PATS Live from the Bagatorium

(ladies)

On Saturday, I cooked up a vat of turkey chili as James had invited some friends over to watch the Pats game. And then, just like last week, Stevie B called at the 11th hour with an extra ticket to the game. So, James, high on his own Lebanese luck, took off at 11 a.m. in a Gortex ski mask and snow pants looking like Hannibal Lecter in black Marvy Matchables.

That said, I was planning on watching the game on mute while continuing my trip through the 3rd season of Lost on my laptop. Probably eat some chili. But then, I received word from the Bagatorium in Cohasset that there were christening leftovers, friends, and a forum for my chili vat.

(gentlemen)

So, after a four year old birthday party at Scalliwags, I took the sugared-up brown ones over to watch the game, indulge in the smorgasboard of finger sandwiches, and play with wee infants rolling to and fro on baby blankets. There was constant wine glass surveillance as 16-month-old Jack --Paulie 2.0 -- cut a chubby swath of destruction through the living room every 10 minutes. While we celebrated the Pats, we toasted the news of a transcluent fro-headed baby due this summer. We look upon Divine Dell’Olio who basked in sunlight by the bay window. And noticed that Code Red, a closet football fanatic, has honed her peripheral vision to almost Bionic proportions. One minute she was engaged in our conversation about the short-lived show "It's Your Move," the next screaming “NO! Someone get that fucker” at the TV.

So, the Pat’s won. “That’s great.” Again, like the Red Sox, the exhilaration is missing. Bags let loose a small fist pump. There were some golf claps. And I think we have enough chili leftover for the Superbowl.

Pretty Scary

This year, my New Year’s resolution was simple: Don't get rattled by the petty annoyances of daily life. Focus on the positive. Even when people keep moving your boots around the house at random and you can't find them when you need them. Even when you miss an important work call because you were outside (after spending 15 minutes searching for boots) trying to dislodge Vito from a frozen snowbank.

This afternoon, I walked out of the house and I had what back in the day was called “a yard sale.” I was walking to the car to take the kids to school, carrying backpacks, lunchboxes and snowpants. I slipped on black ice, caught some sick air, and then landed with a thud. Backpacks, lunch boxes and snowpants scattered about the driveway; the contents of my purse dumped into a snowbank that Vito had recently yellowed. And it's always great to shout “motherfucker” in front of the children and the lovely retired couple across the street.

We were running late. My pants were caked with melting snow. Inside my head, I was cursing the snow and the cold and the black ice. Then, as I started driving, I focused on the positive. I noticed the trees and the snowy canopy they created over our street. It was an Ansel Adams photo. The Unforgettable Fire video. At least it's pretty, I thought. My positive moment was shattered immediately as the "pretty" trees began raining massive chunks of frozen snow and ice down onto the car, pelting the roof and windshield with such force that the kids started screaming. It was Alfred Hitchcock. I am Legend. I give up.

A Dependable Stalker

"Hello? Good afternoon, miss." The voice sounded pleasant enough. I looked up from the kitchen island from where I was working on the computer and saw a man who looked like Ken Berry peeking through the front screen door. Typically, I don't even open the door to anyone over 12 unless I absolutely have to, and in those cases, I usually talk out the first floor window, over the shrubbery. But I was working a cross breeze this afternoon and the front door was open. I talked to him through the locked screen door. His name was Cliff, he worked for Dependable Cleaners (I saw the van in the driveway) and he was here to tell me about a new drop-off/delivery promotion they were running. I tried to head him off, saying I work at home and my wardrobe, consisting of yoga pants and fleece, was entirely machine washable. He was not dissuaded. This guy was old school, robotic and overly rehearsed, part Willy Loman, part Orlando Jones selling magazine subscriptions in "Office Space." He never strayed from the script, although he did appear genuinely offended when I told him I used Dryel.

Long story short, he held up a Dependable Cleaners nylon laundry bag and told me to hold onto it. I could leave it at my side door on Tuesdays and Fridays if I had any drycleaning and the van would pick it up and drop it off. He then held up two coupons for $10 off the first two orders. There was neither a credit card number nor commitment required on our part. I still told him I really had no need for it either way. Undeterred, he asked if my husband would use the service. Doubtful, I said. He's been going to the same drycleaner in West Roxbury for years and is unlikely to switch as it's near the Middle Eastern bakery. "Well, why don't I just leave the bag and you can ask him," Cliff says. If neither of us want the service, we can just leave the bag with a note saying so. Fine fine fine. Give me the damn bag. I just wanted to get back to work.


