Loyal Sons

As a born and bred New England girl, there are some elements of my person that aren't very surprising. When I'm under stress (read: exhausted or inebriated), my speech pattern resembles that of Amy Adams in The Fighter. I suffer the famous "Irish Whisper" (also known as, "sometimes I yell when I talk"), a gift that I blame on competing with my four younger siblings to get our parents' attention (She who screams loudest gets answer -- ancient Irish proverb). In high school, I smoothed my very wavy hair with an actual iron so it would lie flat against my head (still have the scars), and the amount of F-bombs I can drop in a single sentence could stun even a well-seasoned sailor (I try to restrain myself on the ol' blog for my readers' sakes).

We New Englanders take a lot of pride in our Pro sports teams. I could name the starting lineup for the Red Sox beginning at the ripe old age of five. I don't really care about basketball, but I know most of the rules and the major players for the Celtics and once, in the fourth grade, I forever sacrificed my pinky finger's range of mobility in an effort to show the boys that yes, girls can TOO play (and thus ended my illustrious basketball career). I followed the Bruins BEFORE they made their run for the Stanley Cup, and in a region where college hockey might as well be pro, I went to a university that lives, breathes and bleeds Hockey East glory (NCAA titles, on the other hand....not so much. GO WILDCATS!).

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As for the Patriots? The vaunted, love-em-or-hate-em, did-they-or-didn't-they? enigma that is the New England Patriots? I love them, too, and spend every Sunday next to Andrew in jeans and a Brady jersey, cheering and screaming and sometimes swearing louder than he does (see above). Our neighbors probably hate us, but tough shit -- if you want to fit in 'round these parts, you learn that In Bill We Trust and how to live the Patriot Way. Or else.

The thing is, while I do love the Pats and lust after our shagadelic quarterback (though the entire world knows that physically, I'd take Matt Cassel), I harbor a dark little secret. One that a lot of my northeastern-bred friends just don't understand.

Because while it's true that I learned to love football growing up, the Pros had nothing to do with it.

My pigskin loyalties were bred with the other kind, the BEST kind, of football:  

COLLEGE football.

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The loyal son of a proud Rutgers alumnus, my Dad grew up in Nawth Jerzey in the same town where The Sopranos was filmed, screaming, "Up stream, Red Team!", eating hoagies and sporting a sweet Donny Osmond haircut. At 18, he packed up his belongings and set out for the only other acceptable football mecca in the northeast, Boston College.

Those were the pre-Flutie years but needless to say, once a hundred whispered Hail Marys were answered and that famous football arched through the sky and landed safely in the endzone, college football exploded in these parts for the first time. The day after I was born, Dad barely made it back because he was busy cheering on his alma mater at the BC-Notre Dame game. I spent my childhood Saturdays eating chicken fingers and real NJ hoagies, screamin' for the Eagles and swearing never to attend no stinkin' Syracuse. In our world, Saturdays were for football; Sundays were for Church.

One of my favorite traditions was the annual BC/Rutgers game, an event that included either a 5-hour pilgrimage to Gramma and Pa's or the invitation to join them at their hotel here in Boston, depending on who had home field advantage. Once a year, my mom, dad, brothers, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and I were all together, sitting in a parking lot, eating a meticulously packed tailgate and laughing over beverages (beer for the grownups; soda for us kids). Though one of my Aunts had followed my Grandpa's footsteps to Rutgers, the BC crowd always had the advantage; I always suspected the reason Dad had so many kids was so that he could create a miniature army swathed in maroon and gold, destined to dominate on GameDay. We stayed until the end, no matter the score, because as Pa would say, "you never desert your team" and you ALWAYS stay to listen to the marching band play "Loyal Sons", regardless of who won.

The man responsible for my refusal to EVER leave before the end!

It was at these games, college games, that I learned the rules of a game that would some day, over a series of Sundays, impress Andrew enough that he asked me to dinner.

Back in those days, Dad had season tickets. He kept them straight up until BC deserted the BigEast and our favorite foes, opting instead to funnel their dollars into the pockets of the ACC. At that point, he gave his tickets up in protest, because he didn't want to watch his team play a bunch of far-away schools with big-name talent. If he didn't have to explain to his kids what the eff a Hokie was (a big orange loser, that's what!), he wanted no part of it. It also didn't help BC's cause that when I received my lifetime-awaited envelope from them eight years ago, it was of the small, thin "We had an impressive pool of applicants..." variety rather than the big, fat, "Welcome to the Class of 2007!" kind.

We He might still be bitter.

