Our bowling outing to Lucky Strike on Lansdowne: Retro hoopla + Overstimulation = Simply awesome. We planned the big ball bowling precisely because "there will be more strikes," yet were consistently foiled, time and time again, by the MF one pin. Knocking down nine, with one standing, wobbling slightly, but ultimately refusing to go down. Was it simply Candlepins vets off their game or a conspiracy of pins? Lucky Strike, my butt. All I know is those big balls are heavy; I let one fly on the backswing and almost injured some friends. (Sorry) Anyway, enjoy a crappy slideshow of the good times (and mounting frustration) of what will undoubtedly become a traditional outing.
29 January 2008
25 January 2008
Random Quizzilla
1) Pick one: pineapple, orange, banana, apple, cherry.
Apple
2) What do your sunglasses look like?
Like this.
3) What is your favorite kind of gum?
Trident Splash Strawberry Lime.
4) How comfortable are you with nudity?
It depends on the context. I’m not quite as comfortable as Rosemarie and Kathy, the 70-something ladies at my gym who after their water aerobics class head into the sauna, strip off their suits and apply lotion while discussing what’s on special at Hannafords.
5) If the sky could be another color, what color do you think would look best?
Peachy pink, the color of the sunset all day long.
Apple
2) What do your sunglasses look like?
Like this.
3) What is your favorite kind of gum?
Trident Splash Strawberry Lime.
4) How comfortable are you with nudity?
It depends on the context. I’m not quite as comfortable as Rosemarie and Kathy, the 70-something ladies at my gym who after their water aerobics class head into the sauna, strip off their suits and apply lotion while discussing what’s on special at Hannafords.
5) If the sky could be another color, what color do you think would look best?
Peachy pink, the color of the sunset all day long.
23 January 2008
Sad
This is so incredibly sad and completely unexpected. I remember reading an recent NYT article where he talked about his sleeping problems and how he was only sleeping an average of two hours a night while filming the new Batman movie Dark Knight. He said while he was physically exhuasted, he couldn't quiet his mind. When he took one Ambien, it only kept him asleep for one hour while two would put him into a stupor. Any average insomniac can relate to that, but he also said he was deeply affected by his movie role as the Joker, whom he called a "psychopathic, mass-murdering, schizophrenic clown with zero empathy." He was clearly a sensitive soul who couldn't sleep, who ironically now, at 28, will sleep forever. A fantastic actor and, from all accounts, a fantastic father as well.
21 January 2008
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.
20 January 2008
DOT Suppah
Suppah Club is back with a vengeance after a four-month hiatus brought on by weather-related disasters. At long last, the burds gathered at 224 Boston in Dorchester which never disappoints. Even when the place is jam-packed. Even with the ever-present possibility of face-butting another patron. Even when conversation involves hollerin' over the Boston Street Cod Cakes and imaginary (or not) elfin-like whistles that followed us trom the trunk of Auntie's car.
Fine dining in a vice-like grip between chair and table.
(Flo-Ha bound)
After dinner, KT and I headed over to Florian Hall for a fundraiser beneath flourescent lights where we sought out DT and James among a sea of men in January jorts.
16 January 2008
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.
11 January 2008
Random Quizzilla
1. When was the last time you received a surprise in the mail, and what was it?
Last summer. A bumper sticker that said “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy”
2. On what day of the week were you born? At what time?
Saturday, 9:55 p.m.
3. Tell us something special about your hometown.
It’s actually an island.
4. With which cartoon character(s) do you share personality traits?
Snoopy. I've also been told I’m like a character on Scooby Doo who leans against a door and spins everyone into another dimension.
5. Do you have any phobias? If so, can you trace them to any past event?
I have mad claustrophobia -- I always have and I don't know why. I also fear heights but only when outside, close to an edge. I don't know if I'm afraid of the height so much as I might lose it for a moment and jump. I always thought this was just more evidence of my own insanity but apparently it's a very common response.
Last summer. A bumper sticker that said “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy”
2. On what day of the week were you born? At what time?
Saturday, 9:55 p.m.
3. Tell us something special about your hometown.
It’s actually an island.
4. With which cartoon character(s) do you share personality traits?
Snoopy. I've also been told I’m like a character on Scooby Doo who leans against a door and spins everyone into another dimension.
