I was at work the other day talking with a friend when the topic turned to fashion, which is ironic in and of itself given my challenges with dressing myself (remember my love of garanimals that helps me match my tops and bottoms?). Actually, it wasn't just about any fashion...it was about the period of time known as The 80's. I'll give you all a few minutes to reminisce about that decade...is it all coming back? The shoulder pads...the bulky, knit sweaters...the shoe laces...the really bad hair. Remember? Yes you do. Admit it. Some of you not only remember the clothes, some of you still have that stuff tucked away in the back of your closet just waiting for the day when one of your friends decides he's going to have an "I love the 80's" party. (It's ok to admit it. We're all friends here. I will openly mock you if I hear that you are one of those people, but here...we are all friends who don't openly mock you...at least not to your face). Yes, the 80's had bad clothes, bad hair, and some bad music (some good, but some bad).
Now, I know my parents have many, many pictures of me from that period of time which I would just as soon burn or allow my dogs to use as their chew toys. But, no, I'm not going to be posting any of those pics here (or anywhere else) for people's amusement. I will, however, try to remember what some of those outfits were like. Let's start with my senior prom. First of all, even I have to say, "Holy crap!" when I think of that outfit. It was...and I risk having to endure all of your jeers and taunts by telling you this...it was pink and poofy. And by poofy, I mean it was amazing that the thing caught as much air as it did without the assistance of an under wire hoop. I think if I had walked down a flight of stairs quickly enough, I could have gotten air born without much of a problem. Yes. That's what I said. I don't think I'm doing it justice, but I think you are all getting the idea of the absolute nightmarish image that was the dress. And, while I was much lighter than I am now, that dress did a marvelous job of highlighting my ever present back fat. And all of that is immortalized in the infamous prom picture pose that everyone is forced to endure at some point. To top it all off, my date (who remains a dear friend) wore a white tux. Yep.
However, my tragic wardrobe choices did not stop there. I also had the sweaters. You know what kind I mean...bright, random colors in all sorts of geometric shapes painted on a very thick cotton blend canvas. The sweaters, while not dresses in and of themselves (although, I did have some of those as well) were long enough to be worn as its own ensemble. No, these sweaters went from the top of my neck all the way to my knees. I could have passed for a Mormon with the amount of skin that this one article of clothing covered. However, I did not stop there. No. These sweaters needed to be paired with some type of pant/leg covering. So, why not do both? Yes, that's right. Pants and leg warmers. Leg warmers. What the hell were leg warmers anyway? I can maybe understand why a dancer would wear them, but I assure you that dancing was not (and still is not) my forte, so leg warmers were not a functional part of the wardrobe. Oh no. They were strictly an accessory. So picture me in a turquoise, pink, white, and whatever other crazy ass pastel color you can throw on one article of clothing. Make that article of clothing cover as much of my body as a full body cast. Got it so far? Ok, now add pants and leg warmers. Oh, and wait...one more thing. Please add shoulder pads to that sweater. Oh yeah. Shoulder pads, baby. Now, I think the point of them was to make you look broad shouldered or something. What they actually did, though, was make it look like you had been in some tragic car accident and had a deformity around your collar bone which resulted in you needing to wear a brace under your clothing. These things made you look like you were shrugging your shoulders in constant disbelief, only no one was talking or saying anything that you would question. Although, with the way those things made everyone look, I have to look back at the pictures now and think, "Why didn't anyone tell me those looked that ridiculous?" Maybe I was already anticipating my future me questioning that fashion option and I was shrugging my shoulders in response. Yeah. Let's go with that.
Then, there are all the "designer fashions" from that period. Let's start with "Members Only". As far as I can tell, all they actually made were synthetic jackets that were meant to look like...well...meant to look like maybe leather jackets? Actually, I have no idea what they were supposed to look like, but they had these loops on the shoulders (what was the infatuation with the shoulders in that decade?) and I have no clue what they were for, but they were there. In addition to Members Only, there was the ever popular Z. Cavaricci. Come on, folks. You know exactly what I'm talking about. These guys made pants that rivaled M.C. Hammer's balloon pants. I think Joey Buttafuoco was a Z. Cavaricci fan. These pants had so much extra material in the legs that you could probably jump out of a plane without a parachute and float safely to the ground while closely resembling a flying squirrel. If that doesn't scream fashion, I don't know what does. Oh, no wait, I think I do know what else screams fashion: fat, neon shoelaces. You know you had some of those. In fact, you probably had several sets of those on your shoes at once. In fact....hang on...yep. I knew it. I still have a pair of green and pink ones on my white leather converse. Oh, man. Who's up for an 80's party?
Monday, October 10, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Randy Newman is wrong
So, I have a confession to make. I am fascinated by both the Amish and Little People. There, I said it. First, let me start with my utter and complete love of the Amish. I don't even know where to begin with this one. Let me start here: the town of Intercourse, PA is smack dab in the middle of Amish country. Really? I don't care who you are, the irony of that is so completely entertaining to me that it must be mentioned right at the outset. However, the name of the town is not what has fueled my love of everything Amish. In fact, what has fueled my love has been, shockingly enough, the television shows I have seen about the Amish (again, an irony that must be noted given the Amish lifestyle).
A few years back, I saw a show called "Amish in the City" and it was essentially about a group of Amish going on their Rumspringa. For those of you who don't know what that is, Rumspringa is essentially a time where Amish teens are allowed, and encouraged, to leave their communities and go live amongst "the English" where they are allowed to experience all the things that are forbidden within the Amish community. Essentially, these teens and young adults are given carte blanche to go drinking, drugging, and having as much sex as they can tolerate. It's like the Super Bowl of sowing one's wild oats. The idea behind it is people are given a chance to see what the outside world has to offer and then can make an informed decision about whether or not they want to become full fledged members of the Amish community. If they do, they return home and return to the Amish way of life. If they don't, they stay living among "the English" and many are often shunned and banned from returning to their communities. While the latter part of that seems a bit harsh, the whole idea of Rumspringa is simply AWESOME! I would LOVE to have been given a free pass to do whatever the hell I wanted to do and then come home without having to talk about it or deal with the repercussions of it (and, no, I don't mean college...it came close, but not close enough). I mean, think about it. It's not like if you were featured on "Good Girls Gone Bad" your family or friends would see it on a late night infomercial. You could get your license suspended and it wouldn't matter because if going back to the Amish, you're just going to be driving a horse and buggy anyway! Essentially, as long as you don't get arrested for any major, violent crime, you're GOLDEN! So, this "Amish in the City" show followed these kids as they went through their Rumspringa and it was fascinating to watch. One thing I absolutely loved about that show was that these kids could party like freaking rock stars. It was amazing to see. How do these kids, who have been completely deprived of so many things, have such a high tolerance?!?! Do you have any idea how long it took me to build up a tolerance like that while I was in college? Let me just say this, it took a damn long time and it sure as hell was not pretty along the way. Anyway, that show got me absolutely hooked and I have since watched any show out there about the Amish that I can get my hands on. Unfortunately, as one can imagine, there aren't too many out there because it's hard to do a t.v. show about a culture that doesn't embrace many modern conveniences as they believe these things will damage or harm the closeness of the community. Also, some groups don't believe in taking or having pictures, so a t.v. show becomes virtually impossible unless maybe you have someone with a really good memory and inherent artistic ability who can sketch what they remember. Personally? I wouldn't watch that kind of show. However, all bets are off when it comes to Rumspringa and those who left the Amish, so that's where my education comes from. Yee ha!
My second infatuation, as I mentioned earlier, is my complete and utterly ridiculous fascination with little people. Perhaps it goes back to Mini Me. Perhaps it goes back to the guy on Jackass. Perhaps it goes back to the Wizard of Oz (Nah, that can't be it. I hated that movie...for the most part. The only thing about that movie that was entertaining to me was that my brother was absolutely TERRIFIED by the flying monkeys. He would whimper and hide his face like a little girl when they would come on and that was my favorite part of the movie. Hahahaha...flying monkeys). In any case, I don't know how this came to be, but perhaps it has something to do with my own stature challenges. Being Portuguese, I'm not exactly getting recruited to play forward on any basketball teams and I certainly am not reaching that absolutely useless cabinet located above the refrigerator in the kitchen. Come on. You all know what cabinet I'm talking about. Everyone has one and probably none of you know what's in the cabinet, if anything at all, because you can never get to the damn thing. I have to get a chair, climb on the counters and then I can get up there. Useless. Who came up with that as a viable solution for that space? Certainly not a little person...or a Chop. Sorry, I drifted. Just like with the Amish, there have been t.v. shows about little people that have been very entertaining to me...Little People, Big World. The Little Couple. Pit Boss. Wonderful, the lot of them. I also hear there is a porn featuring little people. I think it's called something like, "Under the Rainbow". I haven't seen it myself and I can't even really imagine what it must be like (If anyone reading this has any knowledge of that movie, let me know).
Anyway, I have always wondered why Randy Newman sang about his distaste for this portion of the human race in his wildly popular song.. You all know the song I'm talking about and don't pretend you don't. In fact, I am so confident you all know the song, that I'm not going to discuss it any further. I will say, in Mr. Newman's defense, that he claims the song was supposed to be highlighting prejudice and he, in no way, has any negative feelings toward little people. If that's true, that just seems like a stupid song choice to me and maybe he should have fired his agent, but, then again, I haven't made millions writing and singing songs, so what the hell do I know? Ok, so back to where I was, I don't have a clue why I love little people, but I do. Hulk Hogan is producing a show about little people wrestlers...It's called "Micro Wrestlers". While the name seems a bit demeaning, it could be interesting because I'm fairly confident that the majority of the people on that show could kick my ass without much difficulty (despite my herculean efforts at the gym...and, just so we're clear, the herculean part comes from me trying to get out of bed at the ass crack of the ass crack of dawn). Will, I watch the Hulk Hogan show? Not sure, but there's a good chance. But, if someone would make a show about little Amish people...well, I don't think I need to tell you how absolutely ridiculously excited I would be to watch that.
A few years back, I saw a show called "Amish in the City" and it was essentially about a group of Amish going on their Rumspringa. For those of you who don't know what that is, Rumspringa is essentially a time where Amish teens are allowed, and encouraged, to leave their communities and go live amongst "the English" where they are allowed to experience all the things that are forbidden within the Amish community. Essentially, these teens and young adults are given carte blanche to go drinking, drugging, and having as much sex as they can tolerate. It's like the Super Bowl of sowing one's wild oats. The idea behind it is people are given a chance to see what the outside world has to offer and then can make an informed decision about whether or not they want to become full fledged members of the Amish community. If they do, they return home and return to the Amish way of life. If they don't, they stay living among "the English" and many are often shunned and banned from returning to their communities. While the latter part of that seems a bit harsh, the whole idea of Rumspringa is simply AWESOME! I would LOVE to have been given a free pass to do whatever the hell I wanted to do and then come home without having to talk about it or deal with the repercussions of it (and, no, I don't mean college...it came close, but not close enough). I mean, think about it. It's not like if you were featured on "Good Girls Gone Bad" your family or friends would see it on a late night infomercial. You could get your license suspended and it wouldn't matter because if going back to the Amish, you're just going to be driving a horse and buggy anyway! Essentially, as long as you don't get arrested for any major, violent crime, you're GOLDEN! So, this "Amish in the City" show followed these kids as they went through their Rumspringa and it was fascinating to watch. One thing I absolutely loved about that show was that these kids could party like freaking rock stars. It was amazing to see. How do these kids, who have been completely deprived of so many things, have such a high tolerance?!?! Do you have any idea how long it took me to build up a tolerance like that while I was in college? Let me just say this, it took a damn long time and it sure as hell was not pretty along the way. Anyway, that show got me absolutely hooked and I have since watched any show out there about the Amish that I can get my hands on. Unfortunately, as one can imagine, there aren't too many out there because it's hard to do a t.v. show about a culture that doesn't embrace many modern conveniences as they believe these things will damage or harm the closeness of the community. Also, some groups don't believe in taking or having pictures, so a t.v. show becomes virtually impossible unless maybe you have someone with a really good memory and inherent artistic ability who can sketch what they remember. Personally? I wouldn't watch that kind of show. However, all bets are off when it comes to Rumspringa and those who left the Amish, so that's where my education comes from. Yee ha!
My second infatuation, as I mentioned earlier, is my complete and utterly ridiculous fascination with little people. Perhaps it goes back to Mini Me. Perhaps it goes back to the guy on Jackass. Perhaps it goes back to the Wizard of Oz (Nah, that can't be it. I hated that movie...for the most part. The only thing about that movie that was entertaining to me was that my brother was absolutely TERRIFIED by the flying monkeys. He would whimper and hide his face like a little girl when they would come on and that was my favorite part of the movie. Hahahaha...flying monkeys). In any case, I don't know how this came to be, but perhaps it has something to do with my own stature challenges. Being Portuguese, I'm not exactly getting recruited to play forward on any basketball teams and I certainly am not reaching that absolutely useless cabinet located above the refrigerator in the kitchen. Come on. You all know what cabinet I'm talking about. Everyone has one and probably none of you know what's in the cabinet, if anything at all, because you can never get to the damn thing. I have to get a chair, climb on the counters and then I can get up there. Useless. Who came up with that as a viable solution for that space? Certainly not a little person...or a Chop. Sorry, I drifted. Just like with the Amish, there have been t.v. shows about little people that have been very entertaining to me...Little People, Big World. The Little Couple. Pit Boss. Wonderful, the lot of them. I also hear there is a porn featuring little people. I think it's called something like, "Under the Rainbow". I haven't seen it myself and I can't even really imagine what it must be like (If anyone reading this has any knowledge of that movie, let me know).
Anyway, I have always wondered why Randy Newman sang about his distaste for this portion of the human race in his wildly popular song.. You all know the song I'm talking about and don't pretend you don't. In fact, I am so confident you all know the song, that I'm not going to discuss it any further. I will say, in Mr. Newman's defense, that he claims the song was supposed to be highlighting prejudice and he, in no way, has any negative feelings toward little people. If that's true, that just seems like a stupid song choice to me and maybe he should have fired his agent, but, then again, I haven't made millions writing and singing songs, so what the hell do I know? Ok, so back to where I was, I don't have a clue why I love little people, but I do. Hulk Hogan is producing a show about little people wrestlers...It's called "Micro Wrestlers". While the name seems a bit demeaning, it could be interesting because I'm fairly confident that the majority of the people on that show could kick my ass without much difficulty (despite my herculean efforts at the gym...and, just so we're clear, the herculean part comes from me trying to get out of bed at the ass crack of the ass crack of dawn). Will, I watch the Hulk Hogan show? Not sure, but there's a good chance. But, if someone would make a show about little Amish people...well, I don't think I need to tell you how absolutely ridiculously excited I would be to watch that.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
And tonight's winning numbers are...
In these very tough economic times, I consider myself extremely lucky that both Nicole and I have secure jobs that pay our expenses and we can still afford cable. And, while I realize that we are very lucky, I have also come to the realization that I am not a fan of my job. I understand that many people are in the same boat as I am and that there are only a lucky few out there who can say they actually enjoy going to work everyday...I am not one of those people. I came to the realization that I truly do not enjoy my job one little bit when I found myself waking up and going, "Ok. It's Wednesday. I just have to get through today, tomorrow, and Friday, and then it's the weekend" only to have the weekend arrive and I'm in a horribly foul mood come Saturday night because I realize there is only one more day off and then it's back to work. I thought, "Holy crap! I have a job where I am actually wishing my life away". Doesn't that just suck a witch's tit.
