The Comfy Corner

Ya know when you leave a place after living there for a long time and you think to yourself, "Good riddance! I couldn't be happier to get away from this hell hole!" but then you go back several months later and realize that you sort of missed it? Well, this DID NOT happen to me on my most recent trip to Boston.

I was in the "Laz Cafe" the other day (it's this amazing cafe right next to my apartment that makes anything you could possibly want and they deliver) when this crackhead walks in and loudly says "HEY! Whatch ya'll gots to eat roun' here?" The guy at the register didn't know how to respond. So the crackhead continued saying, "Ya'll gots some a dem wing dings?" The guy at the register said, "yeah, we do." So he was like "I want ten a dem. Well done." And as the guy was busy making his "wing dings, well done" he shouted "Yo, lemme have a salad too...'cept I don't want no lettuce, extra cucumbers, some onions, tomatoes, olives, cheese..." and then his voice kinda trailed away. Meanwhile, I'm just standing at the counter reading the menu trying to decide what I want. As I stood there watching this happen I thought about all of the annoying people I've had to deal with in my life that don't understand the concept of a menu.

In the restaurant I get so many people who sit down, I put a menu in front of them and they immediately say something along the lines of "I'd like an extra large pizza with mushrooms, onions, pepperoni, sausage, peppers, extra cheese...hey ya'll got anchovies?" to which I typically respond, "No, but we do have a menu. And we charge for extra toppings, so that's already gonna be like a twenty dollar pizza. And they only come in individual sizes, this isn't Papa John's."

It is frustrating beyond belief. Do people never go out to eat? And what possesses those people to suddenly walk into a mid range chain restaurant? And when they walk in, why do they act like they know exactly what they're doing when in fact they haven't the slightest clue? WE HAVE A MENU FOR A REASON! I just don't understand why anyone would walk into a restaurant to have dinner if they don't like what is offered on the menu. It doesn't make any sense. Modifications to what we have on the menu? Sure. But this isn't your momma's kitchen. We have rules.

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.