‘Twas the week before Christmas and, hanging my head,
I realized I was frightfully short on the bread.
With the world in the crapper I know I’m not alone
but I felt bad, all the same, as I applied for more loans.
With dollar signs floating above my warm bed,
I could not fall asleep, because all through my head
I was trying to think of just what I could get
for my friends and my family, gifts they wouldn’t forget.
I knew that the mall was beyond my cash flow
and besides, it was just too damned crowded to go.
I could bake, though I’m horrid, and give everyone treats
though I knew they would melt under my airplane seat.
All my beads, and my paper, and craft-making things
are still sitting in Michigan, so no help do those bring.
Excuses! Thought I, as I surfed through the net,
there must be some good, thoughtful gifts I could get!
Everything that I thought of just sounded so lame.
I’d be handed a present, and hand back none of the same!
Oh what could I do, I was filled with much stress.
How could I get out of this holiday mess?
After thinking, and thinking, and lamenting my woe,
I’ve not thought of a direction in which I can go.
So please, friends and family, don’t think I forgot.
Please remember – the thing that counts most is the thought!
And much thoughts I do have for your holiday cheer –
Have the Merriest of Merry, and a Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Coffee Shop Therapy
I love my therapist, but sometimes I can feel just as good after spending two hours at my favorite coffee shop as I do after I've spent $70 on the couch.
I always sit at the counter, what I think of as the front row seat to an audience-participation show: The barsitas sing. They dance. They make inappropriate puns. They ask me where the heck I've been for the last few weeks. And the loneliness I felt while driving here melts away as I enjoy a veggie omelet and coffee, and listen to the green-haired barista (the one with the wide smile that always makes me smile back) sing, "It Takes Two" in falsetto.
A fellow customer asked me why I drove all the way here while there are so many great cafes in Cambridge. But I haven't found the same warmth there. I haven't found a place I can always get a seat, sit at the counter, enjoy free wi-fi and amazing crepes (and eye candy to boot). Sure, it's a 15 minute drive. But to feel my heavy heart lift in the same amount of time it takes to make an omelet is more than worth the gas.
I thank the Taste in Newtonville crew for always raising my spirits, and tell anyone and everyone who has a car and is willing to make the trip that this, among all the others clumped together in Cambridge, is second to none.
I always sit at the counter, what I think of as the front row seat to an audience-participation show: The barsitas sing. They dance. They make inappropriate puns. They ask me where the heck I've been for the last few weeks. And the loneliness I felt while driving here melts away as I enjoy a veggie omelet and coffee, and listen to the green-haired barista (the one with the wide smile that always makes me smile back) sing, "It Takes Two" in falsetto.
A fellow customer asked me why I drove all the way here while there are so many great cafes in Cambridge. But I haven't found the same warmth there. I haven't found a place I can always get a seat, sit at the counter, enjoy free wi-fi and amazing crepes (and eye candy to boot). Sure, it's a 15 minute drive. But to feel my heavy heart lift in the same amount of time it takes to make an omelet is more than worth the gas.
I thank the Taste in Newtonville crew for always raising my spirits, and tell anyone and everyone who has a car and is willing to make the trip that this, among all the others clumped together in Cambridge, is second to none.
Friday, December 12, 2008
My Favorite Things
For some reason, this classic song from The Sound of Music has been associated with the holiday season (it must be the "brown paper packages tied up with strings" and "sleighbells"). So, I thought, since it is now the holiday season and I myself am doing little to prepare for it (no tree, no cards, minimal present buying - sorry guys), I might make myself a little list of my current Favorite Things, a la Oprah.
Yes, I could have made this list singable. But I didn't feel like it.
Bruegger's Egg and Cheese Bagel
Blue Moon with an Orange Wedge
Sleeping in under soft sheets
Discovering new episodes of my favorite shows
Drawing
Finding new favorite Indigo Girls songs
Brand new Office Supplies
Reconnecting with old classmates (even from elem. school!)
Laughing on the phone with long-distance friends
Editing (yes, I'm not kidding!)
Writing stories that don't have to be good
The look in my tutees' eyes when they finally "get" something
Writing dirty limericks and bad haiku
Stopping to pet dogs on the street
That rogue warm day in the middle of winter
A stranger's smile
Coffee with my roommates
Bookstores
My Therapist
Taking the T
Coffee Shops
Smelling my body wash on my skin
Making real goals
Journaling
And Learning
Maybe you should make a list of your favorite things, especially if you're feeling down. The fact that I'm doing a couple of these today makes me smile - and I'll be okay.
Yes, I could have made this list singable. But I didn't feel like it.
Bruegger's Egg and Cheese Bagel
Blue Moon with an Orange Wedge
Sleeping in under soft sheets
Discovering new episodes of my favorite shows
Drawing
Finding new favorite Indigo Girls songs
Brand new Office Supplies
Reconnecting with old classmates (even from elem. school!)
Laughing on the phone with long-distance friends
Editing (yes, I'm not kidding!)
