The Comfy Corner

Even Boston's parking meters fail.

This alien script that we are often forced to decipher is ridiculous. If you're going to make me verify that I am a human, at least give me some words that I can read. This happens far too often and always puts a little damper on my day. It makes me doubt my humanness or the quality of the status I just created.

p.s. the attempt I made to decipher this particular alien script failed. I suppose the word wasn't "sinhn." I must not be human.

Today, I went to the beach. Now, living in Boston does not provide anyone with a plethora of beautiful beaches to visit, so after extensive Googling. My new roommate, Grace, and I decided to go to Revere Beach, which won the "prize for best-known urban beach." It was quite the experience.

I was able to relax on my blanket, breathe in the salty, somewhat polluted air, dig my toes into the harsh sand carefully avoiding plastic bottles and shards of glass, listen to the dulcet tones of hip hop music and passenger planes going by, and most importantly, watch people going up and down the "hottie walk." The "hottie walk" is the path that goes along the beach where overweight girls in small bikinis strut their muffin tops. Apparently, "going to the beach" simply means walking up and down this path a couple times. No one really swims or goes on the sand. For those of you that are not familiar with Boston's most famous beach, it is akin to New York's Coney Island, minus the carnival rides and the hot dogs (all the same hotties, though).

My roommate (a frequent visitor of Revere Beach) informed me that today was atypical. Usually the "hottie walk" is crowded with seventeen-year-olds and their babies. I was only lucky enough to witness a couple hotties. We theorized that perhaps there is a "hottie bus" that transports all the hotties to and from the beach and it hadn't come today. Who knows? The only thing that is certain is that I will be returning to Revere Beach on a hot summer day with a cooler of beer, a chair and a camera. Keep in touch for the photos of the hotties.

Hello Comfy Cornerers! After several turns of the cauldron, we have come up with our own story to relate.

Once upon a time, there was an evil witch (*sharp intake of breath*) who was hiding in a scary castle far, far away. "Meerh! I'm a witch and I'm scary," said the scary witch. "No one wants to come visit me because I'm ugly and have a green nose. Meerh!" Little did she know, a prince was gallavanting heroically by. "Meerh!" said the prince, "I'm beautiful and everyone wants to be with me. Let's explore that castle with the ugly, crying witch in the window."

He entered the portal. Candles lit the walls. Glimmering. Hallways extended in every direction. In the distance, he heard sweet music playing, and proceeded towards it, tantalized by the dulcet tones of the violin and cello. He came upon a golden door adorned with diamonds and rubies. The door magically swept open to reveal a beautiful princess. Beguiled by her buxom, bountiful, bosom, he ambled towards her. At the touch of their lips, she transformed back into her hideous, witch-like self. The prince was horrified and bolted from the castle. Little did he realize that he, too, had become hideous. :< Only when he reached the neighboring village and stopped to chat with some of the locals was he made aware of his deformed, repulsive visage. He glanced in a storefront window, and the window shuddered. He gallavanted back toward the castle, enraged. "What have you done to me?!" he screamed at the witch. The witch smiled slyly and whispered, "I don't know what you mean." He gazed at his reflection in the mirror and was astonished to discover that his charming looks had returned. "Whenever you leave the confines of this castle, your good looks will vanish. Meerh!"

Thus, the prince was forced to live out his days, prisoner to the witch's spell.

I suppose it's time to fess up and admit that I was incredibly high when I decided starting a blog would be an excellent idea, hence the name comfy corner - because when I'm high I love soft things and comfortable corners. I suppose our best ideas come when our minds are set free by the powers of recreational anesthesia. Unfortunately, the name comfycorner.blogspot.com was ALREADY TAKEN! Witness the screenshot above or take a visit for yourself. You will quickly notice that the blog is anything but comfortable - the bright pinks are harsh on the eyes and the layout choice has much to be desired. You will then notice that no posts have been made by "Madeline." I viewed her complete profile and I quickly noted that I was the first one to ever view it. BAH! She's not even popular! She probably has like 57 friends on Facebook (the days of number-of-friends competitions have long passed haven't they? We've come a long way, yes we have) No doubt some 11 year old girl out there who doesn't even know how to make a blog decided it would be fun to just mess around and see what it was like, not knowing that someone with an actual, creative idea would come by 5 years later wanting to use the same domain name. Madeline, I hope you are reading this, I want you to go to Olive Garden and eat bread sticks until you explode.

