A Life of Adventure

A Day in the Life

2010-02-01T18:56:00.001-05:00

“Hooooooneeeey?” Todd called out from the shower.

I opened the bathroom door and called, “What?”

“Will you go to the store today and get me some more shampoo? I ran out,” he asked.

“What, you don’t know where the store is?”

“I got married so I wouldn’t have to do things like buy myself shampoo.”

Then I debated as to whether I want to try to force him to buy his own shampoo. Then find myself in CVS on the way home buying his shampoo because I cannot resist his Tractor Beam of Cooperation.

A few days later I returned home from work to find all the thermostats in the house registering a cool 53 degrees. I lit a fire, put the tea kettle on, and piled blankets on top of me after applying fleece clothing in multiple layers. I think I had on my ski pants, with four of his flannel shirts. But I did leave a flannel for him, because that’s just the kind of wife I am.

“Why is it so cold in here?” he asked. He had just removed his coat, then thought better of it and put it back on.

“The furnace isn’t working,” I grumbled.

“Did you call the oil company?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you know how to fix everything. I thought you might want to look at it first.”

He looked at it, managed to get it to work for approximately 4 seconds before it turned off again. In that 4 seconds I applauded his skills and declared that he is “All that is man.” And then the furnace turned off, and I said “That’s OK. You’re still all that is man, but it’s still cold in the house too.”

He asked me to call the oil company to get a repair man to come out. I declined.

“I got married so I wouldn’t have to do things like deal with repair men.”

Me? Not So Bright

2010-01-31T18:52:00.001-05:00

I am not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. But let me tell you what was bright. The interior light of my car, as it shone when I walked into the garage on Thursday morning. It was still shining from the night before, when I had pulled the car up to the mailbox when I got home from work. I had switched on the interior light so I could see what I was doing as I pulled the mail from the box.

The light continued to shine as I closed the mailbox and drove down the driveway and into the garage. It continued to shine as I pushed the button and closed the garage door. It continued to shine as I gathered my things and went into the house.

It was still on as I waited for the repair man who was due to arrive at 5:30. It was still on when the repair man actually showed up at 6.

It remained on as I debated whether or not to take the car down to the truck stop to fill it with gas. I would have done it on the way home, but was rushing to meet the repair man who was a half hour late anyway. It remained on as laziness won out, and the “Ah, screw it, I’ll do it tomorrow on the way to work,” and the comfy, fleecy sweatpants slid over my hips and tied at my waist.

It was still illuminated when I read before falling asleep. It was still illuminated as I slept. It was still illuminated as I ran 4 miles on the newly repaired treadmill on Thursday morning. It was still illuminated as I showered, dressed, fed the dogs, ate, and got freaked out over the mysterious foot prints on the deck.

Then it was shining as I walked into the garage so that I could get into the car, start it, and leave for work.

Only it didn’t start. At all. The ignition verfed, snurged, spat and clicked. I gave up and took the truck (a.k.a. the meat wagon, because it’s bright red and huge) into work.

On Friday morning we jump started the car and let it run for about 15 minutes as I ate breakfast and packed lunch. It takes me 20 minutes to get to work; 35 minutes would be enough to get the battery up to snuff. I got behind the wheel, shifted into reverse, and the engine silenced. I started the car again, shifted into reverse, and the engine cut out again.

Then I turned the key just so the ignition would verf, snurg, spit and click again. Without enough energy to move, my poor little jeep barricades the driveway. With the interior light off.

It’s Not That I Am a Fraidy-Cat

2010-01-28T18:02:00.000-05:00

Well, maybe I am. A little bit.

For the next few weeks, Todd will be on what I call the Great American Nerd Tour 2010. He will visit something like 10 cities in the next 3 weeks or so, and then he’ll go to Vegas for a conference sometime in February. (I can’t remember when, and I really should pay better attention.) While he's traveling he has lots and lots of meetings schedules where he'll talk about technological things that contain lots of initals and lots of acronyms.

On Sunday night we came home from Kalahari. I unpacked the suitcase, and on Monday morning he re-packed it and headed back to the airport. He hopped a plane to San Diego. When he was done evading IT groupies as they threw undergarments at him (held together by duct tape), he flew to San Francisco. Then on Wednesday hopped a red-eye back to Providence and stumbled into work on Thursday morning.

I’d been alone in the house since Monday. I enjoy being alone, and used to live alone before I moved in with Todd at the ripe old age of 24. I look forward to having the place to myself for a few days, so long as the lights stay on. But now that I am so used to living with my big strong man, the bliss of being alone for a few days is slightly tainted with trepidation.

I mean, any psycho could be hiding out in the woods that surround my house at any given moment. And surely that psycho will have a freshly sharpened axe. And that psycho will know enough to bring steak bones for the dogs. Hell, my dogs would settle for a tennis ball as payment and grant anyone access to the house. The psycho isn’t psycho enough to kill my dogs, just me.

On Wednesday morning before I left for work (on time, thank you very much) I put the dogs out the front door. I walked out with them. Of course, they caught the scent of something and walked around the back. I followed them through the gigantic puddles that formed back there from the snow melt and recent rain. They finished their business and led me up the deck stairs, where I saw wet foot prints leading up the stairs to the back door. I hadn’t walked on the deck at all that morning.

Let me say this again. There were wet foot prints leading to my door. And they weren’t mine. My heart pounded in my chest. Was it the psycho with the tennis balls and the freshly sharpened axe? I frantically scanned the tree line around the house for evidence of the psycho. Then looked back at the foot prints. The tread didn’t match my “dog chasin’ shoes.” (Yes, I have a pair of shoes devoted to this purpose. I can slip them on quickly when they bolt, and always leave them by the back door. Next to them are my Crocs, that I wear when we walk to the hot tub from the door.)

I opened the back door, which I hadn’t locked the night before when I went to bed. I thought my hands were shaking, but it was actually the dogs nosing at them demanding treats for coming straight home after pooing. I stepped onto the deck again and looked at the foot prints. I bent down and traced them with my fingers.

They weren’t wet. They were frozen. Wet shoes had made these tracks at one point and the surface of the deck was so cold that the pattern froze. I examined the tread pattern and compared it to my dog chasing shoes and confirmed they didn’t match. I went back to the boot tray, just inside the door, to look for a more logical explanation. My paint splattered Crocs sat in the tray.

The night before I’d worn my Crocs instead of the dog chasin’ shoes. I had unlocked the back door and let the dogs out. They took off down the trail behind the house, and in the dark I splashed through an ice-cold puddle near the chicken coop as I chased them. I cursed my choice of footwear as the water penetrated the holes and drenched my socks. Once I lured the dogs back to the deck, the Crocs sloshed and squeaked as I walked.

I picked up one of the Crocs and held it near the frozen foot print. A perfect match.

Recurring

2010-01-27T20:35:00.001-05:00

I softly knocked on the half open door. The blinds were closed on his office window, so I couldn’t tell if he was concentrating on something and whether I would be interrupting him.

“Yeah,” he called out. He said it with a flat tone of voice, and I couldn’t tell what kind of day he was having. You never could tell with Greg, and no matter how hard I tried I could never seem to get him to smile. I practiced jokes in the bathroom mirror every morning, trying to perfect my delivery. My jokes were met with an awkward silence, and after a few months I gave up and resigned myself to serious workdays in a confining, gray workplace.

“Um,” I cleared my throat. I threw pleasantries out the window after a few months of working there too. Greg wasn’t much for pleasantries. “I have my ideas for the ads for the online campaign. Want to hear them?” I shifted my weight as I stood in the door, conscious of his gaze. He swiveled in his chair, after pressing the “save” command on his keyboard. His face always held an expression I could never decipher. It contained irritation, mixed with curiosity and a twist of sarcasm. It wasn’t exactly a sneer, but it wasn’t entirely indifferent either. This time he raised his eyebrows as if to say “Oh, this ought to be good.” Only he didn’t think it would be good at all. In fact, his expectations of me had become quite low.

He had two chairs facing the front his desk. I discovered on the day of my job interview that one of them squeaked loudly. Occasionally I forgot and sat in the squeaky one. On those days the squeak completely threw off my game. It distracted me every time I fidgeted uncomfortably while being scorched by Greg’s stare. With every squeak his stare grew harder. I couldn’t remember which one squeaked, and after debating for a few seconds I sat in the left one. It squeaked as I sat in it, and it would look weird if I got up and moved into the other one. So I stayed with Ol Squeaky.

