Offensive Driving

Most of the jobs I have held as an adult have required me to drive: I worked in Home Health in the mid-80's, driving into all of Boston's neighborhoods, the projects in Lynn and Charlestown, into Chelsea and Malden and Revere and Medford.  In my first sales job, I covered all six New England states, plus upstate NY and, oh, eastern Canada, including the Maritimes.  Although I did fly on occasion, I spent untold hours on Interstate 90 driving from Boston to Buffalo, and often a little side trip to Toronto.  I have driven in Quebec in snowstorms and I have driven to Presque-Isle, Maine.  Other jobs have had me driving rental cars all over Texas (DFW to Lubbock during a thunderstorm that grounded the plane); in Pittsburgh (where they stop at yield signs and call the shoulder of the road a 'berm' and frown on drivers who pass left-turning cars by using the berm); in Atlanta (where there are not highways, but instead 10 lanes of cars in a parking lot and where there is general panic if something happens, like, say, rain).  I have covered New York City as a territory, where each borough has its own driving style, each a bit more manic that the other.  I would be remiss if I left off my hometown of Philadelphia, where the main thoroughfare into the city from the west is the truly death-defying roadway lovingly renamed the Sure-kill Distressway.

This background and experience makes me, of course, an expert in, not only driving, but also in critiquing the driving habits of everyone else everywhere.  So in this season of interminable gridlock, allow me to offer a few observations.

• Massachusetts recently embarked on a Public Service Announcement campaign by placing LED signs along highways admonishing drivers to "Use Yah Blinkah" (translation: use the directional signal when changing lanes.)  If I had a nickel for every time I have had that thought and even said it aloud to fellow motorists, with a few colorful adjectives added, I probably wouldn't be sitting here blogging about it because I would be in my home in the South of France.
• Yielding.  This is a dichotomous topic, because there are the people who WILL NOT YIELD when there is a lane closure (probably because half the people wanting to merge into the lane will not USE A BLINKAH and they get mad and just tailgate the car in front not letting ANYONE in).  Then there are the people, who possibly grew up in Pittsburgh, who STOP at YIELD signs, a practice which makes me yell things with many colorful adjectives.
• Jake-braking.  Why?  Why would you do that?  You are all hacked off because you perceive that I did something that was offensive to you.  Like driving in a lane of traffic trying to get somewhere.  So, you maneuver ahead of me and then slam on your brakes.  Because if that caused me to hit you, or, more likely, the guy behind me to hit me, then that would be really cool and that would SHOW me.  Really?  Think this one through.
• The opposite of jake-breaking, which is tailgating.  If I am in the left lane and you want to go way faster than I am going because you CAN, I can only merge to the right when there are NO CARS OR TRUCKS IN THE WAY.  I cannot just imagine my car safely to the right so that you can pass me; I actually need to move my car into the lane.  And, BTW, I am probably doing 80 if the speed limit is 65, so you might consider your rate of travel and cost of the speeding ticket.
• Side view mirrors are on cars and trucks for your use when changing lanes or parking in a tight spot or even just STAYING in a lane.  Consider using them.
• Parking lots have designated spaces with LINES and the idea is to put your car or your astoundingly oversized SUV in between TWO  of the lines and parallel to the lines.  If you can't use your side view mirrors to navigate the SUV between two lines, perhaps you should consider downsizing.
• Rear view mirrors are for seeing things behind you, not for make-up application or just gazing at your handsome mug, nor are they for storing your rosary beads and tassel from high school graduation ten years ago.  Consider using the rear view mirror when backing up, so that you don't hit things like other cars or dogs or short, middle-aged, hobbling women.

I am certain that there are more constructive ideas for fellow motorists.  What are yours?

Apropos

Many thanks to Michele for sending this apropos photo along.  Yes, I do.

Weekends stink

Really.  Here's why:
The weekends used to be fun, restful, and quiet.  They would begin on Fridays, typically at a pub or a club or a bar or a restaurant or a party, always with friends.  Saturdays would feature laundry and a little house cleaning; exercise of some sort; trips to the beach; shopping for things other than food; maybe dinner out.  I would hit the 8AM service at the Church of the Advent on Sunday mornings, because of the quiet, meditative service with no music and few parishioners.  For the 15 years (but who's counting) of our courtship, DH and I would ride our bikes along the Charles into Boston nearly every Sunday.  We would buy a NY Times (an actual paper version) and ride with it to the Esplanade and we would sit there and drink iced tea and read the entire paper and then ride back to Watertown (me) and Newton (he) and catch up later for take-out and football or movies on TV.

