The Pink Shoe Diaries

I love planning trips. I found out this morning that I might be going back to Lebanon in January (thanks to my ultra-generous cousin Maya) and I am in full on search for a flight that doesn’t keep me stranded over night in Heathrow for 8-10 hours. Normally I don't mind lay-overs, but i will be travelling seule, and even I cannot entertain myself for that long. Don’t you think that airports should keep all their stores open as long as there are flights coming in and out? The closed down/ locked up Stila outlet does me a fat lot of good at 3AM when I am slap-happy and loaded with travelers checks. Their loss, I suppose. In any case, I need to punch up my French, because last summer's "Puis-je have a cigarette?" just won't cut it anymore.

Anyway, yesterday was Servathon and we did, indeed get our service on. I knew full well I would have to wake up at 6AM which gives me no excuse for being in Boston until 1AM the night before, and no recourse to complain about how tired I was when I woke up at the crack of dawn. So I won’t. Meaghan and I made our way into Boston Common in the dawn’s early light and met up with thousands of other sleep-deprived servathoners to spend a day reaping good karma. I had forgotten how psyched about service City Year corps member are. Seriously. I mean, Meaghan and I pretty psyched and we could only muster an occasional “word!” and “Heeeeey!” in response to the speeches we heard in the Common. The CY-ers however, were maniacal. I love it. So after some brief physical training, made up of half-hearted jumping jacks and bendy excercises, we met up with the lovely Kate U. and boarded our yellow school buses.

Destination: Washington Beach, Roslindale!

Upon arrival, we played some predictable name-games, and then received our assignnment: we would be painting an elderly woman's apartment. Now, Kate and I suck at painting, which we learned at the “Forgot to Use Primer Incident” of 1999 at Servapalooza. We placed our faith in Meg, and we weilded our rollers and paintbrushes with authority, if not precision. Once in the apartment, after being told by our Boston Housing Authority Liason to "be sure and shake out your clothes when you get home...you know...roaches", Kate, Meg and I claimed the kitchen as our domain, not so much as a nod to 1950’s gender roles, but because it was nearest to the DJ outside who had been hired for the Servathoner’s listening pleasure. We attacked the job with a vengeance not seen since the Summer Clearance in the Lord and Taylor Shoe Department. The rule of thumb in regards to dead roaches, mystery mold etc.. was “If You Don’t Know What It Is, Paint Over It.” This method worked well for us, as did Kate’s ceiling painting method known as “Painting Areas That Are Next to Other Areas”. We took some fantastic pictures: Meaghan being overcome by the long-handled roller, Me precariously balanced on the counter and the stove trying to back-handedly paint the wall, and Kate positively coated in paint. By the end of the day we were high on fumes, delirious with accomplishment, and basking in the glory of our newly gleaming “Platinum Eggshell” colored kitchen. We saved the clean up for the bitchy hip-py girls in the next room. That’s what they get for eating our lunch! We then made off with our cute-but-married- Project Manager and headed for the Hills…Forest Hills.