Singuloso

2009-10-17T22:37:00.001-04:00

June, huh? That sure was a long time ago.

More to come soon...

Farewell MJ

2009-06-25T21:03:00.003-04:00

I figured with the news of Michael Jackson's death, now was as good a time as any to return to the blogosphere.

In elementary school, I was a huge MJ maniac. Posters covered every inch of my wall. (Of course, this was before NKOTB came onto the scene and dethroned Jackson for me.) The summer I turned 10, my right arm was in a cast up to my shoulder, an odd and ill-timed biking accident. (I was trying to do a skid in the left-over winter street sand on a three-speed.) A couple of days after my accident, a flower-delivery truck pulled up in front of our old house on Pinnery Avenue. The doorbell rang. A man was standing there with a basket or bouquet of flowers - I can't remember what variety - and a brown paper bag. My mother said they were for me.

I opened the little card attached to the flowers and nearly dropped dead:

"I was very sorry to hear about your accident." - Michel Jackson.

That is not a typo, that is exactly how the card was signed, and, being almost 10 years old, it didn't tip me off as to its validity.

And as if flowers from The King of Pop weren't enough, when I peered into the brown paper bag (again, the fact that these items were delivered to me in true wino fashion did not raise a red flag), I nearly lost my mind. A pair of starch-white socks with glittery speckles and a single white glove. I went to my room and slipped them on, Michael in his yellow sweater vest and bow tie looking on.

I think I might still have that glove, somewhere. I definitely have the card.

The cast came off shortly before my tenth birthday, but my love for Michael lived on. At my MJ-themed party, my girl friends and I huddled in the living room and watched Thriller for the first time, two years after it's debut. Then we made an ill attempt at the Thriller dance in the yard and admired my Michael Jackson cake - the image of him, again, in his yellow sweater vest, almost too beautiful to eat. But we were 10, and hungry. It was one of the best birthdays ever.

Don't know if you did what they say you did, but rest in peace, MJ.

My Top 10 Favorite Michael Jackson songs, in no particular order. :

1) Thriller
2) The Girl is Mine (with Paul McCartney)
3) PYT - Pretty Young Thing
4) Beat It (because my little brother used to break dance on top of the washing machine to this song).
5) The theme song to the movie, Free Willy.
6) Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough
7) Billie Jean
8) The Way You Make Me Feel
9) Wanna Be Startin' Something
10) Smooth Criminal

He's Here!

2009-03-24T06:36:00.004-04:00

Colin Richard Curran
Born 3/19/09; 9:27pm
7 lbs 4 oz
Black hair; blue eyes

22 hours of labor ensued; VBAC failed; born via c-section; result the same: a beautiful baby boy!

The Waiting Game

2009-03-14T15:50:00.003-04:00

If I had stuck to the plan, baby #2 would be here, already a ripe 36 hours old. BUT, being an indecisive person, and one who waits until the final possible moment to switch things up, I postponed my repeat cesarean until NEXT Friday. I wanted to give him a chance to come on his own, but was too chicken to make the full commitment to the VBAC.

Now, of course, I am terrified that I will go into labor. It's almost like I am having a baby for the first time.

Because I never really went into labor before they had to perform emergency surgery the first time, I haven't a clue what to expect should I go into labor this time. But I have to lay in the bed I have made. So now we are just playing the waiting game.

In any event, baby Curran will be here by Friday, March 20, regardless of the method in which he makes it into this world.

25 Facts About This Pregnancy

2009-03-04T08:28:00.004-05:00

In just 9 days, a new baby will be born into this family. In the spirit of all those "25 things" notes going around on Facebook, I decided to give you, "25 Facts Surrounding My Second Pregnancy and Second Child." In no particular order, here they are.

1. Due Date: March 20; Planned C-Section: March 13

2. It's a boy!

3. For some reason, I feel incredibly guilty about above-mentioned C-section. Perhaps because I can't seem to get away from all the inferences that I should not be having a C-section.

4. I keep a bottle of Tums tucked underneath my pillow all times. The heartburn and reflux are so bad this time around, it's like a ball of liquid fire in my throat. Perhaps the Heartburn Fairy will come and take it away and leave in its place the $222 million winning lottery ticket.