So what happened?  Matrimony and home ownership and, of course, the kids.

I don't blame matrimony, because, up until the part with the kids, very little changed in our weekend routine.  Home ownership, though, has been one of the most overrated rites in which I've willingly participated.  Why can't I just call the landlord anymore?  Life was significantly easier when I wasn't the one who was responsible for the leaves in the yard and the grass and the crumbling steps and cracked driveway and damp basement and perennial garden and trees (I am responsible for the trees! In my yard!) and the garage that may someday just fall off of the rest of the house and the snow removal and the planting of the bulbs.  So there went Saturdays.

And then there are the kids.  And I don't blame them, because when they were small, there wasn't much that was expected.  A few birthday parties; walks to the park; a play date here or there.  But the kids got bigger.  And the Law is, apparently, that Down Time is a Great Sin.

When I was a kid, back in the Dark Ages, we spent Saturday mornings watching TV.  Unsupervised, unstopped, largely ignored.  TV was the babysitter.  When we got bored with the TV, we went outside and played with the other kids.  Again, unsupervised and largely ignored.  I remember dance lessons when I was very little, and Girl Scouts, which took place after school.  Organized sports didn't begin until 7th grade.  Until then, we just played.  We played hide and seek, and Barbies, and with blocks (building houses for the Barbies), and stickball, and kickball.  We rode bikes.  We read books.  We went to Sunday School and then we went home and played.  Sometimes, someone would take us to a playground or park, but usually we were expected to entertain ourselves.  That was it.  I truly do not remember any parental involvement in all of this unless we got in trouble for sneaking through the back yard of the mean old lady who lived behind our house or when I fell and broke my arm.

Today, there are all sorts of child-related things that take precedent over everything else.  My two boys are slackers in our neighborhood because they typically do only 1 or maybe 2 sports per season.  My friends who have girls spend inordinate amounts of time shuttling from dance to gymnastics to basketball to Brownies.  Some friends have kids, boys and girls, who play ice hockey, which is the largest parental sacrifice of all.  There is soccer (and travel soccer), basketball, lacrosse, baseball (and summer baseball, and City League Baseball, and Fall Ball), Karate, Pop Warner football, flag football, and skills clinics for all of them.  There are music lessons and music recitals and dance recitals and children's theater and Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and CCD and Hebrew school.  There isn't enough time on Saturdays to fit all of this in, so it spills over into Sundays.

AND, parents are expected to BE THERE for ALL of it, often including practices.  Frankly, when I saw my then-five-year old play rookie baseball once, that was all I need to see, thank you very much.  So, I started volunteering at the Little League Shack and friends would come over to tell me about the spectacular play my son had made in Center Field.  If a kid in Rookie Little League actually gets a piece of glove on the ball, that's a spectacular play.  I think that, when I am ensconced in my nursing home rocking chair, I will have enough memories of my cute little boys catching or throwing or hitting a ball to fill my time.

So, if this is the expectation in grade school, what happens next?  When am I able to miss a game?  The answer right now is: if the other kid has a game in a different city at the same time.  Parents: how have we allowed this to happen?

I want my weekends back.

Proof

This.  Decline and Fall, People.
With thanks -- I think -- to friend Lakay.

Finished

I am standing near a reception area.
I am at a table in a restaurant.
I am standing near a counter that has a cash register on it and I am holding items from the store.
I am standing in a building and am looking studiously at a directory or map.

In all of the above scenes, a person who is employed in the business of the place approaches me and says, "All set?"  or, the more formal, "Are you all set?"

The next time this happens, which will probably be today, I will again try to refrain from shouting, "What does that EVEN MEAN?!"

Because I am NOT "all set."  That is what happens to pudding or concrete or a perm or even Jello.  It also happens to opinions and can be used to describe someone's ways.

I may be finished with my meal, or I may have completed my shopping, or I may be lost (which is often the case), or I may be waiting to speak with a receptionist.  I am most decidedly NOT "all set."

I can't remember the first time I heard the phrase, so I can't tell if it's a New England thing that spread like Dutch Elm disease up and down the coast or if it is something invasive that entered the lexicon of familiarity as language has evolved and eroded to the point that it is somehow acceptable for people in positions of power to say "that sucks" or "what the…?" leaving off the eff at the end.