5. Do you have any phobias? If so, can you trace them to any past event?
I have mad claustrophobia -- I always have and I don't know why. I also fear heights but only when outside, close to an edge. I don't know if I'm afraid of the height so much as I might lose it for a moment and jump. I always thought this was just more evidence of my own insanity but apparently it's a very common response.
08 January 2008
Welcome to the Shit Show
I’ve never done well with parental sanctimony but there are degrees of it that are barely tolerable: Strangers with Vera Bradley backpacks who question your children’s music choices are annoying but family members who preach -- under the guise of “only trying to help” -- are the worst offenders. For instance, my parents and other relatives over 60 scoffed at my parenting and baby books yet felt compelled to send me news clippings of every freak accident involving children, however obscure, be it the dangers of above ground pools or playing tug-of-war with Golden Retrievers.
For several years, I walked around -- anxiety-ridden -- in the land of unintended consequence. My radar fine-tuned to pick up any slight, I saw danger and choking hazards everywhere. Each day was a mine field of processed foods and potential skull fractures and make sure he doesn’t stick that thing in his ear. I'm just starting to come out of this phase.
The new mamas have entered it as of late; it seems people are stepping in it left and right. Even Jess was looking a little emo so a few of us headed out to Mount Blue for some vino and snacks.
Aside: The only helpful unsolicited advice I’ve ever received as a mother was at Piers Park three years ago. I’d gotten dressed in the dark and was taking the kids, then 18 months and 4 months, to the park. I shuffled over to the playground, dazed and barely coherent at 7 a.m. with a turbo Dunkin coffee in the cupholder of the double stroller.
An elderly man walking by me, stopped short and looked at me: “Dear, your blouse is on backwards.” My “blouse” was actually an olive green wife beater but he saved me from appearing a few shades crazier than I already was that year.
Over the holidays, Jess’s relatives from Germany were visiting and questioned her use of a bouncy seat. “What’s wrong with a human lap?“
Before inadequacy could settle in, she found one of her young nephews, the son of the “human lap” enthusiast, holding some kind of explosive device in one hand and a lighter in the other.
“The Germans brought fireworks,” Jess said. That's right. Her bouncy seat was a risk to her child’s development, but potentially blowing off a few fingers with a cherry bomb? No biggie.
What’s worse is these people brought the fireworks in their suitcase, on a transatlantic flight from Europe, in the belly of a 747. This was not only a danger to their young kids but everyone on the plane. Scarier than MF snakes, more baffling than a suitcase of fresh produce arriving from San Diego. Code Red was understandably horrified.
Auntie had a similar story to share about one of her relatives whose own house is a “veritable shit show,” yet when this person shows up at her's, she points out uncovered outlets and pointy edges. When Auntie told her relative a cute story about how Jack sticks his chubby little legs through the spokes of his crib, she got a lecture about the femoral artery.
Using binkies is the equivalent of playing with blasting caps.
You can't smell carbon monoxide, you know. YES. We know.
Let's raise a toast to ourselves, the morons!
We’re not morons, of course. We're all just doing the best we can do, but there are good and bad days. And we’re thankful when the well-intentioned busybodies aren’t around to witness the bad days -- like yesterday afternoon when Caroline yelled “move your ass” to the minivan in front of us on Route 53.
Or last week when I was signing the kids up for swimming lessons at the health club. Paulie became unglued upon learning he wasn’t actually going swimming right then. He decided the best way to express his displeasure was to lie face down on the floor and flail and scream about it. Then he went all limp so I couldn’t pick him up properly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gaggle of pregnant women heading to a yoga class. They were watching me with a mixture of horror and pity as I struggled to haul Paulie out of there. Then I looked up and saw it in a few of their eyes. “My child will never behave that way.” I know this look because I had it myself once. Pre-kids, whenever I saw brats melting down at Target, I got all puffed up with smuggery. No way will my kids ever do that. Who’s in charge, anyway? Call it karma, call it the circle of shite, but now I know. When kids are in a state like that -- they are actually in charge. All you can do is remove them from the premises as quickly as possible.
So, I got a hold of one of Paulie’s legs and one of his arms; his hip hop parka was all bunched up over his head like he’d been in a hockey fight. Caroline held the door open for me. And as I passed by the pregnant women, I gave them my best glazed- over Britney-in-crisis smile and whispered: “Welcome to the shit show, ladies”
For several years, I walked around -- anxiety-ridden -- in the land of unintended consequence. My radar fine-tuned to pick up any slight, I saw danger and choking hazards everywhere. Each day was a mine field of processed foods and potential skull fractures and make sure he doesn’t stick that thing in his ear. I'm just starting to come out of this phase.
