Behemoth the Snowman

The first snowfall of the year produced some overzealous snowball rolling on the parts of Caroline and Paulie.  Behemoth the Snowman, with his dead flower afro, lasted about seven hours upright on Sunday until a strong gust of wind blew him right over.  Minutes later, Vito the pug peed on his remains. At least he didn't fall down with people around. He could've crushed someone to death.

Paulie Outs Santa at First Christmas Party of the Season

Paulie was psyched but suspicious from the get go when he heard Santa was going to stop by Jess's holiday party.  In a full-on pre-Santa lather, the kids peeked outside looking for reindeer, their ears pressed against the windows listening for jingle bells of Santa's sleigh.  But then there was Paulie, the four-year-old skeptic.  Well, not so much a skeptic as an intense observer who can uncannily identify the slightest features of the most random places and things. And in doing so, calls the situation as he sees it.   For instance, he can predict who will be at the park because he recognizes the cars of each one of his friends' parents.  He can pick out someone in a mad crowd at Hannaford just by their sneakers.  He constantly brags to other people that he and his friend Bags have the same Spiderman underwear.   Earlier in party, Paulie had chatted with Jess's dad, (who is also named Paul) in the kitchen. He loves Jess's dad and said he couldn't wait to show "his friend Paul" the "Asking Santa" app on the iPhone.  Therefore, it only made sense that Paul would become the focus of Paulie's intense observation throughout the course of the evening.  So, when Santa arrived, all the kids lost their minds over the possibility of presents. But Paulie peppered him with questions instead:  "Where are your reindeer?"  "How did you get here?" "Are you Santa's brother?" But then Paulie looked down at Santa's shoes and -- like Shaggy unmasking the improbable villian on Scooby Doo -- pointed and shouted. "That's not Santa! That's my friend Paul!  Those are his shoes!"  We tried to prevent him from further foiling the situation, but as long as the kids got presents, none seemed to care if they came from Santa or Paulie's friend Paul.    

Paulie on the MBTA

I Googled "train enthusiast" to see if there was an official word for Paulie's profound train worship. Turns out, there are several: Railfan, Zed, Trainspotter, Metrophile, FRN (Fucking Rail Nut), Gunzel, Grizzer, Gricer, and my favorite -- Transit Foamer. Definition: Railfans who work themselves into such a lather over the Choo-Choo that they literally foam at the mouth. This isn't a stretch. Paul becomes transfixed, possibly transported to another dimension at the mere sight or sound of a train. And trains -- specifically MBTA trains -- occupy his thoughts at all times. We'll call Paulie a T-Foamer. 

For instance, at any given moment he will randomly blurt out "Next stop, South Station" in a baritone voice. Or "Doors will open on the left. Thank you for not smoking."

To random strangers at the grocery store:

PAULIE: "You know what?"

GROCERY STORE: "What?"

PAULIE: "Wonderland is the last stop on the Blue Line."

To his teacher at school:

PAULIE: "You know what?"

TEACHER: "What?"

PAULIE: "The Red Line AND the Orange Line stop at Downtown Frosting (Downtown Crossing)"

Like Paul Simon, he knows everyone loves the sound of a train in the distance. And he is no exception. Every now and then, Paulie will hear the distant whistle of a Commuter Rail train rolling through the woods a few towns over. He'll pause, turn, and smile into the wind. Then say, "Hey Mom, you know what?"

If he could choose between a week in Disney World and day of riding the rails, he'd choose the rails.

When he gets tired, his favorite thing to do is zone out in front of the computer watching YouTube videos of the different T lines: Orange-Red-Blue-Green-Purple. When he clicks upon a video of the Acela, he almosts falls off his chair.

Who knew there were so many fanatical T- Foamer vids up on YouTube? Some of them make hobbyists like ham radio operators and the bus spotters of Glasgow appear casual in comparison. For instance, in one video, a man named "Jug" unpacks his video camera and a red thermos of instant coffee and proceeds to tape hours upon hours of footage from a single train crossing. In another video, some T-Foamer from JP tapes his entire Orange Line commute from Forest Hills to State Street.

So we decided to make our own fanatical YouTube video. We pulled the T map offline and mapped our course last weekend. Then we taped our little public transit party, leaping from line to line, inbound and outbound.

