Monday, March 17, 2014

There are Two Too Many Hands in my Pockets.

Since Coop (the Ross to my Rachel) and I are "on a break" and since I don't think we'll get together again until the end of the series, and that's if I actually make the decision to get off the plane, I went on a brief hi-date-us. However, one romantic night in Paris with a  Dutchman later, I am now back in the game.

This past weekend, I had a first date with a younger guy. Now, I generally date men who are about 5-7 years older than I am. I tend to click with the maturity of the men in the next high school generation. I've never really understood the concept of cougars and why they would want a younger guy, although my sister, Lori, put it in perspective for me. ("They do it because they want someone who will allow them to go out, have a good time, and make out with young men...and you already do that".)

Anyway, this particular young man is incredibly sweet and very smart and seemed like a good person to end my dating-waiting period. We decided to meet up in a bar in Harvard Square. I strategically planned this as my favorite Huey Lewis and the News cover band, Power of Love, was playing at the Sinclair and I had made plans to go. I figured if the date didn't go well, later plans would give me a Get Out of Date Free card, and if it did go well, he could come with me.

When we first met at the bar, he seemed really nervous. So, I suggested that he have a glass of wine, hoping that that would put him at more ease. I began to rethink this decision when he told me about his past "partying problems", and how as a result, he doesn't drink much. As an aside, it's very hard for me to judge the level of alcohol tolerance of others. Mine is extremely high. I could probably polish off a bottle of beaujolais by myself and then perform an appendectomy. But, I realize that there are people out there who have one or two glasses of a full-bodied wine, and next thing you know, they are getting into the back of a delivery car, because they think it's a cab.


And I happened to be out with one those people.

When we got to the concert, I introduced him to my friends and all seemed well.  However, as the concert went on, it was like he forgot where we were: not in his bedroom, not in his car, not in a closet. He kept turning my head toward his and I would kiss him, but pull away before it got too passionate. I'd be moving his hands away from certain areas. It was like I was in some modern dance routine. I didn't know quite what to do. So, I gave him a talk, "Hey! I like you, but I'm not a really a PDA type person, so maybe we can slow it down a bit?" He said, "Sorry! You're right." And then five minutes later, it was like the conversation never happened and he was back to kissing my neck. Finally, he went to the restroom and I was able to breathe. The first thing I did was whisper to my friend Kristin, "he's so handsy." And she said, "yes, he's all over you. We've all dubbed him Hands Across Melissa". We didn't have much time to talk about it because he and his handsy hands were back.

I think that my friend, Ryan, could tell that I needed a bit of a break, so he asked if I wanted to go do a shot with him at the bar. He said to HAM, "we'll be right back" and he told me later that by the look on HAM's face, HAM wasn't that happy about not being invited along. As Ryan and I had a shot, we got into a conversation about plans for his upcoming wedding and next thing I knew, I got a text from HAM that said "Good night. Sorry you didn't have a good time. Best of luck to you." Well, I felt terrible. I didn't think we had been gone that long, and I thought that HAM would be ok and take my absence as a chance to get to know my friends better. When I showed the text to Ryan, he said, "He's tricking you". But, I still texted back. I smoothed things over, and he wants to give it a second chance, so we planned a second date.

All of this leads me to why I wrote this entry in the first place: I date older men for a reason. They're not still in a place where they miss making out on the dance floor of a frat party. They don't think you've ditched them when you've left for a few minutes and they realize that your disappearance is a good time to get some intel from your friends. And they can handle their liquor. So, while I'm interested to see where this goes...since he's smart, cute, funny, and gets both my Saved by the Bell and Seinfeld references, I'm not sure that a younger man is for me. I guess we'll wait and see. I do know that on the second date, I'm suggesting that he have a Coke.

Friday, February 21, 2014

The Trivia Guy

I enjoy going to pub trivia and it's something that I do on a frequent basis. A couple of years ago, I began a flirtquest with a cute guy from another team. He's not typically someone I would go for. He's 5-6 years younger than I am. He's what my friends and I call a "yo-yo, naw-naw boy." Like, when you ask him a question, his answer is typically, "yo, yo, yo...naw". He wears oversized t-shirts, gold chains, and his hat cocked to the side on his head....and he's white. But, he's hilariously funny and very cute and I enjoyed flirting with him.

When he asked for my number, I gave it to him. He texts me every once in a while to see how I'm doing, but we've never actually met up for a date. One day, he became my facebook friend.

