I know some people reading this blog live in Back Bay (and on Marlborough Street, no less!) Here is my neighborly warning, which I write as much to dispel some of my lingering annoyance as to actually effect any change.

About a month ago, Back Bay Laundry Cleaners, at 409 Marlborough Street, lost three of Tim’s shirts. They looked and looked, so they said. But the shirts are gone. Then, about two weeks ago we dropped off our duvet for dry cleaning before storing it for the summer. I thought that was very organized and Martha Stewart-like of me. We got it back, and it sat in its plastic bag for about a week in my closet before I got around to opening it up and putting it away. They must have sealed it up while it was still wet/damp, and it is now moldy and ruined. There is a sign behind the cash register that says something to the effect of: “Any complaints must be brought to our attention within three days or we are not responsible.” So I guess we missed that window, although the studious bar-reviewer in me is searching for other breach of contract remedies despite this disclaimer.

But, in the end, I just don’t have the time or energy to fight with them, so all I can do is write this post, which, fortunately, I think does not meet the necessary elements for libel.  I imagine that there are others — including the several people I’ve seen in there previously arguing about missing/ruined clothes (you’d think that would have been a warning…but it’s just so conveniently located!) — who would leap to my defense that I am hardly ruining the cleaners’ reputation. Moreover, since this is Massachusetts, even though this is not a matter of “public concern” (I don’t think), the cleaners would have to prove both falsity (truth is always a defense!) and fault.  So, if they sued me for libel they would have to prove that if this post were in fact a false statement (which it’s not), I also did not have a “mistaken belief” in this statement. If I didn’t have a mistaken belief, it would mean that I was negligent because I didn’t act reasonably to investigate whether or not their incompetence was true or not. In other words, even if I thought it was true, I should have tried to ascertain whether it really was true before writing about it. Anyway, can a business entity sue for libel in the first place, or is it just a personal tort (help me out here, lawyers and lawyers-to-be)?

(And I have just successfully reviewed the intentional tort of defamation while pursuing the much more enjoyable task of posting on my blog. Who says you can’t multi-task while studying for the bar?)

Not so much studying, but lots of family and friends. Priorities, priorities! Mimi (aka, my mom) was here from Thursday through this morning, which meant we also got to see lots of Auntie Jen and Uncle Dav, and Auntie Erin.  Friday night was a bit too much wine (although it was a wine tasting), but I had sort of anticipated that Saturday would be a wash from the start, so didn’t beat myself up too much for not really working. 

The Public Garden in the Murphy family seat

Summers, I’m beginning to learn, are Murphy family visiting season.  Various Murphy siblings descend from the opposite coast, from across the pond, and from down South for their annual pilgrammage to Boston (seat of this Murphy clan and, of course, many, many others!)  Last week we saw Susan and her kids from Ireland; today it was Karen and Ryan from Texas.  For the Fourth it will be all of them plus more (Paula and Griffin, Stephanie and her family, Babs — there are lots and lots of  Murphy’s…) in Falmouth. 

Tonight is our Sunday night ritual of pasta and pesto and a few Arrested Developments — we’re almost done with season three, the final season, but are buoyed by the news of a 2009 Arrested Development movie.  Are we cliche?  Decide for yourself, here.

View from my bedroom window tonight.  The weather beacon at the top of the Berkeley Building is green (yes, that’s a green light!).  Normally, the beacon’s light is lit as follows:

Steady blue, clear view
Flashing blue, clouds due
Steady red, rain ahead
Flashing red, snow instead

Although during baseball season, flashing red means the Red Sox game has been called of on account of the weather.  (Thanks Wikipedia.) 

In October, from my other bedroom window, I can see the windows of the Prudential building strategically lit up to spell “Go Sox.”  Despite my previous post on the yelling Massholes, sometimes I really love my adopted city and living right at its heart. 

When you live in the city, and one of your town’s sports teams wins a championship — which seems to happen with some frequency around here — the bars on Boylston street, the MIT and BU frathouses, the crowds going to or from Fenway (even when the Celtics win, people seem drawn to celebrate at Fenway…) all seem to empty out on to our little corner of the Back Bay.  With two minutes to go in the Celtics game I heard the first whoops through the open windows, quickly followed by the buzz of the police helicopters that would hover over our house for the next hour.  By the time I finally turned off the television (they were interviewing some New Kids on the Block — time for bed!), the hollering was full scale, as was the horn honking, much of the latter occuring at the traffic light directly under my bedroom window. 

