She's from Boston

There is apparently a song, by Kenny Chesney, released way back in 2006 entitled "She's From Boston."

Here's a sampling of the lyrics:

She comes from Boston
Works at the jewelry store
Down in the harbor
Where the ferries come to shore
She never really knew how good it would feel
To finally find herself in a place so warm and real

She wears a Red Sox cap
To hide her baby dreads
The girl she was in New England
is different now and then
In all the local bars
She flirts and tells the boys while they're talkin'
She's from Boston

Click here for the whole song.

The question is (as posed by our new post-idea-developer) why we in Boston don't play this song. Couldn't it cross over? Isn't it sort of reggae-ish? Why haven't we heard of it? I, who am obsessed with all things Boston and who actually lived the beach-living, boy-flirtin', talkin' about Boston on the beach, barefoot life? The Idea-Man, who owns more music than anyone I've ever met, is obsessed with Sirius and has generally heard of everything musical?

How did this happen? Now, I can see that this song, which I've finally found online for free and am listening to right now, isn't played in your average bar in Boston, because it is sort of country-ish, and we like to be very clear that we don't like the country music here in merry old New England. But, the Barking Crab on a hot July afternoon after work? This song is ripe for that. Any bar in Fanueil Hall on a Saturday night around closing time? Come on! It sounds a lot like Jimmy Buffett!

How is it that I can sing every word to Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats" when it's on the radio? We allowed that to cross over and not this? Blasphemy!

Of course, I of the self-proclaimed pop culture knowledge said today, "Kenny Chesney is the one that started the fight with the Dixie Chicks back when they said that thing about Texas!" thus ruining this song for Mr. Idea Developer. (Personally, I think he was overreacting, but who am I?) Come to find out, tonight, it was NOT Kenny Chesney who fought with the Dixie Kick-Ass Chicks, it was Toby Keith. (Well, sorry that I can't keep my white, middle-America 30/40something country singers straight. I personally think this is a point of pride.) So the song is not ruined. For the record, I did know that Kenny was the one who was married to Renee Zellweger for about a minute and a half.

Now that I've listened to it about 5 times straight while writing this, I have to say it's making my feet itch. My feet itch regularly, but this line in particular is doing it to me: She tries to explain to them / That education and occupation will have to wait for now / She loves the Rasta, reggae rhythms, her dreams have changed somehow. Man, I remember that. I felt that. I lived it. I still think it. I still think about chucking it all in and heading down to St. Thomas or Kitts or wherever and just living the life.

I highly recommend a listen. It's downloadable for free here, only took a sec to download the Rhapsody player.

Scrub a dub dub

(this post idea comes from our new guest "post developer", who has declared himself perfect for this position, not that there was an opening.)

Public laundry rooms. Laundry rooms in the basement of your triple-decker house in the city. The laundromat. Everyone's had one or more of these in their lives at some point or another.

Thoughts about laundry rooms/laundromats: (in no particular order)

1. Laundry Cards: Some are equipped with these very convienent cards, allowing you to put money on an account and swipe the card in place of having quarters on hand. I've never had that luxury, having gone to college long before the introduction of such technology and having never lived in a swank building. I imagine it's great, as I spent 20 minutes Friday night on my way home stopping into stores and coffee shops begging for a couple dollars in change so I could do laundry when I got home.

2. Lint: Why don't people clean out the damn lint trap? Laziness? Lack of education? (My brother reached the ripe old age of about 25 before he even knew there was any such a thing in a dryer, so this is possible.) Whatever causes this breakdown, it means that the rest of us have to come along and clean your lint out of the trap before we can even begin, lest we start a fire or end up with wet clothes after spending a buck seventy-five in hard begged quarters. Now granted, it's clean lint, but the amount of hair trapped in there with it is extremely disconcerting.

2. Detergent: In shared laundry rooms in smaller houses, people generally leave their detergent on the table or the floor or wherever. This is convienent for people like me, who come along and steal some, since I keep forgetting to buy my own. In those situations where you have to bring it with you, this limits your choices, since the most economical version tends to be that giant tub with the little cup you place under the push button. No hauling that thing around. The suggester of this post is a proud supporter of Mrs. Meyers products, which are natural and expensive and don't leave an unnatural smell and come in convienently small bottles, perfect for hauling around. That's a good thing, because for $11.99 a bottle, you wouldn't want some lowlife thief like me helping themselves.

3. Touching other people's clothes: The rules are definitely not clear on this front. In college, everyone did it. You arrive to a full washer and want to use it? Pull out her clothes, leave them on top of the dryer and carry on. Does this rule apply in a public laundromat where the owner might be right there, but is just lost in the Telemundo soap on the 12 inch TV? Does this rule apply in the house laundry room where there's only 5 occupants total in the house and you can probably figure out who owns the skanky royal blue lace thongs?

4. Claiming the carts: This one applies to laundromats. You know those cart things with the rack on top for hanging stuff? Do you get to claim those and hang on to them for 2 hours until your clothes are ready? I think not. Tell that to those living in rural Gettysburg. They didn't know that.

5. Children: Keep them under control. This is not a playroom. And on a busy Saturday, 15 children running amongst the 20 adults, 30 machines and cars in the parking lot is not cool. It's a hazard.

6. Timing: Are there rules about times that it is appropriate to do laundry? If so, adhere to them. In K & C's house, nobody is supposed to do laundry before 9 a.m. or after 9 p.m. I personally think that's a little tight reigned, and would advocate for before 7 or after 10, but whatever the rules, follow them. It's so the poor bastids on the first floor don't get rocked out of sleep at 2 a.m. by a spin cycle or your 22 cents in the agitator.

Got any laundry pet-peeves? Let me know!

I'm an addict

It's official. I'm a Netflix addict.

I've had a movie problem for quite a while now, and I've admitted that freely. I love films, I love going to the theatre, and I keep up with all the news. Entertainment Weekly continues to be my bible (or one of them, anyway).

