Now I Hope They Will Stop Cursing at Us

Last year, Peter and I went to Boston, a city we adore. Some of my favorite places are in Boston - I love walking on Newbury Street, The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the Esplanade, The Elephant Walk restaurant, I could go on and on for days.

However, the one thing I hate about Boston is that ridiculous way Bostonians act about the stupid Red Sox.

Peter ALWAYS wears a Yankee hat in the summertime, and someone in every freaking place we walk into has to make the, "Nice hat," comment - as in "Nice hat, you stupid Yankee fan, now I'm going to spit into your soup."

Once we were sitting on a bench at the Museum of Fine Arts and an old guy was mumbling something under his breath. We were sitting there for about five whole minutes before I realized that the guy was saying, "Fucking Yankees...mumble mumble mumble...Yankees."

It's so ridiculous. And the funny thing is that Peter actually likes the Red Sox.

Now that they've won another World Series, I hope that they'll start feeling a bit better about New Yorkers when we visit.

Fabulous Fun

Last week, Peter and I took a ride on the Circle Line. It was a great day, 83 degrees in October!

When we first sat down, Peter turned to me and said, "Wait, this is going all around Manhattan? I've SEEN ALL THIS."

Immediately, a shower of grumpness rained down on me.

Luckily, this only lasted until the boat started to move and we both moved to the bow. The wind was blowing and we were THIS CLOSE to the Statue of Liberty. A ridiculous technicolor rainbow appeared right above Miss Liberty. And then the animated birds came out...

An hour later, Peter called the boat ride, "Fabulous Fun."

I am the Fabulous Fun to his Grumpy Grumperson.

Jake Gyllenhaal = Sam The Eagle

Don't Mess With Our Food

About once a week Peter and I get into a fight about food. Usually someone ate something that had been sitting innocently in the refrigerator for a few days without either one of us thinking that it was a potential time bomb of arguments and pouting.

Today, it was Ben and Jerry's Pistachio Pistachio ice cream.

I had been at Trader Joe's eyeing the ice cream aisle, but since we had a pint of Pistachio Pistachio ice cream in the freezer, I decided to pass and was looking forward to having some of the ice cream we ALREADY HAD IN THE HOUSE instead of buying more ice cream.

Of course, I get home and Peter takes the carton to his office. That's fine, because I saw how much was in there, and I figured I would have some later. A few minutes later, he plops on the chair and says, "Whew! I can't believe I finished it."

"Finished WHAT?" I asked.

When he told me he finished the ice cream, I was SO ANGRY. Which didn't even make sense to Peter because, you know what? I DON'T LIKE PISTACHIOS.

Peter pointed this out to me, but that made me EVEN ANGRIER. I felt that he should have asked me whether I wanted something I had never shown interest in before - at least before he finished it. Is that TOO MUCH to ask?

Why Do We Keep Doing This to Ourselves?

When my sister Judy was little, she used to beg me for peppermint candies I used to keep in my bag. I never really understood this, because she ALWAYS spit them out and said: "I don't LIKE this!"

And of course, I would get annoyed because, you know, one more wasted peppermint candy.

Once, she said: "I don't LIKE this again!"

That pretty much sums up how Peter and I feel about Food in Westchester. I don't know why we keep trying new places. I read an article in the local weekly paper about a restaurant called Lyla's.

We wanted to give it a chance, since the article declared it the best thing EVER.

Suffice it to say, it was terrible. My sandwich was NOT GOOD. How can you mess up a sandwich? Peter's food wasn't very good either. Not only was the food not good, but the place was empty and the counter boy decides he's got to Windex the next table WHILE WE ARE EATING. This ALWAYS pisses me off. I mean, does your mother spray Windex at you while you are eating dinner at home, counter boy? What is WRONG with you?

When we got back in the car, Peter turns to me and says: "Why do we keep doing this?"

And I said: "What? Oh, you mean, why do we keep bashing our heads against the wall, look at another wall, and decide to do the same thing?

Hey, That Would Be Great On a Blog

For the first time in about a year, I had dinner with my friend, Marisol. I thought she was an ex-friend until this exact week, because ever since we moved to Mt. Kisco, she has literally dropped off the face of this earth.

Every time I call her or email her, I get these excuses, like:

"I had to oversee the TimeWarner merger and flew to Dulles, here is the Associated Press article telling you all about it."

"My father had stents put into his heart, so I had to go to California for two weeks."

"The car got crushed by a garbage truck, so I'm having it fixed."

"My nephew had knee surgery and I have to go take care of him."

Forwarding me an article from the Associated Press? I mean, come on. Why don't you just tell me you don't want to be friends anymore?

Anyway, she finally did call me, and we had a really nice dinner. Halfway through the meal, I tell her that I've made a concerted effort to enjoy my time in Northern Westchester, and will no longer complain about the fact that it is not Park Slope, Brooklyn.

"After all," I said. "I want to enjoy the time we're living there, and really explore the positive things."

"That's good," she said. "It's like a blog, 'My Year in Mount Kisco.'"

For a second I almost stopped breathing, because I haven't told her about my blog - in fact, I've only told one friend and my sister about it. I guess I want to see if I can actually keep this up. I don't want to tell someone about my blog and it's only three entries long. That's happened with some of my other friends, and it's difficult to take them seriously after that.

I checked myself and tried to remember if I actually did have a conversation about this blog, but I know I hadn't. So my conclusion?

This must be a great blog idea!

It's a Wonder I'm Still Here

I went home last week to visit my grandmother. She's my mother's mother, the kind woman who left her native homeland half a world away to come take care of me when I was eight-years-old. She was sent here because of a conversation I had with my dad while I was at my babysitter's house.

Dad: Where's Alba?

Me: She went with her son to walk the dog.

Dad: She left you all alone? With your one-year-old sister?

Me: She does this all the time.

Dad: Take Judy and go get her. Tell her I want to talk to her.

Me: I can't.

Dad: What do you mean, you can't?

Me: I can't open the door from the inside, she locked it from the outside.

To his credit, my father remained calm, but later that night, he tore Alba a new one. What if there had been a fire? Do you know HOW DANGEROUS THAT IS?

We never went back.

It was kind of strange, because I used to see Alba's son at the playground all the time, and he would pretend that he didn't know who I was. I would say, "Remember? Your mom used to babysit me and we used to play Atari games in your living room."

He always shook his head and said, "That was someone else. I don't know you."

It really used to mess me up, to a point where I thought, "Maybe I DID make it all up!"

Anyway, when I saw my grandmother, she told me a funny story about me when I was about seven months old.

"I put you on the bed, surrounded you with a comforter, and told you not to climb over it. I made gestures, I hit my head with my hand to show you what would happen if you did, and you nodded at me. And you were so good! You understood and didn't climb over. When my sister came to visit, she said, 'I don't think that's a safe place for her.' And I told her not to worry, because you were so smart!"