JJB’s Ramblings

Dear Neighbor, 

How are things? Good, good.  Let me ask you something.  Why are you doing laundry at 3:30 in the morning?  What could you possibly have soiled that could not wait until daylight breaks?  Was it an inebriated evening of indiscression that needed immediate cleansing? Did you forget about a job interview in the morning and your lucky pair of underwear was a little ripe?  Imagine my surprise when I woke and heard this odd clanking and thumping.  Initially I thought it might have been someone in my apartement.  I know, that is a terrifying thought isn’t it?  So you can imagine my annoyance when I realized it was the dryer running.  Did you know that it is in the hallway right ourside my apartment and subsequentally my bedroom? Yeah it totally is.  I suppose that there may have been a good excuse (though I am at a loss thinking of one).  However, what there is NOT an excuse for is not checking your pockets before doing a wash.  Seriously, that could be disasterous you know.  Nothing ruins clothes faster than chapstick.  You, however must have got your chapstick but missed the coins in your pocket.  Yeah, that’s what woke me up.  Your loose change was rockin’ and rollin’ around in the dryer.  What did it sound like?  Well, why don’t you go put some coins in your saucepan and shake it vigerously.  Very vigerously.  Now keep that up for an hour.  There, you got it.  Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait an hour.  After about five minutes I couldn’t stand it so I got up and went out and stopped the dryer looking for that offensive piece of change.  I located the culprit (a dime!) and then, being a considerate neighbor, turned the dryer back on.  Sadly, you left more than a dime in your pocket, so I stopped it again and took out a nickel.  Man, if I find a quarter and a penny maybe I can buy a stamp.  I started the dryer one more time and there was still somethin clanking around so I decided that your clothes were done.  They were pretty much dry anyway, so I didn’t restart the dryer.  Going forward though, if you could not do your laundry between the hours of 11pm and 6am, that would be great.  If you decide to make a habit of this though, I must warn you: I am a morning person and will not hesitate to start shaking coins around in a pan outside your door.  Thanks for the change! 

Sincerely,
Justin

As you may or may not know, I was in a bit of fender bender recently.  Actually it was more of a fender total removal.  Because of that I was in a rental for a little over two weeks.  It was a nice, small, efficient Mazda 3.  It served its purpose and helped me around town.  Then, Josh went out of town and was nice enough to lend me his Chrysler 300 as he skipped over the big pond for some tea and crumpets.  The 300 was an imposing vehicle on the road.  It was gigundasaurs, with massive leather seats and a wide frame, I felt even smaller than normal.  Finally, today I went to get my car back. I was psyched. I wanted my little car with the turbo engine.  I liked Josh’s land boat, but was ready to get behind my own wheel again.  Well, fate was not on my side.  As I walked up to the autobody shop, I saw the owner out front with a forelorn look on his face.  He greeted me and then said, “I’ll make a deal with you.”  Now, I was hoping that this deal involved me giving him my credit card and driving away with my vehicle.  Sadly, it didn’t.  Apparently they were waiting for some more bulbs for the car and it was to be delayed a few more hours.  He was pretty disappointed that he couldn’t turn the car over, as he knew I was going to be without another vehicle.  So his deal was that he was going to let me use his car for the day (he insisted that he didn’t need it) and I could swap it out tonight when it will surely be completed.  I thought that was a very generous offer and told his it wasn’t necessary as I could catch the bus, then the T then the commuter rail but he insisted.  I accepted the key from him and he said, it’s over there.  As he nodded over his should to “over there” I realized what I would be cruising in today.  It was an early 2000’s Dodge Minivan.  Yup.  Minivan.  I sighed, said thank you again and went to my chariot, keeping my utter disappointment to myself.  How did I go from a sporty little car to a greater than or equal to 4 year old minivan?  As I left I called E who was walking to work down the street I was driving.  She answered and excitedly asked, “Did you get the car?” No. “What?  What are you driving?” I told her to turn around and look at the passing green minivan.  This is where she burst into laughter and told me to pull over so she could hop in.  Once she stopped laughing she made the valid point that the closer I get to getting our car back, the larger our borrowed vehicles get.  She was right, and to illustrate that point, I made a graphic for you all.

Courtesy of Erin over at Bosblog with my addition at the end 

A few weeks ago I visited my first “community soaking tub” at a spa in Inman Square, Cambridge. [I've only recently recovered enough from this experience to be able to blog about it; though I may still be repressing a few key memories, I will relay the events that took place as best I can.] 