So.  I am tired.  Not so much bar review happened today, even though I “skipped” class, intending to use up one of my four online replay allotments, until the website informed me I have to watch it all in one sitting.  Too late for that now.  Maybe I’ll just call it a day and try again tomorrow.  (Although I said that last night, too.)  I’m just far too tired to retain any information.  I suppose I’ll go to bed at 8 and get up early and regroup.  Along those lines (sort of): Tim and I have stopped drinking wine during the week (well, Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays.  And not a lot on Thursdays, i.e., maybe just a glass and not a 1/2 bottle).  Shocking, I know, but it is much, much easier to get up at 5:30 when no wine has been consumed.  Though we miss it terribly, and as Tim tucked into his first sip last Thursday (after the interminable three-day abstention), he happily (and in all seriousness) proclaimed, “Red wine is the best thing in the world.” 

Look-alikes looking very serious at the christening

We had Little Bug baptised yesterday — excuse me, christened. Tim and I went back and forth about doing a christening from day one (calling it a “christening” and not a “baptism” being one of my concessions.) Tim and I are both very, very lapsed Catholics. Indeed, we were married by someone we found on www.justiceofthepeace.com or its equivalent. I felt strongly, however, about our baby having godparents and marking her arrival with some sort of celebration (my grandmother always believed in “marking occasions,” and I have tried to continue that in my own life.) Whether or not our daughter ultimately chooses to be a Christian or even to be religious will be up to her, but I do think that establishing a moral touchstone is important. Tim argues that you can do so without interjecting religion. And it’s not because he doesn’t believe religion is important — he even thinks we could take the approach of bringing our children to a different service every weekend: temples, mosques, churches, the beach, whatever. But he doesn’t necessarily think subscribing to any sort of organized religion is the best way to teach kindness and compassion. An arguable point. Nevertheless, it was important to me, and so we compromised: Little Bug would not be baptised in the Catholic church, but we would have a ceremony.

I did some research into where: I wanted the church to be in our neighborhood, to be open and accepting, and to be some place that I might actually want to attend. We decided on Old South Church in Copley Square, a United Church of Christ (congregational) church — and it was perfect, for so many reasons. First, as far as religion goes, my grandmother also apparently believed that being a congregationalist was as close to being non-religious as you could get. Great! That was just what we wanted. Moreover, Tim’s mother, once a pretty good Catholic herself (obviously) now attends a congregational church. And the ceremony itself couldn’t have been more beautiful: a crisp spring day with the magnolias in full bloom along Comm. Ave. The Women’s Olympic Marathon trials were crossing the finish line at Copley just as we arrived, and the church’s bells clanged to greet the winner. Not only were two other little girls being baptised, but the church had its annual “Blessing of the Athletes,” in which 50 or so runners stood to be, quite literally, blessed by the outstretched palms of the congregation.

For the baptism, Tim and I, and the baby’s godparents — Uncle Rich and Aunt Erin — stood up on the altar, along with the children of the congregation, who had been invited to participate. After the blessing, the deacons walked the babies around the church to be introduced to the congregation. As the kind deacon paraded my baby around, and the choir sang the children’s hymn, “Jesus Loves Me,” I have to admit that my eyes welled up — and so did Tim’s.

The rest of the service was joyous: gospel songs, hand bells, drums, and ribboned flags being twirled by teenagers for the recessional. Our normally non-vocal baby babbled, laughed, and sang throughout the whole service, clapping her hands with the rest of the church. This church made a point of expressing its acceptance of everyone and its sense of community — and I think to the extent that organized religion currently does or ever will play a large role in my life, the idea of a church as “community” is what will keep me open-minded and perhaps even participatory. And I have always loved the UCC’s tagline, “God is still speaking.” I am still buoyed by the spirit of the day: by the baptism, the service, and the whole experience — from the marathon finishers, to celebrating the baby, to yes, even the church.

