19 April 2008

A brush with celebrity

Today, Braedan and I ventured into Boston to meet up with DG and her nephew for a trip to the Children's Museum. It was the perfect day to walk from Salem Street in the North End to the Museum's location on Congress Street. And after some technical difficulties with the double stroller, we weaved with ease through the hordes of tourists vying for tickets on the Trolley.

The Museum was much what I thought it would be - a mess of sticky-fingered kids running around with exhausted-looking parents in tow. But really, it was a blast. There's nothing like the pure, unadulterated joy of a three-year-old donning a hard-hat and sitting on a pretend Bobcat or chucking basketballs against the wall.

While in the cockpit of the airplane in the Arthur & Friends Exhibit, my son was waiting in line behind Neve and Beckett O'Brien, daughter and son of Brookline native and late-night talk show host Conan O'Brien, who was standing right next to me, imploring his son to give the other kids a turn at piloting the plane. Conan is just as tall, just as thin, and just as red-haired as he appears on television. I half-expected to him to bust out with his infamously bad Irish accent or tell a joke. (In my opinion, that guy is one of the funniest MF'ers around.) But he was just a dad, spending the day with his wife and kids at the Children's Museum. I resisted the urge to ask for a photo, as no one else seemed to recognize him or, if they had, were respectfully leaving him alone. And I didn't want to be THAT girl. I was so excited to have spotted him that I quickly found DG playing Tic-Tac-Toe in the next room with her nephew and informed her that Conan O'Brien' was there with his kids and his wife, who, by the way, is beautiful.

"Who the heck is Conan O'Brien?" she asked, the worst buzz-kill for a gossip.

Oh well.

The rest of the trip proved to be fun, but exhausting as Braedan had a mini-meltdown in the Construction Zone after our late ABP lunch. (No nap, you see.) As a result, a promised visit to the Museum souvenir store did not come to fruition. And a major meltdown once we got home justified my decision even further.

Anyway, some pics.

(You can see the meltdown is coming)

(Braedan and Auntie DG)

07 April 2008

Why a 30-something should not pretend to be Shaq

It's called a Segond Fracture and it's what Rich suffered when he was on the basketball court Sunday morning with a couple of friends.

Talking trash the night before at the Black CowRich was the one who said, "Man, I hope I don't get hurt tomorrow," which, of course, sealed his fate. Sunday morning was supposed to be relaxing. The next thing you know I'm screeching out of the parking lot of 1-2-3 Little Me, a new indoor playground Braedan loves, dropping him off at a (good) friend's house, and meeting Rich at the hospital.

He was in triage and his buddies, husbands of my friends, just shook their heads. Rich, in a wheelchair, was shaking with pain. Two hours later, we left with a script for percocet, Rich in a leg immobilizer and on crutches, a Segond fracture diagnosis and a referral for an orthopedic surgeon. Segond fractures are usually an indicator of an ACL tear.

"In 15 years of playing hockey, nothing like this ever happened to me," Rich told Nancy, one of the nurses who attended to him while he was there, before he slipped into his percocet fog.

Updates to follow.