Yesterday I eagerly put my first batch of Christmas cards in the mail. I'm holiday decor-challenged, uncreative with gifts, and do not bake much for fear that I'll consume the fruits of my labor at an alarming rate. But I freakin' LOVE sending Christmas cards! So you can imagine my disappointment when I discovered that our weekend mailman simply shoved our incoming mail on top of my cards instead of taking them.
"But, Sam, what's the WORST that can happen when your mailman is a complete idiot?" OH, I don't know... intervention from a bomb squad?
Hear me out.
Some time last year, I had HAD it with the postman neglecting to take our mail, so we began leaving it conspicuously sticking out of our open mailbox. The good news is that he actual began to take it. The downside was that if it rained, our outgoing mail got soggy. Also, these ugly little beetles began crawling into our mailbox and dying. Yes, idiot-proofing our mail was beginning to have its downsides.
One week, my parents were visiting. We were playing with Grant in the living room when there was an unexpected knock on my door. It was a weekday morning, and I wasn't expecting anyone. I casually answered the door and was met with two burly gentlemen dressed in what looked like police-related uniforms. The expressions on their faces were full of caution as they leaned toward me and asked if my husband was home.
"Oh no," I thought. "I knew my spouse was too good to be true. What's he done? Am I going to be arrested? Thrown out of a plane, perhaps?" (Anyone ever see The Good Shepard?)
In my confused state, I explained that my husband was at work. The men, oddly enough, looked like they were now taking great pains to hold back laughter. The taller of the two reached into his bag and asked, "Did your husband recently send a letter to the US Department of Treasury?" I remembered that we had mailed some late tax-related stuff not too long ago and nodded. The man pulled out a large ziplock bag and pointed to it: "Is this the letter he sent?"
I examined the ominously torn, ink-stained letter. When I took a closer took, I noticed that it was also covered with dead beetles. The gears spun for a moment, then I put the pieces together. Mail + rain + dead beetles= poor, terrified individual at the Department of Treasury assuming we had sent a threatening letter containing some kind of deadly vermin. The officers had been sent to our house to investigate after their office had been evacuated and the bomb squad had examined the scene.
STUPID MAILMAN, THIS WAS ALL HIS FAULT!
Fortunately the officers did not feel that I, my parents, or my toddler son posed any threat. They also took my husband's clearly written name on the return address as a sign that maybe it was all just a big understanding. They began to laugh even harder than I was. When I asked if there was some kind of paperwork I needed to fill out, they laughed and said no. Which I took to mean: "No, but we will now have you and your family under cautionary surveillance for the next two decades."
So, yes, having a mailman who doesn't do his job can be a legitimate problem on occasion... But who do I send my letter of complaint to?!
")
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Reflections on The Wrath of Khan
The other night my husband eagerly asked if we could use our joint Netflix time to watch Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. He quickly added that I could veto his choice, but he looked so excited that I couldn't say no. I felt the nerd-mones in my blood rise... I'm enough of a dork without having seen any Star Trek movies, so I just prayed that viewing one wouldn't send me straight into a geek coma.
I think my agreeableness was quickly cancelled out by the fact that I had many questions to voice during the movie. Hey, I like to thoroughly understand everything I watch, and though it was no Inception, I still had some general inquiries about this 1982 cinematic gem. Here they are, in no particular order:
1. Halfway through the movie, Captain (I mean, Admiral) Kirk crosses paths with a former flame. He then discovers a blond, curly-haired young man who turns out to be (surprise!) his son. This may be presumptuous, but in the year 3 MILLION (or whatever year it's supposed to be), haven't people figured out how to prevent unplanned pregnancies? Furthermore, the son looked about fifteen years (at best) younger than his parents.
2. Why does one character have a Scottish accent and another one sound Russian? These people are routinely travelling all over the universe and probably have been for most of their lives... wouldn't they just sound neutral at this point?!
3. Please explain how the "beam me up" thing works. If people can just beam themselves places, why do they even need spaceships? I'm sure there's a detailed explanation for this, and I welcome it.
4. Kirstie Alley plays the steely female Vulcan ship commander. Whose casting choice was this? When I thoughtfully brought this up, Howard simply reasoned that "Kirstie Alley was hot **** in the eighties," and we moved on. I still wasn't convinced.
5. Let's talk about Khan and his so-called "wrath." First of all, "wrath" is a strong word to use when referring to an old man dressed like a ThunderCat. The guy had bangs, for heaven's sake! Not the most convincing movie villain I've ever seen... plus, his posse had supposedly been marooned on a desert planet for a couple decades and looked like they were one pair of legwarmers away from a Cats audition.
Yes, I know it was the frickin' EIGHTIES, but I'm not sure what the costume designers were thinking. The only, and I mean ONLY, time an antagonist has gotten away with a mullet and jumpsuit was in Labyrinth. And that was because David Bowie's incredible. Sorry, what was I talking about again?
6. The Enterprise had special shields that could be activated when the crew felt the ship was in danger. I'm no rocket scientist, but why wouldn't you just make that a default feature? Howard had a theory for this, and that was "Maybe flying around with the shields on would deplete too much power." Isn't it worth budgeting extra for that?
7. [spoiler alert] Spock DIED at the end! WHAT? I didn't even know that could happen! He's, like, the only character I could even name before watching the movie and they killed him off. Kind of harsh and, in retrospect, a poor choice for my first Star Trek experience*
Well, that about wraps up my most pressing inquiries. Feel free to enlighten me if there's anything I missed and or clearly don't understand. These are the things that keep me awake at night...
")
*This technically wasn't my "first" Star Trek experience. I tried to watch the more recent, high tech, polished version that came out staring some pretty boy whose name escapes me. I didn't even make it halfway through the movie because something was rubbing me the wrong way. Then I found out that the wicked JJ Abrams had laid his cursed hands upon the film, promptly shook my fist at the sky, and went and did something more productive with my day. Which isn't saying much.
I think my agreeableness was quickly cancelled out by the fact that I had many questions to voice during the movie. Hey, I like to thoroughly understand everything I watch, and though it was no Inception, I still had some general inquiries about this 1982 cinematic gem. Here they are, in no particular order:
1. Halfway through the movie, Captain (I mean, Admiral) Kirk crosses paths with a former flame. He then discovers a blond, curly-haired young man who turns out to be (surprise!) his son. This may be presumptuous, but in the year 3 MILLION (or whatever year it's supposed to be), haven't people figured out how to prevent unplanned pregnancies? Furthermore, the son looked about fifteen years (at best) younger than his parents.
2. Why does one character have a Scottish accent and another one sound Russian? These people are routinely travelling all over the universe and probably have been for most of their lives... wouldn't they just sound neutral at this point?!
3. Please explain how the "beam me up" thing works. If people can just beam themselves places, why do they even need spaceships? I'm sure there's a detailed explanation for this, and I welcome it.
4. Kirstie Alley plays the steely female Vulcan ship commander. Whose casting choice was this? When I thoughtfully brought this up, Howard simply reasoned that "Kirstie Alley was hot **** in the eighties," and we moved on. I still wasn't convinced.
5. Let's talk about Khan and his so-called "wrath." First of all, "wrath" is a strong word to use when referring to an old man dressed like a ThunderCat. The guy had bangs, for heaven's sake! Not the most convincing movie villain I've ever seen... plus, his posse had supposedly been marooned on a desert planet for a couple decades and looked like they were one pair of legwarmers away from a Cats audition.
Yes, I know it was the frickin' EIGHTIES, but I'm not sure what the costume designers were thinking. The only, and I mean ONLY, time an antagonist has gotten away with a mullet and jumpsuit was in Labyrinth. And that was because David Bowie's incredible. Sorry, what was I talking about again?
6. The Enterprise had special shields that could be activated when the crew felt the ship was in danger. I'm no rocket scientist, but why wouldn't you just make that a default feature? Howard had a theory for this, and that was "Maybe flying around with the shields on would deplete too much power." Isn't it worth budgeting extra for that?
7. [spoiler alert] Spock DIED at the end! WHAT? I didn't even know that could happen! He's, like, the only character I could even name before watching the movie and they killed him off. Kind of harsh and, in retrospect, a poor choice for my first Star Trek experience*
Well, that about wraps up my most pressing inquiries. Feel free to enlighten me if there's anything I missed and or clearly don't understand. These are the things that keep me awake at night...
")
*This technically wasn't my "first" Star Trek experience. I tried to watch the more recent, high tech, polished version that came out staring some pretty boy whose name escapes me. I didn't even make it halfway through the movie because something was rubbing me the wrong way. Then I found out that the wicked JJ Abrams had laid his cursed hands upon the film, promptly shook my fist at the sky, and went and did something more productive with my day. Which isn't saying much.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
A Dating Red Flag
After a failed relationship years ago I sent my older (younger) brother to Barnes and Noble to buy It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken. Considering my brother went through great lengths for many years to deny any relation to me, it was pretty amazing that he marched into the SELF HELP section of a store and returned with this literary gem. If you have not heard of this book, it's by Sex and the City writer Greg Behrendt, also author of the classic He's Just Not That Into You. Both books are incredible and helped me avoid future mismatched relationships and land the man I'm lucky enough to now call my husband. But who wants to hear about lovey dovey fairy tales when there are more embarrassing stories to be told? ONWARD!
Let's go back to the year 2004. I had been dating... let's call him "Laser" just for kicks. Laser was (and still is) a nice guy, but it was clear early on that it wasn't an ideal match. He "lost" my number a couple times before we finally managed to arrange a first date, but eventually we began steadily seeing one another.
About five months went by, and he invited me to visit some friends in California with him. This was around the time the show the OC was pretty hip with the "kids," and since I had never been to the West Coast I was all in! The fact that we would be staying at his friend, a part-time model's, house didn't deter me enough to say no.
Laser offered to book the plane tickets and not-so-subtley hinted that his part-time model friend could teach me a thing or two about makeup and fashion sense (I'm pretty sure a crossing guard could do the same; that bar is pretty low). It's safe to say that a few red flags were being raised early on into this "relationship," but this next exchange was more of a red flag staple-gunned to a giant neon billboard that was then set on fire...
One evening a week before our trip, Laser called to confirm our travel arrangements. Flight times, airport, etc. And then he said, "I booked your ticket. Your last name is spelled B-U-S-W-E-L-L, right?" It's important to now note that my last name was BusFIELD. He did not just misspell it. He completely changed the second syllable. I cracked up, assuming he was joking (after all, his saving grace had been a sharp sense of humor). But when there was no laughter being returned on the other line, the harsh reality began to set in. My boyfriend of almost HALF A YEAR, who I also WORKED WITH, did not know my last name. I'm not sure if you need a book to tell you that that's a very, very, very, awful sign.
To add insult to injury (a prominent theme of most of my stories), his response was something along the lines of how hard it is for a busy guy like him to keep up with minutia like "last names." He also expressed annoyance at the fact that, what with new airline regulations, it would cost him about a hundred dollars to change the name on the ticket.
Ladies, there are lots of wonderful guys (and gals!) out there, but not everyone's compatible. Hold out for a partner who loves you the way you are, builds you up, makes you happy, and knows how to FREAKIN' SPELL YOUR FREAKIN' NAME! I'm happy to say that my husband fulfills all of these high-maintenance, pie-in-the-sky requirements.
")
Let's go back to the year 2004. I had been dating... let's call him "Laser" just for kicks. Laser was (and still is) a nice guy, but it was clear early on that it wasn't an ideal match. He "lost" my number a couple times before we finally managed to arrange a first date, but eventually we began steadily seeing one another.
About five months went by, and he invited me to visit some friends in California with him. This was around the time the show the OC was pretty hip with the "kids," and since I had never been to the West Coast I was all in! The fact that we would be staying at his friend, a part-time model's, house didn't deter me enough to say no.
Laser offered to book the plane tickets and not-so-subtley hinted that his part-time model friend could teach me a thing or two about makeup and fashion sense (I'm pretty sure a crossing guard could do the same; that bar is pretty low). It's safe to say that a few red flags were being raised early on into this "relationship," but this next exchange was more of a red flag staple-gunned to a giant neon billboard that was then set on fire...
One evening a week before our trip, Laser called to confirm our travel arrangements. Flight times, airport, etc. And then he said, "I booked your ticket. Your last name is spelled B-U-S-W-E-L-L, right?" It's important to now note that my last name was BusFIELD. He did not just misspell it. He completely changed the second syllable. I cracked up, assuming he was joking (after all, his saving grace had been a sharp sense of humor). But when there was no laughter being returned on the other line, the harsh reality began to set in. My boyfriend of almost HALF A YEAR, who I also WORKED WITH, did not know my last name. I'm not sure if you need a book to tell you that that's a very, very, very, awful sign.
To add insult to injury (a prominent theme of most of my stories), his response was something along the lines of how hard it is for a busy guy like him to keep up with minutia like "last names." He also expressed annoyance at the fact that, what with new airline regulations, it would cost him about a hundred dollars to change the name on the ticket.
Ladies, there are lots of wonderful guys (and gals!) out there, but not everyone's compatible. Hold out for a partner who loves you the way you are, builds you up, makes you happy, and knows how to FREAKIN' SPELL YOUR FREAKIN' NAME! I'm happy to say that my husband fulfills all of these high-maintenance, pie-in-the-sky requirements.
")
Monday, October 1, 2012
Ignore Grey and Call the Midwife
I'm in the throes of a new break-up with someone who's been close to me for over six years. Actually, more than one person... like, eight or nine. They are the cast of Grey's Anatomy.
When the show started in 2005, if I may be so bold, I believe 99% of all creatures with ovaries and a television were hooked. Gorgeous, emotionally-available male doctors; fierce, intelligent female med students with perfectly blown-out hair; stellar writing and plots so exciting you'd occasionally spill some Pinot Grigio onto your faded pajama pants... What was not to love?!
Sadly, I think Grey's has fallen into a predicament that many shows have also succumbed to: not knowing when to say when. Seinfeld is probably the only show I can name that avoided this: they recognized when they had reached their peak and bid audiences adieu, leaving us wanting more but sparing us the risk of additional, sub-par seasons. Unlike, oh, I don't know, LOST, which was all "Oh you like that? Plane crashes, islands, and polar bears? Well how about some time travel? Ancient folklore? Oh, keep going, you say? How about four more seasons and then we'll just end everything without explaining a thing?" In case I haven't said this already, A WAG OF MY FINGER, LOST! You should still be ashamed of yourself...
The Office, as much as I LOVE that show, should have gracefully given their curtain call when Steve Carrell left. I know some people would disagree, and that's fine. I just think the once laugh-until-your-intestines-hurt show is now just "amusing." Plus, it would have been a perfect ending: the staff of Dunder Mifflin finally appreciating Michael Scott and Michael Scott finally getting what he's always dreamed of: his perfect female match.
Sex And the City... PERFECT ending to an incredible series. And then some greedy jerks who saw how sad we were to say goodbye to Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte decided to make not ONE but TWO movies and capitalize on our unwillingness to let go. Was that really necessary? I know some people loved the movies (I found the first one depressing as heck and the second one funny but not show-quality), but if Kate Winslet can let a handsome young Leonardo DiCaprio sink below a frozen ocean, then we CAN let go of Sex And the City. It's time, ladies (and some gentlemen), and if you're looking for a good replacement then check out HBO's "Girls."
Back to my point. I think I had one... Grey's Anatomy has done EVERYTHING and needs to call it a series. Everyone's slept with everyone, everyone's been married and divorced, everyone's performed emergency surgery on everyone else, illegitimate babies have been birthed and adorable orphans have been adopted... not to mention a preview last week promised that the doctors would face THEIR GREATEST CHALLENGE EVER. Um... wasn't the hospital invaded by an insane gunman a couple seasons ago who KILLED half the staff?! Was that NOT their greatest challenge ever?
Plot desperation aside, that's not what made me finally decide to give up on the show. What made me say "STOP IT, GORGEOUS DOCTORS! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!" is when I was catching up on an episode from last season and a premature newborn was taken off life support and died in his mother's arms. Not cool, writers! NOT COOL! Everyone knows that a newborn on a show receives a last-minute miracle and LIVES. Those are the rules! Through my hot, angry tears I decided that we were THROUGH. I haven't been this angry since my rant at JJ Abrams...
I have traded Grey's for another show entitled "Call the Midwife." So far, so good... one close call with a premature baby appearing to be stillborn, but LO AND BEHOLD! A last minute miracle and the baby is healthy and cooing in his mother's arms. Now THAT'S how it's done, Hollywood. We could all take a nod from the BBC.
Have I mentioned I think I need to get out more?
")
When the show started in 2005, if I may be so bold, I believe 99% of all creatures with ovaries and a television were hooked. Gorgeous, emotionally-available male doctors; fierce, intelligent female med students with perfectly blown-out hair; stellar writing and plots so exciting you'd occasionally spill some Pinot Grigio onto your faded pajama pants... What was not to love?!
Sadly, I think Grey's has fallen into a predicament that many shows have also succumbed to: not knowing when to say when. Seinfeld is probably the only show I can name that avoided this: they recognized when they had reached their peak and bid audiences adieu, leaving us wanting more but sparing us the risk of additional, sub-par seasons. Unlike, oh, I don't know, LOST, which was all "Oh you like that? Plane crashes, islands, and polar bears? Well how about some time travel? Ancient folklore? Oh, keep going, you say? How about four more seasons and then we'll just end everything without explaining a thing?" In case I haven't said this already, A WAG OF MY FINGER, LOST! You should still be ashamed of yourself...