For my birthday, I received a 2-at-a-time 12-month subscription to Netflix. What a gift! (Major points go out to the giver, he knows who he is.) For those of you still really far behind, the way it works is this: you set up your queue and put movies in it. You place them in the order you wish to receive them. Netflix sends you the top film. When you are done watching it, you put it in the freebie return mailer and put it in the mail. They get it the next day and send you the next one on your list, which you receive the day after that. With a 2-at-a-time subscription, you have two of these little cycles running, so you usually have a movie at your house. It couldn't be easier. You can switch around your queue anytime, too, so if you were supposed to get something all serious and decided that afternoon that you'd had a shitty day and want Borat instead, go ahead it and put it on the top! Easy!

My subscription also comes with unlimited "Instant" watching. This includes some films that I can download instantly to my PC and watch them on demand. There are about 7000 options for this. New stuff isn't usually available in this option, but so far, I've always been able to find something that looks interesting. Girl 27, a documentary I never heard of about a girl who sued MGM Studios in the 30s, was really cool. I never would've otherwise watched that.

I've been off TV more or less for the better part of a year. Besides Amazing Race, Grey's and Lost, I never turn it on. Now I have even less reason to, since I can just jump into bed, click on the computer and watch either the DVD that arrived in my mailbox that day or download! It's seriously addicting. And since it was a gift, it feels like it's free, which psychologically is pretty damn cool.

Since February 6 when I got my first film in the mail, I've watched 12 movies on disc. I've also watched 7 "Instantly". In 4 weeks! Holy cow. I just looked that up on my Netflix account since they keep track of it all, and that's crazy. 19 movies in 28 days. I think by the end of this 12-month subscription, I'll either need a 12-step program to give it up or I'll have to start paying for it. I think I already know the answer to that one.

required flexibility

flex·i·ble [flek-suh-buhl]
–adjective
1. capable of being bent, usually without breaking; easily bent.
2. susceptible of modification or adaptation; adaptable.
3. willing or disposed to yield; pliable: a flexible personality.
–noun
4. a flexible substance or material, as rubber or leather.
-alternate definition
5. not a word to describe Karen.

re·quire·ment [ri-kwahyuhr-muhnt]
–noun
1. that which is required; a thing demanded or obligatory.
2. an act or instance of requiring.
3. a need or necessity.
alternate definition
4. a source of incredible frustration to Karen.

Required flexibility. Not my forte. Not even close. Ick.

Bird's Eye View of New England is the current exhibit at the Norman B. Leventhal Map Center at the Boston Public Library, Copley. It's free and very very cool.

And everything is, in fact, bigger....

...in Texas.

I knew there was a reason I'd avoided this state. I've never seen so many chain restaurants, chain stores, giant buildings, giant highways, or huge trucks in my life. I guess it's all sweetened by being called ma'am every 5 seconds. (am I a ma'am? what happened to miss? did that leave me right around the time my grey hair became noticeable?)

He* took me to the Bass Pro Shop. I was thinking, "Whatever. Why are we going to a fishing store?" but the girl in me won and kept me quiet while I indulged him in his boy-ness. The giant "OUTDOOR WORLD" sign outside the door interested me, though, being an outdoors-girl, so even I was excited by the time we parked the car in the massive parking lot about a quarter-mile away from the door. (This, by the way, was after he made me drive all along the ginormous "mall" with the biggest Lowe's I've ever seen just to make me understand how big it all was.) We stopped outside for a moment to admire the boats and the windows framed completely in antlers (which I, in my overwhelmed state accidentally called "horns", thus looking like a complete idiot).

Once inside, we walked through the entry way, complete with a living room and fireplace for those not interested in partaking in the magic, I guess. About 30 seconds later, he turned to me and said "Close your mouth." I laughed outloud and the fun began.

First question? "So, at least 100 feet, right?" he said, looking up. I looked up too. Yes. The room was so cavernous, the roof had to be at least 100 feet high.

We checked out the fish under the waterfall. I love fish, being a diver, even freshwater ones. We stared up and looked at the stuffed lions, tigers, bears (oh my!) and every other creature imaginable. I took a photo of the raccoons playing poker inside the tent displayed on the floor. We went to the hunting section to see the guns and found the indoor achery range and indoor gun range (complete with a one day concealed-weapon course -- welcome to not-Massachusetts).

I sat on an ATV for a while. We found a Lazyboy chair upholstered in camoflage which vibrated and recylined and sat in it (he made a dirty comment about the vibration which in the end, I couldn't argue with). I texted a photo of the giant Big Deer Hunter game to my brother and my almost sister-in-law because everywhere they go they play each other on that insipid thing (she usually wins). I fed the amusement parkesque shooting gallery quarters so he, gun shooting expert that he is, could amuse me with the results of direct hits. (You know, like at Canobie Lake when we were kids. Hit the dude in the ass and he plays piano, hit the frying pan and it spins on it's burner.)

We looked over the balcony at the boats and realized that almost every one was more expensive than my car. We wondered about the two dudes pushing a shopping cart, clearly on a mission and what they were going to buy.

I tried to take photos with my phone, but nothing would do this place justice. On the way out, we stopped and asked the very friendly Texan working in this crazy place how many square feet it encompasses. He radioed out to the South 40 and got back this answer: 325,000 sq. feet. (325,000! Seriously!) (For reference, the Fleet Center/TD Banknorth Garden, whatever the hell it's called today, is 755,000 square feet. So this retail store is almost half that.)

After the glory of that, we drove through the rest of this huge complex, which we found out is called The Rim, and saw the rendering for the rest of it, which is under construction. There is already the biggest TJ Maxx, the biggest HomeGoods, the biggest DSW, the biggest I-can't-even-remember-what-else. What the hell else could they be building? You already have to pack a lunch to go to the TJ Maxx, it's so far out in the distance when you enter this place.

And so, I will leave San Antonio finally understading what everyone's been talking about all these years when they say "Everything is bigger in Texas." I am visiting Houston sometime this spring to see my sister and my new neice, and I wonder: could it be any different?

The Alamo was cool, though. And it's confirmed, there's no basement.

*"He?, you're calling me 'he' on your blog? You can't come up with anything more creative than that?"

My ensuing mid-thirties crisis

I'm 35 on Saturday. Not thrilled.

Here's some info about 35. Who knew?
(My two favs? The number of Miracles Jesus performed and 35 is the highest number one can count to on one's fingers using base 6.)

