It Didn't Go Well

From: Midge
Sent: Thursday, June 09, 2011 9:54 AM
To: TGG
Subject: Scuttlebut

Dear Friend,

You were sorely missed last night at Ducali's. However, a rumor is going around that you might in fact be bad luck to watch the games with. How this started, I do not know. I think it's just vicious scuttlebut though.

Xoxo,
Mrs. Stanley Cup

******

From: TGG
Sent: Thursday, June 09, 2011 10:26 AM
To: Midge
Subject: Re: Scuttlebut

First and foremost, I’d like to congratulate you on your marriage to Mr. Stanley Cup. Though some might find it old fashioned to not only take your husband’s name, but to refer to yourself with his first name, I respect your adherence to tradition.
Secondly, I regret to inform you that there may be some truth to the accusations. That I may be a bad luck charm (also known as a “Gooch”) for the Bruins may be the terrible truth. The evidence is overwhelming.

Game 1: I watch most of the game with my boyfriend. This has more to do with being near said boyfriend to poke at him and bother him while he watches sports. Also it’s a good chance to give myself a long-awaited pedicure without missing precious moments of real entertainment, like a historical documentary. Bruins lose.

Game 2: I watch a good chunk of the game at a bar in Natick named for a fat, stupid baseball player, so revered by the locals even though he makes it clear that he doesn’t give a sh*t what jersey he wears as long as the team pays him enough to have a tacky-colored house in Weston, but with delicious hors d’ouevers (I have no f*ing clue how to spell that) (to be clear, the restaurant has good food, not the baseball player). Bruins lose.

Game 3: I forget the game is happening and sit on my couch watching Lee and Grant, a Civil War documentary on the History Channel that I have already watched twice. I go to bed at 9pm and request that aforementioned boyfriend text me at the end of the game so that when I wake up for work in the morning I can know without going through the 45 seconds of boredom involved in checking the ESPN Scorecenter app on my phone. I am asleep by 9:30, dreaming about Jon Hamm being my sexy landlord. Bruins win!

Game 4: I ignore the requests of my three best friends in Boston to join them at a bar I love because I have so stupidly over scheduled myself this week that Wednesday is the only night I have free to run the idiotic errands necessary for me to not be gross. This includes buying lotion and shampoo so I am not ashy or greasy, getting groceries so I don’t just eat peanut butter cups for dinner all week, and cleaning out the interior of my car which smelled of B.O. so badly I had flashbacks of my late-blooming adolescent years (to be clear, I have since embraced the need for deodorant handily. The smell was from Boyfriend using my car on that swamp-crotch-inducing hot day last week). Also, I have not been paid in 29 days and do not care for that little negative symbol in front of my bank account’s balance. I thought it prudent to avoid situations in which I drink too much and think I’m richer than I am. Those happen all too often and champagne does not mix well with beer. I spend the time of the game switching between Fried Green Tomatoes- which I have seen no less than 30 times and never fails to make me sob- and My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding- recommended by aforementioned best friends and which makes me happy to know that America isn’t the only country with a white trash problem. Bruins win!

So, my dear Mrs. Cup, you can see the reason for my dismay; the Gooch allegations leveled against me have some merit. I sincerely appreciate your defense of me and scuttlebutt replies to the rumors. It is good to know that I have a friend in power still standing beside me. As a woman of great wisdom, particularly in the hockey realm, I beg for your opinion in my current quandary. That is: on Friday I will be joining a group of people for some patio boozing in celebration of a dear friend, Alli. As we are in Boston and law prohibits any bar from having fewer than 8 televisions tuned to some sort of local sport at all times, we are bound to be in the presence of a broadcast of the game. I implore you, Mrs. Cup, how should I conduct myself on this occasion? Shall I simply make an effort to not pay attention to the game? There is a chance I would be able to, perhaps, sit with my back to the TVs, were we to choose an establishment without 360 degrees of television views (if such a place exists). I fear that the Gooch is stronger than that and will permeate even a few moments of game-watching. Do I tempt fate and assume that my goochness has passed or that there are three remaining games and this won’t decide the series? Or do I go all in and remove myself from the situation as soon as the game commences? Should my friend’s-birthday manners take a backseat to my sports manners?

Your judgment on this dire situation will be heartily heeded, as I trust your opinions over all others in the matter. A response is requested post haste. Until then, I remain,

Your humble hockey servant,
The Gentle “Gooch” Giant

******

Epilogue: Mrs. Stanley Cup came back with some outrageous suggestions for de-Goochification involving sleeping masks, headphones (not earbuds), rain dances, and ritual sacrifices. It was rather ludicrous and I ended up just doing my best to avoid any eye contact with a television. Apparently my Goochness extends to even accidentally glimpsing the reflection of the game in a window. Sorry, Bruins. At least I have a super cute new Bruins sweatshirt that fits me so well. I'm sure that more than makes up for the loss.