5. Despite my best intentions, and the fact that I went to the gym through my 8th month, I still gained too much weight.

6. I am currently at the stage when my appendages resemble overstuffed sausages.

7. The good news: I was able to wear my wedding rings through month 8; last time I made it only to month 3.

8. Another piece of good news: During my last pregnancy, we were new in town, and our local friends were few and far between. This time, I have a good group of friends to help maintain my sanity.

9. I have learned that perfection is impossible: sometimes good enough is enough.

10. Nine days to go, and the nursery is not done. See #8.

11. I will not go into depression mode if I cannot breastfeed. I hope.

12. Last night I cried - full on sobbing - because my first-born wanted to play and I am too fat to get on the floor with him.

13. None of my maternity clothes fit me anymore; I am relegated to the house wearing husband's sweat pants and maternity half-shirts.

14. Monthly Napa Valley wine shipments: $90 per month; a full wine cabinet due to husband's 9-month wine abstinence: priceless!

15. We have decided to keep the name (mostly) secret until the baby is born. So don't even ask!

16. THIS time, I will send out cutesy birth announcements. Who said it's the second child who always gets the short end of the stick.

17. I cannot wait to see Braedan's face the first time he sees his new baby brother...

18. However, I am prepared for my son's adverse reaction once he realizes his brother is here to stay, and is not some myth we have been talking up for 9 months. "When does he go back?" "I liked it when it was just me and you" and "I don't want to be a big brother anymore" are all remarks I fully expect to have to deal with.

19. I am already dreading the grocery bill that will come as a result of living with three males.

20. I need to come up with a plan of attack for losing weight once the baby is born. Step 1: Quit eating so much.

21. I have been told by even the most driven of my friends that I am crazy for not taking any time off my part-time, work-from-home editing/writing job once the baby is born.

22. Thank goodness we now have digital cable and DVR.

23. To videotape or not to videotape? That is the question.

24. For a week now, husband has been asking me to pack a bag. I still have yet to do it.

25. I am secretly (well, not anymore) hoping that I go into labor before next Friday!

Saddened

2009-01-21T09:09:00.005-05:00

Recently, an acquaintance of mine - a fellow blogger; a famously talented, funny, poignant and cool chick - was diagnosed with a terrible disease. Breast Cancer. When I first read the news on her blog, I cried. How could this happen to such a vibrant, YOUNG woman, the mother of two adorable little kids, whose exploits and escapades are painstakingly and hilariously outlined on her blog (along with those of their slightly overweight pooch, Vito).

We don't know each other well - at all. I think I have met Kate only once, but, I have long since admired her for her incredible ability for the written word. (Seriously, Kate, you NEED to write a book.) For reasons beyond my understanding, her diagnosis has hit me rather hard. Perhaps it is because we are roughly the same age (and not to mention beautiful and talented). Maybe it's because I have read about her healthy eating and yoga habits, and thought to myself, "This is enough." Or maybe it's because, despite my assertion that "so many women" seem to get breast cancer, I have never really known someone personally who has been diagnosed with it. And if I had to guess, I never, IN A MILLION YEARS, would have guessed this woman would get breast cancer.

Now, I have one more reason to admire Kate. On her blog, she has, with a sense of humor I do not think I would have the strength to muster, openly discussed her discovery, diagnosis and intimate thoughts of the "palpable mass" she herself discovered while playing with her daughter. Again, while I don't know Kate well at all, I said to our mutual friend that if anyone can get through it, it's Kate. I just know this. I feel it because I can sense it through her words. She has a strength and an outlook on life that is unmatched by anyone I have before met.

Thinking of you and your family, Kate. And knowing you will battle breast cancer - and WIN.

Oh Boy!

2008-12-30T15:49:00.003-05:00

The new addition to our family - due March 20 - is a boy!

Oh, boy.....

One female in a house full of males! We definitely have to try for the girl!

Happy New Year!

