The Boston Times…1st
Edition…The Princess 2-8-99
I must let you know just how crazy this place
is. I learned 2 very valuable lessons
today...1) you can buy clothing in Massachusetts tax-free! And the second most valuable lesson I
learned was from the 'T' which is the Mass public transportation. I must tell you everything...
I am riding on the red line heading
for a long day of shopping in Boston.
There was about 10 or so freaks on the train...nothing unusual. A man gets on the train with one baby
attached to his front and one to his back.
The kids were adorable. The kids
were so cute and very well behaved. A
couple train stops later a girl gets on the train and sits next to the
father. All of a sudden the girl gets
up and tirades over and sits right in front of me. The girl screams..."I hate *&#@ kids." I couldn't figure out whether the girl had
forgotten to take her Prozac or if she was jealous because the children had a
higher IQ. The father, rather shocked
from this girl's behavior, asks what her problem is. Now when someone is obviously an idiot you do not give him or her
an invitation to speak his or her empty mind!
The girl tells the father and everyone else on the train just how
ignorant she is using every cuss word known to man. One brave soul actually told her what he thought of her behavior
and asked her to shut her foul mouth.
About this time the girl’s head is bouncing left to right and she is really
going to town using her hands as conversation pieces as well. The girl screams..."Do you know who I
am??? Do you know who I
am???" I am thinking of shouting
in response..."Will someone please tell this woman who she is because she
has forgotten." But I remain quiet
just like the rest of the train. Mind
you she is sitting right in front of me so I am looking down at my lap trying
not to look at Miss "do you know who I am?" She decides to identify herself because people really don’t know
who she is. She says, and I quote,
"I am Tatiana Romanoff (spelling?), only of the most important family in
Massachusetts." Of course I have
never heard of this utterly important Princess. The guy laughs and says something and the Princess gets up and
walks over...I was beginning to fear for the guy’s life...and she rares back
and spits on the guy. He is absolutely
livid but he doesn't hit her...unfortunately.
He calls her a Nazi and she says that she is half Jewish and then she
goes on to call him every other racial slur in the book. I am thinking that if I accidentally blink
the wrong way and this Princess decides to go off on me I would love to show
her some Southern Hospitality. The kind
of Southern Hospitality that comes from a Southern Belle and will send you to a
Hospital. I think I would rather be
slapped than spit on. But since she is
the most important person in all of Massachusetts then I better have a good
reason for showing her hospitality. But
if she spits on me and releases her biohazardous liquid on my body I would have
to biohazard her face!!!
But if you happen to have heard of
this very important Princess please fill me in. There is more to her famous family. Someone in her family is obviously in trouble with the law, the
Mafia, or worse yet, the good ole boys. Once the hero guy (now contaminated
with the Princess's venom) found out who she was he brought up Whitie or
Whitney (I couldn't catch the name) the guy who was on the run. Mr. hero asks where the famous Whitie is
these days. She says that he is
somewhere in FL or somewhere in the South (a.k.a. God's country). Princess also says that she was glad that
Whitie did what he did... Whatever that was.
About this time she punches some guy in the arm and tells him to quit
following her around. He tells her what
he thinks of her and then escapes oh so bravely out of the train at the next
stop before she biohazards him.
I escaped the day without
contamination but she got off of the train at the same stop I did. I got out of her way and hid in Filene's
Basement hoping not to run into anyone else in that very important
Massachusetts family.
Until
my next enlightenment,
Christie
Silver
The Boston Times…2nd
Edition…Light in the Loafers 2-26-99
The last thing my friends and family told me before I moved to Boston was not to fall in love and marry a Yankee. But what if I did fall for a guy who happened to be of the northern breed? What if my knight in shinning armor shows up in his “caaaah” (car), picks me up at Haaahvahd yaaaahd (Harvard Yard) and drives me off into blissfulness. Well don’t worry… it probably will never happen. Why? One of my first observations about northern men was that they were a little “light in the loafers", as my Nanny would say. There is something to be said for the manly man! The men who have the purposeful, confident stroll…men who do their best to keep their shoulders back and suck in their stomachs every time they pass a female. But today I learned why northern men have a tendency to be so “light in their loafers.” Having experienced my first big snowstorm, I felt as though I had to learn to walk all over again. Being able to take two consecutive steps without cracking your skull open is quite a feat. People could predict my origin by the difficulty I had in walking through the white stuff. No one else seemed to have trouble with the simple act of walking. Why? It wasn’t their shoes…it was their light walk. Once you adapt to the fairy godmother walk you can pretty much skip over the ice. So I went from walking 2 feet every thirty minutes with my head down watching each foot make contact with the ice, eyes full of concentration, and arms perpendicular to the ground…to walking very lightly, slightly swinging the hips to distribute balance, and having my arms slightly outstretched with my finger-tips hyper-extended upward for that extra edge towards balance for a quick recovery if a slip should occur. Kind of like a gymnast on a balance beam. And when you reach your destination you pull a Mary-Lou Rettan (spelling?) and throw up your arms, then turn to the other side of the audience and throw your arms up again ever so stiffly and accept the praise of the fans as you acknowledge your score of 10. This doesn’t look so strange when a woman walks like this but you don’t exactly expect to see a man walk towards a pick-up truck when he is walking like a call girl. But the big question is why do men always walk like this…maybe because there is always snow on the ground…and by the time summer rolls around it’s like teaching an old dawg new tricks…plus summer lasts about 2 weeks…no point in changing.
