—from Thinking of You, a new play by Elizabeth DuPré
Last night, before the world went a new kind of crazy, Husband and I had a purely wonderful date: We drove into Boston, our beautiful city, and saw Thinking of You, a play starring two of our favorite people in the world, Mrs. Cynicletary and Handsome D. Our friends are fantastic actors and completely disappeared into their roles. The wildly attractive and cool Handsome D, who's got swag to burn, played a nerdy middle-aged nebbish with cause-of-death statistics at his fingertips, and the glowingly charismatic and universally adored Mrs. Cynicletary played an uptight petty bureaucrat, reviled by every other cast member. They blew our minds. And the play was fantastic, superbly well written and well cast. A lovely time was had by all.
The plot concerns among other things, what a leap of faith it is to be a Red Sox fan. Bostonians don't do anything half-assed; loving our team is practically an athletic event itself, we put so much heart and strength and muscle into it. And the odds are not with us, and we know that, and we know that we'll likely get our hearts broken. But we do it — because the Sox are at the heart of this city.
Listen, you know I don't care diddly squat about sports, but even I am not immune. When our boys are playing well, the local joy is infectious. You can't help but get caught up in it.
Today the feeling in our city is a little different, as you might imagine.
My plans for the day had been to purchase a floor lamp at Target. Bride Boy is coming to visit, I'm offering him two sleeping options, but one bed doesn't have a bedside lamp, and this must be rectified!
The Target I most often go to is located in the Watertown Mall, across the street from the Arsenal Mall, in Watertown, Massachusetts.
You may have seen it on the news this morning, post-explosion.
Husband couldn't go to Northeastern today to give a final exam. Good Neighbor Anne's Angel-Daughter can't leave her dad's house in Watertown, and my friend is understandably anxious and wants her cherub home. My financial guru $u$an lives five blocks from the Arsenal Mall and was awakened by the explosion, then heard pounding on her front door. (It was the police, checking that her doors and windows were secured . . . a fact that relieved her once her heart started beating again.)
But we're okay. Arlington is not considered "at risk," we got a reassuring phone call from our Town Manager this morning, I went to my scheduled meeting at Hardy School with the other Math Practice Guides and took the kids to a different Target. I told them that a fugitive does not flee to a close-knit suburban neighborhood where everyone knows everyone else. Husband and I are maintaining an air of calm.
It is scary, though. Boston is close but nonetheless – it's the city. We're the 'burbs. But Watertown — man, I could walk to Watertown if I had to.
One of our local pundits quipped, "You do not want to fuck with Boston. We shut the city down, and then we come after you."
I refuse to let the bastards get me down. We're taking the kids to Improv in Arlington tonight and then getting some ice cream, to support the local merchants who went to work as usual this morning. We will hold our children close, and we will hold our heads high.
You do not want to fuck with the Chardonnays.
Sending love and peace to all,
* These are the lines as written. However, this week the actor amended them slightly to say ". . . the Yankees suck — most of the time" because of New York's recent solidarity with Boston.
This week we are all one team — Yankees, Red Sox, and their hard-headed fans. Who'd'a thunk it?
p.s. Secured a beautiful floor lamp. Bride Boy will be pleased.