St. Paddy's Day in South Boston.

St. Patrick's Day

I wouldn’t venture to say that St. Patrick’s Day was a huge deal in my family, but with my mother’s family being Irish, I do remember it being special. St. Patrick’s Day for us was a day to eat good food, get together with family, and reconnect to our Irish roots for a day (even if no self-respecting Irishman would cook corned-beef unless his life depended on it). Since Boston has more Irish than Ireland itself, I was looking forward to an interesting St. Paddy’s Day.

Nan had been planning for a week what we would eat: corned-beef (that my stomach would later regret), cabbage, potatoes, carrots, the typical fare. I brought to the table some homemade Irish soda bread and Joe bought us some beers (Guiness for him, Belgian for Nan, Scottish for me) and we had a feast. It was great.

Since we were planning on attending the annual parade in South Boston the next day, we decided to take it easy. The rest of the day was spent watching movies and playing video games under warm blankets, a nice, relaxing way to spend a holiday that for most people includes liver-busting levels of drinking. Later that evening, we caught up with Freddie, my friend and former intern from Reno who had just flown to Boston to see if it is somewhere he would eventually like to live. We ate more food despite our bursting bellies (that again, my stomach would later regret), then called it an early night.

The next morning we headed out to Southie. The day was absolutely gorgeous, so I decided to travel light (a move I would later regret). By the time we hit the red-line into JFK/UMass, the clouds had rolled into town, the wind had whipped itself into a fit, and the temperature had dropped by 10 degrees. The walk from the train stop to where we eventually ate breakfast wasn’t so bad, but by the time we decided to find a place to watch the parade, Nan and I were ready to die. We severely regretted not bringing a blanket or something to keep us warm. We bounced around in the street trying to keep warm, but nothing really helped. At one point, Nan even announced that her toe had fallen off. A few interesting floats went by (the Metalworkers Union with their guys dressed up like Tin Man, the Star Wars float, the bagpipes, bands, and little celtic dancers), but I think after a while we were just too cold to care. Luckily, Joe’s friend (and our savior) Jen showed up and escorted us back to her place, where she treated us to tea, hot cocoa, Guiness, and snacks. By that point, though, it was too late. I was cold to the bone.

A warm bath and a nap later, I am still trying to shake the cold of today. Stupid New England. You know, it has been like 75 degrees in Reno all week, and I can’t say that I haven’t been jealous. Yes, the cold makes me feel stronger, more hardy, but sometimes it is just a pain in the ass (and toes and fingers and face). I think I’m ready for spring now, guys.

Crazy Rosie, Sweet Miles.

Neurotic Rosie

Cats, by nature, are nocturnal and Miles and Rosie are no exception. I remember when I moved into my small apartment on Taylor St. in Reno waking up frustrated most nights as the kitty monsters chased each other from here to kingdom come, back and forth, back and forth. I remember thinking “they have to get tired SOMETIME,” then laying awake until 5 a.m. when they finally tuckered out and went to bed. Eventually, one gets used to kitty drama, learns to sleep through the noise, adapts. I am beginning to find, though, that since my move, I have to RE-adapt, and I have not been getting much sleep.

My new apartment in Boston is a tiny studio, and I constantly feel bad that the kitties have to stay cooped up in such a small place. Really, I would rather they get to play outside, but their being de-clawed before they came to live with me has pretty much barred them from living normal kitty lives. And so, they must do their normal kitty things in the confines of my extremely tiny apartment. For example, there is a banister that runs the entire lengths of my apartment, and rises from wall to wall to a height of approximately five feet at its maximum, right above my bed. Every night, an event which I can only describe as the “kitty circus” take place, complete with kitty races (up the banister), kitty balancing acts (on my books), and kitty acrobatics (straight off the banister onto my sleeping and therefore totally unsuspecting body). This has not boded well for my sleep habits.

In addition, Rosie has taken to scratching at things—digging in her litterbox, scratching at her food bowl, cleaning up after the wine I spilled on the carpet, etc. Her scratch-antics have gotten annoying, especially when she decides that the perfect time to go completely neurotic in the catbox is 3 a.m. Last night was no different.

I recently purchased a bed frame, which is still sitting in a box in the middle of my floor. One of the boxes has a small hole torn out of the side, and last night Rosie figured she would explore the box.

SCRRRRRAAAAATCH, scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Rosie, stop” I mumbled in a not quite awake voice.

Sweet silence. And then, SCRRRRRAAAAATCH, scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Rosie, please.” (As if she could understand my rationality).

SCRRRRRAAAAATCH, scratch, scratch, scratch

“ROSIE!!!” I yelled as I slammed my hand down on the bed to try to scare her away. Miles, who was asleep at the end of the bed, bolted, but Rosie just kind of looked at me. SCRRRRRAAAAATCH, scratch, scratch, scratch Thoroughly irritated, I got up, still half asleep, and fumbled around, looking for a can of compressed air that I spritz at them whenever I want to deter them from doing something. “That will teach her,” I thought. I had no idea where I put it, though, and since I was half asleep, I only had half a mind to try and figure it out.