The new mamas have entered it as of late; it seems people are stepping in it left and right. Even Jess was looking a little emo so a few of us headed out to Mount Blue for some vino and snacks.
Aside: The only helpful unsolicited advice I’ve ever received as a mother was at Piers Park three years ago. I’d gotten dressed in the dark and was taking the kids, then 18 months and 4 months, to the park. I shuffled over to the playground, dazed and barely coherent at 7 a.m. with a turbo Dunkin coffee in the cupholder of the double stroller.
An elderly man walking by me, stopped short and looked at me: “Dear, your blouse is on backwards.” My “blouse” was actually an olive green wife beater but he saved me from appearing a few shades crazier than I already was that year.
Over the holidays, Jess’s relatives from Germany were visiting and questioned her use of a bouncy seat. “What’s wrong with a human lap?“
Before inadequacy could settle in, she found one of her young nephews, the son of the “human lap” enthusiast, holding some kind of explosive device in one hand and a lighter in the other.
“The Germans brought fireworks,” Jess said. That's right. Her bouncy seat was a risk to her child’s development, but potentially blowing off a few fingers with a cherry bomb? No biggie.
What’s worse is these people brought the fireworks in their suitcase, on a transatlantic flight from Europe, in the belly of a 747. This was not only a danger to their young kids but everyone on the plane. Scarier than MF snakes, more baffling than a suitcase of fresh produce arriving from San Diego. Code Red was understandably horrified.
Auntie had a similar story to share about one of her relatives whose own house is a “veritable shit show,” yet when this person shows up at her's, she points out uncovered outlets and pointy edges. When Auntie told her relative a cute story about how Jack sticks his chubby little legs through the spokes of his crib, she got a lecture about the femoral artery.
Using binkies is the equivalent of playing with blasting caps.
You can't smell carbon monoxide, you know. YES. We know.
Let's raise a toast to ourselves, the morons!
We’re not morons, of course. We're all just doing the best we can do, but there are good and bad days. And we’re thankful when the well-intentioned busybodies aren’t around to witness the bad days -- like yesterday afternoon when Caroline yelled “move your ass” to the minivan in front of us on Route 53.
Or last week when I was signing the kids up for swimming lessons at the health club. Paulie became unglued upon learning he wasn’t actually going swimming right then. He decided the best way to express his displeasure was to lie face down on the floor and flail and scream about it. Then he went all limp so I couldn’t pick him up properly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gaggle of pregnant women heading to a yoga class. They were watching me with a mixture of horror and pity as I struggled to haul Paulie out of there. Then I looked up and saw it in a few of their eyes. “My child will never behave that way.” I know this look because I had it myself once. Pre-kids, whenever I saw brats melting down at Target, I got all puffed up with smuggery. No way will my kids ever do that. Who’s in charge, anyway? Call it karma, call it the circle of shite, but now I know. When kids are in a state like that -- they are actually in charge. All you can do is remove them from the premises as quickly as possible.
So, I got a hold of one of Paulie’s legs and one of his arms; his hip hop parka was all bunched up over his head like he’d been in a hockey fight. Caroline held the door open for me. And as I passed by the pregnant women, I gave them my best glazed- over Britney-in-crisis smile and whispered: “Welcome to the shit show, ladies”
02 January 2008
Happy New Year, Get the Hell Out
This year, we were planning on ordering Asian C and forsaking all things New Years Eve (except the midnight tradition of bemoaning Ryan Seacrest). Instead, we ended up getting kicked out of the Ritz.Pete invited us to his parents’ condo there to watch the family fireworks over the Common with Apryl and the kids. Free parking. Warmth. No First Night throngs. We'd be home by 9 p.m. It was perfect. There was a caveat, however. Pete’s dad was there. Let’s just say Mr. D is a mercurial fellow, mirthful one moment, misanthropic the next. You never know what you’re going to get. When at his house, the only consistent factor is the ever-present threat of getting kicked out at any moment. James has known Mr. D his whole life. I’ve heard all the well-worn stories of weekends at Pete’s house and have experienced them as well. While Mr. D is not a fan of company in general, he is truly not a fan of the company of children. It’s not that he dislikes them; he just doesn’t want them anywhere near his stuff.