He pulled a special wet wipe from his second drawer, and proceeded to wipe the lenses of his glasses with it. The smell of the cleaning solution wafted and stung my nostrils. It smelled like cheap citrus vodka. I gagged a bit, and tried to cover it up by clearing my throat again. Not for the first time I wondered how he could wear his glasses after he’d used those noxious cleaning wipes. The smell alone would make anyone’s eyebrows fall out; Greg’s were intact, however. They were probably strengthened by all the sneering.

Greg replaced his glasses, and then wordlessly folded his hands on his desk. I’d learned in the few months I’d worked for him that this was my cue to begin. I set my notes on the edge of his desk, careful not to let my things mix with anything on his desk. Greg’s desk was sacred ground where my papers were strictly forbidden from fraternizing with his. I imaged one of his pure-bred printouts having to sheepishly inform him that she’d gotten knocked up by flea-bitten mongrel notepad. Greg would passive-aggressively inform the printout that she was a tramp and no longer welcome in his office. The print out would then fold itself inward, slink out of the office and swan dive into the shredder next to the photocopier.

Speaking rapidly and wildly tapping my pen against my thigh, I presented my ideas. I held up my rudimentary sketches, explained the concepts and the sites where the ads would run. He raised his eyebrows at the stick figures I'd drawn. I wish I'd hired some sort of artist to help me prepare for this presentation. Maybe next time I'd hire a sculptor.

When I was done, he leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands, as if in prayer, and rested his mouth on his finger tips. He stared, blankly, at his desk. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. Was it the brass clock in the shape of a ship’s steering wheel? Was it the decorative pen set that he’d glared at me for using once? Was it the picture that I'd mistakenly thought was of his mother, but learned it was really of his wife? Then he fixed his gaze back on me. I knew this expression, because I’ve seen it on his face before. It was the “You are by far the stupidest person I’d ever met” expression. The stomach acid rose through my esophagus and I could taste its metallic flavor on the back of my tongue. It was the same flavor I’d experienced that very morning when I had grasped the guardrail and vomited on the side of the highway on the way to work in preparation for this very meeting. My palms began to sweat; I braced my hands against my thighs to stop the spasm in my quadriceps.

I felt myself fold inward and slink toward the door, like so many sullied pure-bred printouts. I cautiously avoided the shredder as I made my way back to my office. I paused at the water cooler to wash the taste of puke out of my mouth.

I flopped in my chair and scanned my emails, thankful that my office mate was not at her desk. I didn’t want to talk about it. She and I had spent weeks brainstorming ideas for the campaign. She, the employee that he interacted favorably with, was convinced he’d love our ideas. She appeared at the door not two seconds after I sat down.

“How’d it go?” she asked when she took her seat.

“I have to start all over again.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. And that’s the problem. I wish he’d just fire me and get it over with already.”

I thought these nightmares would have stopped by now.

You Know What I Love About Water Parks?

2010-01-26T20:31:00.002-05:00

I love the rides, but water parks aren’t ALL about the rides for me. I love the easy access to junk food, because who doesn’t love instant access to dippin’ dots, or waffle cones oozing with frozen deliciousness. But it’s not just the ice cream either, and I can’t believe I just wrote that. I love ice cream. A lot.

It’s the people watching. I love people watching. And what’s great about going to a water park on a sunny day is that I can check out people all day long and nobody knows it because I am wearing sunglasses. Checking people out at an indoor water park is a lot harder. Nobody wears sunglasses at an indoor water park; I have to take care to keep my ogling subtle.

All day long at a water park I am surrounded by half naked people, and I am constantly fascinated at how each person I see has a unique shape. You could put two women in an identical bikini in the exact same size, and it will look different on each one. So, yes, I do stare at people at the water park. And it probably makes me look weird and pervy. But really, I am admiring the art of the human body and not only the sexual aspects of it.

Speaking of art, another thing I get to see at water parks on most of the half naked bodies are tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. Every time I go to a water park I am constantly amazed at what people were willing to permanently etch onto their skin.

At Schlitterbahn in San Antonio I saw a man with the Ford logo tattooed onto his back. This dude liked his truck so much he got the swirly Ford cursive name on the blue oval tattooed across is back. There was no registration or trade mark on it, so I wonder if the company can sue him now? I didn’t see anyone with a Toyota or Honda logo on their person, and really wish I had so I could see Toyota tatt man and Ford tatt man duke it out.

At Six Flags in New England I saw a man with the entire cast of the Simpsons tattooed on the small of his back. Dude liked the cartoon, so he got it inked in. Every single character too.

At Wet N Wild I saw a man with a Care Bear on his shoulder. Ooooh, manly!

At Kalahari I saw a man whose arms were covered in various tattoos. On his forearm he had a bottle of booze next to a naked woman. Beneath them a ribbon swirled, on which it said “Stewed and Screwed.” Classy! Dude will never regret that one, I’m sure.

Todd and I struck up a conversation with a man in a hot tub at a ski resort once. He had some Asian characters tattooed on his forearm. Todd asked the guy what the characters meant, and the guy rattled off a bunch of things like “Strength, wisdom, integrity… blah blah blah…”

“So, how do you know it doesn’t say ‘American asshole’ on it, or something?” I asked, not being able to contain my inner smartass. Who am I kidding? There is nothing inner about my smart ass. It’s out there in front, snickering at just about everything I see. But I am always suspicious of things written in languages I don’t know how to read. (When we bought Sabine, her name was Tara Vana. Supposedly that means “Crazy Man” in Tahitian. But I know it actually meant “Loser American Dickweed.” That is the only thing that “Tara Vana” could possibly mean.)

The man chuckled and said “Well, I looked it up on the Internet before I got them done.”

Todd and I looked at each other, and I could tell we were both thinking the exact same thing, my inner smartass shut her trap before saying,“Yeah, because everything on the Internet is true, right?”

Kalahari

2010-01-25T20:10:00.000-05:00

In the last few years we’ve come to consider ourselves water park aficionados. We tacked on a week to our honeymoon so that we could go to San Antonio, TX to visit Schlitterbahn—the nation’s largest outdoor water park. (Then we visited Schlitterbahn’s sister park on South Padre Island, TX too.) We’ve been to Wet n Wild, Six Flags New England’s water park, Six Flags Atlanta’s water park, Aquatica, Discovery Cove, Blizzard Beach, Six Flags Great Escape Lodge in Lake George, NY, and a few more I can’t recall at the moment. Before I knew Todd, I’d been to Action Park in New Jersey as well.

At Christmas Todd surprised me with a trip to Kalahari, located in the booming metropolis of Sandusky, Ohio. Kalahari is the largest indoor water park in the nation. It has a dozen or so rides, one of which is a water roller coaster that was clearly designed to mimic Schlitterbahn’s Master Blaster. There were two funnel rides, one was a tube ride, the other was a slide that ended in a funnel. There were rides on which we had to ride a mat, and there were others that we just rode on our butt. The park also included a giant wave pool beach under a specially designed ceiling that allows UV rays to penetrate so that park visitors can get a suntan while playing in the waves.

The only thing I didn’t like about this park was that the rides were all in complete darkness. The tubes were constructed of opaque fiberglass that didn’t allow light to penetrate. As a result we did not have a sense of where we were going as we slid down the tube. I’ve come to appreciate this variety at other parks, when only a few of the slides are in complete darkness. The innate thrill of not knowing which way the tube will bend, and whether I will be dropped down a steep incline at any given second, is an exciting change from sliding down the tube in the sunlight.

However, every single ride in complete darkness creates an unsettled queasy feeling, especially when riding backward. Toward the end of the first day I started feeling motion sick because my eyes could not detect motion in the dark, and conflicted with my body which clearly detected motion. I do not get motion sick. I am the kind of girl who can ride 7 different roller coasters in under 3 hours and still eat a funnel cake at the half way point. I am the kind of girl who remains at the helm, beer in hand, in 8-10 feet waves hollering at the heavens “Is this all you’ve got??” while my husband “feeds the fish” off the back of the boat. He gets motion sick. I do not. Yet, over the weekend I got my quease on while riding in complete darkness at Kalahari.

But there were other things going on a Kalahari that took the edge off the queasiness. We headed over to the spa and took in a deep tissue couples massage. We took advantage of the opportunity to play with a 9 week old Bengal tiger cub. Twice. We rubbed her belly while she tried out her baby tiger roar on us; the only response she received was 'Awwwwwww!' We went to the hot tub bar, bellied up and received our fancy tropical drinks while soaking in a hot tub. Then we carried the drinks outside--and that was the only time we'd been outdoors for the entire weekend.
But other than the complete darkness, I would totally do Kalahari again—maybe next winter to beat the February cabin fever.

