Break it Down, Chuck Brown

It's the Peanuts Gang -- featuring Outkast -- shaking it like a Polaroid picture. This video has been floating around the Internets for a few years and I can't believe I never saw it. Thanks so much to JK for sharing! Simply. Awesome. Enjoy.

Behemoth the Snowman

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

Paulie Outs Santa at First Christmas Party of the Season

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

Open Season

(A photo screams "1988" from the loo of the Ritz Carlton.)

Ahead of my 20th high school reunion this year, everyone was encouraged to sign up for Facebook as a way to reconnect, RSVP, receive info on reunion details, etc. Since then, I've become full-on FB fanatic. I'm fascinated, almost disturbingly so, by the whole thing. People who you were friends with, others with whom you knew on only the most superficial level, and some with whom you never exchanged a word are all suddenly in instant contact, sharing the intimate details of every moment via status updates. If one chooses to do so. And many of us, including myself, do. (The reasons why are best left to the analysts.) For instance, a friend from Latin class that I haven't seen in 20 years knows that I got my eyebrows threaded at a mall kiosk last weekend. I know my friend who lives in Australia has a daughter who likes to drink pickle juice. Others have shared an immediate laugh over swearing toddlers and debated whether or not it's ok to open the wine before 5 p.m. on a Tuesday. There are mobile uploads from iPhones and Blackberries of people's children, Patriots tailgates, the wildfires in L.A., and one shot of a stranger buying a vat of Purell at BJ's Wholesale Club.

Then, one day I logged on to find myself tagged in a prom photo that I'd never seen before. Seafoam green and big bows and even bigger hair. At first, it was as unsettling as the time my friend Rhonda scotchtaped a giant photo of Gary Gnu to my desk in sixth grade. It was open season on FB. You could hear warring scanners being fired up all over Massachusetts and beyond. I realized that while you can control who sees your information and photos, you have zero control over other people's photos and the inevitable tagging that goes along with them. So I figured I might as well just post my own. Some classroom shots and scenes from a Bermuda trip that could serve as a PSA for skin cancer. I've even made peace with all the prom photos. The one I posted here is a favorite because it's such an accurate snapshot of the era: Metallic taffeta, the faint scent of Herbal Essences hair spray and peppermint schnapps.

WTF

(Shock 'Em)

If ever there were a Cream Shop Friday....

Turns out there IS Crying in Baseball (and in Politics)

Ok, I'm finally ready to talk about it. I think. It's been a week, it should be safe. The past few weeks have been unbelievable. Every time I started to write a post about the election, Obama, the surrounding frenzy, etc., I became paralyzed by superstition. I can't really explain it except to say that I didn't want to jinx anything. Things seemed to be going our way, why stir the Gods? Red Sox games tend to go south when I darken the doorway. I've been chased out of rooms during the playoffs more times than I care to admit. This had a similar vibe. I felt like Obama had a no-hitter going and nobody should talk about it or even glance in his general direction.

As a Sox fan, the presidential election inspired a kindred anxiety -- that familiar fatalism of "waiting for the other shoe to drop." After all, the races had been close in 2000, 2004 as well with a fraction of the passion. And just like Red Sox playoffs, the past two elections were heartattack inspiring events. It could never just be a blow out. It had to be hanging chads and extra innings.

Watching the returns last Tuesday night, I was waiting for the Aaron Boone moment right up until 11 p.m. when Chris Matthews, looking like he was about to spontaneously change gender, announced "Barack Obama is projected to be the next president of the United States."

I expected to cry, but not like this. I thought there would be a few tears, a little champagne supernova, and the traditional lifting up of Vito and marching in a victory circle. Nope. I completely broke down into a full on sob.

I was as surprised by this as I was to learn that I wasn't alone.

[Aside: At first, Jesse Jackson's tears pissed me off because I was afraid he was going to glorywhore Obama's moment -- pull a Peter Wolf, jump on stage and ruin everything. But I realized even his tears were genuine. Regardless of your candidate or politics, it was impossible not to be moved by the profound history of the moment. And I'm sure African Americans were moved on a whole other level that I could never fully appreciate.]

LPD said for us, it was probably as close to understanding what it felt like when the Berlin Wall came down.

In another way, it felt like love winning out over hate, where the country as a whole voted to "embrace the better angels of our nature," as Abe Lincoln once said.