Moments before we arrived, he’d suggested that Apryl and Pete and their 18 month old son, his own grandson, “get the hell out and go watch the fireworks on the sidewalk.” In the icy wind and 20 degree temperatures. But Pete's mom, the polar opposite of Mr. D, wouldn’t have it. Then, Worst Possible Timing Ever: The Griswalds ring the doorbell. Pete's mom hugged us and wished us a Happy New Year. Mr. D peeked out of the kitchen and looked at us like were wearing Stormtrooper masks and setting off firecrackers in the foyer. James was familiar with the "look" and suggested that we just leave, but Pete's mom, once again, wouldn't have it. “Don’t pay any attention to him. Come have some éclairs and Prosecco.” Then she flashed a look at Mr. D that suggested homicide and he quickly poked his head back into the kitchen.
We were successful at keeping all the kids on the opposite side of the house, except for five minutes when Paulie had to pee. I tiptoed past the kitchen, praying that Mr. D wouldn’t suggest we get the hell out and use the toilet at Starbucks. Mercifully, the family fireworks started promptly at 7 p.m. The kids were mystified by the display which was perfectly framed in the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Common. It was like the show was just for them. Seconds after the final firework was fired, the smoke still lingering in the air, Mr. D came out of the kitchen and unceremoniously handed us our valet parking tickets -- our final cue to get the hell out. All of us. Even his family. Fortunately, the kids were so juiced from the fireworks and the elevator ride that they didn't even notice we were personae non gratae during our 45 minute visit. Still, next year, we’ll be watching the fireworks on TV with Randy Price.
27 December 2007
Christmas Quarantine
I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas.
We are slowly coming out of quarantine after I unintentionally tempted the dark forces a few weeks ago with a foolish declaration: "I never get sick." I may as well have gotten down on all fours and licked the floor at Target. Needless to say, the fates turned me into Typhoid Mary. If you’ve gotten "the sickness" that's going around, you know what I’m talking about. A violent 24 hour bug followed by a day of instense vertigo. I recovered last week, but James spent the whole of Christmas day fighting vertigo beneath an afghan. My mother and brother were afflicted as well so we had to postpone Christmas dinner until Sunday. Luckily, we were able to enjoy the days leading up to the holiday. Nic and I took the girls to see the Bells of Boston at Faneuil Hall, followed by ice cream (kids) and irish coffees (mamas) at the Kinsale. The family enjoyed a festive Christmas Eve at Amy’s, where the wee brown ones tracked Mr. Clause on Norad Santa, with Caroline reporting his global position every time the site was reloaded. “He’s in Argentina!” “He’s in Newfoundland” Once he crossed the border from Canada, however, the anxiety began to mount. They believed Santa was closing in on the South Shore and would skip the house if they weren’t home. I’ve never (never!) seen them get their coats on so quickly. On the ride home, the blinking red light from a plane flashed across the sky in front of us. Rudolph. They lost their minds. I seriously thought Paulie might faint. When we arrived home, we scattered some reindeer food on the lawn and tried to get everyone to simmer down. James was already starting to go downhill. By Christmas morning, I had to take on the role of dad, opening boxes, cursing twist ties and overpackaging, setting up train sets and race tracks, making three separate battery runs to Assinippi. By mid-day, after sitting among beeping Leapsters, naked dolls, Thomas trains and overstimulated kids, I was starting to go a little stir crazy. I pondered pouring myself a Ketel One and cranberry and ordering up some Asian C. I also had a curious urge to go online and edit Wikipedia. Instead, I made a fourth trip to Assinippi and bought a not-so prime rib and made a horseradish-encrusted roast with green beans. I’d seen the recipe on the Today show earlier in the day and hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. I topped it off with a glass of red and some Christmas cookies…and Christmas Day took a turn. All in all, the kids had a stellar day and that’s really where the joy in this holiday comes from anyway.