The Office, as much as I LOVE that show, should have gracefully given their curtain call when Steve Carrell left. I know some people would disagree, and that's fine. I just think the once laugh-until-your-intestines-hurt show is now just "amusing." Plus, it would have been a perfect ending: the staff of Dunder Mifflin finally appreciating Michael Scott and Michael Scott finally getting what he's always dreamed of: his perfect female match.
Sex And the City... PERFECT ending to an incredible series. And then some greedy jerks who saw how sad we were to say goodbye to Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte decided to make not ONE but TWO movies and capitalize on our unwillingness to let go. Was that really necessary? I know some people loved the movies (I found the first one depressing as heck and the second one funny but not show-quality), but if Kate Winslet can let a handsome young Leonardo DiCaprio sink below a frozen ocean, then we CAN let go of Sex And the City. It's time, ladies (and some gentlemen), and if you're looking for a good replacement then check out HBO's "Girls."
Back to my point. I think I had one... Grey's Anatomy has done EVERYTHING and needs to call it a series. Everyone's slept with everyone, everyone's been married and divorced, everyone's performed emergency surgery on everyone else, illegitimate babies have been birthed and adorable orphans have been adopted... not to mention a preview last week promised that the doctors would face THEIR GREATEST CHALLENGE EVER. Um... wasn't the hospital invaded by an insane gunman a couple seasons ago who KILLED half the staff?! Was that NOT their greatest challenge ever?
Plot desperation aside, that's not what made me finally decide to give up on the show. What made me say "STOP IT, GORGEOUS DOCTORS! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!" is when I was catching up on an episode from last season and a premature newborn was taken off life support and died in his mother's arms. Not cool, writers! NOT COOL! Everyone knows that a newborn on a show receives a last-minute miracle and LIVES. Those are the rules! Through my hot, angry tears I decided that we were THROUGH. I haven't been this angry since my rant at JJ Abrams...
I have traded Grey's for another show entitled "Call the Midwife." So far, so good... one close call with a premature baby appearing to be stillborn, but LO AND BEHOLD! A last minute miracle and the baby is healthy and cooing in his mother's arms. Now THAT'S how it's done, Hollywood. We could all take a nod from the BBC.
Have I mentioned I think I need to get out more?
")
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
From Cosmo to Woman's Day
Obviously when you get married, begin having children, leave your twenties (not necessarily all in that order) things change. Sure, you're no longer as "hip" and youthful as you once were. There are usually less late nights on the town, less little black dresses, and less hangovers (at least compared to being single in NYC for a year). But one particular change is the most alarming to me: magazine choices.
A free issue of Woman's Day arrived in my mailbox last year and it depressed me. Where were the free issues of Cosmo, Glamour, or Fly Young Women Like Yourself Quarterly? Clearly the marketing powers that be got together and decided that I no longer need to know about flirty cocktails, strappy stilettos, or enticing the object of my affection by the photocopier in my chic Manhattan office (y'know, things that used to be an everyday for me).
I wouldn't even OPEN that first issue. Who do these people think they are, sending me this smut? Sure, since the birth of my son, my hair is lucky to see a brush, my footwear is two steps away from orthopedic nursing shoes, and discussions about our child's digestive health make their way into daily interactions with my husband more than I'd expect, but I'm still cool... RIGHT?!
Then I was at "work" one day. I put "work" in quotations because I take care of a second grader after school and enjoy it thoroughly so it doesn't really feel like work. Actually, the real "work" is caring for MY son! But anyhow, a down-and-out man selling magazines caught me off-guard as he rang the doorbell. He had a story of addiction, loss, and redemption that convinced me to use the ten dollars in my pocket to order a magazine subscription from him.
The magazine selection was slim: fishing, financial, Cat Fancy... plus I had two children to return to, so I skimmed the list until I saw a familiar name in a low price range. What do you know: WOMAN'S FREAKIN' DAY.
My husband thought I "doth protest too much" after I had been so INSULTED by one issue and then willingly signed up for a year's subscription, and I can't blame him. Then the issues started to arrive. Well, I may as well give it a skim. Recipes for homemade donuts and quiches, the wonders of coupon-ing, dieting tips (thanks, I'll read those after I use your donut recipe), three billion new ways to organize your tupperware, makeovers that make women look very stylish and yet somehow add two decades to their age...
Then something happened. I started getting INTERESTED... "25 Ways to Meal Plan and Save on Grocery Items"? "Affordable Decorating Solutions"? "Ways to Organize Yourself and Your Family While Not Hating Life"? YES PLEASE. Obviously I'm just making up names of articles, but you get the gist. SIGH. What do you know? Woman's Day actually has a LOT of great articles and tips that touch on financial advice, organization, parenting, grandparenting (!), fitness, decorating for morons like me, charity opportunities, small business management, and more. And it does a great job of spotlighting entrepreneurial, diverse women. It encourages goals both in and out of the house, and I love that. Plus I kind of want to try that donut recipe...
So I guess I'm a Woman's Day woman now. Please pass the snuggie and Murder She Wrote anthology. I will never be sexy AGAIN.
")
A free issue of Woman's Day arrived in my mailbox last year and it depressed me. Where were the free issues of Cosmo, Glamour, or Fly Young Women Like Yourself Quarterly? Clearly the marketing powers that be got together and decided that I no longer need to know about flirty cocktails, strappy stilettos, or enticing the object of my affection by the photocopier in my chic Manhattan office (y'know, things that used to be an everyday for me).
I wouldn't even OPEN that first issue. Who do these people think they are, sending me this smut? Sure, since the birth of my son, my hair is lucky to see a brush, my footwear is two steps away from orthopedic nursing shoes, and discussions about our child's digestive health make their way into daily interactions with my husband more than I'd expect, but I'm still cool... RIGHT?!
Then I was at "work" one day. I put "work" in quotations because I take care of a second grader after school and enjoy it thoroughly so it doesn't really feel like work. Actually, the real "work" is caring for MY son! But anyhow, a down-and-out man selling magazines caught me off-guard as he rang the doorbell. He had a story of addiction, loss, and redemption that convinced me to use the ten dollars in my pocket to order a magazine subscription from him.
The magazine selection was slim: fishing, financial, Cat Fancy... plus I had two children to return to, so I skimmed the list until I saw a familiar name in a low price range. What do you know: WOMAN'S FREAKIN' DAY.
My husband thought I "doth protest too much" after I had been so INSULTED by one issue and then willingly signed up for a year's subscription, and I can't blame him. Then the issues started to arrive. Well, I may as well give it a skim. Recipes for homemade donuts and quiches, the wonders of coupon-ing, dieting tips (thanks, I'll read those after I use your donut recipe), three billion new ways to organize your tupperware, makeovers that make women look very stylish and yet somehow add two decades to their age...
Then something happened. I started getting INTERESTED... "25 Ways to Meal Plan and Save on Grocery Items"? "Affordable Decorating Solutions"? "Ways to Organize Yourself and Your Family While Not Hating Life"? YES PLEASE. Obviously I'm just making up names of articles, but you get the gist. SIGH. What do you know? Woman's Day actually has a LOT of great articles and tips that touch on financial advice, organization, parenting, grandparenting (!), fitness, decorating for morons like me, charity opportunities, small business management, and more. And it does a great job of spotlighting entrepreneurial, diverse women. It encourages goals both in and out of the house, and I love that. Plus I kind of want to try that donut recipe...
So I guess I'm a Woman's Day woman now. Please pass the snuggie and Murder She Wrote anthology. I will never be sexy AGAIN.
")
Friday, September 7, 2012
Cell Phones, Vehicles, and GB
I think anyone who's met my dad loves him (with the small exceptions of traffic court judges and the entire staff at Zoots cleaners--long story).
GB's a big, gregarious guy who believes life's too short to drive the speed limit and and pizza is a vital food group. He also believes that it's okay to follow an ambulance if there's traffic in Boston and he's late for a Sox game. He's a peaceful, friendly person most of the time (unless you take the parking spot he was planning on using, drive slowly (the speed limit) in front of him, or are elderly and confused in the Logan Airport parking garage).
Other GBisms have included covering various holes in his condo walls with posters ("It's like the Shawshank Redemption in here!") and solving the issue of a car rejection sticker with strategically placed autumn leaves on his windshield (a plan, he later admitted, which became more difficult as the seasons changed). But out of the many quirks of my favorite dad in the world, this is one of the finer moments:
It was January 2000, and I had invited my friends Heather and Kevin to come visit me up in Massachusetts during our winter break from college. Oddly enough, I had invited them to go skiing. Why, I have no idea. Seeing as how my first ski trip ended in complete and utter humiliation (story to come at a later date) and my second trip wasn't a great deal better, I cannot comprehend why I would give it another shot. My only guess is that I wanted to show Heather and Kevin (children of southern parents) that the North DID have things to offer and was not just full of rude people dressed in black (a stereotype that was not helped by our trip to Boston later that week).
Our ski trip was a failure, much as I feared it would be. Only rather than failing due to sheer embarrassing circumstances, it was just plain soul-crushingly freezing and every slope was a sheet of ice. Also I was with people who grew up skiing in Maryland and Pennsylvania, sometimes in t-shirts (?!) but that's neither here nor there.
GB, always the guy to offer a ride whenever needed, was taking us somewhere in town. Car trips with my dad always involve good conversation, and at the time he was telling us about the latest issue at the insurance agency where he worked: cell phones.
If you're reading this and happen to be under, like, 28, please know that around the turn of the last century (how old can I possibly sound right now?!) cellular phone ownership was rapidly increasing and no longer limited to the Zack Morrises and hot-shot businessmen of the world. More people were buying them and the dangers of operating phones while driving were fast becoming evident.
My father, calling upon his expertise in the auto insurance industry, explained that these fancy portable calling devices just have so many buttons. They can easily distract drivers, cause fender benders, and worse. Though Heather, Kevin, and I understood his theory, he decided a visual aid would be necessary. He dug around in the console of his Maxima and pulled out HIS cell phone, turning around to show us the intricate display of buttons and switches. Then, almost as if on cue, he rear-ended the car in front of him.
Rather than be angry or upset, he just paused, looked at the car in front of him, then turned back to us and said: "What are the odds? I was JUST talking about how cell phones cause accidents!" I think he was relatively pleased at how efficiently his point had been proven. The woman in the car in front of us, however, had a look of shock and horror on her face that I only WISH could have been captured on film. However, young ones, this was before cell phones had cameras...
We didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but after determining that there was no significant damage to vehicle or person, we cracked up. I'm not sure what Heather and Kevin ended up thinking about the state of Massachusetts, but I know they DEFINITELY enjoyed their time with GB.
")
GB's a big, gregarious guy who believes life's too short to drive the speed limit and and pizza is a vital food group. He also believes that it's okay to follow an ambulance if there's traffic in Boston and he's late for a Sox game. He's a peaceful, friendly person most of the time (unless you take the parking spot he was planning on using, drive slowly (the speed limit) in front of him, or are elderly and confused in the Logan Airport parking garage).
Other GBisms have included covering various holes in his condo walls with posters ("It's like the Shawshank Redemption in here!") and solving the issue of a car rejection sticker with strategically placed autumn leaves on his windshield (a plan, he later admitted, which became more difficult as the seasons changed). But out of the many quirks of my favorite dad in the world, this is one of the finer moments:
It was January 2000, and I had invited my friends Heather and Kevin to come visit me up in Massachusetts during our winter break from college. Oddly enough, I had invited them to go skiing. Why, I have no idea. Seeing as how my first ski trip ended in complete and utter humiliation (story to come at a later date) and my second trip wasn't a great deal better, I cannot comprehend why I would give it another shot. My only guess is that I wanted to show Heather and Kevin (children of southern parents) that the North DID have things to offer and was not just full of rude people dressed in black (a stereotype that was not helped by our trip to Boston later that week).
Our ski trip was a failure, much as I feared it would be. Only rather than failing due to sheer embarrassing circumstances, it was just plain soul-crushingly freezing and every slope was a sheet of ice. Also I was with people who grew up skiing in Maryland and Pennsylvania, sometimes in t-shirts (?!) but that's neither here nor there.
GB, always the guy to offer a ride whenever needed, was taking us somewhere in town. Car trips with my dad always involve good conversation, and at the time he was telling us about the latest issue at the insurance agency where he worked: cell phones.
If you're reading this and happen to be under, like, 28, please know that around the turn of the last century (how old can I possibly sound right now?!) cellular phone ownership was rapidly increasing and no longer limited to the Zack Morrises and hot-shot businessmen of the world. More people were buying them and the dangers of operating phones while driving were fast becoming evident.
My father, calling upon his expertise in the auto insurance industry, explained that these fancy portable calling devices just have so many buttons. They can easily distract drivers, cause fender benders, and worse. Though Heather, Kevin, and I understood his theory, he decided a visual aid would be necessary. He dug around in the console of his Maxima and pulled out HIS cell phone, turning around to show us the intricate display of buttons and switches. Then, almost as if on cue, he rear-ended the car in front of him.
Rather than be angry or upset, he just paused, looked at the car in front of him, then turned back to us and said: "What are the odds? I was JUST talking about how cell phones cause accidents!" I think he was relatively pleased at how efficiently his point had been proven. The woman in the car in front of us, however, had a look of shock and horror on her face that I only WISH could have been captured on film. However, young ones, this was before cell phones had cameras...
We didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but after determining that there was no significant damage to vehicle or person, we cracked up. I'm not sure what Heather and Kevin ended up thinking about the state of Massachusetts, but I know they DEFINITELY enjoyed their time with GB.
")
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Surprise?!
My first experience with a sonogram was when I was six and my mom was pregnant with my second brother. It was the first time she, or anyone I had known, was able to find out if she was having a boy or a girl months before giving birth. Naturally, since nature had already *blessed* me with a strong-willed little brother, I was to have a sister. Isn't that how it works?
I don't remember much about the ultrasound, but I DO remember the nurse (or doctor, or sonographer--it was 1987 so my child brain remembers her as a "nurse") announcing that my mom would be having a boy.
To quote some beloved southern friends, "Do what, now?"
Clearly the nurse had read the wrong paper or looked at the wrong sonogram. Heck, maybe she wasn't even aware that we already had a boy in the family and we were due for a girl this time. I had already practiced putting my dolls in frilly dresses and envisioning all the different ways I would style my little SISTER'S hair. Obviously she was mistaken, and I inquired about the accuracy of this newfangled system of predicting the baby's gender. My mom recalls a single tear rolling down my face as I asked the nurse if she was absolutely, positively SURE it was a boy.
She was pretty sure.
After a brief period of adjusting to the idea of having even more Matchbox cars to trip over, I began to get excited. A baby's a baby, and they're all wonderful. And besides, someday I would have a baby and it would be a girl and everything would be fine. Because that's how life works, in case you didn't know.
Once I knew that sonograms existed, I assumed that EVERYONE knew what they were having before they went into labor. I can admit it now, but I was once nearly horrified to find out that there were people out there who CHOSE to wait until their baby was actually born to see if it was a boy or a girl (this was before I began to adopt a "To each his own" attitude about life, which I'm still working on).
With my first pregnancy, there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to know what I was having. I had a strong, inexplicable feeling it was a boy (despite growing up believing that I would have a girl first). The day my husband and I had that 20 week sonogram was one of the most exciting days of my life, and I loved walking around with a name for the baby and telling everyone. I also had a moment of, "Oh my GAWD. I don't know how to raise a boy!! What if he does crazy things like get arrested or fly off to the Dominican Republic without telling me?! (Random examples, of course... my brothers NEVER did anything like that... AHEM). So I bought a book with the cheesiest, early 90's fabulous cover called "Raising Boys." That ought to do it, right? My son was born almost two years ago, and, in case you didn't know, he is the absolute greatest joy of my life.
I'm pregnant again and due in early February. After hearing some friends talk about being surprised with their children and how great it was, I started thinking maybe we could try that this time around and compare it with the experience of knowing ahead of time. My husband loved the idea, and he has much better willpower than me so I knew he could hold me to it when I'm at my breaking point (think Jack Black in Tropic Thunder).
Now, when I was pregnant the first time, I encountered MANY people who waited to find out. This time around, I might as well be telling everyone that I plan to give birth at a martini bar. I get this, "Why on earth would you do that?!" look, and I can't complain: it used to be the same look that I gave "those people."
I guess this is just a roundabout way of saying that we're going to "try" and wait to find out if we're having a boy or a girl, and I completely understand if this quasi-horrifies people. I just don't want to challenge the medical authority of a doctor or nurse if they don't give me the answer I want...
And, besides, I all but know it's another boy. It's my DESTINY. But, c'mon, healthy baby = win win.
")
P.S. I should mention that, though I mostly accepted that my baby bro was a boy, I still (sorry, mom) dressed him up occasionally in girls clothes and maaaaaay have tested some makeup techniques on his little face. But I'm pretty sure he's still grown into a mature, fine young man. At least that's what his parole officer tells me...
P.P.S Kidding about that very last part, of course ")
I don't remember much about the ultrasound, but I DO remember the nurse (or doctor, or sonographer--it was 1987 so my child brain remembers her as a "nurse") announcing that my mom would be having a boy.
To quote some beloved southern friends, "Do what, now?"
Clearly the nurse had read the wrong paper or looked at the wrong sonogram. Heck, maybe she wasn't even aware that we already had a boy in the family and we were due for a girl this time. I had already practiced putting my dolls in frilly dresses and envisioning all the different ways I would style my little SISTER'S hair. Obviously she was mistaken, and I inquired about the accuracy of this newfangled system of predicting the baby's gender. My mom recalls a single tear rolling down my face as I asked the nurse if she was absolutely, positively SURE it was a boy.