Still, the tears were coming from a different place, it was more than just joy over our team winning, like it was with the Sox in 2004, 2007.

When I heard Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising" playing in the background in those amazing scenes from Grant Park, I started to understand all this fierce catharsis. Springsteen wrote that song after 9/11. It's all about rising up from the ruins, starting anew. I think the tears were tears of grief, or rather a release of it, more than anything else.

Even putting aside the epic failures and country-in-ruins, there has been a national 'tude in place for more than 20 years (I'm sure it goes back farther, but this is my memory). For so long, the climate has been divisive and mean-spirited in nature, a collective swaggering and dismissiveness that not only favors but celebrates the darker angels.

Civility and respect have become the lunatic fringe. Debate today consists of little more than a cabal of on-air shitheads seeing who can yell the loudest. Education, intellectual curiosity, and even decent grammar are reviled. Mediocrity is not only embraced but worshipped.

All the divisiveness has been spiritbreaking and silencing for me and people like me who are now so accustomed to treading on eggshells that it's become the norm.

I think Judith Warner from the NYT said it perfectly: "and for so many others of us, of the trampling and debasing of our most basic ideals, beliefs that we cherished every bit as deeply and passionately as those "values voters" around whose sensibilities we've had to tip toe around the past 28 years. The election brought the return of a country we'd lost for so long that it was almost forgotten under the accumulated scar tissue of accomodation and acceptance."

Of course, I'm hoping Obama's presidency will turn the country around, but I also hope his tone and positive message will help usher in a new age of civility. As we know, it's all about hope.

So, I guess my faith in humanity was restored a bit last Tuesday. We're not living under an asshole majority after all. Free at last. No wonder we cried.

That said, my eyes have officially glazed over. I will be detoxing from cable news, blogs and anything remotely political henceforth (or at least until January when we'll likely start crying all over again.)

Random Quizzilla

1. If you could see into the future but could not change it, would you still want to do so?
No. If the future is horrible, you'd be miserable every day waiting for it to happen.  If the future is good, you'd dilute, if not completely wipe out, the joy of unexpected surprise. 

2. You have $100 to spend today but it can't go to bills, food or clothing.  What do you buy?

This thing.  Working in a basement all day with no natural light, I am slowly devolving into a pointy troll who shrieks when touched by the sun.

3. Would you rather have no arms or pineapples for hands?
First, there is some kind of pineapple theme stalking my existence. Yesterday at the Good Health store, a woman was serving up some souped up pineapple juice and discussing the health benefits of bromelain (which I am now well-versed in.)  Last week, I changed my ringtone to "Pineapple Head" by Crowded House.  Now this.  That said, I am a fan of the pineapple but wouldn't want one as a major appendage. 

4. Is it rude to photograph strangers without their permission? (Not talking about upskirting or anything of that genre, just snapping a regular picture)

I definitely think it's rude to snap photos of people without their permission but that hasn't stopped me from doing so on several recent occassions. (I won't post the pics here as that would be even ruder).  Last month, I snapped a candid of "James XL" at Lucky's, a man who was a dead ringer for James -- if James was 300lbs.  It was uncanny (and I will say the man was quite handsome despite his crushing girth)   Also, I was having brunch at dbar a few weeks ago and had to take a picture of a neighboring bruncher who kept interrupting our conversations with her painful voice.   I can only describe her voice as someone firing up a vacuum cleaner right next to your head while you're deep in REM sleep.  

5. What is your favorite fall recipe? 

I love all the seasonal stews and soups and such but have a new favorite side dish.  I made this Roasted Kabocha Squash with Cumin Salt a few weeks ago and it was crazy delicious. Worth every gram of the carb overload. 

A Moment of Self Preservation

Oct 16, 2008: Deja vu all over again (and again)

Oct 16 2004: The burds boarded a party bus (in wigs) for Auntie’s bachelorette party. It was a traveling circus of sorts where we visited many of the haunts from our roaring 20s. It was also the night of Game 3 of the ALCS vs. The Yankees. With the Sox down 2-0 in the series, everyone was pumped up for the game which played on every screen at every jam-packed bar we visited from the Last Drop in Brighton to The Harp at North Station. Unfortunately, with every stop, spirits plummeted a bit more. When the Sox were down 19-8 in the ninth inning, the wigs came off. The sportscasters admonished that no team in history had ever (EVER) come back trailing 3-0 in a seven game series. It was over. We decided the only course of action was to increase booze consumption, dance our faces off at some club in the Financial District that no longer exists, and then stumble back to the Marriott Longwharf for the night.

