Clamoring out of the Malaise

...be back this week with some half-assed manifesto.  ~KJ

I'm Down with Ghandi

It was an average Saturday morning; I was shaking the lint from my filthy reusable shopping bags on my way to the market.  Caroline always comes to Stop & Shop with me because she likes to use their EasyShop device where she can scan and bag the items herself as we go along. And she knows she can always sneak in a few extra 600lb Gorillas in along the way with zero protest. I like the bonding time and appreciate a shopping experience that affords minimal interaction with the deli counter and cashiers.  I hate small talk.

Aside:  EasyShop is also the milieu of (mostly) unintentional shoplifting, which is a post for another day.

Next to the scanning kiosk, a young woman and her daughter from the Unitarian Church were collecting items for the local food pantry – pretty successfully, considering the towering assortment of groceries stacked around them.  Also hulking over them: a 60-ish burly gent who was decked out in burnished denim and enormous white sneakers.  His neon white hair was shaking beneath his Sox cap as he spoke with animated gestures. From a distance, he appeared non-threatening, like someone’s grandfather who would jokingly shoot at you with a pricing gun while stocking shelves.

But after a few more steps we realized this man was ranting in the woman’s face, telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she and others of her ilk were going straight to hell.

Caroline and I joined the semi-circle of onlookers who kept their distance, eavesdropping, exchanging glances:  Who is this guy and what is his fucking problem? 

We were all fidgeting.  Do we say something?  I have my daughter with me. This kook is probably armed to the teeth! 

FOOD PANTRY WOMAN: "With all due respect, sir, what do you think happens to peaceful, God-loving Buddhists, Muslims, Jews?"

BIG WHITE SNEAKERS:  "They all go to hell too. It’s in the Bible!"

At this point, I was convinced John Quinones from “Primetime: What Would You Do” was lurking behind the Cheez-It pyramid with a camera crew.  It was hard to believe that a real person could be this mindfuckingly backward.  Or so unabashedly obnoxious.

The woman’s daughter was tentative, but unfazed.  She handed Carrie and I a list of items the food pantry needed, which included baby formula, school snacks, and juiceboxes. Heathens!

FOOD PANTRY:  "With all due respect, sir.  I disagree. I don’t believe God is religion. He’s larger than that." 

BIG WHITE SNEAKERS:  "No! This isn’t a matter of agreeing to disagree! You are wrong!  Get it through your head! You’ve been brainwashed!"

Aside:  This is a huge pet peeve of mine.  The moment someone tells you you’ve been brainwashed, they should be immediately disqualified from any debate.  What they’re saying is they’re too arrogant (or naïve) to believe that they could ever (ever!) be unduly influenced, regardless of how long they've been stewing in their own broth. You could be brainwashed, of course, but not them. Never them. They are right. You are wrong. There is no other side. In a situation like this,  a true exchange of ideas is impossible.

The Food Pantry woman continued to hold her own while this buffoon raved on about the fire and brimstone that await her.

I realized this guy is exactly the type of person who Ghandi was speaking about when he said: ”I love your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ."

FOOD PANTRY: "With all due respect, I disagree."

It was probably the frustrated pacifist that lives inside my soul, because the words "with all due respect" made me dry heave a little. My words were projectile:

“Excuse me, please stop staying that! He’s not worthy of your respect.  He’s not trying to have a conversation, he’s just yelling in your face."

She smiled and said thank you. "It's ok." 

Then I turned to Big White Sneakers. My actual words are in quotes, my thoughts in parentheses:

“What is wrong with you?”  (Dickhead).  “You are harassing a woman and a child who are collecting food for the poor! “(Is this how you get your ‘Christ on’?)  “What else are you doing today, beside harrassing people?”

BIG WHITE SNEAKERS (he's got black eyes, lifeless eyes, like a doll's eyes): “I support what’s she’s doing, just not what she stands for.”

ME:  “Did she ask you?" (You narcissistic pig)

SEMI-CIRCLE BYSTANDER: (chiming in, thank Christ!) "Maybe your time preaching could be better spent besides, you know, screaming at people collecting food for the poor."

(Yeah!) 

A decent pile on ensued, but we stormed away in search of John Quinones, almost overturning an Entenmann's table in blind rage. 

Caroline said, “Mom, that man was a butt.”

Indeed he was, Sweetpea (with apologies to the butts). 

By the time we were checking out, though, I was still seething, determined to EasyShoplift a juicer and hurl it at Big White Sneaker’s head if he were still there. (also very Christ like).

But he was gone -- probably off to deface some “Coexist” bumperstickers in the parking lot.

We donated some juiceboxes and gorilla cookies to the food pantry box. 

Random Quizzilla

1. What is your favorite time of the day?
Usually the very beginning or the very end, depending upon the day.  Yesterday, it was lunch time. Had a superlative lunch and prosecco toast at Sportello with Doreen, one of my dearest friends, former editor and Eastie cohort who is officially five years cancer free this month. 

  

2. Tell me about your grandparents.

Maternal grandparents:  Aurora (Nana Rora) & Charles (Papa Charlie).  Nana Rora worked in town and also cared for my Italian-speaking great grandparents -- Big Nana and Big Papa -- who lived upstairs.  Papa Charlie worked as a bricklayer in the Charlestown Navy Yard.  Both died very young so my memories are limited (MF cancer).  I remember Charlie swirling ice in his drink and always having one of the grandkids on his lap.  I remember Nana Rora being glamourous. She wore Chanel No. 5 and was always dressed up, including hair and make-up, even while cooking four-course Sunday dinners. She brought us Jordan Marsh blueberry muffins after work every Monday night.  Paternal grandmother:  Mary Agnes (Nana Rie). I've written about her extensively on this blog. She went by "Marie" most her life, having told everyone her real name was Marie Antoinette. She always disliked her nunnish name, which certainly didn't suit her.  Nana Rie was a single mom who worked as a secretary. She took the train to work every day and once boarded it wearing only a slip because she'd forgotten to put her skirt on that morning. This may have happened more than once.  At age 37, she got breast cancer. This was the 1940s when it was a death sentence.  She died in perfect health after being struck by a car on her way home from a dance class at age 81.