When we began our journey on the Commuter Rail, a mother was on the platform with her twin boys, also 4 (also mad T-Foamers). She said she was just riding into South Station and then turning around and riding back because it's the only way the boys wanted to spend the afternoon. I told her of my plan and about the YouTube videos already out there. She then confessed that she and her boys have spent hours behind the Home Depot in Quincy watching the trains roll by. She's certain the local police have tagged them as "suspicious." I was glad to hear we're not alone on this crazy train.

So here's the result, aptly named "Paulie on the MBTA." (Featuring fellow passenger Caroline, of course, who helped make the video!)

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He's Come a Long Way Since We Used to Smother Him with Beanbags

My cousin Mike made this comment about his younger brother Marc who got married last weekend in a beautiful seaside ceremony that made all in attendance completely oblivious to the Nor'Easter raging outside the bay windows. During his toast, Mike, the best man, brought back some long-forgotten memories of what a pain in the ass Marc was as a child. Long forgotten because they strike such a sharp contrast to the man Marc is today. Growing up, the Moschella family tagline regarding my three cousins was: "Dawn sucked her thumb, Mike sucked his pacifier, and Marc just sucked." Mike recalled that whenever the family went to a restaurant, a park, other people's homes or even the mall, the outing would inevitably come to an abrupt, frustrating end, with my Aunt J yelling at Marc: "Walk out of this place backwards because you're never going to see it again!" One Christmas, my other cousins and I -- after Marc had ruined our Star Wars parade one too many times -- finally rose up to do battle with our instigator. It was at my house during the family Christmas party. My cousin Kaera lay down on my bed in a corpse position with a black lace veil over her face. This freaked out the six-year-old Marc in a large way, but the rest of us pretended we couldn't see Kaera and acted like he was crazy. Then of course there was the beanbag smothering which almost always (inexplicably) involved an 8-track of Barry Manilow's song "Jump Shout Boogie." Even so, Marc never told on us.

Last year when Marc & Eileen hosted the family Christmas party at their house, we shared a lot of these stories with Eileen and her family and they agreed that childhood Marc -- the one altering the brakes on others' Big Wheels -- and adult Marc -- the kindest, gentlest and coolest of the lot of us -- are two completely different people. That said, their wedding was both emotional and wild: a beautiful night that reflected on their marriage as well as inspired everyone to dance their faces off. Caroline was a rock star as a flower girl, which made it that much more special for us. It was touch and go for awhile there, however, as evidenced by her 'tude at the hair salon. (More pictorial evidence that we're screwed when she turns 12.)   So, here's the crappy low-res slidehsow of my pictures. There are about 900+ more pictures floating around out there that are likely crashing the servers of Facebook, Shutterfly, Ritz and others as we speak. Congratulations, Marc & Eilleen. We love you.

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Bastions of Moonbat Fashions

(Flower Child Power)

An outfit consisting of pink tulle, Crocs 'n socks and a fringe-happy poncho would usually require an "I Dressed Myself" button before leaving the house. But after someone -- in taking note of Carrie's clothing choices -- mentioned that "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree" (I believe the terms "dirty hippy" and "loony liberal" were used), I beamed with pride and chucked aside the disclaimer.

It may seem absurd to label a five-year-old as a "liberal" but having experienced this lunacy firsthand, I can attest to the reality and the madness.  It brought me back to high school in the 80s where being labeled a "liberal" had nothing to do with your idealogy and everything to do with what you wore.   For instance, if you wore open-toed shoes, you were a liberal.  If you made any fashion choices that didn't involve a Champion sweatshirt (tucked firmly into zee pants --hooyeah), you were a liberal.   

My friend N duly noted this bizarre fundamentalist attitude toward fashion was likely a trickle down effect.  Most high school students couldn't yet vote so many compensated by regurgitating the political adjectives and labels of one's raving parents, the majority of whom probably spent their weekends beating up organic farmers.  

My dear friend JS once looked at my feet and scoffed: "What's up with ya liberal shoes" (translation: non-controversial Sam & Libby slingback sandals circa 1987).  It bears mentioning that while he was offering up this style critique, he was wearing an acid-washed denim jacket with the phrase "Too Fast 2 Live, Too Young 2 Die" embroidered on the back.  There is too much multi-pronged irony here to even get into.  For one, the catchphrase on the back of the jacket came from a biography on Sid Vicious. It doesn't get much more anti-establishment than that.  

Then again, I once tucked my tapered jeans into some neon socks.  There was my seafoam green shaker knit sweater worn like a dirty slipcover over some footless tights (liberal leggins -- no Gs please) and the pairing of Converse All Stars (more liberal footwear) with prairie skirts ala Maria McKee.