Between that, attending a college where hockey games sell out in minutes but football is a forgotten afterthought and dating a man who seriously would have cried if the NFL lockout didn't end in time for the season to start, I've drifted away from my collegiate football roots. Andrew has never been a fan, and "just can't understand the appeal of rooting for a team of a school you didn't even go to", and most of my friends either went to private colleges within a 5-hour drive or attended the same hockey-centric public university that I did. I know that I could watch on my own, but 90% of the fun of college football is sharing it with your fellow fans. Plus, I just don't have the time anymore.

Now, Saturdays are for long runs and errands; Sundays (and Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays) are for football.

My good friend, Katie from Once a Southern Belle, Always a Southern Belle, is a born-and-bred Texan. As such, she is the epitome of all that is right about college football: gameday snacks, cute outfits in coordinating colors with diehard loyalties and friendly rivalries shared amongst family and friends. Her excitement and enthusiasm for last weekend's NCAA kick-off weekend, as well as that of all the other fab Southern-school bloggers she has gotten me hooked on, was palpable.

And on Saturday, as I was scouring the internet for two tickets under $300 for next Sunday's Patriots home opener (an anniversary present for Andrew), my Twitter feed filled at an impressive rate with #GoBigSchool!, rankings and Heisman predictions. The streets of Boston and the T were full of obnoxious Northwestern students and drunken SuperFans stumbling home from BC's home opener. And in the midst of all this, three words crossed my mind.

Color me jealous.

It's the Little Things

Welcome back from your long weekends! (Well... my American and Canadian readers, anyway!)

Andrew and I kicked off our holiday weekend the best way we knew how: by celebrating with a big fat ol' check and a fancy dinner out!

I haven't mentioned it really on the blog, but about a month ago, Andrew had an interview for a new job. He'd been working full-time in shipping and receiving for a high-end retailer for the last eighteen months or so, and between the long hours at the store, the 45-minute commute each way and his full-time school schedule, we barely got to see each other! My poor guy was exhausted all the time, and with the price of gas these days, he was spending a HUGE chunk of each paycheck just to get back-and-forth between his two huge commitments (his school is in his hometown, which is, of course, 35 minutes away in the OTHER direction!). He had no set schedule, other than that he went to school all day Tuesday and Thursday and worked 8-hr shifts the other five days of the week (his shifts could be 7:30-3:30, 9-5, 10-6 or 12-8:30). It was putting a huge strain on us, both financially and emotionally...there were some days where I literally saw him when I woke up and that was it!

Well...HE GOT THE JOB!! It's a little bit less money at the moment, but because he can commute to and from via the T, it's going to end up SAVING us money in the long run. He's also close to the commuter rail, so if there's a car at his parents' house for him to use, he can actually take the train to school rather than drive, which is awesome (and less wear-and-tear on my car, since we're currently a 1-car family!). The best part? He FINALLY has a steady, 9-5 schedule and has weekends off! Honestly, he hasn't had a regular schedule since we met almost three years ago (he was raking in the big bucks at Fenway Park back then, and was at the mercy of the Red Sox and their schedule!). He started his new position last week and we couldn't be happier about it!

Luckily, His former employer let him cash out his earned time, so he ended up with a final paycheck that was double the amount he would normally bring home. We celebrated by going to the Met Bar, which is a pseudo-fancy restaurant that serves gourmet burgers and steak-type dishes. We started off with the Asian-inspired chicken tacos, two Sam Summers, and the bread basket. The tacos were SO good -- crispy little wanton squares with tangy kimchee slaw and saucy chicken. We actually split the last one right down the middle with me taking one of the biggest bites possible. Andrew had the fish and chips, which he deemed, "the best he's ever had" (and trust me -- he's a TOTALY fc snob), and I had the Mexico City burger, which had jalapeno, salsa, chipotle and pepper jack. It was pretty good, but for the amount it cost, I would have liked more of the toppings and maybe a sliiightly bigger burger (portion control is for the birds!).

Saturday morning, we headed down to his parents' Cape house for some 4th of July fun. It normally takes us an hour and ten minutes to get there from Boston, but it took 2.5 hours!! I didn't mind, though, since we were rocking out to the radio the whole time. Plus, as soon as we got there, we suited up and met his dad at the dock for some boat fun -- which is my FAVORITE way to spend an 85 degree day. His whole family was there, which is always a recipe for hilarity -- outdoor showers, barbecued ribs, more than a little beer, and hanging out ensued, and Sunday was more of the same... culminating in a loud Patriotic sing-a-long on the back porch at around 11pm with the entire family. I'm sure the neighbors love us.

And now for the real reason for this post: I'm beside myself with excitement -- after MONTHS of seeing all the southern bloggers rave about the whole do-it-yourself-froyo trend, and being insanely jealous, I FINALLY FOUND A DIY FROYO SHOP NEAR OUR APARTMENT!!

Enter: Berry Freeze.