Enjoy some photos…
We are slowly coming out of quarantine after I unintentionally tempted the dark forces a few weeks ago with a foolish declaration: "I never get sick." I may as well have gotten down on all fours and licked the floor at Target. Needless to say, the fates turned me into Typhoid Mary. If you’ve gotten "the sickness" that's going around, you know what I’m talking about. A violent 24 hour bug followed by a day of instense vertigo. I recovered last week, but James spent the whole of Christmas day fighting vertigo beneath an afghan. My mother and brother were afflicted as well so we had to postpone Christmas dinner until Sunday. Luckily, we were able to enjoy the days leading up to the holiday. Nic and I took the girls to see the Bells of Boston at Faneuil Hall, followed by ice cream (kids) and irish coffees (mamas) at the Kinsale. The family enjoyed a festive Christmas Eve at Amy’s, where the wee brown ones tracked Mr. Clause on Norad Santa, with Caroline reporting his global position every time the site was reloaded. “He’s in Argentina!” “He’s in Newfoundland” Once he crossed the border from Canada, however, the anxiety began to mount. They believed Santa was closing in on the South Shore and would skip the house if they weren’t home. I’ve never (never!) seen them get their coats on so quickly. On the ride home, the blinking red light from a plane flashed across the sky in front of us. Rudolph. They lost their minds. I seriously thought Paulie might faint. When we arrived home, we scattered some reindeer food on the lawn and tried to get everyone to simmer down. James was already starting to go downhill. By Christmas morning, I had to take on the role of dad, opening boxes, cursing twist ties and overpackaging, setting up train sets and race tracks, making three separate battery runs to Assinippi. By mid-day, after sitting among beeping Leapsters, naked dolls, Thomas trains and overstimulated kids, I was starting to go a little stir crazy. I pondered pouring myself a Ketel One and cranberry and ordering up some Asian C. I also had a curious urge to go online and edit Wikipedia. Instead, I made a fourth trip to Assinippi and bought a not-so prime rib and made a horseradish-encrusted roast with green beans. I’d seen the recipe on the Today show earlier in the day and hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. I topped it off with a glass of red and some Christmas cookies…and Christmas Day took a turn. All in all, the kids had a stellar day and that’s really where the joy in this holiday comes from anyway.
Enjoy some photos…
19 December 2007
Holiday Quizzilla
1)Do you prefer to do your Christmas shopping on or offline?
I do the majority online. I have a deep-seated phobia of malls that is pre-Internet so it's a very freeing experience. I just can't handle crowds. Tuesday morning, there were lines to get into some stores at Derby Street. I simply don’t have the patience or fortitude to stand in line to save $3 on a pair of Cinderella pajamas, especially when Toys R Us and Amazon have free shipping all season long.
2) What is at the top of your Christmas list this year?
Same as every year: Restaurant gift cards so we can dine out a lot. And world peace. Let's just hope that James - in one of his anti-clutter tornadoes - doesn't "accidentally" toss out the GCs. (There are no accidents) Over the past two holiday seasons, he's thrown out more than $300 worth of gift cards to Abe & Louies, Capital Grille, and others. I half expect to walk in and find him burning the Christmas cards we've received in the fireplace, along with a bucket of cash.
3) What are some of your favorite “modern” Christmas songs?
The short list: "Fairytale of New York" – Kirsty MacColl/Pogues, "Christmas, Baby Please Come Home" - U2, "Do they know it’s Christmas" - Bandaid, "Christmas in Boston" - Jim Melody, "Winter Wonderland"- Eurythmics, "I Believe in You" - Sinead O'Connor, and though I hate to admit it, I love Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas."
4) Name one of your favorite Christmas gifts from childhood.
A Snoopy Telephone when I was 11, which is ironic since I’ve always hated talking on the phone, even back then.
5) Have you ever worked a holiday shift at a retail store or restaurant? How was it?
Yes. I hostessed at a restaurant and worked at Filene’s for a few weeks. It was bloody frickin hell.
I do the majority online. I have a deep-seated phobia of malls that is pre-Internet so it's a very freeing experience. I just can't handle crowds. Tuesday morning, there were lines to get into some stores at Derby Street. I simply don’t have the patience or fortitude to stand in line to save $3 on a pair of Cinderella pajamas, especially when Toys R Us and Amazon have free shipping all season long.
2) What is at the top of your Christmas list this year?
Same as every year: Restaurant gift cards so we can dine out a lot. And world peace. Let's just hope that James - in one of his anti-clutter tornadoes - doesn't "accidentally" toss out the GCs. (There are no accidents) Over the past two holiday seasons, he's thrown out more than $300 worth of gift cards to Abe & Louies, Capital Grille, and others. I half expect to walk in and find him burning the Christmas cards we've received in the fireplace, along with a bucket of cash.