Well, I should've never accepted the damn bag. I hung it up in the laundry room then immediately forgot about it. Then the calls started. The following Tuesday afternoon. Private name/Private number. It's Cliff. "Did you forget?" Forget what? "The driver said there was no bag at the side door." Oh, right. I had no drycleaning. "OK. Friday, then." I told him not to bother as I'd have nothing Friday either. This didn't matter. Like clockwork, every Tuesday and Friday, he calls and/or leaves messages. "You know, those coupons are going to expire if you don't use them" etc. Last week, he called at 9 p.m. and seemed angry when James answered the phone. "Can I speak to Kate?" "Who's calling?" "Is she there? "Who is this?" "Oh, never mind." Then he unceremoniously hung up. "You've got to go down there. Do you want me to go down there," James said. This was getting ridiculous. By now, this had been going on for weeks, yet each Tuesday or Friday, I was nevertheless forgetting to leave the bag with the Dear John letter to Dependable Cleaners by the side door. Mostly because in between these harrassing incidents, Dependable Cleaners was the furthest thing from my mind. Or maybe I was subconsiously gaslighting Cliff. For whatever reason, I seemed to forget about Cliff's calls almost immediately after, much like the initial screen door sales call.

That is until Cliff showed up at the house this week!!! Passive aggressive, palms up, shrugging. "Not one blouse? No Pantsuits?" (Pantsuits?) "Surely you must have some things that need drycleaning. You DO have Dryel in the house. Why do you buy Dryel if you don't have things that need drycleaning?" I almost chucked a hoodie at him to make him go away. I closed the door without a word. I'm heading down there this morning -- bag in hand, possibly swinging -- and telling Dependable Cleaners - and Cliff - in no uncertain terms, to frig off. If I go missing, you know who to look for.

Scarlet Oak Serengeti

The Scarlet Oak Tavern is currently one of the most popular places on the South Shore and it's as tough to get a table on a Tuesday night as it is on a Friday. If you don’t have reservations or arrive after 4 p.m., you’re going to be standing around for a very long time. Still, many people try their luck in the bar where seating is first-come-first served. It's an honor system that nobody honors because, let's face it, people are hungry. Unfortunately, this has created an "every man for himself" kind of atmosphere in there. Regardless of how many times other patrons smile at you and say “excuse me,” beneath the polite exteriors are bloodthirsty predators, seething with resentment, jockeying for coveted tables and barstools and especially the half moon leather booths in the corners that accommodate up to six people.

This weekend, six burds crowded around a high top that barely accommodated our olives and focaccia, let alone wine glasses. Still, we were among the lucky ones. LPD noticed a couple at one of the half moon booths (spacehogs) was finishing up their dinners. She also noticed another couple standing next to them who’d noticed the very same thing. LPD, mama bear in full effect, walked over and brokered a deal: "Give us the booth, we’ll give you our table.” She pointed to the five of us, smushed together, but a pregnant Auntie -- in full-on mama stance with palms on the small of her back – likely sealed the deal. LPD somehow roped our waitress into the deal as well and within moments, we were passing our co-conspirators in a hand-slapping victory line and sliding into the booth.

Another group who’d been eyeing the booth began circling us like territorial wildebeests. Their faces smiled but their eyes were threatening us with steak knives. To the victors go the spoils. A round of turtlenecks! A bellydancer! A turkey sandwich in a blender! We dug into some Scarlet salads and steak tips and Auntie enjoyed her third meal of the evening, a side of squash that she couldn’t finish after we remarked it looked like a baby food.

The view from the booth was much different. People were getting louder and more animated and less able to perform fine motor skills. We realized that when you’re waiting so long to eat, and standing around drinking, it’s only a matter of time before you begin to sway. This scene played out in all around us but the ladies loo was something else entirely “It’s the Rocky Horror Picture Show in there.”

A posse of ladies, 50-somethings, completely pickled and achingly well groomed had taken over the restroom. They were hanging in there with their drinks, sneaking cigarettes and barking at each other from beneath the stalls. One woman stood at the sink holding a glass of red wine in one hand while furiously brushing her hair with the other. I walked up to wash my hands and noticed a tiny nest of hair had accumulated in the sink.

She looked down at me, swaying, wine spilling out over the sides of the glass.

“It’s crazy here tonight, huh?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Fuck!”

