the pieces of my life

Ah, what will I write about when there are no more HBS orientation events left? But then, I guess that’s why I joined the Partner’s Club.

Tonight was the boat cruise around the Boston harbor. Which would have been a lot more pleasant had it not been raining and about 60 degrees. And if the boat ride had been 1/2 an hour; not three hours (everyone now, “A three hour tour, a three hour tour”). Actually, the whole thing was a lot more pleasant than I would have thought–we ran into the one cool couple we’ve met before and I hung out with some of Adam’s classmates who are really nice. Three people told me what a great job Adam did giving a presentation in class. Of course, three other people came up to me and asked, “Is it true you won’t let Adam wear khaki pants with blue shirts?” Apparently, for their presentation, they had all wanted to dress in the uniform, but Adam refused on the grounds that I forbade it. So they all wore jeans and white shirts. He’s a good boy, that Adam.

But then there are those folks who just make me want to scream. Like the ones who have obviously forgotten my name (no matter how many times we’ve been introduced) and they don’t admit it. One guy was introducing his girlfriend, and he introduced the woman sitting to the left of me and Adam sitting to the right of me. Skipped me completely but did mention me, “Adam and his wife moved here from Seattle.” Adam got only one smack tonight for referring to me as “his wife.” He did quite well otherwise. And then there’s the guy sitting across from us who directs his entire conversation to Adam, even though I’m there and actively participating by asking questions.

We hung out downstairs sitting in a booth the entire night. Upstairs the music was playing really loudly. Not surprisingly, we sat at a table where everyone had a boyfriend or girlfriend. When we walked upstairs to leave, there were three huge circles formed of human bodies, swaying drunkenly to Billy Joel’s “The Piano Man.” Everyone was singing and swaying, swaying and singing. It was just like prom, but way more pathetic. As I whispered to Adam, “You’re wishing you were single right now, aren’t you?” we made a run for it. I bet they are all still singing and swaying, although most of them have probably moved on to their dorm rooms.

I’ve been a delinquent blogger. Job hunting–the networking, the classified searching, the writing and rewriting of cover letters and resumes–is a full-time job. That combined with my freelance job (proofing a mystery) has left little time for things such as blogging. But I think of you all often! I’m so digging the comments feature. I feel like I’m having a dialogue with everyone. Almost seems like I’m not on a computer sitting in my office in Arlington, but out in the real world communicating with people.

Sunday was the final rush of HBS activities. The day started with the Partner’s Brunch. Anyone want to guess what they served at a Partner’s Brunch at 11 a.m. on a Sunday. Oh, no, don’t be silly. There were no eggs. No, no toast or bacon either. What, are you delusional? Of COURSE there was no coffee or tea. Yikes! These Partners would never make it in Seattle. It was high tea. At 11 a.m. Tiny sandwiches (smoked salmon, at least, and cucumber and chicken salad, with pbj for the kids) with the crusts cut off. Veggies and dips. Pear and guava juice. Scones with whipped cream and strawberries. Iced tea was the only form of caffeine. And teeny little plates. I took three trips through the food line before I was close to sated. I should have known we were in trouble when we drove up and Adam said, “Oh, look, we’ve entered the land of SUVs and mini-vans.” I bonded with the one other woman I found who is not a CWIT (corporate-wife-in-training). The most horrifying thing? The women, who have the same last name as their husbands, who still felt compelled to write on their name tags, “with so-and-so” or “wife of so-and-so” as in “Minnie Mouse, wife of Mickey.” You all know what my name tag said right? Everyone now: Jenny Brown.

So, you’re probably saying to yourself, it was the last partner’s event. Big whoopdeedoo, now you’re done. Only… I paid my $125. I know, I know, I’m a masochist. I don’t know why I did it, but if nothing else, it should give me great writing material. And besides, maybe there will be one or two non-CWITs in the group. I already got my first invite to a partner’s event. A golf outing. Gee, what shall I wear?

That evening was a barbecue, which was fine enough. I realized how Seattle I am when I, a devoted non-vegetarian, pointed out in disgust to Adam that there was no vegetarian option. I think he was equally surprised. But the chicken and burgers were fine, and I’m done with HBS. Oh, well, at least until tomorrow night when we take our boat cruise around Boston.

In case anyone was wondering, neither Resolve nor a steam cleaner will remove large splotches of Light Heather Gray from carpet stairs. In case anyone was wondering why there are large splotches of Light Heather Gray on our carpet stairs, well, take Adam. Take one extension ladder. Take one paint roller tray full of Light Heather Gray. Voila! Splotches. Large ones.