How's This for Irony

2008-11-18T13:57:00.000-05:00

For months, Americans, including me, have been complaining about gas prices. Now that they're dropping, isn't it just like an Amerian, namely me, to become annoyed at the fact that it took so long to put $20 worth of gas in the tank this morning.

Can we say H-O-C-K-E-Y?

2008-10-05T20:20:00.000-04:00

They said it couldn't be done. A 3-year-old learning to skate on hockey skates! Blah, blah, blah. B is doing great, and today, during public skating, the little bruiser kept banging into the boards on purpose, leaving the impression that he has an innate desire to play hockey, for which his father, a former college hockey player, would be very glad.

I was wrong about ONE thing, then. Maybe Sarah Palin and I DO have something in common. You betcha! Wink wink.

The Second Phase

2008-09-22T05:35:00.001-04:00

I am officially into the second trimester of my pregnancy, which would explain why I am up at 5 in the morning eating honey roasted peanuts and posting to my blog.

I didn't have the knock-down, drag-out first trimester that many women seem to experience. In fact, many times, I forgot I was pregnant.

The beginning of the second trimester, at least for me, is a little tricky. Sure, I feel less tired. But I am at the point where I don't yet look pregnant, just fatter. My regular clothes don't fit. But maternity clothes look and feel ridiculous. I am currently a walking contradiction.

I have vowed this time not to gain the highly embarrassing amount of weight I put on with my first (50 pounds). For the love of all things holy, I hope I can stick to that promise. But the chocolate Ganache cake at Praline's is constantly calling my name and I cannot hide the fact that over two days, I nearly polished off a whole bag of lime-flavored tortillas. Damn, those things are good. And I think there are a few crumbs left in the pantry.

I am, I must admit, a bit nervous about this new being that will soon be in our lives. After all, it's been three years. We are in a comfortable routine now and I honestly have a hard time envisioning it being cosmically altered by a tiny, crying, feed-me-every-two-hours baby. On the flip side, I could not be more excited about this tiny, crying, feed-me-every-two-hours baby that will soon change our comfortable life. I always pictured a four- (dare I say 5?) member family. And to experience all those "firsts" again is indeed exciting. First smile. First laugh. First step. First word. The first time that tiny person says, "I love you."

Only 25 weeks more to go.

A Day of Reflection

2008-09-11T13:35:00.000-04:00

I hope everyone pauses today - Sept. 11 - to remember.

Torn ACL???!!!

2008-09-08T00:12:00.002-04:00

Thanks to Rich's recent injury, I already know all I need to know about torn ACL's. But the rest of Patriot's Nation will be clued in to that all-important ligament that stabilizes the knee as it has been confirmed that Pats' Quarterback Tom Brady in fact tore his ACL during today's game against Kansas City. I dare not print here the language that was flying through the air at my house this afternoon, but suffice it to say, it was not a happy household. Of course, the Pats won behind Matt Cassel, but now the rest of the season is currently up in the air.

Are you ready for some football? Sundays will not be happy days in this house for the foreseeable future....

End of Summer...Off to School

2008-09-01T09:41:00.000-04:00

Beach and barbecue. That's how we spent the first half of this, the unofficial last weekend of summer.

Then yesterday, we made the first of what I expect to be many pilgrimages to Kittery, to do some back-to-school, or should I say, off-to-school shopping. Our little boy starts preschool this year, and it seems like only yesterday that he was spitting up on my shoulder and waking every two hours in the middle of the night to be fed. Now he's in a big-boy bed, in a big boy room, and, in exactly one week, will walk through the doors of Mrs. Murray's Nursery School for the first time as a student. I will be out in the parking lot, smiling through my tears.

It's a sad and joyous time.

Happy Back to School!

Hero For the Day

2008-08-27T20:13:00.000-04:00

I would like to think I am a dog person. But I'm not. I cringe at the thought of hair on my furniture. I practically hyperventilate when I think of wet doggy paws tramping through my house. Nevermind the mess you have to go through when training a puppy. It was hard enough potty training my son.