I began to notice that the same girl tagged him in a bunch of her statuses. "Happy Valentine's Day"--with [Trivia Guy]. "Snow Day Movie Marathon!"-- with [Trivia Guy]. So, I decided to question him about it. And I have transcribed the text conversation for us all because I think it's hilarious:
 
 
TG: Hey
Me: Hey... so, do you have a girlfriend?
TG: Huh?
Me: Do you have a girlfriend? [Note: Clearly, in the context of text messages, his "Huh?" probably was more of a "what are you talking about?" then a "What did you say?", but I thought it would be funny to repeat myself.]
TG: Why do you say that?
Me: That's not really a yes or a no
TG: No.
TG: What are you talking about?
Me: Who's [Girl's name]?
TG: Are you stalking me?
Me: Nope, she called me [Note: This wasn't true.]
TG: What?
Me: She called me from your phone. Is she your gf?
TG: When?
Me: Is she your gf?
TG: When?
Me: [silence]
TG: Yes.
Me: [silence]
*Missed call from TG
*Missed call from TG
*Missed call from TG
TG: What did she say?
TG: ?
TG: She's my gf, but I think she's leaving me.
Me: Oh. :( because you cheat on her? *sarcastically sympathetic nod
 
There was some more conversation after that. I don't think we'll be talking much anymore. He might be a little bit worried that I'm going to contact her and he doesn't have to worry about that. That's not my style. I'm much more of a "post it on the internet so that we can all enjoy" type girl.
 

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Wanting to DTR and Not Being DTF.

Part of the reason that I've been Ross and Racheling it with Coop is that despite my attempts to get him to do it, he refuses to define the relationship. So, I began to think about why it's so important to me to have a definition while it's seemingly as important to him as the question of how many seasons 2 Broke Girls is going to last.

For starters, let's run through your usual definitions of relationships and what I take them to mean:

1.) Talking to each other. The very beginning of a relationship. You haven't really gone out on a full-blown date yet, but you're aware of each other's interest and know that the date most likely is going to happen soon.

2.) Seeing each other. You've started the dating process and you've gone out a few times and stay in touch. You're not at the point where you're introducing each other to your friends and family, but those people know that you're "seeing someone" and have noticed that this particular person has come up in conversation more often than the people that you're just "talking to".

3.) Dating. You've been seeing each other for a few months at this point. You're starting to meet some friends and family and gauging how the other person interacts with them. Side note: Sometimes this definition is used for "seeing each other" and vice versa.

4.) Boyfriend/Girlfriend; Girlfriend/Girlfriend; Boyfriend/Boyfriend. You're in a relationship. Everyone knows that you're in a relationship. There's no question that you're in a relationship.

5.) Significant Other or as the kids say "Sig O". Word that people use when they think "boyfriend" is too juvenile, "husband" is too antiquated and patriarchal, and "partner" is too "I'm trying too hard to be politically correct."

6.) Booty call. Strictly a sexual relationship that only takes place betweeen the hours of 1 a.m. and 5 a.m.

7.) Friends with benefits. Much like a booty call in that you hide the sexual relationship from your friends. But, in this situation, you actually kind of like the person as a person even though there's no romantic involvement. It's a continual relationship, but there are never strings attached.

So, why is it so important to me that I fall into one of these categories? Well, when you don't have a definition, as I've learned, there is no good answer to the following question: "Is that your boyfriend?" I've been asked this a number of times, typically in a hushed voice, when Coop and I go somewhere together, as soon as he walks away. The answer that I usually give, in an equally hushed voice, is this: "Well, we are friends, except we have a deeper connection than most friends and we were dating, but we're not now, but we like each other as more than friends, but he's not my boyfriend. Is there a word for that?" To make it more confusing, our friends have started to treat us like we're a unit..."Mel and Coop". They make plans with us by talking to one of us, and the expectation is that that one will just sorta bring the other one along to the outing. And I've kind of started to expect that too.

I think that definitions help so that you know how to act when you're around each other. It makes a difference. If we're just friends, well then, I won't make out with you...or show up drunk at your house unannounced...or make you mix tapes with angsty "will they or won't they" music because that would just be weird. If we're seeing each other or dating, then drunken pop-ins and mix tapes are too much. But, if we're boyfriend and girlfriend, then it's just right. And if you act like it's just right, it means that you're comfortable being my boyfriend, so then why are you saying that you're not my boyfriend. Confused? So am I.

