Goddamn it, I don’t. I don’t really know anything about them, and I’m not exactly panting to learn. It’s always been that way for me with complex machinery. I was never the inquisitive child who was filled with curiosity, wanted to know how things worked, and had a never-ending stream of questions about every unknown object. When I had questions, they were usually much more straightforward and narrow-minded. “Can I eat it?” I often wondered. And if the answer was no, “Can I watch ‘Rainbow Brite’ on it?” and finally, if the first two failed, before the thing lost my total interest it had one last chance. “Did it bring me a present?”
In fact, once when I was in college and should have known better, I opened a potentially dangerous junk e-mail from an unknown source because the subject headline said simply ‘present’. Indeed, the lure of A Present is clearly still strong. Much stronger than it should be for someone who is no longer six.
Perhaps one of my biggest issues with technology is that I expect it to be more glamorous than it generally is. This problem is best illustrated by an incident from my senior year of college. For several weeks I had been seeing flyers around campus advertising an “Artificial Intelligence Forum”. There was a picture of a human-looking robot on the flyer, and a bulleted list of related topics underneath. I thought it looked like fun. “Are you going to the Artificial Intelligence Forum?” I started asking my friends at lunch. “What are you up to on Friday? I thought I’d go to that Artificial Intelligence Forum. You guys should come.”
When the big day came I arrived a little late at the auditorium and stopped short at the door. The room was filled with chairs, the chairs were filled with people, and a professor in a lab coat was giving a lecture from a podium in the front. I found one of my friends in the hall and grabbed him. “Hey, did you check out the Artificial Intelligence Forum?” I demanded. “It’s just some guy at a podium, giving a lecture!” He looked at me strangely. “What did you expect?” he asked. “Dancing robots?”
Maybe I had.
When I moved in with Brian, to a house on the fringes of the outskirts of Boston, I knew there would be some adjustments to be made. For example, I can no longer end an argument by yelling, “Whatever, I’m going home!”, slamming the door and stomping into the night. I can say, “Whatever, I’m going to my room!” but that makes me feel like an angry teenager. And then he might not let me borrow the car.
The car. That’s another change. If you are normal and you live where I live now, you depend on a car to get you where you need to go, as the nearest sweet, sweet T station is half an hour away. The local town square is well equipped to handle my everyday funeral parlor, toy store and soccer supply needs, but I need to drive fifteen minutes to find groceries.
Do I have a car, to get those groceries? I do not. I take the bus. However, where buses are involved, most of my time is spent standing wistfully on the curb, gazing at the horizon, and willing every vehicle that drives past me to turn into a bus.
The song in my head goes something like this: “Be a bus!/ Not a bus!/ Be a bus!/ Not a bus,” with an occasional chorus of “You’re a bus!/ But you are the wrong bus.” Singing that song in my head for longer than twenty minutes in frigid winds leaves me feeling slightly murderous.
Now and then, a bus passes me with a sign on it that says ‘Out of Service’. This also infuriates me, for several reasons. One, I can’t tell if that bus is my bus or not. And if it IS my bus, I’d really rather be riding it than watching it pass me, particularly in the brutal cold of an early winter in Boston. Frankly, I feel that if a bus can pass me, it can damn well pick me up and bus me around until I can feel my face again. In fact, unless a bus is clearly on fire, or there is a rampaging bear inside the bus, or a giant attack squid on is top of the bus with its tentacles wrapped over the windows, a bus should be in service.
Now that I think about it, every single bus I have ever seen that had an ‘Out of Service’ sign on it has looked perfectly fine to me. What exactly is the problem, I would like to know? How come the bus drivers who pass me with those signs always seem to avoid my eyes? Are their buses really broken? Or do they just kind of want to take it easy for a few stops and relax? I can sympathize with that desire, but somewhat less so when I am wedged against a building to stay out of the wind, passing the time by deciding which fingers the doctor should be able to save. I’d love to put on a hat with the words ‘Out of Service’ on it at MY job, which would enable me to breeze past anyone asking me to make photocopies, while whistling and pointing at my hat. I can’t do that. Maybe I am at the wrong job.