She was pretty sure.
After a brief period of adjusting to the idea of having even more Matchbox cars to trip over, I began to get excited. A baby's a baby, and they're all wonderful. And besides, someday I would have a baby and it would be a girl and everything would be fine. Because that's how life works, in case you didn't know.
Once I knew that sonograms existed, I assumed that EVERYONE knew what they were having before they went into labor. I can admit it now, but I was once nearly horrified to find out that there were people out there who CHOSE to wait until their baby was actually born to see if it was a boy or a girl (this was before I began to adopt a "To each his own" attitude about life, which I'm still working on).
With my first pregnancy, there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to know what I was having. I had a strong, inexplicable feeling it was a boy (despite growing up believing that I would have a girl first). The day my husband and I had that 20 week sonogram was one of the most exciting days of my life, and I loved walking around with a name for the baby and telling everyone. I also had a moment of, "Oh my GAWD. I don't know how to raise a boy!! What if he does crazy things like get arrested or fly off to the Dominican Republic without telling me?! (Random examples, of course... my brothers NEVER did anything like that... AHEM). So I bought a book with the cheesiest, early 90's fabulous cover called "Raising Boys." That ought to do it, right? My son was born almost two years ago, and, in case you didn't know, he is the absolute greatest joy of my life.
I'm pregnant again and due in early February. After hearing some friends talk about being surprised with their children and how great it was, I started thinking maybe we could try that this time around and compare it with the experience of knowing ahead of time. My husband loved the idea, and he has much better willpower than me so I knew he could hold me to it when I'm at my breaking point (think Jack Black in Tropic Thunder).
Now, when I was pregnant the first time, I encountered MANY people who waited to find out. This time around, I might as well be telling everyone that I plan to give birth at a martini bar. I get this, "Why on earth would you do that?!" look, and I can't complain: it used to be the same look that I gave "those people."
I guess this is just a roundabout way of saying that we're going to "try" and wait to find out if we're having a boy or a girl, and I completely understand if this quasi-horrifies people. I just don't want to challenge the medical authority of a doctor or nurse if they don't give me the answer I want...
And, besides, I all but know it's another boy. It's my DESTINY. But, c'mon, healthy baby = win win.
")
P.S. I should mention that, though I mostly accepted that my baby bro was a boy, I still (sorry, mom) dressed him up occasionally in girls clothes and maaaaaay have tested some makeup techniques on his little face. But I'm pretty sure he's still grown into a mature, fine young man. At least that's what his parole officer tells me...
P.P.S Kidding about that very last part, of course ")
Friday, August 24, 2012
Dial M for Mortification
An eye doc once told me I was legally blind, and I'll take his word for it. Fortunately, modern science has allowed me a normal life of sight thanks to high prescription contact lenses! That said, it's always been vital that I have my eyes checked once a year, and those check-ups often include something I don't enjoy: DILATION.
Eye dilation, as defined by this Illustration major with no medical background, is when they put stingy drops in your eyes and your pupils enlarge as if you're in a dark room. This allows the eye doctor to thoroughly check for any problems. This also allows for even the tiniest bit of light to make you feel as though you're staring into the center of a solar eclipse...
Now let's talk about my mom's old car (I promise it's relevant). It was an '86 cornflower blue Volvo with no air conditioning. The only two things it had going for it were A. I was allowed to drive it free of charge and B. It had a working radio. Well, "B" soon became obsolete when the radio antenna was snapped off in a freak carwash accident. But at least I could still drive it...
Several years passed, and my mom began moving up in the world. She felt that the time had come to treat herself to a new [used] car, and she began a thorough search that involved lots of phone calls and frequent test drives. When she would discuss makes and models with me, I would offer up my one and only requirement: that it have a radio. It became a joke between us: "Does it have a radio?" It's amazing how one day a joke can turn into pretty much your most embarrassing moment ever...
One summer Saturday while I was home from college, my mom sweetly volunteered to take me to my annual eye exam. After the doctor dilated my eyes, I once again remembered what I forgot before every visit: how uncomfortable it was! My contacts weren't in, so I was wearing my coke bottles and had forgotten any form of sun protection.
When we got out to the car, the discomfort from the light was unbearable. My mom rummaged through the trunk and offered me the only help she could find, my little brother's foam little league hat that was two sizes too small and had a giant "Y" (for Yankees!) on it. I could not have cared less. I put the awkward thing onto my disheveled head and dealt with the remaining sunlight by doing this eye-squint head-bob combination that apparently eased the pain. And then my mom asked if we could go look at cars.
Now, the LAST place you should go after getting your eyes dilated is a car lot on a sunny day. There is literally light bouncing off of EVERY surface in EVERY direction. But I did not realize this until we got there.
A cute salesman in his mid-twenties greeted us and began to talk details with my mom. I noticed that he smiled in my direction, yet avoided making eye contact with me. I did not think much of it. I hung by each car we looked at, boy's little league hat atop my head, giant glasses sliding down my nose each time I squinted and bobbed. I decided an inside joke could only make the situation better, so I interrupted my mom with:
"Hey Mom! Hey Mom! Does it have a radio??"
The salesman nearly knocked my mom to the side as he ran over to me and opened the passenger side door.
"YEEESSS! It DOES have a radio! Would YOU like to hear it?"
His sudden burst of enthusiasm confused me. "Um... sure?" I replied, and slid into the passenger seat. The salesman turned on some random mariachi station and smiled a little too largely.
"Can we check out that one over there?" my mom asked, her nose in some pamphlet. She began to head over to the next vehicle, and the salesman ran to her side. He leaned over and said:
"Uh... is... is she okay in there by herself?"
My mom looked at him blankly for a moment as she wondered why he would be concerned about a twenty-year-old girl sitting in a car ten feet away. And then it hit her. The squinting. The head bobbing. The obsession with radios. She realized what the salesman was thinking and put it into less-than-tactful words.
"What? NO!! My daughter's not retarded!"
I sprang from the car, also realizing the confusion. I poured out my life story, and the circumstances that led to me looking and acting this way. Mortification does not begin to describe it. Of course, in the big picture, there's nothing wrong with being mentally challenged... but a young girl who's NOT mentally challenged (depending on who you ask) still doesn't want people thinking she is!
We politely left the car lot and my mother eventually found the car of her dreams: a '92 Beamer. And, yes, it had a radio.
")
Eye dilation, as defined by this Illustration major with no medical background, is when they put stingy drops in your eyes and your pupils enlarge as if you're in a dark room. This allows the eye doctor to thoroughly check for any problems. This also allows for even the tiniest bit of light to make you feel as though you're staring into the center of a solar eclipse...
Now let's talk about my mom's old car (I promise it's relevant). It was an '86 cornflower blue Volvo with no air conditioning. The only two things it had going for it were A. I was allowed to drive it free of charge and B. It had a working radio. Well, "B" soon became obsolete when the radio antenna was snapped off in a freak carwash accident. But at least I could still drive it...
Several years passed, and my mom began moving up in the world. She felt that the time had come to treat herself to a new [used] car, and she began a thorough search that involved lots of phone calls and frequent test drives. When she would discuss makes and models with me, I would offer up my one and only requirement: that it have a radio. It became a joke between us: "Does it have a radio?" It's amazing how one day a joke can turn into pretty much your most embarrassing moment ever...
One summer Saturday while I was home from college, my mom sweetly volunteered to take me to my annual eye exam. After the doctor dilated my eyes, I once again remembered what I forgot before every visit: how uncomfortable it was! My contacts weren't in, so I was wearing my coke bottles and had forgotten any form of sun protection.
When we got out to the car, the discomfort from the light was unbearable. My mom rummaged through the trunk and offered me the only help she could find, my little brother's foam little league hat that was two sizes too small and had a giant "Y" (for Yankees!) on it. I could not have cared less. I put the awkward thing onto my disheveled head and dealt with the remaining sunlight by doing this eye-squint head-bob combination that apparently eased the pain. And then my mom asked if we could go look at cars.
Now, the LAST place you should go after getting your eyes dilated is a car lot on a sunny day. There is literally light bouncing off of EVERY surface in EVERY direction. But I did not realize this until we got there.
A cute salesman in his mid-twenties greeted us and began to talk details with my mom. I noticed that he smiled in my direction, yet avoided making eye contact with me. I did not think much of it. I hung by each car we looked at, boy's little league hat atop my head, giant glasses sliding down my nose each time I squinted and bobbed. I decided an inside joke could only make the situation better, so I interrupted my mom with:
"Hey Mom! Hey Mom! Does it have a radio??"
The salesman nearly knocked my mom to the side as he ran over to me and opened the passenger side door.
"YEEESSS! It DOES have a radio! Would YOU like to hear it?"
His sudden burst of enthusiasm confused me. "Um... sure?" I replied, and slid into the passenger seat. The salesman turned on some random mariachi station and smiled a little too largely.
"Can we check out that one over there?" my mom asked, her nose in some pamphlet. She began to head over to the next vehicle, and the salesman ran to her side. He leaned over and said:
"Uh... is... is she okay in there by herself?"
My mom looked at him blankly for a moment as she wondered why he would be concerned about a twenty-year-old girl sitting in a car ten feet away. And then it hit her. The squinting. The head bobbing. The obsession with radios. She realized what the salesman was thinking and put it into less-than-tactful words.
"What? NO!! My daughter's not retarded!"
I sprang from the car, also realizing the confusion. I poured out my life story, and the circumstances that led to me looking and acting this way. Mortification does not begin to describe it. Of course, in the big picture, there's nothing wrong with being mentally challenged... but a young girl who's NOT mentally challenged (depending on who you ask) still doesn't want people thinking she is!
We politely left the car lot and my mother eventually found the car of her dreams: a '92 Beamer. And, yes, it had a radio.
")
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Of All the Pizza Joints...
I've said it once, and I'll say it again! This blog is just becoming a collection of my awkward life moments involving men, boys, and your run-of-the-mill weirdos. Ah well!
Let's journey back to '07, shall we? I had a summer job as a nanny with an incredible family in Arlington, MA who I'd gotten to know during my job as an after-school teacher. This family lived in a duplex, and I cared for their sweet little cupcake-cheeked crystal blue-eyed baby girl and their older daughter, a witty and hilarious nine-year-old who I adored working with during the school year.
The duplex was owned by the people who lived next door: a family from Syria consisting of a handsome, friendly dad; beautiful-but-aloof wife; and three smiley children under the age of six. The kids would often be out in the yard, so the girls and I would play with them. Sometimes they even came running out if they saw us; we were one big happy Sound-of-Music-eque gang playing together in the summer sun.
The father of the children, "Sal," would come outside and make small talk, probably not wanting me to think that he was dumping his kids on me. Throughout numerous short conversations, I learned that he owned a popular pizza place in town. When I told him that I was an illustrator, he asked about my website and said he wanted to buy some prints. Because if there's anything a middle-aged male business owner has at the forefront of his busy schedule, it's purchasing local art from the babysitter next door...
Sal asked if I wanted to come by the pizza place some evening for a meal on the house. Now you may think that as a successful after-school art teacher and part-time babysitter that I was above a free meal, but you'd be surprised. I decided to invite the older of the two girls to with me (free dinner!), but oddly enough her father (the one I actually worked for) seemed opposed to the idea and politely declined. That's funny... he trusted me with his daughters, but didn't want me taking one down the street for pizza? What was I missing...
One evening (it was still very light out I feel the need to mention!) I sauntered into the pizza place, expecting to get a quick nod from Sal and a free meal. I was caught a bit off-guard when Sal was not behind the counter, but at a table for two that he had set aside for us. Now even writing this it seems completely obvious what was going on, but please believe that at the time I was still clueless or else I would have run out the door with the footsteps/car-starting/car driving away sound sequence that they use on the Simpson's whenever Homer's in trouble.
I'll try to summarize: in very thinly veiled but increasingly obvious ways, Sal let me know that he was interested in me for more than art. Maybe it was the part when he said his wife didn't like it when he spoke to me so he had to meet me somewhere else, or perhaps it was when he spoke of the many properties he owned and offered me a place to live. Not sure. But after 20+ minutes and declining an offer to get a drink at a nearby bar, I got the FLIP out of there (still carrying my leftover food because, seriously, free pizza!). I ignored many follow-up e-mails until finally having the guts to reply, in a semi-respectful way, "You're a creep, leave me alone." I never heard from him again and, on an unrelated whim, packed up and moved to NYC at the end of that summer.
Fast forward to A WEEK AGO. I was visting my family and staying in Chelmsford, a town 30+ minutes away from Arlington. My father had to work and my husband had a class, so I had the afternoon to kill with Grant. One of our favorite places, Chelmsford House of Pizza had closed (single tear) and I decided to try the place that had opened across the street. I wheeled Grant in his stroller and ordered some pizza and salad from the friendly man behind the counter. Just as I was thinking about how nice he was, I heard that DUN DUN DUN sound in my head as I noticed he was wearing the shirt of that OTHER pizza place.
Though the name was different on the outside, I shuddered at the thought that Sal owned this place too. But, at the same time, I was hungry and, again, it's pizza. Besides, just because Sal MAYBE had a part in this new operation didn't mean I was going to... OH NO! THERE HE IS!! Just as I had sat down with Grant to eat, I saw Sal from across the room.
A stronger woman would have walked out immediately. Instead, I bowed my head and shoveled pizza into my mouth, PRAYING he wouldn't see me and if he DID, not think I had gotten fat because I was just pregnant but didn't want to go into that with him. Because, ethics aside, heaven forbid anyone thinks I've gained weight...
Thankfully, he never noticed me. And I didn't exactly tap him on the shoulder to say hello. And, to be honest, the pizza was sub-par. There, I said it. Take that, SAL.
")
Let's journey back to '07, shall we? I had a summer job as a nanny with an incredible family in Arlington, MA who I'd gotten to know during my job as an after-school teacher. This family lived in a duplex, and I cared for their sweet little cupcake-cheeked crystal blue-eyed baby girl and their older daughter, a witty and hilarious nine-year-old who I adored working with during the school year.
The duplex was owned by the people who lived next door: a family from Syria consisting of a handsome, friendly dad; beautiful-but-aloof wife; and three smiley children under the age of six. The kids would often be out in the yard, so the girls and I would play with them. Sometimes they even came running out if they saw us; we were one big happy Sound-of-Music-eque gang playing together in the summer sun.
The father of the children, "Sal," would come outside and make small talk, probably not wanting me to think that he was dumping his kids on me. Throughout numerous short conversations, I learned that he owned a popular pizza place in town. When I told him that I was an illustrator, he asked about my website and said he wanted to buy some prints. Because if there's anything a middle-aged male business owner has at the forefront of his busy schedule, it's purchasing local art from the babysitter next door...
Sal asked if I wanted to come by the pizza place some evening for a meal on the house. Now you may think that as a successful after-school art teacher and part-time babysitter that I was above a free meal, but you'd be surprised. I decided to invite the older of the two girls to with me (free dinner!), but oddly enough her father (the one I actually worked for) seemed opposed to the idea and politely declined. That's funny... he trusted me with his daughters, but didn't want me taking one down the street for pizza? What was I missing...
One evening (it was still very light out I feel the need to mention!) I sauntered into the pizza place, expecting to get a quick nod from Sal and a free meal. I was caught a bit off-guard when Sal was not behind the counter, but at a table for two that he had set aside for us. Now even writing this it seems completely obvious what was going on, but please believe that at the time I was still clueless or else I would have run out the door with the footsteps/car-starting/car driving away sound sequence that they use on the Simpson's whenever Homer's in trouble.
I'll try to summarize: in very thinly veiled but increasingly obvious ways, Sal let me know that he was interested in me for more than art. Maybe it was the part when he said his wife didn't like it when he spoke to me so he had to meet me somewhere else, or perhaps it was when he spoke of the many properties he owned and offered me a place to live. Not sure. But after 20+ minutes and declining an offer to get a drink at a nearby bar, I got the FLIP out of there (still carrying my leftover food because, seriously, free pizza!). I ignored many follow-up e-mails until finally having the guts to reply, in a semi-respectful way, "You're a creep, leave me alone." I never heard from him again and, on an unrelated whim, packed up and moved to NYC at the end of that summer.
Fast forward to A WEEK AGO. I was visting my family and staying in Chelmsford, a town 30+ minutes away from Arlington. My father had to work and my husband had a class, so I had the afternoon to kill with Grant. One of our favorite places, Chelmsford House of Pizza had closed (single tear) and I decided to try the place that had opened across the street. I wheeled Grant in his stroller and ordered some pizza and salad from the friendly man behind the counter. Just as I was thinking about how nice he was, I heard that DUN DUN DUN sound in my head as I noticed he was wearing the shirt of that OTHER pizza place.
Though the name was different on the outside, I shuddered at the thought that Sal owned this place too. But, at the same time, I was hungry and, again, it's pizza. Besides, just because Sal MAYBE had a part in this new operation didn't mean I was going to... OH NO! THERE HE IS!! Just as I had sat down with Grant to eat, I saw Sal from across the room.
A stronger woman would have walked out immediately. Instead, I bowed my head and shoveled pizza into my mouth, PRAYING he wouldn't see me and if he DID, not think I had gotten fat because I was just pregnant but didn't want to go into that with him. Because, ethics aside, heaven forbid anyone thinks I've gained weight...