Still,  I was more prone to label others with Breakfast Club-style stereotypes than attach an idealogical tag to a pair of sneakers, which still seems way out there in non-sequitur land.  I don't think wearing the same sweatshirt every day -- as a fashion statement -- made someone a "conservative," just unimaginative.  At least all of the fashion choices of the past were united in their hideousness.  As far as the future, if my daughter wants to dress from head to toe ponchos and tulle, more power to her.  

The Truth, the Big Ticket, the Answer

For many years, the only member of the Celtics I could identify was Paul Pierce, and that was only because of his terry cloth headband.  We'd gone to a few games in recent years but the only excitement among the fans seemed to be who could act like a big enough donkey to get on the Jumbotron during commercial breaks.  I felt like such a geezer looking around at these fools thinking that most of them were not even born when the team was all about greatness.  

(DBs in full regalia)

Then came the sounds of things turning around -- like this exchange between Caroline and Paul a few weeks ago after Paul mistakenly referred to Kevin Garnett as "The Truth."  

Caroline: "No, Paulie. Paul Pierce is the Truth. That's KG, he's the Big Ticket." 

Paulie:   "Oh yeah."

Treat these kids to a Duck Boat parade immediately!   

The last time the Celtics won a championship, I was in the 10th grade. That's tough to reconcile. On the radio this morning, there was a lot of talk about the spirit of 1986.  About how Danny Ainge's ability to create this team sprung from his being a member of the 1986 team. How he never became so enamored with talent that he forgot about character -- a great message that translated, albeit 22 years later.  

 

Then of course, there is the downside of winning: The DBs who destroy things.  When did people begin rioting out of joy?   Never, in a state of jubilation, have I felt compelled to uproot a mailbox and overturn some SUVs.  In 1986, (Granny alert) the only potential controversy around the Celtics celebration involved forged early dismissal notes to guidance counselors and some contraband wine coolers on the Green Line.   

I'm half inspired to excavate my moth-eaten "Beat LA" t-shirt (with "Sweet 16" on the back) from the shopping bag archive, but don't want to smell like a basement. But, to echo KGs joyful declaration last night: "Anything is possible!" 

Boulos Turns Four at Humid Carousel Extravaganza

(Can I borrow a copy of your "Hey Soul" classics?)

Paulie turned four yesterday with much fanfare at the Paragon Carousel. After attending a birthday party there last year, it was the only place he'd even considered celebrating his 4th. We like it there too --  it's a quick hit -- 11:30 a.m.-1 p.m., ride the carousel, sing Happy Birthday, pack it up, pack it in. Like always, however, the Nantasket rotunda was a house of joy and pain.  First, it was the swampiest day of the year thus far -- 90 plus degrees with all manner of species swarming toward the beaches, spawning clusterfucks at every turn.  Second, there was some kind of car show going down right in front of the Carousel which hogged up parking spaces, created a detour, and brought an audience of what one party parent described as "a giant mid-life crisis in a mesh trucker hat." Lots of full-body tattoos and blaring of the Scorpions.  Anyway, to make matters worse, this party was organized by the inept Jimmy & Kathy show.  As we unpacked the car --Spiderman cake, popsicles, coolers full of water and juiceboxes, etc. -- we realized we'd forgotten the Spiderman paper plates, utensils and napkins.  James and SAC quickly scurried to scrounge some generic, institutional replacements off nearby Nantasket vendors.  Luckily, the beach traffic and car show detour delayed the party guests a good 30-40 minutes so they wouldn't be forced to eat with their hands.  But that quickly became irrelevant as the pizzas we ordered didn't show up until after the party was over.  Needless to say, by 11:45 a.m., many of us were looking for something stronger than Poland Spring.  The popsicles melted, the cake was a bit congealed, and many parents experienced sweaty vertigo after too many go-rounds in the humidity. But, beneath the shady rotunda, all the kids were completely unaware of the MF mania going on behind the scenes. They came to get down. To them, it was all about riding the carousel until they couldn't see straight. They couldn't have cared less about solid popsicles and utensils.  Once again, a lesson in Zen from a group of four-year old sages.  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PAULIE!   

Pass the Torch

(Mama!)

