Lonely

Well, lonely and jealous I guess. Todd and his dad are currently in a plane bound for The Bahamas. The Fricken Bahamas. I am stuck in Rhode Island, doing pesky things like going to work, and he’s on his way to the Bahamas. Their plane departed Boston this morning, and after a three hour flight they’ll be having lunch and fruity umbrella drinks on a white sand beach. I am sure you’ll excuse my jealousy.

He goes on a trip with each of his parents once a year. In February he had a conference in Vegas and took his mom along for the week. Concerned that she’d be bored while he was at the conference, he arranged for his cousin—a close friend of my mother-in-law—to join them. Of course, he did not tell his mom about this arrangement, and surprised her on that Sunday. And of course they all had an amazing time. He arranged for a day in the spa for the two of them, they went to something like 3 dozen Cirque du Soleil shows. He won gobs of money at three card poker, and turned it all over to his mom so she could have some mad money while he was in class during the day.

Now he’s off to The Bahamas with his dad, where I am sure they’ll do fabulous things like renting a sailboat, snorkeling, and drinking lots of rum.

More than jealous, I am lonely. Before I met Todd, I lived alone. I liked living alone. I enjoy having my own space. I used to look forward to Todd’s trips just so I could have the joint to myself for a few days. Last night I made a very disgusting and disappointing dinner. Of the two of us, Todd’s the cook. So, I lamented his absence as I dumped the chicken fried rice into the trash. I had found the recipe in the Providence Journal, and in my incapable hands it turned out entirely inedible. Relieved, I discovered both cereal and milk in the kitchen—a rarity—and polished off the quiet night with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

But this morning I woke up and the house felt empty, despite the beagle hogging the bed. Even though I lived alone, and quite enjoyed it, I find myself enjoying an empty house less and less. I never wanted to be one of those married people who couldn’t exist without her spouse, and I am scared that I am turning into that person.

While he’s away, I am filling the time. Tomorrow night I am dragging some friends along to see Willy Porter in concert. Then on Sunday I am going to a cook-out.

But it’s just not the same without Todd.

Circle of Life, Disrupted

A few weeks ago our driveway, along with our entire state, flooded. The entire driveway was one large ankle deep puddle. The weekend after the flood, the sun came out and the weather teased us with a taste of early summer. Our waterlogged lawn kept on flowing water off to the side, and the driveway dried out a bit except for a large network of puddles on the far side.

That summery weekend frogs took up residence in the puddle and proceeded to throw a froggy orgy. Frogs left their little keys in the bowl and proceeded to pair up all over the driveway. It was to the point where we couldn’t drive in without having to get up and interrupt the action so we could move them all to the side. I joked about blasting some Barry White out the living room window. But it didn’t look like we didn’t need to do that. They were getting on just fine without our help.

Last weekend I was near the puddles getting some firewood. I looked down and saw millions of squirming black tadpoles. Millions of them. I ran into the house to get Todd, and we excitedly watched them all squirm. We speculated as to how many frogs we’d have hopping all over the place.

Todd went inside and researched on the web about raising tadpoles into frogs. We learned that we cannot fill the puddles with the hose, because the copper from the pipes in the house would kill them. The puddles were still several inches deep, so we didn’t think it would be a problem.

On Monday the sun came out, and the temperature rose to the high 60’s-low 70’s. When we got home from work, the puddle was a bit smaller. Then on Tuesday we had another nice day. When we returned home the puddle had disappeared. Left in its place were oily looking black splotches. We looked closer and saw that the millions of little tadpoles had died when their home dried out.

And I wonder how long it’ll take for Nemo to roll in it.

My Shitty Dog

Todd took Griffen and Nemo to work today, as he often does. They’d rather hang in his office, or in the back of the truck all day long than stay at home. Todd likes having them in the office as a fun stress reliever. It’s a win-win situation.

Tonight I met up with Todd at our friends’ yacht rigging shop. The owners of the shop, Maggie and Charlie, have become good friends of ours. We agreed to meet up at their house for a drink. Todd had the dogs in the back of the truck, which is fine because Maggie and Charlie are dog people; they love Griffen and Nemo.