Until my next enlightenment,
Christie Silver
The Boston
Times…3rd Edition…Thou Shalt Not Smile J 3-3-99
After reading the 1st
edition of the Boston Times, my good friend Sage said, “If I had known you were
moving to another planet, I would have definitely made it to your going away
party.” Before I could begin working
for Massachusetts General Hospital I had to take a 2-day orientation. Pretty standard for a hospital…but since MGH
is so large they felt it necessary to give a crash course in cultural
differences. MGH employs over 11,000
people…so you can imagine how many patients enter the hospital. When you are in a place this large it’s only
natural that you get lost at least once a day and that you encounter a lot of
different people from various countries.
Our facilitator went on to explain just how different our culture was
from other countries. For example, if
you were to invite a Spanish person to one of your parties they may be offended
if you list an ending time. Us American’s
are pretty smart…if you give a birthday party for a bunch a 5 year olds you can
bet that there is going to be a time given for the parents to pick up there
little angels. Spanish people, among
other cultures, would find this extremely rude. The next thing the facilitator touched on was southern culture…as
if southerners are from another country.
To find out who would be
offended by cultural differences among Northerners and Southerners, we went
around the room to say where we were raised.
There were only 2 of us from below the Mason Dixon Line. The other lady was from Virginia. But I wouldn’t consider a state southern
just because of it’s location…I think the rule needs to be if your state has a
football team in the SEC…then yes you are definitely in a southern state. But I would like to exclude 2 states from
the SEC rule. First, I think Florida
should be excluded because Florida is full of displaced northerners and
foreigners. We all know that the only
country thing about Florida is Panama City Beach (a.k.a. Red Neck
Riviera). And more importantly, I think
Tennessee should be stripped of its southern honor because of all of the
torture that they put on the other SEC teams.
Since “Rocky Top” is played consecutively for 8 straight hours on game
day, I think Rocky ‘Top’ could be geometrically translated into ‘north.’ But in all fairness I think “Rocky Top”
could be the answer to capital punishment.
I could think of no better punishment then to have all criminals locked
up in a room with surround sound playing “Rocky Top” over and over for about 4
months (the average length of time in a football season). What should we do with these criminals after
they have been tortured and brain-washed…dress ‘em up in orange and send ‘em to
the University of Tennessee where they can blend in with the rest of student
body.
Back to orientation…we
listed the cultural differences. I was
actually excited to have someone explain these cultural differences to me. But I had no idea I would learn something
about Southerners. One northern lady
states (using a condescending voice full of disgust) that when she went down to
God’s country she thought that southerners were not genuine because they smiled
all of the time. I couldn’t believe
someone would complain because people smiled.
She actually thought that southerners were extremely fake! Why I never…I was afraid she would further
disillusion us by implying that professional wrestling was also fake. I had to defend my southern honor by saying,
“you’d smile too if you were from the south.”
I was always under the impression that southerners were very genuine
people. In the south, when you smile
at someone you are acknowledging them…letting folks know that you are
approachable. If you think about
it…when you get up in the morning the last thing you do is smile…and if you do
then you are definitely faking it…you don’t smile because you don’t want to be
bothered. When your boss comes into
work in the morning, he/she probably looks like a Yankee…he/she isn’t smiling. But after a couple pots of coffee, you pass
your boss in the hall and this time they give you a quick nod of
acknowledgement and a grin…to let you know it’s now okay to go into their
office and ask for a raise.
So do northern people find
it rude when you send them an e-mail with a smile icon =)
? I was in Boston for 20 days
smiling at random before I attended this orientation and found at that I was
being dysfunctional. I have to make a
concentrated effort not to smile at people as I walk down the hall. At first I was smiling a lot, trying not to
look as stressed as I felt. Now I feel
kind of weird about smiling…I mean I would hate for other women to think I am
fake…and for men to think I was TRYING to be seductive. After I started working, word traveled fast
about the new southern girl. I have
accidentally smiled a couple of times to my co-workers and at first they
thought I was trying to be a Monica Lewinsky soliciting sex, but after meeting
me they seemed to be charmed by my southern charm. However, I have learned when it is okay to smile and when it is
inappropriate. Smiling on the train is
definitely an inappropriate time. The
only people smiling on the train are perverts, people who have a 40 ounce of
malt liquor sticking out of there pocket, and when there is a pungent odor in
the air…there is at least one person with a grin on their face.
Maybe northerners do have a
point with this smiling issue. When
people get married up in the North, they don’t always smile in their wedding pictures. Its not that newly weds aren’t happy…it's
just that they know that they don’t have to fake it anymore. And what about the differences in men and
women? Men hardly ever smile when they
meet up with their buddies. And in
photographs most men don’t smile while women always smile in pictures. Why?
Because we all know that women are better at faking it. J
Until my next enlightenment,
L. Christie Silver J
_________
When you're having a really bad day and it seems like people are trying to piss you off, remember it takes 42 muscles to frown and only 4 to extend your middle finger and flip them off.
I
have been in this God forsaken city for about 3 months and I can count the
number of friends that I have made on one hand. I work in an Infectious Disease lab where I am the only American
citizen. One of my co-workers always
asks, “So Christie (there are no phonic symbols to describe how they pronounce
my name), have you met any people yet?”