3) What are some of your favorite “modern” Christmas songs?
The short list: "Fairytale of New York" – Kirsty MacColl/Pogues, "Christmas, Baby Please Come Home" - U2, "Do they know it’s Christmas" - Bandaid, "Christmas in Boston" - Jim Melody, "Winter Wonderland"- Eurythmics, "I Believe in You" - Sinead O'Connor, and though I hate to admit it, I love Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas."
4) Name one of your favorite Christmas gifts from childhood.A Snoopy Telephone when I was 11, which is ironic since I’ve always hated talking on the phone, even back then.
5) Have you ever worked a holiday shift at a retail store or restaurant? How was it?
Yes. I hostessed at a restaurant and worked at Filene’s for a few weeks. It was bloody frickin hell.
13 December 2007
The Madness of Hannaford
It’s not even noon yet and Hannaford is already running low on milk and bread. It’s crazy up there. People are in a full-on collective panic buy, stocking up, it would seem, for a nuclear holocaust. I spotted a woman with three cases of grapefruit in her cart, hellbent on heading off the hardship of going without fresh fruit for a few hours. It's just snow. The roads will be passable. The stores will be open for business. After all, there's a huge Nor’easter barreling up the coast -- twice as big as tonight's predicted storm --that's due to hit this weekend. It’s going to get even crazier. For a moment, I thought, "Wow. I'd better pick up some milk and bread before it's gone." But then I said screw it and bought some NY strip steaks and a mini-Carvel ice cream cake instead. Besides, who doesn’t have a 12-hour supply of food in their homes? And even if you don't, it is no cause for panic buying. Get some take out from Pacinis. Order a West End pizza pie. Asian C will be delivering as well.
11 December 2007
PARTY!
I'm still in recovery from last weekend's party. As usual, in trying to talk to everyone, I really didn’t talk to anyone, but I'm assuming everyone had as much fun as we did. It was impossible not to be stirred by the high spirits the come from having so many good people packed into a small space. Not to mention our dial-in special guest -- EPB -- from Brisbane. And I swore I was hallucinating when I saw Mikey Carter in my kitchen. Being so accustomed to drinking outdoors --at the Pines -- most of the Weymouth guys tend to spend the night on the back porch clustered around the heat lamp and keg.
Then there was the music: Random iTunes DJs manning the laptop. Liz playing the entire Vince Guaraldi catalog on the piano, Jim Melody stopping by to play his holiday hit “Christmas in
05 December 2007
Random Quizzilla
1) What is your current state of mind?
Distracted.
2) When was the last time you felt panic?
Today -- when I turned on the news and learned of the massive explosion by the LNG tanks last night. I was instantly seized by panic thinking of my people in EB and Chelsea: my parents, Code Red and Baron, JAL and Mike. I thought my mother’s long-time prediction had finally come true: “One day, some idiot is going to crash into those tanks and blow us all to smithereens.” That prediction, coupled with all of the mega disaster scenarios set forth by Homeland Security and the History Channel, only fueled my anxiety. “Everything within a five mile radius would be incinerated.” Yikes.
Luckily, the 7 News banner was overly alarmist as usual. It wasn’t the tanks that exploded, but a tanker truck. It was still pretty bad, though. The explosion created a canal of fire down Main Street in Everett. Several homes caught fire and more than 20 cars exploded in succession, which one onlooker described as “the goddamn apocalypse coming down the street.” Nobody was hurt but many people had to flee their homes in 20 degree temperatures in their PJs. The incident has snarled traffic all day and many of the news stations have preempted scheduled shows with breaking news. It's a giant story.
But when I talked to my father this morning, he had a less dramatic take. When I asked him if he’d heard the explosions, he said, “Yeah, I heard them. I figured it was a plane or some gunshots, you never know around here. Whatever -- it wasn’t enough to get me out of bed.”
3) On a scale of 1-10, how much do you enjoy discussing deep philosophical topics?
Definitely a 10. Although the topics need not be deep.
Last week, we spent hours pondering the reasons why people keep mistaking Code Red for another local red-headed spokesperson. We concluded that the only way the two women could ever appear similar would be if Code Red was drunk at noon and lifting up her skirt in front of the Coast Guard.
4) Did you get a flu shot this year. If not, do you plan to?