I have had fantasies about leaving my job and doing something else. Sometimes those fantasies involve me opening a bar on a beach on some wonderfully pristine island with white sands, crystal clear blue water, and a slew of happy and extremely generous wealthy people waiting to share their wealth with me in exchange for a wonderfully intoxicating beverage. I think it would be great to just have a little hut and make wonderful, fruity drinks with umbrellas. Maybe RM could be a cocktail waitress or something...then I think about what that whole thing would really be like: first, there's the whole sand thing (again, revisit my "Vacation" post if you forget my issues with sand at the beach); then there's a bunch of drunk, obnoxious tourists who can be so completely annoying (I speak from experience on this one folks. Remind me to tell you about a college trip to Venezuela sometime...oh boy), and tsunamis (that would just really suck). So, beach bar proprietor is out. Then I have fantasies that inevitably involve me doing something on t.v. Maybe work for Sesame Street or do something for Saturday Night Live (actually, that would be my absolute DREAM JOB to write for SNL. I have my skits lined up in my head. If anyone out there knows Lorne Michaels, send him the link to the blog as a writing sample. Be sure to pick some of the better entries, though, ok?). I know I have a better chance of contracting malaria while climbing to the top of Mt. Everest than I do of becoming a writer on SNL, but this is my fantasy, ok! Stop being such a freaking downer! I also have fantasies that involve me doing something with food. You know, like I could open a food truck or something. I don't know what I would serve, but I'm sure I could come up with something...maybe a truck that only serves...uh...I'd serve...on second thought, I'm not going to share my food truck idea with you. I figure, that is the one fantasy that I have the best shot at, so I'm keeping all of my food ideas to myself. Sorry. Go get your own damn food truck ideas.
But, for now, I don't know Lorne Michaels, I don't have a food truck, I don't think I could serve drinks on the beach without drinking most of my profits, and I don't have any other great ideas, so I think I need to stick with my current job. But that doesn't mean that I'm not still looking for a way out. Here's my plan (not a fantasy plan, a real plan. There's a difference. Keep up.): I'm going to hit the lottery. I don't mean, I'm going to hit 3 numbers and win $50 (although, I would accept that). No, no. I'm going to hit the mega millions, powerball lotto jackpot. I have a plan on how to do it, too. I'll even share my plan, ready? I'm going to pick the winning numbers. It's really so simple that I can't believe no one has taken this approach before. Just pick the numbers. Jeez. And then, when I do hit it big, you know the first thing I'm going to do? Whoa, slugger. Slow down. The first thing I'm going to do is cash in the ticket to make sure it's truly a winner. Then...again, slow down...and stop interrupting me. Then, I'm going to pay off my bills and then, yes, I'm going to quit my job and open a food truck on the beach where I perform original comedy skits for my drunk, obnoxious tourist customers.
I have had fantasies about leaving my job and doing something else. Sometimes those fantasies involve me opening a bar on a beach on some wonderfully pristine island with white sands, crystal clear blue water, and a slew of happy and extremely generous wealthy people waiting to share their wealth with me in exchange for a wonderfully intoxicating beverage. I think it would be great to just have a little hut and make wonderful, fruity drinks with umbrellas. Maybe RM could be a cocktail waitress or something...then I think about what that whole thing would really be like: first, there's the whole sand thing (again, revisit my "Vacation" post if you forget my issues with sand at the beach); then there's a bunch of drunk, obnoxious tourists who can be so completely annoying (I speak from experience on this one folks. Remind me to tell you about a college trip to Venezuela sometime...oh boy), and tsunamis (that would just really suck). So, beach bar proprietor is out. Then I have fantasies that inevitably involve me doing something on t.v. Maybe work for Sesame Street or do something for Saturday Night Live (actually, that would be my absolute DREAM JOB to write for SNL. I have my skits lined up in my head. If anyone out there knows Lorne Michaels, send him the link to the blog as a writing sample. Be sure to pick some of the better entries, though, ok?). I know I have a better chance of contracting malaria while climbing to the top of Mt. Everest than I do of becoming a writer on SNL, but this is my fantasy, ok! Stop being such a freaking downer! I also have fantasies that involve me doing something with food. You know, like I could open a food truck or something. I don't know what I would serve, but I'm sure I could come up with something...maybe a truck that only serves...uh...I'd serve...on second thought, I'm not going to share my food truck idea with you. I figure, that is the one fantasy that I have the best shot at, so I'm keeping all of my food ideas to myself. Sorry. Go get your own damn food truck ideas.
But, for now, I don't know Lorne Michaels, I don't have a food truck, I don't think I could serve drinks on the beach without drinking most of my profits, and I don't have any other great ideas, so I think I need to stick with my current job. But that doesn't mean that I'm not still looking for a way out. Here's my plan (not a fantasy plan, a real plan. There's a difference. Keep up.): I'm going to hit the lottery. I don't mean, I'm going to hit 3 numbers and win $50 (although, I would accept that). No, no. I'm going to hit the mega millions, powerball lotto jackpot. I have a plan on how to do it, too. I'll even share my plan, ready? I'm going to pick the winning numbers. It's really so simple that I can't believe no one has taken this approach before. Just pick the numbers. Jeez. And then, when I do hit it big, you know the first thing I'm going to do? Whoa, slugger. Slow down. The first thing I'm going to do is cash in the ticket to make sure it's truly a winner. Then...again, slow down...and stop interrupting me. Then, I'm going to pay off my bills and then, yes, I'm going to quit my job and open a food truck on the beach where I perform original comedy skits for my drunk, obnoxious tourist customers.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
I've become one of those people..
Despite the fact that I appear to be somewhat level headed and relaxed (stop snickering), I always knew I would be somewhat paranoid as a parent. By that I mean, I always knew it would be hard for me to take RM out to crowded places, particularly when she's still little, because I would be terrified to get separated from her. I have always been this way. As a babysitter, I couldn't let my charges out of my sight (unless they were asleep) and when I would take my nephew or niece anywhere when they were little, I always felt I had to be holding their hand or something in order to assure myself I wouldn't lose them.
I have always wondered how I got to be this way because my parents were not. My brother and I were pretty much allowed to play freely throughout the neighborhood: we would play hide and seek and set the "boundaries" to be about a 2 block radius around home base; we were allowed to go downtown to the movies, library, or toy stores on our own; we were allowed to ride our bikes around the neighborhood (but since my parents never defined what they meant by "the neighborhood", we pretty much interpreted that to be anywhere within the city limits and, as such, we would ride our bikes everywhere and would, at times, play chicken while riding the yellow lines down Main Street. By "chicken", I mean you had to ride with "no hands" and the first one to grab their handlebars lost. Mom and dad, if you're reading this, it was all Chris' idea). When I got to high school, I was pretty much allowed to go where I wanted and college...well, college was just a free for all. Let's just say that by the time I got to college, the "boundaries" were anywhere within the continental United States (Again, mom and dad if you're reading this, it wasn't my idea).
Given my experiences and how much fun all of them were, I'm not really sure why I am such a freak when it comes to RM. I do know, however, that unless she's at school where other adults are watching her, she will never be out of my sight. I know that's not healthy; not for her and not for me. Perhaps I will have to resume my life of heavy alcohol consumption to get me past the hump. I don't know, but I am going to have one of those identification chips they put in your pets, implanted under her skin. Hers is going to have a GPS function in it so that I can just turn it on, like a LoJack, and be able to locate her exact position within minutes. Now that she's little, the GPS thing will just be an added measure of security to help keep her safe from some of the disgusting creeps that are out there. When she gets a bit older, the GPS thing will help me track her down when she says she's at "a friend's house" and neglects to tell me that her friend is actually a guy who is having a house party for 100 of his closest friends and is co-hosting the party with Jack, Jose, and Bud. When she moves away from home, the GPS will alert me when she has left the state where she is supposed to be. It will kind of work like an ankle monitoring bracelet that will notify me when she has violated the terms of her release and has left my pre-approved area. Damn. I think I just felt the color fall out of a few more of my hairs. Damn.
Anyway, what all of my paranoia means is that, while she is still as little as she is, I have the baby monitor on all the time, I don't open her bedroom windows more than a couple of inches (and even then I have the security locks on them), and when we are in a crowded place, I prefer to have her stay in her stroller. That approach used to work out really well, but since she has figured out that she can use her legs to propel her quickly in any direction she pleases, the stroller is not as sufficient for her as it once was. Basically, what this means is that she'll be in her stroller for a few minutes before screaming at the top of her lungs and acting as if I am killing her favorite toys and the only thing that will appease her is to let her out of her stroller. Now, I used to be one of those people that would see parents using the safety harnesses on their kids and think, "Why do those people have their kid on a leash? That's ridiculous! That kid is going to have some serious issues when he gets older". But now, having an absolutely precious child of my own, I see how people could not only want to use a harness, but I could see myself duct taping her to my chest if I thought no one would call DCF on me. With that being said, Nicole and I took RM to the Big E this year (you know, the big state fair in Massachusetts) and with all the people that were there, I broke down and did this to my child:
Yep. Yes, I did. And, no, your eyes are not playing tricks on you. That is a harness. I have my kid on a leash. I do. And, yes, the leash is a dog. Ironic, isn't it. Sorry, baby girl. I will get you in to therapy when the time comes.
I have always wondered how I got to be this way because my parents were not. My brother and I were pretty much allowed to play freely throughout the neighborhood: we would play hide and seek and set the "boundaries" to be about a 2 block radius around home base; we were allowed to go downtown to the movies, library, or toy stores on our own; we were allowed to ride our bikes around the neighborhood (but since my parents never defined what they meant by "the neighborhood", we pretty much interpreted that to be anywhere within the city limits and, as such, we would ride our bikes everywhere and would, at times, play chicken while riding the yellow lines down Main Street. By "chicken", I mean you had to ride with "no hands" and the first one to grab their handlebars lost. Mom and dad, if you're reading this, it was all Chris' idea). When I got to high school, I was pretty much allowed to go where I wanted and college...well, college was just a free for all. Let's just say that by the time I got to college, the "boundaries" were anywhere within the continental United States (Again, mom and dad if you're reading this, it wasn't my idea).
Given my experiences and how much fun all of them were, I'm not really sure why I am such a freak when it comes to RM. I do know, however, that unless she's at school where other adults are watching her, she will never be out of my sight. I know that's not healthy; not for her and not for me. Perhaps I will have to resume my life of heavy alcohol consumption to get me past the hump. I don't know, but I am going to have one of those identification chips they put in your pets, implanted under her skin. Hers is going to have a GPS function in it so that I can just turn it on, like a LoJack, and be able to locate her exact position within minutes. Now that she's little, the GPS thing will just be an added measure of security to help keep her safe from some of the disgusting creeps that are out there. When she gets a bit older, the GPS thing will help me track her down when she says she's at "a friend's house" and neglects to tell me that her friend is actually a guy who is having a house party for 100 of his closest friends and is co-hosting the party with Jack, Jose, and Bud. When she moves away from home, the GPS will alert me when she has left the state where she is supposed to be. It will kind of work like an ankle monitoring bracelet that will notify me when she has violated the terms of her release and has left my pre-approved area. Damn. I think I just felt the color fall out of a few more of my hairs. Damn.
Anyway, what all of my paranoia means is that, while she is still as little as she is, I have the baby monitor on all the time, I don't open her bedroom windows more than a couple of inches (and even then I have the security locks on them), and when we are in a crowded place, I prefer to have her stay in her stroller. That approach used to work out really well, but since she has figured out that she can use her legs to propel her quickly in any direction she pleases, the stroller is not as sufficient for her as it once was. Basically, what this means is that she'll be in her stroller for a few minutes before screaming at the top of her lungs and acting as if I am killing her favorite toys and the only thing that will appease her is to let her out of her stroller. Now, I used to be one of those people that would see parents using the safety harnesses on their kids and think, "Why do those people have their kid on a leash? That's ridiculous! That kid is going to have some serious issues when he gets older". But now, having an absolutely precious child of my own, I see how people could not only want to use a harness, but I could see myself duct taping her to my chest if I thought no one would call DCF on me. With that being said, Nicole and I took RM to the Big E this year (you know, the big state fair in Massachusetts) and with all the people that were there, I broke down and did this to my child:
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
What the hell are you waiting for?!?!?!
Alcoholics Anonymous has a highly successful 12 step program to help people manage their addiction. I believe the first step in that process is admitting you have a problem. Well, my friends, it's time I admit I have a problem. My name is Jennifer and I have Road Rage. There. I said it. What a relief to finally get that off my chest. Most of you probably didn't know about my affliction. Not because I hide it very well, but more so because most of you have not been in a car with me when I'm driving. Hell, I don't even have to be driving for my rage to take over (Come to think of it, considering my issues with rage discussed in the Watchdogs post, maybe I just have rage issues? Hmmm. Whatever). The idea for this post came to me as I was driving to work this morning and battling rush hour traffic on the Berlin Turnpike. As I was going along, keeping up with the morning traffic (well, except for the guy who was driving like a comatose 98 year old, driving the First Model T off the line and doing like 15 miles per hour, I just had to get the hell around that guy. I mean, seriously! If I stayed behind this guy the whole way, I'd be late for my retirement party by the time I got to work. FIND THE GAS PEDAL, GRAMPA!!!)...Anyway, as I was saying, I was keeping up with morning traffic when this guy comes from the next lane over and totally cuts me off! WTF!?!?! Seriously, dude! Where the hell are you going that you couldn't wait an extra 2 SECONDS to get there?!?! What the hell is so damn important that you had to get in front of me in order to make sure you arrived that fraction of a second sooner?!!? I wondered if he realized that this was not a rally; neither Smokey, nor the Bandit were anywhere in the near vicinity; and there were no scantily clad women waiting for him at the highway entrance ramp a mile down the road, waving a checkered flag and popping open bottles of champagne .
As I sat there, becoming immediately incoherent as I tried not to swear (because RM was in the backseat) and I looked as if I might be developing a parkinsonian tremor as I desperately fought the urge to flip this guy off, I began to reflect on the course of my road rage illness. I seemed to remember it starting pretty early on as I felt the gauntlet being thrown down by any car who pulled up along side me at a red light, on the highway, anywhere. It always, for some reason, felt as if the person was directly challenging me personally, to some contest to see who was the better driver and the winner would clearly be the person who could peel away from the starting point as quickly as possible, thereby being a better person. Clearly. That seems perfectly rational. Now, historically, I have had decent cars, but I would not qualify any of them as being fast cars. The closest I ever came to having a fast one was the very first car I had: a 1980 Audi 5000 Turbo. You might be sitting there thinking, "Nice car", but before you start having too many fantasies about it, let me tell you about that car. It had belonged to my father's cousin and my folks bought it for me thinking it would be a good starter car. It was automatic and had power windows, locks, automatic seat belts and all the bells and whistles. Or, at least, that's how it came equipped. The reality of the car was more like this: once you clicked the front passenger seat belt into place, it was virtually impossible to undo it, so you had to slip out of the seat. The buttons for the power windows would fall off in your hands and, once they did, you better pray the windows were up. The motor for the power window on the driver's door actually fell out, which meant that if I wanted to open or close the window, I had to pull over, open the door, grip either side of the glass with the palms of my hands and slowly move it up or down. Up was not so bad, but moving it down was a precision operation because if I put it too low, the window would fall in the door and I'd have to take the door apart to get it back up. As you can well imagine, toll booths and unexpected rain showers SUCKED! The power antenna got broken off in a car wash, so that just ended up being a gaping hole that would leak into the trunk. The cable that connected the release latch from the interior of the car to the gas tank would disconnect at random and I would have to open the cap with a screwdriver. There was a constant and unexplained wet spot on the floor behind the driver's seat (Don't know. Don't want to know). I once hit a bump and it snapped the front axle. There were so many warning lights consistently lit up on the dashboard that I used to turn on my hazards and flash my high beams and pretend it was Christmas as all the lights in my car blink and flickered. And, finally, this car was recalled because the car would spontaneously jerk backwards while in park, which Audi attributed to driver error (of course), so they put a little tab on the stick shift that you would have to release in order to put the car in reverse. That car broke down on me so many times that I lost count and, the one time that I did try to outrun someone in it...I blew out the engine. Huge plume of thick, black smoke pouring out of every possible opening it had. Damn car (Allen Audi: 1980 - 1987). After that, all hopes of a speed machine were out the window and with them, all hopes of ever being able to handily beat someone off the "starting line" also vanished. I didn't realize it at the time, but for some reason, this directly tied in to my self esteem (Holy crap, I think we're coming back to the competitive thing for me again! Jeez, I need therapy. Anyone out there know anybody good?).