Like I need a weekly reminder that I have so dismally failed at meeting
people. My co-worker thought that the
reason why people weren’t friendly to her was because she was foreign. I am glad that my unpopular situation among
the northern masses has convinced her that people in Boston aren’t just rude to
her. My co-workers simply can’t
understand why I can’t at least meet people in my classes. Explaining to my co-workers why I wasn’t
able to make friends in my classes was just about as difficult as explaining
why they had to pay taxes to the IRS. I
thought I wouldn’t have a problem meeting at least a couple of people to study
with or at least find someone who would want to grab a coffee or an adult
beverage after class. But the people at
Harvard are so incredibly competitive that they wouldn’t dream of speaking 2
words to you incase you could read their mind and discover the chemical formula
that they have been working on for the next nuclear bomb. So meeting people in my classes is not an
option. Time for plan B….
Where
else could I meet some people who were ‘normal’ like southern folks? The best solution I could come up with was
to go to a Baptist church! But Baptist
churches are about as scarce as finding sweet tea up in these parts. The first Baptist church I attended was the
most beautiful building I had ever seen.
Walking into a church by yourself is like going to the movies or to a
restaurant by yourself…it’s very intimidating.
When I walked into that beautiful church, looking as confident as
possible, it almost took my breath away…not because of the architecture and
stain glass windows, but because there were only 20 people in a church that
could hold hundreds. Each person
occupied their own row and when it came time to shake everyone’s hand you had
to pass 3 or 4 rows just to reach another human being. With 20 people to minister to, I begin to
wonder how the church could support its own needs and remain open. Although there were a small number of people
in the church, the pastor still used a microphone in order to be heard by the
“Back seat Baptists.” The minister was
the preacher, the youth pastor, choir director, and the janitor. At the beginning of the service the pastor
calls the children (all 5 of them) to the front of the church so that he can
give them a lesson while the adults sit quietly and listen. They use words like doxology, offertory, and
benediction postlude. They would also
say things in unison at the pastor’s prompts.
I found myself mouthing “watermelon, watermelon, watermelon,” so that I
didn’t seem like a heathen. I felt like
I was in a Catholic Church except no one was there to whisper in my ear when to
sit, stand and kneel. In the south we
are only expected to say things like, “Praise God, Thank you sweet Jesus, Amen,
Hallelujah, and Preach it brother.” And
that’s only when the preacher gets fired up.
No one gets fired up here in 30-degree weather.
I
wasn’t about to give up my quest to find the perfect church home. And when I walked into the 3rd
and final church, I had already accepted the fact that the Baptists were
totally different here. I thought I had
experienced all of the differences when I was shocked once again. As I walked in the “Baptist” church I smelt
incense…you know the kind of incense you would burn to cover up the smell of
certain drugs that the president himself wouldn’t inhale. Not only was something burning up on the
alter but there where pictures of something and little statues and trinkets
scattered along the front of the church.
You couldn’t begin to imagine what was going through my mind. I was not only scared I was confused about
how I was going to slip out of the church before someone saw me quickly
retreat. But it was impossible to
escape when there are only 20 people in the church and if I wasn’t careful I
would be their next sacrifice. The
pastor invited us all to come forward to the altar and dip our finger into his
pot of ashes and smear the ashes on our foreheads between our eyes. I was sure I didn’t walk into an Episcopal
church so I wasn’t exactly getting ashes for Palm Sunday. The pastor explained that the spot that we
had rubbed on our foreheads was to symbolize our 3rd eye…the eye
that we use to look inside our soul.
Last time I checked we didn’t have three eyes….these Yankees watch too
much Star Trek. I was pretty freaked
out at this point. But I allowed the
fumes and the strange music to calm me…it wasn’t long before, I too, was
getting high for Jesus. As the
congregation started to sing “Om Namo Bhagavate,” which I swore translated into
“southern girl go home.” As we allowed
God to “illuminate our meditation,” I searched for the song sheet because
mouthing “watermelon” looked nothing like “Jagadhishvara.” When I found the song sheet and found the
bulletin I realized that this particular service was different because one of
the members was sharing with the congregation what the services were like in
South India. You would think that someone
would have thought to explain that to people as they walked in just in case
they were visitors. But no, they were
too intoxicated by the fumes to realize that other people were walking in and
saying, “What-in-the-hell?!” I must say
I was too shocked to enjoy the service although the exposure to another culture
was enlightening. Despite the cultural
lesson, I learned that there are many differences between northern and southern
Baptists. Despite the phrases they used
for the call to worship, women’s roles call for more than just Sunday school
teachers, they are called on to collect the offering, called on to pray and
they are even deacons of the church. I
don’t consider myself a feminist…I do realize the importance of having men
around…there are just some jars that we as women just can’t open…but seriously,
I do think it is very important to have a man who is the spiritual leader in
the family, but it was nice to see women participate in something they are
definitely capable of. But as far as
meeting people in church, it looked as though I had struck out again. But wait, I did notice one person in my age
group…a nice looking, strong, healthy young man. And yes it was too good to be true. At the end of the service he announced that the gay, lesbian,
and bisexual support group would be meeting tomorrow night…. Reminding me yet
again that nothing is the same in the north.