I don’t know what the ‘fuck’ retort was all about, but I slunk away without drying my hands because I was scared. I exited the ladies room where a very tan man with shocking white hair was leaning against the wall outside the door. He wore a skin tight red, white and blue parka and was holding a martini. He nodded his head up and down as women came and went: “Hi.. hi… hi…hi…hi…hi.”

Who said people watching is no good in the burbs?

Cameo noted the bathroom ladies will likely be us in 10 years. Either way, we will live to see another night at this Serengeti of the South Shore.

Truck Touchers

You can't throw a doggie bag of shrimp scampi out the window without hitting one of these popular suburban extravaganzas. Usually held in random parking lots, "Touch a Truck" events let kids get up close and hands on with the motor vehicles of their absolute fascination. Paulie almost faints whenever a fire truck or school bus rolls by, Caroline always asks if she can drive Stu's truck (mailman). Here, they were able to take their vehicular fancy to new heights, climbing into the cabs of 18 wheelers and hook and ladders, running amok on the back of a flatbead, and crawling around, in and out of some police cruisers and mailtrucks. Then they can got their faces painted and had some snacks. What’s better than that? Apparently the free trolley ride,
included in the price of admission, that takes you up and down scenic Route 53. The sightseeing through trolley windows proved to be much more exhilarating than that of the daily Volvo excursions:


“There’s 7 Eleven!”


“Oh my God, there’s Webb’s. It’s Webb’s! We take swimming lessons there!”


“Oh my, oh wait a minute, are we going to pass Finagle a Bagel? I think we are! There it is! Look!

The Suburban Traveling Circus

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

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.

9-1-1

You 've heard the stories. A toddler who can barely walk, talk or identify an apple -- seized by an innate instinct -- dials 911 and saves his/her mother's life when she suddenly collapses.

This is not one of those stories.

Perhaps it's the story a young female police officer in Scituate expected to uncover when she appeared in the doorway of the beachhouse on Sunday, for she appeared disappointed when she found the mama (me) completely upright, waltzing around in a beach towel with a bag of Stacy’s Pita Chips.

I was startled by the doorbell but even more so by the sight of the police woman in the doorframe.

Oh, crap. Did someone leave a beer can on the seawall?

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Someone called 911? "

"Uh, no."

"Uh. Yes. Yes. someone did," she said, annoyed but pleasant.

*Flash of Paulie playing with old rotary phone upstairs that I thought was out of use.*

"Oh...wait a minute," I said, backing up. "My son was playing with an old phone upstairs, I thought it was unplugged."

"Well it wasn't. The dispatcher said she heard a little kid on the end, but we still have to come, you know, in case," she said.

Yes -- in case the mother was unconscious and unable to save herself and her child had the werewithal to dial 911 and in turn saved her life, thus making the national news...

"Right," I said.

"Age?"

" 37."

"No, your son's age," she said (the "you dumb blonde" in silent direct address at the end of the sentence.)

"He's 3."

"I’m supposed to give the lecture about dialing 911. Do you think he’ll understand," she asked.

"You can try. At the very least, he’ll be excited to see a police officer."

“Ok then,” she said, barely tolerating me.

In the living room, a more innocuous scene could not have been staged. Baby Jack was rolling his roly poly self back and forth on the carpet. Paulie was right next to him, on his belly, playing with his trains. A pregnant Auntie, a VitaminWater resting upon her belly, watched the Sox game on the couch next to proud papa Bags.

“Woah,” Paulie said, sitting up as the officer walked into the room.

“Paul, 9-1-1 is only for emergencies, OK? Only dial those numbers if there is an emergency," she said.

*Awestruck* Staring.*

"My Spiderman ice cream fell on the ground today," he said.

Once we established that that was no reason to dial 911, everything returned to normal.

Now we have our "my kid dialed 911" story. Hopefully it is the last, though one day, I'll probably be choking on an Oreo, Paulie will hear the officer's words in his head and decide it would be less troublesome to just let me die.

Example #5287 of How the Fates Conspire to Make Me Look Like a White Trash Mama Despite All Efforts to the Contrary

Yesterday afternoon, Caroline and I were off to Target to pick up the odd collection of essentials usually involved in trips to Target. About twice a year, like 80 percent of the population, I am stricken with mad allergies. I've been on every OTC pill on the market. I've tried every prescription drug hocked in TV commercials with people frolicking carefree among flowering trees and pet dander. None of them worked. The only thing that has ever worked for me is Sudafed, and not that fake Sudafed that’s out now but the old one, with the ingnoble, much poo-poo-ed pseudoephedrine. A few years back pseudephedrine was exiled from the shelves like some rabid societal menace thanks to idiot methheads who were baking it up in suburban labs. Now, trying to purchase old Sudafed is a huge process: You have to sign a release and present a photo ID so they can run your name through a computer to make sure you haven't been buying the stuff in bulk. I have no problem with the red tape. The product really works -- and if you happen to get a little bonus buzz from it, what's the harm?

