Monday, March 12, 2012
This past Friday, I met up with a fellow blogger. The problem with writing about such a thing is that the person you meet might write about it, too. With my penchant for exaggeration, this means that how we individually recount the events of the evening might come out wholly at odds. If, after reading what she might have to say about it, you then come away with suspicions concerning my veracity, I’ll say in my defense that you ought to know by now that I can’t be trusted, so it’s your own damn fault.
The blogger in question is not a small green citrus fruit, but she pretends she is for the sake of anonymity. Her real name, much like that of MY WIFE, will be withheld in an obviously fruitless attempt at protecting the innocent, of which there are none in this instance. She is sometimes known as The Queen of Memes when she is not describing herself as The Exalted Empress of the Universe (and if I haven’t gotten that title exactly as it should be, I hope she’ll just graciously correct it instead of pointing her finger at me and zapping me into a pile of smoking ashes.)
She is otherwise known as… Lime.
When she told me that she’d be making a pilgrimage to my neck of the woods, I was thrilled. The last time we had met (which was our initial meeting) she had gifted me with a pair of socks. I’ve worn them ever since. That was about three years ago. I was hoping she’d bring me another pair, as the originals have become somewhat moldy.
In case you’re seriously gullible, I’ll let you know that’s a joke. Ha-Ha. The socks were, in fact, tie-dyed by her. In honor of her return visit, I decided to don them despite the fact it would mean a serious fashion faux pas if I wore my usual top hat and tails for our dinner together, so I dressed down in chinos. I did wear my monocle, but I don’t think she noticed. Of course, where I was wearing it probably precluded that possibility.
Lest I give you the idea that Lime had made the trip north strictly to see me, I’ll let you know that she was actually visiting her cousin (whose name I would reveal, but she’s a nice person who lives relatively nearby, so I don’t want to trouble her with visits from the FBI, Homeland Security, Vinny “Red Clam Sauce” Marinella, or any of my other close associates.) Her cousin was either unable or unwilling to join us, and that was a shame. She’s almost as much of a hoot as Lime. Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll see her again someday, perhaps on-stage at The Golden Banana.
(That’s a cheap joke, and likely far too local to do most of you any good. I just threw it in on the offhand chance that Lisa from Brookline is actually reading this. Hi, Lisa! Since I’ve now given away your name and location, expect a visit from the Boston Police bunko squad. Tell them I’m in Buenos Aires. I’ll make it worth your while.)
Since I had to work during the day on Friday, Lime decided to busy herself in the hours before our meeting with a visit to The Museum Of Fine Arts.
(That’s what we locals call it when we don’t want someone to know we’re going to The Golden Banana. I’m surprised she picked up on that so quickly, being from out of town.)
(In the following paragraph, which concerns our subway system, there is a perfectly wonderful opportunity for me to have made some sort of joke using the word “vagrants”. I refrained, however, and I want credit for sparing you. That’s why I’m telling you now.)
Since Lime doesn’t know all the vagaries of The “T”, which is Boston’s public transportation system, I endeavored to help her get to the “museum” in the easiest possible way. I sent her the following extremely easy instructions, via e-mail:
Get off at Fenway (which is the last above-ground stop, so if you're in a tunnel you've missed it.) Exit the station on ground level (don't take the stairs) through the very big parking lot (which will be readily visible) and head for Boylston Street (I can't necessarily give you the best way to tell which one is Boylston, other than to say walk along to the end of the storefronts and then don't go left and it's Boylston (pronounded "BOIL-stn", by the way.) If confused, ask someone friendly-looking. Walk up to the first big intersection, which is Kilmarnock Street (Kill-MAR-nick) and take a right. Go all the way to the end, which is an athletic field I played on with The Flames softball team (ta-da!) and go all the way across the field (heading for the left field side of the far diamond) which will bring you to a small patch of woods and a friendly little bridge which crosses what some folks laughingly call a stream. It's just a thirty yard walk in the woods then and when you come out of the woods, there's the museum! You'll be at the back of it, though, so walk around to the right for the front or side entrance.
To my amazement, she actually made it there. Not only that, she backtracked to the station afterward. Since I wasn’t entirely sure she’d still be alive, imagine my amazement when she called me at work and told me she was at the train station near my office! I told her I’d be right over to pick her up.
We had a fair amount of time to kill before picking up MY WIFE downtown, so I took Lime back to Marketing Messages and introduced her to a couple of folks. I showed her my office, and a few other boring things, and then we got back in the car and drove to Watertown where MY WIFE and I live.
I’m not quite sure why I took her there. I knew I wasn’t going to invite her inside because the place was a mess. But I took a photo of her standing by our front door, so I’ll show you that for no discernible reason.
I told Lime I was going to tie her up and put her in the basement while I went and picked up MY WIFE, but she thought I was joking. It’s no fun being a homicidal pervert if your victim laughs at you, so I skipped it and we drove downtown. On the way, I regaled her with all sorts of questionable trivia concerning Boston. I told her about Beacon Hill having once been covered with whorehouses, but now there’s only one, the place with the big golden dome on top.
(The 19th century whores cost less, the clientele were more satisfied after the transaction, and if you wanted a smoke once business was done, it wasn’t illegal to light up in their chambers. Otherwise, we like the system now.)