I'm old now. It's official. Gonna party in Vermont this weekend like I'm 19 again, though, so that oughta make up for some of the grey hairs.

Oh, and I can be President of the United States now. That's cool.

New Jersey and Texas Shouldn't Feature So Prominently in My Life

I'm not a fan of Texas. I cheered when Natalie Maines made her famous comment. I hate George Bush.

I'm not really a fan of New Jersey, either. I drove the Turnpike over and over when I lived in Maryland and I hated every minute of it. I know a lot of people from New Jersey, and most of them are cool, but they're the ones who escaped.

My sister has lived in New Jersey since she got married in May 2006. She just left and moved to Texas. My niece will be born and bred there and although she'll have a Yankee mom and an entire Yankee side of her family, she'll be Texan, just like her dad, who for a Texan, is pretty normal.

And now, the new man in my life has been swept off to Jersey first and Texas for the next 45 days -- moblilized in the Army Reserve. He'll wind back up in Jersey in mid- to late-February for the year. I suppose it's a good thing that I learned the way to Northern New Jersey, complete with the Merritt Parkway trickery when my sister lived there, and am so very familiar with the Turnpike because it seems I might soon be making trips that-a-way again.

I find it odd that my sister made her way from Jersey to Texas at the exact moment that he (let's just settle on calling him "he", shall we?) made his way from Boston to Jersey and now, one week later, will follow on to Texas.

And the irony is not lost on me that I have avoided Texas like the plague, only driving through the panhandle in 1997 because it's tough to drive from Maryland to L.A. without doing so. Now I'm trying to figure out how in the world to finance three (yes, THREE) trips to Texas this winter.

Found this the other day: "If I owned Texas and hell, I'd rent out Texas and live in hell." Hah! That's what I say to that. Texas stole my sister and my neice and now it's kidnapped him for 45 days. Strong forcefield we're dealing with here.

I jest, of course. My sister has my full support in her choice to become a poser-Texan and to raise true-Texans. It'll give me something interesting to do as an aunt: teach my neice and her subsequent siblings about their heritage as Bostonians by parentage and make sure they stay in the Red Sox Nation. It'll be a tough job, but I'll take it on with the sincerity and seriousness of a Puritan.

That dude is Cotton Mather, for those of you who might not know, whose name was the first that sprang to the mind of my very supportive boss when I said I needed a photo of a Puritan for a blog post.

So there you go. I've lived in 6 states and visited around 35 and somehow managed to avoid a serious relationship with New Jersey or Texas until now. The universe is in charge -- don't you forget it.

Pow-Pow-Pow

This photo is not of my neice, it's some baby off the internet. My neice is apparently not this calm in the womb, as her mother, my sister, has begun describing her antics as "pow-pow-powing."

She kicks and punches all at once. She does this at appropriate times, such as during Christmas mass while everyone singing "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" or whatever that song is named. (Oddly, she didn't dig any other song, remaining relatively chill throughout the rest of mass.) She also kicks and punches at inappropriate times, like when my poor sister gets up in the middle of the night to pee and the little one is like "ooh, cool! time to get up!" and then she has to relax so fully back in bed to trick the baby into going back to sleep.

She also has a move called "the wave" wherein she puts a hand (or foot or head, we don't really know) pushed up against the front of my sister's belly and then she drags it along, pushing out all the while.

One morning this past weekend, I was lying in the stupid twin bed in my mother's guest room and my sister snuck in and climbed in with me. "Feel now," she said. "She's kicking a lot." So I lay there for 20 minutes or so with my hand on my sister's bare belly and felt my neice going crazy. I got to name yet another move, which I dubbed "Pilates" where she stretches way out and part of her just sticks straight out making a bump on my sister's bump! So after she finishes her aerobic routine (pow-pow-pow!) she flows right into pilates. Quite the energetic baby we got here.

I think that this baby is already brilliant and is having these thoughts: "Wait a minute. I keep getting bigger, and this place seems pretty small. That means that soon I'm gonna be really squished in here. I better really stretch out and push around while I can!" Thus all the craziness.

In other baby news, she has a name and she hates beef. Everytime my sister eats it, she is very sick and full of gas for hours afterwards. So she's off the red meat for a while. On Christmas Eve, after getting all swollen in church, we realized she hadn't drunk any water all day. The baby apparently needs water or she gets her revenge by making my sister swell up.

My almost-sister-in-law showed up with a gift for "Baby Chili" a nickname derived from my sister's husband's last name. Hilarious and while I'm not sure it will stick, we appreciate the creativity required to have come up with it.

At only 23 weeks, with 17 left to go, my sister's belly button is almost gone and she is starting to look really pregnant, which is super exciting. She is struggling with the weight gain, having never gained more than a couple of pounds ever in her life before (unlike me, who could probably carry a baby and not even notice the weight gain since I've been so up and down my whole life!). From the back, she doesn't look pregnant at all, which is an amazing skinny-woman-ninja-trick that makes me jealous.

Although my sister, her husband, their Pomeranian, cat, 4 cars and my unborn neice are moving to Texas this week, I will see her again in late January and in February too. And I'm going there in March before she's born and again in early May after she's here. So I won't miss too much of this amazing first pregnancy in my family. Thank god. I'm not sure I could deal if I missed this. It's amazing and beautiful and a little bit weird that my neice is growing inside my sister.

Only 17 weeks till I get to meet her and then do what all good aunts do -- feed her cookies, take her on adventures, and listen when she bitches about her mom. I can't wait!

Social Capital

What is it? This site has a lot say, including: "the central thesis of social capital theory is that 'relationships matter'. The central idea is that 'social networks are a valuable asset'. Interaction enables people to build communities, to commit themselves to each other, and to knit the social fabric. A sense of belonging and the concrete experience of social networks (and the relationships of trust and tolerance that can be involved) can, it is argued, bring great benefits to people."

Yup. I've been talking for a few years now about this idea and how I've often felt a lack of "social capital" in my life. In the past 10 months, though, since I moved back to Jamaica Plain, I've purposely focused on building up my account -- so while I'm saving dollars each month and building a savings account, I'm also building my social capital. It's a pretty amazing feeling.