Conversation of the evening [At HBS’s Casino Night]:

Me: Oh, you went to Princeton? I know a lot of folks who went to Princeton. What year were you?

HBS student: ’97

Me: No, don’t know anyone in ’97. I know folks who are older.

HBS: What year were you?

Me: ’89.

HBS: High school?

Me: No, college.

HBS: No, high school?

Me: No. College.

HBS: Oh.

And, yes, Adam slipped and called me “wife” twice this evening.Oh, how I love Boston.

Tonight was an HBS happy hour at Spangler, the most ostentatious student center ever created. The happy hour was fine, met some lovely people. Met some of the partners (read: wives; I met not a single boyfriend/husband who would be staying in Boston) who told me I had to join the Partners Club. So I checked it out. $125 for two years, so that I can make friends, too. Gee, they even have a day when we get a case and a professor comes and discusses it with us as if we were real HBS students! The application form asks where I went to college (no mention of grad school, but then what’s the point of grad school when all these lovely women already have their M.R.S. degrees) and I get to choose from a list of hobbies. Yes, running and biking are on there. My other choices? Scrapbooking, Quilting, Knitting, Dancing, Cooking. I got a packet of information. Apparently, grammar and spelling–and even spell check–are optional for partners: “HERE ARE A FEW RESTAUARANT RECCOMMENDATIONS FROM PARTNERS THEMSELVES.” I kid you not. I asked Adam if his student package included a list of local grocery stores. He laughed. “Um, no!” Because the partners’ packets did.

The word “wife” has been banished from Adam’s vocabulary. I’m having a mild identity crisis here. Back home, I was a writer, an Amazonian, a board member, a runner, a biker, and a KAG among other things. Oh, yeah, and Adam was my boyfriend and then husband. But here, here I am few of these things. Yes, I’m a writer (“So where do you write right now? Oh, nowhere? Ah, I see”) and I am unemployed (not an identity I plan to embrace). And, oh, yes, I’m Adam’s wife. That’s how people know me here. “Oh, you’re Adam’s wife.” I already have issues with the fact that everyone assumes my last name is Medros. After telling Adam about this little crisis of mine he made the mistake tonight of saying to someone, “My wife loves sushi.” An innocuous statement, yes. A true statement, yes. A statement made with pride and love (I know he adores being married). But mere seconds after it came out of his mouth he saw my glare and instantly knew his mistake. He is now forbidden to refer to me as his wife in any circumstance. He can be my husband all he wants, but I shall not be “wife.” My name is Jenny Brown. Everyone now: Jenny Brown.

I’m not sure why I find the Who Would You Kill? site amusing, but I do.

The thing about keeping a weblog is that now that I know folks are going to be checking in to see what I’ve been up to, I feel obligated to update on a fairly regular basis. Problem is, I don’t always feel like saying much. I was going to write yesterday about our day (party at Adam’s parent’s house in Portsmouth, bargain shopping at the outlets in Kittery–Eddie Bauer flannel sheet sets for $30!–lobster dinner in Maine before heading back), but I was simply too beat when I got home. Today, well today was a less than exciting day. We had bought a bed and mattress on Saturday (and finally ordered blinds for the living room. I feel like an exhibitionist when I sit in the living room at night as we’re so visible to the outside world), so we finished up the bedroom to get ready for the mattress delivery today. I steamed cleaned the carpet (a short, grayish speckled, rather industrial looking carpet) a bunch of times and Adam finished painting the window trim. All that’s left is minor touch-ups. This morning we put the bed together and I began unpacking our bedroom belongings. We’re still not going to sleep in the room tonight, because it was too difficult to clear a path to the bed. Tomorrow we’ll be up there. The mattress is a hoot–it’s firm, but what’s so special about it is it’s the offical mattress of the last Olympics. Yes, you heard me. There is an official mattress. I guess those athletes really care what they’re sleeping on. What a shame that folks won’t be able to see the “USA” print on the mattress. Buying the mattress was a hoot. We went in and they all felt the same to me. A couple were slightly mushy, so I said no to them, but then Adam found one–$100 over our price range–that he was convinced was the mattress. Whatever. I’ve got a place to sleep at night and we now have a working guest room, so I’m satisfied.

But life feels a little dull right now. I’m going to start freelancing a little again (proofing and copyediting) until I find something more permanent. Or, who knows, maybe I’ll freelance for a little while. I’ll have to try it on and see how it feels. If it gives me more time to write, then maybe that’s how it’ll be. I need to find a writing group, though. If anyone knows of any writing groups in the Boston area, let me know!