Let's Do the Time Warp Again

2010-01-13T19:22:00.001-05:00

I am currently attending a 2 day training session for work. I've been looking forward to it since I enrolled a month ago, as I am an academia junkie. The other reason why I've been looking forward to this particular training session is because of the location. It's in Burlington, Massachusetts in the same building where I worked in my first post-college job.

It was August 1996 when I first walked into the building and rode the elevator to the 5th floor. It was just as the dot.com wave was cresting. I wore a suit and heels on my first day, because at age 22 I thought that's what I was supposed to do. I quickly learned that the mid-90's dot.com office attire did not include suits. I had a window cube, and my cube mate, Tamara, became a fast friend. On my first day she wore jeans and a Miller Lite T-shirt. The suit went to the back of my closet, and never surfaced again until it went to it's final resting place at the local Salvation Army.

I worked for a software company that offered training sessions to the customers on how to use the software. It was my job to set up the training sessions--make sure the training room on the first floor was set up, order catering, make sure the students knew where to go, etc. On the days that we ran classes I started work at 8, and had my pick of leftover pastries and sandwiches. Even better than the free lunches was the paid over time. I got time and a half for the extra hour that I came in early, and for the hours I stayed late. I skipped lunch breaks to bulk up the OT. I logged about $4,000 in over time my first year, which was awesome because as a 22 year old I was paid nearly nothing.

I ended up leaving the company in February 1998. I was almost 24 and ambitious. I wanted to move out of the administrative role I was in at the software company. (Not only did I coordinate all the training, I also did crap like process expense reports, and whatever else needed doing. One of my big tasks was faxing things because the engineers didn't understand how to use the fax machine, despite the gigantic sign I posted with step by step instructions.) The company didn't have anywhere for me to move up to, so I decided that "Quit your way to the top" would be my motto, and I left. It was the kind of company that hired a 32 year old man to be the VP of sales, and made a very big deal about how young he was. But couldn't seem to find a way to promote me, despite my wanting to move up and grow.

I haven't set foot in this building since I left in 1998. But the sense of "I haven't left" took over as I drove into the parking lot this morning. I saw a green Jeep Grand Cherokee parked where a former co-worker parked back then and even thought to myself "Oh, Bill's already here." Then I blinked and thought "No, Bill's not here. It's been 12 years. Bill's long gone. He probably doesn't even have that car anymore, either."

When I walked in, I saw that the atrium inside hadn't changed a bit. The office fronts had changed only slightly. I entered on the second floor, and looked down to where the training room was on the first floor. I was hoping that my class today would have been held in "my" training room, but it's wasn't. I fought the urge to go up to the fifth floor and demand to see if my cube was still there. The company is no longer there. It was acquired and moved out of the building in 2002.

I walked into the office on the second floor where the training was being held. There was a cafe area where the company put out a spread of cereal, pastries, bagels, and coffees. There were two bottles of syrup for flavoring the coffee. There was a fridge filled with sodas, juices and water. It was the kind of spread that dot.coms used to put out for their employees. Sandwiches were served for lunch, and at 2 they served us ice cream as well. I looked around me one more time and thought "Is it 1996? Where am I? When am I?"

After the training got out, I went to the mall near the office. I shopped a bit, then hit the food court--where Tamara and I went on my first day. The food court had an Indian restaurant, and it was on that day that I had tried Indian food for the first time. Tonight I walked into the food court and quite literally jumped up and down at the sight of the Indian restaurant still in it's spot in the food court. I ordered channa masala for dinner, the same thing I'd had that day with Tamara.

All these fond memories of my time there came flooding back to me today. I was working at this job when Todd and I started going out in 1997. We had eaten a picnic lunch under a tree beyond the parking lot one day. It was leftovers from the fantastic Italian meal we'd gotten in Boston's North End the night before. He used to visit and bring goodies for my co-workers--bagels, or cookies. It was impossibly sweet of him, especially since he was broke and couldn't afford to do that. He did it anyway.

But it's not just the fond memories of being in that building. It's the fond memories of that time in my life. I had my first apartment, in which I lived alone. I moved to a new city and made new friends. I played my guitar all the time and played shows. I was 10 pounds lighter. I was 14 years younger. I was more ambitious about my career. It was my first job out of the 14 jobs I've worked since.

Everything looks the same around here, just a little more developed since 1998. And somehow it looks smaller.

I’ve Always Wanted to Catch Pneumonia

2010-01-11T21:16:00.000-05:00

“I’ve never seen a dog more on his own schedule than Griffen,” Emily commented. It was the night after Thanksgiving, and we stayed up until roughly a million o’clock talking. Griffen was dozing on the dog bed, and I had to wake him up to get him to go upstairs to go to bed. I called to him and he lifted his head and stared. He wasn’t looking at me, more like he was looking through me. I knew he wasn’t awake. I tossed a throw pillow at him before I attempted to jostle him awake with my hands. He’s been known to snap at me when in that state—not intentionally, he’s just not fully awake.

But Emily’s right. Griffen lives on his own schedule, for the most part. When I put him out he will come back when he’s good and ready and not a second sooner. Never mind the fact that we call him over and over, and we wander through the woods to the neighbor’s compost pile to try to lure him home. When he’s done checking out the compost, he’ll come home. Obedience schmobedience.

Tonight I jogged on our treadmill for more than 4 miles. I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts and was slick with sweat. I put the dogs out and stood on the icy front steps while they did their business on the front lawn. Griffen got it in his head that he absolutely needed to go to the neighbor’s house at exactly that moment.

I stood on the steps as he crossed in front of me, and ran for the woods. “Griffen NO! NO NO NO!! COME!” I called after him. But he ran into the darkness down the trail through the woods to the neighbor’s house. I chased him, the sweat on my body turning icy cold as I followed. The snow penetrated my sneakers, I flailed at the branches that hung over the trail that, of course, I couldn’t see until they grazed and scratched at my face.

He finished his visit, and dopily returned to the trail between our house and the neighbor’s house. He stopped in his tracks and stared at me, frightened. He knew he was in trouble; he could hear the anger in my voice as I called out to him. He stopped just out of my reach, and we engaged in the age old dog/owner stand off. He doesn’t want to get punished, so he evades capture. I just want to catch him so I can drag his punk ass home. I lunge, he moves just a few inches out of reach, which only serves to make me even more infuriated and him more likely to avoid me. He finally relented, and I managed to grab his collar and drag him home, the whole way informing him that he’s a bad dog.

We arrived home, and Todd scolded Griff as well. Griffen skulked, dejected, into the living room. He passed the coffee table and flung his tongue onto the plate resting on the table. And then I had noticed that the butter dish, licked clean, was lying on the dog bed. The last time I’d seen it, it was on the counter in the kitchen near the toaster. With butter in it.

These aren’t puppy antics. Griffen will turn 8 on Thursday. Do Labradors go through a midlife crisis?

One of the Stupider Things I've Had To Do in Awhile

2010-01-07T20:05:00.000-05:00

On September 25th I was running errands on the way home from work and was stopped at a traffic light. when I heard a loud crash in my car. The car jerked forward and bumped the car that was stopped in front of mine.

"What the hell?!" I hollered at my rear view mirror. I got out of the car, and some punk kid driving the car that rear-ended mine was freaking out in the middle of oncoming traffic.

"OhmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodareyouOK?" he blurted out. I convinced him to get out of traffic and told him I was fine. We swapped information. Two weeks later my car was fixed. Then the insurance settled the claim. On Friday I was on a desk cleaning binge and I happened to have tossed out the address and insurance information from the guy who had hit me.

Then in Saturday's mail I got a letter from the state of RI. Inside was a long form, on that ridiculoulsy long paper that you'd find in the bottom drawer of the printer at work. It was printed double-sided. There was a cover letter inside the envelope that says "You need to fill out this accident report. If you don't we'll suspend your license and make you pay $76.50 to get it back."

Here it is three months later, and I am under threat to have my driver's license revoked because some jackass wasn't paying attention and slammed into the back of my car. And the only reason why I am filling out this stupid form (no, I don't know the guy's VIN number. Really? You think I know that?) is because I really like my license picture.

State Not-So-Secrets

2010-01-06T19:15:00.000-05:00

Recently Todd and I changed our cable-phone-Internet service to Verizon. We'd become disenchanted with the local cable provider. The picture would randomly crap out while we were watching, and we'd never get to hear the vital piece of dialogue that would tell us whodunnit.

The problem with changing TV providers is that, while it's cool that we have a bunch of new channels (that we would have had to pay extra for when we had the local cable provider), we have to learn all new numbers for all the channels.

I was skimming through the program guide on night, "Hey, look! We have the Pentagon channel. And look, they have an exercise program on it." I switched it on to see three pasty looking, presumably, Pentagon employees repeatedly stomping on a step unenthusiastically.

