When I was growing up in regal Kingston by the sea my family observed a lot of venerable Massachusetts traditions. Some of them dated as far back to the noble Pilgrims who discovered freedom from the British terrorists on the very shores of nearby Plymouth. Just like them we pretended to go to church for a few years until that shit got a little weird. And like them we ate a lot of corn and seafood, chain-smoked tobacco and rotted our guts with liquor and murdered thousands of heathens.
We also spent every single moment of the nine month winter in a near catatonic state brought on by impending hypothermia. You see, I grew up in a three hundred year old house, which is cute and quaint and special if you're writing a book report in 5th grade, but when it comes to, you know, not having to scrape icicles off your tits every morning on the way to school it's less than ideal. Because the house was so old there was only one thermostat, and my father watched that shit like the unblinking, disembodied Eye of Sauron. Dude could sense disturbances in the force when he was away at work, and he'd call up to make sure we hadn't moved the dial up above 60 anytime before November.
Fast forward to today, and like in so many other ways, my girlfriend is now pretty much my father. She tells me when I can or can't go out, lets me borrow the car sometimes, makes me do chores I don't want to do and cuddles with me in bed all night in a nightgown. Normal father stuff. She also patrols the perimeter of the thermostat in our apartment like a fucking storm trooper. It's only like forty degrees and rainy in Watertown, MA today though, so I guess she has a point. The heat bill may go up as much as fifteen dollars any month depending on whether or not I turn the heat on a couple times a week, so I guess it just makes economic sense to suffer. And on the bright side, it gives me something to bitch about.
And by the way, that right there is the truest Massachusetts tradition of them all: feeling put upon, inventing and exaggerating a grievance then complaining about it non stop until everyone hates you. My family taught me well.
Haha, look at that picture! Polar bears don't have ipods. Or do they?
We also spent every single moment of the nine month winter in a near catatonic state brought on by impending hypothermia. You see, I grew up in a three hundred year old house, which is cute and quaint and special if you're writing a book report in 5th grade, but when it comes to, you know, not having to scrape icicles off your tits every morning on the way to school it's less than ideal. Because the house was so old there was only one thermostat, and my father watched that shit like the unblinking, disembodied Eye of Sauron. Dude could sense disturbances in the force when he was away at work, and he'd call up to make sure we hadn't moved the dial up above 60 anytime before November.
Fast forward to today, and like in so many other ways, my girlfriend is now pretty much my father. She tells me when I can or can't go out, lets me borrow the car sometimes, makes me do chores I don't want to do and cuddles with me in bed all night in a nightgown. Normal father stuff. She also patrols the perimeter of the thermostat in our apartment like a fucking storm trooper. It's only like forty degrees and rainy in Watertown, MA today though, so I guess she has a point. The heat bill may go up as much as fifteen dollars any month depending on whether or not I turn the heat on a couple times a week, so I guess it just makes economic sense to suffer. And on the bright side, it gives me something to bitch about.
And by the way, that right there is the truest Massachusetts tradition of them all: feeling put upon, inventing and exaggerating a grievance then complaining about it non stop until everyone hates you. My family taught me well.
Haha, look at that picture! Polar bears don't have ipods. Or do they?
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14 comments:
i thought broads were the ones that were always cold?
they are everywhere except their own house. the car, restaurants, wherever...freezing. but when theyre at their own house they dress like they really want to dress: bathrobe, sweatpants etc, not in these tiny jackets that don't do anything.
also, you misspelled some things in that one.
tiny jackets on the list! but they are so cute.
We're pretty lucky the framers of the Constitution gave us the inalienable right to bitch. Also, nice work on turning a flimsy list premise into a pretty decent rant.
Right on re MA.
A+
I wear tank tops around the house in January and hope that the visibility of my boobs makes it easier for my dude to fork out the money for the huge heating bill that makes it all possible. Anything under 77 and I get flashbacks of Mom up in NH pretty much being your dad. Heat's been on in here since late September.
sheeesh I'm cold.
77? You guys running a Russian bath house over there? I like a nice temperate 66-68.
The list is a modern day Bill of Rights...except opposite.
bill of wrongs
...and that's the story of how they came up with a title for the book.
"On the List: The Russian Bath House of Flimsy Premises and Decent Rants. A Contemporary Bill of Wrongs, Am I Right?"
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