My next car was my 1983 Honda Accord Hatchback. God, I loved that car. But, again, not a speed machine. This thing would get me through any snow storm and had the best heater of any car out there, but speed...not a strong suit. It was...well...it was a reliable car. That's the kiss of death for a car you want to be speedy, isn't it? It's kind of like when a guy likes a girl and she says that he's like her brother...done. No sugar for you, buddy. You're the reliable car. Not the cool, speed machine. Anyway, I had the reliable car and, no matter how much I wanted it to be speedy, it wasn't. While I loved that car immensely, it directly contributed to my road rage as I had years of pent up anger and frustration from the number of times I got left in the dust as red lights went green. Speed was not the only drawback about that car; it also did not have a sunroof. I remember that made me so crazy that, one night in college, it was either a Friday or Saturday night and I was...um, well, I was....probably not thinking as clearly as I would have been on a Thursday morning, I decided to fix that problem. My attempt to rectify the sunroof problem was not well thought out as I grabbed my sandwich from the Yuck Truck (our greasy food truck on campus that would blow itself up a year after my graduation) and proceeded to jump up and down on the roof of the car hoping it would make a hole for the sunroof. What I would have done had I succeeded in opening up a hole is completely unknown to me, but it made absolute, complete perfect sense to me at the time. Despite the frustration this car nurtured in me, the demise of that car was tragic. I was going to graduate school in Philadelphia and my classes were all at night. The school I was attending was not in a great area and, when classes were done...well, let's just way we weren't hanging out at the local bar for a beer. On the night of Harry's (my Honda's) passing, the Phillies were in the playoffs and a bunch of us were headed to a bar near my apartment to watch the game. One of our classmates did not know her way around the area well and asked if she could follow me. Sure, why not? I'll tell you why not: it was raining and my friend was driving her sister's van that night. And not just any van. No. It was one of those luxury vans with the captain's chairs in the back, a table in the middle and, I would guess, custom lighting throughout. I don't remember, but I'm relatively certain that it had a sticker on it somewhere that said, "If this van's a rockin', don't come a knockin'". Since it was her sister's van, she wasn't used to driving it and, as I came to a stop at a light, she did not. I remember looking in my rear view mirror and thinking, "She's going to stop. She's going to stop. She's going to stop. Stop. Stop! STOP!" BAAAAMMMM. Next thing I knew, I was stepping out of my car...at 10 o'clock at night...with a black eye, a concussion and in a very bad area. My friend jumped out of her van and came running over to me and, as she started talking to me, I noticed a couple of women in housecoats and rollers standing on their front porch. As I began to focus on what the hell was going on around me, I heard one of the women say, "I saw the whole thing, baby. She hit you HARD. I can tell the police what happened, but you shouldn't stay here. You two girls should go the police department tomorrow when it's light out. Right now, you should go home". And that's what we did. I drove my little car to my apartment and realized that the back end of it was riding shotgun with me (yeah, it was pretty much next to the passenger side of the car). My parents were out of town when I had my accident and I had to drive the car back from Philly to CT the next day (at least, that's what made sense in my concussed head) and it took me so damn long to make that drive. I don't think I could get Harry to go faster than 45 mph on the NJ Turnpike. What a freaking nightmare. Anyway, that was the end of Harry Honda: 1983-1991. RIP, my friend.
My next car, a rebuilt Nissan Stanza (aka Stanley) was ok, but no speed demon. Did he earn me a speeding ticket? Yes, but he wasn't really good at getting off the line quickly. That, and one day while driving on the highway, the gas pedal just kind of...well, fell. I mean, it just fell flat on the floor. Let's recap: me on highway with an impotent gas pedal. Solution: I turned on the cruise control and hoped for the best. That tactic actually got me home, but Stanley was clearly not one that could be counted on to alleviate any road rage that had been accumulating. His demise? A busted timing belt that took out my engine as it flailed about. Stanley Stanza: 1989-2000.
Sadly, my next, and current car, is a 2001 Toyota Camry (Cameron). Again, I have been blessed (cursed?) with a reliable car. What this has meant is that my road rage becomes increasingly toxic and deadly as the years progress. These days, in addition to having fantasies about chasing people down and letting all the air out of their tires, I find myself questioning if people expect green lights to turn any greener if they sit there and stare at them long enough. I wonder if people over 85 are required to ride their brakes so hard and long that they need new brake pads after each trip to the grocery store. And, in construction zones, I find that I am fluent in weaving together obscenities in several different languages. Languages I didn't even know I knew. When I was younger, I used to dream of the days when I would have a fast car and I could blow away any punk who dared pull his pansy ass go kart up next to my sweet ride... Unfortunately, given the fact that I am now 41, married, and have a child, I think the only sweet ride in my future involves a minivan peppered with melted ice cream and half drunk juice boxes. Do you think I can get one with custom lighting?
As I sat there, becoming immediately incoherent as I tried not to swear (because RM was in the backseat) and I looked as if I might be developing a parkinsonian tremor as I desperately fought the urge to flip this guy off, I began to reflect on the course of my road rage illness. I seemed to remember it starting pretty early on as I felt the gauntlet being thrown down by any car who pulled up along side me at a red light, on the highway, anywhere. It always, for some reason, felt as if the person was directly challenging me personally, to some contest to see who was the better driver and the winner would clearly be the person who could peel away from the starting point as quickly as possible, thereby being a better person. Clearly. That seems perfectly rational. Now, historically, I have had decent cars, but I would not qualify any of them as being fast cars. The closest I ever came to having a fast one was the very first car I had: a 1980 Audi 5000 Turbo. You might be sitting there thinking, "Nice car", but before you start having too many fantasies about it, let me tell you about that car. It had belonged to my father's cousin and my folks bought it for me thinking it would be a good starter car. It was automatic and had power windows, locks, automatic seat belts and all the bells and whistles. Or, at least, that's how it came equipped. The reality of the car was more like this: once you clicked the front passenger seat belt into place, it was virtually impossible to undo it, so you had to slip out of the seat. The buttons for the power windows would fall off in your hands and, once they did, you better pray the windows were up. The motor for the power window on the driver's door actually fell out, which meant that if I wanted to open or close the window, I had to pull over, open the door, grip either side of the glass with the palms of my hands and slowly move it up or down. Up was not so bad, but moving it down was a precision operation because if I put it too low, the window would fall in the door and I'd have to take the door apart to get it back up. As you can well imagine, toll booths and unexpected rain showers SUCKED! The power antenna got broken off in a car wash, so that just ended up being a gaping hole that would leak into the trunk. The cable that connected the release latch from the interior of the car to the gas tank would disconnect at random and I would have to open the cap with a screwdriver. There was a constant and unexplained wet spot on the floor behind the driver's seat (Don't know. Don't want to know). I once hit a bump and it snapped the front axle. There were so many warning lights consistently lit up on the dashboard that I used to turn on my hazards and flash my high beams and pretend it was Christmas as all the lights in my car blink and flickered. And, finally, this car was recalled because the car would spontaneously jerk backwards while in park, which Audi attributed to driver error (of course), so they put a little tab on the stick shift that you would have to release in order to put the car in reverse. That car broke down on me so many times that I lost count and, the one time that I did try to outrun someone in it...I blew out the engine. Huge plume of thick, black smoke pouring out of every possible opening it had. Damn car (Allen Audi: 1980 - 1987). After that, all hopes of a speed machine were out the window and with them, all hopes of ever being able to handily beat someone off the "starting line" also vanished. I didn't realize it at the time, but for some reason, this directly tied in to my self esteem (Holy crap, I think we're coming back to the competitive thing for me again! Jeez, I need therapy. Anyone out there know anybody good?).
My next car was my 1983 Honda Accord Hatchback. God, I loved that car. But, again, not a speed machine. This thing would get me through any snow storm and had the best heater of any car out there, but speed...not a strong suit. It was...well...it was a reliable car. That's the kiss of death for a car you want to be speedy, isn't it? It's kind of like when a guy likes a girl and she says that he's like her brother...done. No sugar for you, buddy. You're the reliable car. Not the cool, speed machine. Anyway, I had the reliable car and, no matter how much I wanted it to be speedy, it wasn't. While I loved that car immensely, it directly contributed to my road rage as I had years of pent up anger and frustration from the number of times I got left in the dust as red lights went green. Speed was not the only drawback about that car; it also did not have a sunroof. I remember that made me so crazy that, one night in college, it was either a Friday or Saturday night and I was...um, well, I was....probably not thinking as clearly as I would have been on a Thursday morning, I decided to fix that problem. My attempt to rectify the sunroof problem was not well thought out as I grabbed my sandwich from the Yuck Truck (our greasy food truck on campus that would blow itself up a year after my graduation) and proceeded to jump up and down on the roof of the car hoping it would make a hole for the sunroof. What I would have done had I succeeded in opening up a hole is completely unknown to me, but it made absolute, complete perfect sense to me at the time. Despite the frustration this car nurtured in me, the demise of that car was tragic. I was going to graduate school in Philadelphia and my classes were all at night. The school I was attending was not in a great area and, when classes were done...well, let's just way we weren't hanging out at the local bar for a beer. On the night of Harry's (my Honda's) passing, the Phillies were in the playoffs and a bunch of us were headed to a bar near my apartment to watch the game. One of our classmates did not know her way around the area well and asked if she could follow me. Sure, why not? I'll tell you why not: it was raining and my friend was driving her sister's van that night. And not just any van. No. It was one of those luxury vans with the captain's chairs in the back, a table in the middle and, I would guess, custom lighting throughout. I don't remember, but I'm relatively certain that it had a sticker on it somewhere that said, "If this van's a rockin', don't come a knockin'". Since it was her sister's van, she wasn't used to driving it and, as I came to a stop at a light, she did not. I remember looking in my rear view mirror and thinking, "She's going to stop. She's going to stop. She's going to stop. Stop. Stop! STOP!" BAAAAMMMM. Next thing I knew, I was stepping out of my car...at 10 o'clock at night...with a black eye, a concussion and in a very bad area. My friend jumped out of her van and came running over to me and, as she started talking to me, I noticed a couple of women in housecoats and rollers standing on their front porch. As I began to focus on what the hell was going on around me, I heard one of the women say, "I saw the whole thing, baby. She hit you HARD. I can tell the police what happened, but you shouldn't stay here. You two girls should go the police department tomorrow when it's light out. Right now, you should go home". And that's what we did. I drove my little car to my apartment and realized that the back end of it was riding shotgun with me (yeah, it was pretty much next to the passenger side of the car). My parents were out of town when I had my accident and I had to drive the car back from Philly to CT the next day (at least, that's what made sense in my concussed head) and it took me so damn long to make that drive. I don't think I could get Harry to go faster than 45 mph on the NJ Turnpike. What a freaking nightmare. Anyway, that was the end of Harry Honda: 1983-1991. RIP, my friend.
My next car, a rebuilt Nissan Stanza (aka Stanley) was ok, but no speed demon. Did he earn me a speeding ticket? Yes, but he wasn't really good at getting off the line quickly. That, and one day while driving on the highway, the gas pedal just kind of...well, fell. I mean, it just fell flat on the floor. Let's recap: me on highway with an impotent gas pedal. Solution: I turned on the cruise control and hoped for the best. That tactic actually got me home, but Stanley was clearly not one that could be counted on to alleviate any road rage that had been accumulating. His demise? A busted timing belt that took out my engine as it flailed about. Stanley Stanza: 1989-2000.
Sadly, my next, and current car, is a 2001 Toyota Camry (Cameron). Again, I have been blessed (cursed?) with a reliable car. What this has meant is that my road rage becomes increasingly toxic and deadly as the years progress. These days, in addition to having fantasies about chasing people down and letting all the air out of their tires, I find myself questioning if people expect green lights to turn any greener if they sit there and stare at them long enough. I wonder if people over 85 are required to ride their brakes so hard and long that they need new brake pads after each trip to the grocery store. And, in construction zones, I find that I am fluent in weaving together obscenities in several different languages. Languages I didn't even know I knew. When I was younger, I used to dream of the days when I would have a fast car and I could blow away any punk who dared pull his pansy ass go kart up next to my sweet ride... Unfortunately, given the fact that I am now 41, married, and have a child, I think the only sweet ride in my future involves a minivan peppered with melted ice cream and half drunk juice boxes. Do you think I can get one with custom lighting?
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Go Watchdogs!
I don't know if I have ever mentioned this on this blog or not, and some of you already know this, but Nicole is a former fastpitch softball player who had received a full ride to college with her skills and was, at one point, featured as the NESN player of the week while in college. Ever since she left college, she has yearned to get back to the game she loves so dearly, but she has had great difficulty finding a fast pitched league where she can have some fun. With that being said, a dear friend of ours approached her wanting to know if she would be interested in playing on his recreational slow pitch team. While she was a bit hesitant at first, I convinced her it would be fun to give it a shot. Little did I realize at that time that it would be one of the most entertaining 90 minutes I would get to experience.