On a harried and unshowered afternoon about three years ago, Nicola and I were pushing double strollers around Castle Island in an incoherent trance, bonding over a traumatizing evening involving FeverAll suppositories and cracking up, tears rolling down cheeks, over imagined sound effects. Back at Nic's, we plied all four babies with Goldfish and blueberries and lamented the fact that we couldn't even finish an afternoon glass of Mother's Little Helper. It was a time when we were straddling the ridiculously thin line between sanity and postpartum craziness, self-proclaimed “poor little bastards” with Boudreau’s Butt Paste in our hair.


That's when Nic declared that one day we'll be beyond this, things will be easier. "We'll be showered, sitting on our arses, drinking wine, and it'll be someone else's turn." Indeed, the ceremonial suppository torch was passed after the Bags' family's 2006 night with toiletries from Brooks but this past weekend at Jen's cocktail baby shower, we realized that the day has dawned. Things have gotten easier. There we were in the South End: Showered, sitting on our arses, and drinking vino as we watched Jen open gift after gift of bewildering babyware, mistaking several items for puppets. (“Exactly how many puppets did your register for?”) Nic, Code Red and I sat back in cockeyed rebellion, running a commentary like these guys, fancying ourselves pass-out-on-the-roofdeck hilarious. We've come a long way but are still capable of regression when in the company of Jen, etal. As she opened up some receiving blankets, I recalled the evening we took a corkscrew to a bottle of balsamic vinegar, having mistaken it for pinot noir. Then we considered putting Ollie in the Baby Bjorn and heading to Beehive. What a fantastic night all around.

Still --even more evidence that the day has dawned – a Memorial Day cookout at Jess’s house, a true Babypalooza, with LPD, Jess and Auntie fostering chaos on a baby blanket. For us, it was the first year we didn't have to worry about the kids eating pine cones. They were actually able to help out and party with the beautiful wee ones and enjoy them as much as we did. This also maximized everyone's enjoyment of the yodeling pickle that Bags brought. I had to Google it the next day to make sure I hadn’t dreamt it. I didn’t. And it sounded just like this. Best of all, in the spirit of cooperation, all mamas and papas were able to sit on their arses, finish their wine and enjoy some (with apologies to LPD) fantastically plump, moist & juicy steamers. Thanks Jess & Joe!

Enjoy a crappy low-res slide show of a superior afternoon.

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Pissing off the Geezers

(New Kids, aging well)

Just a few weeks ago, I was so blissfully unaware of my own age that I unwittingly referred to a woman younger than me as a "cougar." Today, I'm all too aware of my own geezerhood. It started with the New Kids kicking off their reunion tour on the Today Show this morning. I was too old for them the first time around and find this whole reunion to be an affront to my magical thinking. My babysitter, who is 10 years my junior, was all juiced up, recreating some dance steps for Caroline and Paulie that she used to perform in her room when she was nine. I jumped into the fray and tried to bust into that New Kids/Bobby Brown hybrid dance move that LPD and I used to do at 19. Caroline immediately shook her head and deemed it "ridiculous." (Aside: James can just keep quiet about my dancing ability as I've seen photos of him from the early 90s and he looks like one-half of Kid 'n Play.) Keeping the spirit, Katie (sitter/magician) and I put on some PM Dawn and enjoyed some Milanos. She further showed her youth by sharing a dream she had last night about being on a date with David Archuleta from American Idol, one that possibly involved a double deuce of malt liquor. I continued to show my geezerhood as my dream last night was that the new Target planned for my town opened a year early. I was so over the moon about this that I was the first person at the store. And for some reason, everyone that worked at the store was wearing a red gymnast leotard. No more Nyquil on the Rocks!

SPRING HAS SPRUNG: Vito's Low Intensity Workout, Renegade Hot Dogs

Spring has sprung at last -- at least for today. The windows are open and the sun is shining and you can walk outside without contorting your face against an icy head wind. I took Vito (or "Gary" as the kids have inexplicably renamed him) for a long walk earlier, trying to budge some of his (and my) girth. Magical thinking. People (non-dog-owners) are always under the misconception that walking a dog is great exercise. They see people jogging alongside their hyper yellow labs and think that's typical. It's not. On a typical dog walk, there is no jogging or even walking briskly, and with a pug, it's more of a low-intensity shuffle. No one's heart rate is getting elevated when it takes 45 minutes to walk 10 yards. Even James, usually a paragon of patience, refuses to walk the pooch, finding the entire Vito-on-a-leash experience “brutal.” “The Walk” according to Vito: Sniff all shrubs within reach. Stop, sniff and mark all telephone polls and mailboxes. Bark at cars and joggers who don’t have a right to exist. Greet landscapers hauling bags of manure. Sniff a pinecone for 10 minutes. Collapse into a heap at all shady spots on the sidewalk to “rest.” Today, the landscapers had finished up their work and drove past us, noting “You’ve only gotten this far? That’s ridiculous. Hit the gym, Vito.” We made it all the way around the loop in 64 minutes and I had to pour a pan of cold water over him when we got back.