We sat on Maggie and Charlie’s deck (or Chaggie and Marlie, as I call them if I’ve been drinking) and had a drink and some cheese and crackers. Griffen and Nemo romped around in the back yard until Griffen stopped and squatted in the middle of the yard. Of course, he dropped a bomb of epic proportions. I offered to shovel it into the woods and Charlie told me not to bother.

Big mistake.

Nemo rolled in the ground near the bomb. I figured that there was no way he was actually rolling in the pile of poo. (And what, based on my experience with Nemo would make me think that?  I don't know.)  Then we turned around just in time to see him eat the pile of poo. Todd grabbed a shovel and flung the remainder into the woods, then joined the rest of us on the deck.

Nemo joined us too. And so did the poo ground into his ears and smeared around his neck. Todd quickly put the dogs into the back of the truck and returned to the deck. Minutes later Nemo turned up on the deck again. We puzzled over how he got out of the truck, while Maggie and I lured him back to the truck again. I put him in the back and saw that the window that leads into the cab was open. I got behind the wheel and went to put the key into the ignition so I could close the window.

By the time I got behind the wheel, Nemo had already jumped through the window into the cab. I reached back and pinned him against the top of the seat. I tried to coax (read shove) him back through the window into the bed of the truck. No dice. I called out to Todd, not realizing that Maggie was still standing there. I could barely reach Nemo from the front seat, and would not be able to put the key into the ignition to close the window.

She may have laughed, I am not sure. But she opened the door to the back seat and helped me shove my poo smeared dog into the back of the truck. (A testament of true friendship!) We closed the window, crisis averted.

Just as we were leaving Maggie and Charlie’s house, an hour or so later, Charlie called out “And get your shitty dog out of here!”

This Burrito Will Self Destruct in 4.... 3..... 2.....

I love Mexican food.  A lot.  It's to the point where if I have Mexican food for lunch on a Saturday, the remainder of my day is thrown out the window.

My "off" switch in my stomach and my brain somehow become disabled.  Then it's chipssalsachipssalsa chipschipschipssalsaaaaaa.

Then the refried beans come out, and those are eaten with more chips.  Then the entree, and the gooey vat of queso.  And the burrito, or the tacos, or the empanadas, or the flautas.  It's all good. 

Eventually the water I am drinking and the chips meet up in my stomach.  Chip hits water, and the expansion occurs.  But the flavors still play on my tongue, and they are oh so good.  Chomp chomp chomp goes the remainder of the entree.  Stomach strains against jeans, and I look around to see if anyone in the restaurant would notice if I unbuttoned them.

The energy I started the day with has been doused by queso and refried beans.  Todd drives the car home while I recline in the passenger seat and groan.  Once home I flop on to the couch, clutch my belly and say, "I cannot believe I ate the whole thing."  My "off" switch re-engages and shouts "I told you so!"

But the thing is, once I am back in On the Border, I'll probably do it all again. 

Healthy Fear

Today my stint as a grand juror was supposed to end. It’s been six months, and we’ve been extended for another six months because we have three cases pending indictment that we haven’t finished yet.  Obviously I cannot write about the cases I’ve heard here. I wish I could. It’s been a fascinating experience, and I would love to share the stories I've heard in the deliberation room. Every other week I was told a story. Some of them made me cry after hearing them and some of them left my mouth hanging open in awe.

The thing I am in awe about the most is the lack of a healthy fear, which is something I've experienced on more than one occasion.  It’s the butterflies in the stomach, the mouth gone dry, the adrenaline surging through my body that causes my palms to sweat. I’ve felt it when having a near miss with another car while speeding in my car. I’ve felt it the time I broke Mom’s vase when I was a kid, or at work when something happened that was entirely fault. It’s the healthy fear that makes me fess up because I am afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. It’s this healthy fear that keeps me, and other normal people, from doing something like knocking over a 7-11. However, observing some of the witnesses I’ve heard in the last six months has taught me that not everyone has this healthy fear.