3. When was the last time you were truly startled?

The other day, a freakish wind gust caught the storm door and slammed it so hard against the side of the house that I was convinced (convinced!) it was a home invasion.  Shit! I slid across the kitchen in my fleece socks and headed for the back door.

Of course, Vito was right on it:

Are you shitting me?

The V himself was startled moments later when some curious flamingos flocked our front yard.  He charged at them but quickly retreated when he realized they weren't dispersing the way seagulls do on the beach.

WTF.

4. How have you changed in the past year?

I'm more of a morning person and a homebody these days. I still love to stay up late and get out on the weekends, but during the week it's like Grey Gardens in here.  The house would have to be on fire to get me out the door after 6 p.m. on weeknights  -- except for Flash Mob rehearsals, of course.

5. Name something thing you consider a "bonus" in your life.

Having some friends who are musicians.  Winning!

The Lure of the Velour

So we're finishing up school vacation week here on the South Shore. Mentally, though, I’m still planted on an overstuffed green velour reclining sofa, doing shots of Trader Joe’s corn and chile salsa.

Backstory: We packed the wagon and headed north to visit the Kielys in NH where they rented a house for the month. Both families were in dire need of a change of scenery on many levels. The only view from our front windows is of our retired neighbors Lou and Nancy going to and from dinner every night. We also needed a respite from Sponge Bob, Wii and Webkinz. Dr. Nic needed to get out of Southie after a menacing encounter with a DB neighbor who accosted her for trying to park in an unmarked spot on a public street that he'd claimed as his own. She said no and he threatened her. She had the kids in the car with her so she had to subvert her instinct to leap out, rip off his windshield wipers and beat him with them. She managed a "You're pathetic," before pulling away. She will flier the neighborhood upon her return to let everyone know there is a DB living among them that threatens women and children.

So, the fresh mountain air and plentiful parking were like nature's Ativan.

Their house is nestled on a scenic notch just south of Conway and surrounded by lush forest and snowy trails. Its wrap around deck and glass walls offer sweeping views of the White Mountains and look out over a steep hill dotted with scrubby pines. [This paragraph works best when read with a British accent.]

We were surrounded by all of this beauty and peace, but the strongest lure of all was the lure of the velour. Two hulking green velour reclining sofas served as the center piece of the living room, dwarfing everything around them. You know what I'm talking about. Those inertia-inspiring behemoths, the staples of man caves and your auntie’s parlor in Saugus. Many come with snack trays, remote caddies and cup holders. They feel like they should have a hot tub as a trundle. For aesthetic reasons, they're not something you’d ever have front and center in your home. But, now I’m not so sure. I may be a changed woman.

Sit on me.

We had no set plans for the weekend but, depending upon our whims, we had an ala carte menu of winter recreation at our disposal. We could ski, snow tube, ice skate, snowshoe, etc. But the wind was off the Beaufort scale; it brought the trees to their knees, and randomly hurled large chunks of frozen snow in your general direction. In short, you needed a rubber ski mask if you wanted to keep your face.

I generally don't engage in anything cold and outdoorsy if it’s under 40 degrees. I’m an apres-skier. I prefer skating in a rink. Snowshoeing – not so much. But, when you're with the kids, you suck it up like it’s your job (because it is your job.)

All of the kids were dying to go outside and play in the snow. They dressed in their snow gear in lightning speed and bolted outside with James and Paul K. right on their heels. Nic and I were a little more leisurely in getting suited up. I spent at least 10 minutes trying to find my high-powered mittens in our 10 bags of gear. I had one boot on when everyone came running back inside all torked up.

Paulie, effusive: “That was the best time I’ve ever had in my life!!” James came in behind him looking sheepish, but laughing.

Apparently, they were playing on some sleds out back when Paulie disappeared over the top of the hill and slid almost all the way down on the seat of his snow pants. He finally stopped after softly crashing into some small cone-bearing tree.

James scaled down the hill to retrieve him, thinking he was probably traumatized. Nope. He wanted to do it again.

My generalized anxiety disorder and I are grateful not to have witnessed this. Especially less then 2 months after the First Night travesty. James said they never thought he was in any danger but were mildly horrified by his velocity.

Aside: Of course, I started to unravel into a Sonny Bono-Michael Kennedy mindset. But then I didn't want to turn Paulie's "best time of his life" into a lesson on the ill-fated deaths of celebrities. I was also reminded that the sledding experiences of my youth amounted to coasting down a short hill in a vacant MassPort lot that dead ended into a fence separating the lot from the Blue Line tracks.

Still, something shifted. I'm not going out there to frolick in the snow. I'll have a stroke watching them teeter on the hill top. We decided the Dads and the kids would play outside for a bit, then we’d all go to lunch.

Nic and I set up shop on the recliners with some tea. We opened all of the blinds and let the mountains in. And then we unwittingly let the recliners in as well. While we were getting deep into the craic, Nic kept getting distracted by the show on TV.

