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Bay Area Transplant Ready to Escape The Boston Freak Party

Blast Boston Bureau

Ah, New England. Fall colors, Red Sox baseball and Maine lobsters. How quaint, you might say. But there's another side of New England not mentioned in the travel brochures and tourist information. A New England teeming with crappy weather, and pasty, overweight people who talk funny and drive even worse.

I've been living back here for more than four years now, partly against my own will. A relationship since gone sour brought me out to this living hell from California, and I haven't been able to escape yet.

What they don't tell you is that fall in New England is splendid for two, maybe three weeks tops. People conveniently forget what happens after the brilliant golds, oranges and reds of New England foliage has runs its course. When they do fall, assuming you have a yard, you spend every minute of every weekend raking until your hands are bloody and raw. (If you don't have a yard, you can stay inside and watch the Patriots -- I've yet to decide which is worse.)

Although technically considered fall, this two-month period should be called "pre-winter." For the next six months it's ice station zebra complete with miserable people complaining about arthritis brought on by the bitter cold and the fact that it gets dark by two in the afternoon every day. You walk outside and it feels like every square inch of exposed skin is being given a pink belly by whipping winds and sub-zero temps.And it's dark. Oh joy.

After winter comes pothole season, er, I mean spring. This is alternately known as mud season because by the time all of the glaciers have melted even concrete turns to slush. Potholes the size of Rhode Island, or is there a distinction between the two?

As long as we've come this far, let's talk about summer. Imagine a 300-pound cranky woman riding next to you on the subway whose only shower has been the steady stream of sweat that has been trickling down her back ever since June brought its warm weather and suffocating humidity. Then imagine her eating donuts and smoking a Chesterfield. Voila, summer in New England.

The next time that someone tells you that they cherish the seasons, slap them. To add to this misery, they don't sell beer in stores on Sundays. What kind of a cruel hoax is that? Every once in a while, even the most mindful transplant forgets to make the requisite Saturday liquor store run.

Ah, New England. Anyone out there have a job anywhere in California? Barstow will do. Really.