The reason that "all set" is different is this: in the scenarios where the term is most frequently used, I am a customer.  That is, I am paying for a service or products, whether it's a pedicure, a meal at a restaurant, a doctor's appointment, a department store, or the Ocean State Job Lot (and, actually, I would forgive anyone who works at the Ocean State Job Lot for using "all set.")  And "all set" has become so pervasive that it is used at places where I am spending a lot of money and expect some professionalism and deference and, even, respect.

Whatever happened to "May I help you?" or "May I clear your plate?" or "Are you ready to check out?"  "All set" is just another chink in the armor of Western Civilization, which is surely falling.  Or maybe I'm just getting old.

Love Hate Relationships

I'm involved in a few love-hate relationships with various entities.  One of the longest of these is my relationship with Whole Foods.  I've been shopping there since the Boston-area stores were called Bread & Circus, owned by the Harnett family.  I've remained relatively loyal, even while friends scoff at me for shopping at 'Whole Paycheck'.  What I love about our relationship:

• The stores are beautiful
• Foods labeled 'natural' or 'organic' aren't off into some tiny, dusty corner and priced 10x what they cost at WF; they are everywhere
• The bread sold there doesn't have high fructose corn syrup in it
• In fact, there is nothing with HFCS anywhere in the store
• I love playing in the 'health and beauty' aisle and putting lots of different lotions and potions on my hands and then smelling really good for the rest of the day
• The Salad and Hot Food bars for lunch on the road (Dedham, Providence, Brighton)
• My purchases aren't shoved into 87 plastic bags each containing one item like they are at other grocery stores
• There is unsweetened almond milk
• The availability of bulk items: so much cheaper for things like rice, spices, dried pasta, nuts, dates, etc, etc.

What's to hate?  Plenty:

• THE PRODUCE IS ALL FROM CALIFORNIA! Sure, they have one or two tables with local apples or corn or something, but almost all of it is from California.  Or Chile.  Or Mexico.  I'm all for organic, but if it came 5000 miles on a truck, I'm fear for the carbon footprint of that transaction
• In many cases (looking at you, Fresh Pond), my fellow shoppers.  Gah!  Are you that important and in that much of a hurry that you need to be so rude? Spare me the heavy sighs when my kids commandeer the cart and go running down the produce aisle to look at the fish
• The displays: why does WF insist on putting enormous, precariously balanced stacks of organic crackers made by real elves in Denmark in the MIDDLE of the aisle? Can I tell you how many of these displays I have destroyed with the shopping cart, especially when the kids were young and insisted on having the cart shaped like the rocket ship?  No, I cannot
• The stigma that I am somehow 'too good' to just get Artie T's back and go to Market Basket.  I am not 'too good', but I have to say that a typical grocery store sends me into deep fear that all of America will soon have Type 2 Diabetes and be morbidly obese.  I am paralyzed by the choices of, say, bread, or, even worse, cereal, to the point that I just turn around and leave.  Which may be some sort of actual thing, like Grocery Store Paralysis Syndrome.

So, I compromise by buying as little as possible at WF.  The bulk of our produce comes from a CSA right down the street: Waltham Fields http://www.communityfarms.org.  Yes, it means that I am cooking or prepping food to freeze for several hours most Sundays, but it's worth it.  I also use Farmers to You, which is a partnership with Vermont farms.  They deliver weekly to Waltham Fields. I get apples, apple cider, bread, whole chickens, and cheese from them, as well as tofu and maple syrup.  I work full time and don't have time to deal with running elsewhere, however, when I do, I am very fortunate to live near both Wilson Farm and Russo's, where I get eggs that do not cost $123.00 and produce that is not from California and is not turnips or kohlrabi (which I am still not sure what to do with).  I occasionally go to Trader Joe's, however, I usually find that after I go there, I still need to go to WF, so it has not helped me at all.

I have similar relationships with J. Crew and the New York Times.  And probably others.  So maybe what I have is Love-Hate Relationship Disorder.