I scarfed it too fast to snap a pic, but I enjoyed a tasty treat of coconut froyo with a teeny sprinkle of crushed oreo, a few mini pretzels, pineapple chunks and sliced banana. It might have been the highlight of my entire weekend.

It's the little things.

Freddie Mercury Would Have Been Proud

I purposely didn't mention that I was going on vacation last week for safety reasons (it's a small island, and it's local, and I have a pretty bad habit of picking up creep-stalkers, you understand). I DID, however, have the intention of blogging while I was away -- but my vacation became a bit of a Hellcation, and I barely had time to breathe, let alone blog. You know how it is. Rather than write one long, glossy-over post about the trials and tribulations of my week, I thought I'd break it up a bit. Starting... now.

I left work on Friday the 17th with big plans to relax, write, read and rest for the next glorious nine days. After, of course, I continued to party like a rock star with one of my besties, Leah, and Andrew as we celebrated the Boston Bruins' domination of the 2011 Stanley Cup.

Weeeee are the Championssss

We braved the massive crowds to partake in the fun. I went to the Red Sox Championship Parade in 2004 back when I was in college, but I missed out on all three of the Patriots, the Sox 2007 and the Celtics parades, so I was excited to get in on the action!

Despite all of these people, a riot did NOT ensue. 

Having gone to a school that had a bit of an issue with rioting after sporting events (if you want a hint as to where, we like iced fish and our unofficial motto was, "Stay Classy, Not U-Massy"), my heart really went out to all of the good people of Vancouver whose names were besmirched by a couple of tactless idiots following the Cup Final. Seriously, people? IT'S HOCKEY. No one should have to worry about being STABBED over a game. Unless, of course, that game is Crazy Eights, in which case, Iwillcutyou.

That being said, I was very impressed with the crowds here in Boston both after the win and during the parade. Yes, there were a lot of hammered people wandering the streets, but they were throwing high-fives instead of molatov cocktails and starting USA chants in-between verses of Queen. On Parade Day, there were over a million people jammed into the equivalent of a 5k course, and I saw nary a fight (though the chest hair was bountiful). Leah and I took this opportunity to enjoy some totally sober ice-cold lemonade:

Hello, creepy man!

As the parade drew near, we were getting pretty amped about seeing some of our favorites. And by we, I mean me and Andrew, because Leah had no idea that hockey wasn't played on a field or in a skirt (I know you're reading, bf, and I love you anyway). Upon seeing the following, she was pretty impressed that the caliber of hotness far exceeded that of our grimy high school hockey team, and was marginally better than the crew found in the brothel known as the Hockey House in our little college town:

Exhibit A: Shawn "My Biceps Are the Size of Your Thighs" Thornton

Exhibit B: Brad "Little Ball of Hate" Marchand

Exhibit C: Marc "Concussed But Still Hot" Savard

As you can see, the hits just kept on coming. It's amazing how they really DON'T all look like clones, once those helmets come off!

It took about 2.5 hours in the blazing hot sun for the parade to finally make its way to us, pass us, and inevitably leave us. By that time, we were parched, starving and had sunscreen literally melting off of our faces, so we followed the massive crowd down Comm Ave to Kenmore, where I indulged in the biggest steak burrito I've ever seen. Boca Grande may not be Chipotle, but it was there, it was air conditioned and, most importantly, it had a place to pee.

So that was good.

We hopped the T back to our place, where Leah bid us adieu and I commenced to cram as many material items as possible into an overnight roly-duffle suitcase and beach bag, much to Andrew's amusement. Let's just say that I won't be posting any "How To Pack For A Six-Day Vacation" guides anytime in the near future.

And with that, we were off!

To Be Continued....

Destitute, Drunk or Just Damn Old?

Someone please reassure me that I'm not the only one who has made a karmic blunder in the past 36 hours.

Yesterday morning, I was sitting next to this old, toothless man on the bus. I was discreetly checking out his linen coat and engaging in one of my favorite public transit pastimes, "Destitute, Drunk, or Just Damn Old?" when suddenly he turned and asked me, "excuse me, Miss, is there a McDonalds for something to eat?"

Now, something you probably don't know about me is that I've been on a mission for the past four years to single-handedly disprove Boston's reputation as the rudest, most unfriendly city in America. You might think I'm kidding, but there is an actual subset of people who get off on perpetuating the Chowdahead sterotype. To put it into perspective for you, a guy who looked like Christian Bale in The Fighter and sounded like Leo in The Departed once tried to score a date with me by informing me that his plans for the evening included, "standing on the Common and giving tourists wrong directions." Say what?! Obviously, that was a bust... and it's also why I never, ever accuse my single friends in this city of being "too picky," because ain't no whacko like a Townie whacko, and this town is full of them (and their polar opposites, the dreaded Yeah, Dudes).  

But I digress.