No and no. Only the kids. I don’t really get sick that often but the one year I got a flu shot, I had a season-long mung that was unshakeable.
5) Are you attending any upcoming holiday parties?
Aside from our own, not really. We do have “A Very Special Christmas Suppah Club” going down mid-month. This one will be in the afternoon so the old burds can enjoy an Ensure on the Rocks and be home in time for 60 Minutes.
03 December 2007
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.
30 November 2007
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.
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.
27 November 2007
Leftovers with the Primeminister
This morning I was trying to stuff the scant remains of a 12 lb turkey into a full trash barrel outside when my thoughts began wandering. I stood in my barefeet thinking about what would happen if I just hurled the leftover turkey into the woods. Then I remembered Code Red's story about the mammoth turkey carcass she spotted on the streets of Chelsea last Friday. Someone had just tossed it out onto the sidewalk instead of disposing of it properly, sending the neighboring pooches, including Baron, into a collective conniption. If I threw this bad boy into the woods, Lord knows how many species of wild animals would descend upon the yard.The phone rang. It was LPD. She was stuck in Route 3 traffic and her thoughts were wandering with regard to some leftovers as well -- musical ones. Apparently she's been playing "Pop Goes the Weasel" by 3rd Bass for Sweet Baby James and he's been digging it. For those unfamiliar, 3rd Bass -- MC Serch, Primeminister Pete Nice and DJ Richie Rich -- was an interracial rap act, popular in the early 90s, the antithesis of Vanilla Ice. With early 90s hip hop on the brain, a question popped into LPD's head like a squirrel tryin' to get a nut, 16 years later, on Route 3 by Babies R Us in Braintree.
"Remember we went to see that 3rd Bass concert at UMass," she asked.
Remember? Yes, of course I remember. An odder crew has never assembled for a show since: LPD and I, some gazelle-wearing Dorchester boys and gaggle of future jarheads of America made the pilgrimage together. It was a standout evening for more reasons than its mere unlikelihood.
"Why was there a press conference?"
I'd nearly forgotten. It was a strange event, one that we never questioned at the time. It was not the typical meet-and-greet that served as a prelude to shows on college campuses, but a very formal media event, like a debriefing after a Red Sox game or a political scandal. Journalists were barking out some serious questions at 3rd Bass. At this preshow gathering, there were no musical discussions or free swag but blistering discussions of 90s zeitgeist: the white appropriation of hip hop culture, the use of rap as a political vehicle, etc. LPD and I -- out of our element and giggling behind a blue student press pass -- decided to elevate the dialogue further. We also wanted to engage Pete Nice who had something of a Sean Penn thing going on.
I stood up, giddy from the slushy Bud Light in the car ride over, and smashed the intellectual glass ceiling: “Mr. Primeminister, what’s with all the Elvis references?"
Pete Nice turned serious and stood up from the table.
Oh my God. Why is he standing up? What is he doing!? LPD and I clutched each other's sleeves. A hush fell over the room as Pete Nice swung his trademarked pimped-out cane and busted into a very animated response:
“Yo, you know it’s like 'Yo, I’m Elvis with the words of wisdom,'” he rapped. Then he winked at us and slowly sat back down.
PAUSE
“Ok. Thank you, Primeminister, Thank you. hee hee.”
Pete Nice, elemental like uranium
"Seriously what was that all about?" LPD was still bewildered. I still had no answer. It was one bizarre evening in a decade that could launch 1000 whys on any given topic. Why were we hanging with those dudes? Why were we all wearing baseball hats? Why did Auntie run me over?
Maybe the "why" lies in a simple Latin phrase I've committed to memory: "Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit." Translation: "One day we will look back on these things and laugh." Which is exactly what we did this morning.
After LPD and I hung up, I did not chuck the turkey into the woods to deteriorate in relative obscurity like my old 3rd Bass CDs. Instead I downloaded "Derelicts of Dialect" off iTunes and relished the musical leftovers while tossing out the Thanksgiving ones.
Random: A Google search shows that Pete Nice is now a sports historian and documentary filmmaker. Good for you, Mr. Primeminister Sinister.