For the first game, we met at a field a few towns over and it quickly became apparent that some of the people on her team have only watched sports on t.v....if even that. While some players were pretty good, some of her teammates looked like they had previously been all star member of the Bad News Bears. There were outfielders who ran from the ball, players who ran down the third base line after hitting the ball, and a pitcher who managed to smoke and pitch at the same time. Awesome. I would have really enjoyed that first game, except for the other team. Now, I know I tend to make a lot of references to movies and t.v. shows and this post is no exception. Ready? Did you ever see any of those old Bugs Bunny cartoons where he's playing baseball against these huge bruiser type guys and he's sitting there in his little scrawny outfit? It's a whole David and Goliath kind of thing as Bugs ultimately triumphs over these big, hulking bullies. Well, I kind of had a sense that I was watching a live version of an old cartoon and Nicole's team (who, at this time, was still nameless in my head) was the scrawny little underdog competing against the huge bruisers. While not all of the opposing team were large or skillful, there were some players on there that clearly felt this game was their opportunity to shine with the hope that one of the spectators would be a major league scout who was here to give them their big break and all they had to do was show their stuff. I'm not sure who they thought was the major league scout, me or RM who had absolutely NO interest in the game at all, but it was clear these guys thought this game was their ticket to baseball greatness. One by one, these players, male and female alike, took turns abusing Nicole's team. They were hitting shots way out past the ditch in the outfield (yes, there was a huge ditch in the outfield that had a hey bale next to it...maybe the hay bale was a safety measure and was this field's version of the Green Monster?) and were hooting and hollering the whole time. At first, I just thought it was mildly irritating (my irritation being due, certainly, to my competitive nature...see my post about vacation if you need a refresher on that aspect of my personality) but, as the game continued and these guys continued to be merciless, I started to get really annoyed. My ability to tolerate this team dropped to a new low when one of the biggest guys on the team tried to take Nicole out as she was preparing to get the throw at home plate. Really, dude?!?!? WTF?!?! Thankfully, RM was there with me which forced me to turn down my volume, because I could feel my rage start to overtake the thinking areas of my brain and my mouth was about to get me into a whole lot of trouble. I believe my thought process went something like this, "Somebody needs to let these jackasses know this is a recreational game and no one here is going to offer them a MLB contract. I'm going to go right up to Jabba the Hut (aka "big bruiser who almost ran Nicole down") and let him know just how big a jackass he is. Hmmm...maybe his highly unattractive female companions on the team won't appreciate my candor. Well, that's FINE because SOMEONE's got to tell him he's being a JACKASS! They are pretty burly, though. That's fine. My insurance is paid up and the hospital is not far away. My ass will be kicked from here to eternity, but I will have said my piece!" That's what happened in my head. What happened in reality was more like Nicole's team came to the sidelines at the end of the inning. I was growing increasingly louder in direct correlation with my level of annoyance. Nicole came over to me and basically tells me, in a very supportive and loving way, to shut the hell up. I continued to grumble about how ridiculous I thought the other players were being and was again, politely and lovingly, told to shut the hell up. In not so many words. Needless to say, they did not win that game.
The next game was played at a field in East Hartford against a much more pleasant opponent. They were relaxed, they brought beer, they joked around and, did I mention, they brought beer? The first base coach was hanging out with her beer in her hand and would jokingly toast as she ran past our team while heading back to her "dugout" (at least, I think she was a she...she was awfully large. I don't mean fat, I mean she was probably about 6 feet tall and was very broad shouldered...perhaps she played football in another league. What I'm saying is, this chick was freaking huge. I certainly didn't have enough insurance to get mouthy with this one. No.). I sat on the sidelines with little Miss RM. We packed her snacks, her lawn chair, her beverages, her toys (I still need a small U-Haul for any trip out of the house with her) and settled in for the game. A couple of Nicole's teammates also brought their son who sat with us for a while and politely announced every time a plan went by. That would have been a very endearing kind of thing if we were not so close to the airport...yeah. "Look! A plane!" 15 seconds later, "Look! A plane!" After a few minutes of this, I started to feel like I was on Fantasy Island, "Boss! Boss! Ze plane! Ze plane!" What inning is this? The second? Great. Cara and Marc came to this game; Marc played and Cara joined me in the cheering section. Somewhere in the third or fourth inning, our other friend, Mark, who is Cara's brother and who was also the star left fielder, hit a scorcher to center field and, as he rounded first base with lightening speed, he appeared to pull his hamstring (or maybe blew out his giant calf muscle or maybe even his cankle (aka "cank"))and, as he hobbled to second base, he simply stopped and said, "I'm out". Subs? Again, not the big leagues. No subs. Any subs in the stands? Well, RM and Tattoo were out and I needed to stay with the kids for...uhm...well, I needed to supervise them. Yeah. Supervise them (Stop snickering. I'm perfectly capable of watching a couple of kids). That leaves Cara (who is easily the more athletic of the two of us and clearly the team's best shot at replacing her brother. Let's just hope her genes fair a bit better at this sport than her brother's did). Only problem: Cara was definitely not suited up for this game. Here's a snippet of the dialogue from that day:
Cara: "I can't play! I'm wearing flip flops! Clearly that would be a safety risk and we've already had one injury today." (Valid point)
Mark: "Come on. You can play in flip flops." Piercing glance from Cara and he responds, "No?"
Me (being of no help to Cara's cause on this one...sorry, Cara): "Ok, how about you take my sandals?" She then gave me this insanely cock-eyed look and I realized that my insanely stinky feet also produce insanely stinky sandals and Cara was having a hard time with the idea of walking, or running, a few feet in my sandals. Tattoo's mother, noting the discontent, offered Cara a pair of clean, yet stained, tube socks that, very attractively, bunched around her own cank...I mean ankles. So, Cara suited up and and was delightfully fashionable as she ran the bases in borrowed socks and my stinky sandals with the drawstring flapping the tops of her feet as she blazed around the diamond.
This game was only getting better as Nicole's team looked like they were going to pull off a handy victory. Then, things took a turn for the worse. I don't exactly know what happened, but I believe the term is...they choked. The other team became possessed and scored a crazy amount of runs. Around this time, our smoking pitcher had something happen to him. I don't know if it was a small stroke or what, but after some confusion about who was making a call on a fair ball, he took his cigarette from his mouth and started screaming at the other team. First of all, I didn't know he still had enough lung capacity to muster that kind of verbal tirade. Secondly, I sat there going, "What the hell just happened?" That pretty much changed the tone of the rest of the game and they went on to defeat Nicole's team (which is still nameless at this time, but may warrant a Bad News Bears reference).
Ok, game three (well, actually more like game 4 or 5, but Nicole missed a few, so for us, it was game 3). This one was at a park in downtown Hartford, which is an adventure in and of itself, but I digress. Tattoo was there, another player brought his twin daughters, Mark's girlfriend was there, and, of course, RM and myself. This game was pretty good. One guy on the other team did not seem to be functioning all that well and, when he ran, he clearly lost both gross and fine motor control as his arms kind of windmilled out of control and he, more often than not, ended up falling before he got to the base he was running toward. Another guy showed up late and played in a full dress suit, minus the jacket. Perhaps he was the major league scout the first team was looking for? Don't know. Anyway, the game was largely uneventful and followed the same patterns. Nicole's team came out early to take a commanding lead only to have that lead shrink and vanish as they would lose the game at the end. What did come out of this game, however, was that I finally learned what the name of the team was. Apparently, Nicole's team was called the Watchdogs. "How do you know that, Jen?" is what you are asking yourself right now. Well, let me tell you how I know this. Remember, I mentioned a teammate had brought his twin daughters to this game? Well, they are probably about 11 years old and very cute. They were the best cheerleaders any team could hope for because they not only cheered loudly, but they cheered non-stop. Yeah. They cheered through...the...whole...game. "Wow! What were they cheering?" Funny you should ask that. They were cheering one cheer over and over...and over...and over. I don't know if they made it up or not, but it went something like this (use whatever rhythm appeals to you): "Tick tock, tick tock, woof, woof, woof! Goooooooo, Watchdogs!! Tick tock, tick tock, woof, woof, woof!" Then they kind of chuckled, looked at each other and laughed, and began the cheer all over again.
While playing their second to last game at a local school, the Watchdogs found their first fan. And this is saying a whole lot given that even the teammates' relatives and significant others who attended games were marginal fans at best. So the new fan expressed interest in joining the team. She had played softball in Jamaica and was on the hunt for a team here in the States. This woman was so desperate to play that she wasn't discouraged in the least when she asked the Watchdogs where they practiced and they responded with blank expressions. Oh, the Watchdogs don't need no stinkin' practice! In a stroke of genius, Cara asked Super Fan for her email address and the captain said that he would be in touch for the next season. Well, it all sounds a little awkward, but Super Fan got called up from the stands (aka, "the minors") the following week, when the team was short three players. She played in the next game, smacked the ball around, and even earned the nick name "Curly." She paid it forward and brought two more fans to the game she played. The Watchdogs will take a husband and daughter cheering like mad from the bleachers any day. If nothing else, it drowns out the crying from the dugout.
Oh, and I should mention that Cara took it upon herself to make sure that each teammate had a proper nickname. Her husband, Marc, (over six feet tall and about as fast as Youkalis running through a pool of Caramel) came to be know as "Wheels." The guy from the opposing team who lost all motor control and mowed over Nicole came to be known as "Dangerous Dave." (This nickname was doled out by the Watchdogs angry smokin' pitcher. Did I mention that his sole defense is: "If I can smoke and run a marathon, I can smoke and pitch!") Although I thought I would never experience such an unprecedented move, a player on the last opposing team tried to smoke while batting.
I also should mention that Cara had invited another friend to join the ranks of the Watchdogs. He was a perfect match. He had perhaps never played softball, didn't own a glove or cleats, and was just the kind of player the team needed. When his wife heard about the team and it's fantastic record, she recommended that her husband tape a paper plate to his hand and call it a day. Apparently, he took that quite literally because he showed up for his first game with no equipment. That's right, no glove, no cleats, little clue. Cara was kind enough to let this friend borrow her glove and he seemed to be...well, let's say, he was struggling out there in right field. Aw, hell, he sucked. He was complaining that his fingers didn't fit in the glove and it all sounded like a big excuse...until it was apparent that his hand really didn't fit into the glove. Oops. Once he borrowed a glove from the other team (ironically called: NGNL aka No Glove, No Love), he rocked. Cara has basically said, the head to toe soreness, blown out calf muscles, and bruised pride were a parting gift, well worth the fun of playing with the Watchdogs!
Now, Nicole and I missed the final game of the season, but I heard the cheerleaders were there and, apparently, so was Dr. Heimlich because the Watchdogs choked late in the game on that one as well. Mark has told Nicole that the team from the park in Hartford (you know, Dangerous Dave's team), where the Watchdog Cheerleaders made their debut, wants to play them again. I'm not really sure if that game is going to happen or not, but I'll be there with a pack of smokes and a couple of pom poms if it does.
For the first game, we met at a field a few towns over and it quickly became apparent that some of the people on her team have only watched sports on t.v....if even that. While some players were pretty good, some of her teammates looked like they had previously been all star member of the Bad News Bears. There were outfielders who ran from the ball, players who ran down the third base line after hitting the ball, and a pitcher who managed to smoke and pitch at the same time. Awesome. I would have really enjoyed that first game, except for the other team. Now, I know I tend to make a lot of references to movies and t.v. shows and this post is no exception. Ready? Did you ever see any of those old Bugs Bunny cartoons where he's playing baseball against these huge bruiser type guys and he's sitting there in his little scrawny outfit? It's a whole David and Goliath kind of thing as Bugs ultimately triumphs over these big, hulking bullies. Well, I kind of had a sense that I was watching a live version of an old cartoon and Nicole's team (who, at this time, was still nameless in my head) was the scrawny little underdog competing against the huge bruisers. While not all of the opposing team were large or skillful, there were some players on there that clearly felt this game was their opportunity to shine with the hope that one of the spectators would be a major league scout who was here to give them their big break and all they had to do was show their stuff. I'm not sure who they thought was the major league scout, me or RM who had absolutely NO interest in the game at all, but it was clear these guys thought this game was their ticket to baseball greatness. One by one, these players, male and female alike, took turns abusing Nicole's team. They were hitting shots way out past the ditch in the outfield (yes, there was a huge ditch in the outfield that had a hey bale next to it...maybe the hay bale was a safety measure and was this field's version of the Green Monster?) and were hooting and hollering the whole time. At first, I just thought it was mildly irritating (my irritation being due, certainly, to my competitive nature...see my post about vacation if you need a refresher on that aspect of my personality) but, as the game continued and these guys continued to be merciless, I started to get really annoyed. My ability to tolerate this team dropped to a new low when one of the biggest guys on the team tried to take Nicole out as she was preparing to get the throw at home plate. Really, dude?!?!? WTF?!?! Thankfully, RM was there with me which forced me to turn down my volume, because I could feel my rage start to overtake the thinking areas of my brain and my mouth was about to get me into a whole lot of trouble. I believe my thought process went something like this, "Somebody needs to let these jackasses know this is a recreational game and no one here is going to offer them a MLB contract. I'm going to go right up to Jabba the Hut (aka "big bruiser who almost ran Nicole down") and let him know just how big a jackass he is. Hmmm...maybe his highly unattractive female companions on the team won't appreciate my candor. Well, that's FINE because SOMEONE's got to tell him he's being a JACKASS! They are pretty burly, though. That's fine. My insurance is paid up and the hospital is not far away. My ass will be kicked from here to eternity, but I will have said my piece!" That's what happened in my head. What happened in reality was more like Nicole's team came to the sidelines at the end of the inning. I was growing increasingly louder in direct correlation with my level of annoyance. Nicole came over to me and basically tells me, in a very supportive and loving way, to shut the hell up. I continued to grumble about how ridiculous I thought the other players were being and was again, politely and lovingly, told to shut the hell up. In not so many words. Needless to say, they did not win that game.
The next game was played at a field in East Hartford against a much more pleasant opponent. They were relaxed, they brought beer, they joked around and, did I mention, they brought beer? The first base coach was hanging out with her beer in her hand and would jokingly toast as she ran past our team while heading back to her "dugout" (at least, I think she was a she...she was awfully large. I don't mean fat, I mean she was probably about 6 feet tall and was very broad shouldered...perhaps she played football in another league. What I'm saying is, this chick was freaking huge. I certainly didn't have enough insurance to get mouthy with this one. No.). I sat on the sidelines with little Miss RM. We packed her snacks, her lawn chair, her beverages, her toys (I still need a small U-Haul for any trip out of the house with her) and settled in for the game. A couple of Nicole's teammates also brought their son who sat with us for a while and politely announced every time a plan went by. That would have been a very endearing kind of thing if we were not so close to the airport...yeah. "Look! A plane!" 15 seconds later, "Look! A plane!" After a few minutes of this, I started to feel like I was on Fantasy Island, "Boss! Boss! Ze plane! Ze plane!" What inning is this? The second? Great. Cara and Marc came to this game; Marc played and Cara joined me in the cheering section. Somewhere in the third or fourth inning, our other friend, Mark, who is Cara's brother and who was also the star left fielder, hit a scorcher to center field and, as he rounded first base with lightening speed, he appeared to pull his hamstring (or maybe blew out his giant calf muscle or maybe even his cankle (aka "cank"))and, as he hobbled to second base, he simply stopped and said, "I'm out". Subs? Again, not the big leagues. No subs. Any subs in the stands? Well, RM and Tattoo were out and I needed to stay with the kids for...uhm...well, I needed to supervise them. Yeah. Supervise them (Stop snickering. I'm perfectly capable of watching a couple of kids). That leaves Cara (who is easily the more athletic of the two of us and clearly the team's best shot at replacing her brother. Let's just hope her genes fair a bit better at this sport than her brother's did). Only problem: Cara was definitely not suited up for this game. Here's a snippet of the dialogue from that day:
Cara: "I can't play! I'm wearing flip flops! Clearly that would be a safety risk and we've already had one injury today." (Valid point)
Mark: "Come on. You can play in flip flops." Piercing glance from Cara and he responds, "No?"
Me (being of no help to Cara's cause on this one...sorry, Cara): "Ok, how about you take my sandals?" She then gave me this insanely cock-eyed look and I realized that my insanely stinky feet also produce insanely stinky sandals and Cara was having a hard time with the idea of walking, or running, a few feet in my sandals. Tattoo's mother, noting the discontent, offered Cara a pair of clean, yet stained, tube socks that, very attractively, bunched around her own cank...I mean ankles. So, Cara suited up and and was delightfully fashionable as she ran the bases in borrowed socks and my stinky sandals with the drawstring flapping the tops of her feet as she blazed around the diamond.