A Raving Review of The Cottage, a place that tries so hard to be a restaurant

The Cottage, in Wellesley, under chef Peter Hansen, has been serving the good people of Swellesley and Swishton for a few years. The chain-let got its start in California, which may be why it describes its cuisine as 'California'. I would describe it as 'overreaching fusion'. Happily for the would-be Social X-rays of MetroWest and the men who serve them, another outlet has opened in the staggeringly pompously-named Chestnut Hill strip mall now known at The Street. (Next to The Mall. Get it?) The Social X-rays of Snewton and Brookline shouldn't have to go too far west on Route 9. I mean, really. Anyhoo, I digress.

Pulling up to The Cottage (which is near the Roche Bros. grocery store, very close to where there was, at one time, a Laundromat that I frequented when I lived in Swellesley), I thought that perhaps my Darling Husband had decided to go furniture shopping, which would have been OK, except that I was starving. It was 7:00PM on a Monday night because that was the earliest available reservation. Hm. Don't these people cook in their gourmet kitchens? The Pottery Barn decor was pervasive. I will say that The Cottage excels at cleanliness: a crumb, stain, or smear wouldn't last a minute there among the white walls, high white ceilings, circular chandeliers, granite-topped tables, and beige-ish upholstery. The Cottage wants to do its 'California-cuisine' on 'Cape Cod', so this is an interior designer's Cape Cod Wet Dream, with glass containers full of blue and green sea glass set on shelves along the wall. My oldest son immediately thought that the hardwood floors and high ceilings would be a great place to install a basketball court and I agree.

We were made to wait for a booth that was being cleaned. On a Monday night, the bar was nearly empty, all the better for us to watch a little football. We were not offered drinks while we waited, nor were we offered a place to sit. I asked the host (because he was NOT a maitre d') how long The Cottage had been ensconced in Swellesley. He said about 3 years, not counting the 6 months that it was closed after a woman drove right through the big glass windows destroying the host stand and some of the bar. She may or may not have been trying to pick up her furniture order. When our booth was ready, we were guided there by the host who took us directly past the door to the kitchen, which must be a big pain-in-the-arse for the servers to contend with. We didn't see any server-staff-patron collisions, but there are collisions in the making.

Our two children were handed cheesy paper menus with cheesy crayons. Very 99. The Kids' Menu was so very predictable that it may actually have come from The 99. The oversized adult menu (food on front and drinks on the back) was organized into sections: appetizers, salads, ranch, farm, ocean, and handhelds. Handhelds? We cannot call them sandwiches, or burgers, or bread stuffies? We must call them 'Handhelds'? And the salads: are they not from the Farm? So confusing. I am digressing again.

The waiter came and took our drink order and disappeared, reappearing to take our dinner order and ask solicitously about allergies after we had placed our order. "No sir, you may not have the shrimp if you are allergic to shrimp because our shrimp contains shrimp, which may cause an allergic reaction," I imagined. The waiter did not offer to read to us the specials, which he did at the tables around us. Sigh.

I had read that the eggplant fries were TDF, and so I ordered a basket as an appetizer. They were excellent: a tempura-like breading and served with what I am guessing was mayo with Old Bay and some chives, which was mighty tasty.

Our dinner came, all at once, which was impressive since younger son had a grilled cheese handheld with fries (white bread and fries served in an adorable little basket), older son had the sliders, which apparently are just 'sliders' and not 'handheld sliders' (cute little cheeseburgers and fries in the same little metal basket), DH got the Mahi Mahi Tacos, and I ordered the Crispy Duck Duo, which sounded like a Batman spoof and wasn't.

The tacos were lovely, although I have to say that, if you're doing Cape Cod on the Pacific, you may want to substitute a fish that is indigenous to North Atlantic waters in your tacos, instead of a fish that flew here from Hawaii. Possibly in first class. As for the duck, there was a confit leg and a breast on cabbage as printed in the menu. Neither was crispy, although the leg was quite good. The breast was poorly trimmed of its fat and was sort of sliced through and plopped on the plate on a bed of red cabbage that hadn't been braised as much as soaked in red wine vinegar. Quack.

The waiter did pop back now and again to ask if we needed drinks or had other allergies that we hadn't chosen to disclose to him. When we agreed that we were "All set" with our dinner plates (and I will definitely go off into another digression bordering on a manifesto if I get into the phrase "All set" so I will stop here), he cleared the plates and dropped the check. Boom. I guess that he's right: if I eat the eggplant fries, I am not deserving of dessert, no matter how many miles I power-walked.