As far as a gay and lesbian support groups in the south…. The support
would consist of a short lecture… “Boy you better get back in that there closet
before yur daddy kills you… yur gonna break yur momma’s heart when she finds
out that there ain’t gonna be any grandbabies.” As far as a bisexual support group…you only make that mistake
once, and if you still can’t decide, well you might as well just carry yo butt
on up North where you can find yourself a support group.
So
when I fly home I load up on sweet tea, fried okra, and fill my soul with some
of that old time religion. As I close
this letter, I am reminded of a cross-stitched picture in my Nanny’s kitchen. “Thank you Lord for letting me be born in
the South, and for the corn bread and turnip greens in my mouth.”
Until
my next religious experience,
Christie Silver
6-19-99
The
Boston Times…5th Edition…If You Can’t Be Good, Be Good At It
Because I am supposed to be studying, I haven’t been able to dedicate much time writing about my entertaining life up in Boston. I have enough ideas to write a thousand more editions, but I knew as soon as I had come across this story I couldn’t wait to relay this to my southern audience. Imagine me sitting in a bagel restaurant eating my lunch and reading the Boston Herald. Not too hard to imagine…but picture my expression as I read the following story: “The Gaslight Theatre was the hottest spot in chilly Nantucket last night as Grace Quek, the woman who bedded 251 men in 10 hours and lived to make a movie about it was on hand for the screening of ‘Sex: The Annabel Chong Story.’” While there are some people who suffer from extreme virginity, there are obviously some women who consider themselves sexual athletes. In my already boggled mind I tried to do the calculations…that’s approximately one ‘encounter’ every two minutes. I continued to read the rest of the article…a woman asked Grace, “after all THAT, do you still believe in sex as an act of love?” The porn star responds with, “Sometimes you want a gourmet meal and sometimes you just want a cheeseburger or taco.” Now I know what you are thinking… “what kind of hussy has sex with 251 men in ten hours?” My question is where do you find 251 men willing to wait in line and then perform on cue without wasting his 2.4 minutes with Amazin Grace? As it turns out, Chong didn’t actually have sex with 251 guys in this film. The porn actress/environmentalist says, “it was more like 70 or 80… we recycled them.”
While some of us were entertained with just reading the review
article, some people just had to attend the screening in person. Apparently some left the theatre in disgust
while others proclaimed the film to be a “really sophisticated psychological
study.” I guess when you are in a state
with so many academic institutions you are bound to have someone turn this into
an educational experience. As it turns
out, our 26-year-old porn star has a Bachelor’s degree from USC and is going
for her Masters in Gender Studies. Here
we have a very liberal product from a southern college…how could that be
possible? Actually, I’m not quite sure
which college they were referring to, but it makes perfect sense for Grace to
attend a college where the school’s mascot is the “Cocks.” I was always embarrassed to go to UGA/USC
games because of the hats that the students would wear. I couldn’t believe their mommas would let
them wear clothing that advertised such slang…but I learned that just as
“Dawgs” is short for Bulldogs… “Cocks” is short for Gamecocks. Still, Praise the Lord I’m a Dawg ‘cause I
couldn’t imagine the look on my Grandma’s face if I were to walk into her house
with a Cocks sweatshirt on my body. As
far as Grace working on her Masters in Gender Studies, I think the girl has
earned her degree. Heck, what better
way to test a thesis…being plugged into the opposite gender for 10 straight
hours…that’s what I call studying!!!
But I am not quite convinced that Grace is the academic type. Rather, I see her as the athletic type that
is the top contender in the sexathon.
According to an article by J Wells, “Grace says that she submitted to
the gang-bang ‘to see how far I could push myself sexually. Sex is not just a private act. It doesn’t
have to be about intimacy. I think it
can also be a sports event.’” That
comment might explain why she also starred in the flick “Anal Queen, I Can’t
Believe I Did the Whole Team.” Sick,
sick, sick, my innocent mind just can’t comprehend such things. I’m sure there are tons of Georgia laws that
prohibit Grace from enjoying her sport.
I just can’t believe Nike hasn’t offered this athlete a commercial. Who could possibly be better for the “Just
Do It” advertising campaign?
For her next flick, I
wouldn’t be surprised to see the title “Grace Gets Gonorrhea.” I realize that any girl with an ounce of
Southern upbringing would discard stories about porn stars out of their sweet
and innocent minds before relaying such messages to other southerners…but I
must admit that I taped the Gaslight Theatre review article to my wall. I do NOT see this young woman (who happens
to be a mere year older but much more traveled) as some sort of feminist
hero. Just the opposite, she makes me
proud of who I am and what I am not. My
favorite quote from the USC graduate is this…when asked why she participated in
the sexathon she replied, “I just wanted to make my mother proud.” I think Grace just made a million other
mothers very proud of their own daughters.
Until my next enlightenment,
Christie
Silver
The Boston Times…6th
Edition…If Ya Can’t Take the Heat, Stay Out of Boston
Boston Heat Wave: Part
1
7/24/99
As I sat shivering and chipping the ice
off of my computer back in March, I just knew summer would never arrive. A friend told me not to get too excited
about the prospect of running around in a halter top and daisy dukes in the
summer…there would only be about 10 days hot enough to be considered “dawg
days.” Now I sit in a puddle of my own
sweat longing for the day when it will be cold enough to wear my gloves, scarf,
and coat again.
