On snow, cops and New Year’s Eve

So, remember, dear readers, when I and two awesome ladies spent New Year’s Eve in Strasbourg, France, backs to the wall, praying we wouldn’t witness the fiery death of a 50-foot Christmas tree as drunk and jubilant unsupervised French people set off whatever fireworks they could get their drunk and jubilant hands on? Read here if not.

Clearly, topping such an adventure, which began with a Tunisian belly dancer and ended with us being locked out of our hostel at 1 in the morning, would be tough. But this year, that same trio decided to try, and since yours truly now lives in a big, fancy city, I said “Hey! Come here this year! It’ll be fun!”

For the record, it was, but given that I was scheduled to move out my temporary home at the B&B and into my new apartment that week, I’m not sure what I was thinking. The details of this move, y’all, which has stretched over nearly two months, are drowning me. I can’t remember simple phone calls at work because I fear my brain is full of the “ok, if I tell the POD delivery to come on this day, then I can pull the permit, and maybe the movers will show up on time. But if they don’t, then I…” type of details. Dog licenses (not done yet), a strange lack of cleaning products (did I pack them or decide to donate them to future tenants in Arkansas?), new furniture, old radiator heating systems, how to warm up leftovers without a microwave, how to get to the bus stop without freezing, while also not destroying my hair so I look like a Muppet for the rest of the day…these things are consuming me.

Still, this year’s New Year’s Eve was pretty stellar. We added a fourth awesome lady, Nicole, and scored a seriously tasty dinner at Tremont 647, which included wine/beer pairings and homemade donuts for dessert.

JPT and NW on NYE JB and SM on NYE

Dinner was followed by a trek in single digit temps to Boston Common, where we saw, among other things (but really, nothing could compare), flaming skeeball. Yes, the ice sculptures were lovely, but let me say it again. Flaming Skeeball.  Skeeball with flames. Or in other words, the awesomest thing ever. For the record, this brilliance was the brainchild of FIGMENT BOSTON, which doesn’t seem to have a working website, but seems a cool concept regardless.

Flaming Skeeball

Being that it was cold and we are all veterans of many a fireworks display (and seriously, how can you top flaming skeeball?), we disbanded our group early and headed home, ringing in the New Year on the Orange line with a few stragglers, which strangely made me happy. The following day involved a party in the suburbs, a visit to The Baseball Tavern to watch the Badger football game (and visit with a bunch of Michigan State guys) and a viewing of Saving Mr. Banks, which was charming and lovely. January 2 brought the first day of a blizzard; Jenn and Sarah spent it at the MFA and I spent it working. That night, as the city hunkered down and brave road crews worked in the whipping snow, the foursome embarked on an epic adventure to Harvard Square for dinner at Red House (lobster chowder, nom, nom) and a great show at American Repertory Theater called The Heart of Robin Hood. It was full of stunts and swordfights and washboard abs…ahhh, I love the theater. Warmed by thoughts of well-constructed leather pants and vests, we trekked home in subzero temps.

Then suddenly, it was the 3rd and I was moving the next day. Holy details, Batman, that I hadn’t even begun to consider, this while trying to get my friends back home as the air traffic in the Northeast snarled up, but good. We got Sarah off ok, but Jenn got stuck, so we shopped for a snow shovel (my first time in a Target with two stories and a special escalator for your cart) and headed back to the B&B in anticipation of an early morning.

6am dawned, and just under two feet of snow lay on the ground, with temps in the single digits. Jenn and I headed over to my apartment, fingers crossed that my neighbors would obey the TOW ZONE permit I’d paid a pretty penny for; um, nope. So, we called the cops and started shoveling, needing to clear a 60 foot space for my POD to be dropped off. I was starting to freak out, seeing all my planning fall to bits, wondering how many more hundreds of dollars I’d have to spend to get my stuff, when Officer Rawley of the BPD showed up. In addition to being completely adorable, he was friendly and helpful with a huge smile as he cheerfully looked up the addresses of the delinquent cars’ owners, then tromped into the building with me to help wake people up and get them to move. I knocked nicely and rang the buzzer once; Officer Rawley punched the button 10 times with a shrugged “Hey, it’s bettah than getting towed.” In the end, I was within my rights to get one car towed, but in the interest of not pissing off my new neighbors, I didn’t, and instead Jenn and I shoveled a Mt. Everest-sized mound to make enough room for the trucks.

The POD arrived, and the POD driver told us we’d done a good job ! and did his business. The movers came, and did theirs. Then Jenn and I went on a search for beer, eventually finding it, and had a wonderful hot meal provided by Nicole in my new, echoing, box-strewn apartment.

It was back to Paris for Jenn on Sunday, finally, and back to the apartment/disaster area for me. The thing about selling much of your stuff before moving is…then you don’t have much stuff in your new place. I’m muddling through with no bureaus, no tables, no couch, no microwave…and trying not to melt my credit card all at once with all the stuff I want/need. The apartment is a little careworn, but y’all. It has a YARD, a big one. I don’t have to bundle up to walk Sadie every time she has to pee, and this is worth more than a dishwasher. I mean it.

Speaking of Sadie, I think she’s settling in pretty well. It’s damn cold, so she’s not getting her walks, but she loves the yard and all the new smells.

Anyway, ramble, ramble. I’m a little too tired to parse my words or edit, so if you’ve made it this far, you get a gold star. I’m going to go stare at the boxes in my living room for a few minutes, and then probably hit the hay. Then again, I might skip the boxes.

Good night from Boston, all. It’s very, very cold out there for many of you, and I hope you’re remembering to let those faucets drip, bring your pets inside, check on elderly neighbors and remember the power of layers. And hot toddies.

Sleep tight.

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