I became a part of JP's Neighbors for Neighbors, first attending events and then working with the founder on recruiting volunteers. I joined the Women's Book Club and tried to revitalize the Spanish Dinner Group. I have attended major events in JP such as the World's Fair and the Latern Parade and I've met people while doing it.

I attended my street's Labor Day Block Party and met even more people. I helped keep the connection we had made and included another set of roommate-friends from down the street who I'd met at an NfN event into that group. I hosted a get together at my house one night. That has led to a Progressive Dinner on Columbus Day and that flowed into a Pumpkin Carving party and a Thanksgiving Potluck (which, to be fair, was a tradition of Ana and Tom's when they lived in NC and they just carried on here, but we thank them for it!) and then, just this week, a Gingerbread Village Making Party which quickly, due to our creative (and sick) minds, turned into the creation of the "Ginga'hood".

In the interim, there's been random nights of "want to come for dinner?" or going out for a beer or two or the night that Katie met me outside my house when I drove up with a butcher block in my car and helped me carry it up the 5 stories to my apartment. That's friendship right there.

This morning, Chris, Katie's partner, met me out front at 7 and together we dug out my car and then I helped a bit with theirs. He offered and I took him up on it, because the idea of actually having support and not having to do everything on my own is just so unbelievably huge. It's at the center of social capital. Knowing that you have people to call on.

It's tempting, for a lot of people, to just hunker down in their lives. Go to work, be cordial with the people they work with but don't reveal too much personal information, go home, make dinner, see a friend maybe or talk to their mom on the phone or go on a date, go to bed and do it all again the next day. Others, in relationships, do this same thing, but with one other person involved. Okay. That's fine. If people don't want to know their neighbors, nobody should make them. But the idea of the guy across the street snowplowing your driveway for you because you happened to make cookies last weekend and brought some over is tempting too. Or knowing that you can let your kids out on the street to play because you know all 10 families/people that live in either direction from your house is also tempting.

All I know is that with a little effort on my part this fall, I have 6 new friends, all of whom live within 5 minutes walking distance of my house. I believe that all 6 would wake up and get out of bed and arrive at my house at 3 a.m. if there was an emergency, as I would do for any of them. I know that yesterday, in the first major snowstorm of the season, instead of going home to my house alone at 4 p.m., I instead knocked on Chris and Katie's door and had a couple of beers and made dinner with them.

Social Capital is not easy to build. It requires putting yourself out there, being a joiner, and caring about your community. But so far, it seems completely worth it!

An Ode to Chick Lit

When I am tired,
(not, "oh, what a rough day!" tired,
but "this month, i just cannot think" tired),
you are there.

You lure me with your bright covers,
your high heeled shoe motifs,
your titles ending in "-aholic",
your heroines who are strong and oh-so-stupid
(stupider than I am, which is the key, really).

A special thank you to the publishers,
who keep producing enough to fill an entire section
of the bookstore-
and to provide an occasional "Chick Lit 101" sidebar box
in my Entertainment Weekly.

Meg Cabot, thank you for the Queen of Babble.
Jen Weiner, you may have risen above, but you still walk In Her Shoes.
Helen Fielding, did you start it all with the Bridget's Diary?
I don't care. Just keep it coming.

Because when I'm tired,
I still want to read.
Because when I'm 34 and single,
I still want to believe I could fall in love with the hardware store owner's son on my block who I thought was dating my subletter but was really her brother all along.
Because I may only listen to NPR,
but I'm not above carrying a pink book
with an engagment ring on the cover and
unabashedly reading it on the T.

Amen.

What will they think of next?

CLICK HERE.

Hilarious!

*In case you don't know, this is me, my sister Susan, her husband Suneel, my brother Stephen, and his fiance Kim. It was made for us by our pseudo-sister Kathleen!

Book Lanterns

I go to visit my pregnant sister and her husband and we stop by his office. After we raid the samples closet for Aveno and Aquafor, we notice a weird looking book on the counter.

"What is that?" we ask.



It is a three-quarters of the way completed lantern, folded from a book. An elderly patient of my brother-in-law's apparently passes the time waiting for her doctor appointments by making them.

I, being more crafty than is good for me, unfold a couple of pages to see how it's done.

"Take it," brother-in-law says. "She said you could have it when I said my wife is crafty and would like it."

So I complete it. My sister doesn't want it, so I take it home, glue a ribbon into the binding, and now it hangs in my room.

But now I'm obsessed. I thought to myself, "I wonder how a little book would work?" and so I plucked a little book that someone gave me once upon a time off my shelf where it's been sitting since 10 minutes after whoever gave it to me. I begin to fold. It's color. It looks cool.

So I go to the dollar store and find mini books in abundance for only $.69. And now I have the most original Christmas ornaments ever made to give away to folks this holiday season.



Being crafty has its rewards. (Oh, and it also gets you some pretty weird looks on the T when you spend your commute folding little books into lanterns!)

Kings

Twenty years ago this fall, I began an intense, deep, and eventually fucked-up friendship with an intense, deep, and eventually fucked-up boy. We went from adolescent simplicity to the death of a parent to kissing on the hood of a car to rejection in the form of lack of commitment. We lasted this way for 9 years. The death of his mother scarred him and taught me, the kissing progressed to twice-in-a-lifetime sex, and the rejection was completed in his would-be wife requiring his severing our relationship.

We, like those in the high school generations before us and surely the generations that followed, were somewhat obsessed with The Catcher in the Rye by Salinger. I hung on the beauty of Holden’s hesitation, his exterior confidence so deeply intertwined with his inner self-doubt, as it reminded me so much of myself. J fixated on his risk-taking, his cavalier attitude towards his own safety, and his complete rejection of authority. He spoke of the Rye, of being the Catcher, and identified with Holden in a way that both enamored me and scared me.

J began calling me Jane. Remember Jane? She is the next door neighbor-girl who appears for only a page or so, the one with whom Holden played checkers. We know from clues in the context that she’s suffered some trauma at the hands of an adult male. We know that she would watch her checkers kinged, and would then leave them in the back row, where they would be protected – not risking their capture.

