megfowler.com

It’s been a while, mmm?

Yet again.

For someone who claims to be a “blogger”, this makes about as much sense as someone who plays mini-golf now and then calling themselves a “pro”.

I mean, I guess you could be a pro mini-golfer. And I suppose I could just call myself a “lameass blogger”. But who wants to deal with the trauma of that?

Much has happened since last I wrote here… or at least I think it has, because I honestly can’t remember when the last time was that I wrote here, and I’m too lazy to open up another tab to check.

I mean, that’s REALLY lazy. Not opening another tab. But. I think it’s been a while.

In that time, we found Catherine’s wedding dress (yes, I know she’s already married and whatnot, but she hasn’t had a WEDDING, which — being in all-caps, which denotes importance or yelling on these internets — should tell you that there is much left to plan and experience as yet), we both found new apartments (one for her and Eric, one for just me, because it would be strange if Eric came to live with me) and will vacate our home of three years officially as of May 1st, and I took off for Boston (just until the 20th… I got here on the 10th. OH, GRACIOUS! THE TRIP IS NEARLY HALF DONE! BAH!)

Whew!

Finding the new apartment was a source of some stress for me, since transitioning from living with someone to living by yourself generally means spending more cash. And since my income hasn’t gone up, well… yeah.

BUT!

I found a great place for not TOO much more that fits my needs perfectly and puts me below lovely people, and included a bunch of great stuff, and had the furnishings I needed to be able to sell off MY stuff. After all, the eventual and hopefully-sooner-than-later plan is to move to Boston, and there’s no way I’m hauling everything I own now across a continent.

Or I should say… USED to own.

Because I had a garage sale. Or we did. Catherine and I.

Let me say right now that I AM NOT A GARAGE SALE PERSON.

Not at all.

I don’t generally get a huge kick out of looking at stuff other people used to own unless I’m looking at it in a museum and it’s COOL STUFF other people used to own.

I don’t even really like antiques that much.

That said, there are two ways to get rid of a bunch of stuff you own.

One is a house fire.

The other is a garage sale.

Yes, I accept there may be other ways, but I decided on the latter… and, truth be told, was tempted to start the former a few times during the process.

Sorting stuff to be sold is one thing. Making signs is one thing. Putting up signs is one thing.

But moving all the crud out into the carport? ACK.

By the time the early birds started rolling in to pick through our wares, I had a backache, a headache, and a large welt on my leg in the shape of a singing snowman.

See the before?

(Canoe not ours. Though we considered selling it for a good price.)

Annnnd the after (including Catherine, who is using expressive body language to accurately convey our level of excitement for the process, about two hours in):

I could spend a week just telling you about the weird people that stopped by our little sale — from our next-door neighbours, who bought about 30% of our stuff, low-balling us with each and every purchase, to the crazy lady who asked me for a discount on a teddy bear because she had to search for his other slipper — but they bought a lot, so I can’t really complain.

My lovely former roommate did the best all told, having more “large ticket” items (they’ll be using a lot of Eric’s stuff in their new place), but I did okay, too. And so did the Salvation Army, where we took all our leftovers.

I will be going to my new (semi-temporary) home with a much smaller domestic footprint.

Catherine has actually already moved to her new place as I write this. We parted tearfully on the night before I jetted off to Boston, exchanging penguins to remember one another by (as best friends should.) She will forever be the best roommate I have ever had that I wasn’t related or married to (or both! If this were Arkansas!)

But!

BOSTON!

The town where monuments lurk at the end of every street!

(That’s the Bunker Hill Monument, actually, not far from Gradon’s digs in Charlestown.)

I do love Boston, though it’s crazy windy and I haven’t had a hairstyle live longer than ten minutes yet.

I love…

Being with Gradon
Being with Ethan (Gradon’s son)
All the fun old buildings — which sounds at odds with my dislike of antiques, but I embrace my own irony
All the new places to explore
The exceptional public transit

Oh, wait, I was lying about the last part.

Gradon doesn’t have a car because he’s an uber-green urbanite hipster, which is totally fine with me, since I can’t drive (you’ll know that if you’ve been here for very long, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.)

And while I haven’t had TOO much trouble figuring out the buses and trains (other than ending up at MIT when I intended to go to Whole Foods and taking a jaunt to the suburbs when I intended to go downtown), I have noticed that the whole experience is much more LOUD in Boston.

The trains? Older and louder.

The buses? Older and louder.

The people? WHY ARE YOU SO LOUD, PEOPLE OF BOSTON?!

I have “overheard” so many “private” cell conversations since I got here on Friday that I’ve felt like I’ve had a Whisper 2000 drilled into my brain.

AND… today two women with STROLLERS got into a full on dust-up on a bus otherwise filled with nice, calm commuterish people. A dust-up which culminated in both women getting kicked off the bus, and enough colourful language to make me blush like a tomato.

Keepin’ it classy, ladies!

Someone needs to hold a seminar on using our “inside voices” around here. If I’M the quiet one, all hell has clearly broken loose.

But back to things I love.

Gradon is fantastic. Ethan is fantastic. We had the most fun weekend, which is extra fantastic, considering that kids-of-people-you-date aren’t required to like you (or even be nice to you!) and Ethan does.

Phew.

He is bright, funny, adorable and remarkably relaxed, which makes him the kind of (smallish) person you want to spend time tons of time around.

Which I hope to do.

We went to see Monsters vs. Aliens in 3-D and ate good, wholesome foods like chicken wings and pizza and ice cream and laughed and laughed and laughed.

One of the bonds we already hold is the shared need to make fun of his dad, which includes commentary on his dad’s (not insubstantial) forehead.

Or should we say fivehead?

Heh.

You’ll have one too someday, kid.

It’s been just Gradon and I since the workweek began, however, and I’ve had dinner waiting at home for him two nights in a row!

Steak and garlic mashed potatoes the first night, and roasted chicken and pasta the second. Domesticity is HOT!

That’s enough of that, though.

He’ll be taking me out tonight.

AND he’ll be taking me out this weekend since MY BIRTHDAY IS ON SUNDAY.

Yes, you heard right. I’m getting OLDER.

35, to be exact.

Gah.

I don’t even want to talk about it. Other than to mention that Gradon called me his “old lady” (he’s 32… which doesn’t quite put me in cradle-robbing territory, thankyouverymuch.)

Feel free to beat him when you see him on my behalf.

I think that’s all I’m going to say for now, except to mention that I am still very much in love, that I managed to find the exact kind of Red Sox shirt my dad requested (which is saying something), that I could totally live here and WILL live here (what’s that? You have a job you want to give me in Boston? Oh, OK!), that I do feel kind of like I am getting old (I need a spa day or a belt sander or something for my face) and that I am coughing like someone in a TB ward yet again (which was inevitable, since I went on vacation to relax and renew and other stuff totally unrelated to frickin’ coughing.)

Life goes on (parenthetically, even.)

Sometimes in Boston.

Love to all.