So, there I was, high as a kite with a brilliant idea but no domain name. Other combinations such as comfycorner2010 or comfycornerbychang simply wouldn't do. I would have to come up with something even more creative. So I went to Facebook - my go to for inspiration. And I was casually checking my profile to see how I was doing and I realized (with horror) that no one had liked one of my clever statuses. So I sat eagerly by the computer and said "Like my status!" which is when I suddenly realized that Facebook allows you to like your own status. I had never noticed this before. So like Snidely Whiplash, I grinned, looked around with mischievous eyes, and I clicked the "like" button. I liked my own status, I usually do. Then, it dawned on me that I had found my domain name. And that, children, is how likemystatus.blogspot.com came to be.

The only thing I hate more than Olive Garden is the commercials for Olive Garden (and the whole Khloe Kardashian and Lamar wedding, but that's for a different blog). This rant is probably a bit dated because the whole "When you're here you're family" campaign has been going on for quite some time now, but this has been bugging me for a long time and they are still coming out with newer, more infuriating commercials. They all consist of some super fake "family" all laughing at the table with the waiter saying something really vomit-y like "The usual again today, Tom?" and then some family member, wiping off the tears from the laughter, being like "Oh Tom, try something new already." Then he tries the poop ravioli with fake sauce and suddenly "I think I have a new usual!" followed by unwarranted group laughter.

Dear Olive Garden, I propose a new approach to your "When you're here you're family" campaign. A more realistic approach. A family of four is sitting at a small booth quietly eating their dinner. The sister says something like "Would you hate me if I said I was pregnant?" The mother drops her fork, the dad changes the subject by saying "Where is our damn waiter? We asked for more breadsticks like 30 minutes ago." And then the mother starts crying and the son says something like "These breadsticks rock, but they make me so gassy." He farts. No one laughs. Fade to black "Olive Garden. When you're here you're family." I would eat at a restaurant like that.

In real life, escaping an awkward conversation is relatively easy. For our purposes let's say you are talking to awkward Jackie. Everyone knows an awkward Jackie. You can simply make an excuse that you are in a hurry to get somewhere important and Jackie always understands. Even online it is easy -- "Sorry Jackie, gotta go cook dinner!" -- "Alrighty Jackie, better finish this paper! We should totes hang out, though. I missssss you!" There are, of course, people who insist on following you around refusing to let the conversation go. This is conversation parasite Jackie, feeding off of your kindness and willingness to give her the time of day to listen to her crazzzzzy story about the Starbucks guy.

Parties, however, are a different story. It is quite easy to get trapped into an uninteresting conversation at a party and it is much harder to escape it. What could you possibly say? "Oh I'm sorry Jackie, I have to go chat with this other group of people that seems to be having a better time than us." It seems like at parties the group across the room is always having a better, crazier time than you. If you do somehow manage to escape awkward Jackie by saying something like "Oh, I have to run use the bathroom" Jackie is clearly going to see that you just wanted to get away because you don't come back! Or you are caught on the other side of the room chatting with the crazy partiers, taking crazy pictures (without Jackie). You are trapped in this situation where you couldn't possibly have something "important" to do ("Oh I have this important beer pong meeting that I can't miss.") because you are at a party. The only solution to this problem is to get really drunk so you can be like "Wow, when I get drunk I get really A.D.D."

Just food for thought as you lounge in your comfy corners.

So I recently started waiting my first tables. I work at a mid-range chain restaurant that serves overpriced "specialty" pizzas, salads, and pastas. For the sake of keeping my job, it shall remain nameless. The food is actually very good, but as far as being a "classy" establishment, I would say it is an upper middle class destination. We serve wine, but we don't have white, linen table cloths. So here are a couple stories of people who got confused about how "classy" my restaurant is.

1. A teenage ballet company from New Hampshire came down to see the Boston Ballet. It was a group of twenty five. Five adults, eighteen skinny, pretty girls, and two skinny, pretty boys. This story is about one of those boys who walked into the restaurant in his loafers, his pressed, white shorts, his polo and his knit, white sweater elegantly draped over his shoulders. Age estimate: 14. I casually took their orders trying to convince them that I was just as young and cool as them, when this boy asks "Do you have fresh lemonade?" I got him his fresh lemonade, and then he said "Do you have personal sized pizzas?" By the look on his face he might as well have asked if I would run put change in the meter because he had an important business meeting to go to. "In that case, I'll have the traditional cheese." Give this boy a Bentley and call it a day. He is the next Queen of England.