NIC: “What the ffff…? What the feh…? What the feck are we watching? What is this shite, Kate?”

On the screen, Bruce Jenner was polishing a remote-controlled helicopter. We’d stumbled upon -- as the Church Lady recently called them --"the Holy Trinity of Sluts." It was a Kardashian marathon. Within moments we were transfixed, then catatonic. I don't even know how many episodes we'd watched when everyone came thundering back inside and found us strung out on the recliners like a couple of junkies.

Aside: It's not the first time something like this has happened. Last year, I got sucked into a Stars Wars LEGO Wii game. James returned home from work early to find me jumping around, still with bedhead and in PJs, looking like Gary Busey.


JAMES: What are you doing?


ME: Trying to get to level 5.


JAMES: What?


ME: Return of the Jedi.

Conclusion: Recliners = Ass Velcro. They also make you susceptible to reality shows produced by Ryan Seacrest. And you may find yourself barking at your kids to fetch your credit card from your bag ('cuz you're not getting up to do it) so you can order some Pajama Jeans.

I snapped out of the recliner spell after uttering the following sentence: “I’m craving a SlimJim. We may have to stop at the Mobil Mart.”

We all went out to lunch and had a big feed. Nic and I thought we'd completely recovered but then ordered salmon and steamed vegetables because it looked so good when the Kardashians ate it. Jesus. We had a couple of goblets of wine, steeling ourselves for whatever outdoor activity lay before us.

We asked the kids: Tubing? Skating? Hay rides? Nope. They wanted to go to the arcade and then back to the house. Apparently, they were under the spell as well, having planted themselves on the reclining sofas earlier that morning. The lure of the velour.

The Dads and the kids went to the arcade. Nic and I went outlet shopping a little drunk. Once we got back to the house, we all gathered together on the recliners and ended up ordering take-out that night.

"Colder than a Midget in a 'Frigerator"

This is awesome. Megan McGlover, I hear you!

(hat tip: Bridget Duffy & Susan Howard)

Check Your Baggage, Fear the Brownies

‘My Room, My Rules” – Caroline is coloring in a sign that she’s written in bubble letters on a piece of construction paper.  My little fascist has also compiled a visitor sign-in sheet to post outside her door that warns: “Keep Out, Evil Maniacs!”  (a.k.a Paulie’s friends).  She’s frowning, bearing down on the crayons as if she’s had to resort to making these signs, as if she isn’t enjoying every moment of this perceived unrest.

Don't mess with me.

This is my daughter.  She loves rules and loves to enforce them.  While she shares my general sloppiness, she doesn’t appreciate any loose interpretations of rules -- written or unwritten.  She gives me shit every day for not hanging up my coat.   Last week, I had to drive her to school and the bell rang when we were about 10 feet from her classroom.  She immediately did an about face and started running up the hallway, “I have to go get a tardy pass from the office.”  “But we’re right here,” I said.  “No, Mom, I have to! It’s the rules,” she yelled over her shoulder, her backpack careening from side to side. I’d like to think I bear some responsibility for instilling such a fierce sense of right and wrong, but it’s really just her nature. I’m sure it’s largely the result of having a flaky mother.  Despite our differences, we fall into a groove.  

****

She’s finished coloring her sign and is gearing up to go play in the slush.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, my dear little fascist.”

“I’m thinking I should become a girl scout.”

I froze. She may as well have said, “I’m thinking I should get a lower back tattoo.”

Hello, My Deer

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Whenever I catch a flurry of movement, a flash of fur out of the corner of my eye, I have a mini-heart attack.  Even after six years, the thought of roaming wildlife still freaks me out a bit. When I let Vito out early in the morning or late at night, I still stand at the front door with a hockey stick ready to chase off on any renegade coyotes looking to snack on my little pork chop. The vigilance has not waned. Get off my lawn! For the past two seasons, we've had a family of six deer traversing the woods and brook behind our house and they're so much fun to watch.  Yesterday morning, I caught this curious little one out of the corner of my eye.  Instead of having a panic attack, I calmly reached for my camera.  I think I've had a break through.

Mista Steamy

So this is what happens after a year's worth of inertia.  I ripped up my forearm in a senior citizen yoga class last week and am back in the land of limited motion. I can't even ball up my left fist in blind rage. Exercise-wise, I've been taking baby steps so as not to pop an implant, so this pathetic injury is all about being woefully out of shape.  These days, I get winded playing Wii and almost pass out after vacuuming a small room.  So I'm on the yogi DL for the week.  


In the meantime, I figured it was high time to venture back into the steam room. The steam room and I go way back.  Back in the day, I would slip unnoticed into the steam room at the Boston Harbor Hotel during lunch hour.  Today, in the post 9/11 world, you can't even breach an office food court without getting tazed.  Several years ago, I'd go for weekly steams at the local spa where you got your own private bath and unlimited (+free!) use of the spa products.  I'd steam it out, then moisturize myself to within an inch of my life with their $400 body cream -- Kanebo Sensai Premier.  


We became Y members a couple of years ago so we go there now. It's a beautiful facility and while the community steam room is no frills, it's clean. Mostly.  But I knew it would be different  from my past experiences when I spotted a woman eating a tuna sandwich in the neighboring sauna. 


Still, the Y steam room was especially dear to me over the past two years when I was going through treatment. It was a perfect place for visualization exercises.  I'd set up shop on my soggy towel and would envision myself sweating out cancer cells.  The only downside was feeling self conscious when other people were in there with me.  There's no need to make idle chit chat when you're sweating out toxic waste.  But it's even worse when you're bald and disfigured and just want to be invisible, an apparition in the fog.