The whole state of Massachusetts is
suffering and we haven’t even reached the halfway point of summer. People tell me “you should be use to this
weather.” And I reply with, “I ain’t
ever been subjected to this type of hell, the whole state of Georgia is air-
conditioned.” We can handle being out
in the sun all day, but we do expect to come home to an air-conditioned house
so that we can actually sleep and not wake up dehydrated. It has reached 100 degrees several
times. But the worse thing is that we
have to go outdoors to cool off. The
houses are well insulated, built to keep warm air inside (I’m sure it would
keep cool air inside as well… if there was any cool air)…I might have disputed
that fact when I was freezing my butt off this winter, but now inside my room
it gets as hot as 105 degrees. You have
to hook yourself up to an IV drip just so you don’t slip into a coma from
dehydration.
I have become really good at finding
places that are air conditioned (with a window unit), but I have also managed
to find some places that aren’t air-conditioned. One morning I tried to escape the heat and escape the news of JFK
Jr. (there is only so much sad news you can handle). I decided to go to church…and wouldn’t you know that huge
historical church wasn’t air-conditioned.
There were only about 20 people in the church with one tiny fan pointing
at the preacher (selfish if you ask me).
This church was of a different religion than I was use to…one that
stands up a lot while praying. And Lord
have mercy we prayed and prayed for JFK Jr. and his family. I couldn’t help but ask myself…what if I was
in GA right now and one of President Carter’s youngin’s was missing. Would the whole state turn up to search for
Amy Carter? Would the media cover each
step of progress??? I wonder…
… “Back at the Peanut farm of former
President Carter, we have reports that Amy Carter still hasn’t shown up for her
cousin’s wedding (Incidentally, both bride and groom-to-be are 1st
cousins of Amy…strange how the town only has one family tree…which looks more
like a spider web than a tree with branches).
Amy was last seen driving her new Combine in the peanut fields. Family members thought that the new Combine
would be difficult to operate and suggested that she take the trusty old John
Deere out to the fields. The community
response has been tremendous. The whole
town has shown up with Weed-Whackers, their most valuable huntin’ dawgs, and
even crop duster airplanes to search the fields from above. Meanwhile, the wedding has been postponed
definitely…the couple decided that they were already family so there was no
need to get married.”….
Of course I was being punished for my
thoughts. I seemed to be the only one
who was perspiring to death. I must
have looked like I was really under conviction because I just simply couldn’t
fan myself fast enough. While the
preacher was praying…I was fervently praying that the prayer would soon be over
so that I could sit down. Once again, I
was being punished for my thoughts. I
must have gotten filled with the Holy Spirit because I started seeing stars and
started swaying like crazy. At that
point I knew I was about to pass out.
If there is one thing that I have learned in the past month it is that
you must drink fluids continuously. If
the service hadn’t been so dang long I wouldn’t have been hallucinating and
eyeing the baby bottle in front of me.
At that point my body stopped sweating…not because it cooled down…but
because an hour had past and I didn’t bring my Dixie cup or my IV drip. My biggest fear at that point was that I
would fall out and look possessed in front of God and the 20 members of the
church. I was so embarrassed at not
being able to take the heat that my stomach started to heave…I bolted out of
that church like a heathen sinner. I
made it outside…but only as far as the steps.
I can remember being right side up, upside down and then spread eagle
(in a dress) at the bottom of those stone stairs. I must have been very graceful when falling because there wasn’t
one drop of blood, one broken bone, or even a rip in my dress. Although I didn’t hurt myself, I had dirt on
me from head to toe. During the whole
spectacle not one person asked if I was okay.
In the south, one tiny swoon and there would be a thousand gentlemen
around to whisk you up and carry you to safety. As I sat wiping the dirt off of my face some tourists stopped to
take a picture of the church, then they took one look at me and quickly walked
away. I am sure if I had a cup in front
of me that said, “homeless, won’t work for food,” they would have tossed some
coins at me and told me to clean myself up.
So, I pulled myself together, checked to make sure all of my limbs were
attached, and limped away in search of liquid.
I am convinced that if I can make it
through each of New England’s drastic seasons I will be able to live
anywhere. So the next time you go to
adjust the thermostat on your A/C…think of me.
Until my next enlightenment,
Christie
Silver
The Boston Times…7th
Edition…Just Chillin’ 8/13/99
Boston Heat Wave:
Part 2
Thanks to Mother Nature the weather has finally dropped to a reasonable temperature these days. I can now look back at my heat survival techniques with a bit of humor, but if I was caught laughing during the heat wave it was because I was delirious.
It was my goal to wear as little as possible without getting arrested or scaring any children. Lucky for me, Boston is on the coast…unlucky for me, Yankee men like to wear bikinis to the beach. If I can say one nice thing about Boston, it’s that the beaches are absolutely breath taking…literally. Once you stop gazing at the crystal clear water and the rocky coastline, and attempt to submerge yourself into the ocean you lose more than just your breath. I finally learned what the term “cold as hell” meant. It was always amusing to watch people take a very quick, brisk dip into the water and then turn right around and very hurriedly try to overcome the muscle cramps and get their frost-bitten bodies back to the shore…that is if they didn’t have a heart attack. I am certain that the lifeguards are equipped with defibrillators just in case your heart can’t take the shock. But after baking in the 100-degree sun, the contrasting 53-degree Arctic water is one of those bittersweet tortures.