We mostly hear from witnesses that work in law enforcement, however on occasion we hear from civilian witnesses. We never get to hear from the person who is accused of the crime, or is the target of the investigation. But we hear about them from other people, and it’s the stories of these other people that help me and the rest of the jurors decide if they have to go to trial later on.  The civilian witnesses amaze me. It's not that they don’t dress up for their testimony like the law enforcement witnesses do. It isn't even that they aren’t prepared like the law enforcement witnesses are. It's in the way they speak.  They answer “Yup” and “Yeah” instead of “Yes.” Some of them nod or shake their head, and then the court reporter has to tell them to answer verbally so she can type it into the stenotype machine. The last two sessions I’ve heard from witnesses who, in addition to not being prepared, they just don’t have the healthy fear. Yesterday I listened to a witness tell us that something confiscated from her desk at her workplace in a search and seizure “might” be hers. She wouldn’t not say the word yes, but knew she couldn’t say no either. She stuck with “might be.”  The prosecutor pressed the question "Yes or no, is this yours?"  And she answered "it might be" every time without batting an eye.

My mouth hung open as she answered that way over and over. She was on the edge of lying, and yet she appeared calm. She testified for nearly three hours, and did not “crack” under the pressure of the prosecutor. She answered that she “didn’t recall” to questions that we knew that she knew the answer to.

If it were me on the stand, I’d be shaking in my boots. I would be singing like a canary because I’d be too afraid of what might happen if I didn’t tell them exactly what I knew about the situation. The healthy fear would take over, and the sense of right or wrong would kick in and would compel me to say something other than it “might have” been my fault.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last six months of being part of the greatest judicial system in the world, it’s that I will never ever do anything illegal because I never want to find myself in that seat.

The Aftermath

What a week.  And what a mess.  The rain finally stopped on Wednesday, and the sun began to show up from behind the clouds.  But it only did that after the flooding closed interstate 95 right smack in the middle of the state.  It wreaked havoc for commuters all coming from all directions.  Normally the closure wouldn't have affected me, because I live and work south of the closed portion.  However traffic was backed up for miles, and I would have been screwed if I had to go to work on that day.  I had to go to jury duty on Wednesday in Providence, but knew enough to take the backroads and circumnavigate half the state to get there.  (And that only took 45 minutes.  Because we're such a small state.)  Todd had slept at his office on Tuesday night, and fortunately didn't have to commute through the insanity either.

He took much of Wednesday off to help people he knew whose houses had been flooded.  He waded in waist deep water to get to a Home Depot so that he could get a pump.  Luckily he didn't have to go to the Warwick Mall, photo below.  (I do not know who took these photos.  I'd love to give you credit, because they are amazing.)

The Warwick Mall is right near where the highway was closed.  According to NPR, there was 20" of water in some of the stores.  Just to the left of the trees in the bottom left of the picture is where the water is supposed to be.  It extended all the way across the parking lot, and completely flooded the buildings right in the center and toward the bottom of the picture.  Not in this shot is the apartment complex off the left side of the photos.  The complex has since been condemned. 

This is about 10 miles south of where we live.  No, a bomb did not go off in the middle of the street, it was the rushing water.

The town of West Warwick was one of the baddest hit.  This is an evacuation of some old mill buildings in that town.

This is on the other side of the Warwick Mall, presumably taken on Tuesday during the height of the rain.

We still have the large puddles in our driveway, and that's the only real hassle we've sustained through all this.  On Saturday I noticed frogs playing in the puddles.  At first I saw only one when we were leaving to go somewhere.  Then later on there were two when we left to go to Home Depot.  When we got back from dinner on Saturday night, there were roughly 8-10 frogs lounging in this puddle and singing to each other.  On Sunday I captured this shot of two of them doing it.  Be advised, if you get it on in my driveway, I WILL take a photo and I will post it to my blog. 

Overall, we've been very lucky and extremely fortunate.  There are so many people who have been forced from their homes.  I am still seeing hoses extend out from basements and pouring into streets when I drive around.  I see piles of dirty carpets piled on the side of roads I ride on.  I have heard the horror stories, and I am so thankful not to be a part of that.

The water is receeding, and the frog population is growing.