THEN:

"Can I help you," the pharmaceutical assistant says, stepping down from his perch. He is a thirtysomething dude with a pervy little rat tail circa 1985 -- and not an ironically retro one -- he is just a hick. He looks at the Sudafed card, sighs loudly and grabs the box from the shelf. Then, he pauses, turns slowly toward me and starts tapping the Sudafed against his chest. “So, did you hear they found a meth lab in Framingham," he says. “No, I hadn’t heard that." “Yeah. Well. They did," he says. Long silence. Still tapping against his chest. “Do you know what they use to make meth?” “Um...could it be Sudafed? Yeah I’m well aware." I'm starting to feel like I am in the deep South trying to purchase birth control pills from some Jesus freak at Walmart. "Can I just sign and go, please," I say. He continues his loud, loathesome sighing; a martyr bleeding inside for a drug-free America. I print my name and scribble my signature beside it, trying to get out of this bad episode of Law & Order as quickly as possible. Suddenly: “Mama, what’s a meth lab?" I glare at pharmaceutical hick “That's awesome. Thank you very much. ” I snatch the Sudafed off the counter, throw into the carriage and storm off in my yoga pants and wifebeater. "What's wrong," Caroline asks as we swerve around the corner into the paper products aisle. "Nothing, sweetie, he's just a very bad man." "You're a very bad man!" she exclaims so loudly that I'm certain he's heard it. "That's right, baby" I yell just as loudly, drawing the stares of other customers. [By now, you know I’ve already emailed a rant to that Target and its corporate headquarters.]

On the ride home, Caroline sings along to the radio: "They tried to make me go to Rehab and I said NO, NO, NO."

The Rookie Cops of Suburbia

Caroline and I pulled into the parking lot for swimming lessons yesterday afternoon blaring and singing Loudon Wainwright: “That’s my daughter in the water…” which was the designated riding-to-swimming-lessons theme song this week.

Another woman who was arriving at the same time with her kids smiled at us and asked me what song we were singing and whether it was a children's song.

The instant I told her the song was from the movie “Knocked Up,”I knew I'd made a mistake.

(Tiny frown of disapproval) “See, that’s why I never put the radio on in the car. Every song is about sex,” she said. "It's all Wiggles all the time for us."

I was going to tell her that we were actually listening to my iPod and the song we were singing was not about sex but I opted out of the conversation saying we were running late.

I also didn’t want Caroline to suddenly bust into one of her favorite songs on the radio these days: “You and Your Hand” by Pink. I was in no mood to be judged by someone wearing a Vera Bradley backpack.

Most parents have no problems admitting they’re completely clueless. Then there are the rookie cops of suburbia like Vera here. They’re probably just as paralyzed by parental insecurity as everyone else but can’t bear to admit it. They pounce on any opportunity to share their rules with you. In 10 years, I guarantee this lady will be burning Leaves of Grass in a barrel bonfire outside her kids’ high school.

Still, these run-ins, which thankfully are few and far between, usually make me second guess myself (which is the rookie cop’s intent). But this time, I didn't feel conflicted, I felt smug. This woman clearly has zero recollection of her own childhood.

Little kids don’t process song lyrics the way we do. They have absolutely no interest in what the song means. They just enjoy the music.

For instance, Caroline actually thinks the name of the Pink song is “You and Your Hair,” but even if she knew the right lyrics, she still would have absolutely no idea what they mean and I’m under no obligation to explain such things to a four year old. That’s all ahead of us. In my experience, making taboo of something she isn’t capable of understanding yet only raises more questions.

Also, when in our lifetime have there not been songs about sex on the radio?

Growing up, we’d go to the Cape every year with a bunch of my parents’ friends and their kids. When we were about 6 or 7 years old, we played “Solid Gold,” and put on lip-syncing shows for the adults. My favorite song to perform was Alicia Bridge’s “I Love the Nightlife.”

Here’s a sampling of lyrics:

I want to go where the people dance
I want some action,
I want to live
Action, I got so much to give
I want to give it
I want to get some too

(Only now can I appreciate how hilarious this must have been for all the parents parked in lawn chairs drinking Schlitz.)