Another technique in staying cool is to walk in areas where there is actually grass and run around in the sprinklers like a 2-year-old. This technique works best if you wear a University of Florida shirt. You will probably overhear a child say, “What’s wrong with that crazy person?” The child’s parent will then evaluate you acting like a loon, dancing in the irrigation system and say, “It’s just a Gator fan dear.”
What was once a foolish prank at a slumber party is now Victoria’s most valuable Secret. Freezing your under garments is now a way of survival. In this case, Miracle bras really do work wonders. It’s funny how those immensely padded CUPS can each soak up a couple of gallons of water apiece. Granny Panties are also very hip…surface area is the key, and having those frozen hipsters pulled up to your neck will feel much better than your average frozen bikini.
If a brisk dip in the ocean, a quick run through the sprinklers as a nutty Gator fan, or sittin’ in your frozen bloomers doesn’t keep you cool, your last resort is to deal with psychology. In order to trick your mind into thinking you are cool, you have to create the perfect frozen atmosphere. First, try watching Frosty the Snow Man. Then, crank up a little Vanilla Ice on the stereo and give your best performance of “Ice Ice Baby.” If the neighbors complain about your horrible taste in music make sure you answer the door wearing a Georgia Tech hat.
Until my next enlightenment,
Christie
Silver
The Boston Times…8th
Edition…Single White Female 9/3/99
Before I moved to Boston, the only thought that could sooth my fears of migrating above the Mason-Dixon Line was the idea that I would meet a man with a trust fund. It didn’t take long for my first rude awakening. On the flight to Boston, I practiced batting my eyelashes and flashing a charming smile. As I stepped off of the plane I was getting ready to use my most ‘suthern’ accent with just the right amount of honey dripping from my words to thank the gentleman in front of me for holding open the door. Lesson #1: don’t assume that someone will be nice enough to hold the door open for you. It must have appeared to some of the Yankees standing around that I was some sort of idiot walking straight into that closed door, but my only thought at the moment was…“#@$!, that’s gonna leave a mark.”
My first impression of northern men was confirmed as I witnessed a couple walking down the street. She was carrying (struggling with) a suitcase, a gym bag, a slide projector, and a couple other heavy looking items and the man strolled next to her carrying a newspaper.
At this point, I was now on a mission to bring chivalry to the North. Most men really were charmed by my southern charm and I found myself on my first date in enemy territory. Imagine my shock as we approach his car…. Instead of him gallantly walking to the passenger side and opening the door, he hops into the driver’s side, gets comfortable, fastens his seatbelt, cranks his car, and THEN he graciously reaches over to unlock the door for me. Oh, the horror…as we arrived to our destination I decided I would sit in the car until a bolt of lightning delivered the subtle hint that he should open the car door for me. Of course he never got that hint…and I, once again, looked like an idiot ‘taking a moment,’ sitting in the car by myself. But I figured I might as well get out of the car unassisted and at least get a free meal.
I guess it’s true…you can’t teach an old Dawg new tricks…I’ll just have to find myself a transplanted southern boy. But finding a person crazy enough to move up north isn’t easy. I had no idea how to go about finding such a man with manners. But as luck would have it, I didn’t have to look in the personals…on the front page of The Boston Globe was a story written by S. Neufeld about a man who risked life, limb, and jail time to drape a giant sign over a highway billboard begging for his ex-girlfriend’s forgiveness. Of course, in the south, we have water towers for such purposes, but the boy must have had some redneck in him. This guy bought 10 pieces of fabric and put them together like any male would…with Velcro, wingnuts, and staples. Of course, a southern boy’s main ingredient would have been Duct tape, but I was still hopeful. After hanging the 150-pound home made sign over an anti-smoking billboard ad, he and his buddies “sat on top of the billboard, admired their masterwork, and smoked a cigarette.” I thought to myself… “You can’t get much more ‘red’ than that.”
Until my next enlightenment,
Christie
Silver
The Boston Times…9th
Edition…Gone With the
Wind 10-3-99
Who pissed off Mother Nature? I mean, don’t spend too much money getting ready for Y2K…you
never know when Mother Nature might do a little population control in your
area. After hearing about all of the
Earthquakes, it made me count my blessing that a natural disaster hadn’t
occurred in my neck of the woods. And
then several weeks ago, news reached New England about Hurricane Floyd. The media was flooded with pictures of the
hurricane headed for the east coast…a hurricane larger than the state of
Florida. I must admit… a wicked grin
appeared on my face when I imagined the University of
Florida being
wiped off the map. Then, news reported that the hurricane was
wider than Georgia and Alabama. At
that point I think they should have renamed the hurricane and called it Big
Birtha. But none-the-less, Ole Floyd
got plenty of coverage in the New England area…perhaps because everyone up here
has grandparents in Florida.
Scientists say that our ability to reason separates us
from other animal species. We have used
the gift of intelligence to create instruments that can measure and detect natural disasters; and yet, we
have Mr. Einstein Reporter from the TV station standing on the beach with trees
bending in half in the background so we can see that “it’s gonna be a big’in.” But the Yankees seemed more impressed by a
picture of people evacuating Charleston, SC. Of all the pictures the paper could have put on the front page
concerning Floyd, they choose a picture of people sitting in traffic for up to
20 hours. Why where they so impressed
by the picture…because these people have never seen miles of non-moving cars
without some degree of road rage. If
that picture had been taken in a place like Boston or New York you would see a
couple of bloody bodies lying on the side of the road and people with red faces
pointing fingers at each other. I
mean, there is just way too many taxicabs up here for anyone to expect
peace. Just because traffic has stopped
doesn’t mean a cab driver has to stop…heck, that’s what bumpers and middle
fingers are for.