And to make all of this even MORE confusing, when I ask Coop about how he would define the relationship, his answer is "Well, we don't need to define it because it's obvious." For crying out loud to Jenna Hamilton.

I've ultimately come to the conclusion that if you can't define the relationship, it means that you just aren't in one...in the normal sense of the word. And that's not really a conclusion at all, is it?

Thursday, January 9, 2014

The Trials of Hosting

So, here's how I feel about throwing parties. Most of you know that I haven't been to a grocery store since 2009. Andrea loves to regale new friends with the story of how one time she asked me "Where do you get, like, chips and snacks?" And my answer was, "the liquor store?"

The last time that I threw a party was in 2003. My boyfriend at the time had a ton of no goodnik friends, but the deal was that if he cleaned up after them, they could be invited. I remember watching one of them sit in my kitchen and he had that look...the look that reality tv stars get when they're forced to eat 25 dragonflies or drink a jar of pickle juice and salsa together. The look of someone about to blow. Here was my dilemma. There was one bathroom in my apartment. I lived on the fifth floor, so there was no hope that he would get outside in the event of a vomit emergency. But, I really had to pee. When I couldn't wait anymore, I finally went into my bathroom. While in there, I heard my boyfriend's sister yell, "Oh my God, Mel, open the door!" I zipped up quickly and opened the door to my boyfriend's friend... throwing up all over my carpet. I vowed never again to throw a party.

Since October, I've been Ross and Rachel-ing it with this guy; let's call him "Bradley Cooper", or as I like to call him "Coop". On a recent ski trip with him and another couple, I brought up New Year's Eve and we decided that we would have a low key game night at my place. (This was all part of my elaborate plan to make sure that he spent New Year's Eve with me and not some other chick, but that's another story for another day). I had mentioned to a couple of other friends that we should get together on New Year's, so I sent an e-mail to those guys to tell them to join us.

As the days went on and as people asked me what I was doing for New Year's, my standard response was "I'm having Coop and some friends over. Come on by." And before I knew it, my low key game night had turned into a mini-party of 16. Apparently, according to my dad, I've been doing this my whole entire life. My mother would say to me, "Pick six girls in your class to come to your birthday party." And I would come home from school the week of my party and say, "is it ok if all the girls in my class come? Because I told them they could."

The morning before New Year's Eve, I did a quick head count in my head of how many people would be coming. I paused when it became more than ten and said to myself, "Now, that can't be right." But it was. I had no alcohol. No food. I didn't even have a place for all of these people to sit. And unlike my birthday parties, my mother wouldn't be there to do all the work!

And so, I made a list and I turned to my old friend, the internet. First, I researched the price of renting chairs and tables at the last minute. After my eyes popped back into my head, I sent a text message to Coop to ask him to bring some of his folding chairs to the party. Then, I started to think about how I was going to carry four bottles of wine, a 12 pack of beer, two bottles of champagne and three bottles of alcohol from the liquor store to my car to my apartment. And I googled "Boston liquor delivery." (Did you know that they do that?) After scheduling the alcohol delivery, I asked my co-worker who seems to host people at her house every weekend for some advice about the food. She gave me the recipes for some quick easy appetizers. And I realized that most of them could be found pre-made at the Market Basket deli counter. So, I ordered some platters. After this, I began to feel a little less stressed. It's not a lot of work to throw a party, if you make other people do stuff.

The one black fly in my Chardonnay was that I had to go Market Basket to pick up the platters. The weathermen had been predicting a three-day snowstorm. Blizzard plus New Year's equals crazy people. So, the store was a madhouse and probably not in the best condition for my "first day back". I've blocked out most of that trip. I know that there were shopping cart jams and crowds of middle-aged men on their cells with their wives. At the deli counter, there was a line to take a number to get in line. And I was stuck in the bread aisle for what seemed like three hours, until I was finally rescued by a savior in a blue smock with a bread cart. When my friends finally arrived at my house, I was sure to tell them, "Thank you. Thank you for being with me on this day. The day that I survived Market Basket."

Food shopping apocalyptic episode aside, the party turned out to be a great time.Yes, I've been living on Ritz Crackers, pepperoni, and taco dip for the past week and a half. But, having everyone at my place and ringing in 2014 together made it worth it. I may even do it again next year! Although next year, I'm calling Peapod.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

The One

The time has come for me to tell you about "the one". The one who inspired the blog. The one who led so many people to say to me, "You need to tell that story to the world". The one who compels me to use language that Andrew Dice Clay would be appalled to hear.

