If you don’t live in New England, you might be unaware of the delicate social nuances that must be followed if you want to survive in our region. It’s not just about the crazy weather, or the potholes on the highway that must be navigated like an obstacle course. No, it goes deeper than that.
On Monday, it was a balmy 22 degrees out when I made my first gaffe of the week. I’d followed my old tried-and-true “throw on clothes that are clean” method, inadvertently selecting a midnight green shirt, black pants, a charcoal cardigan, and silver jewelry. I received no less than 46 death threats on my walk into work. Turns out these are the official colors of the Philadelphia Eagles, whom the New England Patriots had played the night before. My outfit was an affront not only to all things holy about football in general, but a direct insult against Tom Brady in particular. Luckily, my boss let me go home at lunchtime to change, mostly because he was embarrassed to have me working for him.
Tuesday, I made another silly mistake. I stopped for gas, and decided to go inside the Cumberland Farms to get a cup of coffee while the fuel was pumping. As I strolled to the counter with my steaming cup, I foolishly smiled at the cashier and wished her a good morning. Something you should know about Connecticut people in particular: we do not greet each other at the store or anywhere public in general, unless we’re related by blood. The cashier’s eyes widened and she hit the silent alarm in panic. You can imagine how fun it was to try and explain to the cops that I’d simply had a momentary lapse of antipathy. After searching my person and my car, they had to let me go, though one issued a warning when I told them to have a nice day.
Wednesday, which was sunny and fifty degrees with a chance of frost overnight, I went to the cafeteria to grab a much-needed cup of coffee. The percolator was, to my horror, empty. I asked the cashier if more was being brewed in back. “Nah. Why don’t you grab a coffee milk instead?”
“Because the point of coffee is caffeine. There’s no caffeine in coffee milk. That’s more like a dessert drink.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I don’t want a coffee milk. I am not five. I’m a grown woman, and I drink actual coffee.” I couldn’t help it. The hostility was coming through in my tone, probably due to lack of caffeine. But she seemed to respond better to anger than politeness.
“There’s a Dunkin’ down the street,” she offered.
I didn’t want to point out that Starbucks makes better coffee. I was just glad she didn’t take my refusal to drink candy milk as a personal slur against Tom Brady.
I just couldn’t seem to get anything right this week. I forgot to bring a reusable bag into the grocery store, and a ninety-four-year-old lady warned me I’d better juggle my groceries to the car rather than give the governor of Connecticut one dime toward his stupid tax on plastic bags. (She followed me to my car, whacking me on the knee with her cane every time I mis-juggled.) I wore my winter coat on a day when it unexpectedly rained, snowed, and hit a high of 76 degrees. I mispronounced Coventry as Coventry, saying it the way Rhode Island people do (“Coven-tree,” like a witches’ coven, instead of “Cawven-tree,” which I can’t even believe I did, because everyone knows Connecticut people don’t have accents, and the way we pronounce everything is the right way). It was a bad week. My boss asked me if I was sure I was even a New Englander.
“I swear I am. I still miss the Hartford Whalers, I’ve had Lyme disease twice, and I firmly believe apple cider vinegar cures everything from sinus infections to nail fungus.”
He said he believed me, but he looked wary. “I’ve got my eye on you. What’s that you’re wearing today? Are those the official colors of the Dallas Cowboys? Go home and change!”
New England: enter at your own risk.
On Monday, it was a balmy 22 degrees out when I made my first gaffe of the week. I’d followed my old tried-and-true “throw on clothes that are clean” method, inadvertently selecting a midnight green shirt, black pants, a charcoal cardigan, and silver jewelry. I received no less than 46 death threats on my walk into work. Turns out these are the official colors of the Philadelphia Eagles, whom the New England Patriots had played the night before. My outfit was an affront not only to all things holy about football in general, but a direct insult against Tom Brady in particular. Luckily, my boss let me go home at lunchtime to change, mostly because he was embarrassed to have me working for him.
Tuesday, I made another silly mistake. I stopped for gas, and decided to go inside the Cumberland Farms to get a cup of coffee while the fuel was pumping. As I strolled to the counter with my steaming cup, I foolishly smiled at the cashier and wished her a good morning. Something you should know about Connecticut people in particular: we do not greet each other at the store or anywhere public in general, unless we’re related by blood. The cashier’s eyes widened and she hit the silent alarm in panic. You can imagine how fun it was to try and explain to the cops that I’d simply had a momentary lapse of antipathy. After searching my person and my car, they had to let me go, though one issued a warning when I told them to have a nice day.
Wednesday, which was sunny and fifty degrees with a chance of frost overnight, I went to the cafeteria to grab a much-needed cup of coffee. The percolator was, to my horror, empty. I asked the cashier if more was being brewed in back. “Nah. Why don’t you grab a coffee milk instead?”
“Because the point of coffee is caffeine. There’s no caffeine in coffee milk. That’s more like a dessert drink.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I don’t want a coffee milk. I am not five. I’m a grown woman, and I drink actual coffee.” I couldn’t help it. The hostility was coming through in my tone, probably due to lack of caffeine. But she seemed to respond better to anger than politeness.
“There’s a Dunkin’ down the street,” she offered.
I didn’t want to point out that Starbucks makes better coffee. I was just glad she didn’t take my refusal to drink candy milk as a personal slur against Tom Brady.
I just couldn’t seem to get anything right this week. I forgot to bring a reusable bag into the grocery store, and a ninety-four-year-old lady warned me I’d better juggle my groceries to the car rather than give the governor of Connecticut one dime toward his stupid tax on plastic bags. (She followed me to my car, whacking me on the knee with her cane every time I mis-juggled.) I wore my winter coat on a day when it unexpectedly rained, snowed, and hit a high of 76 degrees. I mispronounced Coventry as Coventry, saying it the way Rhode Island people do (“Coven-tree,” like a witches’ coven, instead of “Cawven-tree,” which I can’t even believe I did, because everyone knows Connecticut people don’t have accents, and the way we pronounce everything is the right way). It was a bad week. My boss asked me if I was sure I was even a New Englander.
“I swear I am. I still miss the Hartford Whalers, I’ve had Lyme disease twice, and I firmly believe apple cider vinegar cures everything from sinus infections to nail fungus.”
He said he believed me, but he looked wary. “I’ve got my eye on you. What’s that you’re wearing today? Are those the official colors of the Dallas Cowboys? Go home and change!”
New England: enter at your own risk.
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