The second pictures to flood our papers were images of the
horrific damage in North Carolina. The
caption read, “Swine trapped on roof tops waiting to be rescued.” These Yankees care more about the hawgs than
they do about the humans trapped on top of their trailers. For me, that picture made me realize one
thing…I was suddenly cravin’ bacon.
The next day the paper warned us to get ready cause Ole
Floyd was coming to New England.
Normally, on a mild day the wind is strong enough to knock you from one
end of the sidewalk to Tahiti. I knew
it wouldn’t be a serious hurricane by the time it reached Boston but I was
concerned because I knew that with the first 20-MPH wind my bedroom would be
blown to New York (Oh, the horror!).
The house I live in was built in the 1800s. The house is so old that half of my bedroom has settled about ten
degrees. I know it is hard for you
‘Lanta folks to imagine an entire neighborhood of houses built in the 1800s
thanks to the fire-happy Sherman and the War of Northern Aggression, but a good
portion of the city had old houses to worry about. But worse yet…Boston’s airport practically floats on the
ocean. It occurred to me that the
precious airstrip that takes me home to God’s country might disappear. All I could do at that point was go to the
grocery store and stock up on the usual life-sustaining items…Coke, Chocolate,
and Doritos.
Until my next
enlightenment,
Christie Silver
The Boston
Times…10th Edition…A Country Girl Can Survive 1/10/2000
Boston is supposed to have
one of the lowest crime rates in the US.
I have never seen a cop do anything more than direct traffic. However, I must be a criminal magnet. Within my first week in Boston, I witnessed
‘The Princess’ accost another passenger on the train. Sunday afternoon I decided to study at the library so that I
could cram for my first final. I might
have been a little brain dead, but I was very aware of 2 guys trying to
sandwich me. The train wasn’t packed so
there was no need for them to be so close.
I politely moved toward the door where I could breathe.
A couple of weeks ago, I
learned a valuable lesson about giving people enough space while on the train
or in the station. Usually people who
walk up the escalator walk up the left side, while the easy riders stay to the
right. Following traffic, I ever so
innocently walked up the left side when the chick in front of me stopped
suddenly. I almost smacked right into
that rainbow button she had on the back of her backpack. The people behind me where right up on my
caboose as well…so there was no way to back away and give the lady some room so
she wouldn’t think I was fond of her backside.
Low and behold, ‘Rainbow Bright’s’ significant other (‘Spike’) was in front
causing the blockade. ‘Spike’ gives me
a very evil look, throws her arm around her lover and said, “give her some
room.” Of course, ‘Spike’ has to mark
her territory and decided to show a little public display of affection. So there I was two inches from the couple,
turning 12 shades of red, wondering when I am going to reach the top of the
dang escalator where I can escape the exhibition.
But I digress, after I moved
away from the 2 guys, I didn’t give them much thought. When I got off the train and hit the
escalators one of the guys was standing in the middle of the escalator blocking
the right and left side. Someone behind
me was so close that his toes hit the back of my feet, so I dodged around the
guy in front of me and started to walk up the escalator. The same guy beats me to the second set of
escalators and was blocking my way again, so I remain a safe distance behind
him. Low and behold someone is riding
my tail again and I feel something tug at my backpack. Knowing that someone is about to steal my
possessions, I whip my head around and give him an evil ‘Spike’ look. The guy who happened to be in my backpack
was the second piece of bread that tried to sandwich me on the train. The 2 guys were obviously partners in
crime. Luck was on my side because the
pocket that the punk opened was packed full of feminine hygiene products. Normally, I would have been horrified to
have tampons gapping out of my bag, but I felt pretty smug about the treasure
that sticky fingers had discovered. The
guys weren’t teenage punks, they were in their 30s…so I sent God an emergency
page. When I do reach the top of the
escalator, guy #1 bent over like he was tying his shoe, therefore blocking my
path. Criminal #2 tries to shove me
into #1 so he could force his way into my backpack. I knew what was about to transpire…my heart was pounding…I was
about to get violated. As #2 tries to
shove me I threw myself against the wall like a freak so they couldn’t have
access to my back. So I made it to the library with all my possessions and the
2 jerks made a clean getaway.
Stupid people never cease to amaze me. I mean how ignorant is it to steal from
someone in broad daylight…on the day of the Sabbath, no less. Boston is full of extremely wealthy
people. If you wanted a pot of gold
pick pocketing from someone my age, who probably has a negative net worth due
to school loans, is not the best tactic.
And after I eluded from the creeps the 1st time on the train
they should have figured I wasn’t going to be an easy target. Furthermore, after I caught the criminal
trying to steal my plugs he still tried to use physical force when he knew I
was expecting it. But what amazed me
the most was that this freak knew he was dealing with a potential PMSing
woman!!! As any intelligent male will
tell you, when the new bottle of ibuprofen has teeth marks on the lid and its
contents have been instantaneously consumed, it’s ‘bout time to utilize “yes,
dear” skills.