Robbed

I don't know where it's gone.  It must have been stolen.  I am not sure when I last saw it, and I don't think it'll turn up at a pawn shop.

I am talking about my energy.  It up and left.  I can't be bothered to do the simplest things.  The dryer?  It just dinged and I need to put some sheets on the bed before my mother in law arrives tonight.  Cannot.  Be.  bothered.  Todd was cooking dinner, and I was lounging on the couch.  I had the nerve to get annoyed with him for asking me to get him something.  Really?  The man is cooking!  For me!  Could I be any less grateful?

I've been training for a 10K race that will happen in May.  I've been steadily running 4 miles pretty consistently these last few weeks.  Yesterday I took the run outside, and couldn't even get through 1 mile.  Not even 1!  I bailed after 2 miles and went home.  How the hell am I going to get through 6 miles when I can't get through 1?!

Then my co-worker emailed this picture to me yesterday.  And I think she might be right.

I don't take my computer to bed.  But the beagley one ends up in bed with us.  So this is what I wrote back to her: 

They only steal sleep when they…

1. incessantly claw at the blankets demanding to be let underneath
2. crawl out from under the blanket 15 minutes later
3. lick your face
4. apply a cold wet nose to whatever human body part extends out from under the covers—usually your butt
5. lick the carpet incessantly
6. lick themselves incessantly, because all species need a thorough bath at 3 AM
7. tilt their head upward and lick, apparently, nothing
8. sit on your neck
9. shove their business end up by your pillow
10. claw at their dog bed to make it just a bit fluffier
11. kick you when they dream about fetching, swimming, chasing, or whatever they love to do

And now it's approaching 8 PM, and the bed is looking pretty good about now.

Birthday Week: Day 4 and 5 and a Computer Virus

Birthday week has come to a close.  It breezed right by me, in a sugar rush haze of chocolate, cupcakes and Girl Scout Cookies.

On Thursday morning, the day of my actual birthday, my dear friend Charlie brought me a box of chocolates from the world's best chocolate shop, The Chocolate Delicacy.  The label on the box said "Calorie Consuming Anti Matter Chocolate," and then the other label had the atomic symbol on it.  Of course, the box had all my favorites in it, because Chocolate Dave knows what I like after having been diving with me and eating post dive chocolates with him.

Then I met Todd for Mexican for dinner.  He presented me with a group of papers stapled together with a riddle on it.  He'd bought me tickets to see Willy Porter again (swoon) in April.  But he won't be around to see the show with me.  So he hooked up my friend Dennis from work and his girlfriend Nikki to go with me. 

Then on day 5 he baked me a chocolate cake, and got me a device from Amazon that will measure how much electricity (and money) the lights and devices in our house use.  Which I think will be fascinating to play with.  And maybe it will help me to bitch less about our electric bill every month.   So, it'll bring peace to him as well. 

Also on day 5 I caught a computer virus, which was both good and bad.  It was bad because I didn't get the chance to work on the book, or the freelance project I'm working on.  But it was also good because it forced me to unplug for a weekend.  Todd just finished fixing it a bit ago.

Thank you, love, for an amazing birthday week, and for spoiling the hell out of me once again. 

Birthday Week: Day 3

On the third day of birthday week
My true love gave to me
A red velvet cuh-uh-up-cake.

And then this morning I ran 5 miles on the treadmill to keep up with the excess consumption of goodies.

Birthday Week: Day 2

Birthday week, day 2 brought two boxes of Caramel Delites.  My favorite.

And they're great with Twisted Tea.

Birthday Week: Day 1

It happens the same way, and pretty frequently too.  The doorbell at work rings.  One of my co-workers who sit near it answer it.  They groan and say, "Beej?  Really?  Again?"

Todd likes to send me things at work.  He sent me flowers last year on the first day of spring.  He sent me flowers this year on the first day of February.  I've gotten them for Groundhog's Day.  I've gotten them just because.

Yesterday an Edible Arrangement arrived--chocolate covered pears and apples.  The card read "Happy Birthday Week!"

The women rushed in to share, because I ALWAYS share in my bounty.  And then they rolled their eyes, because it's my birthday week.  I get presents when it's not even my birthday.  (Hell, he's gotten me presents on HIS birthday.  Figure that one out.)