Thankfully, he never noticed me. And I didn't exactly tap him on the shoulder to say hello. And, to be honest, the pizza was sub-par. There, I said it. Take that, SAL.
")
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Dammit Fran, I'm An Artist Not a Doctor!
Well, it's a good thing I'm not headed to med school any time soon...
When my son was born almost twenty-one months ago, a sweet nurse told me that all I had to do was kiss his forehead to gauge whether or not he was running a fever. This was a relief to me, because I have bad luck with thermometers. I can never seem to get a correct reading and always end up with a number below what I think sounds normal (though this could explain why I'm always freezing...)
Anyhow, my husband and I were fine with the "kiss test," but of course bought several different thermometers to keep in the house just in case. We tested them on ourselves (orally and ear!) to make sure they worked, and both got readings in the 96 degree range. So that means neither of us can work a thermometer. I'M kind of slow, but my husband enjoys writing computer code, studying algorithms (not that I know what those are), and reading historical non-fiction; so that makes me feel a LITTLE better that he is just as baffled by such a simple device. We're perfect together!
Fast forward to this week: my little angelic ball of dough woke up on Tuesday sweaty and miserable. He had a rough situation in the diaper region, too, and didn't feel like eating or drinking. But the most alarming part was that he was incredibly fatigued, and if you know my son (or any toddler) that's just not normal. BUT I did the "kiss test" and confirmed that he was not running a fever.
I took him to the doctor, and she thought he seemed okay (no fever, ear, nose, or throat issues). She prescribed a special ointment for his "diaper situation" ($60 WITH insurance. I'm assuming it's made of gold leaf... but naturally it's worth every penny if it makes him feel better). We went home, I called out of work, and we spent most of the day curled up together on a Thomas the Tank Engine bender.
Today he seemed a little better, eating and drinking and even playing a little, but I was worried because he was still exhausted. I called the pediatrician's nurse line, which I've always had good experiences with. A woman called me back a couple hours later. I immediately detected that she was an older woman and DEFINITELY from New York, possibly Queens.
From the beginning, she seemed impatient with me. She asked me if Grant had a fever. I tried to explain that I had felt his forehead and it was cool, but I might as well have said, "My psychic believes he's fine." Now to her credit, I probably sounded like a moron. But I can't take Grant's temperature! Besides the fact that I can't work a thermometer, that kid often won't stay still long enough for me to do it. This nurse was appalled. In a high-pitched, Fran-Drescher-like voice, she insisted that I take it immediately and she would "cahwl" me back in ten minutes.
Eleven minutes later, Nurse Fran called back and boy did I get it. I felt like my grandmother from Flushing was yelling at me."I just can't seem to get a reading!" I whined back. "He won't stay still!"
"YOU'VE got to make him stay still! You're BIGGAH than him, and he needs to learn! YOU'RE bigg-aaah!"
Oh, really? I'm bigger than my 21-month-old son? Thanks, Nurse Fran. I can take it from here... What is it with strong-accented women pointing out my son's size lately??
Nurse Fran finally gave up, exasperated with my parental ineptitude. She told me to keep taking his temp throughout the day and monitor his eating, drinking, and general behavior. She might as well have told me not to shake him vigorously; she clearly thought I was THAT much of a dunce. I guess I can't really blame her..
BUT... as soon as I hung up, I used all my big-person force and finally held the thermometer under Grant's doughy arm long enough to get a reading. I eagerly brought the thermometer up to my face to read it and discovered that the freakin' thing was in Celsius.
That's it; I'm cancelling my plans for pre-med.
")
P.S. Grant is doing much better this evening, thank goodness.
When my son was born almost twenty-one months ago, a sweet nurse told me that all I had to do was kiss his forehead to gauge whether or not he was running a fever. This was a relief to me, because I have bad luck with thermometers. I can never seem to get a correct reading and always end up with a number below what I think sounds normal (though this could explain why I'm always freezing...)
Anyhow, my husband and I were fine with the "kiss test," but of course bought several different thermometers to keep in the house just in case. We tested them on ourselves (orally and ear!) to make sure they worked, and both got readings in the 96 degree range. So that means neither of us can work a thermometer. I'M kind of slow, but my husband enjoys writing computer code, studying algorithms (not that I know what those are), and reading historical non-fiction; so that makes me feel a LITTLE better that he is just as baffled by such a simple device. We're perfect together!
Fast forward to this week: my little angelic ball of dough woke up on Tuesday sweaty and miserable. He had a rough situation in the diaper region, too, and didn't feel like eating or drinking. But the most alarming part was that he was incredibly fatigued, and if you know my son (or any toddler) that's just not normal. BUT I did the "kiss test" and confirmed that he was not running a fever.
I took him to the doctor, and she thought he seemed okay (no fever, ear, nose, or throat issues). She prescribed a special ointment for his "diaper situation" ($60 WITH insurance. I'm assuming it's made of gold leaf... but naturally it's worth every penny if it makes him feel better). We went home, I called out of work, and we spent most of the day curled up together on a Thomas the Tank Engine bender.
Today he seemed a little better, eating and drinking and even playing a little, but I was worried because he was still exhausted. I called the pediatrician's nurse line, which I've always had good experiences with. A woman called me back a couple hours later. I immediately detected that she was an older woman and DEFINITELY from New York, possibly Queens.
From the beginning, she seemed impatient with me. She asked me if Grant had a fever. I tried to explain that I had felt his forehead and it was cool, but I might as well have said, "My psychic believes he's fine." Now to her credit, I probably sounded like a moron. But I can't take Grant's temperature! Besides the fact that I can't work a thermometer, that kid often won't stay still long enough for me to do it. This nurse was appalled. In a high-pitched, Fran-Drescher-like voice, she insisted that I take it immediately and she would "cahwl" me back in ten minutes.
Eleven minutes later, Nurse Fran called back and boy did I get it. I felt like my grandmother from Flushing was yelling at me."I just can't seem to get a reading!" I whined back. "He won't stay still!"
"YOU'VE got to make him stay still! You're BIGGAH than him, and he needs to learn! YOU'RE bigg-aaah!"
Oh, really? I'm bigger than my 21-month-old son? Thanks, Nurse Fran. I can take it from here... What is it with strong-accented women pointing out my son's size lately??
Nurse Fran finally gave up, exasperated with my parental ineptitude. She told me to keep taking his temp throughout the day and monitor his eating, drinking, and general behavior. She might as well have told me not to shake him vigorously; she clearly thought I was THAT much of a dunce. I guess I can't really blame her..
BUT... as soon as I hung up, I used all my big-person force and finally held the thermometer under Grant's doughy arm long enough to get a reading. I eagerly brought the thermometer up to my face to read it and discovered that the freakin' thing was in Celsius.
That's it; I'm cancelling my plans for pre-med.
")
P.S. Grant is doing much better this evening, thank goodness.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Martinis on Me!
Recently my husband and I had a night out in Bath, England, while my in-laws took care of our son. We walked all around, eventually ending up in a pub where a seemingly friendly local began telling us about some places to check out. He then asked us what we "do" back in America. Howard gave a brief description of his job, then told him that I was a "childcare provder." The man laughed condescendingly, looked at me, and said:
"Ah. So you spend HIS money."
Wow. What a completely accurate description of my day-to-day endeavors. Why, just earlier that morning I had asked my "hubby" for some cash so I could go to the martini bar, purchase a new fur coat (I don't have one that matches the Manolos I bought last week), and test-drive the Ferrari that I was planning on making him buy for me. I rubbed my ears, which were weighed down by the 15-carat diamond earrings I had just purchased with Howard's credit card, and smiled. It was like this stranger had known me my whole life...
I don't think I need to defend what it is I "do," since my family and friends already get it. That said, there are many jobs more stressful and difficult than looking after my sweet baby boy and taking care of an equally sweet six-year-old in the afternoons. Like the man in the pub's job, which apparently required him to drink beer and grade papers. He was also waiting for a wife who never appeared while we were there. I just assumed she was running around town on a shopping spree, like so many of us wives are wont to do...
")
"Ah. So you spend HIS money."
Wow. What a completely accurate description of my day-to-day endeavors. Why, just earlier that morning I had asked my "hubby" for some cash so I could go to the martini bar, purchase a new fur coat (I don't have one that matches the Manolos I bought last week), and test-drive the Ferrari that I was planning on making him buy for me. I rubbed my ears, which were weighed down by the 15-carat diamond earrings I had just purchased with Howard's credit card, and smiled. It was like this stranger had known me my whole life...
I don't think I need to defend what it is I "do," since my family and friends already get it. That said, there are many jobs more stressful and difficult than looking after my sweet baby boy and taking care of an equally sweet six-year-old in the afternoons. Like the man in the pub's job, which apparently required him to drink beer and grade papers. He was also waiting for a wife who never appeared while we were there. I just assumed she was running around town on a shopping spree, like so many of us wives are wont to do...
")
Monday, June 4, 2012
Wubs on a Plane
Boy, do I love my son Grant. He is sweet, funny, active, and affectionate. His little smile and voice melts my heart, and his curiosity of the world around him is a adorable. I love my son. That said, I will not be taking him on another airplane until he's old enough to vote.
A few weeks ago, my in-laws treated us to an incredible trip to the UK. We had all been talking about it for months and eagerly anticipating seeing my husband's extended family and introducing Grant to his Welsh great-grandmother. But alas, there was an elephant in the room. And that elephant was "How is Grant going to hold up during a 7.5 hour international flight when a ONE HOUR flight to Boston is difficult?"
Funny how not many of us wanted to address this proverbial elephant. My mother-in-law, who travels internationally like most people ride subway cars, insisted that taking a 20-month-old boy on a long flight was incredibly doable, adding that she had taken my husband and his brother many times when they were young. This was my first red flag, as it is common knowledge that my husband was THE MOST PERFECT BABY TO EVER LIVE and could sit still and quietly entertain himself. According to my mom, I was similar. And according to Grant's mom, ME, he is the exact opposite. Perhaps some recessive genes from my rebellious brothers? Who knows...
We arrived for our night flight with Grant already in his pajamas, PRAYING that the sheer hour of the day would knock the kid out and he would sleep through to when we touched down in bonny England. We ran into another couple waiting to board, and remarked on how their young son already looked sleepy. They leaned in and let us in on a little secret: BENADRYL. "Oh no!" I thought, reacting less to the fact that they had drugged their child out of convenience and more to the fact that I hadn't had the common sense to do the same.
After dinner and a couple hours of Grant of sprinting around the terminals, we boarded the plane. The lights were off, and Grant was showing signs of grogginess. My mother-in-law had scored my husband and me some bulkhead seats, so we had extra room. "Maybe this won't be so bad, afterall!" I figured.
We asked the flight attendant for a bassinet to put Grant in. She returned with one and I tried to ignore the fact that it was about three-quarters of his size. That fact became harder to ignore when a different, heavy-set Scottish flight attendant stopped short when she saw us and gasped, "YUUUU CAAAN'T UUUUSE THAT! HE'S FAAAAHR TUUUUUU BIIIG!" My husband and I agreed immediately, but she didn't seem to think we were getting it and continued. "Yuuu seee, that seeeat is fer a young baaaybeee and yur child is faaaahr tuuu biiig to yuuuuse it!" Yup. Roger that. We read you loud and clear, m'am! And yet she went on for the next five minutes to prove her theory, demonstrating some obvious points related to size. Grant was starting to lose it. And the plane was still on the ground.
We soon got a bigger seat to strap to a fold out table in front of us, but by then the lights had been turned back on and Grant was overtired and furious, having already rejected the toys that my mother-in-law had thoughtfully packed and spilling two drinks. When I had to strap a seat belt around him for takeoff, his cries and whines were promoted to full-on SCREAMS. I should also mention that the baby in the next row from us was behaving perfectly, making our son look like even more of a loose cannon by comparison. Perhaps the other baby was my husband's illegitimate child...
After we were in the air, I was both relishing the fact that we stood very little chance of being kicked off the plane AND wishing I could trade places with anyone else for the next seven hours. ALL OF THE LIGHTS stayed on for the entire flight. When poor Grant's exhausted tantrum hit its peak (he wanted to run freely down the aisles of the plane) we finally had to strap him into the seat. After an amount of effort that compares only to that of a circus performer, my husband FINALLY got him to fall asleep, lights glaring and all.
Twenty minutes later, we hit some mild turbulence and our favorite flight attendant told us we had to take him out of the seat. Yes, he woke back up. Yes, he screamed. He fell back asleep. He woke up. More screaming. It pretty much continued like that until we mercifully touched down at Heathrow hours later. My husband and I had aged about fifteen years, and it was then that I decided that I was moving to England, because there was NO WAY I was making my son do that flight again.
All in all, we survived and ended up having a wonderful visit. And I kept telling myself that at least the plane didn't crash. And on the flight back, I tried to keep that in mind...
")
A few weeks ago, my in-laws treated us to an incredible trip to the UK. We had all been talking about it for months and eagerly anticipating seeing my husband's extended family and introducing Grant to his Welsh great-grandmother. But alas, there was an elephant in the room. And that elephant was "How is Grant going to hold up during a 7.5 hour international flight when a ONE HOUR flight to Boston is difficult?"
Funny how not many of us wanted to address this proverbial elephant. My mother-in-law, who travels internationally like most people ride subway cars, insisted that taking a 20-month-old boy on a long flight was incredibly doable, adding that she had taken my husband and his brother many times when they were young. This was my first red flag, as it is common knowledge that my husband was THE MOST PERFECT BABY TO EVER LIVE and could sit still and quietly entertain himself. According to my mom, I was similar. And according to Grant's mom, ME, he is the exact opposite. Perhaps some recessive genes from my rebellious brothers? Who knows...
We arrived for our night flight with Grant already in his pajamas, PRAYING that the sheer hour of the day would knock the kid out and he would sleep through to when we touched down in bonny England. We ran into another couple waiting to board, and remarked on how their young son already looked sleepy. They leaned in and let us in on a little secret: BENADRYL. "Oh no!" I thought, reacting less to the fact that they had drugged their child out of convenience and more to the fact that I hadn't had the common sense to do the same.
After dinner and a couple hours of Grant of sprinting around the terminals, we boarded the plane. The lights were off, and Grant was showing signs of grogginess. My mother-in-law had scored my husband and me some bulkhead seats, so we had extra room. "Maybe this won't be so bad, afterall!" I figured.
We asked the flight attendant for a bassinet to put Grant in. She returned with one and I tried to ignore the fact that it was about three-quarters of his size. That fact became harder to ignore when a different, heavy-set Scottish flight attendant stopped short when she saw us and gasped, "YUUUU CAAAN'T UUUUSE THAT! HE'S FAAAAHR TUUUUUU BIIIG!" My husband and I agreed immediately, but she didn't seem to think we were getting it and continued. "Yuuu seee, that seeeat is fer a young baaaybeee and yur child is faaaahr tuuu biiig to yuuuuse it!" Yup. Roger that. We read you loud and clear, m'am! And yet she went on for the next five minutes to prove her theory, demonstrating some obvious points related to size. Grant was starting to lose it. And the plane was still on the ground.
We soon got a bigger seat to strap to a fold out table in front of us, but by then the lights had been turned back on and Grant was overtired and furious, having already rejected the toys that my mother-in-law had thoughtfully packed and spilling two drinks. When I had to strap a seat belt around him for takeoff, his cries and whines were promoted to full-on SCREAMS. I should also mention that the baby in the next row from us was behaving perfectly, making our son look like even more of a loose cannon by comparison. Perhaps the other baby was my husband's illegitimate child...
After we were in the air, I was both relishing the fact that we stood very little chance of being kicked off the plane AND wishing I could trade places with anyone else for the next seven hours. ALL OF THE LIGHTS stayed on for the entire flight. When poor Grant's exhausted tantrum hit its peak (he wanted to run freely down the aisles of the plane) we finally had to strap him into the seat. After an amount of effort that compares only to that of a circus performer, my husband FINALLY got him to fall asleep, lights glaring and all.
Twenty minutes later, we hit some mild turbulence and our favorite flight attendant told us we had to take him out of the seat. Yes, he woke back up. Yes, he screamed. He fell back asleep. He woke up. More screaming. It pretty much continued like that until we mercifully touched down at Heathrow hours later. My husband and I had aged about fifteen years, and it was then that I decided that I was moving to England, because there was NO WAY I was making my son do that flight again.
All in all, we survived and ended up having a wonderful visit. And I kept telling myself that at least the plane didn't crash. And on the flight back, I tried to keep that in mind...
")
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
The Desperate Month of May
Today is the first of May, which reminds me of "The Lusty Month of May," a song from the musical Camelot. Ah, CAMELOT! While the word may conjure up images of brave knights sitting around a table and fair damsels in distress, to me it only brings back glorious memories of epic high school humiliation. You guessed it-another DON story!
If you're not familiar with "Don," he's a boy I obsessed over for a year in high school and showed my devotion to by doing subtle, romantic things like rigging a Mystery Match and wearing a crown with the word HO on it. Y'know, classy stuff like that. And this next story I might have forgotten, if it wasn't for that song always popping into my head this time of year.
About fourteen or fifteen years ago (WOW), our school was doing Camelot for its annual spring musical. Since our theatre guild was pretty hard up for semi-good looking straight male participants (except for ALL my male friends from high school, who to this day are still ridiculously attractive), Don landed one of the lead roles as the strapping, gallant knight Sir Lancelot du Lac. Sure, Don had a very mild lisp and couldn't hold a French accent for more than twenty seconds- but that didn't seem to bother anyone (especially me).
