The Week That Was: Recounting, Recuperating and Rebounding

Last week was a tough one to be a Bostonian. (If you're wondering in what respect, every authentic "Bostonian" is a sports fan by nature, or is at least generally aware of the current hoopla surrounding our professional teams.)

For starters, before I delve into the other tragedies, the Bruins severed a painstaking loss to Chicago in Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals. This distinctly reminded me how I felt back in January, when the Patriots surrendered their season to the Baltimore Ravens (and that chump Ray Lewis) in the AFC Championship game. Which reminded me of just how many damned times I'd felt this way before, prompting me to revisit the intro of a college essay I penned after watching the Pats lose to the Giants in the Super Bowl.

History in Boston often eerily repeats itself...

Dear Taylor "Sweetheart" Swift: We're Through With You!

Note: I am aware that this letter could never be as visceral or candid as your “Dear John” lyrics, but it will have to suffice as my “we’re- breaking-up” exposé.

Dear Taylor Swift,

Oh, what a perfect, beautiful American name. Paired with those royal blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and whitish blonde locks, your waif-like figure evokes imagery of our own flag. But if you think we're all foolish enough to let you sing our national anthem, you’re mistaken.

Part Two: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Being 17 (Again)

In January’s “part-one” post, I whined about my inability to weather, ungrudgingly, the droning New England winter and lackluster early-spring months that follow.

I then promised a “part two” post in which I’d divvy out some tips on how to make the best of this in-between time. And, although I've spent the last month trying in vain to unearth these seemingly impossible methods, I've got, well, nothing.

Time to Improvise

Coincidentally, I Snapchatted
this picture of Lena. 

I’ll spare you from elaborating on any of the, ahem, “exciting” activities I've tried to bide my time with, such as forcibly acquiring a new taste for aged scotch, sending out massive amounts of mindless “Snapchats,” or watching episodes of HBO’s GIRLS and feeling better about myself because I am NOT Lena Dunham.

What I will share is an uplifting story about the highlight of my January/February: a snowboarding trip up to Vermont with three teenage, I’m talking 16 and 17 year-old, boys.

Part One: The Waiting is the Hardest Part

"If patience is the key, it justifies apathy."

I've never been any good at waiting. I pace eagerly around airport terminals, weave aggressively around slow drivers, and flash a well-refined "evil eye" at those Dunkin Donut's craftsmen in charge of toasting my bagel: hurry up. 

This ineptitude is both a blessing and a curse.

A Time to Give Thanks For...

• Endings. A bit morbid, but really, good riddance to that horrifically obnoxious presidential election and painfully pitiful Red Sox season.
• Beginnings. Winter, or more specifically, time to shred snow. 
• Revivals. Arrested Development. YES. Rife with anticipation.

• Baxter. His nose, paws, fur, freckles, soul, general existence, and fervor for life (plus all things edible).

Confessions of a Has-Been Trick-or-Treater

Then

Is this a sick joke? My parents left me alone at our house on Halloween.

Now

Okay, so since I spent the weekend in NYC partying my pre-hurricane, “lioness” tail off, I decided I would stay in on this Wednesday "Halloween" evening.

Admittedly, I’ve been suffering from deathly, flu-like symptoms, so I figured I’d be responsible and rest up for the weekend’s festivities.

Anyways, I left work early and told my parents, who commute back to the ‘burbs from their jobs in Boston each night, that I would manage the “trick-or-treat” duties until they arrived home. Mind you, this is the first time I’ve been at my actual home in my childhood neighborhood for Halloween since like, middle school.

Eyes on the Road, Hands Up on the Wheel

"Yeah, we're goin' to the Roadhouse, gonna have a real, good time.." 

The other night I was driving home and started speeding. I started speeding, turned up the music, and pressed my foot to the pedal even harder. I took a sharp turn onto Granite, a windy, narrow, hilly street that weaves through the suburban back roads of my hometown.

But god, do I know that street like the back of my hand. It’s one of two roads I can choose from to access my neighborhood of 23 years.