This game was only getting better as Nicole's team looked like they were going to pull off a handy victory. Then, things took a turn for the worse. I don't exactly know what happened, but I believe the term is...they choked. The other team became possessed and scored a crazy amount of runs. Around this time, our smoking pitcher had something happen to him. I don't know if it was a small stroke or what, but after some confusion about who was making a call on a fair ball, he took his cigarette from his mouth and started screaming at the other team. First of all, I didn't know he still had enough lung capacity to muster that kind of verbal tirade. Secondly, I sat there going, "What the hell just happened?" That pretty much changed the tone of the rest of the game and they went on to defeat Nicole's team (which is still nameless at this time, but may warrant a Bad News Bears reference).
Ok, game three (well, actually more like game 4 or 5, but Nicole missed a few, so for us, it was game 3). This one was at a park in downtown Hartford, which is an adventure in and of itself, but I digress. Tattoo was there, another player brought his twin daughters, Mark's girlfriend was there, and, of course, RM and myself. This game was pretty good. One guy on the other team did not seem to be functioning all that well and, when he ran, he clearly lost both gross and fine motor control as his arms kind of windmilled out of control and he, more often than not, ended up falling before he got to the base he was running toward. Another guy showed up late and played in a full dress suit, minus the jacket. Perhaps he was the major league scout the first team was looking for? Don't know. Anyway, the game was largely uneventful and followed the same patterns. Nicole's team came out early to take a commanding lead only to have that lead shrink and vanish as they would lose the game at the end. What did come out of this game, however, was that I finally learned what the name of the team was. Apparently, Nicole's team was called the Watchdogs. "How do you know that, Jen?" is what you are asking yourself right now. Well, let me tell you how I know this. Remember, I mentioned a teammate had brought his twin daughters to this game? Well, they are probably about 11 years old and very cute. They were the best cheerleaders any team could hope for because they not only cheered loudly, but they cheered non-stop. Yeah. They cheered through...the...whole...game. "Wow! What were they cheering?" Funny you should ask that. They were cheering one cheer over and over...and over...and over. I don't know if they made it up or not, but it went something like this (use whatever rhythm appeals to you): "Tick tock, tick tock, woof, woof, woof! Goooooooo, Watchdogs!! Tick tock, tick tock, woof, woof, woof!" Then they kind of chuckled, looked at each other and laughed, and began the cheer all over again.
While playing their second to last game at a local school, the Watchdogs found their first fan. And this is saying a whole lot given that even the teammates' relatives and significant others who attended games were marginal fans at best. So the new fan expressed interest in joining the team. She had played softball in Jamaica and was on the hunt for a team here in the States. This woman was so desperate to play that she wasn't discouraged in the least when she asked the Watchdogs where they practiced and they responded with blank expressions. Oh, the Watchdogs don't need no stinkin' practice! In a stroke of genius, Cara asked Super Fan for her email address and the captain said that he would be in touch for the next season. Well, it all sounds a little awkward, but Super Fan got called up from the stands (aka, "the minors") the following week, when the team was short three players. She played in the next game, smacked the ball around, and even earned the nick name "Curly." She paid it forward and brought two more fans to the game she played. The Watchdogs will take a husband and daughter cheering like mad from the bleachers any day. If nothing else, it drowns out the crying from the dugout.
Oh, and I should mention that Cara took it upon herself to make sure that each teammate had a proper nickname. Her husband, Marc, (over six feet tall and about as fast as Youkalis running through a pool of Caramel) came to be know as "Wheels." The guy from the opposing team who lost all motor control and mowed over Nicole came to be known as "Dangerous Dave." (This nickname was doled out by the Watchdogs angry smokin' pitcher. Did I mention that his sole defense is: "If I can smoke and run a marathon, I can smoke and pitch!") Although I thought I would never experience such an unprecedented move, a player on the last opposing team tried to smoke while batting.
I also should mention that Cara had invited another friend to join the ranks of the Watchdogs. He was a perfect match. He had perhaps never played softball, didn't own a glove or cleats, and was just the kind of player the team needed. When his wife heard about the team and it's fantastic record, she recommended that her husband tape a paper plate to his hand and call it a day. Apparently, he took that quite literally because he showed up for his first game with no equipment. That's right, no glove, no cleats, little clue. Cara was kind enough to let this friend borrow her glove and he seemed to be...well, let's say, he was struggling out there in right field. Aw, hell, he sucked. He was complaining that his fingers didn't fit in the glove and it all sounded like a big excuse...until it was apparent that his hand really didn't fit into the glove. Oops. Once he borrowed a glove from the other team (ironically called: NGNL aka No Glove, No Love), he rocked. Cara has basically said, the head to toe soreness, blown out calf muscles, and bruised pride were a parting gift, well worth the fun of playing with the Watchdogs!
Now, Nicole and I missed the final game of the season, but I heard the cheerleaders were there and, apparently, so was Dr. Heimlich because the Watchdogs choked late in the game on that one as well. Mark has told Nicole that the team from the park in Hartford (you know, Dangerous Dave's team), where the Watchdog Cheerleaders made their debut, wants to play them again. I'm not really sure if that game is going to happen or not, but I'll be there with a pack of smokes and a couple of pom poms if it does.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
We will never forget...
I wasn't sure if I should write this post or not and I struggled with that decision for days. Finally, I decided that it just didn't feel right to not write about that fateful day 10 years ago. It seemed disrespectful to me to not acknowledge the day and, as the 10th anniversary drew nearer and virtually every television station out there decided to air specials reliving the day's events, I found that I not only felt it the respectful thing to do, but I also felt it was absolutely necessary. Necessary in that, with each program that came on t.v., I found myself reliving the days surrounding 9/11 along with all of my memories and emotions of that time. With that being said, I consider myself very lucky as I did not, personally, lose any family or friends on that day.
Before September 11, 2001 New York City was one of my favorite places to be. As kids, my parents would take my brother and myself into the City as often as possible to catch a Broadway show, watch the Yankees, have a dirty water dog, and sight see. In high school, we would take field trips in to go to museums or see a show. In college and beyond, my friends and I explored, and thoroughly enjoyed, the night life. I've done the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (that's a story for another time...what a story). I've done Times Square on New Year's Eve (both pre and post 9/11 and the experiences were markedly different...again, stories for another time). I've gone to the City to watch baseball, basketball, hockey, marathons, attend weddings, go Christmas shopping, and just walk around. Let me say it again, I love NYC and, despite the events of that day, it is still one of my favorite places to be. And, while RM is still too young to appreciate it, I hope to be able to share that beautiful city with her one day soon. Some of my happiest memories are based in that City and now, sadly, some of my most painful memories are also linked to NYC.
I didn't plan on this becoming a "Where were you when..." post, but that seems to be where it's going. So, here goes my story. On that morning, that started off as one of the most beautiful September mornings I had ever seen, I was sitting in a room undergoing my second day of orientation with 3 of my fellow interns at our psychology internship at an agency in Hartford. We were meeting with our staff psychiatrist, Dr. Mangini, when her pager went off and she briefly excused herself from the meeting. When she returned, she seemed distracted and began talking without looking at any of us, "There's been a terrible accident in Manhattan. If any of you know people there, you should make sure they are alright." And, with that, she left the meeting. Myself and the other interns sat there for a brief moment as I tried to understand what she had just said. "A terrible accident in Manhattan? What kind of accident? What part of Manhattan?" I sat there making a list in my head of the friends that worked in Manhattan: my college roommate, her husband (who also went to college with us), two friends from home, a friend from my doctoral program, a friend from church and her husband,...my head started to spin. I needed more information. I got up and ran down to my office hoping to get in touch with someone. I called all the numbers I had, but either no one was picking up or the phone calls would not go through. I ran back to the meeting room where my fellow interns had found a t.v. We watched the news as flames billowed from the first tower and everyone tried to figure out what happened. Was it a commuter plane? Was there an air traffic controller error? How many were hurt? Then, we watched the second plane hit the second tower and immediately an overwhelming feeling of dread overcame the room. I have never felt so helpless, lost, horrified, and numb. Rumors were quickly spreading throughout the agency, "The Sears Tower was hit. The White House has been attacked. They are targeting nuclear plants". On and on and on. As we tried to wrap our heads around the confused and disjointed information we were getting, I sat there in horrified silence watching...watching the towers burn...watching the debris fly through the air...watching the poor, desperate souls trapped in the upper levels of the Towers decide to take matters in to their own hands and jump from 100 stories up...watching as the Towers crumbled...watching a new reality unfold. I don't remember many more details from that day or the days that followed. I think things became so overwhelming that my brain turned itself off in order to protect me. I don't really know. I do know that, one by one, I was able to either get in touch with my friends or speak with someone who knew they were safe. I had spoken with some of my friends in Manhattan. Anna worked at a hotel in Times Square as the head of hospitality. She was supposed to have taken a group to the observation deck at the top of the Towers that day, but a couple members of the group were late, so they didn't make it down there before the attacks began. She said one of the most unsettling things about that day, in addition to the obvious, was that Times Square was quiet. I believe her quote was, "You could hear a pin drop". There were no cars. There were no tourists. No one was on the street...at first. Slowly, people did show up in Times Square. People covered in debris. People who were trying to get as far away from the World Trade Center as possible. People who wanted to go home, but couldn't get out of the City because all of the bridges, tunnels, and mass transit systems were shut down. People who now had no where to go and took refuge in her hotel. I spoke with Alexis who was doing her internship at a hospital in the City. She spoke of how they were put on alert and prepared for mass casualties, only to have no one arrive. I spoke with Hildy, who was safe, but couldn't get home and was able to stay with our other friend, Pat, who lived in Manhattan and was also safe. But with each confirmation of someone being safe, I would also hear stories of others who were not so lucky. People who had lost siblings, spouses, cousins, friends. The sense of overwhelming sadness was paralyzing and suffocating. The world, it seemed, had stopped. New York, my happy place, my playground, was now a war zone. I cried. I screamed. I wanted someone to say everything would be ok. I wanted to do something. But I didn't. I couldn't. I found I couldn't stop watching the news. I couldn't stop replaying the images in my head. I couldn't do much of anything.
It seemed like it took weeks for people to catch their breath. It seemed no one really knew what to do...there was no more sense of normalcy. But, slowly, things started to come to life again. People started to laugh again. Perhaps not as loudly or as vibrantly as before, but at least it was something. And it kept getting better, slowly. In November of that year, I went into Manhattan to cheer Cristina on as she ran the NYC Marathon. Part of me wanted to go to Ground Zero and another part couldn't bear it, so I didn't. Then, on New Year's Eve of 2001, Sara and I headed to NYC to "celebrate" the New Year in Times Square. While many of my family and friends were concerned about this plan and didn't want us to go, I assured them it would be ok. We headed into the City early because we wanted to finally make the trek to Ground Zero. The City had built a viewing platform to allow people to come and pay their respects without disturbing the people who were working there to help move the City forward. We arrived downtown and waited in line for 3 hours to get our chance to see where the Towers once stood. As we stood in line, we saw buildings covered in soot, layers of ash in the sewers, and a parking meter that had not only been bent in half from the force, but had also partially melted. As we got closer, the crowd grew quieter and we reached a memorial area that had been set up outside a church where relief workers would rest. The wall was laden with missing posters, flowers, articles of clothing left by people, teddy bears, and other personal items representing lost loved ones. When we finally entered the ramp for the platform, there was an eerie silence. The ramp ran parallel to a cemetery, ironically enough, and this cemetery was again covered in soot and littered with huge pieces of metal from the blast. In the trees, there were giant balls of what looked like paper and, as the wind blew, we realized they were not paper at all; they were the blinds from the buildings that had been caught in the branches. As I continued to look in the trees, I noticed a pair of torn slacks hanging on one of the branches. As the crowd on the platform thinned out and I got my first look at what had become known by rescue workers as "The Pile", I saw a wasteland. Where the Towers once stood, was now a crater which would be the final resting place for 40% of the victims from that site whose bodies would never be recovered. As I stood there paralyzed, I was grateful for the police who were there to quietly usher people along. I slowly walked down the platform exit and I realized we were the last ones from our group to leave and we were both sobbing. Then, I heard someone say, "It's Giuliani!" and I froze. I felt I needed to see him or say something to him for the strength and courage he gave the City, and those who love it, in those dark days. He was there to pay his final respects as Mayor of New York and I found myself drawn to him. I fumbled in my pocket for a camera and I ran back up the exit ramp to get his picture. As I did this, I noticed police and Giuliani's security detail running toward me and I realized I still had my hand in my jacket pocket as I was running. I quickly stopped and threw my hands straight up in the air to show I had nothing and I explained, as I was still sobbing, that I just wanted a picture of the Mayor. The guard who got to me first, saw the camera, saw I was sobbing, and simply gave me a small smile, wished me a Happy New Year, and asked us to step aside and allow the Mayor to pass. As he came closer, I managed to snap a picture of him and, when he passed, he caught my eye and began walking toward me. I stuck my hand out and he took it. As we shook hands, all I could manage to say was, "Thank you for everything, Mr. Mayor. Happy New Year" and he wished me the same before walking again. He then spotted Sara, who was now uncontrollably sobbing, and she said, "I'm so sorry". Then, he froze, looked at his companion, paused a moment longer, and finally turned back to wish Sara a Happy New Year before moving on again. And with that, he was gone. We made our way down the ramp and another officer came up to us to ask if we were alright. I couldn't speak, but managed to nod my head and, finally, I was able to get out "Happy New Year". He wished us the same and we left. That whole experience afforded me some peace that day and I knew NYC was the right place to be on that New Year's Eve. I haven't been able to return to Ground Zero since that day.
As the tenth anniversary of that tragic day is here, I find all those feelings and memories flooding back. I'd like to be able to say that I feel better equipped to handle things at this time, but with each t.v. special replaying videos of the attacks, with each show focusing on the widows, parents, children of the victims, with each article recounting the events of that day, I feel a renewed sense of pain, sadness, and paralyzing despair. I'd like to be able to say that the events of that day helped make this country stronger, but I can't say that. While there was a strong sense of unity and support permeating this country immediately following the attacks, those feelings gave way to anger, resentment, hatred and ignorance. Unfortunately, 10 years later, those feelings linger and this country feels more disjointed and divided than it has ever felt before. I'd like to say that America has healed from that day but, while the wounds may not be as fresh as they were a decade ago, we have been scarred and those scars are a constant reminder of what was lost that day.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
I've gone to the Dark Side
Of all the people who may (or may not) read this post, the one who will probably appreciate it the most is Cristina. The reason I say that is because Cristina is perhaps one of my oldest and dearest friends and throughout the entire course of our friendship, she has been a morning person. By morning person, I mean she is one of those people that has that perky attitude and bright, cheery smile no matter what ungodly time of the morning it may be. She's the person who gets up at the butt crack of dawn to run 15 miles and still functions quite well, remaining chipper, upbeat and looking as if she could enter a freaking beauty pageant. I, on the other hand, would not fall into that "morning person" category quite so neatly. Hell, I don't fall into that same universe. For me, mornings typically consist of the alarm going off (probably later than it really should), me hitting snooze, rolling over, hitting snooze again, rolling over again, hitting snooze one last time (incidentally, I am not very good at math at all, but I am VERY good at precisely calculating how many times I can hit snooze in the morning and still be on time for work...or pretty close to on time anyway), rolling over one last time, and then finally getting out of bed with a very long stream of obscenities being uttered all the way from the bedroom to the shower. On some mornings, my overall homicidal mood continues well into my shower and, on some very unfortunate days, can go well beyond that. For those who enjoy coffee or other caffeinated beverages, mornings probably run more smoothly. Your urge to kill your neighbors and/or their pets and children, probably end once that first steaming cup of Joe has passed your lips. I, however, do not drink caffeine. Not because of any wonderful health benefit or conscientious objection. No. I don't drink caffeine mostly because it makes me pee like a race horse and I act like I'm on speed for about 40 minutes before crashing and burning at my desk. It's not a pretty sight.