There are a few reasons that I've held off telling this story until now:

1.) "The one" is a complete narcissist. He has read the blog in the past and if he read this, he would be wearing this post like a badge of honor. And frankly, I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. So, I had to wait until his interest in me had subsided, which it seems to have done.

2.) I wanted to build up my readership. I try to make this blog funny and amusing to my readers and not to sound like a bitter, jaded, ex-girlfriend. But, it's hard to find that voice when telling this story because this guy is just so damn shitty.

3.) It was hard to narrow down which parts of the story to tell. He's done so many crappy things to me that if I wrote about all of it, the tome would rival War and Peace and blogger would kick me off for taking up all the storage space on their server.

But, all things considered, I think that I am finally ready to tell the story...the Story of Douche.

When I first met Douche, he introduced himself to me as "John". A few months into the relationship, he admitted that his name was actually "Mark". And then a few months after that, I found out that his name was actually "Mike". For the sake of simplicity, I will refer to him as to how he's listed in my contacts to warn me not to answer when he calls: "Douche".

We clicked right away. We went out to dinner and had amazing conversation and a great time. He was a perfect gentleman. He paid for dinner. We had a lovely good night kiss and he ended the night with "When can I see you again?" He was smart. He was fun. And he gave me a lot of attention. Everything that I had been looking for. However, after a few months, when I still hadn't been to his place, or met any of his friends, I started to get a little suspicious that maybe he hadn't been telling me the truth about his life.

I kept telling myself that he spent way too much time with me to be involved with someone else. He would stay over at my house. We always went out to dinner in public. He would stop by my office. But, something was not right. My intuition was telling me that he wasn't being straight. I brought it up a few times. His answer would always be accusatory. "Why don't you trust me?" "Are you going to always have these walls up?" "Will you just let me in?" "You googled me? What are you? Some kind of stalker?" It was my lack of trust that led me to wait a few months before being intimate with him. And not sleeping with him just added to my confusion, as I continued to tell myself, if he were cheating on someone with me, he would be insisting that we have sex. It's "secret lovers" not "secret dinner companions". So, I continued to ignore my intuition.

After about three months, he took me out to lunch one day and told me that he really wanted me to trust him. He said that I was right and he hadn't been completely truthful with me. His name was really Mark. He was married to a woman named Heather. They had a two-year old daughter. I was devastated. I didn't want to be right about this. I almost walked right out of the restaurant, but it was Bertucci's pizza and really, who can walk out on the Bertucci Menucci? He said that he had filed for divorce, but he didn't want to leave the house because he didn't want to give up custody of his daughter. He also said that if his wife found out that he was dating she would do her best to make sure that he didn't get custody. This all sounded a little fishy to me.

But, he was a born salesman. And he sold me.

Knowing that I was exceptionally proficient at facebook stalking, he covered all his bases with his story. I found his divorce complaint in the court records. I found his wife's facebook page where there was a daughter, but no trace of any husband in any of the photos. That would be consistent with his story. The story seemed true. I continued to date him.

While all of this was happening, I had picked up a couple of SAT tutoring clients. One of them lived out in Western MA, and I would go to his house on Saturday mornings to give him lessons. One Saturday morning, I was leaving the lesson and driving down the street. And I saw Mark, walking a black lab, seeing my very recognizable car, and looking extremely freaked out. Now, this was already odd as Mark lived in Ashland, MA. At the time, we were in Hopkinton. I pulled over to the curb and he opened the door and sat in the passenger seat. Both of us said, "What are you doing here?" at the same time. I responded first, "I had a tutoring session down the street. Now, you go. You don't live here. Why are you walking your dog through this neighborhood?"

That's when he told me everything. Heather and Mark were getting a divorce. They did have a two year old daughter. What he neglected to tell me before was that he wasn't Mark. He had stolen Mark's whole story. His name was Mike. At my insistence, he showed me his driver's license. He had two sons. He was married. He had no intention of getting divorced. But, he "still wanted to see me." I entertained a vision of him being blasted out of my passenger side door, hitting a tree, and sliding down the trunk like a cartoon character. Alas, my car, though awesome, did not come with a passenger side ejection seat. I settled for yelling at him to "Get the fuck out of my car" and left him in a cloud of adulterous dust after he did so. I've been ignoring his calls ever since. For about six months after I ended the relationship, he called me and sent me texts and tried to get me to speak with him. I never did understand why he wanted the relationship to continue.