It turned into something of a nickname, although nobody else invoked it or understood it when he did. He kept it in his back pocket to use when he was attempting to goad me into doing something I didn’t want to do. He would yell it out the car window while driving off to do whatever thing I’d refused to accompany him in doing.

We bought each other books with ridiculous frequency. He often inscribed them to me as Jane. In 1994, for Christmas, he bought me Sailor Song by Ken Kesey, having moved on from the comfort of Catcher to the more college-like Kerouac and Kesey. He wrote, in part, “…have the courage that is truly within you to move your kings from the back row, Jane…”

I reveled in it. I was needy enough, especially of his attention, to enjoy that he noticed my nuances enough to liken them to a literary character and then take the time to dub me with her name. I felt special. I was a little bothered that he saw me as someone so cautious, so unwilling to take risks. He saw all my kings; in fact, I set them out for him to see, and he extrapolated that they were in the back row. I think, actually, he helped to keep them there, in a non-malignant, yet still manipulative way.

For a long time now, I’ve not had even one king remain in my back row. My kings were set free, slowly at first and then in a great rush seemingly all at once, as I refused to retake the GREs, moved across the country to Los Angeles by myself, quit my job, travelled across the planet, learned a new trade, lived barefoot in a bungalow, boarded buses on mountain tops, arrived back home in the US without any money or anywhere to live. I was a ski-bum, have had only $4.20 in my checking account, prayed a job would come through in time for the next school year. I’ve cut up vegetables, slung pizza, supervised six people, balanced a half-million dollar budget when I had no real idea what I was doing, left my field for another. I am always organized and usually know where my kings are, but they most certainly are not in the back row.

Occasionally, one has been captured. I moved one king to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and it was promptly jumped; this set me on my ass, wondering what to do now that I was living somewhere I hated in a job that was a bad fit. Another was hauled in by my formidable sometimes-opponent, the Universe, when I found myself in Paraguay, more miserable than I’d ever been and admitting I’d made a rather large mistake in entering the Peace Corps. I’ve missed those kings as they’ve gone, but after the fact, hardly noticed, because when your kings are moving around, you always know you’ve got another move to make.

J? Not sure. Last I saw him in 2004 at a mutual friend’s wedding, he was married to his wife and they had three kids. They live one town over from where we grew up and he teaches at our high school. If there was a map to the back row, I think that might be it.

Just today, driving down the highway on a blue-skied, yellow-leaved, unbelievable gift of a chilly fall day, I made this connection. I’ve not considered, ever before, that my kings are running about willy-nilly. I know what the years have felt like, how wonderfully rich and full they’ve been, and how much I enjoy each new adventure that presents itself as an opportunity to me. I know how little I hesitate before I say yes – to myself and others – in essence risking another king each time. But I’d never thought of it in the context of J. I think of him so infrequently these days that it surprised me to have the thought at all.

I don’t give him any credit for my kings hitting the red and black road. I actually think, after all this time, they weren’t ever relegated to the back row to begin with. He just wanted me, for whatever immature, semi-controlling reason, to think they were.

'nuff said...*

*except the Red Sox

ALCS/WS Reflections

Let me open by saying I have no idea how I'll top Robin, who was relegated to her house while I was at the ALCS Game 7 which afforded her the ability to be witty and timely and brillant as always.

But I digress. Here I am, in front of my stupid little 27" TV, which, for the record, isn't even mine, having never paid the woman who used to live here her 30 bucks for it. It's the bottom of the 5th and we're up 2 to 1. This has been a far more engaging game than last night, when we walked up to the Rockies in their stupid black and purple tunics, kicked them in the head and stole their lunch money. (I mean really, how could we not? They were wearing TUNICS!)

The Top 5 Reasons I'm Grateful I was at Game 7 Last Sunday Night
5. Didn't have to listen to Joe Buck call the game. What a loser that guy is.
4. Got to tell people how tired I was on Monday because I was AT the game last night.
3. Saw the glory of the Boston Police up close, and to give them their due, it was phenomenal.
2. Saw, on the jumbotron, and in real life, albeit it from the Siberia of the bleachers, Papelbon's dance.
1. I never thought I'd ever attend a post-season ball game, let alone in Fenway, ever in my life. And then I got to.

Big shout out here to the Notini family. To Butch, who has always been good to us and to Kathleen, who has been my friend for only about 3 years now, having moved to friend from "that girl I grew up with". They made it all possible.

The two jackasses (and may I repeat: JACKASSES) behind us talked at the top of their voices about everything OTHER than baseball. I found out all about Joe's stepkids, some dude in the hospital and everything wrong with him, amongst other such shit. We wanted to kill them. Everyone around us wanted to kill them. When they left to get snacks and beers, we all sighed an audible sigh of relief and talked about how crappy they were. They never stopped, for the whole game. GO HOME. Why are you here? Why didn't you sell your tickets for a grand?

The two cutiehead college boys in front of us got progressively drunk throughout the evening. One was trying, at one point, to drink his beer and text someone at the same time, and the added swaying made it quite the challenge. Kath finally had to ask the other one to pick a spot to stand and stop swaying all over the place. That was around the time that they high fived us and said "you guys must be Boston college girls! you totally look like it!" We were flattered, let me tell you.

This game was the first time I ever managed to pay attention to a game from the bleachers. I was so pleased. It was easy, even. Everyone stood at the right time. Nobody was all that drunk. There wasn't too much chatting (other than the aforementioned jackasses).

We left the park at 12:30. When we left, about 2/3 of the park was still full. We left by Ted Williams and cut through the hood towards the Fens. I didn't think going through the Fens would be a good idea, which it isn't at night on a regular night, but when we arrived at Park Drive to loop around back toward WIT where we'd been granted parking priveleges, the Fens was lit up like a Christmas tree. Every cop car in the tri-state area (what three states I'm referring to is irrelevant, I just love the term "the tri-state area") was parked there. It was cool! So we waltzed right through and were at the car by 12:45, which included a stop at the 7-11 for water.

So Game 7 was the bomb and now here we are. They wear purple. I can't really respect a team that is the same color as Barney. Jacoby won us all a taco! There's nothing better than shameless advertising actually built into the game! We do love Ellsbury, though, enough to make a petition for him. (Shout out here to Robbie, who alerted me to this little phenomenon.)