Better Believe it's That Important

In light of the hair-freezing weather we've had lately, Midge and I have decided to start planning the annual Erin's Birthday Spectacular. This year will be a bar crawl (just act surprised) through the North End. It's on a Saturday, but feel free to take Friday off work in case your comapany does not recognize the holiday. It's only a bank holiday I think, so I can see why they'd do so. You should take this opportunity to write to your Congressperson though, in anticipation of next year.

The Wind... Cries... Phyllis

I took Boyfriend to the Experience Hendrix Tour on Sunday as a birthday present. I can’t say it was really my taste, but considering he sat through My Fair Lady for me and didn’t make fun of me geeking out and singing along like an 8-year-old, I figured I could take one for the team. He’s a big guitar enthusiast, but in the sense of respecting people who are really good guitar players, not in the sense that he would ever use the words “guitar enthusiast” (which makes me a doofus). My familiarity with Hendrix is pretty limited to scenes from Wayne’s World and documentaries about Woodstock. I understand he was quite the virtuoso? That comment would have earned me a stinkeye from those around us, sort of like the stinkeyes and/or eyerolls I got when I asked who every single person on the stage was and what his biggest hit had been. Call me crazy, but I was unaware guitar talent and commercial success were mutually exclusive. Geez. What I do know is that a dude who can play a guitar with his teeth and behind his head while wearing leather pants is pretty bad ass.

We call this shot "The Hendrix Situation".

Things I saw on the stage:

• Aforementioned leather pants. Not aforementioned: they were bell bottoms and about 2 inches too short
  
• Liver spots. Copious amounts of liver spots.
  
• A plethora of poor fashion choices (this item would be void had this taken place in 1980).
  
• Greasy man hair
  
• “Dance” “moves” that made me pretty uncomfortable
  
• One dude wearing the classic Hendrix scarf tied around his head, which wasn't as rock and roll when there was no involvement of an afro.
  
• Living Color, the 80s band that sang "Cult of Personality" which got that song stuck in my head for a good 3 hours. But only the part that says, "like Josef Staaaaalin!" which was annoying and a bit worrisome that that was the only lyric I could think of.
  

Despite the above-mentioned questionable choices, I would call it a good show in general. I reached that conclusion based 10% on the stage happenings and 90% on the people-watching in the crowd. It can only be described as magnificent. Was I the only woman there? No! Was I the only woman there wearing stilettos? Almost! Was I the only woman there with stilettos and a yellow Coach wristlet? Definitely! I like being different.

"What's that on his head? Glen, get me my long-distance glasses!"

Things I saw in the audience:

• Wallet chains
  
• Men’s hairstyles including but not limited to: long ponytails with a bald crown, bandanas over the ponytails, bandanas over the bald spots, and braids.
  
• “Dungeons and Dragons” t-shirts
  
• Mom jeans
  
• Beard beads
  
• Fanny packs
  
• Shirts that my mom would refer to as “blouses”
  
• Tie-dyed t-shirts (usually worn over a long-sleeved shirt. Gotta keep those arms warm to ward off the gout!)
  
• Clouds of weed smoke (win!)
  
  
  

The Stinkiest Fight Ever

My feelings toward hobos having been discussed in a previous post, I now present you with last week's events in the field of TGG-hobo relations. Imagine, if you will...

Tuesday

I was near Government Center, a pretty open area by Boston standards. It's a big group of government buildings that look all prisony. I guess it was the goal of a big rennovation in the 60s that wiped out a nasty red-light district in Boston and replaced it with the fug ass city hall and the fug ass (and strangely vague) JFK center or something.

Better than hookers and drunks running around? Now it's just drunks.

