I love me some lighthearted geeks. The Intarwebs used to be full of them. Oh, wait, it still is. I like living near such a large concentration of them in meatspace too.

These are from the MIT Do Not Hack.

Via Doug Holder's blog on Blogspot, I just learned that McIntyre and Moore is closing. This is a great used bookstore right on the main drag in Davis Square, always with interesting titles and a collection of vintage posters.

Used and independent bookstores, along with cafes, are a large part of what makes a funky neighborhood funky. But more and more of these locally owned, independent businesses are getting priced out as rents increases and as other businesses distribute the same goods and services in a more efficient, higher-profit-turning sort of way.

Unfortunately, no chain store, no Starbuck's will ever posses the soul of an independent, locally owned business. McIntyre and Moore, the Tastee, Wordsworth, Cafe Paradiso: these are all casualties of gentrification in Cambridge and Somerville. How long before Cafe Pamploma, Million Year Picnic, and the Trident succumb as well?

[Edit: The store is not, in fact, closing, but moving to a less conspicuous location. I'm glad they'll still be around, but still irked that they won't be as visible a presence in Davis Square.]

So, last weekend I "led" a little hike up around Mount Misery in Lincoln, Massachusetts for the UU30Somethings group at First Parish Cambridge. I put the word "led" in quotes because the it was probably the easiest event I've ever organized. It consisted of:

1) Choosing a time and place to meet.
2) Posting the time and place on the listserve
3) Showing up (almost) on time.
5) Profit!

Unbeknownst to me when I chose the date, that evening was the big gala goodbye celebration dinner for our parish minister, who's been at the church for like seventy bazillion years. Even though he's an old white man from Iowa, he's really very nice. He always shakes my hand after service and says that he's so happy that I'm here, and when I compliment him on his sermons (which have been known to be dry and academic at times), he says things like "that really means a lot to me." But despite his apparent sincerity, I have a sneaking suspicion he doesn't actually know who I am. So while I considered attending his gala dinner, in the long run I didn't.

At least five other 30Somethings decided they could do both the nature hike, which ended at 3PM, and the dinner, which started at 6 or 7. So we had a pretty decent turnout.

I should take a moment to briefly comment about the UU30Somethings at First Parish. Overall, these are a great group of people. They're very welcoming, intelligent, well-educated, and fun folks, with great senses of humor, and they throw great parties. When technogoddesss first introduced me to them back in 2004, I was badly in need of such a fun-loving crowd. Over the last year and a half, though, I have at times felt alienated from them; technogoddesss occasionally makes comments that remind me that these are her friends, and the fact that she and I are the only lesbian couple in the group (there is one other gay man part of the circle) becomes apparent from time to time. So it was nice to organize an event for the group and have it attended.

I was also very touched to be included on the invite list for the recent nuptual celebrations of a couple of members of the group -- even if it was because of my status as technogoddesss's girlfriend.

Lincoln, Massachusetts is an odd place. Its population tends to be very liberal-minded, but in the way that only the very old-moneyed can be. The town has tons of nature conservation land, but almost no public information about how to reach the trail heads. You can get a map of the trails, but instead of distributing them at a visitor center, you have to get them at the police station. It's all very informal and word-of-mouth, rather like the town itself. Well, I guess if you want to keep out the Wal-Marts and the hoi polloi, you have to sacrifice something. But even the hoi polloi can enjoy Lincoln's nature conservancy land if they inquire hard enough; entrance to the trail is adjacent to Lincoln's commuter rail stop, accessible via Boston's public transit system.

I found directions on a little internet backwater site, one with lots of twists and turns. At one point, we zigged when we should have zagged and ended up at the Codman House. One of our intrepid members discovered afterward that the Italianate gardens are not, in fact, someone's back yard, but a semi-public space that can be rented out for weddings.

( See the photo behind the cut. )

I still have so much shit to pack it's not even funny. Spent the night with my lovely technogoddesss last night, which was a great relief. My house has become this kind of black hole, a big energy-sucking vaccuum. Well, tonight it's all about stuffing crap into boxes and bags and hoping I remember to label stuff.

Furniture doesn't look like it's going to arrive for at least a week until after I move. *sigh*

Still glad to be moving out.

Adding to the surreal nature of the whole experience is my end-of-cold sensation of skating over the top of things, like one of those waterskaters whose little legs dimple the water but don't actually break through. Sinuses are now allowing air to pass through, but still impeding the important business of detecting scent molecules. Plus, my head feels like a solid block.

Tomorrow, it's onward and upward into my (mine mine totally MINE!) empty apartment.