ASIDE:
Another sign of spring: The Renegades softball schedule was released this week, which includes many waterfront games at Marine Field in South Boston. This factor led to another addition to “Jimmy’s World” where he enjoys Mexican fare at “Café Rodriguez” (Casa Romero) and Thanksgiving Turkey sandwiches from the “Groratoria” (Circe’s Grotto). Yesterday, I got an email that read: “The only reason you'll come to those Southie games is so you can get hot dogs at Flanagan’s.” Flanagan’s?

FOO are YOU

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Example #7809 of How the Fates Conspire to Make Me Look Like a White Trash Mama Despite All Efforts to the Contrary

In the constant fielding of questions from wee brown ones, there are the ones you can’t answer: “Mama, why do we have eyebrows” and the ones you don’t want to answer: “Mama, what’s a threesome?”

Who wants popsicles!?

(Thanks, Gov. McGreevey)

It’s getting worse. Caroline is starting to read and is fluent in TiVo. Add that to our growing list of “bad combinations” when you consider our program list is half kid shows, half adult. One wrong click and you’re screwed. We found this out the hard way last week when they ended up watching an episode of The Family Guy. We’re still dealing with the repurcussions.

In the episode they watched, Stewie, the sardonic infant with the British accent, poses as a high schooler and invites one of the popular girls to “Anal Point." After the encounter, he is nicknamed “baby penis.” Also in the episode, Peter has a stroke after eating too many hamburgers and loses use of his entire left side before being cured by stem cell research.

And here come more questions you don't want to answer...

“Mama, what’s a stroke?”

It’s a song by Billy Squier! Who wants to download it!?

..and the random shouting of quotes from the episode:

At Hannaford, in Stewie’s voice:

“This girl is making out with a baby, a NUUUUDE baby!”

“Baby Penis! Baby Penis!”

When you ask Caroline how school was, she answers with a pitch-perfect Peter: “I’ve had better days, Lois, better days.”

(Do they sell stem cells at the market?)

Also, Paulie is telling everyone he encounters that his rubber pet alligator that he carries with him everywhere “had a stroke.” That went over really well at the preschool.

Like other obsessions, this will fade. All we can do is delete the show from TiVo and wait it out. In the meantime, I’m running out of distractions.

St. Paddy's in a Tuba Free Zone

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We completely lost our minds and ventured into the Southie Parade in yesterday's wet drizzle. But with P and Maria’s place being just steps away from the parade route (i.e, shelter, bathrooms and refreshments), it made for a pleasant rainy afternoon in SoBo. Even better, while we gawked on Broadway, Margaret Mary K. boiled up a corned beef and cabbage feast, sipping her annual Bailey’s on the rocks (this resulted in some foot stomping and a self-imposed walk to Dunkin Donuts for “fresh air” later in the day.) At the parade, we found a decent spot among the green throngs where we sidled up alongside the Comcast TV cameras. Here, the parade halted from time to time with step dancers and marching bands and -- inexplicably -- a flatbed truck blaring Sean Kingston tunes. (Aside: Paulie is a big fan of horses, but not so much of the tuba.) Candy was thrown from the Buicks of local octogenarians and mardi gras beads were tossed out by troops just back from Iraq. The kids caught rubber balls and plastic parachutemen and 11 coupons to the new Sam Adams Brewhouse. Of course, all of this swag was even more fun than the $15 inflatables purchased from the parade vendor/rapist. Then, just when Paulie had turned the corner with regard to the tubas, the MF Lexington Minutemen started shooting off their muskets like Yosemite Sam and we had to bail. We headed back to the house and indulged in a delectable CB & C dinner and C&P sideshow. Then we grabbed some Irish soda bread and chocolate-dipped strawberries and watched the secondary parade of reveling paddies file past the window, pausing now and again to dry heave behind Amrheins.

But, it gets better....No words necessary, just wait for it and absorb the awesomeness. Slainte!