An advantage of working from home though, is that I can avoid the throngs at the Y and sometimes even get the steam room all to myself.  Most days, I  find myself steaming among the elderly and Moms with jacked-up Madonna arms, taking advantage of the free babysitting.  That's all well and good.  However, I also have a nemesis. 


One of my neighbors is kind of a middle-aged version of "The Situation." He's one of these guys who finds it physically impossible to keep his shirt on. He mows the lawn shirtless, even if it's 50 degrees.  In the summer, he shuns his backyard and deck, props himself up on one of those rubberized chaise lounges from the 70s and sunbathes close to the street.  We see him all over town and he's a pleasant enough guy, just a little creepy. I once saw him leering at a table of young women at Uno's.  Leering at Uno's.  Really?  


And as much as he can't keep his shirt on, he can't stay out of the Y either.  He is always there. Always. And he frequents the steam room.  We'll call him Mr. Steamy.


Aside:  Not to be confused with Mr. Steamy dryer balls, which I have an unhealthy obsession with and will discuss on another post.

The last time we had an encounter in the steam room, my hair was in nascent stages of regrowth and I was bird-skinny.  I looked like Gollum wearing a furry bathing cap.  There were several people in the steam room that day and I sat on the far end, just wanting to close my eyes and do my visualization


Then I heard him:
.
"Hey, is that Kate over there?" 


Fuck. 


"How you doin? You look good. You feelin good? 


Then he proceeded to move over closer to me and ask if i had any recipes for stuffed mushrooms.  


It happened a few more times, but now I make sure his car is in his driveway before I venture over to the Y.  


Earlier this week, I suited up and headed to the steam room.  Sure enough, rounding the corner in full peacock strut -- Mr. Steamy, mindlessly fumbling his dryer balls. 

I did a mini cannon ball into the jacuzzi, splashing an older gent who muttered "Jesus" under his breath. Sorry.:)   


Mr. Steamy was heading in for a steam so I waited it out in the jacuzzi for a bit. When it was safe, I opened the door and walked in on a what felt like a scene from a mature porn film.


There were two older ladies exfoliating each other with sea salt from a Ziploc bag.  Another older man "Lou" was dropping some fragrant essential oils around the floors.  Then, lo and behold, Mr. Steamy comes back in with a vial of clear liquid that looked like some kind of lubricant. 


"Heyyyyy! Kate!  How you doin? Long time, no see. (slaps my back).  You look good.  You feel good?"


One of the women held out the Ziploc bag and asked me if I wanted some sea salt. She was gracious, but I just can't participate in public exfoliation.  


Mr. Steamy walks over to the place where Lou was dropping his oils.  "Ladies,Lou, try this..it's really strong eucalyptus.  A little different."   Mr. Steamy adds his concoction to the already overwhelming sinus-clearing cocktail that Lou had thrown down.   


"Oh, that's delicious," said one of the ladies, still rubbing herself silly with sea salt.


 Delicious. No..no..no.. it was like homemade tear gas! 


I was getting dizzy and anxious.  The exact opposite of my intent. 


It was time to blow out of this new age whore house.


Does anyone know how much it costs to install a steam shower or infrared sauna in the house?  The kids don't need to go to college, do they?

Random Quizzilla

It felt like a Quizzilla Friday today.  It's high time -- the last RQ was Oct 2008. Let's do this thing.   


1.  Do you hoard anything?
Free perfume samples. It's the French whore in me. 


2. Name five things that annoy you:  Platitudes, guitar solos lasting more than 6 minutes, Eeyore-esque FB statuses about aches and pains, xenophobes, the Olive Garden.


3. What is the last song you had stuck in your head? 
For the better part of a year, I (and several pals) have broken out into the theme song from “What Up With That” from SNL, not unlike Kenan Thompson does in the skit. Watch this clip and try NOT to sing it the rest of the day.

4.  When was the last time you slept on the floor? 

At Dreama's apartment in Manhattan last year.  

5.  What is your one of your favorite Urban Dictionary words?  

Rick-Rolled.  ** 

**If you clicked on the link, you've just been Rick-Rolled.

Overheard in the Kitchen

JAMES:  Paulie, next weekend is a long weekend.

PAUL:  I know.  It's Martin Luther King weekend.

JAMES:  Do you know who Martin Luther King was?

PAUL: (disdainfully)  Of course I do, Dad.

JAMES:  Who was he?

PAUL:  A pirate!

The "duh" was palpable in Paulie's response. After being corrected, however, he realized he was thinking about Christopher Columbus -- also technically not a pirate, but more understandable with all the ship imagery and pillaging and such. It's a good thing they are learning about MLK in school this week, because this moment, in a different place, could rival the time Caroline told the cashier at Whole Foods that she had yellow teeth.

"Ooh Hoo Makin' Money!"

The attendant at my regular parking garage looks like Pat Morita and I’m a bit obsessed with him.

I see him twice a week or so, whenever I have meetings in town.  Without fail, he approaches my car, a burning cigarette in one hand and a wad of cash in the other.  He hands me my parking stub and cat calls: “Ooh hoo! Makin’ money! Makin’ money!”

(What?)

Does he think I’m some pantsuit prostitute?  After a few times, I realized this was his trademark greeting, a pep talk of sorts to all us morose corporate souls, dragging our wheelie laptop bags behind us like balls and chains.

Today, a young man reeking of high finance (and failing to look hip in a fedora) looked affright as he grabbed his stub and quickened his pace to the stairwell.  Rookie.

“How long ya stayin, lady? Pat Morita says, as always.

