Bostonese for the Tourist

Sure I may live in the middle of nowhere now (yes that’s a joke) but at one time, for many years of my life, I grew in the city of Boston. We don’t get the distinction of being called “The City” as any New Yorker knows, but as any Townie knows, we’re “The” Town.

We’re so much “The” Town that we still call it Town if we grew up with Grandparents who were first generation.

No, Ma (Nomar!) I’m goin’ inta’ Town. Get Bobby ta help ya.

They’re a dying breed as more and more people flood The Town as newbies every year. And who could blame them? I mean, talk about per capita number of insanely great schools. But only the wicked hardy folk can make it through a wintah in Winter Hill if ya know what I mean. Yeah, I mean the literal season of winter. That shit is rough.

We’re the ones with the accent. I mean, too many famous people live in New York so there’s really no accent anymore. Right? I really have no clue if that’s true at all because I don’t live there now, nor have I ever lived there. Not to mention, nor do I ever plan to. Ugh, shudder, no. Way too much ‘overwhelming-ness of everything’ in Manhattan for me to handle. Even Boston was too much at times.

So last summer I guess you could say I put that “whole town in my reAH view” when Matt and I moved to Phoenix.

Yeah, I like metro Phoenix. You get all of the New York food, attitude, nightlife, fashion, sports (though the Coyotes are much more Boston in the loyalty style of the fan base and YES there is a fan base for hockey in the desert). But you don’t have to deal with any of the drama of the subways, smell of trash wafting to the sky, honking/ambulance sirens at all times, number of people crammed together in such a small space.

But not too many people came here from Boston. At least not that I’ve found just yet. I guess all us Irish think the sun will melt us or something. Well I haven’t fallen into a puddle of goo yet. Plus, I know it might be a big secret we transplant types aren’t supposed to reveal but my skin has never looked better and I’ve never felt healthier since I’ve lived here. Especially mentally. We get sky here. And sunshine. And just like the northeast we have 3 months of really extreme weather.

Only difference is we need cooling as opposed to heat. And the good news there is that cooling is way cheaper to pay for than heat. Plus there are pools to cool off in. Plus, there are lakes to cool off in too. And mountains. And the coast is only three hours away if you go to Mexico.

So anyway, because I’m one of very few Boston newbies in Phoenix of course I’m going to tell everyone how wicked pissa The Town is right? Because I want them to go and check it out if they haven’t already. See the sights, meet the Townies, eat the food, get a hug from Gramma on the way out the door. Oh & honey, grab her a beer on the way past the fridge before you go, would ya’?

You’re a doll.

Thine Hawse is Wicked Stupid, Kid

As Matt and I were on our way back from the grocery store this afternoon we almost got hit while traveling through a rotary. Sometimes referred to as traffic circles or roundabouts, rotaries in the northeast are a special test of any motorist’s skills.

The rules of the road, at least here in Boston, indicate to ‘yield to the traffic in the rotary’ but unfortunately most people take that as a loose term and unless you are smack dab in front of them when they are approaching the circle, it is anyone’s guess as to just what ‘in the rotary’ even means.

I personally take it to mean if a person is more than half way around and on an approach to cross the place I am entering from, then I yield. If someone has just entered the circle from the next counterclockwise approach and not going to impact my entrance, I enter. To me this seems logical and has saved me from multiple accidents over the years.

The problem of course is that logic seems to escape most motorists, so when I am already in the circle I have to be on guard because their definition of yield may be just slightly different than mine. A good example of this is someone who not only does not yield but doesn’t even look to their left as they approach but rather, simply blasts on through because, well, clearly they should always have the right of way.

That is what almost happened today but the SUV came to an almost brake screeching halt just in time and we proceeded to exit the rotary, shaking our heads, with their front bumper mere feet from my door.

After it happened, we sparked up a conversation about how rotaries might have been a little more challenging back in the days of the horse drawn buggy. Picture one horse T-boning another as their carriage careens out of control toward the circle. With so much power the accidentee would never know what hit him. Poor horse.

Of course just like in today’s times -- ‘It wasn’t my fault, the brakes didn’t stop me fast enough’ -- we both imagined that the out of control buggy driver would surely blame the accident on part of the vehicle itself, saying to the guy with the broken wooden wheel and grain spilling from the back of the wagon --

“Yaw hawse is wicked stupid, kid!”

Of course I had to correct Matt and remind him this was back in the old days when people still spoke in proper English here in Boston; I assured him the crazy driver would have more likely said --

“Thine hawse is wicked stupid, kid!”

As we approached home and pulled into the driveway we started to consider some of the other road rage phrases that might be yelled out from the bench of one wagon to another back in the day. Stuff like --

“Stop chiselin’ that lettah ta ya Motha and drive!”
“Hey fuckah, how about puttin’ both hands awn tha reigns!”

One of my personal favorite things that I frequently utter to myself or whoever else happens to be in the car with me when I am behind someone weaving all over the road is “Go back to the baah!” Of course, in the old days they were more likely yelling “Take thyself back to Ye Old Tavehn!”

Thanks for the screen shot Google Maps.