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Ides of March Meltdown

I thought I'd kick off the week with a little Zen aid; some low-quality video I shot from Fisherman’s Beach on Nantucket last July specifically for this time of year when I, like most New Englanders, experience a weather-related psychotic break. Symptoms range from mild to severe depending upon several factors. For instance, if you were able to escape to a warmer climate in February, you may just get a little grumpy about now. If you have been housebound all season, say, in a basement wearing Gortex mittens, you could end up babbling incoherently while slathering yourself with Hawaiian Coconut Oil. My mid-March meltdown tends to manifest as foolhardy rebellion: I refuse to dress in layers and often walk barefoot to the mailbox in 40 degree temperatures, squinting in the icy head wind. Time to compile the spa GCs and go in for an overhaul. Or just say screw it and stowaway on Goy's upcoming Floridian business trip.

So, enjoy a 32-second vacation. Breathe in the ocean air, listen to the soothing surf, smell the seasalt. We're almost there.

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Herme, The Great Equalizer

Sometimes for less whiny conditions to prevail in a house with kids, we result to random threats and outrageous statements:

Nic: "I’m going to call the street sweeper!"

Billy Dee: “I’m going to put you in a box.”

WMD: “Every time you cry, a puppy dies.”

Around Christmas, however, we have an advantage. We can threaten that Santa is watching their every move and taking copious notes on their errant behavior. Still, they see Santa everywhere and take this notion of constant surveillance with a grain of salt. This year, we’ve taken it up a few notches with more specificity. Caroline: Every time you kick your brother, I'm calling Santa and asking him to subtract a present from your list. Kick. I guess you can kiss that Princess art easel goodbye. Kicking ceases. Paulie: Whiny voices attract the Abominable Snow Monster. Remember the oinking outside the cave? He can hear you when you talk in that voice. (For whatever reason, Paulie thinks the Snow Monster’s cave is at the Airport T station, so his arrival on the South Shore via intermodal transportation wouldn’t be entirely unheard of in his world). No more whiny voice.

Thus far, these tactics have been successful, but we're continually upping the ante.

For awhile, Paulie would only wear plaid shorts and his Tom Brady shirt. You could dress him in weather-appropriate clothing but inevitably, he’d sneak off upstairs and change back into this ensemble. We finally packed all of his shorts up and put them in the attic. He squawked like an irate bird for an hour. But then he adapted, digging out some Lightning McQueen summer pajamas and insisting on wearing only those. We put all of the summer PJs up in the attic. Another bird tantrum. But then he adusted again, deciding to just run around buck nucked. You'd get him dressed and then he’d strip down naked almost immediately. Any shot at discipline unraveled as we laughed and became increasingly inconsistent. Laughing, then yelling, then laughing again. In short, the worst kind of parents.

So we decided to take a more subtle approach and tap into his psyche.

James called Pete and asked him to call the house, pretending to be Herme, the wannabe elf dentist from Rudolph.

Paulie was worried yet exhilarated to be receiving a personal call from an elf. He listened intently as "Herme" informed him that he needs to keep his clothes on because Santa's getting angry. Paulie promised and then asked Herme if the Snow Monster was "still nice." Herme told him he was only nice to people who wear long pants and that he snacks on bare knees.

Needless to say, Paulie's kept his clothes on and has become obsessed with his fleece-lined jeans.
Since then, Herme has become the great equalizer, a true purveyor of peace in Jacksonland. Every time it’s getting loud in here, I dial the house phone from my cell. "I bet that's Herme." Oh no. They completely chill out, looking up and around like they live in a giant glass house. That's right. Herme can see everything. He's watching when Santa can't.

Paulie Shorn II

Paulie walked downstairs and appeared to be suffering from what looked like an errant cowlick. Upon closer inspection, it was clear a chunk of his bangs had been lopped off. Evidence in the upstairs hallway, a clump of wavy brown hair, confirmed this fact. "Paulie, who cut your hair?" "Caroline." CAROLINE! "Isn't he handsome?" she replied. Apparently, she sat him down on a footstool, wrapped a towel around him and gave him a little trim, or more specifically, the Lloyd Christmas. I can't believe child scissors cut through those Britpop locks. It's the toddler equivalent of shaving off someone's eyebrows, absent of malice of course, and my digicam couldn't have picked a worse time to be busted. I found a way to comb it to make it less conspicuous. And even though Caroline's in trouble, she's right about one thing: He is handsome.