2. A pair of older women breezed into the restaurant as if they owned the place and when I asked if they would like something to drink, the woman in seat one (restaurant lingo, it's a whole system) said "No." And when I looked at her in confusion she said "I'll have a water." As I walked away she looked at her friend and said "Well, this is a far cry from the W." Look, I'm sorry we don't have wheat bread. I'm sorry we don't have water in wine glasses already on the table as soon as you sit down. Give us a break! We are humble pizza makers trying to scrape out a decent existence.

3. Europeans don't tip. It's a fact I've come to accept. Even though they know they should, they don't. When I go to Europe I know I'm not supposed to tip. When they come to America, they act like they don't speak English. In any event, a group of European ladies came in and immediately ordered a round of Coronas. After several pizzas and another round of Coronas, I asked if they would like to look at dessert menus. They did. After giving them a reasonable amount of time to make decisions I came back and asked what they would like. The woman in seat four said quite abrasively "No, we're too fucked for dessert." Then she laughed loudly and repeated "We're too fucked" just to make sure I heard her. It was as if they had just Googled some American cuss words and they were trying the worst one out on me. I laughed uncomfortably and got the bill. They didn't tip.

I don't know what's worse, the grammar or the fact that the door doesn't work. I just had to laugh when I saw this and say "Oh, silver line" to myself.

My favorite part was when a large group of Asian ladies (complete with pink shopping bags. What is it with those bags? Do they all shop at the same grocery store?!) tried to exit this door. They looked confusedly at the bus driver and she responded with "CAN'T YOU READ?!" I then looked at them and said politely "The door doesn't work." They looked at me with sudden understanding and they moved to another door. Now, maybe it was the fact that I am Asian and even though I spoke English, they could understand through some sort of racial osmosis, but I prefer to think they were just confused because of the grammar mistake. In the end, they exited the bus safely, pink shopping bags unharmed. I suppose every story has its silver lining.

Comfort awaits.

Puppies like to play with frisbees. Frisbees are fun. Fun is vital to achieving life happiness. Thus, puppies are vital to achieving life happiness. This is something I discovered as I was passing through the park on my way home. I was being my usual Boston self, walking at a fast pace, dressed in all black with my hood up (a necessary defense in order to avoid getting mugged in the South End) when suddenly I noticed a man trying to tempt his puppy into giving up his orange frisbee for a tennis ball. Of course, the puppy found the orange frisbee much more interesting than the silly tennis ball. Balls can be so tiresome, frisbees are forever.

Suddenly a black woman with a big personality came up beside me and said "Oh my gawd! Look at dat dog. He ain't gonna give up dat frisbee for nothin." This was followed by shrieks of laughter and her shouting across the park at the man to give it up because his dog isn't gonna give up dat frisbee. In mild discomfort I responded "Yeah, that's a puppy who knows what he wants." followed by a slight chuckle and I continued my journey.

This experience brought to light an interesting fact about life for me. Puppies are a universal joy. Without even knowing it they are bringing people of all races, religions, and sexual orientations together on the same front. In what other occasion would a middle aged, black, presumably straight woman have a riveting conversation -- such as this one -- with a young, half-Chinese, gay man? And how many things in life can cause multiple people to lose all powers of speech and force them to resort to indistinct vowel sounds? God love puppies for all they do in this world. For all we know, their cuteness could be preventing world wars. I'm sure some terrorists somewhere were planning a bomb threat when suddenly a little puppy started innocently chewing on the papers and they all said "awwww" simultaneously and forgot their plans for world domination. Puppies deserve more credit. If I could, I would send a fluffy puppy to each and every one of your comfy corners. The comfort level would raise to the 100th power.

p.s. the picture I found on Google by lucky coincidence, I didn't happen to snap a professional pic of the puppy.

Alrighty folks, pull a couple of extra fluffy pillows into your corner, because we are about to discuss the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority, a hotbed of discomfort also known as "The T." With a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for problems. Riding the T is akin to hanging out in "The Chokey" from Matilda. Okay, I exaggerate slightly. The T doesn't have spikes. More specifically, I am concerned with the silver line. Or as I like to call it "the crackhead line" because you aren't on the silver line unless there is a crackhead or two yelling gibberish at no one in particular. And there is never a shortage of rowdy teens innocently rolling joints in the back of the bus, nor is there a shortage of screaming children shamelessly... rolling joints in the front of the bus. You get the point. It's sketchy.