This morning Little Bug and I were up and out early: after a visit to Starbucks, we walked down Boylston and across the  marathon finish line. Already people were camped out in folding chairs (at 7:20 a.m.!) and police, tourists, and workers were buzzing about. As I write this, I can look up my street to Boylston, where the crowds are a bit thicker now. This whole weekend has been exciting — with the Red Sox playing (and pulling out consistent late-game wins!) down the street, the Charles River dotted with white sails out one window, and marathon runners out another window — and makes me happy that I live in the city. This city. Happy Patriot’s Day!

                                                                                      Little Bug and her godmother

Who said this blog can’t be newsworthy? My sister’s boyfriend told my other sister that the New Kids on the Block are rehearsing from 12-4 in Central Square in a studio next to my sister’s (not the one with the boyfriend, the other one) husband’s friend’s wife’s Pilates Studio. Yes, the news couldn’t be more direct.

The comeback is happening!

Here’s a little treat that even I almost forget is part of my lengthy resume: once I was a barista. At the Coffee Grinder in Ketchum, Idaho. I had these romantic notions that I’d spend my early morning hours serving coffee to quirky locals who would become my friends, and then in my free afternoons I’d ski or, of course, write. Instead I had burned forearms from the antiquated espresso machine, a co-worker who was 18 with three kids and eventually was fired for breaking into the shop at night and stealing cash (for her meth habit, it turned out), dealt mostly with snippy “second-home owners” (including one who actually asked me to run her latte down to the hairdressers — she was in a hurry), and was too exhausted from getting up every morning at 4:30 to do anything in the afternoons but nap. The owner seemed legitimately perplexed that I utlimately would accept a full-time job at the newspaper– and then she was even angry (probably because I was the most reliable employee she’d ever had…)

I did learn a few things: how to make foam on a latte (whole milk works better). And that a master’s degree from a nice school gets you nowhere at 6:30 a.m. with a line of uncaffeinated (and mostly hungover) skiiers out the door. But being friendly helps a bit.

So, having worked in the trenches of the cranky and uncaffeinated, I like all this recent talk about how to bring Starbucks back its original success — creating the niche, neighborhood coffeeshop.  Here are a few suggestions.  Admittedly, I don’t actually drink Starbucks coffee — soy chai lattes are my super-yuppie preference — but even Tim, going against all Masshole stereotypes, prefers it over DD. When I was in Paris a few years ago, I was compelled to at least check out the Starbucks near the Odeon Metro stop (the neighborhood with which I’m most familiar). The clientele (this was in 2004) was mostly Japanese tourists (surprise?) and French teenagers. I couldn’t bring myself to order a drink (not sure how I would have ordered a “grande soy no water no foam chai in French” anyway). Regardless of how horrifying a Starbucks in Paris is to purists (including me!), I do love that I can walk into any airport, any mall, or any city and get my fix — walking around with that cup is like my adult security blanket. I know, I know, if I add up all the money I’ve spent there over the years I’m sure I could have a Birkin bag. But as I’ve said before: as far as vices go, it’s not so bad.

What compelled me to write this ode du Starbucks? My mother and I are embarking on 21 days without sugar.  So I’m drinking decaf tea from home in a travel mug, fighing the urge to run across the street and secure a hot, environmentally hazardous, cardboard cup of sugar and carbs. Bye-bye chais… for now…

Don’t pay any attention to the alleged posting time above.  It’s really 12:57 a.m.  And that Justice Breyer, he’s a sneaky little liberal.  I even kind of appreciate his First Amendment jurisprudence, whatever that means.  He has been my main man for the past 36 hours (though he has been accompanied by several Starbucks grande soy no water no foam chais, which, thankfully, are back in my diet after a full flu-free day…).  That being said, I might be a little delusional too.

Oh, and Happy St. Patrick’s Day, which, happily, I won’t be celebrating with Justice Breyer (who has just been flung off into the ether to my professor, who, I should note, is pretty much my age but (a) was a Supreme Court clerk and (b) is a professor, for goodness sakes, and thanks to both of the above qualities, probably never has procrastinated on a paper for six months only to spend almost 36-straight hours cobbling one together for someone she’d actually like to impress). 

