IT’S FAMOUS AFTER ALL

At 10:50 p.m. this Thursday I will be setting off to Boston with Maggie in tow for a long weekend to celebrate the fact that my Dad is almost a senior citizen (sixty years old). What was originally thought as “no big deal”, is slowly making me insanely anxious. Not sure if I have reported my overactive and slightly macabre tendencies on this blog before (serial killers are awesome by the way), but let me say this. When I was in Amsterdam circa 1996 with a friend and was sick, that friend went out one night by herself - you see staying in a hotel room the size of a closet with a sick girl was not her idea of a good time in Europe. When I awoke in a haze of codeine cough medicine (sold in the drugstore!), she was not back. It was then, I came to the most logical conclusion for her absence, she was attacked and murdered. And as I sat in the dark thinking of her funeral, what I would say to her mother, she bounded in completely stoned, drunk and alive. Still my thoughts often go to criminally insane. Once I fell asleep in a tub, waking hours later convinced a serial killer was outside the bathroom door waiting to kill me. I stood at the door crying softly and getting dressed so that I could make my escape upstairs into my bedroom. Yep, I am that girl, the one who thinks someone is going to kill her but instead of running outside into the street screaming, I run upstairs to my room to my bed and under my covers. Because the knives of serial killers are nothing in the face of whatever Bed in a Bag my mom purchased that was on sale at Zayres. So, in an effort to curb my nervous imagination (the plane will go down), this week on the ole blog is Boston Week.

Those living in New England know of “The Famous Roast Beef”. It is everywhere and every sub shop has a version. Growing up I would often say to myself, why the hell is it famous? It’s a god damn roast beef sandwich with sauce on an onion roll. Duh. Flash forward to me living in San Francisco, PMSed, cranky, cursing and wanting nothing more that Famous Roast Beef sandwich. But it is no where to be found because San Francisco is famous for crab, sourdough bread, gay men and earthquakes, not roast beef. That is a New England treat, a tradition, and every so often, my brain will say to me - ROAST BEEF. ROAST BEEF. And I have to say, shut up brain, there is no roast beef here, but here is some fucking sourdough bread. But this weekend I get to say, one large roast beef, extra sauce please.