After picking up MY WIFE, we drove back to La Casa De Pedro in Watertown. It’s a very nice Venezuelan restaurant. We often eat there before going to the theater located next door. Once we were seated, we all ordered mojitos (which loosened things up considerably, as you might imagine) and we laughed pretty much continually from that point on.
I asked Lime about her trip to the museum. She liked it. I told her my favorite part of the collection was the Roman sculpture because there’s one bust that’s a dead ringer for Curly from The Three Stooges.
(That’s true. It doesn’t have a nose – for some reason, folks seem to have gotten a thrill from hammering off the noses of statues back in the day – but otherwise it’s an uncanny resemblance. I just pretend he lost his schnozz when Moe whacked him with a crowbar or something,)
I then asked her if she saw the sculpture, by the side entrance, which looks like a big pile of dicks. She laughed, said she was sorry she missed that one, and then theorized that it might go well with some of Georgia O’Keefe’s stuff.
(The sculpture may not be there anymore. I don’t know how you could miss it. Honestly, the first time I saw it? I felt utterly small and inadequate. The thing resembles nothing more than fifteen or twenty giant bronze schlongs all tangled together and aiming off in different directions. The artist gave it some title other than “Big Pile Of Dicks”, but almost everybody who sees it knows what he was thinking.)
We had some wonderful food and shared funny stories. Lime is one of the most convivial fools it has ever been my pleasure to break bread with. We didn’t mean to break it, and we offered to pay for it, but…
(Wait a minute. I think I made that same joke when writing concerning the first time we met and had a meal. If you’re dissatisfied and want your money back, see me outside after the blog.)
MY WIFE regaled us with stories of ill treatment by her family when she was younger, including wonderful games played by her brother and sisters, such as “Mean Hairdresser” (that one consisted of rolling up a brush in the hair and then yanking hard) and “Beat Up Day”, which, to be fair, was shared equally by all four of the children. Each of the siblings had one day when they could be beaten, unmercifully and without retaliation, by the other three. MY WIFE’s older sister, being the eldest, chose Leap Day. Her other sister’s beat up day was Labor Day, while her brother’s beat up day was Saint Patrick’s. MY WIFE’s was Sunday.
(I’m never quite sure how much of MY WIFE’s stories to believe. In addition, it just occurs to me that I should probably be worried what she says about ME when I’m not around.)
We were having such a good time, we forgot to take any photos. Just so you don’t get too bored, here’s one of what happened the last time Lime visited us and she ordered a glass of water with extra lemon.
After dinner, and while waiting for coffee and dessert to arrive, MY WIFE pulled some lottery scratch tickets from her purse. They were of a type called “Cashwords”, which basically… well, first it would help it you had one to look at for reference.
MY WIFE and I like to buy these lottery tickets because they at least give you a few minutes of entertainment before you lose your money. See the section marked “Your Letters”? You uncover one letter at a time and then, if you see that letter, you scratch it off in the larger puzzle. If you’re able to uncover three or more complete words, you win. The more words you uncover, the more you win.
Now, of course, you only get 18 letters in the “Your Letters” section, and the 8 letters you don’t get are generally the ones you need. However, it’s still fun because of something we’ve added to the game. When we uncover a letter, we verbalize the sound of that letter each time we find it in the larger puzzle. For instance, if I uncover an “A” and MY WIFE, on her card, uncovers a “T”, I go “Ayyyyyyyy, Ayyyyyyyy, Ayyyyyyyy” while I’m scratching off the puzzle letters, while she goes “Tih, Tih, Tih”, and it’s hard not to laugh because you sound like a couple of idiots.
We’ve bought these scratch tickets for other people occasionally and explained the rules about having to make the sounds as you uncover the letters, but nobody we’ve done it with has ever taken to it so quickly and with such gusto as Lime did. The three of us sat there in the middle of the restaurant going “Oh, Oh, Oh”, “Eee, Eee, Eee”, and “Guh, Guh, Guh”, and the totality of the sound was not unlike that which would have been made by three retarded nymphomaniacs. I’m not sure how this affected the other patrons, but it did us a world of good.
MY WIFE only ordered coffee after dinner, but Lime and I each had a flan. Mine was your standard issue, but hers was chocolate. We decided we’d each like a taste of the other person’s, so we fed each other some. It was somewhat embarrassing acting like a couple of 13-year-olds on a date while MY WIFE was sitting there watching us, but we’re happily married and so is Lime in case her husband is reading this, so, while it was somewhat titillating, it was entirely innocent.
Full of good food (and with MY WIFE having uncovered five words on her scratchie, so we were ahead of the game) we drove Lime back to cousin’s place in Brookline. Once again, it had been a great pleasure to share a day with her. She really does have a delightfully warped sense of humor, so despite my not having been able to tie her up in the basement and ravage her at my leisure, it was still an enjoyable evening. We hope to someday travel down to her area and do stuff. We like to imagine what she could possibly be like in her natural habitat.
Really, Lime – no joke – you’re one of the most pleasant and entertaining people with whom we’ve ever shared a meal. I think this photo, from our first meeting, says it all.
Soon, with more better stuff.