I don’t recall, at seven years old, analyzing what the song meant but I probably thought it was about dancing or staying up late to watch the Love Boat -- not trolling the clubs for anonymous sex.

My friend Heather’s song was Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls.” In her six-year-old mind, she was singing about mean girls in Fayva shoes, not about prostitutes.

My brother’s song was “I was Made for Loving you” by Kiss which starts: "Tonight I wanna give it all to you. In the darkness, theres so much I wanna do." Knowing six-year-old P, he probably thought it was about camping.

So, I'm not concerned that my kids are being tainted by pop music. My only concern is them belting out certain songs in public places ala the "He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus" epidemic of 2006. Lucky for us, the "clean" versions on the radio and iTunes automatically omit words like“dickhead" and "motherfucker."

Too Much Joy

This past weekend, the kids attended a birthday party for one of their pals at the Paragon Carousel at Nantasket Beach. Thumbs up to Gwennie: This was an all-around great idea for a children’s b-day party – even from an adult perspective. Being outdoors, by the ocean, instead of holed up in some crappy Chuck E. Cheese incarnation was reason enough to celebrate.

Not to mention, faced with the prospect of unlimited rides on the carousel, all of the kids were practically convulsing with glee, running in circles, rejoicing, jumping up and down, becoming unglued with excitement -- and this was way before the birthday cake and subsequent frosting conniption.

(Unbridled enthusiasm: You can power a city with this.)

The kids lined up and parents snapped pictures of their respective offspring on the flying horses, offering up the mandatory geeky commentary: "Woo hoo, hold on, here we go!" But by the fourth go-round, it was anything but merry. Parents, increasingly squeamish, looked at their kids in horror as they jumped back in line for a fifth go-round. “Oh my freakin’ God…Again? Seriously?” We had to flip the“suck it up” switch that most parents of young children have --- the same switch that allows you play Candyland for the 20th time or watch Heat Miser every night straight into June without becoming suicidal.

Faces draining of color, we got back in line for the carousel because we knew it brought the kids joy. It’s joy by proxy. (euphemism for "what a bunch of f-ing sucka-chumps").

The whole sentiment reminded me of something I read in the reviews for the movie “Knocked Up” last week. Apparently, there is a scene where Paul Rudd’s character – the father of two rambunctious little girls – speaks wistfully about how juiced his kids get over little things like bubbles. However, their joy brings forth a covert melancholy in him that is exclusive to grown-ups: "Their smiling faces just point out your inability to enjoy anything," he says.

(I’d attach an addendum: “an inability to enjoy anything that doesn’t include wine and snacks” but that's irrelevant here.)

There is something slightly depressing, I guess, about how mesmerized Caroline and Paulie are by the fish tank at the pediatricians office -- or by an ant -- because I know I will never feel that kind of wonder about such things again. But you get over it pretty quickly, say, when one of them tries to lick the fishtank or eat said ant.

And it's not that you're incapable of experiencing joy after a certain age, it's just not as pure as it is for a young child. It's basically the same reason we don't eat Fun Dip anymore. But while fewer things inspire a physical manifestation of joy these days, they still exist: I assume winning the lottery would be one such occasion.

My recent "literally jumping for joy" memories: U2 unexpectedly returning to the stage to play a stripped down version of Original of the Species at the Garden 2005 * the Red Sox beating the Yankees in 2004 (this not only brought joy but also the adrenaline to pick up Vito and march in a victory circle) * Learning of new additions -- human or canine * We practically have a parade every time Paulie uses the toilet so I guess we're doing ok on the joy front.

So, this past Saturday, we and other ministering mommas and poppas tried to harness some of the joyful feelings of yore and get back into the game. We mounted these so-called flying horses of the storied Paragon Park and rode side saddle with the kids.

The result: A bunch of green-faced adults dry-heaving on the Nantasket boardwalk. Perhaps there IS such a thing as too much joy.

MD Weekend: Good Times, Noodle Salad

Friday: Burds Posing in the Seaport Again

The weekend of white pants kicked off in the Seaport with Keane at Harborlights -- an absolutely euphoric show and the first of the outdoor variety this season. Tom Chaplin, usually mellow and reserved on stage, was crazy-energetic, leaping around like his hair was on fire, inspiring sing-a-longs and an abundance of sway-dancing.

