Patrick.
It just breaks my heart that I love so many of my connections online and can’t trust most people that I meet offline.
“Patrick, how do you feel about beaches?” I ask, trying to entice him to join me. “Like, this next weekend?”
He laughs. “While I do love me a beach, Katrina has an art opening at her gallery this week.”
“Booo to the wife. Booo to Katrina!” I joke.
Patrick married her about five days after we graduated. That girl he’d had eyes on the night we met. A commitment that I thought was insane at the time. While I wanted to hate her for scooping up my best friend when I hadn’t fully vetted her, Katrina had turned out to be annoyingly wonderful. Endearing, charming, and genuine. Quiet, shy, and reserved. She’s an artist whose paintings in our school’s gallery showings blew me away. While I knew nothing about art, even I could appreciate that her shit was cool. She’s the total opposite of Patrick, butsothe best balance for my best boy, the wild extrovert.
I shake myself back to the present. “I did see a cute bikini I might like to buy,” I say. “While beach vacations are not normally my thing, I could do this one.”
“Throw yourself into that bikini and that vacation like mad! And luxuriate in whatever stupidly posh place they send you to. Deal?”
“Yes, boss.” I grin and hang up.
After deleting tons of emails, I message the hotel in Puerto Rico and let them know I’m thrilled to be flying out tomorrow and to be their guest.
Before I can even think about turning in for the night, I have to take cups of food and descend the precarious steps from the back of my apartment to feed the feral cats. As I make my way down the fire escape and into the alley, my heart kind of breaks to see so many animals scramble toward me when I again arrive with food. Maybe they need me as much as I need them. Despite how I try to care for them, they are always still starving, neglected, and desperate. The usual ones are there when I drop food into containers, including the group of kittens and their mother, who I’ve been watching over for a few weeks now.
Boston can be loud, and I’m used to the noise of late-night visitors to Newbury Street, but it can also be so beautifully quiet here at night. I love my neighborhood, even this borderline creepy alley, which is somehow not as smelly as one would think. The sky always seems darker from this fire escape, a bit hidden from the city lights, making it a cozy spot.
Suddenly, there’s unexpected movement in the alley, and I smile when a little peanut of a cat shows up. Such a darling gray striped kitten. How could his mom not love him the most? She and the other kittens chow down, but my guy seems to flounder, staying behind, even after she and his siblings run off. I bring him bowls of food and water and sit for a bit.
But I also die a little because he dines and drinks alone, without his family. But what do I know about feral animals? Maybe this is normal? But it doesn’t feel right. After basically sitting vigil to make sure he’s okay, I do feel odd when a scruffy little raccoon shows up, looking like a baby that’s lost its mother, and I watch my little boy feed beside another scavenger. He’s got a partner in this sad and grotesque feral life.
Megan Madonna will now have new instructions about feeding the raccoons too.
When I’m Twenty-Two
After moving out of my college dorm, I can happily call Boston my new safe haven, and I am in love with this city. After graduating, I bolted here without hesitation. It didn’t take much research to see that this was the city that should have been my home from the start.
From birth.
And from the moment I got here? Settled beyond belief.
Every corner I turn has another hidden spot with the best food. This city is incredible. The people, the feel, the food? God, I especially love the view at night. Driving down Storrow Drive with a view of the illuminated Charles River nearly makes me weep every time. The Zakim Bridge out of Boston? Gorgeous the way it lights up the night.
I spent forever wanting to escape my small Kansas town, and I did. God, I really did. Boston is it. This city called to me.
Who knew that loving and exploring local food could be a career? I try to embrace it without questioning it, just reveling in every fun minute that I’m gifted.
While so much of me hates being part of a food trend, I also tell myself that I was doing this shit before it was all viral. And who cares? It’s not about me—it’s never been about me; it’s only about who I can help.
While my income from of all of the videos of my restaurant love is really nice, I wonder if I’m being financially responsible. Everyone says throwing away money on rent is dumb, but it’s probably a rite of passage. And who has money to buy at my age? I’ve got to hope for more online partnerships. This apartment that I moved into aftergraduation is not great. Like, the potential is huge, but it’s definitely got its problems. It has two okay-sized bedrooms, a decent kitchen, and an actual dining room, but it also has serious issues. I’d kill to be able to afford something with more living space
The text I sent my landlord a few days ago has gone unanswered. I explained that there was clearly a situation in the bathroom above mine, as I could see the ceiling getting waterlogged and starting to sag. He assured me that someone would come out in three to four days. That it would be fine. And then I texted him the next day when it started to sink more.
“Relax. It’s all good,” he replied.
Telling anyone to relax is such a cue thatsomeoneis an asshole.
Starting my morning by walking into a bathroom that is destroyed is not fun, but it also sort of makes me happy because who doesn’t love being right? The ceiling above me has now absolutely caved in. There is wet plaster everywhere, and I have a full view into my upstairs neighbor’s place. I pee with a towel over my head and hope the tenants above me aren’t accidentally seeing things. At least their toilet hasn’t plummeted into my bathroom. Yet.
I text my asshole landlord with pictures.
Me:Are you relaxed now?
