I said farewell to the Jerry and the South End just over two weeks ago, and moved across the river into Cambridge. I now have a roommate, Patti, who happens to be 57. So far, we get along swimmingly. I live in between Harvard and Porter Squares, and since I've discovered Harvard Sq. to be a whopping disappointment (only two coffeeshops, neither of which serves food), I've spent most my time in Davis Square, notorious for its hipsters. There I found Diesel cafe. Equipped with cozy booths, pool tables, and a undoubtedly intimidating staff, the cafe has become my new Francesca's. The following Monday, I said goodbye to the Atlantic, and spent the rest of the week shopping, a pastime normally reserved for the employed or independently wealthy. But after four months of trudging through the cold in my summer esperadrills, I figured I deserved to indulge. The Ray Ban purchase may have been a bit excessive, but I could think of no better way to achieve coolness. That Friday I went to get a haircut, and just as the hairdresser went to make the first cut, I panicked and decided my hair looked great long. I wonder if I'll ever stop having the "I love my life, I don't want to jump" experience every time I visit the salon. I left there with my hair a quarter inch shorter. Next stop was the nail salon for a pedicure, during which I got a phone call and neglected to pay attention to the stylist's color choice. I left there with bubble gum pick toes, fun for tan summer toes, not so much for pale dead-of-winter ones. I went to dinner that night at a friend's place, came home and proceeded to eat any desserts that Patti had left in the fridge, a habit I formed on my first night, when she fed me a bottle of wine to break the ice and sent me to bed. Starving, I snuck into the kitchen and took a few bites of her Mint Chip ice cream. This habit continued every night that week until the carton was empty. I felt obliged to replace it, and thus begins the cycle. I spent the weekend in New York, and the following Tuesday, I met yet another Midwestern Arab Enthusiast, this time at Simon's, my neighborhood watering hole. So far, the Enthusiast has basically been the highlight of my Simons-Diesel daily regiment, interspersed with too many naps and bouts of unwarranted stress. My mother arrives in town tomorrow for a conference, and when I asked Patti if it was alright for her to stay with us, she told me she'd have to charge $90. I thought she was kidding. Turns out she wasn't. I have the flu right now; the Enthusiast wants to take me for dinner, but I also got an offer for karaoke in Harvard Sq. I'll let you know what option I choose, which, given my aversion to decisions, might turn out to be neither.