I NEEDED to get into this musical, and there was only one thing standing in my way: a complete lack of singing and dancing ability. But since I had established myself as a psycho-stalker who wasn't below any attempt to get near Don, I had a two-part plan. Part one: AUDITION (insert hysterical laughter here). Needless to say, I did not get in. Part two: sign up for EVERY CREW AVAILABLE. Done and DONE. I literally walked up to the board by the chorus room and scribbled my John Hancock on every single sign-up sheet there was. Set Crew? SURE! Scenery Painting? WHY NOT? Heraldic Insignia? I didn't know what that was, but you can bet I signed up for it!
Each rehearsal I toiled both on and offstage. The head of the building crew was a LITTLE miffed that I didn't know how to use a drill... or a hammer... but once I had a paintbrush in my hand I was slightly more useful. There I'd be, on the floor fixing something as Don would stride onto the stage with his sword. I had "Officer and a Gentleman-like" images of him sweeping me off the stage and carrying me away. Instead, he stopped mid-scene, looked straight down at me, and said "Um... would you mind moving? You're kinda in the way." Sparks flew. He actually talked to me, man...
In the end, I had the last laugh (not really, but whatever). They wanted gymnasts in one scene and I enthusiastically volunteered myself and two of my teammates. For the record, I was (and am) 5'8" and WELL over a hundred pounds. But I made it into the show in the eleventh hour, cartwheeling and back-handspringing across the stage to the best of my ability (they should have had a structural engineer come and make sure that I wasn't endangering the rest of the cast).
Don did not ask me out. And the following year, the director decided to use gymnasts again and I was, um, not invited back. But who's laughing NOW? Nevermind- don't answer that.
Happy Freakin' May!
")
Monday, April 30, 2012
Secret Agent 23 Skidoo
Last week I traded cars with my husband. He took my 2008 silver Jetta with the missing hubcaps (thank YOU, North Chelmsford potholes) and I borrowed his new black Kia, a car that my first grade buddy refers to as the "Batmobile."
Though I usually fear driving new cars (TOO MUCH PRESSURE! Plus I'm not an ambi-parker), I was definitely enjoying the Sirius XM radio and took a break from my usual NPR binge to catch up on Howard Stern. Sure, Howard Stern is a bit of a... what's the word... "self-worshipping jerkface," but I still find his show pretty entertaining.
After a few days I finally decided that maybe my toddler shouldn't be listening to interviews with, um, ladies who get paid to "hug" a lot of people on camera. So I found a kids station called Kidsplace Live, and let me just ask: WHAT is going on in the world of children's music these days? I remember Raffi and I worked in a preschool so of course I know the Wiggles, etc... but I just wasn't prepared for the barrage of modern hits by artists with names like "Casper Babypants" and "Secret Agent 23 Skidoo." Plus a lot of the tunes, though they had great beats and talented vocalists, just ended up giving me the CREEPS.
Allow me to explain my new pet peeve with modern children's music: when full-grown adults sing lyrics as if they're children. For example, a 40-something man singing about his "mommy" and "daddy" and then asking for a "cookie" before "bedtime." Am I a horrible person to think that's WHACKED OUT?! Also, a sultry-voiced adult woman singing about how she wants to eat lollipops for dinner and pick out her own clothes... all I can think is, "What asylum is this chick confined to and why won't they let her dress herself?!" Yeah, maybe that proverbial fourth wall wouldn't be broken for children, but as a 30-YEAR-OLD WOMAN I'm just a little uncomfortable listening to a man with a deep voice talking about how cute the little girl sitting next to him is with the missing two front teeth. SOMEONE CALL THE POLICE!
But they're not all bad. Let's get back to Secret Agent 23 Skidoo. First of all: BEST NAME EVER. Second of all, this dude is like the Ludacris of children's music. I actually enjoyed some of his songs and my son was pop-lockin' in the backseat. This guy's THE MAN. And my favorite part? Some of his lyrics sound so dirty (something about a sword fight with Strawberry Shortcake-WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!) but they're not- it's just because he sounds like LUDA. Wait... am I cool enough to call him "Luda"? Now who's trying to sound young and hip?
")
After a few days I finally decided that maybe my toddler shouldn't be listening to interviews with, um, ladies who get paid to "hug" a lot of people on camera. So I found a kids station called Kidsplace Live, and let me just ask: WHAT is going on in the world of children's music these days? I remember Raffi and I worked in a preschool so of course I know the Wiggles, etc... but I just wasn't prepared for the barrage of modern hits by artists with names like "Casper Babypants" and "Secret Agent 23 Skidoo." Plus a lot of the tunes, though they had great beats and talented vocalists, just ended up giving me the CREEPS.
Allow me to explain my new pet peeve with modern children's music: when full-grown adults sing lyrics as if they're children. For example, a 40-something man singing about his "mommy" and "daddy" and then asking for a "cookie" before "bedtime." Am I a horrible person to think that's WHACKED OUT?! Also, a sultry-voiced adult woman singing about how she wants to eat lollipops for dinner and pick out her own clothes... all I can think is, "What asylum is this chick confined to and why won't they let her dress herself?!" Yeah, maybe that proverbial fourth wall wouldn't be broken for children, but as a 30-YEAR-OLD WOMAN I'm just a little uncomfortable listening to a man with a deep voice talking about how cute the little girl sitting next to him is with the missing two front teeth. SOMEONE CALL THE POLICE!
But they're not all bad. Let's get back to Secret Agent 23 Skidoo. First of all: BEST NAME EVER. Second of all, this dude is like the Ludacris of children's music. I actually enjoyed some of his songs and my son was pop-lockin' in the backseat. This guy's THE MAN. And my favorite part? Some of his lyrics sound so dirty (something about a sword fight with Strawberry Shortcake-WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!) but they're not- it's just because he sounds like LUDA. Wait... am I cool enough to call him "Luda"? Now who's trying to sound young and hip?
")
Sunday, April 15, 2012
No Strings Attached
Great news! I've just decided to add "Volunteer, Unpaid Movie Critic" to my growing resume that also incudes: "Quasi-Stay-at-Home Mom," "Part-Time Babysitter," "Artist Who Works for Condiments," and "Not-for-Much-Profit-but-for-Much-Rewards Children's Book Writer/Illustrator..."
THAT SAID, yesterday (Saturday NIIIIIIIGHT) I treated myself to the mental cotton candy of a chick flick called "No Strings Attached," which popped up in the New Releases section of our 'FLIX profile. I deplore most romantic comedies, yet still choose to watch them on my own time (not unlike sneaking into a closet and devouring a pint of Ben & Jerry's. It's something that feels right at the moment, though you kind of despise yourself afterwards).
Why do I deplore rom-coms? Despite some sharp exceptions (LOVE ACTUALLY, BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY, and most British joints) they all have the same underlying theme: You can be crazy/mean/nerdy/pregnant with another man's baby and it will all work out if you are attractive.
A FEW EXAMPLES:
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
10 Things I Hate About You
She's All That
The Back-Up Plan
But today I'm here to talk about "No Strings Attached." Here's a synopsis (I'm going to try and keep in PG for any young, impressionable readers):
Natalie Portman and Ashton Kutcher are impossibly good-looking and successful 20-somethings who keep running into each other due to happenstance and mutual friends (the "friends" in these movies are always what save them, aren't they?)
After finding out that his Hollywood mogul father is now, um, co-habiting with his ex-girlfriend, Ashton gets viciously inebriated and calls every girl in his phone. He presumably blacks out and wakes up the next morning passed out on Natalie Portman's couch. After a humorous attempt to piece the night's events together, Ashton goes into Natalie's room and they decide to have spontaneous, er, relations. Makes sense so far, right?
Thus begins an arrangement between the two, suggested by Natalie, that they keep their relationship strictly physical without the HORRIBLE HORRIBLE ANNOYANCE of a healthy, committed relationship (cuddling? hand-holding? Eating BREAKFAST together? Don't make me THROW UP!)
Anyhow, this will come as a complete shock, but Ashton develops serious feelings for Natalie and wants to be more than just hug-buddies. Natalie is very resistant, telling him that he should instead "hug" lots of other women. The following week, when Ashton reluctantly brings home not one, but TWO women, Natalie shows up in a drunken, jealous rage and kicks both ladies to the curb. Even I felt bad for poor Ashton-I mean, talk about mixed signals!
They rekindle their fling, only to have it all fall apart when Ashton has THE COMPLETE AUDACITY to plan a romantic Valentine's evening involving mini-golf, a shared milkshake, and the inevitable walk-through-a-pretty-place-with-lights. Even worse, he tells Natalie that he may be falling for her. I mean, he almost says the L-WORD! It's just too much for Natalie, and she tells him to buzz off. At this point in the movie I am PRAYING that Ashton recognizes this seriously unhealthy pattern and makes the conscious decision to move forward and find someone who reciprocates his affections. But alas...
Natalie realizes, on the eve of her SISTER'S WEDDING, that she let a good thing go and makes a desperate two-hour drive to Ashton's place, only to HIDE IN THE BUSHES when she sees that he's on a date with someone else. Yadda yadda Ashton's dad's youthful, partying lifestyle lands him in the very hospital where Natalie works, and the rest is history. Natalie gives in to love, and everyone lives happily ever- you get it.
First off, despite the sorry premise, extreme cheapening of morals, and predictable ending, I actually give the movie 2.5 stars based solely on the clever dialogue between the protagonists' friends (who include Mindy Kaling of The Office- how do you NOT love her? And Ludacris, but let's not talk about that). Natalie Portman, an actress who I think is very talented, is phoning it in a bit (perhaps pre-production of Black Swan was in the works during filming?), and Ashton Kutcher... well, I can't stand that guy post That 70s Show. He holds his own through most of the movie, but watching him deliver lines such as "I'm afraid that if you come any closer, I'm going to hold you and never let go," is BEYOND cringe-worthy.
And what girl takes off the NIGHT BEFORE HER SISTER'S WEDDING? The best part was, the sister was totally pre-occupied with Natalie's hot pursuit. Because, y'know, the night before your wedding it should be all about your sister reconciling with a guy she blew off months ago.
Also, unless you look like Natalie Portman, hiding in a man's bushes is an engraved, self-addressed invitation for a restraining order. Trust me, I've looked into it...
")
THAT SAID, yesterday (Saturday NIIIIIIIGHT) I treated myself to the mental cotton candy of a chick flick called "No Strings Attached," which popped up in the New Releases section of our 'FLIX profile. I deplore most romantic comedies, yet still choose to watch them on my own time (not unlike sneaking into a closet and devouring a pint of Ben & Jerry's. It's something that feels right at the moment, though you kind of despise yourself afterwards).
Why do I deplore rom-coms? Despite some sharp exceptions (LOVE ACTUALLY, BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY, and most British joints) they all have the same underlying theme: You can be crazy/mean/nerdy/pregnant with another man's baby and it will all work out if you are attractive.
A FEW EXAMPLES:
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
10 Things I Hate About You
She's All That
The Back-Up Plan
But today I'm here to talk about "No Strings Attached." Here's a synopsis (I'm going to try and keep in PG for any young, impressionable readers):
Natalie Portman and Ashton Kutcher are impossibly good-looking and successful 20-somethings who keep running into each other due to happenstance and mutual friends (the "friends" in these movies are always what save them, aren't they?)
After finding out that his Hollywood mogul father is now, um, co-habiting with his ex-girlfriend, Ashton gets viciously inebriated and calls every girl in his phone. He presumably blacks out and wakes up the next morning passed out on Natalie Portman's couch. After a humorous attempt to piece the night's events together, Ashton goes into Natalie's room and they decide to have spontaneous, er, relations. Makes sense so far, right?
Thus begins an arrangement between the two, suggested by Natalie, that they keep their relationship strictly physical without the HORRIBLE HORRIBLE ANNOYANCE of a healthy, committed relationship (cuddling? hand-holding? Eating BREAKFAST together? Don't make me THROW UP!)
Anyhow, this will come as a complete shock, but Ashton develops serious feelings for Natalie and wants to be more than just hug-buddies. Natalie is very resistant, telling him that he should instead "hug" lots of other women. The following week, when Ashton reluctantly brings home not one, but TWO women, Natalie shows up in a drunken, jealous rage and kicks both ladies to the curb. Even I felt bad for poor Ashton-I mean, talk about mixed signals!
They rekindle their fling, only to have it all fall apart when Ashton has THE COMPLETE AUDACITY to plan a romantic Valentine's evening involving mini-golf, a shared milkshake, and the inevitable walk-through-a-pretty-place-with-lights. Even worse, he tells Natalie that he may be falling for her. I mean, he almost says the L-WORD! It's just too much for Natalie, and she tells him to buzz off. At this point in the movie I am PRAYING that Ashton recognizes this seriously unhealthy pattern and makes the conscious decision to move forward and find someone who reciprocates his affections. But alas...
Natalie realizes, on the eve of her SISTER'S WEDDING, that she let a good thing go and makes a desperate two-hour drive to Ashton's place, only to HIDE IN THE BUSHES when she sees that he's on a date with someone else. Yadda yadda Ashton's dad's youthful, partying lifestyle lands him in the very hospital where Natalie works, and the rest is history. Natalie gives in to love, and everyone lives happily ever- you get it.
First off, despite the sorry premise, extreme cheapening of morals, and predictable ending, I actually give the movie 2.5 stars based solely on the clever dialogue between the protagonists' friends (who include Mindy Kaling of The Office- how do you NOT love her? And Ludacris, but let's not talk about that). Natalie Portman, an actress who I think is very talented, is phoning it in a bit (perhaps pre-production of Black Swan was in the works during filming?), and Ashton Kutcher... well, I can't stand that guy post That 70s Show. He holds his own through most of the movie, but watching him deliver lines such as "I'm afraid that if you come any closer, I'm going to hold you and never let go," is BEYOND cringe-worthy.
And what girl takes off the NIGHT BEFORE HER SISTER'S WEDDING? The best part was, the sister was totally pre-occupied with Natalie's hot pursuit. Because, y'know, the night before your wedding it should be all about your sister reconciling with a guy she blew off months ago.
Also, unless you look like Natalie Portman, hiding in a man's bushes is an engraved, self-addressed invitation for a restraining order. Trust me, I've looked into it...
")
Sunday, April 8, 2012
What a Long Strange Churchgoing Trip It's Been
You know what's classy? Rolling out of bed after a late night of karaoke* at Clare & Don's Beach Shack, stuffing your toddler into a starchy white shirt and dress pants, and forcing him to accompany you on your biannual appearance at church in honor of Easter.
I have a little complex when it comes to church. My family went pretty regularly for the first 10 years of my life. However, deaths in the family, divorce, and relatives moving away eventually dissolved our motivation to attend. I WAS proud that we still made it every Christmas Eve and Easter, until my devoted friend James (of ski weekend surprise fame) casually said that we were on the "C&E Plan," implying that we were, I don't know, fair-weather Christians?
Anyhow, my complex has nothing to do with not liking church. It's just that every time my family attended we were always bombarded by well-intentioned individuals handing us "Newcomer" packets and welcoming us to a church we had been attending for over a decade. I guess our biannual C&E appearances were not enough to make people remember us. I know they were just being friendly, but always being mistaken for a newcomer began to wear on me and make me feel like I wasn't attending enough church (which, I will admit, was an accurate assessment).
Later on, when I went away to college in Baltimore, I tried a few more churches. The highlight of my "search for a church" was walking into one and seeing a classmate of mine banging away at a set of bongos while wearing a Bill Cosby sweater. Especially entertaining was the fact that I had no idea he even attended that church until I saw him drumming away.
A few years later, a friend introduced me to a wonderful place back in Massachusetts after I moved back home. It's called New England Chapel and I would recommend it to anyone in the area. But then I moved to New York... then Maryland... then DC... and finally Falls Church, VA.
Today I chose the church pretty much based on the fact that its service didn't interfere with my son, Grant's, nap schedule (priorities) and the two of us ventured out while my husband took his visiting parents to see the Air and Space Museum.
I passed a very crowded (and stunning) Greek Orthodox church on the way and was a little shocked to pull into an ALMOST EMPTY parking lot at the Baptist church. Oh great, how did I screw this up? I wondered as I carried my bowling-ball-marshmallow-dough boy of a son through some low-lit empty hallways. I made it up to the main worship room place (clearly I am well-versed in church architecture)and found that I was the only one there who didn't work there. The room was almost EMPTY, despite that it was ten minutes before their Easter Service was set to begin.
Long story short, more people showed up and I was soon greeted and welcomed to the church by all of them. We stayed through most of the service as Grant ran around, tested some sound equipment, danced his spastic-toddler jig, and for the grand finale made his way to the stage and put his hand straight down the front of his pants. Ladies and Gentlemen, MY SON!
Fortunately, everyone was very laid-back and entertained by Grant, and I even ran into a mother I had met months back at our local library. It was nice, but I fear maybe a little out of our way to go to on a a regular basis. Plus, if I become a regular, I won't get the star newcomer treatment that I've grown accustomed to. Yes, better stick with my original plan: sporadic visits to churches where no one knows me...
")
*My husband and I graced everyone's ears at Clare & Don's with a lovely rendition of "Truckin'" by the Grateful Dead. A sweet, tipsy 22-yr-old made a point of telling us that he had never heard that song. Kids today!