Just for the record, I am, in fact, still living in rentsville. The snarky little map I made for my bud who's moving to Malden was motivated partly by jealousy, since he is now officially a homeowner. With all the rights and priveleges therein. Congratulations, Ed!

This is not your "winter wonderland, happy-sleigh-riding" snowstorm. No, this is your "Skadi woke up with a hangover and someone made an ill-timed comment about her having a bad hair day" kind of snowstorm. In addition to the solid wall of white outside my window and the mess of snow, rain, sleet, hail, frogs, lemmings, locusts, and other forms of precipitation outside, I have witnessed thunderclaps, lightning, and demonic manifestations. Not only that, but the commuter rail started running around noon. Highly irregular.

The irony is that I didn't make it into the office yesterday, when the sun was shining so benignly. But today, I show up in the middle of this mess. And here I am, plugging away at crap in this nice, cozy office with my space heater.

technogoddesss got to leave her training early, thank God/dess. She called me from Route 2, which is a road for suicidal maniacs during good weather. As soon as I found out she was calling me while still driving, I flipped out a little. I told her to throw a dime out the window for Ellegba-Elisha. He and the rest of his buddies had better be watching out for her, because Goddess know I don't plan on losing the love of my life due to some silly snowstorm. No matter how hung over Skadi is.

Even the the city, there is a silence that comes -- especially early in the morning. On a Saturday morning, waking up next to technogoddesss and knowing that I don't have to be anywhere. Knowing that my day will not involve a battle or an entree into anything like a hostile territory. Just love and the sweet smooth skin of a loved one in the bed.

It is not difficult to wake up, to get up even, on a Saturday morning.

We went to Toast last night, and I wore this black-and-red corset/bustier I've had moldering in the back of my pjyama drawer for well over a year. I finally took it out, and dated to wear it. I even got out the heavy equipment: the blowdryer and the curling iron. I had a great time dancing and being Glamour Queen Okelle.

And now it's Saturday morning and I have nowhere to be for hours and hourse and hours. technogoddesss is here in the bed next to me, and I am writing on her Toughbook. On her side between the pillows, she is lovely, pale and smooth-skinned. Even in sleep, full of dichotomy. This woman who can kick your ass but is much too polite to do so, more of a Yankee than me even though I was the one who actually grew up in Yankee territory. Okay, geek love only extends so far. It's time to put down the equipment. She has a sore neck that needs rubbing.

So I wrote to The Hoss last night like a good little girl and informed her of the new turn of events in my relationship with Technogoddess. I figured I would learn from my mistakes and not let her find out by reading my LJ. She wrote back to me today, saying (tongue in cheek) that she's always had great timing.

I met The Hoss while walking with Technogoddess across Harvard Square (of course). Hoss was on her way back from some JFK School mixer (a totally gay one), and Technogoddess and I were on our way somewhere else, I don't remember where. She looked at the two of us and said "separated at birth!" Which is totally true. Hoss is the only woman I've ever met with hands bigger than mine. And the two dates we went on were totally wonderful because she was totally my Daddy. In a very nice way, of course. Because girls are pretty, not stupid like boys.

Except for Sweet Boy, of course. And maybe my brother. But ew, my brother doesn't belong anywhere near the same thought as all these other people!

So what's my point?

That being nonmonogamous does not mean that I sleep with anyone and everyone, I guess. That relationships are hard.

That waking up next to my sweetie this morning was nice. Kitty purring on the pillow up above us, her lovely soft smooth skin next to mine. All in that early-morning sleepiness.

Later, she swung by and showed me her climbing belt and the back of her phone truck. I am so smitten. The woman cooked me salmon and rice and salad the night before. And in the morning she stripped the casing off a 25-pair drop cable and started naming the color pairs.

*pant*

I played hooky from the office this morning because there's nothing really urgent that needs to get done right now. I was walking in after a leisurely lunch at my favorite Asian-inspired tea house, singing along to Olga's Birthday by Rose Polenzani, and I actually saw a guy avert his eyes from me because I was having evident nippleage through my turtleneck.

Yes, boys and girls, we are back in turtleneck weather. I actually had to go into the cedar chest and remove my pea coat because it's that cold outside right now. And every once in a while, we get a little sprinkle of rain just to let us know that those clouds up there mean business. Kinda.

In addition to finally picking up my special order book from Pandemonium, I got to witness one of the many modern-day village idiots of Harvard Square scare the tourists and suburbanites. I know this lady. She usually wears a purple coat, and she has a perm -- straightened hair for African Americans, you know, the opposite of all those Jewish girls in my 8th-grade classes. I've given her money a couple of times. Today, she was crossing the street with a bunch of us, and I actually heard her say "Gooba Gooba!"