Is it wrong that I was pushing for a birthday month?  Not necessarily for gifts, more for chores.  For example, "I shouldn't have to chase the dog to the neighbor's again.  It's my birthday month."  Eventhough I often call Todd "Excellent Husband," he's not buyin' into the whole birthday month thing.

Mistaken Identity, Again

It happened again on Friday. I walked into Subway to get lunch. I rarely go there for lunch, and normally pack a lunch to eat at my desk. Then I spend my lunch hour huddled over my laptop in my car to work on whatever I am writing.

“Hi Debbie,” the woman behind the counter said to me. The first time she said that to me, 4-5 times ago, I looked at her puzzled. This time I ignored her and placed my order.

“You’re not Debbie, are you?” she asked me, while she laid out my turkey and provolone on a 6” piece of wheat bread.

“No, I’m not.”

“I’ve asked you that before, haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “It’s OK.”

“You look just like this woman Debbie I know,” she told me, again. Debbie has some long and complicated Italian last name. (Yeah, because Polish last names are so much easier.) She told me the Italian name, again.

“Is she Italian?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm… I am Polish,” I explained, hoping that it would help her to not think I look like Debbie.


But then, it must be that Polish Mediterranean skin of mine throwing her off

It Must Be my Mediterranean Skin

It was a slow day at Jacques Penney. That’s what I called JC Penney when I worked there when I was a teenager. I said it with a heavy faux French accent. We were all standing around, me and a few women I worked with who were also bored. These were older women. They had husbands and kids. They worked for Jacques on nights and weekends for extra money.

“Ugh, my skin is peeling from this sunburn,” one of them women scratched her shoulder blades against a display. I joked about taking one of the hands off a mannequin so scratching would be easier.

She looked me up and down. It was summer. I was 17 and tan. “You don’t burn, do you?”

“Nope,” I smiled back at her. “I think about the sun and I get tan.” Then I paused, looked up and to the right, as if deep in thought. Then I showed her my arm, “See, it’s already more tan.”

“Well, you’re Polish. You have that Mediterranean skin,” she replied, thoughtfully.

I conjured a map of Europe in my head. The summer before I had vacationed in Germany, Poland and Italy with my family. It took a long time to drive to Rome from Krakow, Poland.

Pop quiz, Internet! Do you know why it took a long time to drive from Krakow to Poland?

It’s because Poland is nowhere damn near the Mediterranean Sea, my friends.

The Boobie Dry Cleaner

The way she leaned against the counter, it pushed her boobs into display even more. That’s the thing I never liked about going into that dry cleaner, was this young woman behind the counter. She was pretty enough, but she shoved her big ol hooters up and out of her shirt on display. I wonder if she ever had the chance to know what eye contact looked like.


I went to that dry cleaner every other week while I had the dive shop. It was on the way, and was the last one nearby that I hadn’t yet boycotted for some ridiculous reason. I did that a lot back then. I had a mental list of the dry cleaners I didn’t want to ever set foot in again, and now I cannot remember the reason for any of them. Over the time I’d been going to the “Boobie Dry Cleaner,” as I’d begun calling it, I became friendly with Kayla, the one with the boobs.

I went in one night on my way home from the shop. Kayla didn’t smile. Her boobs stood at attention, but she didn’t smile like she usually did.

“Hey, how are you?” I asked.

“My boyfriend and I just broke up,” she sighed.

“Oh no! How long have you been together?” I asked. She told me it had been a few weeks. I tried to smile sympathetically, but couldn’t seem to muster one up for a 20 year old girl who had broken up with her weeks-long boyfriend.

She went on to tell me that she had such a great time with him. He was older; I gathered that he was at least in his thirties or maybe forties. He took her to all the “right” clubs. He bought her jewelry. And now she’d need to find another guy to do all those things for her. It was catastrophic.

I couldn’t resist. I asked her why she needed all that in her life. What was so great about going to the “right” clubs if she couldn’t get along with the guy who brought her there? She looked at me with a puzzled look on her face.