22 November 2007
20 November 2007
Not Thankful for Thanksgiving Buzzkill
This article made me irrationally angry this morning. Today show nutritionist and diet editor Joy Bauer wants us to know that we fat slobs could consume up to 5,000 calories this Thanksgiving. If that's not bad enough, she provides a detailed gastrointestinal analysis of what consuming this many calories in one day does to your body. Wait, it gets worse, there’s a sidebar: Advice and recipes on how to cook an entire turkey dinner under 1,000 calories and a comprehensive calorie listing of typical Thanksgiving dishes. Did you know that there are 500 calories in two tiny mini quiches? I didn’t. Needless to say, I want all of this information about as much as I want to know what they put in hot dogs. It’s beyond buzzkill, it’s straight up mean. So, screw you, Joy. I’ve been good all year with the damn leafy greens and whole grain everything and multi-vitamin supplements. I plan to live a little.
That said, the following is the PU’s official response to Joy’s list of "helpful" suggestions:
1. Eat sensibly and lightly throughout the earlier part of the day.
Mini-quiches, proscuitto, shrimp cocktail, calzone. These are just the appetizers. According to your malevolent calorie counter, Joy, I might as well stuff a canned ham down the back of my pants right now and get it over with.
2. Hit the gym in the morning.
Right on, Joy. Then we’ll fly off to my parents’ house for dinner on the back of Pegasus.
3. Wear something fitted and fabulous. You’ll be less apt to overeat when there’s no room to expand.
This is just bad advice. You’re assuming snug clothing gives you willpower. In the face of chorizo stuffing and butternut squash and apple pie and turkey gravy, a ruched blouse will not save the day any more than good intentions. When the wine is flowing, you’re not thinking about the hangover. In turn, people will not be thinking about splitting their ill-fitting pants as they gorge themselves on pie. I’m busting out my old maternity jeans with the expandable waist band.
4. Splurge selectively.
That’s borderline oxymoronic. Sort of like your byline on this article, Joy. You seem hellbent on sucking the joy out of the entire holiday.
5. Send leftovers home with your guests (and if you’re a guest, resist taking leftovers from gracious hosts!)
We will not only be taking some leftovers home, we’re actually cooking our own turkey dinner with all the fixings here purely for the sandwiches! What do you think of that, you hag?
BTW, all in the Pointy Universe are invited to stop by Sat or Sun for a 2,500 calorie post-Thanksgiving sandwich!
That said, the following is the PU’s official response to Joy’s list of "helpful" suggestions:
1. Eat sensibly and lightly throughout the earlier part of the day.
Mini-quiches, proscuitto, shrimp cocktail, calzone. These are just the appetizers. According to your malevolent calorie counter, Joy, I might as well stuff a canned ham down the back of my pants right now and get it over with.
2. Hit the gym in the morning.
Right on, Joy. Then we’ll fly off to my parents’ house for dinner on the back of Pegasus.
3. Wear something fitted and fabulous. You’ll be less apt to overeat when there’s no room to expand.
This is just bad advice. You’re assuming snug clothing gives you willpower. In the face of chorizo stuffing and butternut squash and apple pie and turkey gravy, a ruched blouse will not save the day any more than good intentions. When the wine is flowing, you’re not thinking about the hangover. In turn, people will not be thinking about splitting their ill-fitting pants as they gorge themselves on pie. I’m busting out my old maternity jeans with the expandable waist band.
4. Splurge selectively.
That’s borderline oxymoronic. Sort of like your byline on this article, Joy. You seem hellbent on sucking the joy out of the entire holiday.
5. Send leftovers home with your guests (and if you’re a guest, resist taking leftovers from gracious hosts!)
We will not only be taking some leftovers home, we’re actually cooking our own turkey dinner with all the fixings here purely for the sandwiches! What do you think of that, you hag?
BTW, all in the Pointy Universe are invited to stop by Sat or Sun for a 2,500 calorie post-Thanksgiving sandwich!
18 November 2007
Baby Bags II: It's a Boy!
(Yo little brother)If you are curiously hearing Nolan Thomas' 7-inch remix from V-66 in the background, there is a reason. It's in celebration of Jack's big brotherhood! Baby Bags II aka Daniel Joseph arrived last night at 10:33 p.m., weighing in at 6 pounds, 4 ounces, 19.5 inches long. He was scheduled to arrive via C on Tuesday but he's already proven himself an early bird, a trait he likely inherited from his dad. (Anyone who's received a text message from Bags at 4:14 a.m. can attest to this) All are doing well. Congratulations, Auntie, Bags & Jack. We love you all!
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