Not the Iranian President

(Throw the infidels under the school bus)

Paulie is not dictating an uprising among impressionable three year olds at his preschool. He simply asked if he could stand up on the circle rug and sing "We are the Dinosaurs...Whaddaya Think of That," (If you have kids between 1-5, this song probably invades your personal space on a daily basis; it's tougher to expel from your mind than 1-800-54-Giant.) Apparently, he took the song very seriously, pointing (whaddaya think of that!) kicking, stopping to take a rest and then "roaring" through the finale. His teachers took some pictures because they almost couldn't believe that this was soft spoken Paulie. They credit his performance to his being in a different classroom and out of Caroline's shadow this year. She used to follow him around, mother-henning him to the point where she'd follow him into the toilet to make sure he washed his hands. But now, he's come into his own, and is in fact following in her footsteps with regard to performing. After playing one of six Dorothys in the preschool production of the Wizard of Oz last year, Caroline staged many a spontaneous production among unwitting spectators in the months following. She recuited participants, gave excrutiatingly detailed stage direction and got royally pissed off when anyone screwed up the lyrics and accompanying sign language to "Somewhere over the Rainbow." Anyone who was in the bleachers during one of the interminable rehearsals at Renegades games can attest to this. Still, maybe one day they'll be a brother-sister team like Maggie and Jake or Justin and Justine, just dear God not like Michael and LaToya (regardless of the fact they have 'Kathryn Jackson' as a mama).

Bonus video "Roar Roar Cheese": Ready for his close-up, Paulie nails the role of T-Rex, but after noticing the cameras, remembers to be gracious to his fans and say "cheese."

The Suburban Traveling Circus

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As you know, the traveling circus makes many stops. In several gatherings and celebrations spanning two weekends, the TC experienced a birthday, an intervention, and a massive sugar crash. And another Red Sox victory, of course.

1st stop: Jack’s 1st birthday party was both nontraditional and traditional -- and quite a ripper, I might add. I hadn’t had a chance to view the photos until a few days ago and realized I had to share them all. Let’s just say the two photogs of record, Caroline and I, have very different visions.

2nd stop: LPD, Jess and I headed to the Scarlet Oak, which is fast becoming the venue of choice for bringing friends back in from the ledge. This time it was Jess who required help, having plummeted into a depression in the wake of Suppah Club’s cancellation last week. Her first night out since giving birth was nothing less than restorative.

3rd stop: Goy spread out the snack plates and set up a massive bouncy slide to entertain the kids while we cackled on the patio, passing around Sweet Baby James with much fanfare. Inside, as the games started up on TV, an intense match of Hungry Hungry Hippos broke out in the dining room. My lightness of mood led to poor judgment as I allowed Paulie to have a Whoopee pie after 8 p.m. In a prelude to a sugar crash, he ran amok with a hobby horse, giving new meaning to the term Hingham High. Shortly thereafter, he collapsed on my lap with a juicebox and philosophical declaration, “We can’t stay here forever.” Indeed, Paulie.

Enjoy the crappy slideshow documenting the ride. No music today. I couldn’t stomach the cheesy offerings of songs “in the style of" Kool & the Gang. I will find a way to pirate my way around this wet blanket, just not today.

Brought to you by FIOS

We finally chucked Comcast and got Verizon FIOS yesterday, which is supposed to be four times faster and more reliable. We'll see. The Verizon tech was here all day yesterday wiring the house, driving Vito bonkers. The kids made up a song called "Verizon Man" except -- for reasons unknown -- he was a busdriver in the song, not a technician. They also kept trying to yell knock-knock jokes to him out the front door.

Anyway, I've been trying to catch up on the PU and thought I'd kick off with a weekend diary since this past one was a perfect fall one. Everyone was in the zone.

Friday: The counter girl at Pacini's apparently lives in our neighborhood. When James went in to pick up some take out, she asked him if he owned "that really fat pug." Apparently, he's a bit of a tourist attraction in the area.

Saturday: We had a child-free day and night and Sox-Yanks tickets. When you are blessed with this unlikely combination, you have an obligation to get it right.

We started the day off frontloading at Antonios Cucina Italiana to ward off any post-game street meat jones. As always, this place was solid. It's the North End on Beacon Hill and it never disappoints. We lingered there over a multi-course feast that eliminated any chance of our chasing a sausage cart down Ipswich Street later in the day.