Or maybe I am at the right job, and just have the wrong hat. In any event, two can play at this game. Perhaps the next time my 7:39am bus arrives at 8:54am, I will board the bus and pull out my wallet, which will be taped shut with an ‘Out of Service’ sign on it, then shrug and ride for free. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
Last night I had Cream of Wheat (remember Cream of Wheat?!? I did, when I got to the grocery store and shopped while starving), and 1/4 of a pomegranate for dinner.
Mmmmm, weird.
Oh, and a beer. So that I would also have something from the Hop food group. What? It’s a food group, if I remember correctly from that science class I took in college…or was that a party I went to in college? Either way.
Then Brian and I made the dog help put the laundry away. I would fold a towel, and put it on his back, and he would walk across the room to Brian, who would take the towel, put it away, pat Charlie and send him back to me.
I think I am almost ready to be a parent, guys. This is so exciting.
I think my roommate Laura may be right in thinking that Thanksgiving is the best all-around holiday. It’s not confined to any specific religion, and it’s not as stressful as holidays which require any kind of gift giving or country loving. I’ll admit I do know a few vegetarians who aren’t particularly enthusiastic about the whole deal, and it certainly leaves human/turkey relations at an annual low. But unless you’re in the first grade and are forced to make hand turkeys, or put on guilt-absolving pageants where you dress (with as much style and realism as construction paper affords) as Pilgrims and Native Americans who link arms and present each other with dried ears of corn, Thanksgiving has by this point been boiled down to its most basic and delicious element: Eating yourself into a Goddamn Food Coma and then Passing Out on the Couch. The day itself revolves around dinner; its preparation, presentation, and consummation. Traditional recipes are resurrected, winced at, and then dutifully followed, resulting in such all-time family favorites as yams covered in marshmallows, and green beans topped with crunchy onions. (I never said I came from a background of class, just innovation.)
You’re home for just long enough to get a taste of your family without having to settle into a spirit-crushing, role-reassuming routine with them. Hell, you may even enjoy a round or two of Scrabble with the relatives without anyone screaming, knocking the board over, or getting cut out of The Will. This is partly due to the fact that for perhaps ninety percent of the time you spend with your loved ones over Thanksgiving weekend, either everyone’s mouth is full, or a Cuisenart or some other kitchen appliance is working full blast, both of which prevent awkward questions like, “So, do you have a real job yet?” and “You still seeing that Bozo?” Tensions are also reduced by the fact that your visit lasts three or four days at the most before you get to leave again, with an extra bag full of leftovers and your coat pockets full of hot rolls if you’re lucky, or sneaky.
All right. I’ve got to mention that at the moment, I’m so full of food, I don’t really know what I’m saying. I don’t even know where I am. I do know that I’m going to try and keep writing, either until I reach my goal of 500 words, or my stomach bloats past the length of my outstretched arms and I can no longer reach the keyboard. Whichever comes first.
Having just moved to Honolulu the month before, I spent last Thanksgiving visiting a friend of mine at a hippie commune on Maui. We hung out on a black sand beach, hacked through the dense undergrowth with machetes, picked and ate fruit I’d never heard of right off the trees, and a local introduced himself to me while I was using an outdoor shower. It was a pretty hard Thanksgiving to top.
But fortunately, this Thanksgiving, I had cable. And when the blood from the rest of your entire body surges to your stomach, VH1’s Top Fifty Most Awesomely Bad Something-or-Others is a comforting evening companion. That and a reheated piece of pumpkin pie, maybe with a little ice cream on the side.
A few weeks ago I wrote about how I much was enjoying taking Brian’s dog, Charlie, for evening walks through the neighborhood. He usually gets his exercise by running around in the woods that border our backyard, so I think he was happy to have the company. As a matter of fact, he grew to like our walks. A lot, in a very short time. It’s to the point where now I can’t stop taking him. Meanwhile, the weather worsens, and it gets darker earlier each evening.
