Not pretty

“So tell me something about Heather S______ that I don’t know.”

That was Mr. What-Happens-in-Boston, sitting on the steps with me at City Hall Plaza last Thursday night. We were eating teeny tiny cheeseburgers from one of the 30 food tents, drinking Sam Adams and waiting for the Train concert to begin.

I want to believe he was just being friendly – he’s married with two kids – but I’m wary about getting too familiar with work folks.

My first thought: What you don’t know about me, you horny little honk-knob, could fill a book.

But of course I didn’t say that.
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“Oh my god. It’s a nightmare,” said Maureen Flatley, a political consultant from Essex. [USA Today, July 12]

While I was in Boston last week, a 3-ton concrete slab fell on a woman riding through one of the city’s infamous Big Dig tunnels. Her husband was driving and somehow survived.

From the convention center, we could see the emergency vehicles and news crews at the tunnel entrance.

Maureen Flatley was right about one thing: it certainly was a nightmare.

Except she wasn’t talking about Milena Delvalle, the woman who died so tragically.

She was talking about the traffic.

It's unfair to generalize, but Ms. Flatley was sadly representative of the native Bostonians I encountered during my stay. The 20 or so I met were a surprisingly crass, crabby and cruel bunch.

“If we can’t get those foreigners to leave, we’ll just have to start settin’ traps for ‘em,” said McNeil the cabbie, referring to the native Costa Rican woman crushed in the tunnel as he drove us to the Union Oyster House for dinner.

I wanted to ask the captivating Mr. McNeil when his ancestors came over from Ireland.

But of course I didn’t say that, either.
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As a veteran of software conferences, I’ve got a few tactics for dealing with creeps who try to get too personal. Here’s one of my all-time favorites:

“You’re pretty,” says the creep. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“Things weren’t too pretty an hour ago, lemme tell ya. I was in the crapper putting on a major concert and you wouldn’t believe the stench. Like something just crawled outta my ass and died. Whew-wee!” says me.

Works like a charm.

Of course, I couldn’t say that to Mr. What-Happens-in-Boston.
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So what the hell did you say, Heather?

“I was married in Scotland. In a castle by a lake.”

It’s good for two reasons: It’s mildly interesting and it serves as a gentle reminder that I have a knight in shining armor waiting for me back home.
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I am reading: 1776 (VERY busy weekend, but almost there)
I am listening to: Cherish – Do It To It
And I am: Pretty good