I have a little complex when it comes to church. My family went pretty regularly for the first 10 years of my life. However, deaths in the family, divorce, and relatives moving away eventually dissolved our motivation to attend. I WAS proud that we still made it every Christmas Eve and Easter, until my devoted friend James (of ski weekend surprise fame) casually said that we were on the "C&E Plan," implying that we were, I don't know, fair-weather Christians?
Anyhow, my complex has nothing to do with not liking church. It's just that every time my family attended we were always bombarded by well-intentioned individuals handing us "Newcomer" packets and welcoming us to a church we had been attending for over a decade. I guess our biannual C&E appearances were not enough to make people remember us. I know they were just being friendly, but always being mistaken for a newcomer began to wear on me and make me feel like I wasn't attending enough church (which, I will admit, was an accurate assessment).
Later on, when I went away to college in Baltimore, I tried a few more churches. The highlight of my "search for a church" was walking into one and seeing a classmate of mine banging away at a set of bongos while wearing a Bill Cosby sweater. Especially entertaining was the fact that I had no idea he even attended that church until I saw him drumming away.
A few years later, a friend introduced me to a wonderful place back in Massachusetts after I moved back home. It's called New England Chapel and I would recommend it to anyone in the area. But then I moved to New York... then Maryland... then DC... and finally Falls Church, VA.
Today I chose the church pretty much based on the fact that its service didn't interfere with my son, Grant's, nap schedule (priorities) and the two of us ventured out while my husband took his visiting parents to see the Air and Space Museum.
I passed a very crowded (and stunning) Greek Orthodox church on the way and was a little shocked to pull into an ALMOST EMPTY parking lot at the Baptist church. Oh great, how did I screw this up? I wondered as I carried my bowling-ball-marshmallow-dough boy of a son through some low-lit empty hallways. I made it up to the main worship room place (clearly I am well-versed in church architecture)and found that I was the only one there who didn't work there. The room was almost EMPTY, despite that it was ten minutes before their Easter Service was set to begin.
Long story short, more people showed up and I was soon greeted and welcomed to the church by all of them. We stayed through most of the service as Grant ran around, tested some sound equipment, danced his spastic-toddler jig, and for the grand finale made his way to the stage and put his hand straight down the front of his pants. Ladies and Gentlemen, MY SON!
Fortunately, everyone was very laid-back and entertained by Grant, and I even ran into a mother I had met months back at our local library. It was nice, but I fear maybe a little out of our way to go to on a a regular basis. Plus, if I become a regular, I won't get the star newcomer treatment that I've grown accustomed to. Yes, better stick with my original plan: sporadic visits to churches where no one knows me...
")
*My husband and I graced everyone's ears at Clare & Don's with a lovely rendition of "Truckin'" by the Grateful Dead. A sweet, tipsy 22-yr-old made a point of telling us that he had never heard that song. Kids today!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Why, Hollywood, WHY?
This morning, my husband, Howard, turned on the 'flix as he was getting ready for work. I took a shower, only to come out and be completely baffled to what was on the screen. It was some psychedelic concert featuring an unattractive-yet-enthusiastic, skinny blonde woman singing a Beatles song.
"Who IS that?" I asked, quasi-horrified.
"That's Peter Frampton," Howard explained.
"But those 'men' behind him sound like the Bee Gees..."
"Those ARE the Bee Gees."
(long pause) "What IS THIS?"
"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band!"
"But... why aren't the Beatles in it?"
"Because they're smart."
And there you have it. The Beatles apparently had enough common sense to avoid this Hollywood pitfall and good for them.
That got me thinking- not much has changed in Tinseltown, has it? Though a handful of quality movies are still being made, I can't help but feel that Hollywood, for the most part, is phoning it in now more than ever.
This past weekend Howard and I had the incredible LUXURY of venturing out to see the Hunger Games while my step-brother, Ben (in town for a job interview) graciously babysat our wub. While the movie itself was beautifully realized and lived up to my expectations, most of the previews beforehand looked like they could have been the fake trailers from Tropic Thunder (read: ridiculous).
1. Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter: Sure, this could be good. It is, after all, produced by Tim Burton. But my biggest question is WHY? Would it be outrageous to say that the whole vampire plot has been SUCKED DRY at this point (see what I did there?) And why our 16th president? Your guess is as good as mine, but I'm sure it's just a cheap ploy to get people's attention with a recognizable name. I mean, "Lonnie Miller, Vampire Hunter" just doesn't have the same ring to it...
2. Johnny Depp/Tim Burton/Vampire Movie: I don't even remember the title of this one, but the premise is that Johnny Depp (pale faced, dark-eyed, and with an English accent. How unlike any other role he's ever had...) has a spell cast on him by a sexy witch and then wakes up a vampire in the 70s. Hilarity ensues. To be fair, the preview did look humorous and witty and who doesn't like Johnny Depp? But I'm still skeptical (ANOTHER vampire film?!)
3. Spiderman: LET. IT. GO. We get it: Boy meets spider, boy gets super powers. It's a cool, fun, story. But after numerous comics, countless cartoons, many movies, and a frickin' BROADWAY MUSICAL, would it be too much to ask that Hollywood oh, I don't know, think of something else?!
4. Titanic in 3D: Hollywood didn't phone this in; they texted it. The 2-D original was good, sure. But why do we need to flock to theaters and pay to see it again? I saw it on an awkward date in the late 90s and that was just fine thankyouverymuch. Hollywood, it's time to "let go." And, for those of you who don't know, it was also made into a musical a few years back. James Cameron must have some serious alimony payments if he needs money this badly...
5. American Reunion: This should be renamed "Remember those promising young actors from American Pie? Well, their careers have been less than spectacular in the interim and their agents really need this." But I guess that title's a bit long... Yes, it could be funny (the original sure was) but what made it funny was that it was about naive, hormone-possessed teenagers navigating new terrain. What's a 30-year-old navigating? Student loan repayment, mortgages, falling asleep in front of the tv wearing unflattering-but-confortable velour sweatpants at 9pm on a Saturday night? Not that I know anything about that...
That said, I am legitimately excited about an Anchorman sequel and, as my friend Lyn just informed me, a second Dumb & Dumber in the works. They could both be disasters, but I'd rather Hollywood take a chance on them instead of another Sex And the City Movie-though, heaven help me, an SATC prequel is being made as we speak. Why, Hollywood? WHY?
")
"Who IS that?" I asked, quasi-horrified.
"That's Peter Frampton," Howard explained.
"But those 'men' behind him sound like the Bee Gees..."
"Those ARE the Bee Gees."
(long pause) "What IS THIS?"
"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band!"
"But... why aren't the Beatles in it?"
"Because they're smart."
And there you have it. The Beatles apparently had enough common sense to avoid this Hollywood pitfall and good for them.
That got me thinking- not much has changed in Tinseltown, has it? Though a handful of quality movies are still being made, I can't help but feel that Hollywood, for the most part, is phoning it in now more than ever.
This past weekend Howard and I had the incredible LUXURY of venturing out to see the Hunger Games while my step-brother, Ben (in town for a job interview) graciously babysat our wub. While the movie itself was beautifully realized and lived up to my expectations, most of the previews beforehand looked like they could have been the fake trailers from Tropic Thunder (read: ridiculous).
1. Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter: Sure, this could be good. It is, after all, produced by Tim Burton. But my biggest question is WHY? Would it be outrageous to say that the whole vampire plot has been SUCKED DRY at this point (see what I did there?) And why our 16th president? Your guess is as good as mine, but I'm sure it's just a cheap ploy to get people's attention with a recognizable name. I mean, "Lonnie Miller, Vampire Hunter" just doesn't have the same ring to it...
2. Johnny Depp/Tim Burton/Vampire Movie: I don't even remember the title of this one, but the premise is that Johnny Depp (pale faced, dark-eyed, and with an English accent. How unlike any other role he's ever had...) has a spell cast on him by a sexy witch and then wakes up a vampire in the 70s. Hilarity ensues. To be fair, the preview did look humorous and witty and who doesn't like Johnny Depp? But I'm still skeptical (ANOTHER vampire film?!)
3. Spiderman: LET. IT. GO. We get it: Boy meets spider, boy gets super powers. It's a cool, fun, story. But after numerous comics, countless cartoons, many movies, and a frickin' BROADWAY MUSICAL, would it be too much to ask that Hollywood oh, I don't know, think of something else?!
4. Titanic in 3D: Hollywood didn't phone this in; they texted it. The 2-D original was good, sure. But why do we need to flock to theaters and pay to see it again? I saw it on an awkward date in the late 90s and that was just fine thankyouverymuch. Hollywood, it's time to "let go." And, for those of you who don't know, it was also made into a musical a few years back. James Cameron must have some serious alimony payments if he needs money this badly...
5. American Reunion: This should be renamed "Remember those promising young actors from American Pie? Well, their careers have been less than spectacular in the interim and their agents really need this." But I guess that title's a bit long... Yes, it could be funny (the original sure was) but what made it funny was that it was about naive, hormone-possessed teenagers navigating new terrain. What's a 30-year-old navigating? Student loan repayment, mortgages, falling asleep in front of the tv wearing unflattering-but-confortable velour sweatpants at 9pm on a Saturday night? Not that I know anything about that...
That said, I am legitimately excited about an Anchorman sequel and, as my friend Lyn just informed me, a second Dumb & Dumber in the works. They could both be disasters, but I'd rather Hollywood take a chance on them instead of another Sex And the City Movie-though, heaven help me, an SATC prequel is being made as we speak. Why, Hollywood? WHY?
")
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
A Heavy Hoarder Intervention
Are you battling a few extra pounds? Feeling guilty about your sink full of dishes and or several piles of unfolded laundry on your floor? Well stop feeling bad, sit yourself down in front the nearest television, and cue up my new favorite feel-good shows on the 'Flix (or On Demand, TiVo-whatever your poison).
1. HEAVY: It's in the vein of the "Biggest Loser," only these people make the Biggest Loser contestants look like tributes from the Hunger Games. Each episode of "Heavy" focuses on two morbidly obese people, some well into the 600lb range. No joke, these people eat cheeseburgers like they're pieces of popcorn and can barely walk from one room of their house to another.
They're sent to a fitness ranch for a month to jumpstart what will ultimately be a six month diet/exercise regimen. Their trainers are a bubbly blonde woman named Britny (that's not a typo- apparently an "e" was overkill in this woman's name) and a bald, bespectacled man with arms bigger than my Jetta.
The trainers are energetic, strict, and often fail to understand why their clients are out of breath and complaining after 17 hours on the stairmaster. "Are you really THAT tired? Sounds like you're faking it to me," a sympathetic Britny says to one woman who looks like she's on the verge of seven simultaneous heart attacks.
Anyhow, with the help of trainers, a dietitian, and a therapist, these people usually drop a good hundred pounds and look and feel so much better by the end of the six months. It's wonderfully rewarding to see them work through their emotional roadblocks (most of them have had trauma in their life) and make their way down the road to becoming the best versions of themselves. It's also wonderfully rewarding to scarf down ice cream sandwiches and take comfort in the fact that you still retain a svelte physique of under 400lbs, which most of people on this show would KILL for.
2. HOARDERS: Oh, HOARDERS. My father introduced me to this show, and for those of you who can't fathom why anyone would want to spend an hour of their life watching a documentary about someone's messy house GIVE IT A CHANCE! You will feel like MARTHA STEWART after watching this hot mess of a program!
In a nutshell, "Hoarders" focuses on people with a legitimate psychological condition that makes them almost incapable of throwing stuff out. To say that these peoples' homes are dumps would be like calling Buckingham Palace a "nice place."
Each episode showcases two households and employs the help of professional organizers, cleaners, and psychiatrists in the RIDICULOUS hope that in 48 HOURS the houses will be clean and the people who inhabit them will be "back to normal." Listen, if you have to spend half an hour convincing a woman that she doesn't need a rotten pumpkin from the late nineties, you better bet it's going to take more than two days to turn things around! But we ignorant viewers love instant gratification....
Anyhow, Hoarders is a glorious train wreck and I highly recommend it. A couple highlights include a woman whose house is so packed with junk that she has to TIE HERSELF TO A CHAIR at night to go to sleep, and a home that can count, amongst many items in its endless clutter, feline skeletons.
3. INTERVENTION: I've only seen one episode of this show, but I know I'll be watching more. It is both heartbreaking and inspiring. That said, at the end of the day I let my trivial worries fall by the wayside and rejoice in the fact that I'm not passed out in a ditch somewhere....
What is wrong with me.
")
1. HEAVY: It's in the vein of the "Biggest Loser," only these people make the Biggest Loser contestants look like tributes from the Hunger Games. Each episode of "Heavy" focuses on two morbidly obese people, some well into the 600lb range. No joke, these people eat cheeseburgers like they're pieces of popcorn and can barely walk from one room of their house to another.
They're sent to a fitness ranch for a month to jumpstart what will ultimately be a six month diet/exercise regimen. Their trainers are a bubbly blonde woman named Britny (that's not a typo- apparently an "e" was overkill in this woman's name) and a bald, bespectacled man with arms bigger than my Jetta.
The trainers are energetic, strict, and often fail to understand why their clients are out of breath and complaining after 17 hours on the stairmaster. "Are you really THAT tired? Sounds like you're faking it to me," a sympathetic Britny says to one woman who looks like she's on the verge of seven simultaneous heart attacks.
Anyhow, with the help of trainers, a dietitian, and a therapist, these people usually drop a good hundred pounds and look and feel so much better by the end of the six months. It's wonderfully rewarding to see them work through their emotional roadblocks (most of them have had trauma in their life) and make their way down the road to becoming the best versions of themselves. It's also wonderfully rewarding to scarf down ice cream sandwiches and take comfort in the fact that you still retain a svelte physique of under 400lbs, which most of people on this show would KILL for.
2. HOARDERS: Oh, HOARDERS. My father introduced me to this show, and for those of you who can't fathom why anyone would want to spend an hour of their life watching a documentary about someone's messy house GIVE IT A CHANCE! You will feel like MARTHA STEWART after watching this hot mess of a program!
In a nutshell, "Hoarders" focuses on people with a legitimate psychological condition that makes them almost incapable of throwing stuff out. To say that these peoples' homes are dumps would be like calling Buckingham Palace a "nice place."
Each episode showcases two households and employs the help of professional organizers, cleaners, and psychiatrists in the RIDICULOUS hope that in 48 HOURS the houses will be clean and the people who inhabit them will be "back to normal." Listen, if you have to spend half an hour convincing a woman that she doesn't need a rotten pumpkin from the late nineties, you better bet it's going to take more than two days to turn things around! But we ignorant viewers love instant gratification....
Anyhow, Hoarders is a glorious train wreck and I highly recommend it. A couple highlights include a woman whose house is so packed with junk that she has to TIE HERSELF TO A CHAIR at night to go to sleep, and a home that can count, amongst many items in its endless clutter, feline skeletons.
3. INTERVENTION: I've only seen one episode of this show, but I know I'll be watching more. It is both heartbreaking and inspiring. That said, at the end of the day I let my trivial worries fall by the wayside and rejoice in the fact that I'm not passed out in a ditch somewhere....
What is wrong with me.
")
Monday, March 19, 2012
Life Should Be Cheesy!
I have never considered myself obese and can say with at least 80% confidence that no one else has either. I've also never considered myself middle-aged. However, my last cholesterol test suggested that I was both of those things.
Imagine my complete shock two years ago when my numbers came back QUITE high. Yes, I was eight months pregnant at the time, and that is known to significantly increase one's cholesterol. Not to mention that I was eating pizza just about everyday....
The thing is, my husband and I were applying for life insurance and for some reason those companies don't "adjust" when you're expecting. Or when your height-to-weight ratio suggests that you're "obese." I put that word in quotations because our friend, Patrick, was once told that he was a couple pounds over the limit for his height and therefore in the "obese" category. For the record, Patrick was training for the OLYMPICS at the time and was in what I'd think we'd all call peak physical condition. It wasn't until he literally threatened to run laps around the building until he dropped two pounds that the insurance agent cut him some slack.
Anyhow, my husband has been paying a higher rate for my insurance and we should probably fix that. I have an appointment tomorrow morning and can't eat after midnight (I wanted to ask "What am I, a gremlin?" but have a track record of well-intended jokes falling on deaf ears so I just let it slide).
I guess I'm a tad concerned that my cholesterol is still high and I'll have to (GASP!) cut back on the deliciousness that is cheese. If that's the case, I may have to start a class-action lawsuit (whatever that is) against the CHELMSFORD PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM for making us sing the praises of cheese in a lame, early-nineties fabulous, food-themed pageant. A-HEM: "Dair-y foods are GOUDA for you! Just try 'em and see; brie all you can brie!"
Thanks, Chelmsford. This double-bypass is on YOU.
")
Imagine my complete shock two years ago when my numbers came back QUITE high. Yes, I was eight months pregnant at the time, and that is known to significantly increase one's cholesterol. Not to mention that I was eating pizza just about everyday....
The thing is, my husband and I were applying for life insurance and for some reason those companies don't "adjust" when you're expecting. Or when your height-to-weight ratio suggests that you're "obese." I put that word in quotations because our friend, Patrick, was once told that he was a couple pounds over the limit for his height and therefore in the "obese" category. For the record, Patrick was training for the OLYMPICS at the time and was in what I'd think we'd all call peak physical condition. It wasn't until he literally threatened to run laps around the building until he dropped two pounds that the insurance agent cut him some slack.