Now, when I get home, Charlie greets me at the door, and then sits down expectantly in front of me, waiting for me to hook his leash to his collar and get to the walk. “He never does that to you!” I said to Brian. “When you get home, you get a cheerful ‘howdy’ and that’s it. You get to take your coat off, and sort through the mail, without a dog dancing in circles around your legs.” “You don’t see me taking him for walks all the time,” Brian replied, and gave me a look. “Sucker,” it said. I realized then what I had gotten myself into.
I’ve tried to get out of our walks. At first I figured it wouldn’t be that difficult to blow Charlie off until he forgot all about them. And if that took awhile, so what? He’s a dog! How much emotional manipulation is he really capable of? The answer is, apparently more than I am. Case in point: I am unable to get Brian to go on these walks with us. I whine, I beg, I paw at him; he shrugs and continues watching “Mythbusters”. And still the dog makes me go, into the dark and cold, night after night.
At this point, on my way home from work each evening, I whimper to myself about how tired I am, and how cold it is outside, and how I’m not going to want to leave the house once I get there. No walk today, I think, as I trudge up the hill to the house. I just can’t do it. I don’t have it in me. And then I open the front door, Charlie rushes over, and gives me the greet, and the sit, and…I grab the leash. Sucker.
But really, how can I say no? Somehow, it feels like saying ‘no’ to a walk would be like giving a child a Playstation 3 box for his birthday, and inside the box is a toaster. It would be like giving a teenager a set of keys and telling him they’re for his new Audi that’s parked outside, and when he gets outside they’re actually the keys to his grandma’s car because –guess what!— she’s visiting for the weekend, and she’s staying in his room. Not taking Charlie for his walk just feels mean. Especially because all I have to do is wear a coat and shuffle around the neighborhood, but when I put that coat on and reach for his leash you’d think I was reaching for a strip steak with a winning lottery ticket sticking out of it, sitting on a pile of illegal fireworks.
So I guess that’s how he gets me, by making the emotional reward for taking him on a walk so much greater than the minimal physical effort the walk actually takes. And, because I’m a sucker.
I don’t know at what point I stopped listening to the television and started hollering at it. By now, my roommates are used to my outbursts, and to the fact that I seem personally offended by every commercial for a product that promises me shiny hair or tells me that iced tea is the beverage of people who care about life.
“Oh, so drinking beer makes me sexy? Huh? Drinking beer gave me this gut. I’m shaped like a keg now, thanks to beer. Is that sexy? IS IT?”
Sometimes I’ll even leap to my feet, although it’s usually on my way to the fridge to get another beer. While I hate most commercials, I won’t deny their effectiveness.
I would like to think that my hypersensitive awareness of the insidious evils of advertising has made me a more intelligent consumer, but mostly it has just made me more annoying to watch television with. Last week my boyfriend complained that even when he is watching tv alone, he hears my shrill commentary in his head. “So all I really needed in order to find inner peace was vanilla-scented deodorizing spray! Who knew?” he’ll hear me snarl as he watches, even when I’m across town at the time.
I am particularly fond of spelling out the implied messages in advertising, and stating them with withering oversimplification. “If I buy that car, attractive women will give me coolly appraising glances when we are both stopped at a red light. Then we will drag race in the Alps. Oh, and I should be wearing ‘breathable’ contact lenses, because at some point, my eyes have apparently started breathing. Also, I should only use toilet paper that has been approved by cartoon grizzly bears that don’t wear pants. Gross.”
I’m certainly not immune to the power of suggestion, and sometimes that is fine. Watching someone on tv pour a tall frosty glass of orange juice occasionally makes me think, “Mmm, orange juice”, and I can handle that. I’m happy to think about orange juice any time anyone wants to bring it up. It’s delicious. However, things I don’t want to think about most of the time include but are not limited to: super-absorbent paper towels, erectile dysfunction, heartburn, older couples who have overcome erectile dysfunction and heartburn, David Caruso, itchy, flaky skin, and Mimes. (I don’t see a lot of mime-related advertising, and frankly I’d like to keep it that way.)