The way he got caught is too much of a coincidence. And now I hold a strong belief that nature has a way of balancing everything out. I do try to help it out a little bit by telling this story to every single person that I have a longer-than-ten-minute conversation with in the hopes that some day it will get back to his wife.

The good news is that I learned two important lessons from all of this. Guilty men always get mad at you for not trusting them. They will accuse you of being "crazy" or "trying to sabotage the relationship." The non-guilty men will laugh it off. They will say you're being silly and you'll believe them. That ties into the second lesson: Always trust your instincts.

So, that's the story. The story of the shittiest shitheads of all shitheads. I apologize that this entry was a lot darker than my other ones. And I promise that next time I'll be funnier. But, I think that this story is a good insight into why I am the way I am (freaking amazing) and the choices that I make today (better ones). Thanks for reading, all.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Sponge of Love

I think that the lead singer of the band, Sponge, love potion number nined me the other night. But, more about that later.

I've taken a few trips to the House of Blues in Boston recently. This past Saturday night, I saw the Summerland Tour. If this tour hasn't hit your town yet...go. GO! It is so awesome. It's put together by Art Alexakis of Everclear, and the lineup includes Everclear, Filter, Live, and Sponge. Granted, some of my friends gave me a tough time about going and yours will too (Crazy Pete: "Oh right! I forgot you took a time machine back to 1995 this weekend"). But it's worth the gibes and barbs when you jump headfirst into a nostalgia of flannel and wallet chains, eyebrow rings and long-sleeve billabong tees.

Now, I don't believe that I've mentioned this before, but I hate the House of Blues. I love the acoustics and I love the bands that they get. But some of the employees there are really mean and take their job way too seriously. I've seen people get kicked out for singing loudly, dancing silly, tripping up the stairs even though they're not drunk, just klutzy. And when you pay $50-70 dollars to see a band, getting kicked out for no reason at all is a big deal. Luckily, it's never happened to me, but I do think that a lot of the security there needs to take a page from the Middle-East-Do-Whatever-The-Fuck-You-Want-Just-Don't-Get-Us-Shut-Down Playbook and maybe ease up and relax just a tad.

All that being said, they don't let the over-zealous police academy dropout types in the Foundation Room, which is the VIP room at the House of Blues. It's not as VIP as you think. It only costs $20.00 extra to your ticket to gain access. But, it makes you feel important when you walk into a "members only" section of a concert venue, even if you only paid twenty bucks. And this was a special event as we were treated to an acoustic set by Everclear and a meet and greet. (Note: I've been to a few meet and greets, they are usually as awkward as flipping someone off in your car and then having to stop next to them at a red light. But, the members of Everclear are probably the friendliest, warmest musicians that I've ever met and we had a nice, cozy time.)

Ok, so back to Vinnie Dombroski and the magic rock star spell he put on me. When Sponge took the stage as the first band, I was excited! Molly! Plowed! I still remember being as mad as Glenn Beck at a bra-burning bonfire when I realized after I bought the Empire Records Soundtrack that Plowed wasn't on it! Those guys rocked! And I had heard about how sexy Vinnie the lead singer was, so I was psyched to see him on stage, as I'd never seen him before.

He took the stage...he was wearing a gigantic pyrite chain necklace, a jacket with no shirt, and a cowboy hat. I thought to myself...this is the guy? The sexy lead singer of Sponge? The one girls go crazy over? I came to the conclusion that maybe he just wasn't my type. "Just not for me," I thought to myself. And then he gripped the microphone and sang his first note. By the end of the show, I was pumping my fist in the air and jumping up and down, hoping that he would be able to get a glimpse of me among the crowd. I was THAT girl in the audience. That was ME. After their set, when they were signing CDs, I went up to him and said, "I really liked the new song." He looked deep into my eyes and said, "I think I'm in love with you." or maybe he said "thank you." Whatever. I do remember that he then asked me what my name was and  when I told him, he wrote: "To Sweet Melissa--Vin" on my CD. And even though I'm sure that he's written that to every woman named Melissa who has ever approached him with something to sign ever, it made me swoon. By the way, I'd like to personally thank the Allman Brothers for giving lead singers a hot way to sign my stuff.