So, The Cottage is a lovely furniture store masquerading as a restaurant. I do think that the menu would benefit from a Tower of Dessert and that the addition of a Water Slide would make things much more lively. We'll never know how World Class the Mac and Cheese is since the youngest cried all the way home because he didn't get dessert and has vowed never to go back.

Going Nowhere Fast

It's about the traffic.  Really.

The Boston Metropolitan area has this wonderful season called 'Summer', which is when all of the college students from the ten thousand local colleges go home and lucky locals go to vacation homes on the Cape, camps in Maine, or houses in the White Mountains.  Many weeks during late July and early August it can seem that more people are away than those of us who stayed.  Metro Boston follows an academic calendar more than any other place I've ever lived or worked; many people really do take the summer 'off.'

When I'm not having a fit of jealousy because I don't get the summer 'off', I allow my mind to wander and I think "This would be a perfect time to do road work, because no one is actually here."  And many, many municipalities and MassDOT do take advantage of the decreased population, so that summer is also known as 'Road Work Season.'

There are exceptions, and these are a cause of ire for the commuting public in and around.  For example, why would Boston wait to do work on the Fenway ramp off of Storrow Drive until all of Boston University is back in session?  Happily, the Red Sox chose not to repeat a World Series run this year, because that would have just been the cherry on top.  The whole Fenway mess is a complete mystery to me: there is a baseball stadium, several colleges, and five MAJOR hospitals (including Children's Hospital Boston and Brigham and Women's and Dana Farber Cancer Institute) in this area, so the traffic issues are NO JOKE.

Another example is the lovely town of Belmont, which has been systematically ripping up its existing water pipes and installing new ones, making a commute that includes Trapelo Road, Route 60, or Belmont Street feel like driving through a town after a major earthquake.

And then there's my own town of Waltham.  Sigh.  The good students at Bentley University got their section of Beaver Street repaved this summer.  A stone's throw from there, near the intersection of Waverley Oaks Road, where the commuter rail passes through, there has been a crumbled mass of concrete that once held a wooden pedestrian bridge above Beaver Brook.  It's been a crumbled mess since we bought our house in 2002.  Apparently, the City Engineer was unaware that it was a crumbled mess and, rather than continuing the repaving of Beaver Street so that residents can also enjoy the smooth road that the Bentley students got, he is now in charge of fixing a crumbled roadway that happens to be crumbling onto natural gas lines.  The gas lines are currently being supported by tree roots.  The railroad tracks also go over this very weakened section of roadway and, to the best of my knowledge, commuter trains are heavy.

So here's what Waltham is doing: after initially banning heavy trucks from using Beaver Street (which is something that I would like to see all the time), the heavy trucks are allowed back but only in ONE DIRECTION (and I am not talking about the Boy Band.)  So, the roadway is safe enough for heavy trucks and trains as long as the trucks are only going WEST.  Brilliant.

The DPW has done a great job of putting up clear detour signs and communicating the restriction, so thanks for that.  It's the City Engineer who must never, ever come anywhere near Beaver Street, since he was unaware of the problem.  Or maybe he drives with his eyes closed.  I'm not sure.

The City is addressing the issue of the lane closure by stationing Waltham Police officers at the site twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week.  I am so very glad that our officers are getting so many opportunities for overtime, however, why did the City wait until it was a crisis?

Oh, and the gas lines: there is now a fire truck stationed in the American Legion parking lot, near the crumbled concrete, wooden footbridge to nowhere, gas lines, tree roots, and train tracks.  Because if we're having an EMERGENCY, let's have EVERYONE on deck.

This fiasco is taking place about 100 yards from a residential district (to paraphrase, I can see those train tracks from my front yard!)  It's also adjacent to an office park and across the street from a Shell gas station.  More than 500 kids go to school at an elementary school that is behind the office park.  Bentley is right down the road.  Did I mention the commuter rail? So what's at risk when the big heavy truck heading westbound is the straw that breaks the natural gas line?  A lot, that's what.

The Raving Review

There are book reviews, restaurant reviews, fashion reviews.  There is the Princeton Review and there was the Paris Review.  The Raving Review is different, since there is no editorial staff and I am not actually trained in any of the things that I plan to offer for review.  It's all for fun and for me to let off a little of the steam that I seem to have in abundance.  For the record, I identify as an optimist.

Let's start with a restaurant review, shall we?