I lie and say 30 minutes because I don’t want to leave my keys and get blocked in by the phalanx of cars and SUVs that will end up packed into every last inch of this garage by midday.  I made that mistake once and will never do it again.

“Ok, see ya latah,” he says

Pat waddles back to his tiny office, no bigger than an outhouse.  It has a small microwave with a piece of charred bubble wrap hanging over it.  A Healthy Ones frozen lunch sits on top of the bubble wrap next to a frozen 12-ounce Mountain Dew.

This garage is insane.  It operates like a nightclub – one out, one in -- with a “bouncer” standing by the ticket gates, waving in cars when spaces open up.  I use the word “spaces” somewhat tenuously. Spaces are irrelevant here. Cars are packed end-to-end, almost all the way to the exit for most of the day.  A line starts forming outside early and usually doesn’t subside. I’m sure they’re violating all kinds of codes, but I don’t care. Nobody cares.  It’s the cheapest garage downtown.  To get a rate this low, you’d have to park in the Seaport and then cringe in that icy head wind (hag face) over the Fort Point Channel.

If you get blocked in, though, you need a crash helmet and nerves of steel when it’s time to leave. When you return for your car, Pat Morita dispatches his posse of attendants who look like A Tribe Called Quest.  They fan out with pockets full of car keys and snap into action, moving the other cars around to dig yours out.  This is no small feat. These guys must be masters of sliding block puzzles.  They’re doing 18-point turns, swearing at each other, screeching in chaotic unison, like bumper cars trying NOT to bump each other.  Sometimes alarms are set off, and I’m sure there have been accidents.  But most of the time they get it right.  Even though it's terrifying to behold. 

The garage has been here as long as I can remember and the city has really morphed all around it.  I’m surprised it hasn’t been replaced by luxury condos or a Chipotle. They must doing something right. Still, it looks as out of place as I feel these days wandering around town.  

When I worked here, it was a giant construction site with a lot of jackhammering, dust and detours.  Now, it’s almost serene, walking down pretty, tree-lined streets that don’t dead end into glory holes (and having work days that don’t end with me drinking cheap wine out of a shoe at Weggie's Pub.)

Still, I'm happy to be back in here and makin' a little money (Ooh hoo!) from time to time.   Even Pat Morita is happy -- almost jolly -- in his work, even in his little outhouse office.  

At the end of the day, I retrieve my car and Pat’s still there.

“Hi, lady!  You make money today.”

“I did.”

“Good, good! Ya gotta make money! See ya latah!"

I climb into my unblocked car and maneuver my way down the ramp, trying not to sideswipe any cars illegally squeezed onto the median.

Then it hit me. “Makin' money” is not about Pat’s customers at all. It’s about him! It’s like his own personal ka-ching.  Every time he hands out a parking stub and crams in another car, he’s raking the cash in hand over fist.  Makin’ money!  Likely a lot more than most of us. Good for you, Pat.

As I caught sight of Pat in my rearview mirror, I swear he rolled up a dollar bill and began to smoke it.  

7 Minutes in Hell (aka First Night)

I've always found New Year’s Eve to be a collection of common disasters and I tend to avoid crowds whenever possible.  But my kind neighbor gave me 10 First Night Buttons and some VIP passes and it was 50 degrees outside. So, in a moment of holiday cheer (or weakness), I indulged my delusions of family magic in the city. I pictured us drinking hot cocoa and watching fireworks. I thought the kids would just love walking in the Grand Procession alongside some of those crazy large-headed puppets shooting laser beams into the sky.  The plan was drama free:  Caroline, Paulie and I would meet KT and her three kids on the BPL steps at 3 p.m. see some ice sculptures, perhaps get some faces painted, watch the freak parade, and be home by 6 p.m.

Visions of face painting danced in their heads. But it was not to be.

Within moments of meeting, however,  KT and I realized we should've just gone to the W for drinks, instead of wandering into this Copley Square clusterfuck with five young kids.

It was madness. It appeared that all of New England had converged on Boylston Street to take advantage of the balmy weather.  It was nearly impossible to keep the kids herded into our own personal space.  Worse, my kiddos aren't city savvy yet.   Without hypervigilance, they would wander into intersections, or stop short on a crowded street, sending disgruntled revelers veering into filthy snowbanks to avoid tripping over them.  This year, the sidewalks were narrowed further, partially roped off with yellow "caution" tape because of the ever-present threat of getting impaled by one of the death icicles dangling perilously from the buildings' underhangs. Every now and then, one would smash to the ground and it was like a window had fallen out of the John Hancock tower.  Mad crowds, hypervigilance, death icicles.  Happy New Year!  What the hell were we thinking?

I think Paulie knows the day is going to suck.  

What the hell were we thinking, part 2:  We purchased vuvuzelas for the kids.  

The First Night vendors are the creepiest lot, likely part of some prison work release program. And probably pedophiles. Another charming thought: Pedophiles selling light-up butterfly wands and disco ball scepters to legions of young children in crowded, chaotic places.     

First Night was not a great place for young kids, and certainly not for my generalized anxiety disorder.  

We walked up to the Hynes Convention Center in search of face painting.  Instead, we were accosted by a salesman who asked us if our basements were waterproofed.  We then learned that the line for face painting snaked around the entire convention hall. We decided to get the hell out of there.  "Hey guys! Wanna go see if the ice sculptures melted?"  