In the past few days, my crush has developed into an unhealthy obsession. I went from "well, he's tall and goofy" to not being able to breathe when I come upon a picture of him on the internet. I'm scaring myself; I don't know my own stalker strength. I have found out where he lives (Detroit suburb). I've seen pictures of a barbecue at his friend's house. I'm close to friending his brother on facebook. If this is creeping all of you out, just imagine how I feel! I'm usually pretty laid back about my crushes. For example, I think that Seth Meyers and I would make a good couple and eventually it would be great if we could get married, but if it's meant to be, it'll be. I don't need to chase him down. But for four nights straight, I've been hugging my autographed CD to my chest before I go to bed every night. I've been trying to find the antidote by looking at pictures of him smoking cigarettes, smiling with his gold tooth in view, a desperate attempt to remind myself that he's probably disgusting. But, to no avail.

There's only one logical explanation...Vinnie Dombroski is a warlock. I'm under some form of hex. My PBR was spiked with the number niner. I wish I could remember how Tate Donovan and Sandra Bullock solved this problem, but alas I don't think I've ever seen the end of the movie.

To make it even more mysterious, the one thing that I can't find out about him is who he's married to. He was wearing a wedding ring, but there's no talk of his wife anywhere on google or wikipedia, or facebook. I think that it's all part of his evil plot. As we all know from George Costanza, wearing "the hardware" automatically makes women want to have sex with you. I suspect that Vinnie the Wonderful Wizard of Sponge knew exactly what he was doing and now I'm left with the daunting task of attending every Sponge concert in New England. Someday, I hope to find the cure for this Sponge sickness. Until then, Godspeed.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Pros and Cons of The Big Move, Part 2

Pros of moving from Quincy to Somerville after 11 years

Last week, I shared the cons of moving, especially after living in your apartment for 11 years. Today, I'd like to share the pros. Here they are, in order of most to least interesting:

1.) 11 years of crap- Yes, this was a con, but it's more of a pro! I had so many surprise treasures waiting for me in unknown closets! From a closet in my hallway, I pulled out a gift bag from behind some boxes, opened it, and Holy Christmas in Springtime, it was a still-wrapped DVD collection of Buffy the Vampire Slayer seasons one and two!! At some point in time (Update: 5 years ago), someone (Update: My sister, Stacy) gave me the DVDs for Christmakah! And I'm as psyched about watching them now as I probably was back then! It's like Christmakah all over again.


Not only did I find presents, I found this autographed picture of Baywatch's David Chokachi:


And this one of MTV's Todd 1 Brown:


My friend and I wrote Todd 1 a bazillion fan letters when we were thirteen. I was a little bit jealous of her because her autographed picture said "Lots of Love", while mine said, "You Down With MTV?" which is probably what Todd 1 used to say to his lesbian fans. But, I'm over it...clearly.

2.) Moving to a new place- Another great thing about moving is that you get to explore new places. I'm planning on becoming a regular at the Thirsty Scholar because a) it's within stumbling home distance from my new apartment, and b) they have very patient staff. I had a little housewarming there the week that I moved (yes, I had a housewarming party at a bar rather than my actual house), and even though I babbled to the waitress about twelve or thirteen times that I just moved to the neighborhood and that I was going to be a regular, she kept a smile on her face every time I said it and waited until my back was turned before rolling her eyes. That's good service!

3.) Good way to clean your apartment. If you ever want to give your house a thorough cleaning, move out of it. You end up throwing away all the stuff you don't use anymore and you can trick people into helping you by calling it "packing".

All in all, I'm excited about my move from Quincy to Somerville. It'll be refreshing to walk down the street and get honked at because I'm in the way, rather than because my bum looks nice in my jeans. The homeless people are more veteran-like than methhead-like. And the redline stops on this side of Boston seem to go much quicker.

But, I will miss the place that I called home for 11 years, and the friends that I've made there. Trivia night at the Commonwealth. Dinner at the Fat Cat. Impromptu late night make-out sessions with Brian, the 22-year old Papa Gino's delivery guy. Blowing off going to O'Lindy's bowling alley because I live next door and I can always go next weekend...and doing it for 11 years straight. The memories will always stay with me. I did a lot of growing up in Quincy and I'll never forget that phase in my life. So, thanks to the Q! I'll see you soon!

And to Somerville, thank you for having me! Although it's only been a few weeks, there was a recent moment when, while the lightning flashed outside my window, amidst the cardboard boxes and plastic bags, you finally started to feel like home.