Classy Girl heads for New York after Johnny Damon agrees to join the Yankees for 52 million, Classy's compensation will be considerably less, however she can now wear her Yankee cap without fear of intimidation.
Thursday night at the Pig: stressful. Checking news feed on my cell phone between vodka sodas, waiting to see if the MTA is going to go on strike in NYC. If so the interview I’m supposed to have the next day is going to be canceled, ruining my plans to do something about my future. After being sung about by my favorite Irish guitarist, "the prettiest girl who comes to the Pig every Thursday and never gets lucky because she’s too intimidating..." the MTA strike is still in talks, and I go home to sleep and assume that in the morning I will be on my way to Manhattan.
New York. After talking about myself for roughly an hour, citing all my great (hah) qualities and how qualified those qualities make me for the position, I walk around Manhattan and fall in love with it all over again. The city is like a good man that you’ve met before but had to leave behind. Its return makes you realize how there's really nothing else quite like it, makes you realize how much you've missed it. It’s the kind of place that you can reinvent yourself in. The 1/9 to 14th and the L to Bedford, I make it to Brooklyn to drink and hang out with old friends and picture what kind of person I might become.
The trip back home feels too long, and getting off the T near my apartment, Symphony Hall illuminated in front of me, I breathe in deep the Boston air and think about how much I would miss this place if I had to leave it. I realize that sometimes you don’t realize how much you love something until you’re faced with losing it, and how Boston, like a lot of things in my life, means more to me than I let myself admit. All I know is that by this time next week everything in my life could completely change, or remain entirely the same. They seem so flimsy, these things a grown woman can hang her over-grown hopes on.
Well. It’s that time of year again. The snow is falling and store fronts are filled with lights and ribbons bombarding the world with good cheer and 30% off holiday sales.
It’s that time of year again when I start to listen to the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack on my way to work, letting the feeling of good will towards my fellow man creep up on me like the cold Boston air.
It’s that time of year again when people throw holiday parties, and I spent Friday night at one in the District with Kinsey. It was a full house, packed with people I didn’t know, and as we were pushed up against the wall by the celebrating mass, my vodka soda spilling on my tulle skirt, I thought that maybe the holidays really are crap.
I haven’t even started my Christmas shopping yet.
While I’m a wait-to-the-last-minute kind of gal, preferring exciting holiday spontaneity to the monotony of planning, I’m finding that I’m falling short on Christmas spirit this year. The lines and crowds of people are now making me feel claustrophobic, angrophobic, hypengyophobic and even mildly pantophobic.
Maybe it’s because I don’t see the meaning in buying presents for people in order to show them you care. I don’t understand the concept that, just because it’s Christmas, you should tell the people you care about how you really feel. Shouldn’t we be having the attitude of honesty all year round? Why does it take snow storms, egg nog and cheesy movies to knock us out of our stupors and realize that we should stop being idiots and be nice to the people around us?
Or maybe it’s what Sweet Girl said to me last night when I was lamenting over the fact that it is twenty days until Christmas and I’m feeling less than excited about the season – we are getting older. The real world makes it difficult to see past the tough sheen of reality to visions of harmony and sugar plums, whatever those are. I’m afraid that Christmas will come and go, much as it did last year, without any lasting affect on me at all.
Maybe it’s like what Charlie Brown says, and I just don’t understand Christmas. I like getting presents, and sending Christmas cards and decorating trees and all that, but I’m still not happy. I always end up feeling depressed.
Last night, while locked out of my apartment for over an hour, cold and tired, sitting in the hallway and staring at the closed door in front of me while waiting for a roommate to return home with keys, at least five people from my building passed by, looked at me and simply said, “that sucks.”
