I just got back from an hour long walk with Berlin through the suburban neighborhood that our apartment complex is set in. I started off the walk contemplating the couple thousand dollars it will cost us to repave our driveway this spring. Such are the concerns of a woman adjusting to home ownership.

It’s a rainy fall day, and something about how it smelled brought me back to where I was six months ago. Around this time every evening, I would have gone outside to the unofficial dog park to chat with other dog owners as our puppies played together. It was always the highlight of my day. I miss it, in fact. I wonder if the dogs would remember Berlin if they saw her?

And on rainy fall days like this, I would walk down to the bus stop, right across from a mom and pop Italian bakery that made the world’s best stromboli, and I’d commute into the city with all of the familiar 9-5 strangers. I wonder about the girl who used to take the 101 with me… the girl with the great hair. I wonder what she’s up to these days. I wonder if she also picked up and moved halfway across the country to a place where people spend $300 on a pair of cowboy boots.

Six months ago, I might have spent a day like today around the corner at the local coffee shop with one of my dearest friends, laptops open and getting refills on our mochas. To get to the shop, we’d walk past my doctor’s office and my hairdresser. And past the liquor store with a great wine selection that I discovered too late.

That was fun.

But you know what else will be fun? When that driveway is paved it will loop around into the backyard. And Matt wants to put up a basketball hoop. Last time Matt and I played basketball I schooled him. For reals.

And even though we’ll be living in the city proper, we still have nearly an acre of fenced in backyard. My evenings won’t be spent in the unofficial dog park, but they’ll be spent playing fetch in Berlin’s yard. And I think a year from now… next fall, we’ll be sitting outside in the backyard around a bonfire with some friends singing “American Pie” and stuffing our faces with smores.

I miss you, Medford, but I gotta be honest. I’d take smores over stromboli any day.

I don’t usually write about work on here, and when I do, I try to do so in a positive manner. Although I’ve experienced some pretty ugly work situations I’ve found that most issues arise from the simple problem that managers have little to no management training. It’s not really their fault; typically they’re promoted as a pat on the back for a job well done. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that they know how to motivate, encourage, and improve their employees the way they should.

More than anything, I’ve found that most supervisors are well aware of their many management failings, often attempting to overcompensate in ways that fall very short of the mark. They don’t want to be the bad guy, so they try to get in thick with their employees. Or they start to become insecure fearing that their employees will outshine them, so passive-aggressive behavior and throwing-under-the-bus sets in. Studies show that managers are often more frustrated after having been promoted to a position of management because of these added personnel stresses – the main reason I have never wanted a position as a supervisor.

This is all neither here nor there.

The reason I’m talking about bosses today is because I picked up my favorite mug to pour a cup of coffee, and thought fondly of one of my first bosses. She bought me this mug, a generous container that is perfect for holding in two hands on the back porch or snuggled up in front of a fire. Every time I use the mug, I think back to her and how she molded me into the professional I am today.

At the time I had a hard time appreciating Big G, seeing as the two of us could not have been more different and probably would not have been friends had we met at a local fundraising event. She was highly, highly intelligent, a strong woman who could think quickly on her toes. Grounded in politics, she knew how to be both careful and sharp when necessary. And as a manager, Big G had some enviable skills.

When you got on her good side by showing some loyalty and respect, Big G immediately rewarded you by taking you seriously. She would ask me to solve a complex problem, and after doing my research and hard work I was amazed that she took my suggestions to heart. She brought me into the executive decision-making process even when it wasn’t my business. She respected my opinion and always challenged me to bring a new idea to the table. Sure, there were some uncomfortable moments as there always are, but she knew how to encourage me even when it didn’t click that she was doing so.

Sometimes I really miss working for her. I miss how she would thank me for a job well done. I miss our spur-of-the-moment lunches, and meetings in her office that would last all afternoon as the conversation turned from work to pop culture. I miss working for an intelligent woman who held high expectations for herself – something I really respected.

Oh, and thanks for the great mug, Big G!

I leave y’all for TWO days and suddenly the traffic to Verbal Intent slashes and burns like Sherman’s march to the sea. I’m turning into a Southerner with all of the Steak n’ Shake I’m eatin’, and pretty soon I’m gonna come after you with a pistol and a rifle and a truck that is single-handedly creating the hole in the ozone layer. Come to the site! Read my posts! Comment! OR ELSE!

Ok, now that the Civil War is out of the way, let me tell you that Charlotte is changing my whole opinion of North Carolina and the evil people that live there. They’re alright! And the weather is sweet! And nobody here is breaking my heart like they were in college. So I might just give NC another chance.