Writing stories that don't have to be good
The look in my tutees' eyes when they finally "get" something
Writing dirty limericks and bad haiku
Stopping to pet dogs on the street
That rogue warm day in the middle of winter
A stranger's smile
Coffee with my roommates
Bookstores
My Therapist
Taking the T
Coffee Shops
Smelling my body wash on my skin
Making real goals
Journaling
And Learning
Maybe you should make a list of your favorite things, especially if you're feeling down. The fact that I'm doing a couple of these today makes me smile - and I'll be okay.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The Perfect Gentleman of the Yellow Checker
I had the coolest cab driver on the way to the airport early this morning. He arrived in the pouring rain, his golfer’s cap soaking instantly as he got out of the car. I winced as he heaved my heavy bag into the trunk -- he must have been at least 70 years old – but he made light of it. “Isn’t the worst I’ve seen,” he said in a thick Boston accent.
Before he pulled out, he made small talk. Good morning, where are you from? What are you doing here? And then finally he said, “All right missy, do you have your phone? Charger? ID? Medications?”
I laughed and assured him I did.
“You’d be surprised how many times I ask people that and they still forget.” He reached into the front passenger seat and opened his palm to me. “Want a butterscotch?” I realized I couldn’t have painted a better character sketch if my life depended on it.
He pulled out then, started the meter, and we were off on what became the most educational cab ride I’ve ever experienced. Turned out Frank Sullivan was a history buff, and as soon as he found out I was from Illinois he decided that I just had to know the history of Edward O’Hare, the namesake of the world’s busiest airport. I almost got the impression that Frank was a bit of a ham; he spoke in a theatric manner, like he’d told the story before in front of a large audience or television camera. Although I guess he did have a large audience – his moving taxi classroom, with students who really had no choice but to listen.
O’Hare was born, grew up, fought World War II and died in that fifteen-minute ride. At the end I tipped him $12.00 - $6.00 for the driving, $6.00 for the history lesson. I want to remember it all, although while I know the details of O’Hare’s life will probably fade within a few days, I won’t soon forget my morning. And I’ll know who to ask for next time I call for a cab – good old Frank Sullivan from Newton, history buff and perfect gentleman of the yellow checker.
Before he pulled out, he made small talk. Good morning, where are you from? What are you doing here? And then finally he said, “All right missy, do you have your phone? Charger? ID? Medications?”
I laughed and assured him I did.
“You’d be surprised how many times I ask people that and they still forget.” He reached into the front passenger seat and opened his palm to me. “Want a butterscotch?” I realized I couldn’t have painted a better character sketch if my life depended on it.
He pulled out then, started the meter, and we were off on what became the most educational cab ride I’ve ever experienced. Turned out Frank Sullivan was a history buff, and as soon as he found out I was from Illinois he decided that I just had to know the history of Edward O’Hare, the namesake of the world’s busiest airport. I almost got the impression that Frank was a bit of a ham; he spoke in a theatric manner, like he’d told the story before in front of a large audience or television camera. Although I guess he did have a large audience – his moving taxi classroom, with students who really had no choice but to listen.
O’Hare was born, grew up, fought World War II and died in that fifteen-minute ride. At the end I tipped him $12.00 - $6.00 for the driving, $6.00 for the history lesson. I want to remember it all, although while I know the details of O’Hare’s life will probably fade within a few days, I won’t soon forget my morning. And I’ll know who to ask for next time I call for a cab – good old Frank Sullivan from Newton, history buff and perfect gentleman of the yellow checker.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Kate in Boston: The Commute
In celebration of my last day having to make what I consider an annoying commute to get to work, I’ve decided to write a little poem.
Ode to the Hill
For the last three months,
at least three days a week,
I have climbed this old hill
Whether feeling strong or meek.
And as I do so on this night
I can’t help but make a rhyme.
Sorry Hill, my old friend,
this is my very last time.
In the early morning dew
(although lately it’s been frost)
I have trekked down your steep slope --
a few pounds I must have lost.
Past the bushes, leaves like beetles
and the houses, big and old
in the rain, and in the heat
through the leaves and now the cold.
To the stop there at the bottom
where I caught bus number one –
the 57, I will miss you,
even the times I had to run.
Then to Watertown I rode
to the next chariot of steel
that would stop a million times
with jerky stops and breaks that squeal.
Finally I would arrive
to alight in Harvard Square,
and even though I always fretted,
I never lacked the time to spare.
With caffeine in my grip
(Starbucks always a good friend)
I'd be energized to work
and then commute at the day’s end.
Now I’m here, good Waverly,
trekking up you for the last.
And though your sidewalks were not mean,
I’m happy you’ll be in the past.
On to Cambridge! On to Parker!
There my feet are all I need.
But I’ll remember you, my Newton hill,
I’ll remember you indeed.
Ode to the Hill
For the last three months,
at least three days a week,
I have climbed this old hill
Whether feeling strong or meek.
And as I do so on this night
I can’t help but make a rhyme.
Sorry Hill, my old friend,
this is my very last time.
In the early morning dew
(although lately it’s been frost)
I have trekked down your steep slope --
a few pounds I must have lost.
Past the bushes, leaves like beetles
and the houses, big and old
in the rain, and in the heat
through the leaves and now the cold.