Then we popped over to the brand new Liberty Hotel for a cocktail. This place, the former Charlest Street Jail, is incredible. While it's been beautifully restored, there are reminders of the Big House at every turn. The hotel's bar is called "Alibi." There are two restaurants, a small plate bistro -- and former cell block-- aptly called "Clink" and Lydia Shire’s new venture "Scampo," which is Italian for “escape." We sat at the bar at Clink which is in the hotel's lobby -- a giant rotunda that was once the indoor exercise area for inmates. Now, it’s a gorgeous interior space with some striking architecture but while you’re enjoying a flatbread sandwich, you can’t help but realize you’re looking at the same brick walls that the incarcerated guests looked at many years ago. Very cool.



On a side note: This has to be a future site of Suppah Club. Suppah Club at the Slammah. Also: LOLHB (Lady Owls love hotel bars)
The lobby is a fantastic spot for people watching as well but I spent the entire time looking up.


Then we spent the remainder of the day looking down. Our seats for the Sox game were on the lofty State Street Pavilion, high above home plate. Here we found ourselves surrounded by obnoxious Yankess fans who became increasingly silent as the game progressed. Two guys sitting next to us (Sox fans) must’ve put away six bags of blue cotton candy between them. They became increasingly loud, rising to a sugar-high crescendo as the Sox won 10-1.


(Yay!)

It was not just a great game, it was the only game in the series worth attending. Lucky we got it right.




After the game we ventured out to Legal Seafoods by Park Plaza to gobble up a gift card. The place was packed and there was a 90 minute wait, but James (of course) found two seats in downstairs lounge. We sunk into the leather chairs, enjoyed some chowder and a tuna appetizer and ended up bonding with the couple (also parents) sitting next to us. We all tried to get James to go to the Beehive after dinner. But, keeping the peace train from veering off course, James, the voice of reason reminded us how much fun it would be to pick up the babies with a crushing hangover the next morning. Not to mention, he was going to the Pats' game and was expected to be tailgating by 1 p.m.

However, we were still treated to a vicarious nightcap on Route 3. Picturemail: A super close-up photo of BG sipping what appears to be a sidecar at Lucky’s. An appropriate ending to a day gone right.

Sunday:
James dragged himself to the Pats' game and I channeled my Aunt Vinnie, wielding a wooden spoon, cooking up a vat of minestrone and rationing it into Tupperware containers.

Easy like Sunday: Zero Creepies, Plenty of Crappy Crudite

In the hopes of making Sunday nights easy like Sunday morning, we've established "Snackplate Sundays" here on the Shore this summer. These gatherings kick off in the late afternoon and wend their way into evening where daylight -- for now -- lingers past 8 p.m. During this time, all are welcome to loiter around a never-ending supply of crudite and some bottomless goblets of vino, and band together for a dual purpose: 1) to prolong the weekend and 2) to ward off the Sunday Night Creepies (for those unfamiliar with the term, the Creepies are the sinking feelings caused by miserable ruminations about and mindless preparations for the beginning of the work week.) So, while Irish Seisiun musicians meet at the pubs on Sunday night to exorcise their demons through music, we gather in the kitchen to seek solace in the snackplate (or as WMD's Irish relatives would say "To attack Monday. Attack."). Maybe it's just an excuse to cocktail. Either way, solace is often achieved on such Sundays and yesterday, in particular, was like butter.

For one, a large crew of pals just happened to be available yesterday -- a rare occurrence for a late-August Sunday afternoon. Friends arrived bearing steak tips, pasta salads, appetizers, Andy Capp's Hot Fries, cupcakes, and brownies in what became the perfect showcase for the new babies, a forum for streaking toddlers and indulgence in all things marinaded and pickled.

So, James sparked up the grill -- a platter of Meditterean chicken, tips, and hot dogs sweating beside him -- only to find our propane tank was spent. What to do? This is the burbs, damnit: Like a cup of sugar, we borrowed a tank of propane -- the Dell'Olio's tank was a mere 1.8 miles away after all – the distance was noted more than once, of course, betraying our notorious obsession with proximity. As the grilling of meat ensued, Brownguy played lifeguard to the kids and tried to inspire a whirlpool out back, his red swim trunks calling forth the heroism of the Ross Montolio era. The burds snacked and quacked around the kitchen island, passing around the wee babies. SAC had an obstacle course going in the side yard for the kids, all of whom were hopelessly hopped up on Hoodsies. We also took in a DVD of some of James' Thanksgiving Day football games from the 80s that inspired a hilarity that only a much better writer could describe.

In the wake of this grand time, there were too many great pix to be shared (even after the digicam was hijacked by the children), so enjoy this crappy low res slideshow, sprinkled with cute baby photos and Body Bombs.