If you were here yesterday, then you know what you’re in for today. If you weren’t here yesterday, then you don’t. It doesn’t really matter, though, as today is likely to be something unpleasant either way.
(If you feel some sort of masochistic need to catch up, then it’s my Christian duty to be your sadist. Go HERE and feel the pain.)
OK. The reason today is likely to be full of misery is because I’m going to publish scads of hideous photos. The subject matter isn’t the problem. I’m not going to show you dismembered bodies or anything like that. It’s just that I’m easily the world’s worst photographer. Don’t believe me? You will soon enough.
Meanwhile, it seems that many of you found the writing about MY WIFE's bra fitting to be the highlight of part one. I won't argue with that. My thinking about how it was accomplished was pretty much the highlight of the entire staycation, so why shouldn't it have been the highlight of the writing? So, in order to make your visit here less than a total waste, I'll explain how I truly, honestly thought such things were done.
MY WIFE went into a fitting room with a decent-looking female sales clerk. The sales clerk took a measuring tape with her. My assumption was that, in order to find the correct size, the sales clerk would have to heft MY WIFE's boobs up, from behind, and sort of wrap the measuring tape around them. Yes, I'm a dope. I really thought that was how it was done. Later on, as I discussed this with MY WIFE, she disabused me of that notion.
I then conjectured that perhaps there were a series of measuring-cup-sort-of-thingies, and the person doing the fitting tries to shove the other person's boobs into the cup that appears to be the closest size, moving on to a larger cup if they hang out the side or something. This was almost as good a picture for my diseased mind to play around with, but it turns out I was wrong again.
It seems that a woman is measured under her boobs, at the thinnest point of her chest, and then measured again around the thickest part, which I assume is nipple-plentiful. Each additional inch is more-or-less a cup size. I think I have that right. If I don't, I'm sure one of you will set me straight. It's still a pleasant thought, but not quite as wood-inducing as the others were.
Enough about boobs. We once again join the staycation. We begin on...
SATURDAY – This promised to be a fun day. The fun would come from attending an open practice for the World Champion Boston Celtics.
As with the World Champion Boston Red Sox, you once again have to understand that this championship team, the Celtics, didn’t play any teams from outside of North America while winning their championship. They are, nevertheless, the best basketball team on the planet. In all probability, most of you can more easily understand this than you did concerning the baseball team. Basketball is enough of a global sport so that even the most optimistic of folks from other areas on the earth know that American basketball teams would trounce the living piss out of their squads.
(I know. That sounds so horribly jingoistic that even I cringed as I was writing it. It’s the truth, though, and we all know it. Sorry! Feel free to tell me something similar concerning rugby or cricket, with your country being the overbearing asshole, and I won’t argue a whit.)
(By the way, as I was writing that, I was watching an ad on TV for Christmas shopping at K-Mart. October fucking 21st. I’ll use that to justify my paternalistic and wholly self-satisfied crowing concerning American [and, more specifically] Boston sports teams. If you want to put me in a happier mood, and perhaps make me amenable to arguments concerning how your crummy, slow, short, sallow-skinned, smelly, and entirely unattractive basketball players could possibly measure up to THE BOSTON CELTICS, then perhaps you’d consider writing a Thanksgiving Comes First post wherein you tell K-Mart that you hope all of their stores explode and the debris lands on their personal residences, which burn to the ground, and then they are plagued with crickets infesting their livers or something like that? I’d appreciate it greatly.)
OK, I’m a bit better now. Where were we? Oh, yes! Fun! Vacation! Celtics!
I am now going to publish the photos. If you’ve been surfing the ‘net without your glasses on, and you think it will help the photos to look better if you put them on now? You are wrong. The photos suck. You'll probably be better served by taking off your glasses, if you're wearing any. Here they are, anyway. You've been warned.
Despite the preceding evidence, the Tsongas Arena is a nice place, totally non-blurry and well-lit. The Celtics themselves look as much better in-person, as compared to the photos, as thoroughbred stallions would be when compared to a bunch of three-legged mangy mules. Or K-Mart executives.
It really was a decent fun time. Our friends, Dan and Mandy Nelson, have season tickets to the Celtics. We are something like minority shareholders in their tickets, having bought a few from them last year and another bunch for this upcoming season. When they found out that they couldn’t attend this practice, which was open to season ticket holders, they asked us if we’d like to go in their stead. Well, sure! The Celtics are far and away my favorite sports team, and MY WIFE shared the joy with me when they won it all last year.