By the way, where were the
gentlemen coming to my rescue…where was my super hero? Southern men hate for the prey to get away,
and they definitely don’t like for misfits to get away without at least a good
whuppin’. I am tired of being “Miss
Sweet Southern Girl.” I should have
shed the sweet girl persona and let the Yankee tendencies take over. I should have launched my secret weapon and
pegged those suckers in the back of the head with a Super tampon. I would have given anything to have had a
breast pump handy…that would probably leave a better mark on their empty heads…but
I’m not at that stage in my life yet, so I’ll just have to pay attention to
those embarrassing “not so fresh” commercials and arm myself. I mean what is a single girl going to use to
protect herself in a world with very large crazy men? If you can’t hurt ‘em you might as well embarrass ‘em to
death. Hey, ammunition is ammunition…a
country girl can survive.
Until my next enlightenment,
Christie Silver
The Boston Times…11th
edition…I Also Have a Dream 2/29/2000
In honor of Black History
Month, I would like to set some things straight concerning some of the Yankee’s
preconceived notions.
Around MLK day, I heard people
talking among themselves about how racist southerners were. These Bubba Bashers had all kinds of solid
proof to validate their honest to God proof that all southerners run around in
white sheets and pointed hats. They
proclaimed that people in the Deep South are so racist that we don’t recognize
MLK day. Back in the days when southern
universities were still on the quarter system, administrators explained that
the school schedule wouldn’t allow for holidays such as Memorial Day, Veteran’s
Day, President’s Day etc., but by God we had Martin Luther King Jr. day off
every year. What most people of northern
breed do not understand is that the vast majority of MLK supporters are located
below the Mason-Dixon Line. There are
as many streets named after MLK as there are Peachtree Streets in Georgia. Yes, my Northern counterparts, we revere Mr.
Martin Luther King, Jr. as a very important and positive part of the south’s
history. HOWEVER, we do have our tiny flaws. I remember my freshman year at very distinguished
educational institution where a fraternity celebrated MLK day by eating barbecue,
collards, and watermelon on their front lawn.
Of course, most southern people love this type of food…it’s our southern
pride, battered and fried. But what
some call ‘down-home cookin,’ can also be translated by some to be ‘soul food.’ So my friends, that fraternity was punished
for their poor taste in partaking of the holiday. Southerners have learned to be more sensitive to their neighbors,
we quit playing Dixie on game day (I think because the song mentions the word
cotton) and you don’t eat ‘soul food’ on MLK day. Most southerners are God-fearing folks…who also fear the
NAACP.
I think I may have been a little
naïve when I first moved up here to Antarctica. But stereotypes will follow you anywhere. After saying more than two words to someone
their next question is always, “I detect an accent, where are you from?” I use to say Marietta, GA…. until every
person responded by carryin’ on a 20 minute gripe session about Newt
Gingrich. I now avoid that conversation
by simply saying that I am from “A’lana.” Notice that I
was careful to pronounce the word to give the proper impression…as oppose to
saying “’Lan’er.” But now every time I
open my southern mouth or wear something that connects me to A’lana, people
want to go off about the Brave’s pitcher, Rocker. I am sick of hearing about that idiot, but since these Bostonians
assume all Georgian’s are Rockers I must defend the lost cause. The question is this…should Rocker be fined
for “freely” speaking his mind…maybe not, but he sure as heck deserved to be
fined for being so stupid. He is a
perfect example of someone who doesn’t have a filter between his brain and his
mouth. Rocker proved that he was
ignorant and scared of people who are different from him.
And when the tornado ripped
through southern Georgia, my fellow southerners seemed to confirm the notion that
we might not be playing with a full deck of cards. But I blame the media for this ill-conceived notion. Reporters
always ask tornado victims what the twister sounded like…and they always say… “It
soun’ like a train come rumblin right smack dab in the middle of what use to be
my double-wide.” I mean, is there not a
more interesting question to ask about the tragedy? When I read the paper concerning the recent tornado in South GA,
I didn’t have to search hard for the infamous question…quoted in very large,
bold print on the front page of the newspaper…a gentleman said that the tornado
sounded like “WOO, WOO, WOO.” Now, I
have been through more than one tornado, and never did a twister sound like a cow
in heat. I think that gentleman was
sipping on Pappy’s moonshine when he was lifted off the foundation and hit his
head on the toilet. But regardless, people
at work kept askin’ me what tornadoes down south sound like.
Can’t we just all get
along? Some Bostonians take pride in
the fact that they are very cultured and diversified, yet they feel very
dignified putting down a fellow American who happens to live in the South. But I’ve learned not to take it personally
anymore…not only do Bostonians think some southerners are ignorant they pretty
much have something to say about anyone not from their beloved city. I overheard some co-workers say, “I wish he
would get his cheese-head back in Wisconsin where he belongs”or “He could have
left that corn cob he has up stuck up his butt back in Nebraska” or “Excuse me ‘Hot
‘Tader’ you aren’t in Idaho anymore.” But I have to admit it’s one of my personal favorite past times
to make fun of Yankees…I guess we just need to develop a little tolerance. It’s my dream that we try to understand each
other before we take any bold strides.
But it helps to know the truth…southerners are wonderful…and anyone who
thinks we are ignorant can go stick his head in a snow bank!
Until my next enlightenment,
L. Christie Silver