"Really?? Todd asked. "A Pentagon channel? On TV? But isn't all the stuff that goes on in the Pentagon classified?"

What Was the Deal with 2009?

2010-01-04T21:00:00.002-05:00

We watched the ball drop at our friends Mike and Sarah’s house on New Years Eve. We’d just had a lovely dinner—Todd whipped up a prime rib and I nibbled on a chicken pot pie, as I don’t care for beef—and we were discussing the last year and the last decade in the last few minutes of 2009.

“What was your favorite part of 2009?” Todd asked me. I don’t think I could answer that question with just one particular moment, even at gunpoint.

I can just imagine how that would go down, being asked that question at gunpoint. The bad guys would lock me in some sort of dingy room with a bright light shining on me. All I would be able to see is their silhouettes against the blinding light. At this point they probably would have deprived me of sleep and, God forbid, pie. They would pace in exasperation in and out of the light, wringing their hands and threatening to hit me with them. I’d flinch every time and they’d sneer at me.

“Tell me,” one of them would say in an unidentifiable accent, while brandishing a lit and glowing cigarette precariously close to my cheek, “Vat vas ze best part of 2009?” And I’d start crying because I wouldn’t be able to name just one thing. I’d rattle off a bunch of things, and then they’d throw a folding metal chair at the filthy cinderblock walls and scream at me to tell them just one.

And here’s what I’d say.

1. In 2009 I fed an elephant. And a giraffe.

Todd feeding an elephant. Did you know that they have 80,000 muscles in their trunk? I didn't. Now I do, and so do you.

Me feeding the giraffe. And then I was drooled on by that same giraffe. I'd forgotten an umbrella that day.

2. We went to Discovery Cove in Florida, which was the first stop on our 3 week honeymoon blitz back in 2003.

3. We dove the New England Aquarium in Boston, and played with all the animals in the tank.

4. We got Sabine repainted. And she looked great. She even sailed better, and I think it was out of pride.

5. We sailed for only a week this year. But still, it was a wonderful week where we still sailed to places we hadn’t been. We played, as a family, on a sandbar at low tide.

Todd, Griffen and Nemo on the sandbar in Westport, Massachusetts.

Me and Griffen on the sandbar in Westport.

Griffen dozing on my lap. I just want to rub the short fuzzy hair on his snout, don't you?

Nemo navigating.

6. We saw Willy Porter in concert. Twice. In the same night. Then I got inspired by how much fun Willy looked like he was having, and then I played my guitar for about five minutes afterward. I mean, look at him! Don't you just want to pick up a guitar, play some amazing riff and sing flawlessly too?

Photo from guildguitar.com

7. We went to the Berkshires in December, and stayed in a spa resort where we got a couple’s massage. But we cracked jokes to each other the entire time. There’s nothing more relaxing than receiving a blissful deep tissue massage and laughing at the same time.

8. We bought a dive boat, and dove off it a few times in the summer. Or we just took it out and cruised around the bay, or at the lake in our town, Podunk. This spring we’ll have to fix the electrical system so we won’t get electrocuted while touching the throttle handle if it’s wet. But other than that, good times.

Now, let’s get on to making 2010 even more awesome.

2010? That's So Five Minutes Ago

2009-12-31T14:16:00.000-05:00

I don’t know how you all do it. I haven’t had a moment to write a blog post in a week, due to ChristmasBedlamFest2009. All the shopping, all the wrapping, all the packing up and driving all over New England. Well, it’s over. And in a few hours the year will be over as well.

So, tell me Internet, what do you think 2010 will be like? I remember seeing movies when I was a kid that depicted 2010 in a way that looks radically different than 2009 actually looked. In those movies, all the people walking around in 2010 were wearing a lot of silver clothing. Their homes looked like laboratories and not a place with a cushy couch and brick fireplace. Their hairstyles were cut bluntly, and were angular looking. The family dog was replaced by a four-legged robot that chirped mechanically instead of woofing. Here it is 2010, and I do not own a stitch of silver clothing. My dogs are of the fuzzy and shedding variety. My home has the cushy couch and the fireplace, and I do not bark commands at some unseen computer when I want the lights to turn on as I enter a room.

But then, if you think about it, a lot of the things we say in everyday conversation are things that we hadn’t even heard of 20 years ago. While we are not walking around in silver clothing, I am sitting here writing on a blog that is broadcast to the world via the World Wide Web. It wasn’t that long ago when the word “blog” didn’t exist. (The word has become so commonplace that the spellchecker in Microsoft Word didn’t even flag it. The word “spellchecker” wasn’t flagged either. Telling, yes?)

And now, in 2010, state lawmakers are passing laws that prohibit motorists from writing text messages on their cell phones while driving. Lawmakers are banning a practice that did not exist 20 years ago. I remember a scene in one of the “Airplane” movies in which a character was speaking on a phone while driving in his car. It was one of those desktop phones, with the curly cord and everything. I watched this movie a few years ago with friends, and none of us cracked a smile as the man spoke into the phone while he drove. I broke the silence and said “You do realize that when this movie came out, the idea of a phone in a car was fricken hilarious, right?” Yet now we (not me, I refuse to carry a cell phone) carry phones around in our pockets, and we use them to access the Internet everyday, without thinking twice about it.

If we have made such amazing technological strides in the last 20 years, imagine what 2030 will look like. Maybe by then the silver clothing will be in style.

The Shame of It All

2009-12-21T20:36:00.000-05:00

I have a guilty pleasure to admit. Actually, I don’t know if it’s even a pleasure. I don’t really know what to call it. It’s something of a fascination, I guess.

Ready?

Here goes nothing.

I am fascinated by Sarah Palin. (I know! I KNOW!) The presidential election is long over, and I didn’t vote for McCain/Palin anyway. Yet I still find myself clicking on links to news stories about her. It started out with “Oh what dumb thing did she say now?” And, well, that’s still on my mind as I click. But it’s a compulsion to read about her latest exploits.

Let’s be clear. I don’t like her. I don’t like her politics. Her voice makes my teeth itch. I think she did a lousy thing by quitting her job as Alaska’s governor and leaving her entire state hanging. (Honestly, she couldn’t wait until her term was over and just not run for re-election? Really?) But I still click with the same curiosity that causes my head to turn and my eyes to look when I drive by the scene of a car accident on the way home from work. A few weeks ago, while I waited for Todd to join me at the blood donation center, I read the article in the Vanity Fair in the waiting room in which Levi Johnston was interviewed. He totally scorched Palin in the article, and I wonder how much of it is true.

I don’t like her, but so many people out there do. And I want to know why. WHY?? I mean, I don’t care for marshmallow fluff either, but people out there love that too and I don’t quite understand that either. (I wonder if there’s a correlation between people who eat fluff and like Sarah Palin.) I’ve asked the question to friends, but didn’t get an answer because their political leanings are the same as mine. I’ve heard people say that having Sarah Palin in the White House is the same as having your big sister in the White House. (I find this offensive, as I am certain that my sisters are way smarter than Palin.) My response to this has been, “Well, I don’t want my sister in the White House. I want someone who’s really really smart in there. I think my sisters are smart, but not White House smart.”

Last night I stopped at my local branch of the library and grabbed my reserved copy of “Going Rogue.” I tilted my head down as I retrieved it. I’ve become friendly with the librarians, and the one working the desk subtly raised her eyebrows as I took the book from the counter. I couldn’t look her in the eye.

But I am totally going to read this book. I didn’t buy it. I didn’t support Palin with my hard earned dinero by buying it. I will read it, and I will see if there’s an answer to my question in there.

I’ll let you know.

I Resolve

2009-12-17T19:08:00.001-05:00

I am standing with my feet firmly planted, shoulders squared, and fist waving triumphantly in the air. It’s time to think about a few sentences starting with the words “I resolve.” It’s New Year Resolution time.

There are probably billions of people out there, staring down at the end of 2009 and thinking about what they’d like to do differently next year. Some are excited. Some are looking at things they don’t like about themselves that they want to improve. Some are taking this as an opportunity to make someone else feel better. A whole new year is only days away at this point. It’s a whole new opportunity to do something, anything, and to make something, anything, happen.

I fully believe in New Year’s resolutions. I’ve always loved the idea of starting a new year with a plan to do something different, and I’ve always made resolutions. When I was a kid I resolved to give my mom and my teachers less attitude. I was a cantankerous little kid who hated rules for the sheer fact that they were rules. I rolled my eyes in a way that sent my mom into a full boiled rage. That one didn’t last long.