A week later, I was lifting Vito in the air and marching in a victory circle, celebrating a historical comeback that made the Sox's first World Series win in 86 years pale in comparison.

Then it happened all over again last season.

Last night, they upped the ante again with "the greatest rally in Red Sox history."

It's impossible not to address the deja vu. It's impossible not to acknowledge those come-from-behind wins that were as euphoric as they were improbable. Still, I refuse to give up my negative attitude. It's all about self preservation. I don't want to stir the gods and re-curse ourselves. For me, "cautiously optimistic" is too arrogant. I'm adopting the mantra of a doomy, whiny Scooby Doo character: "They'll neverrr make it."

Paulie on the MBTA

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

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

To random strangers at the grocery store:

PAULIE: "You know what?"

GROCERY STORE: "What?"

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

To his teacher at school:

PAULIE: "You know what?"

TEACHER: "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Vito the Pug turns 6

("That's 42 for the dogs.")

Today, six candles will glow atop a birthday turkey or a cake made of meat.

Party Like It's 1929

The financial statements have been rolling in, along with a surprising dearth of credit card offers: The mutual funds, the IRAs, and any day now, the 401(k) statement will arrive to drive the point home that we'll be working well into our geriatric wonder years.  I've decided I'm not going to open any of them. What's the point?  My satisfying but unlucrative career already has me living with a Great Depression, one-foot-in-the-gutter mentality.  For many years now, I've not only lived within my means but slightly (very slightly) beneath them.  I'll just carry on.  I just recycled my first green tea bag this morning.  I still haven't purchased a fall handbag.  My hair has offensive dark roots.  I've been clearing out the closet to sell off anything of even modest value.  Gently-used Uggs are fetching upwards of $200 on eBay!  My Betsey Johnson party dress with no place to go is now on consignment for $150.  So tonight, in a long gray party sweater (from Target), I'll wrap my arms around my 30-year fixed mortgage, order a boatload of thai from Wild Ginger and drink vino, vino, vino in the kitchen with some burds. 

Presidential Debate Drinking Game

For many, it's been physically impossible to get through these debates without wine and Prilosec, so why not make it interesting. From the sophomoric, stress relievers of yore like Thumper to last week's fantastic game of distraction -- Palin Bingo, I bring to you, via the Washington Post, the Presidential Debate Drinking Game for tonight.

Anytime you hear any of the following words--it's bottoms up!

- Maverick

- Experience

- Change

- My friends

- Hold on there/wait a minute

- Great Depression

- Wall Street/Main Street

- Subprime

- Freddie Mac/Fannie Mae

- Celebrity

- Ahmadinejad

- Lipstick

- Darn right

- Bill Ayers

- Jeremiah Wright

- Keating Five

- Erratic

- Lies

- Middle class

- Ohio

- Will all due respect

- Failed Bush policies

- Affordable health care

- Osama bin Laden

- You know

- Exit strategy

Thank God

(Manny who? LOVE this guy)

My anxiety level over the Sox has plummeted in recent years for obvious reasons. The passion remains but the stakes have changed.  Not so tonight--a massive toenail biter.  James jumping around, wildly gesticulating and yelling, spooking Vito and waking the children.  Worth it! Woo hoo!

More Vito Video: Chicken

Vito is haunted by the aromatic ghost of some Bell & Evans' chicken nugs. Paulie had polished them off hours earlier but the lingering scent continued to plague Vito's psyche like a phantom limb.  He's totally convinced the nuggets are still on the table and he believes he has the rights to them if they were indeed left behind. He really got himself worked into a frenzy and my efforts to talk him down proved futile. However once I lit a sandalwood-scented candle, his anxiety level plummeted. You'll see it all on the video, along with a cameo of Caroline dressed in an Elvis jumpsuit. (which I let her wear on an errand to Trader Joe's this afternoon. I keep my promises) 

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

I Was Told I Need to Lighten Up

Maybe just for one day. We'll see.