“The way I see it,” I paused to choose my words carefully. “If you really like a guy then it doesn’t matter where you guys go together. No matter where you go, it will always be fun.”

She considered for a moment while I told her about the dates that Todd and I had been on when we were first together. He was 20, I was 23. We were flat broke and our idea of a date was cooking dinner together in my apartment. There was a supermarket a few blocks away. We’d walk there and spend Saturday afternoon wandering the aisles, picking out the ingredients and laughing. He really knew how to make me laugh, too. I have a very vivid memory of him speaking French to a cantaloupe. I have no idea what he said to it, but it was funny as hell as he tapped the top of it and held it to his ear. It’s those memories that make me smile still, 13 years later.

Kayla raised her eyebrows at me incredulously. “And you married him after that?”

You Know Who I Feel Bad For?

Women with facial hair, that’s who.

I cannot think of anything more unfortunate for a woman, in terms of physical appearance, than facial hair. There’s no way to hide it. Even if a woman shaves it, it’ll eventually come back as stubble. Waxing is even worse, because the hair has to be a certain length for it to take to waxing.

I was at lunch with my fellow jurors at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) cafeteria when I happened to spot a young woman’s misfortune. She was in line in front of me and dressed in 80’s splendor… fuchsia pants tucked into big floppy socks. A worn pair of Keds on her feet. Her shirt was a wild swirling mishmash of color and checkerboard patterns that just screamed “I was sewn in 1985.” A zillion bobby pins held her hair from the right side of her head and swept it over the top of her head so that it cascaded down by her left ear.

But it was her chin that caught my attention. It was noon and she was already sporting more than a five o’clock shadow on her cheeks, jaw and chin. When she turned to face me, I saw it on her upper lip as well. The stubble was thick. It was obvious that she’d had to shave it at one point and desperately needed to again.

I tried not to stare. But of course I stared. I looked at anything I possibly could to keep my eyes off her beard. I read and re-read the menu on the wall. I watched the short order cooks grill up a few quesadillas. I talked to my fellow jurors about the case we’d heard that morning. We’re always careful never to speak in specifics when we go to lunch together. We, obviously, never mention names or places that would reveal anything about the case. The case we’d heard that morning was pretty juicy, but I couldn’t get my mind off this poor young girl with her beard.

Was she ashamed of it? Did she get made fun of? Obviously she’d been stared at; I am living proof of that. I’ll bet anything that the kids in her high school had some sort of name for her. I cringed at the idea that this poor girl probably got called “Hairy Cousin It” or something equally awful. Was it hard for her to get dates?

I don’t think I will ever freak out about a zit ever again.

Unsetting the Sun

I gunned the engine on Todd’s car, racing to the peak of the Newport Bridge. The sun had just set, but I hoped that the gained altitude at the top of the bridge we’d see just a sliver of the newly set sun over the horizon.

“You did it!” Todd cheered from the passenger seat. “You’ve just unset the sun.” I clapped for a second then replaced my hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel.

It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. We’ve just celebrated our 12th Valentine’s Day together. We were drowsy from the weight of the Mexican food in our bellies and from the day’s activities.

The day started off with a fresh batch of heart shaped pancakes I’d made. We ate them in bed and let the dogs have whatever we couldn’t finish. Valentine’s Day is a family affair in our house, after all.

Before we knew it we were in the car and crossing over Narragansett Bay on the Newport Bridge. We arrived at the horse barn were soon we saddled onto our horses and headed for a ride on Third Beach.

It was a wonderful ride, but I’ve discovered that I really don’t like it when horses trot. It’s bouncy and jarring. It’s hurty where my butt repeatedly slammed into the saddle. Galloping, however, is great. The horse gets into a smoother rhythm that doesn’t send me bluntly bobbing up and down on the hard leather saddle.

Todd had a much better time on this ride than he did on the one on South Padre Island on our honeymoon. The last horse left in the barn was a young stallion that had been broken for about five minutes. Long story short, his horse pestered another horse into kicking him square in the chest. The force of the kick sent Todd’s horse, with Todd on the back, sprawling sideways on the beach. From there the ride went downhill.