One year I resolved to go sky diving--which I ended up doing as a tandem jump in September of that year. For this last year I resolved to compliment one woman every day—whether she’s a stranger or someone I know. I’ve gotten strange looks from the strangers, but mostly smiles. For just about every day in 2009 I’ve made some woman smile.

Now I am reflecting on my past year and looking about the things about myself and my life that bug me.
I think the biggest thing that bothers me about myself are the fact that I am *thisclose* to wearing out the snooze button on our alarm clock. I use it. A lot. Too much. What if I were to resolve to not use the snooze button, and just get my punk ass out of bed on the first ring of the alarm?

Resolution #1 Do not press snooze. This is your life we’re talking about. Are you going to hit snooze on your life? Get up and get your day started. You can’t get those minutes back, my friend. Get vertical and tackle the day.

Another thing that bothers me is that I am not a very good cook. I try like hell, with mixed results. I usually get home from work before Todd and stand before the stove trying to come up with something new to have for dinner. While I cook, Todd calls on the way home and asks what’s for dinner and then I have to hear the trepidation in his voice when I say “I am trying the recipe on the back of the turkey cutlets…” sometimes it turns out. Sometimes it’s mildly edible and I stubbornly eat it anyway while he makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Other times it goes into the trash and a half hour later a pizza shows up at the door.

I feel this is my biggest failing as a wife. I know it’s not a very enlightened thing to say, and just by typing it I’ve probably set the women’s movement back a few minutes. But I like making dinner for my husband. Even better, I like it when he can actually choke down what I’ve made. Even more better if he actually enjoys it. (More better? What?)

He tells me that I don’t have to feel like a failure as a wife because cooking isn’t my forte. But this is also the same guy who says that he feels it’s his responsibility to provide for me, and then I have to tell him that before we married I was the one who did that for me. So, we both have a prescribed gender role that we’re stuffing ourselves into. But that’s a post for another day.

Resolution #2 Take a cooking class.

Probably One of the Dorkier Things We’ve Done in a While

2009-12-16T19:19:00.001-05:00

“No dogs alloooooowed! And biiiiirds!” I sang to Todd one day several years ago.

“What’s that from?” he asked me. I explained that it was from the perennial classic “Snoopy Come Home." He hadn’t seen it; my childhood was riddled with Peanuts cartoons. Dad and I used to read the Peanuts comic strip together every Sunday morning. It was the first one on the comics page, and took up most of the above-the-fold real estate. It stayed in that spot for years, and Garfield, my second favorite at the time, was just below it. A double whammy of awesome without having to turn the page, life was good.

We were flipping though the channels a few weeks ago and Todd saw that "Snoopy Come Home" was on and set the DVR to record it. Last night we finally watched it. I was instantly transported back to when I was 8-9 years old and begging Mom to stay up late. By the time I was born my mom was pretty laid back about stuff like that. Most of the time she was about a half second away from saying “Here’s a Ginsu, go play in traffic, I don’t care!” That’s how it goes for the fifth child.

I hadn’t remembered just how bad the score was on these Peanuts specials. But it was great in its terribleness. We listened to the kid that did Charlie Brown’s voice sing terribly off key after Snoopy left to go live with his original owner. On the screen Charlie tossed in his bed, his heartbreak keeping him awake. He paced to the kitchen, then out to Snoopy’s dog house. Snoopy had somehow managed, without thumbs, to nail a sign onto it that said “For sale or to let.” His typewriter and airplane goggles likely placed into his suitcase to be used at his new home--where he would pen more letters to the editor, then fight the Red Baron, from the roof of his new dog house. It was a dismally depressing song, with weird jazz music accompanying it. Teeth-itchingly off key with an out of time modern jazz collision in the background; only in 1972, I suppose.

Todd Googled and found the name of the kid that did Charlie Brown’s voice: Chad Webber. Then he began to scour the Internet to see whatever happened to Chad Webber. Did he go on to perform in anything else? Did he grow up get married and have kids? Did he win a Pulitzer? Did he write a tell-all about the behind the scenes action on the Charlie Brown sound stage? Did he and Lucy hook up in Snoopy’s dog house, like the Brady kids were reputed to have done? Want to know what we found?

Nothing.

This kid, apparently, fell off the face of the earth after providing the voice for Charlie Brown. There are no pictures of him. There is no biography. There are no embarrassing mug shots on The Smoking Gun of him wacked out on goofballs, half undressed while smirking sleepily at the camera in some backwater police station after robbing a liquor store with a squirt gun while nude. No profile on IMDB, other than one sentence that said he did the voice of Charlie Brown, and the same on Wikipedia.

“This is so weird,” Todd gazed at his screen, puzzled. “I mean, you can Google me and you and our dogs and get something. This guy was the voice of Charlie Brown, and there’s nothing.”

“Maybe Chad Webber is a fake name. I mean, he was a kid when he did those shows. Maybe his parents made him do it under an assumed name to protect their privacy?”

“Even so, wouldn’t it say something like John Smith, also known as Chad Webber, was the voice of Charlie Brown?”

Then we had to know what happened to Chad Webber. We Googled, we clicked, we perused and scoured. We came across the woman who was the voice of Sally Brown, Charlie’s little sister. She works as a script consultant now, and has a long list of credits to her name. We stumbled upon her resume, and there we found her email address.

“Look! Her email address!” I pointed to the top of the screen. Todd smiled, and then opened his email application.

“You’re really going to email this woman to ask her what happened to Charlie Brown?” I laughed.

“Why not? The worst she can do is delete the email and not respond, right?”

I am sure that a grown woman, who once did the voice of Sally Brown, will appreciate getting a random email with the subject line “Regarding Chad Webber.” Never mind your own stellar career, sweetie. We want to hear about Charlie Brown. How about we rip that football away right before you get to kick it?

I’ll let you know if she writes back.

A Different Kind of Nativity Story

2009-12-14T08:50:00.001-05:00

“Watch this,” my sister nodded toward her daughters, then age 6 and 4, playing in the living room. Rachael, the older of the two, rolled the Fisher Price school bus up to the nativity set my sister had set out on the hearth of the unused fireplace in preparation for Christmas. I had noticed that the figurines were askew when I came in, but didn’t say anything; I figured that they were a casualty of having little ones in the house.

Rachael piled the three wise men, and whoever else was present at the birth of Jesus, into the bus. “OK, let’s go,” she called cheerfully to them. She drove the bus in a loopy pattern across the off-white berber carpet, all the while chattering to her bus full of biblical vagabonds. The bus stopped at some unseen wonder on the far end of the couch, in front of the end table.

“OK everyone, five minutes,” she instructed the wise men. With the help of Rachael, the passengers filed out and stood facing some unseen wonder on that side of the room. It must have been one of the wonders of the world, as that bus had to traverse the entire living room for them all to see it. I wondered whether they were viewing the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore, on the far side of the sofa that day. I wonder what Rachael imagined they were looking at.

“Time to go back, we're going to be late” she warned her passengers. They filed into the bus and stood on the seats. Their heads stood out of the sun roof, which I am sure must have been a chilly ride back to a manger in a barn at the end of December. She helped the “wise guys” and friends out of the bus and carefully arranged them around the manger.

She held up one of the wise men and examined the figurine carefully. “Hey,” she pointed to it, “Why isn’t he wearing shoes? Mom says I can’t wear sandals in the winter. It’s too cold.”

Free Associating on Christmas

2009-12-10T20:34:00.000-05:00

--I will always cry when I hear “Feed the World” by Band-Aid on the radio. I don’t know why, I just do.

--I hate to write Christmas gift wish lists. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel like a demanding bitch. Don’t ask me what I want. Surprise me. Or don’t. It’s all good.

--There’s nothing I want for Christmas. I have everything I could possibly need or possibly want. I love my life, my husband, my home and my dogs. What more could a girl need? (Well, I do need that awful orange paint to disappear from the guest bedroom, and that tacky mirror mosaic swirly pattern on the wall to vaporize…. OK, that’s my list.)

--I don’t really like Christmas music that much, with the exception of “Feed the World,” and last year I was digging on that a capella song by Straight No Chaser. However, that stupid “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney makes my teeth itch. How is it that the man who wrote many of the songs for The Beatles wrote this piece of crap? And more importantly, why is it still played every other minute of every day from Thanksgiving through Christmas? I once read somewhere that the guy who owns Clear Channel banned certain songs from being played on his stations. Why can’t this song be on his list?