To the stop there at the bottom
where I caught bus number one –
the 57, I will miss you,
even the times I had to run.
Then to Watertown I rode
to the next chariot of steel
that would stop a million times
with jerky stops and breaks that squeal.
Finally I would arrive
to alight in Harvard Square,
and even though I always fretted,
I never lacked the time to spare.
With caffeine in my grip
(Starbucks always a good friend)
I'd be energized to work
and then commute at the day’s end.
Now I’m here, good Waverly,
trekking up you for the last.
And though your sidewalks were not mean,
I’m happy you’ll be in the past.
On to Cambridge! On to Parker!
There my feet are all I need.
But I’ll remember you, my Newton hill,
I’ll remember you indeed.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Kate in Boston: Bravery and Stupidity on the Road or You Have a Horn, Use It
Right after moving to Massachusetts, I wrote a post about my car, pondering whether or not I would keep it were I to stay here permanently. Since I now know I will be here for a while, and have been meeting more people that live all around the area (Brookline, Waltham, Watertown, Cambridge, and even Northampton), I’ve decided to keep it for now. I’m moving to Cambridge right after Thanksgiving (more details to follow) and the parking situation is ideal – just $8.00/year for an on-street parking permit. But since I’ve been driving a lot more and must prepare to continue this feat, I thought I’d enlighten my readers on the wonders of Boston traffic.
I always wondered why Brian would get so angry driving in Saginaw. He’d yell, curse, and complain to no end about the sporadic stopping and slowing down by the (mostly elderly) drivers there. I knew he grew up watching his father drive in Boston and then learned to drive in Atlanta, but didn’t really understand his latent frustration until I began driving here myself.
The first thing I noticed was that cars rarely ever stop. Even while sitting in traffic, they inch up, bit by bit, until the line starts moving again. And no one waits to be let into a line; they just go, and if you don’t want a crumpled bumper, you have no choice but to let them in. Being a nice little Midwesterner who not only waits politely for my turn, I also expected to be thanked when I “let” someone in front of me. Not so – not only did I get honked at if I didn’t edge my way in front of moving traffic, I’ve never gotten so much as a nod from thankful motorists that edge their way in front of me.
Secondly, I learned to honk liberally. I could be driving a neon-pink hummer with flashing LED lights all over it, but I would still be virtually invisible if I didn’t lay on the horn. And unlike in the Midwest, where a horn could mean anything from, “Hey Bob” to “F You,” here it just means one thing: “Move.” Someone doesn’t go the split second a light turns green? Move! Someone cuts you off? Move! Someone is driving the speed limit (how dare them)? MOVE! I’ve even been honked at for not going at a red light because the other light was already yellow. “You’re not willing to risk the life and limbs of you and the poor undergrad trying to cross the street? HONK!”
Finally, a word on parking: Every day I thank Mike and the god of fortuitous used-car sales that I have a VW Beetle. This is an old city with narrow streets and even more narrow-minded parkers. Give me a springy steering wheel, keen senses, and a bag of quarters, and my Bug and I can park anywhere.
And as for my Bug, I’m pretty sure I heard it breathe a sigh of relief when I decided not to sell it. Because as challenging as driving is here, we both tend to have a lot of fun.
I always wondered why Brian would get so angry driving in Saginaw. He’d yell, curse, and complain to no end about the sporadic stopping and slowing down by the (mostly elderly) drivers there. I knew he grew up watching his father drive in Boston and then learned to drive in Atlanta, but didn’t really understand his latent frustration until I began driving here myself.
The first thing I noticed was that cars rarely ever stop. Even while sitting in traffic, they inch up, bit by bit, until the line starts moving again. And no one waits to be let into a line; they just go, and if you don’t want a crumpled bumper, you have no choice but to let them in. Being a nice little Midwesterner who not only waits politely for my turn, I also expected to be thanked when I “let” someone in front of me. Not so – not only did I get honked at if I didn’t edge my way in front of moving traffic, I’ve never gotten so much as a nod from thankful motorists that edge their way in front of me.
Secondly, I learned to honk liberally. I could be driving a neon-pink hummer with flashing LED lights all over it, but I would still be virtually invisible if I didn’t lay on the horn. And unlike in the Midwest, where a horn could mean anything from, “Hey Bob” to “F You,” here it just means one thing: “Move.” Someone doesn’t go the split second a light turns green? Move! Someone cuts you off? Move! Someone is driving the speed limit (how dare them)? MOVE! I’ve even been honked at for not going at a red light because the other light was already yellow. “You’re not willing to risk the life and limbs of you and the poor undergrad trying to cross the street? HONK!”
Finally, a word on parking: Every day I thank Mike and the god of fortuitous used-car sales that I have a VW Beetle. This is an old city with narrow streets and even more narrow-minded parkers. Give me a springy steering wheel, keen senses, and a bag of quarters, and my Bug and I can park anywhere.
And as for my Bug, I’m pretty sure I heard it breathe a sigh of relief when I decided not to sell it. Because as challenging as driving is here, we both tend to have a lot of fun.
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