Anyhow, my husband has been paying a higher rate for my insurance and we should probably fix that. I have an appointment tomorrow morning and can't eat after midnight (I wanted to ask "What am I, a gremlin?" but have a track record of well-intended jokes falling on deaf ears so I just let it slide).
I guess I'm a tad concerned that my cholesterol is still high and I'll have to (GASP!) cut back on the deliciousness that is cheese. If that's the case, I may have to start a class-action lawsuit (whatever that is) against the CHELMSFORD PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM for making us sing the praises of cheese in a lame, early-nineties fabulous, food-themed pageant. A-HEM: "Dair-y foods are GOUDA for you! Just try 'em and see; brie all you can brie!"
Thanks, Chelmsford. This double-bypass is on YOU.
")
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Faking Irish Twins
The other day a friend said that she couldn't believe my son was almost two.
"Well, yeah... I mean, he will be in September," I laughed, wondering what she was getting at.
"You know what that means!" she sang, a huge grin on her face. "Almost time for another onnnnne!" I instantly began my trademark nervous talking, too-much-information rant:
"Yup! That's true! Maybe soon! I mean... no, I'm not pregnant at the moment. But who knows? Maybe next year- But, no, part of me wants to wait, like, 5 years... blah blah blah." Sometimes I wish I could just shut up but, alas, it's not who I am.
I sincerely enjoy people's opinions about ideal spacing when it comes to kids because, hey, I love talking about anything. Lately people seem to size up my year-and-a-half-old walking ball of dough and assume that another one is in the works. However, the other day I had a different, more amusing experience.
My husband and I had the pleasure of caring for our friends' cutie pie last Sunday afternoon. We walked to the park, my husband with our 18 month-old son on his shoulders and me wearing our friends' sleeping 9 month-old angel in an Ergo carrier. While a few parents saw us and seemed to immediately look away, one brazen Kate Gosselin look-alike (before the hair extensions) didn't even mask her sheer horror when she loudly inquired about the ages of our "children."
I can't even tell you how tempted I was to lie and be like, "Yup. Got pregnant with this one a week before I delivered that one!" But that whole nervous-talking-honesty-thing hit and I quickly set the record straight that only one of the sweeties was mine and the other one was on loan for the afternoon. She breathed an audible sigh of relief and grabbed her chest in a gesture suggesting that a heart attack had been narrowly avoided. Though we shared a good laugh, I can't help but feel that my Irish pallor was the cause of this stereotype. What else did she assume, that I had a pot of gold hidden under my jacket and drank Guinness for breakfast?
I know there's no magical amount of time that you should wait before having another child, but I'm glad I didn't get pregnant with a second child while I was still pregnant with my first. As for plans for the next baby, I've narrowed it down and we're going to shoot for between one and eleven years from now. Oh, and has anyone seen my Lucky Charms?
")
"Well, yeah... I mean, he will be in September," I laughed, wondering what she was getting at.
"You know what that means!" she sang, a huge grin on her face. "Almost time for another onnnnne!" I instantly began my trademark nervous talking, too-much-information rant:
"Yup! That's true! Maybe soon! I mean... no, I'm not pregnant at the moment. But who knows? Maybe next year- But, no, part of me wants to wait, like, 5 years... blah blah blah." Sometimes I wish I could just shut up but, alas, it's not who I am.
I sincerely enjoy people's opinions about ideal spacing when it comes to kids because, hey, I love talking about anything. Lately people seem to size up my year-and-a-half-old walking ball of dough and assume that another one is in the works. However, the other day I had a different, more amusing experience.
My husband and I had the pleasure of caring for our friends' cutie pie last Sunday afternoon. We walked to the park, my husband with our 18 month-old son on his shoulders and me wearing our friends' sleeping 9 month-old angel in an Ergo carrier. While a few parents saw us and seemed to immediately look away, one brazen Kate Gosselin look-alike (before the hair extensions) didn't even mask her sheer horror when she loudly inquired about the ages of our "children."
I can't even tell you how tempted I was to lie and be like, "Yup. Got pregnant with this one a week before I delivered that one!" But that whole nervous-talking-honesty-thing hit and I quickly set the record straight that only one of the sweeties was mine and the other one was on loan for the afternoon. She breathed an audible sigh of relief and grabbed her chest in a gesture suggesting that a heart attack had been narrowly avoided. Though we shared a good laugh, I can't help but feel that my Irish pallor was the cause of this stereotype. What else did she assume, that I had a pot of gold hidden under my jacket and drank Guinness for breakfast?
I know there's no magical amount of time that you should wait before having another child, but I'm glad I didn't get pregnant with a second child while I was still pregnant with my first. As for plans for the next baby, I've narrowed it down and we're going to shoot for between one and eleven years from now. Oh, and has anyone seen my Lucky Charms?
")
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Valentine's Day Encore...
Recently, I wrote about a complete lack of dignity in reference to a teenage crush who I am just calling "Don". Though the Mystery Match debacle was most likely the lowest I've EVER stooped to get a guy's attention, this instance can certainly be considered an admirable "runner up". I'll try to be brief...
When I was a sophomore in high school, Don was a junior, which meant that his class was running elections for class president of the following year. It turns out that his best friend was running, and what better way to impress Don than by showing my full support for his buddy? To make matters all the more pathetic, this was AFTER the Mystery Match incident. My blind hope rivaled that of Jim Carrey in Dumb & Dumber after his love interest tells him there's a one in a million chance of them ever getting together and he replies: "So you're saying there's a chance..."
Anyhow, money must have been tight for Don's friend, because he was promoting himself by handing out burger king crowns with his last name scribbled in Sharpie on them. LUCKY FOR ME, I scored one of these crowns and wore it proudly throughout the days of the campaign. I even made sure I had it on when I was leaving my last class, which was across the hall from Don's last class. I just knew that when Don saw me backing his friend in an election that I wasn't even eligible to vote in he would forget about his pending restraining order and run straight into my arms.
My friend Beth, always a sweetheart and forever a saint for putting up with me that year, gave me a heartfelt answer after I asked her how my crown looked.
"It looks good! Well, about as good as a paper crown can look...."
I feel I should also note that Don's friend's last name was "HO". Yes, you have that correct. I wore a Burger King crown with the word "HO" on it. Voluntarily. In hopes of promoting myself as girlfriend material.
I'd like to take this moment to thank my husband, who actually KNEW me in high school, for marrying me anyhow...
")
When I was a sophomore in high school, Don was a junior, which meant that his class was running elections for class president of the following year. It turns out that his best friend was running, and what better way to impress Don than by showing my full support for his buddy? To make matters all the more pathetic, this was AFTER the Mystery Match incident. My blind hope rivaled that of Jim Carrey in Dumb & Dumber after his love interest tells him there's a one in a million chance of them ever getting together and he replies: "So you're saying there's a chance..."
Anyhow, money must have been tight for Don's friend, because he was promoting himself by handing out burger king crowns with his last name scribbled in Sharpie on them. LUCKY FOR ME, I scored one of these crowns and wore it proudly throughout the days of the campaign. I even made sure I had it on when I was leaving my last class, which was across the hall from Don's last class. I just knew that when Don saw me backing his friend in an election that I wasn't even eligible to vote in he would forget about his pending restraining order and run straight into my arms.
My friend Beth, always a sweetheart and forever a saint for putting up with me that year, gave me a heartfelt answer after I asked her how my crown looked.
"It looks good! Well, about as good as a paper crown can look...."
I feel I should also note that Don's friend's last name was "HO". Yes, you have that correct. I wore a Burger King crown with the word "HO" on it. Voluntarily. In hopes of promoting myself as girlfriend material.
I'd like to take this moment to thank my husband, who actually KNEW me in high school, for marrying me anyhow...
")
Thursday, March 1, 2012
AA Equals Overrated
To be clear, I'm referring to the "Academy Awards". Not "Alcoholics Anonymous," which I'm sure is not the least bit overrated....
Last Sunday I sat through all ten hours of the Academy Awards, despite having only seen "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" and "Moneyball". It was pretty fun having a few friends over and relentlessly critiquing millions of dollars worth of couture as I sat in a Red Sox bean bag chair wearing a shirt with a hole under the arm and ill-fitting ripped jeans.
In no particular order, I'd like to touch upon a few points....
ANGELINA JOLIE: Since the camera adds 10lbs, judging by my calculations she weighs about 70.... I know we all come in different shapes and sizes, but GIRL EAT SOMETHING! You have six children and, according to the most recent cover of OK! Magazine at the grocery store, another set of twins on the way....
MERYL STREEP WINNING BEST ACTRESS: I didn't see Behind the Iron Curtain or whatever that Margaret Thatcher movie is called, but was there a nude scene? I feel like 95% of the women who win for Best Actress have to AT LEAST be topless in their films, which is why I was shocked that Rooney Mara didn't take home the statuette...
"THE ARTIST": This movie better knock my freakin' socks off if and when I get around to seeing it. I recently heard that the average Academy member who votes is over 60 so that makes sense that they'd go ape over a black and white silent film. I have a feeling, however, that this movie will go in the category of "well-made films that I have no desire to see".
"AVATAR": My father still won't see it because there's "too much blue". You can imagine his horror when I asked him if he would see "The Artist".
SOUND EDITING vs. SOUND MIXING: One of my friends is outraged that most people don't know the difference between the two. Andy, if you're reading this, could you please explain? I am one of those idiots ")
"MAN OR MUPPET": I think we all grapple with this existential crisis. I am so happy this song won, because I love Bret McKenzie and Flight of the Conchords. But is it just me or did the Academy just phone in another random nomination with that song from the animated movie with the rainbow birds? Weren't there ANY other original songs in 2011?!
WOODY ALLEN: I like most of his work, but what a tool. First he marries his stepdaughter and then he doesn't show up to except his ACADEMY AWARD. I think the Oscars should institute a rule that, barring extreme circumstances, awards can only be given to people who actually want to receive them.
SEAT-FILLING: Is this a real thing? How do I get in on this?
ANIMATED SHORT FILMS: Well, they look cool but I have never in my life heard of ANY of them until they're nominated. How do you even see them? Are they in theaters or do you have to know someone?!
BEST POINT OF THE NIGHT FROM MY HUSBAND: "How come they cut people's speeches short but they have all this time for montages and a Cirque du Soleil performance?!"
EXACTLY. Well, Academy, I hope you had a lovely time celebrating yourself. That was another six hours of my life that I'll never get back. And yet, come next year, I'll probably sit through the entire mess again....
")
Last Sunday I sat through all ten hours of the Academy Awards, despite having only seen "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" and "Moneyball". It was pretty fun having a few friends over and relentlessly critiquing millions of dollars worth of couture as I sat in a Red Sox bean bag chair wearing a shirt with a hole under the arm and ill-fitting ripped jeans.
In no particular order, I'd like to touch upon a few points....
ANGELINA JOLIE: Since the camera adds 10lbs, judging by my calculations she weighs about 70.... I know we all come in different shapes and sizes, but GIRL EAT SOMETHING! You have six children and, according to the most recent cover of OK! Magazine at the grocery store, another set of twins on the way....
MERYL STREEP WINNING BEST ACTRESS: I didn't see Behind the Iron Curtain or whatever that Margaret Thatcher movie is called, but was there a nude scene? I feel like 95% of the women who win for Best Actress have to AT LEAST be topless in their films, which is why I was shocked that Rooney Mara didn't take home the statuette...
"THE ARTIST": This movie better knock my freakin' socks off if and when I get around to seeing it. I recently heard that the average Academy member who votes is over 60 so that makes sense that they'd go ape over a black and white silent film. I have a feeling, however, that this movie will go in the category of "well-made films that I have no desire to see".
"AVATAR": My father still won't see it because there's "too much blue". You can imagine his horror when I asked him if he would see "The Artist".
SOUND EDITING vs. SOUND MIXING: One of my friends is outraged that most people don't know the difference between the two. Andy, if you're reading this, could you please explain? I am one of those idiots ")
"MAN OR MUPPET": I think we all grapple with this existential crisis. I am so happy this song won, because I love Bret McKenzie and Flight of the Conchords. But is it just me or did the Academy just phone in another random nomination with that song from the animated movie with the rainbow birds? Weren't there ANY other original songs in 2011?!
WOODY ALLEN: I like most of his work, but what a tool. First he marries his stepdaughter and then he doesn't show up to except his ACADEMY AWARD. I think the Oscars should institute a rule that, barring extreme circumstances, awards can only be given to people who actually want to receive them.
SEAT-FILLING: Is this a real thing? How do I get in on this?
ANIMATED SHORT FILMS: Well, they look cool but I have never in my life heard of ANY of them until they're nominated. How do you even see them? Are they in theaters or do you have to know someone?!
BEST POINT OF THE NIGHT FROM MY HUSBAND: "How come they cut people's speeches short but they have all this time for montages and a Cirque du Soleil performance?!"
EXACTLY. Well, Academy, I hope you had a lovely time celebrating yourself. That was another six hours of my life that I'll never get back. And yet, come next year, I'll probably sit through the entire mess again....
")
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Labor & Execution
I grew up watching sitcoms and movies in the 80s and 90s. Often times pregnant women were depicted as emotional basketcases who devoured large chicken legs with chocolate sauce (or something equally as ridiculous) and then gave birth in elevators or taxis while screaming at their idiot husbands or complete strangers who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then, after a minute of farcical screaming, thirty seconds of "hee hee hoos" and half a second of pushing and grunting, their work was done and they could lay back and enjoy their clean, swaddled, flawless 3-month old newborn. Oh, the miracle of birth. And television.
When it came time to give birth to my son almost a year and a half ago, it didn't exactly go down like that....
It was the day after my due date and I was anxious and bored at the same time. My husband, mother, and I were binging on the happy-go-lucky historical drama, The Tudors, to pass the time. Nothing like going to bed nine months pregnant and dreaming of beheadings....
I was loving the costumes and romantic trysts, as well as the unrealistically attractive portrayals of Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn. The execution scenes, however, were wearing on me. By the time they were getting ready to have someone "drawn & quartered" I knew I had to back my large self away from the television until the scene was over (if you're unfamiliar with what being "drawn & quartered" entails, do not, repeat DO NOT find out. It's worse than you think).
I sprang up from the couch, walked over to the landing, and that's when I had the feeling that our son was about to make his grand entrance. Was their screaming and a mad dash to the hospital with me practicing my lamaze? Sadly, no. We meandered around the house, called the doctor, grabbed the bag, and my practical husband put a trash bag on the passenger seat of the car just in case (it was not necessary). Then we drove into Sibley Hospital in DC. Parked the car. Checked in. Waited. Did some paper work. Got set up in a room. Blood pressure check-geez, I'm even boring MYSELF right now.
Fast forward 12-13 hours later (I think I took a NAP at some point, courtesy of something that rhymes with "schmepidural"). Grant was born, and he looked like a wrinkly, purple wrestler/alien. I looked like I had taken a all-expenses paid trip to hell and back. Doctors were still attending to me because (who knew?) the actual birthing of the child is only part of the labor process.
Of course, we were still over the moon with relief and happiness that our baby was healthy. And his wrinkly alien phase was short lived and he soon transformed into a blue-eyed cupcake-cheeked sweet marshmallow of an angel (too much?).
Though being a mother to our son is the greatest joy I have known, if they ever make a movie version of my life I'll be sure to have them add a car chase and, like, a mime to his birth story just to make it a little more interesting....
")
When it came time to give birth to my son almost a year and a half ago, it didn't exactly go down like that....
It was the day after my due date and I was anxious and bored at the same time. My husband, mother, and I were binging on the happy-go-lucky historical drama, The Tudors, to pass the time. Nothing like going to bed nine months pregnant and dreaming of beheadings....
I was loving the costumes and romantic trysts, as well as the unrealistically attractive portrayals of Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn. The execution scenes, however, were wearing on me. By the time they were getting ready to have someone "drawn & quartered" I knew I had to back my large self away from the television until the scene was over (if you're unfamiliar with what being "drawn & quartered" entails, do not, repeat DO NOT find out. It's worse than you think).
I sprang up from the couch, walked over to the landing, and that's when I had the feeling that our son was about to make his grand entrance. Was their screaming and a mad dash to the hospital with me practicing my lamaze? Sadly, no. We meandered around the house, called the doctor, grabbed the bag, and my practical husband put a trash bag on the passenger seat of the car just in case (it was not necessary). Then we drove into Sibley Hospital in DC. Parked the car. Checked in. Waited. Did some paper work. Got set up in a room. Blood pressure check-geez, I'm even boring MYSELF right now.
Fast forward 12-13 hours later (I think I took a NAP at some point, courtesy of something that rhymes with "schmepidural"). Grant was born, and he looked like a wrinkly, purple wrestler/alien. I looked like I had taken a all-expenses paid trip to hell and back. Doctors were still attending to me because (who knew?) the actual birthing of the child is only part of the labor process.
Of course, we were still over the moon with relief and happiness that our baby was healthy. And his wrinkly alien phase was short lived and he soon transformed into a blue-eyed cupcake-cheeked sweet marshmallow of an angel (too much?).
Though being a mother to our son is the greatest joy I have known, if they ever make a movie version of my life I'll be sure to have them add a car chase and, like, a mime to his birth story just to make it a little more interesting....
")
Friday, February 17, 2012
Ski Weekend Surprise...
I promise not to make this blog all about the awkward things that happened to me in high school, but there's such a wealth of material there that I feel compelled to devote a good portion of it to the topic...
Most people can't understand why I have no desire to see another ski slope as long as I live. Besides the fact that it's an expensive sport that requires freezing weather and good balance, I've been skiing three times and each time was... disappointing.