It was a 30 minute, two-block pilgrimage back to Copley Square.  It was a challenge not to lose the kids in the throngs.  The whole way, we were barking at them for their lack of spatial awareness. "Use the buddy system!" "Don’t space out on the escalators!" "Look out for that mailbox!"  "Watch the light pole!"  "Don’t blow the vuvuzelas in Starbucks!" I was starting to believe that people who leash their kids aren’t insane.  Finally, I just held onto their hoods.

Hold on to your hoods! Let's get some street meat!

And we thought the afternoon was bad so far? It hadn't even begun to suck!

Everyone was starving, so we got some fried dough and street meat and gawked at the sweating ice sculptures for a bit.  A couple of police officers asked if the kids wanted to sit on their motorcycles.  Paulie stood beside me eating a basket of chicken fingers, while the girls climbed into the seats.  

This was the final photo of the day for reasons that will become clear.

I snapped a photo of the girls, then went to grab Paulie’s hood and he was gone.  GONE!  I looked left, looked right, I spun around.  He was nowhere to be found.  We all started spreading out, calling his name.  I told Caroline to stay with KT, and I ran up and down the sidewalk with my hair on fire, peeking in between the throngs of people.  All I could think was: This is how it happens.  In a split second.  Someone took him.  He couldn’t have gotten out of sight in two seconds by himself in this huge crowd. With every frantic second that passed, it became more real.  I was shaking and running amok, screaming his name in a voice I’ve never heard before.  He was not anywhere in the immediate area.  I started running back to the police officers but was mobbed by Samaritans wanting to help: What does your son look like? What was he wearing?  How old is he? By now, I was hyperventilating, trying to get the words out:  Patriots sweatshirt. Brown hair.  He’s 6.

 Thankfully 10 –year-old DT (smart ) said “He was eating chicken nuggets!”  

One of the Samaritans yelled out: “I just saw a little boy in a Patriots sweatshirt with chicken nuggets.  I think he was up by the bus stop, just past Clarendon Street!”   This was a block and a half away.  We all took off – KT, the kids, the Samaritans. I was still convinced somebody had him.  I was in a full-on panic – an epic fail in the cool head department.  

Then beautiful words from DT :  “I see him! I see him!”  Then we all saw him at once. He was standing with a man, a woman and their two young sons, still holding his basket of chicken fingers. I screamed his name and he spotted me and ran to me crying.  The Samaritans and the young family that was watching him all broke into cheers.  I broke into convulsing sobs and just hugged Paulie for about five minutes.  Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.  

I’ve always told the kids if they get separated from us to find a policeman or a woman with children. But this woman found him first. She spotted him walking down Boylston Street, looking scared and totally lost.  She had the presence of mind to just stand with him there and not move,  "We are going to stay with you right here until your mom finds you.  She is definitely looking for you."  She also shared a simple but brilliant tip.  She writes her cellphone number on her kids’ arms so they can have someone call if they get lost. Paulie knows my cell phone but couldn’t recall it in the panic.  

How it happened:  Apparently, he spaced out and started following a woman who had a similar coat to mine.  I just can’t believe how far away he got in so little time.  This whole ordeal went down in about 7 minutes, but took about 7 years off my life.  

The single worst moment I’ve ever experienced. I don't even know what we would've done if KT and the sunshine band weren't with us.  Thank you, my friends.

Caroline, who was also shaken, piped up: “Quick! Let’s get out of here before someone else gets lost.”  Best idea we'd heard all day.  

When we got home, James tried to talk me down, saying it probably happened to about 100 people that day.  And that at least it happened in 2010.  True.  Best NYE ever: At home, everyone safe, watching Taio Cruz sing “Dynamite” in Times Square with Caroline and Paul in a bear hug on my lap.  And a gigantic goblet of red wine on the coffee table.  

Scenes from the Blizza

For hours, we sat slackjawed in front of the TV, Wii, and iPad.  Then we figured out how to turn Apples to Apples Disney Edition into a drinking game.  Some gratuitous shots from a serious snow day:

James tackles the heartattack snow while Caroline pelts him with icy snowballs and Vito
hampers progress.

James scares the shit out of the photog.

Vito cools his junk on a snowbank.

Seriously?

No creature tracks yet.

Bunny-sitting:  One of the rare shots of Zippy that doesn't include Vito trying to wheelbarrow
her cottontail.

There were balls and gravy.

And snowy trees.

And more snowy trees.  Pretty.

Get Drunk on the Christmas

Happy Holidays to all! Vito is going to reward everyone now with 30 seconds of uninterrupted eye contact.

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

Word of the Day: Frottage

"I love living in Manhattan so much that I don't even mind it that much
when strangers dry hump me on the subway."  - Dream

My friend Dream came to town to celebrate the Sag/Cap birthdays and within minutes our pre-Beehive conversation turned to the phenomenon of Frottage.  From the french for "rubbing," Frottage is basically the act of dry humping unsuspecting people in crowded spaces.  Apparently this happens often in NYC and in larger cities, usually in night clubs or on the subways.  And while it's not accepted, it's by no means uncommon.  Dream said the "frotteurs" as they are called, "just get on you on a packed subway car and there's no where to go really." In her case, she stomped on the guy's foot but it only seemed to encourage him more.  "He was like a golden retriever on my leg."     


Dream did a little investigating and learned that Frottage was recently added to the DSM as a legit psychological disorder. In fact, the frotteurs prefer it when the humpee is an unconsenting stranger.  I can't imagine a scenario where anyone would welcome some gyrating intruder -- and definitely not on public transportation!  Thanks for that!  Would you like me to buy you a donut with sprinkles at the next stop?   