So in this first chapter I would like to create an image for you to hold in your mind and then I'll hit you with the kicker. Imagine a man wearing a Santa hat, a plastic purple lei, and a jersey, nestling a small brass urn in his left arm and a small bottle of cologne in his right. At this initial description, you may be asking, "What's inside the urn?" I asked myself the same question. I even asked my boyfriend, Chris. Astutely connecting the dots, he said "maybe it was the remains of one of his reindeer." I responded (and here's the kicker!) "He was a large, middle-aged black man." To which his retort was "Oh, Santa wasn't black." I thought about this and the only black Santa that comes to mind is the robotic, dancing Santas on display at Wal-Mart (cut to a five-year-old, chubby me standing on the cold, white tiles of Wal-Mart staring at a dancing, black Santa in wonderment and confusion). So, the Santa theory is out. The only logical conclusion left is that this man's brother died on Christmas from cologne poisoning during a Celtics game in Hawaii. And this man... this loving, caring brother, was simply paying tribute on the day of his death. An honorable act that should be looked upon not in concern or confusion, but in admiration. I'm ever the optimist.

My favorite part of this story is how everyone else on the bus reacted: they didn't. Like true silver liners, everyone on the bus acted as though absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary. I probably wouldn't have picked him out amongst the sea of crackheads and Asians with pink shopping bags if it wasn't for the fact that he almost dropped his urn and the woman beside him tried to catch it as though he were about to spill his Dunkin Donuts coffee, not the remains of his brother (or reindeer). Luckily, he caught it. And that, I suppose, is the silver lining to that story.

Keep comfy.

The other day, during our weekly mac and cheese night, I had a conversation with my friend and future roommate, Vanessa, about nest-making. Now, perhaps this is yet another thing to add to the long list of strange things girls do (a list that grew so long I had to start dating boys) but in this particular case I am intrigued. She has a corner of her bed that she piles high with fluffy pillows and soft blankets thus creating a corner of utter comfort and relaxation. She terms this "the nest." I tried sitting in her "nest" and I must say, my bum has never felt anything more snug or cozy. I felt like all the comforts of home were built into the walls of that nest and were being manifested in the soft fabrics my body was fortunate enough to enjoy. I suddenly turned into a small, hungry chick nestled in the cozy nest, waiting for Vanessa, the mother bird, to bring me my mac and cheese dinner. I didn't want to leave and needless to say I am quite excited for her to move in (as long as she brings the blankets with her). We will have nests everywhere.

So I tried it, I loved it, so I've adopted it and made it my own. And don't hate on me for stealing ideas, changing them slightly and calling it my own because we all do it. I mean just give YouTube a visit and type in "me singing paparazzi by lady gaga." (lack of capitalization necessary). I now live by the "comfy corner" policy. It typically involves me coming home, throwing on my pajamas and dancing around in a little circle singing "comfy corner, comfy corner" and then plopping down on a pile of pillows and blankets. So in this initial entry, I would like to invite you all to my comfy corner. Throw on your pajamas and join me as I rant about the silliness of life's annoyances, joys and confusions. The road is bumpy but my corner's comfy. ; )

For those of you whose minds are more philosophically driven, I haven't left you out. Think of this blog in relation to all of the other things floating out there in cyberspace waiting to be discovered. You could be stalking people on Facebook, you could be checking your email for the 100th time in the past ten minutes, you could be brave enough to leave your cyber-fate to such dangerous things such as Stumble Upon or Chat Roulette. But no, you are reading this blog. You are among a very small group of people looking at this one lonely little page tucked away in the corner...this...comfy...corner. So cuddle up and enjoy.

Coming soon...the Silver Line Chronicles Part One

1. The alien script when asked to verify that you are a human, not a computer. That you can't read anyway. Like, it doesn't actually look like letters.

2. Your blog names being taken by stupid 12 year old girls who don't know how to make blogs and who just let them fester online, ugly and useless, only to be desperately sought 10 years later by someone who has an awesomely creative idea that he wants to share with the world! Ugh!