Today, however, Todd and his horse—Jenny—were the best of friends. She listened to his commands, she did not ever send them ass over teakettle. He rode in front of me while I watched from behind. I watched him move up and down in his saddle while trotting and listened to him talk to Jenny and remind her that she’s a “good girl.”

He looked over his shoulder at me with a big smile on his face, and I could tell that my Valentine was having a wonderful ride.

This is quite possibly the best picture of Todd I've ever taken.  Happy Valentine's Day, Love.

Hemmed In

With the exception of the hair salon I’ve gone to for the last 8 years, I haven’t been a consistent consumer of services. I don’t always go to the same supermarket, and go for the one that’s the most convenient. I haven’t used the same dry cleaner consistently, except for the last year or so when I’ve managed to find one that comes to my house to take the dirty clothes away and bring clean ones back a few days later. I don’t often get things like massages, manicures and pedicures—but when I do, I don’t go to the same place all the time.

But I will most definitely keep going to the tailor I discovered recently. I haven’t consistently used a tailor, and have walked around with my pants either too short or too long. My recent discovery of the tailor will not only ensure that my pants are the correct length, but will also provide me with excellent blog fodder.

I went back to the tailor last week. I had bought a pair of cargo pants on clearance, but of course they were too long. (My legs are too long for the “regular” length women’s pants, but too short for the “long” length. Don’t even get me started as to why women’s clothing manufacturers don’t size their pants by the inch, like men’s clothing manufacturers do. This is something I will never ever understand.) These cargo pants fit me just right. They make my legs look long and slender. The cargo pockets on the outsides of my thighs aren’t too bulky, either. The only thing I don’t like about these pants are the front pockets, so in addition to getting them hemmed I’ve asked the tailor to sew the pockets shut.

I put the pants on, behind the curtain that doesn’t close all the way. He chalked lines where the hems will go, and then we discussed the pockets. He examined the pockets and then he proceeded to jam his hands down the front of my pants so he could pin the pockets closed. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a strange man’s hands jammed down the front of my pants… I think the last time was when Todd and I started dating. I had assumed that when I’d gotten married there wouldn’t be any more strange men jamming their hands down the front of my pants. Boy was I wrong.

It was entirely innocent. The tailor was just doing his job, and there was no funny business. Still, it was an entirely unexpected thing to have happen to me. I mean, if I am going to have a strange man jam his hands down my pants I wish he’d been about 60 years younger and better looking. I also wish he didn’t have a ridiculously obvious toupee.

On Friday I picked up my freshly hemmed pockets sewn in cargo pants. The tailor had the TV behind the counter on. Last time he was watching a Jerry Springer wanna-be, this time he was watching a nature show on PBS. Two black bears were pouncing on each other and rolling around.

“I like these shows,” the tailor gestured to the TV. “You know that bears don’t eat meat?”

“Really? I thought they liked salmon,” I replied. The tailor paused for a minute, to consider whether bears eat salmon or not.

“Maybe you’re right,” he directed his attention to the TV, the bears were still rolling around together, “But I can’t tell.  They are fighting or making love?” He watched the screen intently, waiting for the distinction to become obvious.

“I’m not sure,” I laughed. Then I mentally scanned my closet for other articles of clothing in need of alterations.

What in the Hell is Going on in New Orleans?

CNN blared from the TV in the bedroom while I stood at the bathroom sink primping and preening. Todd calls my getting-ready-to-go-anywhere routine “primping and preening.” He says I take longer to get ready than anyone he knows. It’s not that I take a long time. It’s just that on some days I have a hard time being quick about it, and that’s what makes it seem like a long time. His idea of getting ready is rolling out of bed and standing under the shower for .5 seconds. Then he whips on some clothing and leaves; I have to go around with the extinguisher to put out the fire left behind in his footprints. And that, too, adds on to my getting-ready-to-go-anywhere routine. So, really the length of time it takes me to get ready is all Todd’s fault.

