“The Red Sox are the new Yankees.”

This is the general sentiment in our great nation, especially from an outsider’s perspective whose fanship is not to either team. Even in Boston, I think we’re all well aware of the torch that’s been passed to us from the Bronx: we are now, officially, The Worst Fans In Baseball. The thing is, we’ve embraced it. We love it. We earned it. A new dynasty is born… (and goddamn it, it’s ABOUT TIME). (Ed. note: Think this guy is a stretch? You’re wrong.)

New Englanders in general, I believe, are perceived by others to be an obnoxious people. We’re loud. We’re proud. We’re pushy. We’re cold. We’re too busy for you and your stupid touristy questions. Which way to Cheers? Oh, you mean the tourist trap that sells overpriced t-shirts in Faneuil Hall and has nothing to do with the actual set of the show? Why don’t you just go get on a goddamn Duck Tour and drown. (Dear lord, if I never hear that QUACK QUACK QUACKING again, it will be too soon.)

So, yeah, we can be a little… abrasive, if you will. (You will.) BUT, we also the most fiercely loyal people you will ever meet. Ever heard the expression, “they’ll let you on the porch, but not through the front door”, referring to a type of Southern hospitality? Well, in Massachusetts, people generally don’t get within two feet of the porch… but if you do, it means you’re through the door and eating dinner at my table, and that’s where you’ll stay for life.

Here’s how I see it: this means that I, in typical New Englander fashion, identify the few people I love dearly and from that point on, they are in my circle. I will do anything for them. I will go above and beyond to make them happy, to help them in any way I can, to let them know they are loved.

By the same token, I am extremely protective of those in my circle. The words “If you hurt my friend, I will END YOU” have left my lips more times than I care to admit, and I’ve meant it. In turn, my GBFF has decked not one, but two different asshats who effed with his girl. When you’re a Masshole, the idea of ‘having someone’s back’ takes on a whole new meaning.

It’s not an easy circle to get into, but if you know a true Yankee, you know it’s worth it.

On the other hand, however, anyone on the OUTSIDE of the circle… is basically scum. It’s harsh, I know, but it’s true. Unless I have a social connection or obligatory affiliation with you, chances are I probably don’t care for you much. Especially if you’re standing on the left side of the Metro escalator when I’m late for work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not rude to strangers… both working in the service industry and living in the South have taught me the importance (and benefits) of keeping polite company (i.e., I usually keep my thoughts to myself.)

Am I glad that I moved to the Cack and, consequently, had my Masshole edges smoothed out a little bit? Definitely.

Will I still make anyone who fucks with my friends very, very sorry?

You bet your sweet ass I will.

Mama said share.

I had a kickass Saint Paddy’s Day this year. Being Scotch-Irish, it’s always one of my favorite holidays- who doesn’t love an excuse to throw back glass of chocolate milk (AKA Irish Carbombs) and sing “Too La Loo Ra Loo Ra…” with a bunch of sweaty, drunk-off-their-arse strangers? Oh, that’s right, everyone. Just checking.

Being from outside of Boston, that’s pretty much where I spent every St Paddy’s day… ever. I spent two in Key West in college (I highly recommend it if you can ever make it,) and this year, I wanted to do something different. I remembered during Spring Break one year when I was in Key West, a group of my girlfriends who were there literally packed up in the middle of the week, got in their van, and drove to Savannah, GA, just because they were supposed to have such a kickass St. Paddy’s Day.

(“Savannah?” you’re thinking… “Seriously? As in, the deep south?”)

Apparently, they know how to do it down there, Irish Catholic or not. (Mostly not.) It is a truly amazing celebration. Whether you’re on River St. (alongside the Savannah River) or literally down on the river bank (lined with bars, live music, bbq, and pretty much any kind of fun you could ever want), it was a whole different ballgame compared to Boston. I love my people, (I really do), but we aren’t, um, the most friendly people in the world. Down in Savannah, it was like I’d come home. Beers were shared, smiles were exchanged, dances were had with strangers. “Excuse mes” and “Hi, how are yous” are commonplace. Doors are held for others, and “where y’all from?” is expected if in a five-foot vicinity of another group of people.

Yes, I may be generalizing a bit, and I’m sure I was much more aware of my surroundings, considering my oh-so-different Yankee upbringing. But it was so… nice. My Bostonian bff, Carpet ‘n Drapes, who had joined me for the trip (and, interestingly, had spent 4 years living in Atlanta) looked at me about 3 hours into the celebration and said, “So, we’re doing this every year, yes?” Oh, definitely yes.

Could I live in the deep south? No, I really don’t think I could. North Carolina (for four years) was enough of a taste for me. While I wouldn’t trade those times and friends for anything, it just isn’t me. I am grateful for the traits that I decided to embrace as a product of my southern-exposure, but I just can’t handle the slower pace of life. And, you know, that whole racism thing. But I do love a taste every now and then (and I don’t just mean the biscuits)… I believe I will return to Savannah for many St. Paddy’s Days to come.

Mama said share.

This past weekend was my trip to somewhere-I-ain’t-never-been for April- Nashville, Tennessee.