Not much of an exciting nature to share about the actual practice, I’m afraid. It was a lot of running up and down the court, lay-up drills, some interesting defensive sets practiced, and a chance to cheer the team in a relaxed atmosphere.
(The reason the Nelsons couldn’t make it was because their daughter, Maggie, was having her birthday party on that date. We therefore bought a small present for Maggie to thank her – some drawing pencils and fun paper – and MY WIFE wrapped the gift in the paper in which we got our hot dog s that day. That sounds totally horrible, but it was pretty paper, it did NOT smell like hot dogs, and we knew that Dan and Mandy would likely get a kick out of knowing where it had come from. Happy Birthday, Maggie!)
After the practice, we planned on going to a container store, supposedly located in The Burlington Mall. I say "supposedly" because it wasn’t. MY WIFE had heard some local yokel DJ on the radio, talking about this store, and he placed it in Burlington at the mall, but nuh-uh. And The Burlington Mall stinks.
Oh, the mall isn’t any worse than any other mall. But going there on a Saturday at 4pm was easily one of the worst decisions of this entire staycation. We had a bit of fun, of course. This is because we like each other and we can find fun in most places. But it was as crowded as any mall I’ve ever been to and we had to park about a half-mile from the entrance. In addition, leaving the mall and getting onto the highway afterwards was a challenge similar to leaving a game at Gillette Stadium, home of the Three-Time World Champion New England Patriots.
(That was entirely gratuitous. I don’t care.)
After the mall, we went out to eat at a family-owned Italian restaurant in Waltham, The Chateau. It’s a nice place, good food, relatively inexpensive, friendly staff, plenty of parking, and if you live around here, you should go. If you don’t live around here, your basketball team sucks.
(I’m not being very nice today. I really am sorry. Go stuff some really old Roquefort cheese in a K-Mart executive’s heating system and I’ll feel better.)
This really was a good day. My favorite college football team, The Boston College Eagles, won. They are now 5 and 1, and in good shape to challenge for (yes) a championship. In addition, our good day once again matched up with a good day for the (ahem) World Champion Boston Red Sox. They won, 4 – 2, forcing a deciding game seven on...
SUNDAY – After all of the horribly un-Christian things I've written above, my personal recommendation in this next part will not be doing The Reverend Peter Gomes any favors. He is the minister at Memorial Chapel in Harvard Yard. We attended Sunday services there and he preached. He was magnificent.
Honestly. I’m a Christian and he was fantastic. I know I’ve been something of a rotter through most of this, but if I’m sincere about any one thing here, it’s that Rev. Gomes is probably the finest preacher I’ve ever heard deliver a sermon. He is funny, incisive, sharp, funny, deep, funny, and completely not unfunny. He’s not just a comedian, but he had me laughing more during a sermon than anyone ever has before. That, in and of itself, would be worth reporting, I guess, but the fact that he delivers theology that sticks, while also making you happy, makes him outstandingly special.
Here is a link to learn more about him. If you’re from this area, and you have the opportunity to see him preach at Harvard someday, please do yourself a favor and take advantage of that opportunity. If you’re not from this area, your basketball team was denigrated in a similarly-constructed joke several paragraphs ago, so I won’t belabor the point here.
Well, that’s most of the staycation. The only thing remaining is to report the sad demise of the World Champion (but only for about ten days more) Boston Red Sox. They lost game seven to the Tampa Bay Rays, 3 – 1. They fought hard, but the Rays deserved the win. Congratulations to them. As we faced a return to work, the Sox lost the deciding game. This was somehow very fitting. Here is how our fate and that of the Sox intersected during the staycation:
Day Of Staycation Red Sox Fate Our Fate
Friday Sox Win, 2 - 0 Vacation begins
Saturday Sox Lose, 9 - 8 Wrong barber
in extra innings Priscilla ill
Sunday Priscilla died
Monday Sox Lose, 9 - 1 Breakfast with
Tuesday Sox Lose, 13 - 4 Wake
Thursday Sox Win miraculous
comeback game, 8 - 7,
after trailing, 7 - 0. We go to mall, argue,
burgers, then make up
and have a nice and
Friday Good breakfast,
Saturday Sox Win (forcing game
seven) 4 - 2. Fun Celtics practice!
Good day overall!
Sunday Sox Lose, 3 - 1, and
lose series to Tampa,
4 games to 3. We go back to work
It may seem a somewhat callous thing, to compare the relative unimportance of a sporting event outcome with the death of a loved one, but Priscilla was a lifelong Red Sox fan. Believe me, she would have totally understood this and appreciated the parallels.
Soon, with more better stuff.