Todd’s been travelling quite a bit these last few weeks. To fill the house with noise in the morning I’ve had CNN on the bedroom TV. Normally I have it on the living room TV while I am eating breakfast and packing lunch in the kitchen. But now that he’s not still in bed while I am primping, I can put it on in the bedroom and turn it way up. He would probably get really annoyed with me if I did that while he was here.

On Monday morning the newscasters were talking about celebration in the streets of New Orleans. I paused and listened for a moment (which probably added onto the time it takes me to get ready in the morning) because I wanted to know what the residents of New Orleans were celebrating about. I set down the hairdryer I was just about to switch on and listened intently. The good folks in New Orleans have had a rough time of it in the last decade, and I smiled at the thought of them partying in the streets.

But then I thought about New Orleans and how they party in the streets every February. It’s too early for Mardi Gras, what the hell are they partying about now? Do they ever stop partying? And then I grew a bit annoyed at how these people party in the streets when the people of Providence cannot be bothered to have a citywide celebration like that. And what the hell is wrong with the people of Providence that they can’t have a big party like Mardi Gras?

I cut my mental rant short and listened some more and learned that New Orleans’s football team was in the Super bowl* and they won. Oh yeah, the Super Bowl was on Sunday. New Orleans has a football team? How did I not know that? And how has the Super Bowl eluded me once again? I really ought to pay more attention. And I tell myself that every single year and yet I never do.

*Spell check flagged the word “Superbowl.” When I right clicked on it, Microsoft Word suggested “Super bowl” or “Superb owl.” Maybe next year, with my increased awareness of this big football game, I’ll call it the “Superb Owl.”

Why Is That?

“So, what do you do?” I overheard at a party.

“This is John, he’s a software engineer,” I heard at another party.

“So, you’re an attorney. What’s that like?” I overheard somewhere else.

Not many people ask me what I do for a living. And you know what? I really don’t mind that I don’t get asked. I wonder why people don’t often ask me that question. Is it that I don’t look like someone who is gainfully employed? No. It’s probably because whenever I am in a social setting I tend to talk about the things I like to do. I talk about the stupid things my dogs do. I talk about our sailing adventures and our diving adventures. Then I forget that I even have a job that I could be talking about, because I am having fun talking and hearing about vacations and listening to funny stories.

When Todd and I were at Kalahari, we stood in line at the boogie boarding ride. The line takes a long time because we have to wait for every single person ahead of us to take a turn navigating a boogie board on a perpetual wave. I struck up a conversation with the couple in line behind us. Then Todd asked me what they did for a living.

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask,” I replied. Then I thought about it some more. “You know, I don’t like asking people what they do for work. I’d rather ask what they like to do. That’s always more interesting anyway.” He shrugged and thought about it for a second and acknowledged I was right.

We rode the boogie board, and I managed to get up onto my knees before the force of the water sent me flying up to where the wave ends. The lifeguard greeted me with an outstretched towel in case my bathing suit ceased to cover up the goods. (Which I thought was great of them to do. At Schlitterbahn in South Padre Island, TX I involuntarily flashed my boobs at all of the people in line, and at all the people on the balcony of the café above. Good times.) We headed to the hot tub bar after boogie boarding. You have to enter the hot tub to belly up to the bar. Then the hot tub flows under the exterior wall of the building so that we could enjoy our drinks in the tub outdoors. A perfect situation, really.

We soaked and drank. As usual, I eavesdropped on the conversations around us. I listened to a man bitch about his job to his friend. Blah blah blah blah… I tuned out the conversation. Then they went inside after one of the men said to the other “You should just be a man about it and sleep with other women.” (What??) We took their place along the side of the tub and listened to other people talk about their jobs.

I asked Todd, “Why is it that we’re at the biggest indoor water park in the nation, sitting in an awesome hot tub on a Saturday night with these fabulous drinks in our hands listening to people talk about work? Isn’t there anything else for people to talk about?”

Is it that we’re overworked? Are so many of our waking moments spent working or worrying about work?

What do you think, Internet? Why do people talk about work so much?

A Day in the Life

“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

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

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.

Let's Do the Time Warp Again

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

“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

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

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?"

2010? That's So Five Minutes Ago

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

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

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

“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.

The Tailor

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

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

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?

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!

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

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.