the boston chronicles

I. Peeping Tom

My apartment has five windows, which provide excellent lighting, and an even better view. Sure if I had a front apartment, I could be looking out over Olmstead Park and hear the whizzing of cars flying down the road. But I like the courtyard just fine.

I can see bits of other people’s homes. Windowsill plants galore! Can I knock on your door and take a peek at the rest?

And every morning, at about 10 o’clock, someone turns their TV on really, REALLY loud. The acoustics bounce the noise all the way up to my windows and it’s almost like I’m sitting next to them.

And they are always watching The Office.

II. Tureened

Lance arrived in my driveway close to midnight, with a truck filled with his own belongings.

It became quickly evident there wouldn’t be enough room for it all.

So I left my IKEA chair, my books, my espresso machine.

My hair dryer, curling iron, and straightener.

The next day, we began unpacking. I opened an unmarked cardboard box – one *about* the same size as that of my coffee maker – and found this.

The Soup Pot.

Lance’s Soup Pot.

Mind you, we don’t have any friends here with which to share soup. Or a table to serve soup upon. Or a pot big enough to cook this much soup.

One of many minor differences of opinion we will have, I’m sure. Some people just think decorative chicken pots are more useful than caffeine. More important than an English major, Lit Grad Student’s books.

Secret: it’s growing on me. Don’t tell.

III. Lonely Guacamole

Somewhere during a tense trip to the grocery store – you know the ones where you know your spending too much money, but you also know you can’t live without laundry detergent or overpriced paper towels – I picked up an avocado.

It was cheap, as far as those delicious, wrinkly green guys go. But I forgot about him somewhere in between a panic attack and pulling out my debit card.

I would have put him back.

I’d changed my mind.

But there he was, in my speck of a kitchen, waiting to be eaten. Even though I didn’t want to eat him. He was brown. Tired. Mushy. And Lance doesn’t even like avocados that much.

I turned him into poor-man’s guacamole, out of mercy. I squeezed too much lemon, sprinkled too much salt, and carved the brown bits into the giant yellow garbage bag that is still overflowing with a week’s worth of garbage.

IV. What Good Christians Would Do

After a day spent sitting on hardwood floors, our butts decided the couch could no longer wait.

First stop, yard sales. People in Boston move and need to rid their homes of every belonging. We visited the first sale that had a map printed on the flier. It took us to a house-share, occupied by at least 4 twenty-something hipsters, one of whom was leaving Boston to Jack Kerouac it across the US. He showed us a broken-down dresser, and when we cried “futon, futon” he showed us a mattress so unloved and stained and sorry looking that it hurt my heart.

So to Craigslist it was.

Me, disheartened by The Saddest Futon On The Face Of The Earth, browsed the For Sale section. Anyone giving away a futon probably didn’t love it very much. Or love material possessions (and their cleanliness) as much as I. Lance The Eternally Thrifty, checked out the Free listings.

“Look, 75 dollars for a futon AND a chair,” I said.

“Look, a free futon, posted 20 minutes ago!” he said.

He made a few calls. I resigned myself. It was free! We had a pick up truck. Worse comes to worst, we leave it on OUR curb and pretend the whole thing never happened.

An hour later, we rolled up to a Seminary, tucked into the woods of Beverly, MA. A couple met us in the drive of their family housing unit, standing next to the most beautiful futon I’d ever seen.

She was getting her masters in Divinity something or another. They homeschooled their 13-year-old triplets – two of whom had spent the past month sleeping on this mahogany wonder of a couch/bed – and just wanted to get the thing off their hands. He helped load it into the back of the truck, and strategized the best route for tying it down.

The best moment of Boston, by far.

Also see, Worst Moment: getting a wood framed futon up three flights of stairs.

V. What I’ve Been Doing

I’m sure a lot of you are wondering exactly what I’ve been up to for the past week or so, here in this new city. Besides these insignificant anecdotes – a few high moments and then some lows – I don’t really have much to tell as of yet. Because it’s really hard to do ANYTHING when it’s 95 degrees outside, on the third floor, in a non-air conditioned apartment.

This fan is my new best friend.

We’ve been to J.P. Licks 4 days in a row for ice cream, internet, and AC.

I haven’t organized, cleaned, or met up with any past or future friends.

I’ll surely do something more interesting once I stop breaking a sweat walking from the bathroom to the kitchen.

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