--When I was a kid, we celebrated Christmas Eve with my Mom’s side of the family. I grew up with this tight network of aunts, uncles and cousins. It was like “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” but only with a bunch of Pollacks. Every year my cousins and I had to sing for our presents, per my Aunt Halina’s request. We always sang “Silent Night” and a Polish carol, the title of which roughly translates to “Today in Bethlehem.” And every year when we’d sing the Polish one, all of us cousins would start out strong in the first few lines or so. Then one by one the voices would drop out until the few cousins who knew all the words were left singing, and the rest of us were just mouthing along. To this day, I still do not know all the words to “Today in Bethlehem,” but I think my brother Kaz does. And I know a few of my cousins do.

--My nieces and nephews are getting older, and harder to buy for. It used to be that I could roll into “Discovery Kids” and come up with some very cool yet educational gifts for $20-25 a piece. With 12 nieces and nephews, that adds up fast. But now they are teens and pre-teens, and it’s harder to come up with cool gifts without draining the bank account.

--It’s a good thing that Todd won all that money at the casino last week. Our nieces and nephews will likely have a better Christmas this year.

--I love getting that “Feliz Navidad” song stuck in Todd’s head. His brain is like fly paper and it catches all the annoying songs that fly by. It’s fun to catch him absently whistling “Feliz Navidad” moments after hearing it on the radio.

--Because we are dog dorks, we tend to work the word “beagle” when we’re goofing around and listening to the radio. Just last week I sang “The beagle-y dog” instead of “Feliz Navidad.” It totally worked. Try it.

And now it’s stuck in your head too, isn’t it?

My work is done.

Happy Holidays.

The Tailor

2009-12-02T19:20:00.001-05:00

I could tell that the tailor used to be a smoker. Either that or he’s had to take his habit outside, now that it’s no longer legal to smoke inside buildings in the state of Rhode Island. The drop ceiling was the first thing I noticed when I walked in. A zillion years ago, when the joint was first decorated, those tiles were probably white. But they hung in yellowish grey, and the once clear panels barely allowed the light through. The fluorescent lamp flickered behind it. The tailor was probably used to the flickering by then, and used the swing-arm lamp over his machine anyway.

I waited for him to finish ironing a hem, while I examined his small shop. The wood veneer paneled walls were the same ones that we had in our family room when I was a kid. But his were a bit more yellow-greenish, probably from the smoke. Dad quit when I was 6, so our walls never got the chance to absorb the nicotine. Behind the counter, by the window, was a rack containing multiple spools of thread in an array of colors. In front of that was his sewing machine, and beside it the small ironing board and an iron—plugged in and ready for action. The iron sighed and a cloud of steam escaped its pores as he set it aside.

Stuck to the paneled walls were clippings from the newspaper—articles and cartoons—that yellowed from either having been up for too long, or from the smoke. Pictures of a young woman, presumably his daughter, in a wedding dress were framed and hung as well. I remember thinking how handy it must have been for the bride to be the daughter of a tailor. The alterations on my no-frills wedding dress cost the same as the dress itself. She must have saved a bundle.

He turned his attention to me and wordlessly jutted his chin at the jeans I'd brought in. I showed him the jeans I’d just bought at the used clothing store the day before, and explained that they were too long. He cocked his head, his helmet shaped toupee stayed fixed to his head. It was the color that his hair probably was in the 60s. His lined face did not match the sand colored fake hair.

“Go put them on,” he pointed to the curtain. “We get the right length.” He said in an accent I couldn’t place. I stood behind the curtain, trying to get it to close completely. The panels split in the middle, and left about an inch of visibility between them. I tried pulling both together, but then there was an inch or so on each side. I decided that 1 inch exposure in the middle was better than a total of 2 inches exposure on the sides and changed as fast as I could.

He cuffed the jeans, drew a chalk line on one of the pant legs and grunted, “Eight dollars. Ready on Tuesday.” When he said Tuesday it sounded like "Tuzdeh." I ducked behind the curtains again, and tried without a different result to get them to close. When I came out from behind the curtain he handed me a slip and instructed me to fill in my name and phone number. He pinned one copy to the jeans, and I tucked the other into my purse.

On my way out I noticed the TV. It was off, but I wondered if he normally had it on while he worked just to keep himself company. It had an antenna on it, and I wondered if it was off because the tailor didn’t bother to get cable in his shop now that TV antennas don’t work anymore. The screen was a dormant greenish grey color, and one of the dials on the front was broken.

I forgot to pick up my jeans on Tuesday. Then I went to jury duty on Wednesday. Then Thanksgiving happened. And then I forgot about the jeans altogether until I noticed the slip in my purse. Yesterday I pulled into the tailor’s small parking lot, large enough to hold 1-2 cars. I parked behind a red Jeep Cherokee with an Armenia sticker on the window. I walked into the shop and the tailor popped out from the Cherokee and followed me into the shop. I wondered what he was doing in the car, and figured he was probably listening to the radio and smoking but couldn’t be sure.

I took in the faint scent of cigarettes, a worn out air freshener on the end of the counter, and the smell of other people’s clothes. It had a bar room Salvation Army store kind of a smell to it. The TV was on this time, and I watched it while he went into the back to get my jeans. A talk show was on, and the camera focused on an older woman in a tank top and black bra railed on about her teenaged son’s girlfriend. She gestured wildly at whatever offense the girlfriend committed, and the flab on her upper arms jiggled. The stretched out tattoo on that part of her arm swung with her flesh. I pressed my arms closer to my body out of reflex; I’ve become conscious about the extra flesh on the backs of my arms. Apparently the son’s girlfriend went and got herself knocked up, and of course the son had nothing to do with any of that.

The talk show host introduced the girlfriend, and the older woman leapt out of her chair and got into the girlfriend’s face. She pointed her finger into the girl’s face and screamed at her, most of it was bleeped, but her arm flab inadvertently got involved in her tirade. The show’s bodyguards stood by to intervene, if necessary.

“Wow. What are you watching?” I asked the tailor.

He scratched his obvious toupee and said, “I do not think this is even real.” He thumbed through a wad of cash in his pocket and gave me change for my $10 bill. The jeans are the perfect length.

And Then the House Fell Down

2009-11-29T19:30:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving was lovely. Todd cooked a 29 pound turkey that was grown a half mile from our house. We met it a few weeks ago, and named him Tom. Last year we’d eaten Tom’s cousin Bob. Todd’s parents came down from Vermont, and our friends Maggie, Charlie, Mike and Sarah sat around our table. We sampled three kinds of stuffing, we ate, and then we ate, and then we ate some more. More friends joined us as pies materialized on the table, and cups of tea served. We laughed as Mike and Sarah’s 3 year old daughter, Arwen, dipped each finger in the freshly whipped cream and ran outside to share them with her Dad as he sat on the deck with my father in law.

With the Thanksgiving afterglow still fresh in my house, Todd’s sister Em arrived on Friday with her 4 year old son and her boyfriend’s 11 year old son. We sat around the dining room table for Thanksgiving take 2.

“I like your light,” Emily pointed to the chandelier.

“You know, I think that one light is a different color than the others, even though we bought them all at the same time,” I pointed out.

“Now that you mention it…” Emily trailed off as I removed two of the glass globes from the light and exposed the light bulbs.

“See?” I asked. Then with a loud crash the light fixture fell from the ceiling and landed on the leftover pumpkin pie that Maggie had brought with her the day before. Em and I stood over the table with our mouths hanging open. Then we started to laugh. I lifted the lamp and wiped the pumpkin pie filling off the side of it.

“What the hell happened here?” Todd burst into the room. “Are you guys OK?” My mother in law was a close second, and then busted up laughing at the sight. We adjourned to the living room; out of habit I flipped the light switch on my way out of the room.

Saturday night we returned from the movies and sat around in the living room, eating leftovers over the coffee table. We’d bought my mother in law a Wii for her birthday, and we were taking turns playing. I looked up just in time to see the curtain rod fall off the wall and dully clatter on the wood floor. One of the brackets that held the rod to the wall fell clean out of the wall, revealing giant holes that will now need to be filled with an entire tub of spackle when I eventually get around repainting the room.

I am now eyeing the walls suspiciously and am listening carefully to my footfalls when I walk from one room to another in hopes that I won’t fall through the floor and end up in the basement.

Crime School Is in Session

2009-11-25T21:18:00.000-05:00

I sat in the front row center seat in the deliberation room today. That’s where I sat last time too. I was a bit late today, and that seat was empty and the same people were on either side of it as were the last time 2 weeks ago.

Why is it that as adults we assign ourselves seats when in a setting like this? This is something I noticed in college, and later on in grad school. I notice it at work when we have recurring meetings that people seem to sit in the same seats for each meeting. As I sit down I always think to myself, “Now, what would happen next week if I sat in Bob’s seat?” Then I imagine an uncomfortable exchange where Bob walks into the meeting the next week and sees me in the chair that he’d been sitting in for the last who knows how long. Will he come up to me and demand that I get up and get back into my rightful chair? Will he walk toward his chair, out of habit, and then turn and sit at another chair but glare at me for my blatant disregard for the assigned yet unassigned seats.