Schilling just tipped his hat for what might be his last time at Fenway. We love ya, dude. Thanks for taking us to the 6th! Thanks for bleeding half to death in 04 for us. Thanks for being a good guy. Hello Hideki, we love you too! (But not more than Tek, who I'm sorry, is truly beautiful, and a nice guy and kick-ass Captain who everyone loves.)

Peace out, peeps. Vegas has us with 2-1 odds. Here's to no sleep and faithful watching! (And to everyone on the West Coast, sleep an extra hour for me this week!)

Actun Tunachil Mukhnal

I went on an amazing adventure yesterday. THE thing to see here in Western Belize, other than crossing over to Guatemala for Tikal, is ATM, which stands for Actun Tunachil Mukhnal. It is a cave system and a cavern containing clay pots and skeletal remains of Mayans. It was found in the 70s and fully excavated by a Belizean archeologist in the 90s. It was CRAZY.

Come with me, as I recount what I did yesterday.

I arrived at 8:30 at the Mayawalk Tour Office in San Ignacio. I was loaded onto a bus (supposedly air conditioned, but not) with 25 other people. All but 4 of us were on a tour, led by either Tucan or Intrepid, both Aussie companies. Many of the other people were older, in their 60s or 70s, which surprised me, considering what I knew of this tour. I was with Sarah, a British woman who is travelling for the year on her own (she's 33) and who was staying at my guesthouse.

We arrived after an hour's drive (mostly down very bumpy dirt roads) at the parking area. We parked, and packed up our cameras, water, lunches (provided to us) and our Petzel helmets (the kind you use to rockclimb). We then set off to walk 45 minutes into the jungle. It was an easy walk along a path and we had to cross the same river three times (water up to our knees).

A word about clothing. I was wearing lightweight capris, my Keens (those water sandal thingys with the closed toes), and a tanktop. I had my bikini bottoms on, but a bra on top.

Then, we arrived at the picnic area. We were split into three groups of 8 and ate lunch. Then, staggered, we entered the cave. The opening is amazing. Huge, and the first thing is a 20ft deep pool, about 30 feet across. You jump in and swim to the other side. At this point, I was wearing my helmet and a headlamp and my camera had been put into a drybag which the guide was carrying on his back. On the otherside, you climb onto a rock embankment.

We then set off. We trekked 1/3 of a mile INTO the cave. Through waist high water, knee deep water, chest high water, running rapids, little waterfalls, and dry sections. It was totally, completely pitch dark except for our headlamps. The cave ceiling above us was between 100 and 200 feet high. Only a couple of times we saw bats, and occasionally a little fish in the very clear, very clean, refreshingly clear water.

Two of the ladies in my group who were at least 70 (but hearty Australians) could not swim. This did not stop them. Nor did the climbing across rocks, climbing up rocks, between rocks and down steep inclines stop them. This, perhaps, was more amazing to me, a wimpy American, than even the cave.

We finally, after an hour or so, got to a place where we stopped. We then climbed up about 20 feet up a huge rock and onto a shelf above it. From there, we went up, up, up. When we got to the entrance to the actual thing we came to see, they handed out cameras and we all had to take off our shoes and put on socks if we hadn't already. (You have to wear socks inside the sacred cave b/c the oils on our feet would cause damage as would our shoes.)

We went in and looked at all the clay pot remains, the skulls and bones remains and the cavern around us. It was pretty cool. The guide had a huge powerful light in order to show us the cavern we were in, b/c our headlights weren't enough at all.

We walked through the grand cavern, which was the size of a football field (lower ceilings here) and then up a ladder to another smaller cavern where the full remains of a skeleton are. She is lying out on the floor. I have amazing photos. It was super cool.

The guide kind of sucked. He didn't give us much history or anything about Mayan culture. He just kind of talked in philosophical circles, but it didn't really matter (except when he really got going for 10 minutes or more and I wanted him to just shut up and move us along -- really, I have no patience).

After we were done, we went back the exact way we came, it took about an hour to get out of the cave and another 45 minutes to walk back to the van. For those of you who know how much I hate being wet, it was a little bit torturous to walk that far soaking wet, but it helped with the heat and dry clothes awaited me at the van, so it wasn't too bad. We changed and were back in San Ignacio Town by 6.

The entire experience was very very cool. I've never been caving, let alone that far into a cave. I love to do things like that, since it reminds me that I am in fact still young and fit and able to do just about anything. And the older people helped me imagine still doing things like it when I'm 70.

A few last notes, as this is my last post from abroad before I make my way home tomorrow.

-- This little guesthouse I'm staying in, the Hi-Et, is awesome. It's a family's house. There's some rooms with private bathrooms, but I'm in one of four with a shared bath. It's a cute little room with french doors (wooden french doors like storm shutters, but french doors nonetheless) that lead out to my own private little balcony. The balconies on my floor are all made from the dormers at the top of the house. It's awesome.

-- Hanna's, the Belizean gift to food. This restuarant is amazing. Huge portions for a good price and the only curries I've found in Belize.

-- Cafe del Sol, where I sat for almost 4 hours today, drinking coffee, eating breakfast and reading my book.

-- I just found out that it is going to cost me $37.50 US to get out of Belize. That's the departure tax to fly out. The most expensive I've ever seen! And, I also found out that after I ride the bus from here to the bus station in Belize City, it will be $50 BZ or $25 US to get the 8 miles from the bus station to the Int'l Airport. Apparently it used to be $30BZ until all the taxis got together and decided to rip off the tourists. So to get out of here will cost me $62.50US. CRAZY. Glad I planned on taking the T home when I get back, because that taxi ride would be another $25US.

-- I am over budget on this trip. I can't believe what I've spent. Oh well, I guess. Each trip is once-in-a-lifetime and I only do this once a year, right?