So, why then, was I disappointed when an email - complete with heart-wrenching photos - soliciting takers for abandoned puppies turned out to be a joke? Perhaps it was their big, doggy-brown eyes. Or the shattered image of my son frolicking through the yard with a puppy. In the end, though, I think I like the idea of a dog, rather than the actual thing itself. Because when, after our initial disappointment we started researching yellow lab breeders, I became less excited at the prospect of adding a canine member to the family, and more frantic. Did we have the time to train, discipline and love this new member of our family? Would the dog a have an adequate, fenced-in yard? Would we pass the breeder's 10-point potential dog-owner inspection ? No. No. And hells no. I just didn't think we could hack it. At least not now, when we are expecting baby #2.

My point is, I am one of those people who thinks she is an animal person, but is really not, at least not if that animal has to reside in my house.

However, today at Salisbury Beach, I witnessed something that really pulled on my heart strings. An injured seagull. A seagull of all things! The damn bird went into my beach bag, pulled out a giant-sized bag of Gold Fish, flaunted them around the sand and still I could not help but be concerned about the fishing wire and lure wrapped tightly around its legs, inhibiting his gait. The poor thing must have been starving. Had it not been for the flock of seagulls (not the musical group, but an actual flock of birds) circling overhead, I would have given up the Fish, though it would have been much to the chagrin of my three-year-old, Gold Fish-obsessed son. Anyway, my friends and I hemmed and hawed for a bit, wondering what to do, while the injured seagull squawked and squawked and made itself comfortable in the sand. Poor thing. I wish there was something we could do. I'd cut if free myself if I could. Finally, my friend, and new hero, Kristen D., made her way to the lifeguard chair. A few minutes later, not one, but three lifeguards accompanied her back to where we were set up on the beach, and waited while a naturalist/wildlife expert made his way over in his Gator. He asked for a handful of Gold Fish. I dumped them in his gloved hand and he tossed them into the air. Seagulls swarmed from everywhere. Our injured seagull was in the middle of the pack. In a flash, the guy dove and took hold of the fishing wire-entwined bird. Five minutes later, the seagull was cut free and thrown to the wind, his wings spread wide. The gathered crowd cheered. And we watched as he landed in the ocean and darted around the water. If a seagull can look happy, this one definitely was.

So, here's to you Mrs. I Save Seagulls Wrapped in Fishing Wire. Here's to a job well done. May humans and seagulls everywhere take heart and live in harmony.

On Hiatus

2008-08-21T13:50:00.000-04:00

It's true. I've been on a blog hiatus for almost a month now.

It just seemed that lately I haven't had much to say, nor the time to say it. Once my mind is free and clear of pressing issues, I shall return.

Read what fellow blogger KJ wrote about "rotational neglect." I am taking my cue from her.

Be back in a couple of weeks.

Yankee Homecoming

2008-07-28T18:01:00.000-04:00

I know "townies" hate it. But I live here - yes, I know that DOESN'T make me a townie - and I actually enjoy YH. Pancake breakfast, music on the green, antique cars, balloon twisters, fresh-squeezed lemonade, penny candy, a fireman's muster. How can you go wrong at Old Fashioned Sunday?

Anyway, for those of you fellow Newburyporters who braved the "dreaded" tourists yesterday, hopefully you gathered up the kids, got blueberries in your pancakes, took a plunge in the dunk tank, rode around the Mall on the train and felt easy like Sunday morning.

Some pics.

Greenhead Alert!

2008-07-17T11:19:00.002-04:00

I know they've been here for days now. But early this morning, my son and I headed drove over to Plum Island for a little early morning beach action. I mistakingly thought that being 7:45am, those pesky greenheads might still be in a restful slumber. Wrong. If we walked, it wasn't that bad. But of course being 3, my son wanted to stop and fill his pockets with shells and examine seaweed on the beach. We walked a ways, but then even the act of moving didn't stop them from biting at our legs and arms. And those f'ers hurt! We had to hustle it back to the car, where we drove off the island with the windows up.

Yikes!

But the surf sure was beautiful.