Instead, I’ll be celebrating it, appropriately, with a bunch of Murphys, including one visiting nephew whose name is, most appropriately, Ryan Patrick Murphy, and, of course, one Little Bug Murphy.

My night of Oscar-viewing was kind of a bust.  We took the Little Bug out for an early dinner (5:30!) at Charley’s, and then after putting her to bed flipped on Barbara Walters.  We didn’t even make it through her whole show, and by 7:45 were both in bed with the remnants of the Sunday Times.  And by 9 p.m., were sound asleep.  I had not seen any of the nominated movies this year — violence, blood, and suspense are not my thing.  Movies like Juno are my thing, and I did manage to see that over Christmas.  And on Saturday night we watched Gone Baby, Gone.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to see it at all (see above re: violence and suspense), but Tim convinced me that I needed to if only because it was filmed in Southie.  And, indeed, he got very excited at the scene that took place in the bar Murphy’s Law, which was just down the street from his old house. 

The movie raised some sharp ethical and moral questions, and the ending was perfect: I was wholly conflicted about what I would have done in Patrick’s situation — my gut instinct was tempered by the final scene.  To the big “you” out there:  Netflix it asap!  Anyway, there was one scene in the movie where Patrick asks an older detective where he’s from.  “Louisiana,” the detective replies.  Patrick says (in his thick, thick, but spot-on Boston accent), “Oh, I thought you were from here.”  And the cop says something to the effect of: “I’ve lived here longer than you’ve been alive, so how do you define ‘from here’?”  That’s a question that has long interested me, and especially as it is portrayed in literature (and, I suppose, film).  Inspired and awed by the mountains during my first summer in Sun Valley, I wrote my senior thesis on Wallace Stegner (a thesis whose title, which Lindsey actually came up with, shamefully escapes me! “From Myth to Mountain”? “From Mountain to Myth”? Something like that — sorry, Linds!) and how one’s attachment to landscape and geography has been manifested in the genre of “Western-American” literature.  Gone Baby, Gone was as much a movie about one’s attachment to one’s geographic roots as its underlying mystery.  The characters’ ties to the city inform many of their actions.  While I haven’t seen or read any of Dennis Lehane’s other works, I understand that Boston is as much a character in them as any person.  Perhaps this is also why I love the Spenser mysteries of Robert B. Parker — the minuscule details of life in Boston are perfectly captured.  But I loved these books even before living here; indeed, when I finally moved here, in some ways the city already felt familiar. 

A milestone on Saturday:  after a big snowfall, by afternoon the streets were relatively clear, or at least the snow was well-packed.  The sky was brilliant, but the light was fading to glowing by the time I went out for my run.  I ran down the Comm. Ave. Mall and through the Public Garden, around the Common to Tremont street, all the way down Tremont to the Aquarium and the waterfront; past Long Wharf and down through the North End.  At some point, not really knowing where I was but guided by a vague sense of direction, I turned left, and ran out of the North End, popping up by the Boston Garden.  I ended up on Cambridge Street, running along the West Side of Beacon Hill (past the new Whole Foods), and then headed out over the Longfellow Bridge and the left along the Cambridge side of the Charles, past the Mass. Ave bridge, all the way down to the B.U. bridge, where I finally turned around and ran back, now along hard-packed snow, to the Mass. Ave. and back over it — as the sun set on the financial district and Beacon Hill to my left — to Back Bay.  Eight miles!  I didn’t set out to do that much, but I neither did I set out with a clearly defined route.  Amazing that Boston is small enough that eight miles could take me over so much ground, criss-crossing the river.  I think what kept me going was my own unfolding sense of place:  I live here now.  I am a Murphy, my daughter was born here, and, after far too many moves between both coasts and in between, I’ve (finally) planted roots.  I still may neglect the Boston Globe for the Times, but slowly, New York City is fading as my geographic touchstone.  As the character in the movie suggested, nativity is not the only thing that makes you “of” a place.  The thrill of the first dusting of snow on the Sawtooths, the green Malibu hills falling into the Pacific, or, seen from across the wide Charles, the Hancock building glowing a firey orange in the sunset, roots me to my geography.  And this sense of place triggers an elusive, almost heartbreaking, ping of inspiration that I find nowhere else.