So, I think you are getting the gist of things; I like my sleep. I don't like to be up any earlier than is absolutely necessary. In fact, I am a firm believer that the whole idea that 3, 4, 5 o'clock actually happens more than once in a day is just a myth. Something parents tell their kids to scare them into eating all of their vegetables at dinner ("Son, if you don't eat all your peas, 3 a.m. is going to get you!" Absolutely terrifying). I know there are those of you out there who will insist that you were a witness to me experiencing those wee hours at some point in my life (probably close to my college years), but I have no recollection of such events and, therefore, I categorically deny ever being a party to anything that has happened, happens, or will happen at 3 a.m. or other hours in the day which I believe are simply urban legends.
Recently, however, a window to an alternate universe has opened and pulled me into a Twilight Zone like scenario. Ready? Cristina, are you sitting? I have been getting up at...wait for it, wait for it...4:45 a.m. Yes, Virginia, there are pre-dawn hours. Now, you may be asking, "What in the hell would possess you to get up at such an evil, dark, cold hour"? Good question, my friend. Well, it all goes back to RM. You see, when I got pregnant, I was quite a bit lighter than I am now. I have tried (albeit, minimally) to diet and little has happened to change my shape. Therefore, back in February, Nicole and I decided we would join a gym in town which offered a day care. The plan, and it was a good plan in theory, was that we would pick RM up after work, head to the gym, and then go home and chill out. However, when it came time to actually put this into practice, we both felt very badly because we realized we would essentially have RM in daycare all day long while we are at work, then put her in another daycare at the gym, and then go home, feed her and put her to bed. In other words, Mommies out. That plan was pretty much completely unacceptable to me, so that was quickly scrubbed. For months (yes months), we struggled with trying to come up with a feasible plan and we couldn't come up with much. Finally, in August, after making several months of donations to our gym, I decided that I was going to visit the inside of this place if it killed me...and it very well might.
Is everyone still with me? Hang on tight to your shorts because I think we all know where this story is going...I finally broke down and my anger over donating to the gym overcame my firm belief that one should be in bed at any and all times when the sun is down. So, last week, for the first time, my alarm clock was set to go off at 4:45 a.m. in order that I may go to the gym when it opens at 5 a.m. (What the hell was that?!?! Oh crap. Someone get the smelling salts. Cristina just passed out.) On my first morning trip to the gym, I came to realize a few things. First, it's really freaking dark at that time of the morning. Second, you know that saying about the early bird gets the worm? Well, at that time of day, I get the damn worm. You know why? Yeah. That's right. The birds are still sleeping. Even the birds know to STAY IN BED AT THAT TIME!!! Me? Yeah, not so smart. The third thing I came to realize is that there a hell of a lot of people who go to the gym at that time of day! Who the hell are these people?!?!? Why are they all here at this time of the day?!?! WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!?!!? In my delirious, sleep deprived state I not only went to the gym and got on the elliptical, but I also approached a trainer and made an appointment for a few sessions (Don't get too excited. They were included in the price of the membership, so I was taking them up on that! Damn skippy). The thing that blew my mind in my conversation with the trainer was this: The only opening he had was at 5 a.m. on a Monday in TWO WEEKS! WHAT THE $@%&?!?!? It really is the Twilight Zone. Holy crap!!! What's even more unbelievable is that I took the slot. And in that one final act, my friends, I completed my passage to the Dark Side. That's right. I'm one of those people now. Oh well. I guess my getting up early does have one advantage to it: I have to go to bed so freaking early now that I can actually take advantage of all the Early Bird Specials in the area.
So, I think you are getting the gist of things; I like my sleep. I don't like to be up any earlier than is absolutely necessary. In fact, I am a firm believer that the whole idea that 3, 4, 5 o'clock actually happens more than once in a day is just a myth. Something parents tell their kids to scare them into eating all of their vegetables at dinner ("Son, if you don't eat all your peas, 3 a.m. is going to get you!" Absolutely terrifying). I know there are those of you out there who will insist that you were a witness to me experiencing those wee hours at some point in my life (probably close to my college years), but I have no recollection of such events and, therefore, I categorically deny ever being a party to anything that has happened, happens, or will happen at 3 a.m. or other hours in the day which I believe are simply urban legends.
Recently, however, a window to an alternate universe has opened and pulled me into a Twilight Zone like scenario. Ready? Cristina, are you sitting? I have been getting up at...wait for it, wait for it...4:45 a.m. Yes, Virginia, there are pre-dawn hours. Now, you may be asking, "What in the hell would possess you to get up at such an evil, dark, cold hour"? Good question, my friend. Well, it all goes back to RM. You see, when I got pregnant, I was quite a bit lighter than I am now. I have tried (albeit, minimally) to diet and little has happened to change my shape. Therefore, back in February, Nicole and I decided we would join a gym in town which offered a day care. The plan, and it was a good plan in theory, was that we would pick RM up after work, head to the gym, and then go home and chill out. However, when it came time to actually put this into practice, we both felt very badly because we realized we would essentially have RM in daycare all day long while we are at work, then put her in another daycare at the gym, and then go home, feed her and put her to bed. In other words, Mommies out. That plan was pretty much completely unacceptable to me, so that was quickly scrubbed. For months (yes months), we struggled with trying to come up with a feasible plan and we couldn't come up with much. Finally, in August, after making several months of donations to our gym, I decided that I was going to visit the inside of this place if it killed me...and it very well might.
Is everyone still with me? Hang on tight to your shorts because I think we all know where this story is going...I finally broke down and my anger over donating to the gym overcame my firm belief that one should be in bed at any and all times when the sun is down. So, last week, for the first time, my alarm clock was set to go off at 4:45 a.m. in order that I may go to the gym when it opens at 5 a.m. (What the hell was that?!?! Oh crap. Someone get the smelling salts. Cristina just passed out.) On my first morning trip to the gym, I came to realize a few things. First, it's really freaking dark at that time of the morning. Second, you know that saying about the early bird gets the worm? Well, at that time of day, I get the damn worm. You know why? Yeah. That's right. The birds are still sleeping. Even the birds know to STAY IN BED AT THAT TIME!!! Me? Yeah, not so smart. The third thing I came to realize is that there a hell of a lot of people who go to the gym at that time of day! Who the hell are these people?!?!? Why are they all here at this time of the day?!?! WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!?!!? In my delirious, sleep deprived state I not only went to the gym and got on the elliptical, but I also approached a trainer and made an appointment for a few sessions (Don't get too excited. They were included in the price of the membership, so I was taking them up on that! Damn skippy). The thing that blew my mind in my conversation with the trainer was this: The only opening he had was at 5 a.m. on a Monday in TWO WEEKS! WHAT THE $@%&?!?!? It really is the Twilight Zone. Holy crap!!! What's even more unbelievable is that I took the slot. And in that one final act, my friends, I completed my passage to the Dark Side. That's right. I'm one of those people now. Oh well. I guess my getting up early does have one advantage to it: I have to go to bed so freaking early now that I can actually take advantage of all the Early Bird Specials in the area.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Potty Talk
This post is probably not about what you think it's about...or, maybe it is. It's about poop. More specifically, it's about all the weird things that people think about poop. The idea for this post came to me when I was using the bathroom at work the other day and, during that visit, it quickly became apparent to me that my colleague in the stall next to me was, uh, well pooping (aka Moving her bowels, dropping a deuce, hitting the groover, dropping the kids at the pool, painting the bowl, taking a dump, making a dookey, sitting on the throne, pinching a loaf, taking the Browns to the Super Bowl, dropping a stinkpickle, and my all time favorite, giving birth to Baron Von Turdmeister). As I settled into my stall, I became aware of the fact that somehow the dynamic in the room had changed. By that I mean, I noticed a change in her approach to pushing out her chocolate pup. She seemed somewhat embarrassed by the whole act and wanted to hide her identity and what she was doing. That observation got me to thinking, why are people so ashamed of their poop? People will walk into a bathroom and not think twice about unleashing their stream (aka taking a leak, taking a whiz, seeing a man about a horse, draining the snake (there is no equivalent for women that I've found yet), taking a tinkle, going pee pee, going potty, tapping a kidney), but people seem to really have a tough time allowing people to know they are painting the bowl. You know those of you reading this right now know exactly the dynamic I'm talking about. Maybe you've gone into the bathroom and the overwhelming aroma lets you know that someone is flushing their pipes, but the person who is actually doing that will be really quiet and you get the sense that, if you could peek into their stall, they would be tapping their feet, quietly whistling, and looking around as if nothing is happening. And, when all is said and done, that person will try to hang out in the stall as long as possible, hoping everyone will leave, so the other patrons of the pipes won't know who is guilty for the homemade stink bomb.
Then, there are those people who won't go poop in public at all. These are the people who, no matter how uncomfortable they may be, they won't go to the bathroom if they are not at home. I always wondered how that came to be and, what do they do when they are on vacation? "I'm sorry, honey, we have to fly back home today. I've got a turtle head sticking out and I can't use the bathroom here". How does this happen? Was there some traumatic event in their past that no longer allows them to bake brownie bites unless they are in the comfort of their own commode? Don't these folks know that everybody poops? It's a natural thing that your body does. Granted, some of the odors that accompany the action are wholly unnatural, but everyone creates their own natural gasses and that's just a statement of fact.
There's also the group of people on the other end of the spectrum. We all know these folks, too. These are the people who not only do not hide the fact that they're paving the Hershey Highway, but they share this information loud and proud. You know these people. They'll get up and say something like, "Man, I've got to take a crap". Then they'll grab their favorite reading materials or hand held electronic and go settle in to the chapel of the porcelain god for a while. Then, once they've emerged shrouded in a toxic gas cloud, they make an announcement like, "Whew! I think I just lost a few pounds" or "I wouldn't go in there if I were you". These also tend to be the people who will openly share when they have passed gas (aka tooted, popped, farted, sang the Weight Watchers theme song, been interrupted by their round mouth friend behind them, been chased by barking spiders, let one rip). These are the people who will proudly claim the smells they create and may even have a rating scale for them. Some of my guy friends in college would actually fart and simply say, "Rebuttal?" which would then invite any other male within gassing distance to throw their air in the ring to see how it would size up. While it was a disgusting, if not totally entertaining game, these guys at least had the courtesy of giving people a warning by having a poster on their front door that had a picture of a guy in a gas mask and said, "Toxic gas area". And they were proud of it.
Me? I'm somewhere in the middle. I will poop when I have to. I won't make an announcement about it, but if the smell is really powerful, you bet I'm claiming credit for that bad boy. I would love to hear how other people deal with their bodily functions, but until then, I'm going to go fuel up with some Fiber One bars...hm, hm, pppfffftttt.
Then, there are those people who won't go poop in public at all. These are the people who, no matter how uncomfortable they may be, they won't go to the bathroom if they are not at home. I always wondered how that came to be and, what do they do when they are on vacation? "I'm sorry, honey, we have to fly back home today. I've got a turtle head sticking out and I can't use the bathroom here". How does this happen? Was there some traumatic event in their past that no longer allows them to bake brownie bites unless they are in the comfort of their own commode? Don't these folks know that everybody poops? It's a natural thing that your body does. Granted, some of the odors that accompany the action are wholly unnatural, but everyone creates their own natural gasses and that's just a statement of fact.
There's also the group of people on the other end of the spectrum. We all know these folks, too. These are the people who not only do not hide the fact that they're paving the Hershey Highway, but they share this information loud and proud. You know these people. They'll get up and say something like, "Man, I've got to take a crap". Then they'll grab their favorite reading materials or hand held electronic and go settle in to the chapel of the porcelain god for a while. Then, once they've emerged shrouded in a toxic gas cloud, they make an announcement like, "Whew! I think I just lost a few pounds" or "I wouldn't go in there if I were you". These also tend to be the people who will openly share when they have passed gas (aka tooted, popped, farted, sang the Weight Watchers theme song, been interrupted by their round mouth friend behind them, been chased by barking spiders, let one rip). These are the people who will proudly claim the smells they create and may even have a rating scale for them. Some of my guy friends in college would actually fart and simply say, "Rebuttal?" which would then invite any other male within gassing distance to throw their air in the ring to see how it would size up. While it was a disgusting, if not totally entertaining game, these guys at least had the courtesy of giving people a warning by having a poster on their front door that had a picture of a guy in a gas mask and said, "Toxic gas area". And they were proud of it.
Me? I'm somewhere in the middle. I will poop when I have to. I won't make an announcement about it, but if the smell is really powerful, you bet I'm claiming credit for that bad boy. I would love to hear how other people deal with their bodily functions, but until then, I'm going to go fuel up with some Fiber One bars...hm, hm, pppfffftttt.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Freakin' Phlebotomist
You know that saying, "You're only as old as you feel?" Typically, I feel pretty good. I'd like to think I have a good sense of humor, I have enough energy to get me through my day, and I can pretty much keep up with RM when her go go gadget legs rip up the living room. However, I think I may not be looking as young as I feel. "Why do you feel that way?" you may ask. Well, thank you for your unspoken suggestion that I am indeed smoking hot and don't look a day over 21 (I don't hear your snickering, snide comments over the Internet, so there. I would try to spell out the sound of me making a farting noise with my mouth, but I seriously don't have any clue how to spell that, so we're going to just pretend that you are agreeing with me and not at all making fun of me). So, as I was saying, I have had some recent experiences which would suggest that my young at heart attitude is not reflected in my outward appearance.
As some of you may remember, back in July we went up to Maine for a couple of days (that was the whole double ear infection fiasco for those of you who aren't remembering). Well, Nicole's family has this tradition of stopping at this restaurant on the way out of town each year for breakfast and, well, we did it again this year (see how that works? It's a tradition. That means they do it each time they're there. So, shockingly, we did it this year. Got it? Good. Now stay with me. We can't keep having these little digressions for me to try and catch you up). So, we're at breakfast, all sitting around and having a good time. My precious little munchkin, who by that time was well on her way to recovering from her ear infections, was yelling and hollering to get out of her seat and run around the restaurant. While I was dealing with her, the waiter (who was very young) came over the table to check in on us and, in the process, asked if I was RM's grandmother. Yeah. No, don't adjust your screen. You read that right. Grandmother. Grandmother. I'll say it again for those of you who remain befuddled (I do enjoy that word, "befuddled), Grandmother. While Nicole's mother and aunt were politely trying to stifle their laughter, Nicole and her sister took great pleasure in openly laughing and mildly mocking me. Now, granted, I might have a few gray hairs here and there, but "GRANDMOTHER"??!?!?! COME ON!!!!