You've got to admire the freedom of a woman who can say "Gooba Gooba" out loud whenever she fucking feels like it.

Okay, so I admit that I was a little over the top. Maybe I shouldn't have threatened to damage his car. But he shouldn't have tried to sneak into that sweet spot right in front of the restaurant I've circled many times before, as I sat there patiently with my fucking blinker on, waiting for the current occupants of the spot to leave.

He had New Hampshire plates. In New Hampshire, at the Home Depot, it's not a huge deal if Mrs. Neidermeier pulls into that spot before you do. You might have to walk a few extra minutes to get your lumber, or your drain-o, or whatever. But this is not New Hampshire, buddy. This is Cambridge -- on a Friday night. If you don't find a parking spot, you may find yourself circling, circling, circling in traffic limbo forever. There's a lot of things you can get away with in Boston. You can sleep with whomever you want. You can flip people off, you can cut them off, you can wear T-shirts with obscenities on them, you can use Jesus or Mohammed as justification for all sorts of hatred and bigotry. You can intellectualize yourself into all kinds of trouble. But you do NOT fuck with people's parking spots. Not if you like your paint job, you windows, or your tires. You just don't do it.

So I backed into the spot -- halfway, because there was a suburban minivan pulled into the other half of the spot. Traffic swirled around us on Cambridge Street. I stepped out of my car. I told him to move.

"What are you gonna go do if I don't?" he said.

And that's when things got ugly.

Looking back, I have to say that I really don't regret a single bit of the confrontation. That bald-headed, arrogant, macho little motherfucker is going to think twice before he decides to tangle with another "stupid cunt" from the city. He shouldn't have called me a cunt. If he hadn't uttered that phrase with all the derision and nastiness it implied, I might not have tried to close the door to his minivan while his leg was in the way.

In the end, I called the police and had them mediate for us. It's a good thing, too, because we came awfully close to real fisticuffs. There was real fear in his eyes. Big Irish dyke from Boston -- who knows how many martial arts classes she's been to? And I would have felt awfully stupid coming up before a judge on assault charges over a parking spot.

The good news?

I got the spot. Looks like my taxes are paying for something after all.

(originally written 1/17/05 on the C line)

Everything on her face points up and out--a kind of Lucy Liu look--but she isn't Asian. Just the illusion of Asian. The plucked eyebrows, the eyeliner, the eyeshadow, the blusher, all pointing to a dragon-lady profile that may or may not be real. It's not overdone, either, like Tammy Fae. It's very subtle, very correctly Bostonian. Like her nails, dark-red but at a modest length, no more than one-eighth of an inch longer than the tips of fingers.

She is most definitely a Bostonian, dragon lady or no. She has been here long enough to adopt the dress, the mannerisms. The black coat, the sleek black hair pulled back simply, sleek. The particular tartan -- subdued maroons, simple, thin stripes against a tan background, currently in vogue with a certain set of young professionals. The same set of young professionals who favor expensive handbags, trendy neighborhoods, martini-bars, and granite countertops in their loft spaces. The blank stare. The checking of the watch. The brown leather pocketbook. And a penchant for trashy curiosity. She is reading Us magazine, all the latest details about Brad and Jennifer's breakup. She is ready for work. Flawless, impenetrable.

Until she stands. And I see the untailored hems of her pants, the worn moccasins on her feet. She is very young, I realize.

I consider the natural reserve of Bostonians, the endless procession of cold winters and cold faces that await me here. I contemplate the ill-flattering puffball of a down jacket I have been wearing for the past 4 yhears, bought at Old Navy for $50.00 one freezing day in November when my biggest concern was being warm, not looking good or fashionable. San Francisco seems like the magic answer, the same way Boston once seemed the magic answer to my endless commuting hours between crappy Connecticut towns.

On the C

Dirty. Grimy is what you think,
and how the Red Line is better, clean
more like--MTV
and then you realize the gift
of the man who doesn't care
what the marketeers at MTV
think the demographic wants:
all wrong and piecemeal with his
flannel shirt, american flag
wrapped around his head,
Red Sox bumpersticker clinging
to the velvet lining of his flute case,
the maroon nubbing open,
waiting for change
patient as an old good dog.

None of this registers at first, of course
only the ugly, the worn sneakers,
blue collar in a white-collar town,
until the first few bars of Bach
thread their way between the screeches of the trolleycars
and transform the thing from grime to good, clean soil,
all unsanitized, all gritty, all
miraculous,
the beating heart of the city.

Frances Donovan
January 2005
August 2007