In all my years riding the T, I'm thankful that I never experienced this phenomenon, but I'm shocked that I have never witnessed it.  A large sweaty person fell on top of me on the Green Line once and lingered for what seemed like an unreasonable amount of seconds.  Another time, a dude who looked like Richard Simmons sat across from me on the train wearing short mesh gym shorts. Seconds later, his junk was weaving out of one side like a charmed snake. I've definitely seen and experienced the occasional grope, but a full-on dry hump? No.

Apparently, some well-trained "subway" frotteurs have honed their skills to the point where they are so attuned to the clickety clack of a train on tracks, that they can convince their unwitting victim that "maybe it is just a duffel bag."   Not all of these renegade rubbers are men, either. Many women are part of the movement as well, according to one of their Facebook pages.

This FB site is UK based and features hilarious descriptions of different types of "frotjects."  I've pasted them into the post below.  Study the list.  The next time you're in a crowded space, you may realize that jogging stroller behind you is not a jogging stroller at all!  It could be a "The Blitzkrieg."   We're pretty sure that Dream got "Bus Stopped." 

'DRY HUMP'

The canine approach, favoured by those new to the practice, used openly on friends, usually in a pub or club. One grabs the subject of the frottage (the Frotject) and while maintaining a firm grip with your arms on any available encirclable appendage they possess, repeatedly hammer your pelvis against their leg.

'THE RAA THRUST'

A more subtle approach. Perfect for drinks parties and when amongst new friends. Facing, and in close proximity to your Frotject, ensure you have a G&T in your left hand and your right hand in your trouser pocket. Whilst making the small talk, crack a ribald joke or comment and laugh obnoxiously loudly whilst simultaneously arching your back away and thrusting your hips forward into the Frotject. (Good Frommonts ((Frot comment)) to accompany the thrust are, 'COME FAR?' and 'LOVELY DAY FOR IT!'

'THE BLITZKREIG'

A lightning attack on unsuspecting prey. Perfect to use on the beautiful stranger on that darkened dance floor. Gains maximum frottage for minimum slappage with strangers. Circle your frotject without making any obvious advance in their direction, gradually edging closer (similar to stalking wildebeast). Place your innermost advance to be situated immediately behind the Frotject. Under the play of grooving to whatever godawful song is lacerating the tender ambience of whatever sticky floored, red wallpapered, jug filled lounge you may find yourself in, raise your arms and, similar to the raa thrust, gyrate and thrust your crotch into the callipigian rump found in front of you. Immediately spin away to absorb yourself anonymously into the crowd to assume your innocent dancing.

'THE BUS STOP'

Queuing for drinks at the bar, bank queues, standing on the tube. The most reckless of frottage involves a long contact frot, probably the most sensuous of frots on strangers. In a busy bar queung for drinks, one may engage themselves to press overly far forwards and 'hold' themselves against the back of the innocent frotject ahead of you in the queue. If any protestations of contact occur, the offence is easily palmed off to the people pushing behind you.

'FENCING IN'

A skillful dance of the frotteur, dancing with your chosen partner guide the frotject towards a wall and keep bumping and grinding whilst pinning them against said wall. Great for turning that innocent boogy into something far more sinister.

'COWBOY'

One of the more rambuctious approaches to frottage. straddle your prey while they unsuspectingly take a break on a chair/sofa and ride the frot.

No longer a misanthrope

Euphoric.

Not Paulie.  Me. I am officially no longer a misanthrope. My faith in humanity has been shored up by some extraordinary kindnesses over the past two years, often in unexpected places.  This weekend: another testament to the random kindness of strangers.  Caroline and I had our girls' night at the Nutcracker a few weeks ago (thanks, Momma!) and Paulie and I had our own night out at the Bruins on Saturday night (thanks, Michelle P!).  We went super premium in the plush Heineken Boardroom.  Before we sat down, Paulie plotted his mission to get on the Jumbotron and I lingered by a carving station with a glass of pinot noir.  A group of men sitting in the front row saw Paulie and I trying to find a seat.  They all got up and rearranged their row so we could sit in the leather club chairs right up front.  Though he was the youngest kid in the Boardroom, Paulie got everyone on their feet, led the "Let’s go Bruins" chant and got up on the  Jumbotron twice before the game even started.  He treated our seat neighbors to his best Rene Rancourt impersonation, complete with fist pump.  Then he removed his yellow Bs cap, placed it over his heart and belted out the National Anthem.  

Lord of the Jumbotron

It was  heartwarming to see strangers enjoying his company, *appreciating* him and being right on board with his passion and silliness and incessant toasting with Sprite.  He told his new friend Jack that his favorite player was Tyler Seguin and that Tim Thomas rocked.   Jack disappeared for a bit during the third period. When he returned to the Boardroom, he handed Paulie a bag.  Inside: a brand new Seguin shirt from the Pro Shop.   Still flying high from his third appearance on the Jumbotron, Paulie became positively elated.  I thought he was going to faint.  I teared up and thanked Jack for his generous gesture.  He waved it off.  "Merry Christmas! He's a great little guy!"

There's a lot of good will floating around out there lately.  I need to plug into it.  I love the stories about people buying coffee for the drivers behind them in line at the Dunkies drive thru. I may have to start drinking coffee again.

And more good will.  Last week, a local company, Brownstone Insurance, pledged to donate $5 to Paula's family for every person who "Likes" their Facebook page.  Watching that number go from 12 to 1,200 within an hour of posting...let's just say I haven't cried that hard since the Apple store replaced my shattered iPhone free of charge even though it was past warranty.  Unexpected places.  Not a misanthropic bone in my body.

So I'm on a MISSION today to do a random good deed.   Any ideas? 