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

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

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

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Bastions of Moonbat Fashions

(Flower Child Power)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chatting up the Livestock

What are these two plotting? 

Random Quizzilla

1.)  In honor of International Talk Like a Pirate Day, write a sentence in pirate-speak.

Ahoy, me matey! Fetch me some grog from the bunghole. Aarrgh.

2.) Pick one: Butter, margarine, olive oil.
Olive oil.

3.) When you drink soda, do you prefer to drink from the can, bottle or pour it into a cup? 

Wow, really scraping the bottom of the barrel today, quizzilla.  I usually drink my diet coke right out of the can.  Path of least resistance.

4.) If you were a superhero what would you wear?
A star-spangled body suit and a cape made of feathers. 

5.) What was the last store you visited? What did you purchase?

Whole Foods.  Four "hearty mums" and an XL Allegro coffee.

Brief Interviews with Restaurant Pillagers

I'm so glad I'm back on the blog because I'm vigilant once again about capturing moments on my digicam. Case in point, Gwennie to the left here, gawking at the undercarriage of some anatomically correct decor.  That's the real wine at the table.  

  

To kick off the annual migration away from hot dogs and linen -- -- we headed to the Scarlet Oak Tavern for a pre-autumn dine in front of the fireplace. Instead, we ended up around the corner from the fireplace where we were about three drinks away from having the wait staff place orange cones around our table.  Out of nowhere,  a rap sheet of restaurant pillaging began spreading across the table like jacquard.   It started when I spied a graceful gazelle sculpture in mid-gallop above Gwen and was immediately (and somewhat irrationally) seized by the desire to see this fine strapping animal atop my piano at the annual Christmas soiree.  With the help of some strategically placed votives -- I reckoned this sculpture would cast a reindeer-esque shadow on the living room wall.  I don't know where this urge to steal came from. I'm not a stealer. Even when I do the EasyShop at Stop & Shop, I'm a girl scout, even becoming smug when I'm randomly selected for a shopping cart audit.  Scan the produce, bitch, go ahead, do it.

My grandmother and her cronies used to pack their giant handbags to capacity with napkins and Sweet N'Low with zero remorse.  Then again, they were raised with a Great Depression mentality, the same one that inspired their recycling of tea bags and pantries full of processed tubular vittles known as "food sticks." (don't ask).

Of course, there were the drunken bouts of kleptomania in our youth.  I have an entire set of pint glasses from the Field in Cambridge. One time, PG lifted some stainless steel stools from that pizza place next to Copperfield's for no apparent reason and stuffed them into a cab. The cab driver even made room for the stolen booty in the front seat. But that's all bygones.

I couldn't explain this foreign late-30s urge to sneak that gazelle out of the restaurant and hide it in the attic like some latter day Greg Brady and his goat.  But I soon learned that many have gotten the urge at least once -- and have acted on it.  For instance, there is a galvanized potbellied pig parked on Gwen's hearth that has been masquerading as a well-placed decorative accent for awhile now.  Apparently the swine was swaddled in a sweatshirt and smuggled out of a Newport restaurant by her husband.  Does anyone ever wonder what happened to that blue stuffed talking parrot that used to taunt diners at Anchovies in the South End? It's at Dillard's apartment.  There once was a cool dog painting that graced the walls of the West Street Grille. That is, until Cameo tucked it under her arm and strode down Tremont Street, her clip-on ponytail swinging in the wind.  Perhaps the biggest kick came from my father-in-law.  James told me the two red leather club chairs at his father's house were actually rolled out of a South Shore watering hole many years ago.

On the restaurant pillaging scene, most seemed to subscribe to the tenet: "if it's not nailed down..."  After giving the gazelle a good shake, Gwen declared that, alas, our lean, leaping animal was indeed nailed down.  Our waitress came over to investigate the commotion.  Gwen pretended to inspect it closely, asking from which corner of the world this knick knack came from? Africa? Malaysia, perhaps? 

"Home Goods. Queen Anne's Connah," the waitress said.   Apparently the Scarlet Oak is teeming with Home Goods merchandise.  Since most of us are at Home Goods at least twice a week, interest in the gazelle quickly plummeted and conversation turned to a fantasy scenario involving Celine Dion in a crosswalk.

(Swiper no swiping)