I sat down in the deliberation room and listened to witnesses testify in five different cases today, and heard two cases two weeks ago as well. I’ve come to a startlingly important conclusion today. Serving on a federal grand jury has been a mind blowing experience so far, as I’ve listened to fascinating testimony that flows like an episode of Law and Order. The thing that strikes me about the cases I’ve heard so far is that, really, these people commit crimes so they can get something they want. A person might steal something and sell it for money that they can use to get something else they really want. That’s the basic motivator behind crime—getting something that you want quickly. I mean, I could throw on a ski mask and rob the general store down the road for some quick cash, right? Or I could go to work and do my job for 2 weeks and get my paycheck.

But in the seven cases I’ve heard so far, I’ve learned one very important fact about criminals. These criminals I am hearing the testimony about are not the diabolical crooks I’ve seen on TV and in movies. They are actually quite stupid. My mind wandered a bit today while listening to a case and it went to what I would have done differently if I were the accused. Would I have walked around with the evidence in broad daylight? Probably not. Would I have bragged to friends about having committed the crime to friends who later became witnesses just so they could avoid getting prosecuted for their own crimes? Probably not.

A side effect of jury duty is kind of how people describe jail. It’s Crime 101. It’s like the show “What Not to Wear” but only it’s about “What Not to Do Once You’ve Broken the Law.” If I was so inclined, I would now make an awesome crook.

99%? Really?

2009-11-19T19:50:00.001-05:00

There’s an old saying that goes something like this, “You learn something new everyday.” Generally I find this to be true, and today was no exception. I learned a very valuable lesson from a very wise scholar tonight.

After work I went to my local favorite clothing consignment shop. I discovered this shop about five minutes after moving to Podunk, and have been hooked ever since. What I like about this shop, aside from the low prices on clothing, is that the selection constantly varies, and because of that I have tried on and bought articles of clothing that I never would have considered had I seen them in an unused clothing store. I also like that I am recycling by reusing the clothes I buy and sell in there, and that I am supporting a local business and not some big ass corporation. So, yeah, this little shop helps me stick it to the man.

I had an appointment to sell a few things I pulled out of my closet that I don’t wear anymore. Selling clothing at a consignment shop is not a get rich quick kind of a thing. (Why do I bother? See above, sticking it to the man.) I arrived at D’s Closet at 5:30, with a few pairs of pants, jeans and tops slung over my arm. While D looked them over and picked out what she thought would sell, I browsed the racks and brought my selections into the fitting room—a corner of the shop sectioned off by a cloth shower curtain. I chatted with D, while trying my soon to be acquired items and asked D’s opinion. She’s always honest, which I love.

I brought my selections to the counter: 2 pairs of jeans, a silk blend shirt and 2 sweaters. D tallied them up, and I forked over $48.50. Just as I was turning to leave the shop, an older woman burst through the door. The bell over the door clanged to announce her arrival.

She was a tall, imposing woman. Her yellowish grey hair was fiercely pinned back with bobby pins, and sharp contrast with her frumpy wardrobe. She wore a lumpy cardigan and a shapeless peasant skirt with socks and keds—all of which matched her hair color exactly. Her heavy rimmed glasses magnified her eyes and attracted attention to the obvious fact that this woman was not playing with a full deck. Her eyes grew wide, her whites were a yellowish shade, and the color also matched her hair and clothing.

“I came in here because you’re all women in here, I needed to hide,” she explained.

“Let me tell you something,” she continued while pointing her finger at D. “99% of young American men are queer or abusers.”

At this point I bit my tongue. Normally I enjoy engaging people like this in a debate. But I held my tongue and let her finish.

“I walked here from my house, and I was verbally abused four times by men passing in cars,” she held up four fingers to emphasize the point. D and I didn’t respond, and the other customer in the store hid behind an overstuffed rack of clothing.

“I walk around here all the time, and I get these men who yell at me all the time. They are queer, and they are abusers. Nothing more than that,” she continued. If she was behind the podium she probably would have pounded her fist to add emphasis to the words “queer” and “abusers.”

“The state of the young men in this country is horrible,” she declared, then turned around and left the store as quickly as she came in.

Honk Honk!

2009-11-18T21:24:00.000-05:00

I could hear the school bus idling at the end of the driveway as I frantically scoured the house for my other shoe. I had a strange habit of taking off one by the door and the other God knows where.

“Hooooooonk!” Mom laid on the horn. It was her first year as a school bus driver, and I was making her late. Again. I slipped into the other shoe and sprinted up the driveway. I stepped in the puddle that was always present after a rain storm… the one across the driveway from the mailbox. Muddy water oozed into my sneaker that I’d left untied so that I could save time.

Jeremy, the boy a few houses away, scowled at me as I sat down. All the times that he wasn’t standing at the end of his driveway Mom didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow down to see if he was running out the door to catch the bus. But she always waited for me and I never missed the bus.

She gunned the engine and shifted into first gear. Mom drove the stick shift bus, while the newer buses had an automatic transmission. The other drivers had complained to the dispatcher that driving the stick shift hurt their backs. I overheard the dispatcher say “Jane never complains about driving stick.” It made me a little proud.

Mom drove the bus from when I was in third grade until seventh grade. Then she went to work for Dad, running deliveries for the shop. She didn’t drive my bus by the time I hit junior high, but some of my friends were on her bus. The dispatcher also gave her the route that went into the low income apartment complex, where the notoriously bad kids lived. By the end of the year the kids from the apartments were on their best behavior while riding the bus because Mom had broken them in. She didn’t have to mend any torn seats anymore or wash away their graffiti. They didn’t even call her Jane, like the other kids did. They called her Mrs. K. But they didn’t shorten it to just the K, they called her the whole thing.

On the last day in seventh grade, Mom and her bus driver friends were crouched around the spigot at the front of the house. A few more of them were crouched around the one at the back of the house. They were giggling excitedly. I was 13, so in response I rolled my eyes and continued on to decide what to wear for the last day of school. The last day of school outfit was as critical as the one worn on the first day.

The kids I knew who rode Mom’s bus arrived to school completely drenched. On the way to school, Mom diverted to a seldom traveled back country road. She pulled the bus to the side of the road and stood in front of the kids, hands behind her back, and thanked all the kids for being so good to her that year. Then, without warning, water balloons flew from her hands faster than anyone could react. She drew from a seemingly endless supply of them, and thoroughly soaked every rider on the bus that morning.

Once they arrived at the school, Mom pulled the bus to the curb and opened the door. Water and bits of multi colored latex poured down the steps and onto the curb. The kids filed out, their sneakers squishing and slurping with every step; you could barely hear the noise over their laughter.

This morning on the way to work I stopped as a school bus flashed its lights and flung the stop sign out. I watched as the kids boarded the bus. If my mom was driving, she would have moved once the kids sat down. But this bus driver was different. She had another adult on the bus with her. Mom only had another grown up on the bus if she was teaching a new driver the route. This other adult bounced down the steps and glanced under the front tires of the bus. Then she ran to the back of the bus and checked under those wheels. She was an old lady, and she was hauling ass back and forth along the bus. She checked the front of the bus again and then bounded up the steps and sat down. At that point the driver turned off the lights and retracted the stop sign.

I watched the old woman run back and forth and wondered how it was ever decided that her job was necessary. Has there been a rash of kids getting run over by school buses that escaped my attention? Somehow I doubt Mom would have tolerated having an old lady running back and forth at every stop. But she could have run back and forth a dozen times while waiting for me to find my shoes.

Uncalloused

2009-11-15T19:41:00.000-05:00

I used to play my guitar constantly. It was to the point where I’d bring it to work with me and play during my lunch hour. I played when I got home from work. I played in the morning before I left for work. I lived in an apartment and my neighbors on the other side of the walls must’ve hated me.

I used to play open mic nights religiously, and that habit was what led to meeting my husband.

Then life got in the way. I got into other things like boat restoration, writing a book, diving, living with a boyfriend who eventually became a fiancé, then eventually became a husband.

Every so often I hear music that inspires me. When I get home I pull the guitar out and strum a few chords and grimace at the pain in the tips of my fingers on my left hand. The thick callouses I had developed had worn away to reveal softer skin underneath.

Then I went to see Willy Porter last weekend, and I am inspired. But I teeter between being inspired to smash my guitar into a wall, or to quit my job and play constantly and get really good. I need to find some middle ground.