Some took it a little too far. A group of baseball-hat wearing dudes a few rows ahead of us were carrying on like they were at a Metallica show. Each song inspired a series of fist-pumps and high fives and hip hop hugs. WTF. This is Keane. At first we thought they were kidding but it soon became apparent they were completely serious. Even during dreamy and melodic tunes like "Nothing in my Way," their hyperbolic antics were an odd sideshow -- not quite as odd (or as funny) as T-Bag’s giant dancing shadow puppet from a few years ago but it was up there.

Saturday: The Silencing of the Ding Dong Cart (nod to the 413-ers)

The Higgins -- of the Norwell Higgins-- joined us for the annual airing out of the cottage and first beach frolick of the season. The day began with the requisite pails and shovels and ended with the kids having a spontaneous nude beach party. Instead of chasing them with towels, we rolled with it. They were wearing sunscreen, after all and being naked in public is only cute for so long. Still, the entire beach gig -- building sandcastles, collecting periwinkles and crabs, the subsequent nudity -- was mere foreplay leading up to the would-be main event: the arrival of the Ice Cream Man. But one of the busybody beach ladies informed us that the town of Scituate recently passed an ordinance prohibiting the Ice Cream Man from playing his Ice Cream Man Music between the hours of 5-7 p.m. Everyone has finally had it with this instigator in the Ding Dong Cart who for years has caused kids to take complete leave of their faculties around dinner time. Sure, it's party pooperish but we applauded the ruling nonetheless. Last summer, the same Ice Cream Man trolled the same street three times in under one hour. Shameless. I looked him on the sex offender registry.

Sunday: Lookout, It's a Cookout

The Dell'Olio's party on Sunday was the horseradish mustard on everyone's hot dog this weekend. A grand time. The cookout was originally billed as an intimate, beach chair circle but it ballooned to 50+ guests (including children) after WMD got drunk at a wedding a few weeks ago and invited half the east coast. It turned out to be a great call.

We worried the day would be hijacked by toddler turmoil. Upon arriving at the party, Paulie was complete garbage having not had a nap. His crabbiness was remedied, however, by a rousing game of "Let’s Take Turns Sitting in a Cooler and Tipping Each Other Over" with some other little boys.

[This was perhaps a G-rated version of JGangi's co-ed Martha's Vineyard game: "Lock the Doors, Turn out the Lights, Whatever Happens Happens."]

The kids, by their sheer numbers, became a self-contained unit (with dads patrolling the borders). They initiated a few rounds of Extreme Duck Duck Goose --- and then some impromptu yoga. All the while, we were able to sit in the ever-widening circle of beach chairs, cackling and catching up. I debuted the first installment of the Accidental Latina Summer 2007 Collection --a yellow tube top that is probably appearing in a Shakira video somewhere as we speak.

Good times, noodle salad.

Enjoy some photos, most of which were snapped by PU freelance photog Caroline:

Sheep Share

I had to share this photo. We took the day off and headed to the Roger Williams Park Zoo to do some gawking today. Whenever I try to capture Griswaldian moments on camera, the images always appear forced and unnatural. We could all take a few lessons from this sheep. Here, the sheep who has no familial or contractual obligations to pose for us, does just that (and appears to be smiling). He is the picture of patience and professionalism; it's like it's his job to be -- which on some level, I guess it is. Best part: the sheep's name was "Derek." Cashews! More cashews.

A Stinky Dilemma

I've received a lot of unsolicited advice on the PU lately but tonight I am compelled to solicit some. The reason couldn't be more insignificant but I'm at a loss here.

I love our cleaning person Leticia; she cleans the undercarriage of our toaster oven and thinks it's funny when Vito tries to hump her vacuum cleaner. Not to mention, her Monday morning visits have kept us from living in utter squalor. She and her Brazilian cohorts have been cleaning our house since one of Caroline's chocolate Munchkins rolled into a tumbleweed of dog hair two years ago.

While she doesn’t speak a shred of English, we've developed an unspoken rapport; she waves, I wave, it's cordial. A few weeks ago, she started bringing her husband along to help her out. This way, she can work faster and perhaps squeeze in a few more cleaning jobs while she’s at it. (I guess. Again, we don't speak.)

Since I work mornings, I usually flee the premises on cleaning days while my sitter/magician brings the kids to the park. Also, Paulie is frightened of the vacuum. Last week, I ran back into the house because I’d forgotten my sunglasses -- and for some reason, it was steamier than a power yoga studio in there. Leticia's husband, who’d just started vacuuming Caroline’s room, was already drenched in sweat. He waved, I waved. Then I headed off to Panera for a few hours.