And I knew before I ever laid foot there that I would love it, and love it I did. From the moment I got off the plane, the air was thick with honky tonk. Men opened doors. The girls were cute, even when their hair was teased an extra 5 inches tall. People made eye contact and smiled as they passed you on the street. Even the street bums were starving musicians, holding onto what was probably one of their only posessions, a guitar, and playing for dear life, often oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the street. It was difficult to find a bar without live music after 11pm, and not once did we pay a cover. The strip that was Broadway Street ended at the river, and was chock full of restaurants, and though we would have been hard-pressed to find one without a country feel, why would we want to? We were in Nashville, TN, after all.

I got in to TN on Friday after not going to bed Thursday night- I was bartending til 3, got home at 4, and had to leave for the train at 5… and pack. Funsies. So I sucked it up, and over my two flights (through Detroit?!? Who the hell booked this? Oh… right) I tried to squeeze in shut eye on the train, the shuttle, the check-in line, in the metal detector at security, on the toilet… what? Anyhoo, I felt a bit better by the time I landed in God’s country, and a much-needed nap ensured I was ready to let out my inner cowgirl.

BFF, BFF’s BF, and BFF’S mama and I hit the main drag for a killer dinner at the Broadway Brewhouse & Mojo (best. wings. ever.) Then we barhopped a little bit, but Kbo needed to get some rest before running the half marathon on Saturday, so BFF’s BF (we’ll call him M) and I scooped up his sister, H, and headed back downtown. I was not at all adverse to meeting some country boys, and brother and sister were glad for some quality drunk time together, so we hit bar… after bar… after bar. I think we saw the inside of 7 or 8 and were at “oh dear lord status” before we landed in what we would later realize was the devil’s lair, otherwise known as “Buck Wild Saloon” (see above picture. This was the bar’s mantlepiece.) Starting to get the idea?

The BWS had a pair of sisters running a karaoke show who were, honestly, absolutely amazing. They were just as good as Carrie Underwood (who I passionately love, so if you don’t, insert other young-and-talented-country-starlet-here.) We were drunk, enjoying their powerful duets and the shenanigans of their enormous and jolly bouncer as well, seeing as he was a 400 pound black man who had no problem gettin’ down- they were like an ass-backwards oreo cookie. A “voluptuous” woman outside the window (which the stage was next to) apparently liked his moves, as she mashed her mammoth breasts up against the glass, humping it for all it was worth. He responded in kind, singing to and humping the window, and the entire bar broke out into ill-contained snorts and guffaws, loving every minute of it

After the race the next morning, we indulged in an enormous brunch, cupcakes, and three hour naps, all of which were divine. Although we slept the day away, we had a fantastic dinner at the local Italian restaurant with all of M’s family- a kickass group of Kentuckians. We headed out on the town after that and heard some amazing live music. Unfortunately, everyone except me was sick and/or tired, so I convinced them to go home and had a blast at Tootsie’s before heading back to our hotel. I ran into a group of guys down the hallway- there were about 7 of them, and they tried to give me a hard time when I was about to go into my room at the other end of the hall, so 4-inch hot pink heels and all, I marched down the hallway and gave it right back. They were shocked, and thrilled, and we drank beers and swigs from a bottle of vodka until the sun came up, talking about ridiculous things you can only talk about with your best friends… or complete strangers.

My favorite moment was when one of the guys, who had passed out for the last hour or so on one of the beds, suddenly raised his head, looked at me and said, “I remember you. You got here a few hours ago… Have any of these guys hit on you yet?!” I laughed and told him not particularly, even though each and every one of them had made it clear they’d jump at the chance. He shook his head, mumbled, “Fucking fags,”* rolled over, and went back to sleep.

Verdict? Nashville, I love you.

<h2>*I do not in any way condone the use of this word, especially in a derogatory way… but if you consider it in context, it was pretty damn funny.</h2>

Mama said share.

I’m so tired. I got home from the bar (working, not playing) at 2:15 this morning, then as soon as I laid down realized I had mild food poisoning of some kind- not the vomiting kind, but doubled-over-in-pain, want-to-run-into-the-wall-headfirst-to-knock-yourself-unconscious kind. Funsies. So I probably got to sleep around 4.

Day job is not much better. In light of my favorite person in the office leaving and going back to school or some shit, I now support twice as many brokers, and all of them decided at the exact same time to give me some INANE project that we have no protocol or database to use to complete said inane project. Also, one of my fun-to-hang-with-but-totally-old-and-married bosses seems to be (trying to) flirt up a storm with me, up to and including securing tickets to the Maroon 5 concert on my birthday… for the two of us. Fortunately, it’s a Tuesday night so I told him it was very sweet of him but I will probably have to work. Unfortunately, as my bar is in the Verizon Center, as is the concert, he promised to stop by for a drink after the concert if I cannot attend.

Shit. Looks like I’m either working on my birthday, or being groped by my boss in the throes of a new wave British pop sensation. Fan fucking tastic.

Excuse me. I have to go convince one of the online gift basket companies to give us a huge discount on Halloween baskets, short notice, because the DC branch of my real estate firm gets no damn respect when it comes to marketing (budget-style), and send them out to 150+ potential clients, so that they can sit on their desks for three days before throwing away crusty candy corns, and we don’t even have a major listing to promote along with said corny Halloween basket.

It’s times like this it helps to know how to sound like a sweet Southern belle…

Mama said share.