Perhaps this is what really bothers me. When you watch a show on television, you are choosing to be engaged by that show. It is probably a specific kind of show; hopefully not one that stars David Caruso or mimes. (I jest. I am in fact obsessed with David Caruso. David, if you’re reading this, email me.) In any event, while you get to choose the show you watch, advertisers get to choose the commercials you watch, and you have no choice but to give your attention to their topic of choice—unless you go instead to the fridge for orange juice, or mute the television. It is this lack of choice; this forcing you to dwell suddenly on acne medication or low-fat peanut butter, that I resent, and this is why I make trouble.
I would like to add that despite my skepticism and aversion, when a commercial actually manages to be entertaining, without being patronizing or smug, I’ll give it credit. I have been known occasionally to laugh out loud, and even offer a grudging, “Ok, that was funny.” So I’d like to think that I’m a tough but fair audience. Just don’t tell me that I should be giving more thought to whether or not my toothpaste kills all the germs.
Returning to my house that evening, I saw everything with a freshly critical eye—particularly the twenty-five-year old blue Landcruiser with the mismatched red door panel that’s been parked in the driveway for over a year. Should I stick a few dried ears of corn on it, to fit in? I worry that there is nothing to be done for us, especially when I recall that time we left a full-size freezer to defrost on the front lawn for an entire weekend. It was fully defrosted after only a few hours, but we figured, better safe than sorry. Also, better lazy than respectable.
I was already growing ashamed of the fact that, when recycling day rolls around, ours is the only bin that overflows with empty beer and wine bottles. Sure, the occasional milk-gallon jug or soup can sneaks in, but mostly it’s a shiny brown avalanche of empty booze receptacles piled at the end of the driveway every other week. It is some small comfort knowing that we drink decent beer, even if it is in obscene quantities. Our neighbors, their monocles splintering in disapproval, will have to admit that at least we have taste in something. And I know that the man who comes around in the mornings before trash collection (in his Saab) to cash in on our empties appreciates us. Last week he left the loveliest gilt-edged, monogrammed calling card.
‘Molly,’ you are probably thinking. “Why are you complaining about your excessively wealthy neighborhood? You grew up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. You never fit in there either. You used to hug your doorman. At least you can feel safe walking the dog at night.’ But I can’t! In my last neighborhood, all I had to fear was roving gangs of teenagers and drunken college students. These I at least vaguely understood, having once been part of each of their ranks. Now I am faced with the unknown, having never even remotely rubbed elbows with wealthy suburbanites. When I am faced with the unknown, my mind fills in the blanks with outlandish, unrealistic fears. I blame being read to as a child.
I feel increasingly out of place as I amble past immaculately trimmed lawns in old sneakers and pajama pants, with an unpedigreed dog at the end of a leash that is frayed in three places and coated with dried leaves—and not as a decorative homage to fall. What if someone thinks I am trespassing and calls the cops? What if they decide to administer their own brand of high-end vigilante justice, and I am found in the woods, beaten within an inch of my life with a diamond-headed walking stick? I fear that during one of my innocent, late-night walks, I will accidentally witness a clandestine affair between a wealthy socialite neighbor and her landscaper and have hounds released at me, or be run over by a limo.
I know. There’s something wrong with me. I think it’s mostly the abundance of lively fall decorations that have me flustered. There’s something unnerving about a neighborhood in which lawns are green and uncluttered in the twilight of October, while entranceways, pillars and gateposts are ablaze with fake foliage. I suppose I should be appreciative of the time and effort that is put into these embellishments. After all, they are there for the enjoyment of myself and the few other residents who live in this small community, and they certainly beat my last neighborhood’s October decoration of choice: raw eggs. The least I can do is admire their work. And curb my dog.
I Heard Tell 