When I returned home, the house didn’t smell like lemons and vinegar. There was something offensive, almost menacing wafting about and it only got stronger as I walked upstairs. Ground Zero was definitely Caroline’s room, the scene of the sweaty vacuuming. Also, it was still burning hot. I checked the thermostat and found that the heat had been turned up to 90 degrees ( I later learned that cleaning folk often do this to help the floors dry faster).

Here, we were dealing with straight-up, unadulterated BO and man, it was pungent. An entire bottle of Febreze and some PetFresh carpet cleaner were no match. I opened the windows a crack to get some fresh air flowing – the usual repertoire. We’re no strangers to larger-than-life stench here. Caroline used to hide her soiled Pull-Ups in desk drawers and elsewhere around the house. But in those situations, you just follow your nose, remove the offending diaper and thus the stink. This was an entirely different animal, it was neither contained nor concrete; it was suffusive.

Hours later, it finally dissipated.

This week, I played charades with Leticia upstairs, turning the thermostat down while fanning myself with a tissue letting her know it was too hot. She got it. I waved, she waved and I thought: problem solved. Nope. This week, it was actually worse. How do you communicate this? Six years of French and Latin are completely useless. I only know how to swear in Portugese: “Caralho!” the Brazilian’s equivalent of “Balls!” (literally translated: cock. Two different things, whole nutha blog).

There is no diplomatic way to inform someone you like that their husband is stinking up your house. At least for me. I’d rather die. The guilt would chip away at me (the nuns got to me early). I know Jimmy would have no problem dismissing them without explanation but I’d feel like a giant bag of dirt for far longer than I’d care to admit. Damn you, Sister Jeremiah.

My Digicam's Been Hijacked Again

So I tried to get a photo or video of the skipping man earlier today but couldn't because my card was completely full. There are 72 more similar photos where these came from.

Suburban Stir Fry

March Madness took the form of the spontaneous good time in the burbs this weekend. Billy Dee, Brownguy and the Haleys joined us around a spicy pork stir-fry to watch basketball and officially kick off our campaign to get the Haleys to move to the South Shore.

We didn’t watch too much B-ball but viewed the Munchkinland snippet of the Wizard of Oz several times, courtesy of C & P who wanted to contort their faces like the Lollipop Guild.

So, we gathered round the kitchen bar -- snack plate central -- listening to Party Shuffle, enjoying a nosh of edamame, T-Bag’s guac -- and of course the spicy pork stir fry, the latest recipe pilfered from the Internets. Dawnie and I sipped everyone’s favorite pinot grigio from Northern Italy where the grapes are handpicked from vines nestled in the Dolomites. Did I mention two houses in our neigbhorhood are about to go on the market?

Caroline, a little obsessed with Brownguy, inquired about his new shoes and trip to LA the next day. Her first words upon waking up Sunday morning: "Mama, is Brownguy in California right now? What do you think he’s doing? Do you think he’s wearing his new shoes?

"Hey Paulie-what's in your treasure chest?"





"POOP!"

Example #3589 of How the Fates Conspire to Make Me Look Like a White Trash Mama Despite all Efforts to the Contrary

("Scrumptious diaper, Paulie," notes Caroline.)

My parental humiliation has been well documented here in the Pointy Universe. Last week, Paulie told the cashier at Whole Foods that she had yellow teeth. A few months ago, Caroline walked up to a complete stranger at Hannaford’s and said, without warning, “My daddy farts in the grass." Both kids swear sometimes -- almost exclusively in crowded public places.

It's hard to predict the verbal outbursts but there are other times when I'm spaced out or sleep deprived and appear trailer trashy. Like the time Paulie’s pants fell down around his ankles in the parking lot at Marsh's and I had no idea until two dudes in a pick up truck started laughing their heads off. Then there was the time when I didn't realize that Caroline had taken off her shoes in the car. A passerby pointed out that my daughter was walking on the snow-covered sidewalk in her socks. Caroline thought it was hilarious. I was riddled with guilt.

The scene of the latest incident takes place at – you guessed it – the Assinippi General Store, where Paulie already has two priors. James and I dressed both kids in their pajamas for the night before I headed down the road to the Dell'Olios and he to a hockey game. This is important to note.: I dressed Carrie, James dressed Paulie. We swung into Assinippi to pick up some Cavit and a six-pack of O’Doul’s for Mama LPD.

Just as we thought we were going to escape without incident, Dee -- the store manager who always seems to be there when things go awry -- came over to us while we were checking out.