Anyway, I was pumped for a chance to improve my cosmic lot by trying to help this hungry man out in his quest for a McMuffin. So, with a little bit more enthusiasm than I was going for, I casually squealed, "Sure, there's one at the Galleria!" in his ear. Imagine my surprise when he looked at me like I was scum on the bottom of his shoe, muttered something to himself, and moved away into the next seat over from me! WTF?! Seriously, dude? I was just trying to be helpful, which is no small feat at 7:45am on the dawn of a Stanley Cup Game 7 when my nerves are already a template for hypertension.

I sat there, puzzled, until another cute little admin-type came and squeezed her perfect little Banana-clad tush into the seat between me and Captain Hobo, and I heard him asking her for breakfast recommendations.

Not going to lie; I was mildly offended. What, were my navigational skillz not good enough?! As I sat there, huffily glaring at him and Ms. Perky Pants out of the corner of my eye, the girl shook her perfect mane in his general direction and sneered.

And then I realized that I'm not directionally challenged; I'm just a mildly hard of hearing jackass. Sir Ear Hair asked me for a DOLLAR, not a McDonalds!

For a nanosecond, I almost felt bad enough for getting his hopes up about the possibility of future riches that I contemplated giving him the wrinkly five bucks I had stashed somewhere in the bottom of my purse. And then I remembered his look of disgust and decided he could find his own damn way to get buzzy for the Bs game.

I'm going to hell.

The British are Leaving! The British are Leaving!

In all of the hubbub surrounding that OTHER holiday, what with all the facebook statuses (stati?) popping up at 8am displaying half-downed pints of Guinness and jackasses who wouldn't know a shamrock from a four-leaf clover, I wanted to make sure to wish everyone the best on ANOTHER holiday:

 

Happy Evacuation Day!

I always forget how much I love living in a city that literally just makes up municipal holidays in order to give everyone an opportunity to cut work and day drink. As B drove me to work this morning, I was amazed at how the neighborhood I work in, which is one of the busiest in the city, seemed empty, and joked about how it must be because it's gorgeous out (almost 50!!) and St. Paddy's Day. B then reminded me:

"It's also Evacuation Day!"

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For those of you not from this bastion of Irish pride known as Boston, you're probably wondering what the hell Evacuation Day is and why we can pahk ah cahs* without fear of retribution from the evil, evil Transit Police/Meter Maids/Men. According to Wikipedia: 

March 17 is Evacuation Day, a holiday observed in Suffolk County (which includes the city of Boston) and also by the public schools in Cambridge and Somerville, Massachusetts.The holiday commemorates the evacuation of British forces from the city of Boston following the Siege of Boston, early in the American Revolutionary War. Schools and government offices (including some Massachusetts state government offices located in Suffolk County) are closed. If March 17 falls on a weekend, schools and government offices are closed on the following Monday in observance. It is the same day as Saint Patrick's Day, a coincidence that played a role in the establishment of the holiday.

Basically, 110 years ago, a bunch of old dudes up on Beacon Hill were tired of debating the merit of cobblestone vs. dirt roads and really wanted to go join their peeps celebrating the the wearing o' the green with a pint at the local pub. Rather than using the non-secular St. Patrick's Day as a reason to skip out and go party, they found an obscure historical event that fell on the same day and gave everyone the day off. Want proof? The document signing the holiday into law was signed not only in black, but green ink. 

Other made-up Bostonian holidays:
- Truck Day (in which we go to Fenway Park to celebrate the equipment [not the players] leaving for Ft. Meyers).
- Opening Day (in which we mob the bars outside of Fenway and curse the Yankees, no matter who the Sox are playing)
- Patriots' Day (My personal favorite, in which we line the streets with solo cups in our hands and Franzia in our purse and high-five fit, responsible people as they run 26.2 miles. The ideal places to do so are Heartbreak Hill at Boston College and Kenmore Sq. at the 1 mile to go marker.)

- Bunker Hill Day (in which we yell, "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes!" at one another)

Sadly, last May, the Legislature bowed to public opinion and de-certified both Evacuation Day and Bunker Hill Day, citing concerns about "wasted tax dollars" and "big government excess." Personally, I'd rather pay a little extra in tax to be able to park my car on the street for longer than two hours at a time in a part of town in which I do not reside, but no one seems to take my opinion into account in these matters.

Now that that's out of the way, before I forget:

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

*Sidenote: Despite what my Boston brethren might want you to believe, that accent isn't solely made up for movies like The Fighter, The Town and The Departed... I don't know where those people decrying "we don't sound like that!" hang out, but they've clearly never met anyone from Charlestown, Dorchester or parts of Southie [or Fall River for that matter, but that's another issue]. No one, however, who has ever called this city home would be caught referring to it as "Beantown," unless they wanted to be caught dead.