Tomorrow we start painting Adam’s office and then we begin repainting the library. Yep, that’s right. Rose Taupe is on its way out and Lilac Heather Gray is on its way in. Rose Taupe looks beautiful in the hallway, but was simply too rose for an entire room. Ah, the joy of paint.

Okay, today’s duty fulfilled. Not very inspired, but that’s how it goes sometimes.

So, obviously moving a household full of furniture generates a lot of waste. Before our move, our helpful, friendly Allied mover supplied us with a basement full of boxes as well as pretty new newsprint paper for all our boxing needs. We had bags full of peanuts from our wedding presents and we scraped together rolls of bubble wrap–some new, some used. Upon arrival in our brand not-so-new home (but looking newer every day now), we had a lot of trash. Oh yeah. Now, I’m not an environmental person by any means of the imagination. I drive alone when I could take the bus (or, now, the T). I don’t print on both sides of the page. And I’ve never even thought about hugging a tree.

But recycling? Well, they make that pretty easy for you don’t they? In Massachusetts, they even give you back 5 cents for every can or glass you bring back to the store (digression: what ever happened to the cents key on the keyboard? It used to be there, once upon a time, didn’t it? Are cents that obsolete that they don’t even rate the tiny spot above the numbers? Who did it lose out to?). Or, you can do what I did, which is go to town hall and pick up a pretty blue tin for all your plastic-glass-tin recycling needs (which is what we’ll continue to do unless I get really desperate in the job hunt and find that getting my deposit back is an economic necessity). While at town hall, I picked up this nifty little pamphlet that explained all our recycling needs. Happily, curbside recycling will pick everything up (just like curbside garbage–they will pick up anything! We left out five bags, three cans, a shoe rack, a metal file cabinet, and a bathroom sink [really!], and they took it all. Their only condition is that you call for major appliances because they send around a different truck. No wonder our taxes are so high. Hey, is it pathetic that I’m reduced to blogging about my garbage?]. But there are requirements around recycling. All cardboard had to be bundled up in stacks no more than 30 inches. So we bundled. And bundled. And bundled. We had about six stacks of cardboard. We put all our paper into paper bags. To be especially green, we took our Styrofoam peanuts (how many folks know that Styrofoam is a trademarked word and therefore must be capped? I know this because the lovely people at Dow Chemical wrote me a nice letter attesting to this fact when I was a production editor for a series of mystery books in which the word “Styrofoam” appeared in the lowercase) and bubble wrap to our local mail company for reuse. We are the coolest of the non-cool recyclers.

Or so we thought. “Hey,” I said to Adam, “no one else has recycling out.” We checked our calendar three times, and yes, indeed, today was our recycling day. Which means none of our neighbors recycle. Dorothy, I don’t think you’re in Seattle anymore.

I wake up around 7:30 this morning to the sound of a truck outside. I’m pleased because the mess in our front yard is a good 10 feet long and a bit of an embarrassment. Yet, when I peer out the window, our garbage is gone… along with our myriad stacks of cardboard. Our lonE blue box of cans remains. Those garbage people–the same garbage people who were the saints last week for taking the bathroom sink–are now idiots who trashed our beautiful recycling. An hour later the recycling truck comes and sweeps off our cans/bottles/plastic. Ugh. Even my non-green heart feels blue over that one. Those beautiful trees sitting in a landfill. Adam and I consoled ourselves by saying to each other, “Do you think, maybe, the garbage truck picks up the paper recycling? Maybe the recycling truck can’t handle it? Yeah, that must be it.” Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.

[Side note: I think all my desires for writing come from my grandfather, Poppy, who used to be an avid reader of New Yorker (although he was always chronically behind, because he read them in their entireity and he was quite slow; I mean that entirely in the physical, not intellectual sense, as he was a very clever man), was constantly writing and submitting bon mots to local papers. He used to type everything up, and I have his old typewriter, an Olympia, that I’m guessing is from the late ’60s or early ’70s. Anyway, I’m checking out the keyboard and the cents key is on the lowercase of the @ key, next to the colon/semi-colon key. It’s where you’re ” and ‘ key is now. Back then, the quote sign was on top of the two and there was no “1” key, because the “l” key served the same purpose. There are plenty of other differences, but it’s pointless to go into them here.]

Not Poppy’s, but the same model. Click on it to see the keys.

Okay, we’ve hit that point in painting where I’m getting so sloppy that even I can’t watch me paint.