On Anger

2008-07-01T19:34:00.002-04:00

I'm angry that the Internet is slow. At the housing marking. That all my kitchen towels are dirty and every time I reach for a paper towel, I am acutely aware of my actions on Global Warming. I am angry that my son pooped in his underwear. Despite months of being potty trained. I am angry that he poured parmesan cheese all over the family room carpet. I am angry at rising gas prices. That our windows don't open wide enough to put conventional air conditioners in the house. That we signed a contract today for an inordinate amount of money to have one of said windows replaced. That even though I cleaned until 9:30 last night, my house still looks like a tornado swept through, favoring the rooms with the highest need for cleanliness: the kitchen and bathroom. That my dehumidifier is full....again. That I have to do laundry. At all. I am angry that I am dead tired after a workout at the gym. I thought it was supposed to leave you feeling "energized." I am angry that after 12 years, I still haven't written the next Great American Novel. That despite multiple promises to do so, I still haven't managed to be "ahead of the game" with my deadlines. I am angry that when it's hot and muggy, my feet stick to the floor. I am angry that I spent time organizing my son's matchbox cars, and they were all over the floor within 10 minutes of him waking. That I have insomnia. That I'm not pregnant yet. That I might be pregnant. I am angry that my neighbor somehow purposely altered his Chevy Blazer to be 10 times louder than it should be. That we have no grass in our yard. I am angry that I haven't posted since June 4. At those damn word verifications that, on a Mac, never go through the first time.

I think that's it. Oh no. One more thing. I am angry that I spent so much time today being angry. Today I nearly busted out of my clothes, turned green and wreaked havoc on unsuspecting victims. I needed to vent. Thanks.

Garden of Last Days

2008-06-04T07:47:00.000-04:00

I am very excited for Andre Dubus III's new book, Garden of Last Days to come out this month.

Ever since I read House of Sand and Fog and Bluesman, I get a bit star-dazed when I see him at the gym. (He lives in the next town over from me.) But it also reminds me that writers are regular people, and that perhaps, someday, I'll be a best-selling author going to the gym.

Anyway, check out this video to get the low-down on the new book, which I'll be reviewing for Merrimack Valley Magazine.

To the hip-hop, you don't stop

2008-06-02T13:13:00.004-04:00

We Did Survive!
(By Michelle "Gloria Gaynor" Curran.)

At first we were afraid,
We were petrified.
Kept thinking we could never dance
We wanted just to hide.

Then we got up there on stage and the curtain opened up
And we said whassup!!???
And then we kicked some hip-hop butt.....

We did it! My two friends and I survived our hip-hop recital yesterday afternoon. After weeks of agonizing about getting up there on stage and shaking our 30-something bodies in front of hundreds of people, it's over. For me, it was kind of an out-of-body experience. For hours before the show, I felt as if I was going to puke my guts out. I was going to get up on stage and forget the whole damn thing, leaving my girls in the lurch. Fortunately, Rich and I had formulated a plan beforehand. Should I have forgotten the moves, the plan was to do the moon-walk back and forth across the stage until the song was over. Even more fortunate, I didn't need to go to plan B. I remembered everything and actually (and perhaps shamefully) enjoyed it. I had fun. I smiled for the audience, whom thankfully I couldn't see thanks to the glaring spotlights. There were no mishaps and we didn't get laughed or booed off the stage. And our husbands luckily left before the humiliating finale in which we received medals and had to sing for the audience.

And after all the complaining I did about class and rehearsals and costumes, I will probably do it again next year. I think I may have found my true calling. Show business.

Thanks to our crazy-whack-funky (and super talented) dance teacher April Nicoll, who should not be teaching the likes of us to dance, but should be dancing herself. She actually encouraged me NOT to quit, for which I am ultimately glad.

Breaking News Update: Stay tuned for a clip of our performance in the coming weeks.

On dinner with the kids

2008-05-18T22:54:00.000-04:00

There's not all that many restaurants around here where kids can be kids and not be given death stares by the diners of neighboring tables.