For my birthday, my good friend Hedre got me a 12-pack of passes to the aforementioned community soaking tub. (This was a very cool, very hip gift, the only kind Hedre gives. In fact, Hedre is the coolest, hippest person I know. She’s also the smartest person I know, and if I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her.)

 Apparently, these soaking tubs are “the big thing” in San Francisco and “everybody does it.” Like recycling, or buying organic produce. Some of the San Franciscan soaking tubs are even clothing optional, a fun fact that, when relayed to me by Hedre, I blanched and opened my mouth in a silent scream until she reassured me that the Cambridge soaking tubs were not as progressive as California soaking tubs and do, in fact, require clothing. I breathed a sigh of relief.  

Another good friend of mine, Justin, lives in Inman Square, so I asked if he wanted to do brunch before I was to try out this new-fangled soaking tub. I stumbled over myself trying to explain the benefits of sitting in 104-degree water that I didn’t quite understand myself, but it turned out I needn’t have bothered: Justin is a soaker himself. He agrees to go with me. 

We have a tasty, hugely-portioned brunch at East Coast Grill (always a great idea right before putting on a bikini) and then walk over to the spa. I am nervous. The spa is nice enough, the people are friendly. I am less nervous. They take us to the community soaking tub room, point out the changing rooms and shower, and leave us. I take a deep breath and head into the changing room.  

Let me take this moment to point out one very important thing about community soaking tubs: you can’t choose your community. 

I walk out of the changing room, rinse off in the shower, and ascend the stairs to the tub. This is where things take a turn for the worse…  Already in the tub is a (ahem) large, older woman with really long, flowing gray hair. Flowing gray hair that is waving around her IN THE WATER as she floats on her back in the tub. I cringe, inwardly and outwardly (her eyes are closed, she doesn’t notice), but try to stay positive and stick a toe in the tub. The water is crazy hot, which I use as an excuse to get in slowly. Very, very slowly, in the hopes it will take me the entire 30 minutes of our time to get in past my ankles. Justin, the old pro, gets right in.  I (finally) ease myself into the water, sitting straight-backed against the side of the tub, all my muscles tensed in flight-ready status. I give a half-hearted smile to Justin, who, lounging with his arms outstretched, looking totally relaxed, obviously finds my discomfort hilarious. We try to make small talk. I stare at the clock, counting down the minutes. I do not relax.

The next thing I know, the woman in the tub with us floats her arms out from her sides, angelic-like, to reveal about a decade’s-growth of underarm hair. I start hyperventilating and the rest is a blur.  

Addendum from Me

Oh poor Erin.  Poor poor, full from brunch, hot tub loungin’ Erin.    Actually, her account is pretty much dead on, but I will fill in the blank spots. 

In a fruitless effort to help Erin relax I skirt around a number of topics and end up telling her about how the house hunt is going, and how far eRock and I are with our wedding plans.  Frankly, I would have told her just about anything to make make her relax.  I am pretty sure I could see every single muscle tensing up.  So saying that she resembled this would be an understatement. 

Anyway we had an amiable conversation as this other woman frolicked in her area of the hot tub.  After a while, she looks slightly less uncomfortable and I thought the remaining 20 min would be fine.  Well that was until our hot tubby friend needed a few minutes to cool off so she climed out and sprawled on the short deck.  I think I may have passed out briefly here too.  I came too and decided some cold water would be good for us and offered some up to Erin who took it but couldn’t seem to avert her eyes.  No matter how hard she stared at the clock, time just would NOT move faster and her eyes were drawn back to the giant purple bathing suit.   

With about 10 min left, our new friend became vocal, telling us how she was a psychotherapist and how this was great for relaxing.  I don’t know how good of a therapist she was to not see that Erin was basically in rigor mortis and would stay that way until well after she went home and cleansed herself repeatedly, but she was congenial.  We chatted a bit and finally with about 4 min to spare we called it a day.  Sadly, I had to bolt on outta there and catch a bus (which ended up being a cab) otherwise I would have taken Erin directly to the Irish pub for a pint of the cure. 

Poor Erin.   