“Um, I don’t know if it’s one of your kids but there is like a HUGE puddle over there,” said Dee, pointing to a South America-shaped pool of urine in the wine aisle. For a moment, I stood dumbstruck -- no doubt looking like an Olsen twin with my storm trooper boots, enormous sunglasses and armload of booze. Then I went in for the bum check.

Caroline: Dry Tinkerbell undies. Paulie: Completely soaked. The worst part – it was neither a leaky diaper nor a deluged Pull-Up. There was no diaper there at all. Paulie was freeballing in his jammies. Either James forgot to put one on him or Paulie took it off himself (which he tends to do but usually announces it). Doesn't really matter. I was the one left holding the walnuts.

Dee swabbed the aisle and we fled to the Dell’Olios where I cleaned up Paulie and hung my head in shame.

Boulos Confronts Bob the Builder Phobia

(Boulos is a little nervous as his sister boards the Bob the Builder bulldozer)

For reasons unknown, Boulos has long been terrified of Bob the Builder. Even the opening notes of the "Can We Fix it" theme song are enough to send him screaming from the room. For those unfamiliar with Bob, he's a computer generated claymation-like construction contractor with beady eyes. To Paulie's credit, Bob is kind of creepy. There are a number of ride-ons at the loathsome mall, one of which is a digger with Bob the Builder riding side saddle. Boulos wouldn't come within 10 feet of it until today. But in a strange twist, Paulie turned the tables on Bob, and faced his fears head-on. Here's how it played out:


He feels it out...

...then climbs aboard, refusing to make eye contact at first.



Finally, he comes face to face with his long-time nemesis.

And says, "He's nice."


Way to go, Paulie! As any recovery process, he is taking baby steps. When asked by his sister if he wanted a Bob the Builder DVD, he flipped out and took off running, screaming NO! NO! NO!

Vito's Secret Admirer

(Someone is quite smitten with this little meatball)

For the past two days now, Milkbones have magically appeared on the front stairs. I assume they were left for Vito. He ate the first one yesterday and didn't keel over so it's not someone who harbors ill will toward the pug, but someone who is fond of him. I confiscated the second one this morning as Vito's vet-ordered diet prohibits biscuits -- only baby carrots are allowed in moderation. The strange thing is I was home all day both days and didn't hear or see a thing. I'm usually pretty vigilant about people approaching the house so it's as creepy as it is cute. Needless to stay, I'll be doing some heavy surveillance this weekend to try to catch this mysterious pug lover in the act.

Norwellians

I've been putting off posting this news because I've been way too excited and was afraid my enthusiasm would cause the fates to take it all back: "Ha! It was too good to be true. They've changed their minds." While I've tried -- and failed miserably -- to temper my zeal these past few weeks.. lo and behold...IT IS ON. The Dell'Olios are set to close on their beautiful new home in Norwell this Friday -- a mere 1.8 miles down the road. Now I am free to indulge my suburban fantasies: Dell'Olio dinner parties. Shows at the Company Theatre and Truckload Meat Sales at the Assinippi General Store. Sipping vino on their back deck or sun porch, surrounded by lush arborvitaes and other mature plantings. But most of all, reveling in the exquisite proximity of good friends. One by one, we're slowly taking over. Come on down!

Happy Ghost Halloween!

It took awhile for the trick or treating to begin because Firefighter Paulie was quite taken with himself. Princess Ariel and Princess Ariel finally lured him away from his reflection only to create more delay in their own extended photo shoot on the front stoop. But once they got moving, nothing could stop them. They tore up Brookwood, running up and down front lawns in a race to see who'd get to ring the doorbells first. Then they'd yell: "Trick or Treat! Happy Ghost Halloween!" (Still not sure what that means)After cleaning out most of the homes on the street, they returned home for the afterparty. They tore into some Halloween cake and the Ariels danced to "Unwritten" about six times. Firefighter Paulie, craving some tulle, disappeared into the dining room for a moment, then returned in Caroline's Tinkerbell dress. He promptly joined the dance party.


Moments later, a creepy adult-sized trick-or-treater dressed as an evil-looking Patriots facepainter appeared in the doorway: "Give me all your friggin candy!"

Thankfully, in the back of my mind, I knew it was Pete -- otherwise it would have been kind of scary. Apryl and Baby Nate (A lion cub!) followed behind, continuing Nate's first Halloween tour. "We just scared the hell out of the Nortons too," Pete said, reminding us that he's still the child of the family.