Boston on My Mind

The dude and I flew up to Boston on Saturday because my FIL breezed "into town." Unfortunately, we hadn't made firm plans, so even though he knew we were coming in at lunchtime, he wasn't in his room to take our call. He was in the lobby waiting for us to show up. (Is that logical, I ask you?) We had called his room several times before going to lunch. He, of course, needed lunch once we decided to go to the hotel to see if we could find him. The afternoon was pretty shot. We ended up taking a tour of the Old State House Museum. Surprisingly enough, even though we always went to Boston on school field trips and we always walked past that particular museum on the trek from Faneuil Hall to Filene's Basement--a biannual journey--I'd never made a visit. My knowledge of Boston's geography is passable; my knowledge of the history is shockingly bad. At least I've done something to ameliorate that. (I can do the accent very well. Hollywood, call me!)

On Sunday we went to the JFK museum. We could only do one thing because my FIL made lunch plans with someone without asking us. Following lunch, we didn't really have time to do much. My FIL's flight was at 7ish, so we sat around in the bar drinking tea and talking. I worked on a scarf I am knitting for Christmas. My FIL was fascinated by my flying fingers, so I can't not make one for him. Today I purchased the yarn for that. Then we took him to the airport. It's a good thing we went with him. The cab driver dropped us off at Virgin America instead of Virgin Atlantic. I don't know how my deaf, hobbling, old FIL would have made it to Terminal E without us. We got him a wheelchair and left him in the capable hands of the airport staff. He hasn't called us to tell us he arrived safely, though, so he probably got rolled. He's wandering around Logan in a daze.

Monday morning we had to ourselves, but we didn't have enough time to go to the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum that I really really wanted to go to. (It's on my 101 List.) Boo-frickin'-hoo, huh? But the dude more than made up for it. He took me here:

When I was a kid it was such a treat to go here. So many buttons! So much fabulous fabric! It has definitely changed, but it was still worth a visit. I bought new buttons for my short coat--the one that is missing buttons. And when I walked by this wall

I was reminded that the selection at Joann's hadn't yielded anything with which to trim my sister's "Jane Austen box." The one I chose is just out of the shot.

I had reason to travel to the city this morning--I am networking like a woman making up for spending five years with her nose to the grindstone--and I saw this bit of clever from the students (I'm assuming) at the University of the Arts or UArts as it's known around these parts. I wonder if Degas was known for his poker face? Did he have a bad romance? (Sorry.)

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You've asked me some questions, so it's only polite for me to answer you.

Cin asked: If I recommend "Palace Walk" by Naguib Mahfouz, will you hate it? No. Because I've already read it.


Susan wondered: Just curious why Misogynies made you angry. And what particularly about The Happiness Project inspired you? Misogynies made me angry because misogyny makes me angry. Doesn't it make you angry? Smith catalogs (mostly) contemporary instances of misogyny in Britain, and they are appalling. As for my inspiration, I've taken away similar advice: "do it now," and "do what ought to be done." I'm still really imperfect at following that. 


I find it remarkable how many people recommended books to me. And The Help even. One of my minor quibbles is that I can't stand a book written in dialect. I have read plenty of them, including ones written by authors who actually talked that way. I hate to sound all snotty, but when I say I hate book recommendations, I mean it. I'm not just waiting for you to give me the right one. But it's okay because I won't inflict my reading tastes on you either! Let me tell you how I really feel...


Staci asked: Do you look at those projects now and remember the situations of working on them? I guess I would if I owned them. I do remember walking by the cactuses I stitched for my mother* when my father was in the hospital and thinking about the time my father asked me what I was stitching. I showed him (it was part of a saguaro cactus) and he asked, "What's that? A toilet?" I guess I recall the happy aspects of an unhappy situation. 


Re: writing on my bum. As Dr. Phil once said** (in a completely different context), "It takes two yeses, but only one no." And the dude offered a resounding no--not that he waited to hear my no, but it only takes one.


*She had a room decorated in the ubiquitous 80-90s southwest style, blech.
**Not like I give any weight to what he says. I just saw this one episode and was so appalled by how much he favored the men in the scenario, that I couldn't help but watch. That quote was what I took away from the show.