There's also this really bizarre sculpture that looks like something from Star Wars and I defintiely comment on every time I walk past it drunkenly. Whether I'm with people or not.
The concept? I mean... I get it. The walking area is all bricks so it kind of brings in the whole Boston cobblestone street thing, but the thing about cobblestone streets is that when they get peed on, the pee is very obvious. Regular streets it just kind of blends in. With cobblestones, the pee just kind of sits there in the cracks. Throw in that these bricks are bright red and certain areas create weird wind tunnels, and it's not a pretty sight or smell.
Anyway, this sort of atmosphere obviously invites the grandest of the grand: hobos. You usually see them around 5 when all the yuppies are walking to the T from the Financial District and the tourists are leaving Quincy Market. That translates to prime real estate for our dear hobos, to either do a little panhandling, do a little freaking-out-of-children (which I wholeheartedly support), or just to have what they all crave at heart: an audience. It's pretty rare to see one on my way to work since it's around 7:30 in the morning and the hobos are usually just barely opening their eager eyes and stretching to greet the new day's possibilities. They usually put in such a hard night of hobo-ing that they really need their rest.
This particular morning, I stopped by an ATM in Government Center that's just on the outside wall of the bank. As I went through the motions- remembering my PIN because it was the year of a major battle in a historic war (as most of us remember our PINs), wistfully thinking how I REALLY NEED IT TO BE PAYDAY- I spotted out of the corner of my eye a particularly fine hobo specimen. Dude covered all the good hobo points:

• scraggly beard
• crazy hair
• dirty clothes
• loud singing/talking/preaching
• hammered drunk

He even got extra points for not wearing a shirt! Needless to say, I liked his style. However, liking his style and not being nervous about having my credit card and newly-acquired cash around a shirtless guy stumbling around singing CCR are not mutually exclusive. I pleaded with the ATM to hurry the F up. Then, the aforementioned hobo literally just appeared at my side. No joke- one moment he's a few yards away by the Old State House, the next he's standing right next to me.

The Flash has fallen on hard times

Hopefully understandably, I flinched a bit and backed away. I mean, the guy was very impressive hobo-ly speaking, but I was fine admiring him from a distance. He grinned big and greeted me. I smiled politely because I am from Colorado.

Just as nice as Canadians, but easier to talk to!

Then, he spoke the words that would prove to make my entire day.
"Don't be afraid of me!" He exclaimed. "I love you!" Then he giggled, flapped his arms, and ran away.
What do you say to that? I laughed to myself and spent the rest of the day feeling awesome.

Thursday

Coming down from the high one can only experience from genuine hobo affection, I was walking home from work. I spotted a different hobo coming my direction on the sidewalk. This hobo was muttering to himself and just stink-eyeing the hell out of everyone around him. The guy in front of me did the usual eyes-down brush past. As I approached, hobo looked at me and mumbled something incomprehensible. I assumed it was the usual half-assed spare change request, so I was all prepared with my standard, "no, sorry", when... I kid you not... he pushed me! It wasn't hard, I don't think I even lost my balance. He just put his hand on my arm and gently shoved. Not unlike how one would push a door. Really, hobo? I didn't even do anything to offend you! If only you knew the reverence with which I view your kind!

The whole way home, I walked with purpose: a scowl on my face and an image in my mind of Shirtless Hobo defending my honor against Pushy Hobo. I imagine shirtless would win, what with his stealth powers.

I Wonder...

... if I'm the only 26-year-old who still finds the word "booger" incredibly funny in pretty much any situation. I'm half embarrassed and half proud of that fact.

Most of my friends, like me, will giggle at sexual double entendre and such. FYI- there's no longer any way to use the word "balls" without a titter or two among our group. We take pride in our adolescent sense of humor.

But should I be ashamed of my elementary-level sense of humor? Should I not relish the fact that my nephews' jokes really crack me up? Andy, the first-grader, laughs any time the word "toilet" is used, even in a normal conversation. At least I'm not that bad.

*tee hee*... toilet

Damn.

One is Silver and the Other Gold... and Some Others are Pure Booze

Do your friends ever say something that makes you think, “how did I ever live my life before knowing these people? How am I lucky enough to have found, out of 6 billion people on earth, people who think exactly the same way I do?” ?

Because that just happened to me with this e-mail from Midge:

From: Jennifer
Sent: Thursday, June 24, 2010 10:24 AM
To: Erin

Word to the wise: If anyone ever offers you a Peruvian pop tart, do not, I repeat, DO NOT try it. Because it is GROSS and tastes like caca. The end.

TGG Insults of the Day

Nut Wrinkle

[nuht] [ring-kuhl]
–noun
1. A person who serves no perceived purpose in society.
Use: What the hell is this Ke$ha creature? Can't sing, can't dance, songs are snoozers. She seems like a real Nut Wrinkle.

Ass Wrinkle

[as] [ring-kuhl]
–noun
1. A person who serves no perceived purpose in society and can even be seen as a danger to the developed world.
Use: No, I do not watch "The Bachelor" as it is a show devoted purely to perpetuating negative female stereotypes. Ass Wrinkles! All of them! You, too, are an Ass Wrinkle for watching it and questioning my reasons for avoiding it! Get away from me!