The first time I went skiing was a hot mess disaster wrapped in a thick layer of pure mortification and I'll definitely be writing about that in the future. The third time I went skiing it was just soul-crushingly freezing. But for now I'd like to talk about the second time I went skiing. And, because this was high school, you know it had to involve a boy...
Let's call him "James". I was a senior and James was a tall, gangly underclassman with glasses and a slight space between his two front teeth. We were cast as a married couple in a play, and thus began spending a lot of time together after school. I wasn't really interested in him romantically, but when he started paying a lot of attention to me I decided that I was in no position to turn down potential suitors (see my last Valentine's Day post) so, like a judge in a courtroom, I "allowed it".
James and I had small parts in the play, so there was a lot of downtime when we'd hang out in the hallway doing nothing. It was then that he started talking about how much he loved to ski, to which I promptly replied that getting a root canal was higher on my list of fun things to do. You can then imagine my surprise when he enthusiastically invited me to go skiing up at Killington, VT with him and some "friends from youth group". Needless to say, I immediately said "No way in HECK." I didn't care if Jon Stamos (who was hot back in 98?) was going to be there, I had no interest.
James was PERSISTENT and kept asking and asking. What was his obsession with getting me to go on this trip? I decided that he must be hopelessly in love with me and want to gracefully maneuver the slopes by my side. I ran it by my mom and she encouraged me to go, gave me money to cover my skis and lift ticket, and told me to have an awesome time (yes, she is amazing). Knowing her, I'm sure she also went to Marshalls and bought me some snowflake-adorned attire to take along...
Anyhow, I very reluctantly packed my things and met up with James and his friends one evening. James' friend's dad, Mr. W, drove us all the way up to Killington to stay in the INCREDIBLE house he owned up there. We're talking "indoor-pool-and-jacuzzi-incredible." It was amazing, and we celebrated our arrival by tubing down a nearby hill that was illuminated by the stunning full moon. Snowflakes fell softly on our carefree teenage heads. There was laughter, there was merriment-this was too good to be true.
Afterwards, everyone was told to freshen up and meet back in the living room. When I got there, a large fire was emitting cozy warmth from the hearth and people were lounging in plush sofas and chairs. I sat down, put my hands behind my head, and breathed a sigh of contentment. Maybe I was wrong and this was going to be the best weekend of my life. Then I noticed James flirting with Mr. W's daughter. Come to think of it, he had been hanging around her all night. That's odd. If he liked HER, then he wasn't pursuing me. But if he wasn't pursuing ME, then why did he invite...
That's when Mr. W took out his guitar and instructed everyone to turn to a specific page in their BIBLES. Everyone complied except for me, who hadn't gotten the memo that this was a BYOB event. I then spent the rest of the evening listening to bible verses, humming Christian music, and deciding that James was not to be trusted.
I have no problem with Christian retreats. But I think we can all agree that they shouldn't be handled like surprise parties. On the upside, James may have a promising future as a missionary...
")
Most people can't understand why I have no desire to see another ski slope as long as I live. Besides the fact that it's an expensive sport that requires freezing weather and good balance, I've been skiing three times and each time was... disappointing.
The first time I went skiing was a hot mess disaster wrapped in a thick layer of pure mortification and I'll definitely be writing about that in the future. The third time I went skiing it was just soul-crushingly freezing. But for now I'd like to talk about the second time I went skiing. And, because this was high school, you know it had to involve a boy...
Let's call him "James". I was a senior and James was a tall, gangly underclassman with glasses and a slight space between his two front teeth. We were cast as a married couple in a play, and thus began spending a lot of time together after school. I wasn't really interested in him romantically, but when he started paying a lot of attention to me I decided that I was in no position to turn down potential suitors (see my last Valentine's Day post) so, like a judge in a courtroom, I "allowed it".
James and I had small parts in the play, so there was a lot of downtime when we'd hang out in the hallway doing nothing. It was then that he started talking about how much he loved to ski, to which I promptly replied that getting a root canal was higher on my list of fun things to do. You can then imagine my surprise when he enthusiastically invited me to go skiing up at Killington, VT with him and some "friends from youth group". Needless to say, I immediately said "No way in HECK." I didn't care if Jon Stamos (who was hot back in 98?) was going to be there, I had no interest.
James was PERSISTENT and kept asking and asking. What was his obsession with getting me to go on this trip? I decided that he must be hopelessly in love with me and want to gracefully maneuver the slopes by my side. I ran it by my mom and she encouraged me to go, gave me money to cover my skis and lift ticket, and told me to have an awesome time (yes, she is amazing). Knowing her, I'm sure she also went to Marshalls and bought me some snowflake-adorned attire to take along...
Anyhow, I very reluctantly packed my things and met up with James and his friends one evening. James' friend's dad, Mr. W, drove us all the way up to Killington to stay in the INCREDIBLE house he owned up there. We're talking "indoor-pool-and-jacuzzi-incredible." It was amazing, and we celebrated our arrival by tubing down a nearby hill that was illuminated by the stunning full moon. Snowflakes fell softly on our carefree teenage heads. There was laughter, there was merriment-this was too good to be true.
Afterwards, everyone was told to freshen up and meet back in the living room. When I got there, a large fire was emitting cozy warmth from the hearth and people were lounging in plush sofas and chairs. I sat down, put my hands behind my head, and breathed a sigh of contentment. Maybe I was wrong and this was going to be the best weekend of my life. Then I noticed James flirting with Mr. W's daughter. Come to think of it, he had been hanging around her all night. That's odd. If he liked HER, then he wasn't pursuing me. But if he wasn't pursuing ME, then why did he invite...
That's when Mr. W took out his guitar and instructed everyone to turn to a specific page in their BIBLES. Everyone complied except for me, who hadn't gotten the memo that this was a BYOB event. I then spent the rest of the evening listening to bible verses, humming Christian music, and deciding that James was not to be trusted.
I have no problem with Christian retreats. But I think we can all agree that they shouldn't be handled like surprise parties. On the upside, James may have a promising future as a missionary...
")
Monday, February 13, 2012
A Teenage Crush Stoops to an Impressive Low
It's that time of year again-VALENTINE'S DAY! And who wouldn't love to read a story of requited love and pure romance? I'm sorry I can't offer one...
This is a story of humiliation and absence of self-respect (or really any form of respect).
Let's journey back, shall we? The year was 1997 (yes, this DID take place in the last century) and I was a sophomore in high school with a mouthful of braces and nothing to lose. The lucky object of my affection was a boy who we will refer to as "Don" because I can't bring myself to use his actual name; that's just how far this humiliation extends.
Don was a predictable choice for being a suburban teenage crush: generic good looks (tall, dark-haired, no noticeable facial disfigurements), athletic (track team-big deal), and, well, he had a pulse. I don't recall him being very clever, but to be fair he probably didn't want to have too many lengthy conversations with the moron underclassman who was stalking him...
Anyhow, my mother (BLESS HER HEART) suggested I confidently take the reins and ask him to our winter formal dance. Don (BLESS HIS HEART) very kindly refrained with a convincing "Oh, man! I'd LOVE to but someone else just asked me this morning..." (Weeks later, when I saw him at the dance, his date had "gotten sick" and was nowhere to be seen. It took me about a decade to realize that maybe there was never a date to begin with....)
A couple months went by and our school was gearing up for it's annual "Mystery Match" fundraiser. Students were to fill out "compatibility" questionnaires for the student council to sort and ship to some lame company that ran them through a magic machine and sent them back with a list of everyone's "top matches". Students could then pay a couple bucks to get their results and find out who a computer decided they were to spend the rest of their lives with. To this day I have no idea what that money went to, but oh well...
Since Don had about as much an attraction to me as he did to his calculus book, I decided that Mystery Match was my ONLY CHANCE. If he could just see, in printout form, that we were meant to be then the rest would take care of itself. I filled out my form to the best of my ability, sat back, and waited for the magic to happen.
If the story ended there, it would be cute. Naive and idiotic, but also a little cute. But it doesn't end there...
Now I don't want to brag, but I "knew people" in high school. Almost all of my friends held pretty impressive positions in the student council, but again, not trying to brag. Anyhow, when it was time to sort the match questionnaires, they asked if I could help. Sure, why not? What else am I doing after school? I joined my friends in a room filled with hundreds of papers containing intimate details about nearly everyone in our school and we began sorting and boxing them up to mail to the magic company that was going to make all of our dreams come true...
And then one of my wiseguy friends found Don's questionnaire and began waving it around. At that moment, I knew what it was like to be Adam in the Garden of Eden. I resisted for about seventeen seconds before grabbing it and reading the entire thing. This was BAD: not because I was using my student council connections to view pseudo-confidential student materials, but because some of his answers WERE DIFFERENT THAN MINE!
I thought about it. What harm would it do to change one, maybe TWO of my own to ensure a more positive result? I mean, I could easily like pizza more than Chinese food, or enjoy the mountains more than the beach. My integrity would still remain intact, right? All I can say is, I wish I had kept track of how many answers I had changed because when the results came back, I was matched with Don at 91%. I was thrilled, until I realized that most people's highest match was in the 60's, maybe 70's... the odds of having a match in the nineties was almost impossible and reeked of foul play. As I followed Don out of class that day, I couldn't help but overhear his conversation with a buddy.
"It's so weird, my highest match was, like, 90%"
I trailed close behind, my nose nearly hitting his backpack, waiting for his inevitable marriage proposal. Instead, he abruptly changed directions and walked with his friend down another corridor. My sources say he was spotted later that night, making out with a freshman who wasn't even ON his list of mystery matches...
At the time I was devastated that my air-tight plan didn't work. However, looking back 15 years later, I'm pretty happy with the man I DID end up marrying. And I didn't even need to doctor any test results to land him! Now that's love...
Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day ")
This is a story of humiliation and absence of self-respect (or really any form of respect).
Let's journey back, shall we? The year was 1997 (yes, this DID take place in the last century) and I was a sophomore in high school with a mouthful of braces and nothing to lose. The lucky object of my affection was a boy who we will refer to as "Don" because I can't bring myself to use his actual name; that's just how far this humiliation extends.
Don was a predictable choice for being a suburban teenage crush: generic good looks (tall, dark-haired, no noticeable facial disfigurements), athletic (track team-big deal), and, well, he had a pulse. I don't recall him being very clever, but to be fair he probably didn't want to have too many lengthy conversations with the moron underclassman who was stalking him...
Anyhow, my mother (BLESS HER HEART) suggested I confidently take the reins and ask him to our winter formal dance. Don (BLESS HIS HEART) very kindly refrained with a convincing "Oh, man! I'd LOVE to but someone else just asked me this morning..." (Weeks later, when I saw him at the dance, his date had "gotten sick" and was nowhere to be seen. It took me about a decade to realize that maybe there was never a date to begin with....)
A couple months went by and our school was gearing up for it's annual "Mystery Match" fundraiser. Students were to fill out "compatibility" questionnaires for the student council to sort and ship to some lame company that ran them through a magic machine and sent them back with a list of everyone's "top matches". Students could then pay a couple bucks to get their results and find out who a computer decided they were to spend the rest of their lives with. To this day I have no idea what that money went to, but oh well...
Since Don had about as much an attraction to me as he did to his calculus book, I decided that Mystery Match was my ONLY CHANCE. If he could just see, in printout form, that we were meant to be then the rest would take care of itself. I filled out my form to the best of my ability, sat back, and waited for the magic to happen.
If the story ended there, it would be cute. Naive and idiotic, but also a little cute. But it doesn't end there...
Now I don't want to brag, but I "knew people" in high school. Almost all of my friends held pretty impressive positions in the student council, but again, not trying to brag. Anyhow, when it was time to sort the match questionnaires, they asked if I could help. Sure, why not? What else am I doing after school? I joined my friends in a room filled with hundreds of papers containing intimate details about nearly everyone in our school and we began sorting and boxing them up to mail to the magic company that was going to make all of our dreams come true...
And then one of my wiseguy friends found Don's questionnaire and began waving it around. At that moment, I knew what it was like to be Adam in the Garden of Eden. I resisted for about seventeen seconds before grabbing it and reading the entire thing. This was BAD: not because I was using my student council connections to view pseudo-confidential student materials, but because some of his answers WERE DIFFERENT THAN MINE!
I thought about it. What harm would it do to change one, maybe TWO of my own to ensure a more positive result? I mean, I could easily like pizza more than Chinese food, or enjoy the mountains more than the beach. My integrity would still remain intact, right? All I can say is, I wish I had kept track of how many answers I had changed because when the results came back, I was matched with Don at 91%. I was thrilled, until I realized that most people's highest match was in the 60's, maybe 70's... the odds of having a match in the nineties was almost impossible and reeked of foul play. As I followed Don out of class that day, I couldn't help but overhear his conversation with a buddy.
"It's so weird, my highest match was, like, 90%"
I trailed close behind, my nose nearly hitting his backpack, waiting for his inevitable marriage proposal. Instead, he abruptly changed directions and walked with his friend down another corridor. My sources say he was spotted later that night, making out with a freshman who wasn't even ON his list of mystery matches...
At the time I was devastated that my air-tight plan didn't work. However, looking back 15 years later, I'm pretty happy with the man I DID end up marrying. And I didn't even need to doctor any test results to land him! Now that's love...
Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day ")
Thursday, February 9, 2012
No, I Won't Trust You, JJ Abrams...
Ooh- J.J. Abrams has a new show on television. A new show called "Alcatraz"... well, it could be called "Babies and Puppies and Attractive Men Holding Them" and I still wouldn't tune in.
I'm sure good ol' Double J is an excellent producer, writer, and director and heaven knows he's accomplished more in his life than I have (at press time). But he is the man I hold responsible for the complete debacle that is the show "LOST" and I'm not ready to forgive and forget.
If you've never seen Lost, you can just stop reading now because you can't possibly comprehend the obscene mindKICKing (trying to keep my language PG) that the rest of us viewers endured for not one, not two, but SIX seasons. We're talking plane crashes on mysterious islands, parallel universes, obscure references to magnetic phenomena, inexplicable rules about fertility, random time travel, and a 400lb man who NEVER lost weight despite being trapped on an island for an indefinite amount of time...
We all tuned in week after week to see how it was all going to "tie together" in the end. It was as if we were in an abusive relationship for six years and kept going back, NAY, BEGGING for more... only to get engaged and be left at the altar in the series finale that would have been less insulting if a hand had just reached through the television and punched me square in the face... spoiler alert: it never tied together. And I want to throw a brick through the window of every writer on that show because I could have easily had their job: sitting in a room thinking of outlandish storylines that never have to be explained.
I could write about Lost and its shortcomings all night but now I've worked myself up and should probably go and finish making dinner for my family (priorities?) but I'll tell you one thing: I will NOT be watching Alcatraz anytime soon...
")
P.S. Unless I run out of stuff to watch on Netflix. Then it's anyone's guess what lows I'll stoop to...
I'm sure good ol' Double J is an excellent producer, writer, and director and heaven knows he's accomplished more in his life than I have (at press time). But he is the man I hold responsible for the complete debacle that is the show "LOST" and I'm not ready to forgive and forget.
If you've never seen Lost, you can just stop reading now because you can't possibly comprehend the obscene mindKICKing (trying to keep my language PG) that the rest of us viewers endured for not one, not two, but SIX seasons. We're talking plane crashes on mysterious islands, parallel universes, obscure references to magnetic phenomena, inexplicable rules about fertility, random time travel, and a 400lb man who NEVER lost weight despite being trapped on an island for an indefinite amount of time...
We all tuned in week after week to see how it was all going to "tie together" in the end. It was as if we were in an abusive relationship for six years and kept going back, NAY, BEGGING for more... only to get engaged and be left at the altar in the series finale that would have been less insulting if a hand had just reached through the television and punched me square in the face... spoiler alert: it never tied together. And I want to throw a brick through the window of every writer on that show because I could have easily had their job: sitting in a room thinking of outlandish storylines that never have to be explained.
I could write about Lost and its shortcomings all night but now I've worked myself up and should probably go and finish making dinner for my family (priorities?) but I'll tell you one thing: I will NOT be watching Alcatraz anytime soon...
")
P.S. Unless I run out of stuff to watch on Netflix. Then it's anyone's guess what lows I'll stoop to...
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Get Lost(on)
Welcome to my blog!
You may have noticed it's a little sparse; just give me time...
Full disclosure: Despite the fact that it's my favorite city in the world, I have not and do not live in Boston. I currently reside just outside our nation's lovely capital, but I did grow up somewhat near the home of the Red Sox (in a little town called Chelmsford, MA, aka "That Town Next to Lowell"). This blog is named for a musical that my friend, Lyn, and I have been fantasizing about writing for over a decade.
Sadly, I must cut this post short and head to work (don't you hate it when gainful employment gets in the way of your blogging?!) but in the words of a former California governor: "I'll be back..."
")
You may have noticed it's a little sparse; just give me time...
Full disclosure: Despite the fact that it's my favorite city in the world, I have not and do not live in Boston. I currently reside just outside our nation's lovely capital, but I did grow up somewhat near the home of the Red Sox (in a little town called Chelmsford, MA, aka "That Town Next to Lowell"). This blog is named for a musical that my friend, Lyn, and I have been fantasizing about writing for over a decade.
Sadly, I must cut this post short and head to work (don't you hate it when gainful employment gets in the way of your blogging?!) but in the words of a former California governor: "I'll be back..."
")
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