-- My trip back from Guatemala was great, and uneventful. Since I had bought cash there and had to take it back across the border and turn it into Belizean money, I was paranoid about having that much cash on me. I hadn't brought my money belt across the border, thinking I was only staying one night and all...So, I stuffed the 1300Q (Quetzales, Guatemalan money) in my bra for the trip from Flores to Santa Elena's bus station and then the 2.5 hour trip to the border. I went to the little bank on the Guatemalan side of the border and asked to change my quetzales into Belizean dollars. They said they didn't do that and directed me to the dudes with the little black bags, the black market...crazy. They gave me an excellent rate and I then stuffed my Belizean dollars down my bra and made my way across the border. It was a super-easy border crossing.

--Oh, and when someone boards a Belizean bus carrying a machete or other large knife, the driver takes it and keeps it up front until the person gets off. I thought this a very wise and safe policy that I saw universally inforced!

I guess that's it. I'll be back in the US (Miami) tomorrow early afternoon!

Another great trip, over and done. I can hardly believe it's over.

Mas sobre Guatemala

This is a photo of Isla de Flores, Guatemala. It's pretty cool. Right across the bridge is Santa Elena. Flores is sort of an annex. It doesn't have a bus station or a proper bank, one has to find those in Santa Elena.

What this place does have is lots of very cute hotels and restaurants/bars. I had breakfast in a great little coffeeshop. Many of the places that are around the perimeter road have doors that open directly off the street (a la everywhere i've been in central/south america) and then they are very deep, going all the way back to the lakeside. We had dinner last night in a place like that, with lakeside seating.

I contacted the tour place in San Ignacio last night via email to confirm that I could stay here until Thursday and then still do the two tours in Belize before I head home. All is well. So I will stay here tonight and then make my way across the border tomorrow back to Belize.

My dilemma about not having enough cash is solved. First of all let me say I have absolutely no idea what the hell I was thinking leaving the U.S. with only $500 cash and no means to get more. I left my ATM card at home. Why? Not sure. I planned ahead for this trip. I could picture both the Belize and Guatemala map in my head. I knew the name of currency in both countries. I had a rough idea how much things would cost (although Belize, as I've already mentioned, is more expensive than I'd anticipated). I've travelled a ton. Then, why, oh why did I not have enough money? No se.

This morning, I set out to try to get money somehow. First I went to San Juan Travel, which, according to the 2005 Lonely Planet Central America book (which Robin has) gives cash advances against credit cards. No such luck. They looked at me like I was insane and then told me to use the ATM. When I said "No tengo PIN para me carta de credito" they looked at me like I was even more insane. They were justified. They sent me to the Banco Rural here in Flores.

I hiked up the hill to the bank and waited in line with two hombres to gain entrance when it opened at 8:30. I went up to the girl at the caja and said "Quiero usar me carta de credito para consiguir dinero. Este es possible?" Nope. She said, not here. You have to go to Banco Industrial en Santa Elena. I asked if she was sure that there I could get money even though I do not have a PIN for my credit card. Yes, she assured me with a smile.

Okay. Sounds good. So I flag down a tuk-tuk. SIDE NOTE: There are tuk-tuks here! Seriously. Tuk-tuks, just like in Thailand. It's been 5 years since I had the pleasure of seeing or riding in a tuk-tuk. So great. I love them. They are a little different here than in Thailand, but just as cute. And they only cost Q5 (about $.60) to get over to Santa Elena from here.

I share the tuk-tuk with another guy. The driver is very chatty. But it is very hard to carry on a conversation over the noise of the tuk-tuk itself as well as the surrounding traffic, especially in another language. The result is that the guy thinks I'm a moron. Ah, well. People often do.

I get out at the bank, but I only have Q3 in coins or Q100 note. He doesn't have any change. So I ask "Quieres esperar para mi?" Do you want to wait for me? Sure, he says. I go in the bank and lo and behold, you can totally buy cash against a credit card, as long as it's a Visa. ANOTHER SIDE NOTE: I have no idea why I packed my Visa. I only use my Mastercard at home, ever. I don't even know why I keep the Chase Visa. I haven't used it in ages. I think I packed it in case my other card got stolen or something. Thank god for small favors of fate.

She asks me how much I want, I tell her, she calls someone, gets authorization, and gives me cash. It took all of 10 minutes. So easy. I wonder if I could do that in the States?

I go back out, fully expecting my tuk-tuk to be there, and prepared to pay him Q5 for the trip to the bank, Q5 for the trip back and Q5 for waiting for me. He wasn't there. He didn't even come in looking for me or to at least collect the Q3 I had that he knew I had. So weird. I keep thinking he'll stop me on the street in Flores and ask me for his money. I sort of hope he does, as I feel badly about stiffing him.

So now my money worries are over and I can enjoy the last 4 days of my trip. :)

Every day an adventure, even if it is of my own making, due to incredible stupidity.

Besos.

Estoy en Guatemala

I am in Guatemala.

I spent the day on a Tikal tour. It was truly awesome. Click the link to see what I'm talking about.

Then, instead of going back to Belize with my tour, I got off in Las Cruces and jumped a collectivo (minivanbusthing) with Robin, from my group. She's Aussie and was headed to Flores. So I came with her. (I was maybe going to say in Tikal, but I was done with it by 4 p.m. I had left my big bag in Belize, and figured, why not?)

So we are sharing a double room, my share is $5 (ah to be be back in a country where the US dollar actually goes far!). I will stay either one or two nights and then head back to Belize.

It's gorgeous here. It's actually Isla de Flores, since it's in the middle of a lake. Our hotel room is on the 3rd floor and we look out over the lake.

Wonderful. Gotta go explore before I lose the sun!

I (thought I) Love Bus Travel

I climbed onto the 8 a.m. bus in Punta Gorda this morning along with about 8 Belizeans. I was all set to travel all day to get to San Ignacio, in the north. I thought to myself: "I love bus travel. It's great. You get a real feel for the country, the people, the culture." 6 hours later, I wasn't so sure. I think I'm old.

Belizeans travel mostly by bus. Before we even left Punta Gorda, we'd driven all around town and the 8 people turned into more like 30. Few people outside the cities own cars and air travel, while relatively economical, is still expensive. Buses here are ALL, I repeat, ALL, old school buses from the United States. Have you ever travelled 6 hours on a school bus? Maybe. I don't really remember. I might have when I was 10. But not full-sized, and not in 95 degree heat and not when there's a billion people on the bus with me. I'm a wus. I'm an American, spoiled wus.