On Tuesday Todd came home from work and saw my Gibson Epiphone acoustic draped across the couch and said “I was wondering when that would come out.” Then he noticed my laptop was open to a guitar tablature site and said “Let me guess, you’re trying to learn a Willy Porter song.”

“No” I replied indignantly. “Willy Porter songs are way too good and too intimidating. I learned a few Matt Nathanson songs instead.”

“I can see the fan mail now,” he joked. “Dear Matt Nathanson, I love you. You’re like a dumbed down Willy Porter.

Last night Todd restrung one of our acoustics for me. It looks like I am on my way to becoming a hobby guitar player again.

Take Two of These and Call Me In the Morning

2009-11-11T21:22:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago we bought a new treadmill. At first it ran backward until Todd Macguyvered it and now I don’t have to jog backward. Even though I run forward on the treadmill, the lights dim as I run. They dim when each foot falls on the tread, which results in a rhythmic light show timed with whatever song is on my iPod.

I called National Grid, the local electric company, to have them send someone out to take a look at our connection. We just had an electrician out to the house to upgrade us to 200 amp service, so the disco effect shouldn’t be happening. Last night at 8:30 the National Grid truck rolled up the driveway. In the kitchen I bent down to put a hand on Nemo, so that he wouldn’t tackle the repair man. I stood up quickly, and smacked my head on the open cabinet door.

The hollow coconut sound of the door's corner impacting skull reverberated through my ears and vibrated in every bone in my body. I doubled over and clutched my head in pain until I fell over and howled. Todd raced over and asked me if I was OK. I couldn’t breathe, tears stung my eyes, my ears rang and spots clouded my vision. I caught my breath and told him I was OK.

Once back on the couch, the National Grid guy cut the power to the house as he repaired a connection to the house. I balanced an ice pack on my head and grimaced in pain. In the dark.

This morning I woke up, head still throbbing in pain. The lights didn’t dim as I ran on the treadmill, but the pain pulsed right on the top of my head with every step. Later on in the morning the blow dryer scorched the spot, and I winced just a little harder. At work, the pain settled behind my eyes. I downed a small arsenal of Ibuprofen. Nothing changed. So I emailed Todd.

“My head hurts. A lot. It hurts behind my eyes.”

“I’m sorry honey. Want to go to the doc after work tonight,” he wrote back.

“No. I think it just has to hurt for a little while. I’ll just ice it again tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. But I think ice cream will help. Like, if I eat it really fast and get a brain freeze? You know, treatment from within…”

“Good idea. If I were to pick up some frozen therapy, which flavor do you think will have the best penetrative healing ability?” he replied.

“Well, Karamel Sutra has that caramel ooze in it, which will make the medicinal properties of the ice cream act quicker. It’s clinically proven.”

“That’s convenient. I hear there are free samples of Karamel Sutra available. They have a guarantee, if the pain isn’t gone in 3 days you’ll get a tub for free.”

“Now that’s a guarantee I can get behind,” I replied.

“OK, I’ll swing by the pharmacy on the way home tonight.”

A half tub of Karamel Sutra, and wouldn’t you know it? The pain behind my eyes is gone.

Tenacious Beej and the Pick of Destiny

2009-11-08T20:18:00.000-05:00

We left Club Passim in Cambridge, Massachusetts in a post-fabulous-concert glow at nearly 1 in the morning. As we walked through Harvard Square I held Todd’s hand and he brought my hand into his coat pocket to keep it warm, like he often does.

“I have another surprise for you in my pocket,” he said with a mischievous smile. I couldn’t imagine what else he could have surprised me with, but I pulled out a guitar pick.

“Ooooh! You grabbed this off the stage for me after the show?” I giggled. “Thanks for not making fun of me for mooning around like a teenager tonight.” I admired the pick. It was the same brand as the one I pulled off of Suzanne Vega’s stage many years ago, but hers was thinner. I wonder where that pick ever went. I never used it.

Back in 1996 was the first time I saw Willy Porter in concert. He had opened up for Toad the Wet Sprocket and The Cranberries. I still love Toad, but am so over The Cranberries. (When I used to perform I did a parody of “Zombie” that went “He’s made of clay-ay. Made of clay-ay-ay-ay. Gumby! Guh-um-by!”) I went to this show with my best friend Sue, her then boyfriend Pete, and the boy who lived next door to me when I grew up in East Windsor, Josh. Pete and Josh were good friends, and Josh is still good friends with my brother Kaz. Willy stood on the stage with his guitar and his fingers flew up and down the fret board as he sang. Josh, who also plays guitar, stood next to me and joined me in my slack jawed stare as Willy played.

Then I sorta forgot about Willy Porter until I recently stumbled upon a song of his on Pandora. It was last fall, when I could still listen to Pandora at work. It was the song “Angry Words” that caught my attention. I turned up the volume and listened closer. His bright sounding acoustic guitar blended perfectly with his slightly gravelly voice. I clicked over to the browser window and saw that it was Willy Porter. “No way,” I muttered out loud. “How on earth did I forget about this guy?” I pulled out my list of must-check-out artists that I had formulated from listening to Pandora all day at work, and scrawled “Willy Porter***!!!” on the very top of the list. Then Pandora was banned at work, and the list of must-check-out artists is growing thin.

But I ran right out and bought “High Wire Live” during lunch that day. And it’s been in the CD player at home, in the car and on the boat for most of the last year. (I took a Willy Porter hiatus in the spring, however, when my recent obsession with Neil Peart erupted and I began to listen to Rush in doses that are probably illegal in several states.)

Last night we sat down in the very front for the 7 PM show at Club Passim. Luke Doucet opened with a half dozen songs—melodic guitar and gritty lyrics, beautifully executed. Then Willy came on with a full band. He played effortlessly, he sang and joked with his band mates and told hilarious anecdotes between songs. But the thing that struck me the most was his smile. He beamed as he played and sang and made it very obvious that he thoroughly enjoys his job.

At nearly 9 the show ended. We left the club and wandered to the ATM to get some cash for the lot where Todd parked the car. Even though home is an hour and a half away from Harvard Square, I wasn’t ready to leave. I joked with Todd about getting tickets for Willy’s 10:00 show.

We walked through Harvard Square, Todd leading the way because I didn’t know where he parked the car.

“Hey, is that Palmer Street?” he asked. “So, we’re back at Club Passim? Wow, I just took us in a big circle,” he said apologetically as we stood in front of the club. “Oh well, I guess we’ll have to go back in and watch the 10:00 show.” He handed me the cash he’d gotten out of the ATM so I could buy every CD on the table that I didn’t yet have—4 Willy Porters and 2 Luke Doucets. Then we sat in the front on the other side of the stage than we had during the 7:00 show.

I got up to use the bathroom, which was in the same hallway as the performers dressing room. Willy walked by, and I thanked him for playing “Angry Words,” which had made me squeal in a vocal range I had no idea I could even produce. I told him how that song had been on repeat in the car a lot lately. Then I cringed and said "Yeah, that probably sounds psycho," and he just laughed. We chatted in the hallway for a bit about how I rediscovered him on Pandora. He unlocked his dressing room door and I immediately grew self-conscious about having kept him from escaping the milling fans in the hallway.

“I.. um… just so you know I am actually waiting for the ladies room, and not just lurking outside your dressing room,” I said to him. He laughed and said that he figured that. (Ugh! I am such a dork!)

I sat at the table and systematically opened every CD and read all the liner notes until Todd suggested I get one autographed.

“I’m not going to do that! How dorky!” I cowered.

“Come on, he’s right over there at the bar. When are you going to get this chance again?”

I batted my eyes at him.

“So, you want me to do it?” he asked.

I batted them again.

“Oh for crying out loud,” he laughed and took my copy of “Dog Eared Dream” to the bar. I sat there chastising myself for not doing it myself. Then I walked over.

“Hey, you made it,” Todd laughed.

“I make my husband do my dirty work for me,” I explained to Willy. “But then I told myself to man up,” I shrugged.

“Yeah, she’s been listening to your CD like it’s her job,” Todd laughed.

“That’s not true, I swap it out for Rush occasionally,” I reminded him.

“You’re swapping me for Rush? I love Rush!” Willy smiled.

“Yeah, I am in a full on Neil Peart obsession right now,” I explained.

“Understood,” he laughed. I told him about how I’d devoured all four of Peart’s memoirs in the spring, “Yeah, he’s got nothing to say, huh?” he joked and signed my copy of “Dog Eared Dream.”

Then we sat down and listened to Luke Doucet all over again. Then we listened to Willy Porter and Co. all over again and watched him drop that orange guitar pick.