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Phoenix_Frozen
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Country: United States
State: New York
Gender: Female
Interests: living, wishing I was on the other side of the world
Occupation: Student
Industry: Medical
Message: message me
Member Since:
9/13/2003
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| I never really knew the meaning of rif-raf until now. Thanks again Boston. | | |
| Sam Adams - how my life has changed.No, this is not about Sam Adams the man. I'm sure he did something courageous back in the day, but I never was interested in American history. On the contrary, I am interested in Sam Adams the beer - the only beer, by the way, that this germanic American can say she actually likes.
Yes, I have finally come into my german cultural inheritance. I now like beer - but only Sam Adams.
In the begining, my parents occasionally had a beer, and as a teenager I was allowed to try a few sips of this-that-or the other. However, that never went well. It looked funny. It smelled funny, and if I gave it a sip, it tasted bitter and nasty. I remember one summer day when my Coca Cola was sitting next to my dad's dark beer. Of course the beverages look alike, so when I took a swig of what should've been a sweet drink and was left with the bitter bite of dark beer, I immediately spit it out onto my plate.
And so it went, for the next few years I would try a beer every now and then, but always found them disgusting until now. Now, by sheer accident whle having oyster soup in Fanueli square with mom I decided to do the Bostonian thing and tried the Sam Adams ale on tap,-seasonal summer ale... and it didn't disgust me. Kaloo-Kalay. In fact, it had the bubbles of coke with less teeth rotting sugar sensation, and a carby base to hold the flavor, without any of the skunky bitterness I had experienced before. So I found myself, shockingly, enjoying my dinner with beer.
So, long story short, I have now tried the summer ale, and cherry wheat, liking both. I went to the brewery in Boston (while I'm here, I might as well) and tried a blackberry wheat bear which had surprizingly good flavor and would probably go well with a fantasy novel-inspired meal of bread, cheese, dried fruit and meat. I intend to try more, and I encourage my brother to do so too- because if I like it, it must be better than average beer.
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| Boston The intense heat and humidity of June has subsided, yet my over-priced dorm-room-like apartment still refuses entry to the fresh breezes that knock at my window from time to time. Though the trees leaves may play wildly in it, I am not allowed the pleasure of feeling even the slightest gust of wind. Instead my apartment offers me a stale unmoving heat to go with my spectacular view: the beautiful city lights of Boston above, with the homeless rambling below.
With every charming puzzle piece of Boston that I add to my mental understanding of this place, I add an unappealing match to it. For example, any kind of food can be found here, if, of course, you have two hours to waste commuting by car, subway, train, or any number of combinations to get there. Then you pay out the whazzoo for something not as good as you surmized from the pricetag. The cobblestone themed sidewalks remind me of olden-times, and though beautiful, they devilishly reach out to grab my high heals and trip me. The daily obligatory walk to a from work may slim your waistline or your pockets. I am constantly solicited at every corner by panhandlers who throw insults at will if you don't meet their gaze. I take special offense to that part; the insulting, panhandling "homeless" who wear perfectly ironed white shorts.... and obviously aren't homeless. They make a business of exploiting every passerby's good intentions and courtesy, which irks me to no end. And when I refuse to look at them and pay them, my response is a dirty look or insult as if I were a heartless, stone-cold bitch.
.. but I am one in this city. Boston challenges me with obstacles that require me to become a cold-hearted person. More and more, I find myself walking down the street angry, angry at the city and because of the city. I actively avoid the people here who are part of it all willingly, who look at me when I walk down the street just when I don't want them too. Too many people. ...maybe I hate all cities and need suburbs... maybe it's just this city, where the unappealing puzzle pieces are over-running the charming ones.... or perhaps I just love home.
Home. Home is where I can drive anywhere in 15 minutes. Home is the temperature I expect at the time of year I expect, with the amount of clouds I expect, and the amount of traffic and people I expect.. and so on until all of my fullfilled expectations mound up into one generally comfortable state of familiarity. I don't have to think about how to succede at everyday living. I know all of that already. My home shaped me as much as my DNA could have, and now it provides me an onobtrusive platform from which I can think about what I will do in this familiar, everyday life.
...
I want to go home.
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| Parents: Still weird about the boyfriend... still going on and on in circles about him being x or y or z when they haven't met him yet. Mom has an active imagination. Dad is listening, but I'm sure his opinion is only based on hers. she is transferring her doubts and insecurities onto me, as though my personality equals hers and I will inherit her mistakes. ...It's the first time I've really ever been mad at mom, but I figure it had to happen sometime and this is a fairly good reason. for now, the status quo = ignore the situation, avoid any conversation about it. I am NOT interested in hearing idle fears with no basis in reality, and I am not capable of explaining my emotions/thoughts/feelings so perfectly and succinctly that my mother will understand me without misinterpreting my meaning.
I believe she has already formed her opinion, based on her own imaginary version of my boyfriend, and that this will be hard to break through.
Friends: Like the boyfriend, tell me that it's a mother's job to worry especially when there is no sense to it.
Most importantly in this situation, Me: keeping the boyfriend, thank you very much... being patient.
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| Told the parents about the new boyfriend. I was kinda nervous but surprisingly it went well. ... although because he's japanese mom had to mention that "maybe he just wants to get his green card." Thanks mom. (He's in america now, not japan.)
Still, one brother will like him because he flies helicopters and makes killer sushi, and the other will like him because he appreciates good wine.
Whereas mom will like him the minute she sees how I am with him; natural, happy, and feeling like I hit the jackpot. Honestly, it's too impossible that we even met, so I'm feeling like a bolt of lucky lightning hit me in my sleep when I wasn't looking.
Of course mom wasn't dumb; she knew it was coming. I've been building up to telling her for a while, and she doesn't miss cues when it comes to me. | | |
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