My knees hurt, my legs hurt, I was hot. When it started to rain, I almost cried when the bus attendant guy came around and closed all the windows, in an attempt to suffocate us all. When I changed buses in Bamlopen (the capital of Belize), I didn't get a seat and stood in the back where I had stuck my pack in the crack between the back seat and the window. Every times someone opened the back door (which was a lot to load stuff and people), my bag almost fell out. Luckily, that ride was only about an hour of the total trip and I got to sit down for the second half.

The buses are painted bright colors. They actually look pretty cool. All along the highways, there are dead buses parked in lots, in people's yards, all over. If you ever wondered where all the school buses in the U.S. go to die, the answer is apparently Belize. Use that in your next Trivial Pursuit game and get your final pie!

On the bus. Women travel more than men on the bus. They are often in pairs or groups and often have 2 or 4 or 6 kids with them. One woman today, I kid you not, had an infant in a piece of cloth. It was lying down sleeping and she had gathered the cloth at the top like a bag and was carrying it. It was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. I wasn't the only one staring, and I was the only non-Belizean on the bus.

The bus stops every 2.5 feet to pick up whoever wants to be picked up on the side of the road (a la Paraguay). This, my friends, is why it takes 5 hours to go what should have taken 3. Not only that, but if you remember, school buses do not stop on a dime, so often, we would overshoot the person on the road and then BACK UP to go get them!

Belizeans speak English, pretty much universally. They speak it with different fluency, depending on where they are from, how much education they have received and how much they come in contact with tourists.

They also speak Kriol. This was, for a long time, sconsidered a form of bastardized English, but has recently been linguistically proven to be it's own own unique language. If you listen really closely, you can kind of figure out what people are saying. It sort of sounds like reggae-talk. There's "mans" a lot and "das" a lot. It's interesting.

Some people speak Spanish. It depends on the region. In San Pedro lots of people did. Down south in Punta Gorda, not so much. Here in San Ignacio, more.

Then there are Mayan languages. The only one I've come in contact with so far is Kertach (no clue how to spell it or say it). There's also Mopan and probably a million others.

There are black people, brown people, Mayan people (who clearly look Mayan) and there were lots of blond headed little kids with Belizeans in San Pedro. It's quite a mixture of people here. It's lovely, actually.

Last night, I spent the night in Laguna, a village about 10 miles outside Punta Gorda. It is part of the Toledo Ecotourism Association (TEA). They have a guesthouse. I took the bus from Punta Gorda at 6 a.m., got off a the "Laguna Junction" (not a real place, just where the road to Laguna meets the main road) and prepared to walk in the 3 miles to get there. It was pouring. Luckily, a car came along, driven by Vicente Sakul, who happens to be the President of the TEA! (I'd been told about him ahead of time.) He took me to the guesthouse and then Rosa came by. The families in the village who are working with the program rotate being the "attendant" when visitors arrive. It was Rosa's turn.

I got settled in the guesthouse, which was lovely! It had two rooms with bunk platforms and she made me a bed. There was a back patio and then a side building with a toilet and sink/shower with running water.

I had breakfast at Rosa's house with Seffina her daughter. Tortillas, beans, and eggs with a sweet kind of hot tea to drink. Then I had a village tour, which really amounted to just a walk around the circle of "road" that makes up the village. Rosa pointed out flora of interest and the buildings (school, church, health center, shop). 300 people live in the village, 85 of whom are children. Rosa has 8. Justina, who fed me lunch and gave me a "craft lesson", is 29 years old and has 6 kids. She goes every three months to Punta Gorda for a Depo shot for birth control. She's heard rumors that Depo gives you cancer in the long run, so she's worried, but she's trying to balance that with the idea of yet another child. She was obviously worried enough to share the whole story with me.

At lunch, John showed up. He did the same deal as me, but 4 hours later. He's Australian, but lives and works in East Africa. Just finished a temp job (enviornment stuff) in Hondurus, and is traveling around. It was great to have someone to hang with all afternoon. We went on a walk through the jungle up the "Farm road" which led to no where, talked for 2 hours about the US, Iraq, Bush, Michael Moore, privelege, travel, diving, and more and then ate a very weird dinner at Patricia's house. It was beans, fry jacks (which are flour tortillas, but fried and puffy and delicious), and hard boiled eggs. The house had dirt floors and only hammocks for sleeping and it was Patricia, her very old husband (I think), her son and then two young girls showed up. I have no idea the family make up and no English was really spoken. I was sort of glad to have John there.

Then we showered (well, bucket bathed) and went to bed at 7:45 because there wasn't electricity in the guesthouse. It was a good thing, though, because we were up at 5:30a to catch the "market bus" back to PG. All in all, it was a great experience and the entire $55BZ ($27.50US) I spent went directly to the folks in the village. No middle man. Oh, and I bought a hand made caxtal (bag) from Rosa and a gift for my dad from Justina, each for $10BZ, so that helps them too.

I have now apparently arrived in the northwest having left my good sense and frugal ways on the school bus. I just booked a trip to Tikal in Guatemala for $85US (which I had planned on doing from the start). I also booked Caracol, which is a Mayan ruin here in Belize which was recently featured in Nat'l Geo Travel magazine. I ALSO booked a trip to ATM (which stands for some long Mayan name I can't remember right now) but is essentially a living museum that was discovered not too long ago with human remains, Mayan artifacts, etc and is supposed to be the coolest thing ever. All together, the three will run me $245US, which, I supposed, for 3 full days of tours which include transport, guides and lunch, is a bargain. (That was the price for a one-day, three-dive trip to the Blue Hole.)

I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to stay over in Tikal for a night. The trip doesn't stay over, but I could do the whole thing and then just not go back with them, and stay overnight and make my own way back on the bus the next day. That's prolly what I'll do so I can have a sunset at Tikal. Since I've had it in my head for DAYS that I fly out of Belize City on Saturday and just realized at about 3 p.m. today that I don't actaully fly out till SUNDAY, I just found a whole extra day! Yippee.

So all is well in Central America. More later.