As you can well imagine, it took my bruised egos a few days...OK, weeks, to recover from that one. But, I did recover and have been slowly returning to accepting my mental age as my reality. In other words, I'm going back to that adage of being as old as I feel and assuming that means that I also only look that old as well. While my recovery has been relatively slow, but steady (For those of you currently making a joke about my age, you should know I can't see you or hear you...through my computer. So, neener neener neener), it had been progress...until this past Saturday when I suffered a tragic setback. Essentially, we had to take RM to get some routine blood work done and we were all dreading it because we knew they were going to have to do a full blood draw and we knew that wouldn't be pretty (you know, stick the needle in her arm rather than doing a finger prick...(tee hee. I said "prick")). We got to the lab, checked her in and waited. We didn't have to wait long and Nicole and I took her back to the assigned room. Within a couple of minutes, a woman came in and prepped the vials. Nicole and I talked it over and decided Nicole would hold RM in her lap and I would try to help hold her down if needed. Two more women entered the room and we were ready to begin. Now, first of all, the room was pretty small, so to have 5 adults and a toddler in there, was a little tight. The other observation I had was that the women were of all different ages, with two of them being clearly older than me and one being in her early 30s probably. Ok, I've set the stage and here comes the drama, ready? The phlebotomist pricked RM's arm and the screaming began. It was obvious that her lungs remain in very good working condition and that, while she has not been eating spinach, she had freakish baby strength as Nicole was holding her, a tech was trying to hold her, and she was still managing to wriggle enough that she was trying to break out of Nicole's arms and come to me. Her screaming, tears and struggling was enough to absolutely devastate and puncture my heart, but I soldiered on and tried to help in any way I could. While you might think this is the tragedy I had earlier referred to, it is not. Here comes the tragic part. As I'm trying my best to remain composed and strong, the oldest of the phlebotomists turns to me and says, "Are you grandma? Maybe you should wait out in the hallway so she can't see you." REALLY?!?!? WHAT THE F*@%!?!?!?! GRANDMA?!?!? It's a DAMN good thing she asked me to step out in the hallway because at that moment I felt like Bruce Banner and I knew I was going to need to go buy a new shirt (please note: that's an Incredible Hulk reference. Remember? Bruce Banner was the guy who turned into the Hulk and, no matter what he was wearing when he first got angry, he always ended up in the same tattered shirt and shorts as the Hulk. His tailor must have freaking LOVED him because I'm sure the Hulk paid for the guy's summer home with all the shirts and pants he had to buy).
A short time later, they were done, RM settled down in my arms, and Nicole laughed hysterically and quickly posted the whole exchange on Facebook. And that, my friends, is when I came to the realization that those grey hairs on my head really are visible to other people. Oh, and I also came to realize that the freaking phlebotomist needs a to go see her freaking optometrist.
As some of you may remember, back in July we went up to Maine for a couple of days (that was the whole double ear infection fiasco for those of you who aren't remembering). Well, Nicole's family has this tradition of stopping at this restaurant on the way out of town each year for breakfast and, well, we did it again this year (see how that works? It's a tradition. That means they do it each time they're there. So, shockingly, we did it this year. Got it? Good. Now stay with me. We can't keep having these little digressions for me to try and catch you up). So, we're at breakfast, all sitting around and having a good time. My precious little munchkin, who by that time was well on her way to recovering from her ear infections, was yelling and hollering to get out of her seat and run around the restaurant. While I was dealing with her, the waiter (who was very young) came over the table to check in on us and, in the process, asked if I was RM's grandmother. Yeah. No, don't adjust your screen. You read that right. Grandmother. Grandmother. I'll say it again for those of you who remain befuddled (I do enjoy that word, "befuddled), Grandmother. While Nicole's mother and aunt were politely trying to stifle their laughter, Nicole and her sister took great pleasure in openly laughing and mildly mocking me. Now, granted, I might have a few gray hairs here and there, but "GRANDMOTHER"??!?!?! COME ON!!!!
As you can well imagine, it took my bruised egos a few days...OK, weeks, to recover from that one. But, I did recover and have been slowly returning to accepting my mental age as my reality. In other words, I'm going back to that adage of being as old as I feel and assuming that means that I also only look that old as well. While my recovery has been relatively slow, but steady (For those of you currently making a joke about my age, you should know I can't see you or hear you...through my computer. So, neener neener neener), it had been progress...until this past Saturday when I suffered a tragic setback. Essentially, we had to take RM to get some routine blood work done and we were all dreading it because we knew they were going to have to do a full blood draw and we knew that wouldn't be pretty (you know, stick the needle in her arm rather than doing a finger prick...(tee hee. I said "prick")). We got to the lab, checked her in and waited. We didn't have to wait long and Nicole and I took her back to the assigned room. Within a couple of minutes, a woman came in and prepped the vials. Nicole and I talked it over and decided Nicole would hold RM in her lap and I would try to help hold her down if needed. Two more women entered the room and we were ready to begin. Now, first of all, the room was pretty small, so to have 5 adults and a toddler in there, was a little tight. The other observation I had was that the women were of all different ages, with two of them being clearly older than me and one being in her early 30s probably. Ok, I've set the stage and here comes the drama, ready? The phlebotomist pricked RM's arm and the screaming began. It was obvious that her lungs remain in very good working condition and that, while she has not been eating spinach, she had freakish baby strength as Nicole was holding her, a tech was trying to hold her, and she was still managing to wriggle enough that she was trying to break out of Nicole's arms and come to me. Her screaming, tears and struggling was enough to absolutely devastate and puncture my heart, but I soldiered on and tried to help in any way I could. While you might think this is the tragedy I had earlier referred to, it is not. Here comes the tragic part. As I'm trying my best to remain composed and strong, the oldest of the phlebotomists turns to me and says, "Are you grandma? Maybe you should wait out in the hallway so she can't see you." REALLY?!?!? WHAT THE F*@%!?!?!?! GRANDMA?!?!? It's a DAMN good thing she asked me to step out in the hallway because at that moment I felt like Bruce Banner and I knew I was going to need to go buy a new shirt (please note: that's an Incredible Hulk reference. Remember? Bruce Banner was the guy who turned into the Hulk and, no matter what he was wearing when he first got angry, he always ended up in the same tattered shirt and shorts as the Hulk. His tailor must have freaking LOVED him because I'm sure the Hulk paid for the guy's summer home with all the shirts and pants he had to buy).
A short time later, they were done, RM settled down in my arms, and Nicole laughed hysterically and quickly posted the whole exchange on Facebook. And that, my friends, is when I came to the realization that those grey hairs on my head really are visible to other people. Oh, and I also came to realize that the freaking phlebotomist needs a to go see her freaking optometrist.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Redrum
We just came back from a few days in VT. Now, I feel I need to add a disclaimer at the beginning of this post. I have nothing against VT. It is beautiful country up that way and there are some very nice towns to hang out in. If you're a skier, VT is probably a favorite haven for you in this part of the world. If you're not a skier (which I am not), then you have visions of hiking, biking, kayaking, and all other kinds of glamorous outdoorsy activities. If you're sick of the city, then you may also have visions of escaping to the mountains for some R&R. I'd like to say I am one of those people with visions of hiking, biking, and kayaking, but the fact that I haven't seen my gym since I joined it and that I can't swim pretty much leaves me in the latter category of wanting some R&R. Yeah. That's definitely me. R&R. You know, maybe take a nice stroll down the street, check out some local shops...aaahhh.
The reason we were taking this trip is that we had won the use of a condo for a week in a silent auction at our church earlier in the year. The condo was located right on Mt. Okemo and, for that reason, we could only access it during spring or summer months...so, it was a last hurrah before heading back into the school year. The condo was pretty big and had a kitchen, access to a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a sauna. The owner said only about 90% of the condos get rented in the summer, so we would pretty much be on our own up there. It did not have air conditioning, but who cares? It's on a mountain in VT. How hot could it get? So, we did our grocery shopping for the week, packed our bathing suits, and headed North!!
The drive was quick (only about 2.5 hours from our home) and it was pretty. We followed the directions we had and drove up to the condo which, as I mentioned, was right on the mountain. What this meant was that I was pushing our car as hard as I could and we were still maxing out at a whopping 25 mph as we went up the hill. Finally, after coming very close to pulling a Fred Flinstone and using my feet to add some extra power to the car, we arrived at the unit we were going to be using. The place was really very nice - 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, 2 living rooms, a dining room, a kitchen, a deck, and a sauna. And, just as the owner had said, there was no one else around. "Oh man!" I thought, "This is really going to be great!" Nicole and I unpacked the car, picked the room we wanted to use, and took a drive around the area to see what was around. What we found on the drive was this: the entrance to Okemo was only about 1 mile from where we were (and there was a beer fest going on that night. Normally, that would have made my week right there, but it was pretty close to RM's bedtime, so we decided it probably wasn't worth the $20 admission for only a little while), there was an Irish bar close by, a place called Taco Taco, a quilt shop that Nicole wanted to visit, and...and, uh,...well, that was really about it. "Ok, don't panic" is what flashed in my head as I quickly fired up my iPhone to look up what there was to do in this part of VT. Now, the fact that even Google couldn't point me in the direction of an activity was a little disorienting, but I figured it was only the first night and we would figure out what there was to do. With that, we headed back to the condo, unpacked, made dinner, and settled in for the night. Started watching t.v. and realized this place only had the "essential" cable package. Translation = you can watch what's on the networks, but don't look for any quality programming. Oh crap.
The next day, Nicole's sister, Jessica, and nephew, Owen, came up, as well as our friends Cara and Marc. Now, since people were arriving at different times, we decided to hange close by to be sure we'd be home when people arrived. Jessica and Owen arrived around 1ish and Cara and Marc arrived closer to dinner, so we planned a nice meal, people settled into their rooms, and we played some games for the evening. Monday, we decided to head over to a town called Weston where we heard there was some nice shopping to be done and we figured this would be a nice way to spend the afternoon. So, when we got there, I learned that my definition of "nice shopping" is vastly different then the people who had pointed us in this direction because there was pretty much the VT Country Store, a shop full of Christmas tree ornaments, and a type of general store. That's it. That's the extensive list of shops. No. You didn't miss anything and I didn't forget any. That's what's there. Being overwhelmed as we were as to how to tackle this vast shopping Mecca, we started with the VT Country Store which, in all honesty, was a really cool place. Now, as many of you know, I don't like shopping unless there's food involved. That being said, I LOVED this place. There was a whole room dedicated to cheese and another section dedicated to dips. My dear friend, Cara, and I were on high alert to make sure that we hit all of the sundries available for sampling in the store and we quickly became seasoned critics describing each taste that hit our palates and making sure we "cleansed" with appropriate free snacks before moving on to other flavors. It was a nice place and I stocked up on the sundries which we had decided were good enough to take home and enjoy during our evening games.
Next stop was the store with all of the Christmas tree ornaments, but that was really uneventful, so I'll spare you the details. In other words, there were no snacks there.
Our third, and final stop, was the little general store that had some clothing, little souvenir type things, and more free food. But, don't get excited by the free food thing because, believe it or not, that was NOT the most awesome thing in this store. The most awesome thing was one of those experiences that catches you completely off guard and one of those things that leaves you completely speechless. This is what happened. I was strolling through the store using my super senses to locate and consume the free food that was advertised at the door when I turned the corner into a small hallway and that's when it happened. I saw something I thought I would never ever see in my lifetime and I am completely confident I will not be able to do it justice here with my meager words. I turned the corner and saw a woman, roughly my height and maybe slightly older than myself, carrying a dog. Now, her dog didn't seem like any particularly special breed - he (I think it was a he) was a small dog (maybe 10 lbs) with black and white spots. In and of itself, that wouldn't have been that weird, but that's not the end of the story. You see, she was carrying this dog by holding him in her arms in such a way that the dog was sitting on his bum, in an upright position, facing outward so that I had a clear shot of his chest. Well, I didn't really have a clear shot of his chest because, you see, he was wearing a shirt. Now, I wish I could describe what this shirt looked like, but I really can't because I was distracted by the designer sunglasses that the dog was wearing along with the blingy string from his glasses that dangled around his neck. I'm pretty sure he was also wearing a gold chain, but that might be my brain having some fun with this memory. In any case, when I saw this dog, I kind of froze for a second because of the sheer attitude that he was emanating. I'm pretty sure that if this dog could speak, he would have said, "What the hell are you looking at, Be-atch?! Get me a Double Doggie Latte and pick me up some cheese from across the street. NOW!" As the dog was giving me the stink eye, his owner turns to RM and says (in a thick French accent), "It's a dog. It's a dog". Thanks for the confirmation, lady. I sat there, dumbfounded...speechless. As the lady walked by holding the gay animal equivalent of Martha Stewart, I quickly spun back around to find Cara who, I saw, was equally mesmerized by the dog.
I quickly figured out what must have been the situation with this dog. I mean, the lady carrying him, the attitude, the glasses...it was all making sense to me now. Obviously he was blind and she was his seeing eye person. How nice of her to care for her poor blind dog. What kind of training do you need to be a seeing eye person? Are there schools for that? Does the dog use a cane when his seeing eye person is sleeping or something? Can I address the person when she is on duty? Are you supposed to give her treats or beers or something when not in service? Maybe the dog wasn't completely blind. Maybe he had cataracts and that's why he was wearing those glasses. No, that couldn't be. The glasses were not the ancient forerunners to blue blockers that every senior citizen with cataracts uses. You know what glasses I mean...they are like the deepest black you've ever seen and they have walls on either side of them that have immensely powerful force fields built in that serve to block any and all sunlight from coming anywhere near the wearer's head. Clearly, this dog was not wearing anything like that, so he did not have cataracts. Obviously. Anyway, this poor blind dog was the perhaps the single most amazing and ridiculously absurd thing I have ever seen. I have continuously kicked myself in my patookus every day since that encounter for not taking a picture of this poor, blind animal. If anyone out there has ever seen this creature or if any of you ever come in contact with him in the future, please snap a photo of him and contact me immediately.
Ok, back to our story. Our shopping excursion...that's where we left off, yes? After our dog encounter, we had pretty much hit all of the shopping this Mecca had to offer, so we decided to head back to the homestead. By the time we got back, it was probably, oh, I don't know...Noon. Hmmmm....now what to do? We sat on our buttocks a bit and decided to give the pool a shot. So, we suited up and headed down the immense hill and arrived at our destination...the pool. Not a soul around...except for the massive colony of gnats that quickly figured out we were fresh meat. Needless to say, we only lasted at the pool for about 45 minutes before we had to move on from the bug buffet where we were the main courses. Even poor little RM had little specks of blood all over her head from the buffet. Sorry, sweetie. Ok, back to the condo.
I have an idea. Let's play some games. Movies. Books? Uh, maybe some games?
Tuesday. Nicole and Jess head out to a quilt shop (I'll pass on that one, thanks). Cara and Marc head out for a hike. Owen, RM, and myself hang out at the condo. Ok. This is ok. It's a nice day today. No rain, like predicted, but also nothing to do. Go for a walk? I don't think I am experienced enough as a rock climber to walk around this neighborhood. Go to the pool? Our collective blood supply had not replenished enough to revisit the vampire section of the complex. A movie? Well, we know how RM does with that and Owen had already watched the only movie available in the Red Box that was appropriate for a 9 year old. Crap. Hey! How about a game? No? Ok. Hmmm....I would have blogged, but there was no internet access at the condo.
Have you ever seen "The Shining" with Jack Nicholson? It's a movie about a guy who takes a job as a caretaker for the winter months at a mountainside resort. He takes his family up there and figures he'll use the opportunity to write, only the family becomes snow bound and have no access to the outside world. Oh, and did I mention, the place is haunted. Well, I was starting to have the sensation that I was in this movie: mountainside resort, no one else around, nothing to do...all work and no play makes Jen go a little woohoo.
Wednesday. This is the day that everyone is scheduled to head back home...everyone except me, Nicole, and RM. Cara and Marc left around Noonish while Jess left around 4 after a short trip to a state park. By 4:15, Nicole and I were all alone in the condo...hell, in the complex...and desperately trying to figure out what to do for the next two days. Well, there's a brewery about 30 minutes away. Yeah, but what are we going to do with RM at a brewery? Ok. Ben and Jerry's is about 90 minutes away. I don't think RM will tolerate that ride for an ice cream. We sat around for a bit longer unsuccessfully kicking ideas around until......