But I miss my puppy and Matty tremendously. And last night he sent me a text message where he was holding up the “I love you” hand, and I swooned. But I also would have really liked a photo of Berlin, so let’s get on that, Matteo. Not that my phone is working at all because that replacement phone charger clearly does not work. Add that to the list of things Verizon has screwed me over on.

I’ll be back Friday night. I miss you, Internet. Do you miss me!?

Boy did I get spoiled last week. I got to sit back and watch while my favorite people wrote blogs and generated traffic for me. Hello, this is the life. It was almost as if God was looking down on me and saying, “You know what? She hasn’t gone grocery shopping in three weeks. Her bathroom looks like Nessie has been living in there for seven months, and her dog has recently decided it’s fun to run across the park far far away from her and not come back when she calls. Let’s give her some friends and some traffic and a swift kick in the pants!” I don’t pretend to understand the logic of the Almighty.

There were a few things that got me excited over the weekend. We purchased our domestic Argentinian flights and started to make some reservations for our vacation. Matt set me up with a Zipcar account and we ogled the Volvo parked down the street – available to drive on my every whim. I went grocery shopping and had so much fun that I came home and cooked for the first time in weeks. Scallops and brussel sprouts over pasta with a vodka cream sauce. We ate in front of the tv. Life was returning to normalcy and I was liking it very much.

Until I got the email. The email telling me that I’ve been rejected from Zipcar because of my highly suspect driving record. Apparently they’re not into my two speeding tickets on average per year thing. Bite me, Zipcar. I hate your Volvos sedans and Honda Elements. My dog and me are way too good for your services. Guess what we’ll do!? WE’LL WALK! AND WE’LL LOVE EVERY MINUTE OF IT!

I got coffee at the T station yesterday. There’s something about train station consumables – just a secret, unspoken thing that’s hard to define. They always taste a bit like fuel, always a bit too dry or too sweet, and always a bit stale. Not stale the way food usually tastes stale, but stale like elevator air.

Despite the disgusting taste of train station consumables, and the disgusting way you feel covered in grease from head to toe after eating them, they always seem to kick off some lovely endorphins in my body. I’m starting to figure out the many feelings that contribute to this happy buzz.

1. I’m usually listening to some really good tunes on my iPod. I’m traveling, so it’s music that rolls in continuous motion.  You know what I’m talking about. Think “Run” by Collective Soul. (Remind me to blog about Collective Soul sometime. Good story there.)
2. Traveling long distances by train has become a therapeutic need for me. I’m quite happy shoved in the corner of an Amtrak train – even happier if I wind up on a club car. There’s romance and relaxation in every tree you whiz by. So just entering a train station puts me in good head-space. Then add food, and I’ve wafted up to heaven.
3. The first thing we ever did as husband and wife was to hop the train from Boston to NYC for our week-long honeymoon in Manhattan. Between the Parker-Meridien, roasted peanuts, cool fall afternoons spent hunting down our favorite musical haunts, and seeing Les Paul live in concert, it was quite possibly the best week of my life. And for some reason I always equate getting on a train with good things to come.

Now if I can only fulfill my lifetime dream of taking the train from Chicago to Frisco Dean Moriarty-style. Although I’m sure I’d eat so much train food that I’d probably wind up killing a good thing.

Gosh. The Green Line, can you believe it? What a week to be in the PR department for the MBTA. Yikes.

Thanks for NONE of your concern. No, I don’t ever take the Green Line, but I could have used a few little comments or emails from people who wanted to make sure I was still alive. WHATEVER. NOT BITTER.

I know you come here, not out of concern for my daily well-being, but to read gruesome and revealing posts about me and my marriage. Oh, honey, I check the Google Analytics, and I know that’s what you want. So let me at least pander to the audience momentarily.

This morning Matty drove me to the T station to be a real peach and save me the mile walk. I was in my typical not-a-morning-person mood, and he struck up a conversation about the weird dream that he had last night.

Matt: I dreamed that I almost met Ed Cherubino. I was checking in to a hotel and they told me that to get to my room I should take the elevator to the 17th floor. When I arrived, Ed Cherubino would be there to greet me.

Me: Who’s Ed Cherubino?

Matt: A radio commentator.

Me: I don’t really understand why you’re so excited. Who IS he?

Matt: A radio commentator. Think of just any radio commentator and what it would be like to meet them. Who’s a radio commentator you would recognize?

Me: Howard Stern.

Matt: Ok, so maybe not. How about a TV newscaster? What TV newscaster would you recognize?

Me: Barbara Walters.

Matt: Why are you bursting my bubble?

Me: I just have no frame of reference as to who Ed Cherubino is. I’m sorry.

By then we had arrived, so I quickly kissed him and hopped out of the car. Good thing the Red Line didn’t break down on my commute. Oh the irony of Matt hearing about THAT from Ed Cherubino.