The Countdown Begins

*This was originally posted on 10/10/07 during what was to be the cusp of my very first northeastern winter. I smirk now, knowing I still had ZERO idea what lay ahead of me in terms of weather ridiculousness (I sat in thee snow storm in November for nearly seven hours predicting every hour that highway 93 was where my final resting place would lay), and yet this post still humors me in that naive-angsty-feisty-mouthy way of mine that belies most of my writings of 2007. I immediately take back my firm anti-forced-full-service gas station stance. After all that, I actually wrote short sonnets of love and devotion, while sitting in my car, to the gas station minions, thanking them for braving the arctic temperatures to fill my gas tank, and to please, please never give up on me. We would make it through together. I still hold these truths to be self-evident however...Buffalo Wings will be the end of us. Write that down.

Damn I'm snarky.



Boston and I are on awkward terms.

Up until right around last December, I had made a rather impressive career out of running my mouth for the better part of 15 years, proclaiming at loud volumes, how incredibly dull, contrived, and suffocating is suburban Orange County. Point well taken, but mostly my argument found its basis in how I was clearly meant to subsist amongst the seemingly more meaningful reality that was (in my teenaged over-dramatic mind) New York City. That was always the plan.

However, after considerable (read:occasional) research, I conceded that moving to a city that already possessed one collegiate sibling was easier slash cheaper than a city with none, and therefore quickly found myself packing up and heading out for New York's distant, mouthier, slightly more fanatic cousin.

I settled for the easy, eager, sloppy prom date. And Boston knows it.

Its not that I dont like this city. As a matter of fact, I find it incredibly charming if for no other reason than its unfailing commitment to sincerity. Homegrown locals pull no punches. They posses a brutally honest outlook on life, which I find refreshing and familiar. If my own personal motto is "I'll say it to your face" Boston would then chime in with "...if it weren't so ugly." New Englanders are also hilariously infected with an accent that I cant get over, let alone decipher. Oh and they have this team called the Red Sox - its Baseball I think, but no one really talks much about it much so I have not yet been totally inundated and overly informed of the exact stats of every game, nor the grooming habits of every single player. I will keep you posted.

Aside from the adorable quirks, and the obvious differences between this coast and my own west "dear sweet Jesus please someone make The Hills stop" coast, there are a few random little known subtleties that have infiltrated my daily life as a new Massachusetts resident that I feel bear mentioning and dissecting with a point/counter-point debate. Hosted, moderated, and haggled over by yours truly.

Lets proceed:

1) Whats with the forced full-service gas stations?

Point: Ive been aware of this requirement in many other states, and have always found it strange, unnecessary, and uncomfortable. I am a grown-ass woman, with full use of my gas-pumping trigger finger, and do not need some smarmy individual sauntering up to my car, taking full advantage of the direct aerial view of my cleavage, staring awkwardly in an effort to intimidate a tip out of me, and then possibly escaping into the woods with my debit card.(There are alot of woods around here in my defense). Also, how many times do you think these guys use actual finger quotes when asking females if they can indeed "Pump your gas." Dry Heave.

Counter-point: It was 47 Degrees the other morning and I nearly cried when I realized I needed a fill-up, which would then have required me to stand outside in my heels and lack of jacket. I gladly slipped my card through the slot I created with my car window to the gentlemen who was just as tired and unamused as I was, careful not to let any of that sweat heat escape from the little furnace of happiness I had created in my car, and silently conceded that I could just invest in some high-neck collard attire. And also a zip cord for my card. Suck on that, jumpsuit!

Winner: Boston
My fear of anything below 50 degrees trumps any conviction and pride I thought I had.

2) Seriously, How can you people drive like this?

Point: Not since my foray into the third-world traffic bonanza that was my two mission trips to the Philippines (which included collisions with actual horse 'n buggy's) have I witnessed such illogical and erratic driving. Last time I checked, you cannot make a left hand turn from the right lane. That may actually be biblical. Yet I witness this fantastically ballsy anomaly atleast once on a daily basis. As far as I can tell, lane lines are pure decoration, and one's horn is used as a sort of Morris code to inform EVERYONE of your exact intended route - because even if the tunnel is three lanes across, Oh you are making it four, and seven honks should have made that pretty clear.
It is pure madness.

Counter-point: Ever felt like waving your hands in the air, and waving like you just dont care, WHILE driving? Then you have found your mecca. Since moving here, I have pulled some automobile stunts that would impress Will Smith in Bad Boys. (Okay, maybe not, but that would be the first of many references to that film on this Blog. Just so you know) I have also learned that pot-holes are the work of the devil, and are the reason for mind-boggling swerving, forcing even the largest vehicle to dart around like a mini cooper. Who's job is it to fill these things in and how can I get in touch with them - Is there a hotline or something? I feel like this is a problem that is being ignored in order to purposefully contribute to the insane Grand Theft Auto video game driving experience that has forced itself upon me.

Winner: Ashlee
Regardless if Boston has taught me how to parallel park literally in a tree if necessary, it took me no less than three tries and one dead pigeon to get this here drivers license, and my I.D. Photo is AMAZINGLY fierce. That has nothing to do with anything except I felt like mentioning it.

Tie Breaker:

3) Who eats this much Buffalo Sauce?

Point: I was unaware that an orange, tangy, vinegary sauce, typically reserved for the greasy appendages of a flightless bird, was so versatile in its use until arriving on the land our forefathers settled. So far I have witnessed the consumption of what I shall henceforth refer to as "Menu Items on a Dare in Hell": Buffalo Pizza, Buffalo Nachos, Buffalo Pasta, Buffalo Burger, Buffalo Salad, Buffalo Jerky, and my own personal favorite - Buffalo Tofu. I actually personally used to have a very serious visceral reaction to the smell of Buffalo wings for many years - I called it "Nostril Hives." The smell and taste were so pungent, and bordered on hot steaming feet, that I never understood their appeal.
Let me break this down for you - Mass eats Buffalo wings like the OC eats Del Taco, which is to say, at 2am, like its THEIR JOB. (If you are some of the unlucky few who dont know what Del taco is, well I have just placed you on the path to your Holy Grail of fast food mexican cuisine. And crinkle fries. YOU'RE WELCOME.)It really is astounding, and occasionally breathtaking. There are more Wings-r-us, Wings-a-polooza, and Plymouth Rock 'n Wings per square mile than should ever be legal. Is singeing the nose hairs of every citizen in Boston really that common of a goal? And where will it end? Buffalo shakes? This sauce situation seriously needs to be reevaluated pronto.

Counter-point: I recently visited Wings Over Somerville near my house, and ordered no less than one pound of boneless chicken wings smothered in a level 3, on a scale of 5, spicy Buffalo sauce. Accompanying this fine entree was an order of Garlic Parmesan Waffle fries. Seeing as how I have never ordered nor consumed Buffalo anything in my lifetime, I am content to assume that I have now been both seduced and brainwashed just by living in such close proximity to the mere availability of the almighty wing.
Winner: Boston.
FINE. My chins and I thank you.