It was probably around 5:20 that night when we both looked at each other and said, "Have you had enough?". We were packed and in the car by 6:45 and homeword bound. Now, does this horribly failed trip mean that Nicole and I are unable to spend time together alone? I don't think that's what it means at all. In fact, I think it means that we both love each other enough to realize when to cut our losses and, if we're going to sit around and do nothing, we may as well do it on our own couches.
The reason we were taking this trip is that we had won the use of a condo for a week in a silent auction at our church earlier in the year. The condo was located right on Mt. Okemo and, for that reason, we could only access it during spring or summer months...so, it was a last hurrah before heading back into the school year. The condo was pretty big and had a kitchen, access to a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a sauna. The owner said only about 90% of the condos get rented in the summer, so we would pretty much be on our own up there. It did not have air conditioning, but who cares? It's on a mountain in VT. How hot could it get? So, we did our grocery shopping for the week, packed our bathing suits, and headed North!!
The drive was quick (only about 2.5 hours from our home) and it was pretty. We followed the directions we had and drove up to the condo which, as I mentioned, was right on the mountain. What this meant was that I was pushing our car as hard as I could and we were still maxing out at a whopping 25 mph as we went up the hill. Finally, after coming very close to pulling a Fred Flinstone and using my feet to add some extra power to the car, we arrived at the unit we were going to be using. The place was really very nice - 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, 2 living rooms, a dining room, a kitchen, a deck, and a sauna. And, just as the owner had said, there was no one else around. "Oh man!" I thought, "This is really going to be great!" Nicole and I unpacked the car, picked the room we wanted to use, and took a drive around the area to see what was around. What we found on the drive was this: the entrance to Okemo was only about 1 mile from where we were (and there was a beer fest going on that night. Normally, that would have made my week right there, but it was pretty close to RM's bedtime, so we decided it probably wasn't worth the $20 admission for only a little while), there was an Irish bar close by, a place called Taco Taco, a quilt shop that Nicole wanted to visit, and...and, uh,...well, that was really about it. "Ok, don't panic" is what flashed in my head as I quickly fired up my iPhone to look up what there was to do in this part of VT. Now, the fact that even Google couldn't point me in the direction of an activity was a little disorienting, but I figured it was only the first night and we would figure out what there was to do. With that, we headed back to the condo, unpacked, made dinner, and settled in for the night. Started watching t.v. and realized this place only had the "essential" cable package. Translation = you can watch what's on the networks, but don't look for any quality programming. Oh crap.
The next day, Nicole's sister, Jessica, and nephew, Owen, came up, as well as our friends Cara and Marc. Now, since people were arriving at different times, we decided to hange close by to be sure we'd be home when people arrived. Jessica and Owen arrived around 1ish and Cara and Marc arrived closer to dinner, so we planned a nice meal, people settled into their rooms, and we played some games for the evening. Monday, we decided to head over to a town called Weston where we heard there was some nice shopping to be done and we figured this would be a nice way to spend the afternoon. So, when we got there, I learned that my definition of "nice shopping" is vastly different then the people who had pointed us in this direction because there was pretty much the VT Country Store, a shop full of Christmas tree ornaments, and a type of general store. That's it. That's the extensive list of shops. No. You didn't miss anything and I didn't forget any. That's what's there. Being overwhelmed as we were as to how to tackle this vast shopping Mecca, we started with the VT Country Store which, in all honesty, was a really cool place. Now, as many of you know, I don't like shopping unless there's food involved. That being said, I LOVED this place. There was a whole room dedicated to cheese and another section dedicated to dips. My dear friend, Cara, and I were on high alert to make sure that we hit all of the sundries available for sampling in the store and we quickly became seasoned critics describing each taste that hit our palates and making sure we "cleansed" with appropriate free snacks before moving on to other flavors. It was a nice place and I stocked up on the sundries which we had decided were good enough to take home and enjoy during our evening games.
Next stop was the store with all of the Christmas tree ornaments, but that was really uneventful, so I'll spare you the details. In other words, there were no snacks there.
Our third, and final stop, was the little general store that had some clothing, little souvenir type things, and more free food. But, don't get excited by the free food thing because, believe it or not, that was NOT the most awesome thing in this store. The most awesome thing was one of those experiences that catches you completely off guard and one of those things that leaves you completely speechless. This is what happened. I was strolling through the store using my super senses to locate and consume the free food that was advertised at the door when I turned the corner into a small hallway and that's when it happened. I saw something I thought I would never ever see in my lifetime and I am completely confident I will not be able to do it justice here with my meager words. I turned the corner and saw a woman, roughly my height and maybe slightly older than myself, carrying a dog. Now, her dog didn't seem like any particularly special breed - he (I think it was a he) was a small dog (maybe 10 lbs) with black and white spots. In and of itself, that wouldn't have been that weird, but that's not the end of the story. You see, she was carrying this dog by holding him in her arms in such a way that the dog was sitting on his bum, in an upright position, facing outward so that I had a clear shot of his chest. Well, I didn't really have a clear shot of his chest because, you see, he was wearing a shirt. Now, I wish I could describe what this shirt looked like, but I really can't because I was distracted by the designer sunglasses that the dog was wearing along with the blingy string from his glasses that dangled around his neck. I'm pretty sure he was also wearing a gold chain, but that might be my brain having some fun with this memory. In any case, when I saw this dog, I kind of froze for a second because of the sheer attitude that he was emanating. I'm pretty sure that if this dog could speak, he would have said, "What the hell are you looking at, Be-atch?! Get me a Double Doggie Latte and pick me up some cheese from across the street. NOW!" As the dog was giving me the stink eye, his owner turns to RM and says (in a thick French accent), "It's a dog. It's a dog". Thanks for the confirmation, lady. I sat there, dumbfounded...speechless. As the lady walked by holding the gay animal equivalent of Martha Stewart, I quickly spun back around to find Cara who, I saw, was equally mesmerized by the dog.
I quickly figured out what must have been the situation with this dog. I mean, the lady carrying him, the attitude, the glasses...it was all making sense to me now. Obviously he was blind and she was his seeing eye person. How nice of her to care for her poor blind dog. What kind of training do you need to be a seeing eye person? Are there schools for that? Does the dog use a cane when his seeing eye person is sleeping or something? Can I address the person when she is on duty? Are you supposed to give her treats or beers or something when not in service? Maybe the dog wasn't completely blind. Maybe he had cataracts and that's why he was wearing those glasses. No, that couldn't be. The glasses were not the ancient forerunners to blue blockers that every senior citizen with cataracts uses. You know what glasses I mean...they are like the deepest black you've ever seen and they have walls on either side of them that have immensely powerful force fields built in that serve to block any and all sunlight from coming anywhere near the wearer's head. Clearly, this dog was not wearing anything like that, so he did not have cataracts. Obviously. Anyway, this poor blind dog was the perhaps the single most amazing and ridiculously absurd thing I have ever seen. I have continuously kicked myself in my patookus every day since that encounter for not taking a picture of this poor, blind animal. If anyone out there has ever seen this creature or if any of you ever come in contact with him in the future, please snap a photo of him and contact me immediately.
Ok, back to our story. Our shopping excursion...that's where we left off, yes? After our dog encounter, we had pretty much hit all of the shopping this Mecca had to offer, so we decided to head back to the homestead. By the time we got back, it was probably, oh, I don't know...Noon. Hmmmm....now what to do? We sat on our buttocks a bit and decided to give the pool a shot. So, we suited up and headed down the immense hill and arrived at our destination...the pool. Not a soul around...except for the massive colony of gnats that quickly figured out we were fresh meat. Needless to say, we only lasted at the pool for about 45 minutes before we had to move on from the bug buffet where we were the main courses. Even poor little RM had little specks of blood all over her head from the buffet. Sorry, sweetie. Ok, back to the condo.
I have an idea. Let's play some games. Movies. Books? Uh, maybe some games?
Tuesday. Nicole and Jess head out to a quilt shop (I'll pass on that one, thanks). Cara and Marc head out for a hike. Owen, RM, and myself hang out at the condo. Ok. This is ok. It's a nice day today. No rain, like predicted, but also nothing to do. Go for a walk? I don't think I am experienced enough as a rock climber to walk around this neighborhood. Go to the pool? Our collective blood supply had not replenished enough to revisit the vampire section of the complex. A movie? Well, we know how RM does with that and Owen had already watched the only movie available in the Red Box that was appropriate for a 9 year old. Crap. Hey! How about a game? No? Ok. Hmmm....I would have blogged, but there was no internet access at the condo.
Have you ever seen "The Shining" with Jack Nicholson? It's a movie about a guy who takes a job as a caretaker for the winter months at a mountainside resort. He takes his family up there and figures he'll use the opportunity to write, only the family becomes snow bound and have no access to the outside world. Oh, and did I mention, the place is haunted. Well, I was starting to have the sensation that I was in this movie: mountainside resort, no one else around, nothing to do...all work and no play makes Jen go a little woohoo.
Wednesday. This is the day that everyone is scheduled to head back home...everyone except me, Nicole, and RM. Cara and Marc left around Noonish while Jess left around 4 after a short trip to a state park. By 4:15, Nicole and I were all alone in the condo...hell, in the complex...and desperately trying to figure out what to do for the next two days. Well, there's a brewery about 30 minutes away. Yeah, but what are we going to do with RM at a brewery? Ok. Ben and Jerry's is about 90 minutes away. I don't think RM will tolerate that ride for an ice cream. We sat around for a bit longer unsuccessfully kicking ideas around until......
It was probably around 5:20 that night when we both looked at each other and said, "Have you had enough?". We were packed and in the car by 6:45 and homeword bound. Now, does this horribly failed trip mean that Nicole and I are unable to spend time together alone? I don't think that's what it means at all. In fact, I think it means that we both love each other enough to realize when to cut our losses and, if we're going to sit around and do nothing, we may as well do it on our own couches.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Loan sharks...they're gonna get ya!
Has anyone ever played the game Apples to Apples? If you haven't, I highly recommend it. If you have, then you might be able to relate to this post. The way you play the game is that people take turns being "the judge" and that judge puts down a card with a word on it. The other players have other cards with various words on them and each players is required to put down a card from their hand that they feel best fits with the word played by the judge. Each player then has the opportunity to make an argument as to why their word is best suited to the judge's word. For example, let's say the judge's word was "creative" and someone threw down a card that said "Picasso" while another threw down one that said "Pizza". Each player then has to argue why they believe their word best fits with "creative" and the judge has the final decision as to who wins. Everyone get it? Too bad if you don't cuz we're moving on!
While on vacation with my friends, we were playing this game and, while it was fun, it was a bit heated at times. You see, we're quite a competitive group. Essentially, we're the people who won't let our kids beat us at checkers unless they've actually earned it (well, maybe not all of my friends are that way; maybe that's just me...whatever). Anyway, we're playing this game and I noticed an interesting phenomenon that started to develop, particularly when people did not have very good words to choose from in their hands. Essentially, what starting happening was that people simply started using their word in a defining sentence with the judge's word. So, for example, let's say the word was "jovial" and someone put down "bone spurs". Now, in my world, jovial and bone spurs don't go together at all, but you could actually hear people making an argument like, "You could be jovial if you had bone spurs"................huh? (this was not an actual example used in the game. If it had been, this blog entry would have been much shorter).
Needless to say, I did not share my observation with people about what was happening for a while because I was enjoying it and, we were playing with two of the oldest children on the trip (who are around 8 and 9) and I figured out that if you I used some of the words that were included in the definition listed on the judge's card in my argument for my own chosen card, I could sway the children's decision about 50% of the time. What? Like you wouldn't do the same. Don't judge me. It worked....did I mention that I'm competitive?
I let the game go on for a bit with my little observations tucked in my head until it happened. A card was played that pushed me right over the edge and I had to simply point out the absurdity of what I was hearing. We are sitting at our table, playing our game and the judge's card was thrown: Dangerous. Now, people started throwing out things that could be dangerous (I wish I could remember some examples, but they all escape me now). Finally, it comes to my beloved Nicole's turn and she throws down "Loan Sharks". Ok. Granted, I can see where getting involved with loan sharks could be dangerous on some level and an argument could definitely be made. However, when it came to her turn to defend her selection, her response was, "Loan sharks! They're gonna get ya!" and she leans in across the table closer to the judge as if this was some intimidating gesture that was going to sway the vote. Now, in hindsight, the situation was maybe not incredibly absurd, but...well...we come back to my competitive side. I believe my response started with uncontrolled and exaggerated laughter followed by a "What?!?! Did you just say, 'They're gonna get ya?' Is that really your argument?" Then I started making up my own sentences to go with that ending..."Disney Princesses! They're gonna get ya!...Unicorns! They're gonna get ya!...Bunions! They're gonna get ya!" Thankfully, Nicole has an excellent sense of humor and laughed along with me because, quite honestly, had the roles been reversed...I may have become as dangerous as.....as dangerous as.....well, I guess as dangerous as a loan shark.
While on vacation with my friends, we were playing this game and, while it was fun, it was a bit heated at times. You see, we're quite a competitive group. Essentially, we're the people who won't let our kids beat us at checkers unless they've actually earned it (well, maybe not all of my friends are that way; maybe that's just me...whatever). Anyway, we're playing this game and I noticed an interesting phenomenon that started to develop, particularly when people did not have very good words to choose from in their hands. Essentially, what starting happening was that people simply started using their word in a defining sentence with the judge's word. So, for example, let's say the word was "jovial" and someone put down "bone spurs". Now, in my world, jovial and bone spurs don't go together at all, but you could actually hear people making an argument like, "You could be jovial if you had bone spurs"................huh? (this was not an actual example used in the game. If it had been, this blog entry would have been much shorter).
Needless to say, I did not share my observation with people about what was happening for a while because I was enjoying it and, we were playing with two of the oldest children on the trip (who are around 8 and 9) and I figured out that if you I used some of the words that were included in the definition listed on the judge's card in my argument for my own chosen card, I could sway the children's decision about 50% of the time. What? Like you wouldn't do the same. Don't judge me. It worked....did I mention that I'm competitive?
I let the game go on for a bit with my little observations tucked in my head until it happened. A card was played that pushed me right over the edge and I had to simply point out the absurdity of what I was hearing. We are sitting at our table, playing our game and the judge's card was thrown: Dangerous. Now, people started throwing out things that could be dangerous (I wish I could remember some examples, but they all escape me now). Finally, it comes to my beloved Nicole's turn and she throws down "Loan Sharks". Ok. Granted, I can see where getting involved with loan sharks could be dangerous on some level and an argument could definitely be made. However, when it came to her turn to defend her selection, her response was, "Loan sharks! They're gonna get ya!" and she leans in across the table closer to the judge as if this was some intimidating gesture that was going to sway the vote. Now, in hindsight, the situation was maybe not incredibly absurd, but...well...we come back to my competitive side. I believe my response started with uncontrolled and exaggerated laughter followed by a "What?!?! Did you just say, 'They're gonna get ya?' Is that really your argument?" Then I started making up my own sentences to go with that ending..."Disney Princesses! They're gonna get ya!...Unicorns! They're gonna get ya!...Bunions! They're gonna get ya!" Thankfully, Nicole has an excellent sense of humor and laughed along with me because, quite honestly, had the roles been reversed...I may have become as dangerous as.....as dangerous as.....well, I guess as dangerous as a loan shark.
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