As I bumped around my apartment, grumbling to myself and knocking things over, Rosie came over to me and meowed in her softest kitty voice as she rubbed her little body all over my legs. She just wanted some love.

It was then that I awoke and realized what was going on. I was the one that dragged them across country in a tiny cat carrier for a week, I was the one that force them to live in a tiny apartment with nowhere to stretch their legs and their minds, and now I was the one grumbling about them doing their normal kitty things and even trying to punish them for it. Now who is the jerk. It made me horribly sad.

I pet Rosie for a few minutes before I drifted off to sleep again. As I was just hitting that sweet spot of slumber, I heard:

SCRRRRRAAAAATCH, scratch, scratch, scratch

I can’t say that it didn’t annoy me any less, or that I somehow miraculously acquired the ability to sleep through the racket. But, I understood Rosie a little bit more last night (in all her ultimate weirdness), and probably slept better for it.

Nan and I in Beantown.

The Biggest Little City.

Sometimes life surprises me.

Lately I have been feeling like I am on a 24 hour cycle of emotional chaos. One day I feel great, the next, shitty. I knew that it wouldn’t be easy moving like this and so I am prepared, but it still gets to me. Mostly, I have been feeling sad because I am not satisfied with the Aikido training I am getting (or not getting) here, and so this past week, I haven’t really been going very much. The excess of free time and energy makes me realize how alone I feel in this city of over half a million people, especially coming from a place where I couldn’t go out for a cup of coffee or buy groceries without running into someone I know. You know, Reno is as they say, The Biggest Little City in the World (with emphasis on little).

Or so I thought. Today, though, the universe proved to me that the Boston, nay, the world, is small too, and that I have no reason to feel alone.

As has become our Sunday ritual, Joe and I decided to go snoop around for a little bit before meeting Nan (she works on Sundays) for some debauchery. Joe decided that he would meet me at the T-stop nearest my house and we would ride the train into downtown to go book shopping. Since I left just about every book I owned (save my textbooks) in Reno, I welcomed the opportunity.

On the train, Joe and I chatted about our 2^nd (and hopefully final) trip to Ikea Hell, when at the Roxbury stop, a bunch of his students got on the train. If I failed to mention this before, Joe teaches history at a local charter high school, and his students worship him. I would too, if I had a teacher that talked to me like an adult and expected from me the same when I was in high school. I visited his class once and it made me really, really want to teach there. But, I digress. So, Joe and I talked to his students for a few minutes before we had to get off the train. They were going to a Celtics game or something.

As I was walking off the train, I heard a voice behind me call “Erica.” Since I have lived here for only about a month or so, I was expecting to turn around and see one of my co-workers, or one of Joe and Nan’s friends--my people repertoire in Boston is kind of slim. But, as I turned around, I could not immediately pinpoint from where my name had issued, but I had a feeling it was coming from a younger man with a slight beard and a green jacket whom I had noticed while getting on the train. I stared for a second. Who the hell called my name? And then it hit me—this slightly bearded, green jacked person was none other than my friend Craig, whom I hadn’t seen in years. I hesitated—do I get back on the train, or do I just let him go?

“Joe, we have to get back on the train,” I said, tugging his arm.

“No, I’ll get off here,” Craig said, as he gathered up his bag. We both just kind of stared at each other, like neither could believe what was actually happening.

To put this in some perspective, Craig was my summer friend when I was growing up. My parents were good friends with his, and his older brother and sister used to babysit my brother and me during the summer every day while my parents were at work. Since our house was next door to a pool, my brother and I would swim just about every day, and just about every day, Craig would be there too. We would all do crazy dives off the diving board trying to impress each other, and swim for hours on end. I was always sad when the summer ended, for I knew I wouldn’t really get to see Craig during the school year (we went to different schools). Eventually, as we got older, we started going to the pool less and doing older-kid things more, and we would go years without seeing each other. It was always nice to run into Craig, though. The last time I saw him was at his sister’s wedding about 3 or 4 years ago. Eventually, his parents moved to Texas, and last I heard he was trying to get into medical school. I figured I would never see him again.

So, imagine my surprise when he just so happened to be on the same train car, on the same Sunday at the same time in a city 3000 miles away from where we grew up. And, as it turns out, we live in the same neighborhood. And, he is here getting his M.D.-Ph.D, which is sort of similar to what I do. Go on, universe. Make a mockery of me. That will teach ME to feel alone…

As if that wasn’t enough (it is going to take me a couple of weeks to wrap my head around the fact that I live in the same neighborhood as my childhood friend), not twenty minutes later, Joe and I ran into our friends Richard and Jooyoung at a cross walk. So much for being anonymous in Beantown. So, I guess the next time I’m feeling alone, I should just ride the T around for a little bit and run into someone I know. Or maybe I should just call my friends (both old and newly re-acquainted) like a normal person and get over myself.