Boulos and I in the Boardroom

Lennon, man

Elizabeth Edwards

I was planning on posting a couple of John Lennon songs today.  I certainly wasn't expecting this. When I heard the news, I felt like someone kicked me behind the knees. Then, I began steeling myself for an onslaught of packaged, flowery news stories; of celebrity doctors prattling on about early detection; and of tabloid mags salivating over the prospect of reliving the big scandal.  I flipped on the Today Show this morning and heard a truly bizarre interview with that Dr. Nancy lady about "the good death" and "owning the death."  Wha?  It's been less than 24 hours; it's a little premature, Dr. Nancy.  Obviously trying way too hard for a "more enlightened" news angle. Show some restraint. Wretched hag.


Amid all of the muck, I can't stop thinking about five friends of mine, in particular, who are feeling the unavoidable uneasiness this morning.  Hang on, ladies.  If anyone needs wine this week, you know where to find me.  


When I was trying to diagnose myself on Google, I found an interview with Elizabeth Edwards where she discussed finding her own lump: "I'd like to say that I found it because I was doing a breast exam," Edwards says. "No. I found it because it was just so friggin' large. In fact, I was thinking, 'How could I have not felt this yesterday?'"


I knew exactly what she meant.  How do you walk around with what feels like a ceramic hummel in your boob and not be aware of it?  But it happens. Sure, you wish you could've found it earlier, but at the same time, you were out living your life, not scouring your body, groping for impending doom, or searching for disease in every discomfort or discoloration.  


Be vigilant, but not doomy and obsessive. You'll hear enough about early detection this week so I'll spare you my screed here. :)

I love Edwards' final message that she doesn't want to be remembered for "losing" her battle with cancer.  She wants to remembered for living a good life.  Amen. 


Aside: "I'll save my 'battles' for AT&T's customer service reps."  Mary Elizabeth Williams, a melanoma survivor, discusses why it's time to put to rest the tired cliches of "battling" or "losing the battle to" cancer.

Earlier this year, some opportunist political hacks published a book about the 2008 campaign trail that excoriated Edwards for being a raving lunatic bitch. It was distasteful, poorly sourced, and felt like an unnecessary piling on (but, hey, it sells books). At the same time, I thought, if "bitch" was the worst label these people could attach to Edwards, perhaps she should wear it as a badge of honor.  I felt badly for Edwards but was relieved to hear she wasn't a saint.  If anything, it made me like her even more for being human. 


A Jan 2010 column by writer Connie Schultz was quoted many times after that book came out.  I hope it gets rolled out again when the publicity whores crawl out from beneath their rocks this week to critique Edwards' behavior in and out of the public eye over the past few years. 

"If I were living Elizabeth Edwards' life, I'm not sure who I'd be by now, and that uncertainty is mighty humbling.

We want to believe the best about ourselves. We watch someone else stumble and insist we'd respond differently. But live long enough, and life will bring you to your knees. I have not buried a child. I do not have incurable cancer. I have not been betrayed by the man I love, never had to set eyes on the baby the entire world knows he fathered behind my back.


I know this: I would stumble forward in pieces."

I Think I May Be Over Thinking Things

I'm listening to Vito growl at a coil of fresh garland that I'm supposed to be stringing up but I keep getting drawn back in here.  I miss the PU.  I made a few ham-fisted attempts to start another blog over the past couple of months but could never quite agree on a name, or design, or font, or some other silly setting.  At one point, I actually used the word "rebranding."  Out loud.  Then I immediately had the urge to smack myself upside the head with a Mistletoe-scented Yankee Candle (large jar variety).  How could I let inane corporate speak tarnish this terrain?  Circle back up your own arse; this is not a goat rodeo, it's the PU!

Actually it's simple procrastination.  I've been paralyzed by fear.  After all that's happened the past two years, I'm afraid I have nothing to write about, or worse, nothing to say.  But, in revisiting some of the pre-2009 posts, I realized that never stopped me before.

So, it's 1 p.m. on a Tuesday and I've just poured myself a glass of red this big (no judgment) to see if I can conjure the spirit of this rudderless blog.  If Vito doesn't lift his peg leg anywhere near the garland in the next few minutes, we could be in business.

Updates (just in case...)

I lost my amazing sister-in-law Paula on Aug 9 and it's been nothing less than a spiritual amputation for everyone.  Anyone who has experienced loss can attest it's like waking up in a new reality that you never wished for.  She was a fixture on this blog and with bear hugs to Peg M and e.e cummings, the mantra:  "i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart).  i am never without it (anywhere you i go you go, my dear)."

I wrote this essay about Paula for the Patriot Ledger in Oct and it's much more clearheaded than anything I could repeat here about the impact P had on me.  You would hear 100+ similar stories from anyone who knew her.

The Rack

I started the first phases of reconstruction back in April and it was touch and go for a several months as to whether the teets would “take." I had my final surgery on Nov 12 and all is well.  I look pretty much the same as before but they're just *out there.*  I didn’t want to look like a porn star (at least not permanently) so we're not dealing in cannonballs so much as billiard balls. Rack 'em up.

I'd write about the surgery experience but thanks to a wonderful, amnesia-producing pharmaceutical called Versed, it's all eternal sunshine. I remember nothing except an orderly in the recovery room who may or may not have been a member of Alice in Chains in the 90s.   

Other news:

Vito has lost 6 pounds... 

Can't you tell?

How about from this angle?

So, with a giant sigh and a "WTF was that," I'm ready to move forward.  Can the PU be reignited?  Can I get a fawning chorus of Hallelujiahs or boos?  I'll cry either way...believe.