I am sure that you all know who Franz Ferdinand is.  No, I don’t mean the Austrian indie-ish rock band of the early 2000’s, but rather the man the band was named after.  Franz Ferdinand was the Austrian royalty until he was murdered, which coincidentally is what triggered world war one.  Why am I telling you this?  Well I wanted to share just how wikipedia works for me.  I am listening to Franz Ferdinand (the band, not the man) and I got to thinking that they got their name from the man whose assasination started the First World War.  So I look it up to glean more knowledge about Franz Ferdinand (the man, not the band) only to find an even more intriguing bit of information, his full name: 

Franz Ferdinand Karl Giuermo Anikò Strezpek Belschwitz Mòric Pinche Bálint Szilveszter Gömpi Maurice Bzoch János Frajkor Ludwig van Haverbeke Josef von Habsburg-Lothringen. 

So the next time you want to complain to your parents about the name they chose for you (unless you are ok with the name and really have a problem with how it is ordered) I suggest you think of Mr. Franz Ferdinand Karl Giuermo Anikò Strezpek Belschwitz Mòric Pinche Bálint Szilveszter Gömpi Maurice Bzoch János Frajkor Ludwig van Haverbeke Josef von Habsburg-Lothringen and be thankful that your name doesn’t have accent agout’s, accent grav’s, hypens and even the penultimat umlaut.

Recently, Roo and I ventured north of the border. No, I am not talking about Salisbury Ma, but rather the Canadian border. Why? Well, we figured that it was time to go back to America Jr. We made a fateful trip to the great white north a number of years ago on spring break. Actual conversation (not actual conversation):

Man, it’s march. Let’s go somewhere. 
Cancun?
No.
Back home?
No.
Canada?
CANADA!

We got up there and found 16 inches of snow. It was great. So we decided to give Canadia another shot as it has been five years or so and I think they knew we were coming.   We hit the road at the upper crack of dawn and made great time, arriving in Canada by 1130ish. On the way up, Roo told me about this restaurant, St. Hubert.  The reason he wanted to try it? His co-worker apparently told them that you could get chicken nuggets in a Lego-style chicken. Awesome. So, after checking in to the hotel, Roo asked the friendly desk folk where the nearest St. Hubert’s was. There was a pregnant pause where they looked at each other and then started laughing. “You want to go to St. Oobear? (typed with the French accent). Roo says, “Uh, yeah. A friend told me we should check it out.” “Oooh, no no no. Zare are ‘undreds of top restaurants in Mon’real, and you want to go to ST. OOOBEAR?” exclaimed our surprised check-ins. Roo, only slightly thrown off said, “But they have the Lego chicken things!” “Uh, yea, I sink that thoze are on zee keedz menu.” Roo, undaunted (though slightly flushed) said “But it is a LEGO chicken.”. Trying to make us understand, they said, “Eet is like us coming down  to Boston and asking where the nearest Friendly’s was.” Roo, done with this, says “Friendly’s is Good! Whatever. Where is it? Do you want anything?” So we left after being taunted by the desk staff in search of the closest St. Hubert. After about 20 min we finally found it. It was NOT a Friendly’s. It was even higher class than a Friday’s. It was nice, and respectable. Actually, I didn’t care if it was a dump, all I really wanted was poutine. Let me tell you, I was not disappointed. Perfect fries, tasty gravy and massive hunks of cheese curds . Spectacular. After stuffing our gobs with rotisserie chicken and poutine, we decided to walk it off. About 15 min later, we found ourselves in Montreal’s Chinatown, which was a lot of fun. About one block in we both stopped in our tracks, looked at each other and asked “What is that beautiful smell?!” Turns out it was the Chinese pastry shop which Roo was quickly dispatched too. He got us a sweet bun with cheese and almonds. I devoured it. Open mouth, stuff with pastry and repeat until it’s gone.

 We walked around Old Montreal and enjoyed all the sites including a Grill your own Sausage station complete with total stranger ok with you taking his photo, a Canadian tradition and spaceships, I mean old Olympic stadiums. In addition to that we got to brush up on our high school French, which really meant that anyone that spoke to us in French, we looked at and said “uh, Sorry, uh… parlez-vouz Anglais?” We were rock stars. On our way out of the country (after a nice breakfast, freezing our asses at the top of Mount Real and dropping some hard earned cash at the casino) we hit the road. On our way out, we decided that being good
US citizens we would declare our purchases.

Actual conversation (really, actual conversation):

Border Guard: Have you anything to declare?
Me: Yes. One Canada snow globe and a butter knife.
Border Guard: Globe and butter knife?
Me: Yes.
Border Guard: Purpose of visit?
Me: Pleasure. Clearly…. 

Bottom line? Go Canada.