But dinner at Rosie O'Shea's Friday night proved to be enjoyable for young and old alike. We went with a couple of friends who are regulars there and sat at a lone table in the back of the restaurant. I've only ever had late-night beers at Rosie's, choosing to save the evenings we have occasion to dine out for establishments known more for their cuisine. However, I was pleasantly surprised by my burger. And what Rosie's may lack in fine cuisine, it makes up for with a totally kid-friendly atmosphere. There was tons of room for the kids to run around unhindered and shortly after dinner, a group of young fiddlers and Irish step-dancers took the stage. Half the fun of the evening - besides the good company, service and drinks - was watching the kids trying to imitate the dancers. They had a blast. And what's more, the waitress thought it was funny when I found my son at the next table over making salt-and-pepper mountains for his matchbox cars to plow through. (Not, of course, that this is behavior I generally approve of.)

But it was probably the most relaxed I've felt out at dinner with my three-year-old....ever. We're going to try and crash the Daigle's friday evening ritual as often as possible now....

Good times.

Happy Mother's Day!

2008-05-11T07:13:00.003-04:00

Happy Mother's Day to all the cool moms out there I know!

And Happy Birthday to our little man, who officially turned three today.

Some pics from his soiree last week, and the traditional butter on the nose pic from this morning.

(Bouncing in the bouncy house.)

(Checking out his cake.)

(Us opening presents after his party. Rich demonstrating Braedan's new superhero cape.)

(The traditional butter on the nose.)

Little old ladies who do bad things

2008-05-08T01:43:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, while grocery shopping at DeMoula's, I was in the pickle/condiment/olive oil/natural food aisle, and there was this little old lady slowly pushing her cart past the olives and scrutinizing everything - little jars of pesto, hot peppers, you name it.

Then I saw her take something off the shelf and examine it with crinkled eyes. After shuffling back to her cart, and leaning against the handle, she proceeded to peel the price tag off and put it on an item already in her cart. While smoothing out the little orange tag over the top of the jar, she caught me looking at her. She held my gaze for just a few seconds, just long enough to say, "So what?" in what I imagine would have been a voice much like Sofia from the Golden Girls.

It made me kind of sad.

Is it bad that I schedule my life around Lost?

2008-05-01T17:39:00.002-04:00

Any die-hard Lost fan probably understand this. But many of you also probably are in possession of the latest in tv technology., i.e. Tivo, On Demand.

I think those things ruin the excitement of watching a tv show live. Well, not live, but unrecorded. I like the anticipation, the challenge of making sure my kid is sleeping, the fact that I can't get up during commercials for anything - food, drink, relief - for fear I might miss a millisecond of action.

A brush with celebrity

2008-04-19T17:51:00.001-04:00

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)

Why a 30-something should not pretend to be Shaq

2008-04-07T19:41:00.000-04:00

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.

Why A 30-Something Should NOT be a hip-hop dancer

2008-03-30T16:13:00.000-04:00

For weeks, I'd been waking up on Tuesday mornings with multiple hematomas spread across my knees and shins, the cause of which may have been misinterpreted by more dirty-minded individuals. (Come on, you KNOW you are out there.)

These bruises, however, I am ashamed to admit, are caused by my weekly hip hop sessions. Think multiple knee spins with nothing between your knees and the cold, wooden floors but a pair of cotton sweat pants. Finally, after last week's train wreck, I'd had it and this week caved and went to Olympia and bought some knee pads. Yes, I need a pair of knee pads, please, for hip-hop dancing. Yes! I said hip-hop dancing.

Anyway, this last dance class was on, and I was spinning with the best of 'em, my knees cushioned by a thick piece of heaven. Now if I could only, actually, dance!

The Heat Miser must have given up some territory for Snowy

2008-03-28T08:16:00.001-04:00

This is what is greeting us as we open the front door this morning - one week into Spring.

Istanbul? (Not Constantinople)

2008-03-28T07:28:00.000-04:00

A while back, I signed up for SiteMeter, a site that keeps track of who visits your Website. I thought the list would be few, as I could count on one hand the people who actually read Singuloso.

However, frequent checks indicate that besides the handful of family and friends who visit, there were some surprising non-domestic locations. Cool ones too, like Istanbul, the UK, Galway, Limerick and Slovakia. What I can't figure out, is that all these foreign locations track back to this post. Either they all like my hip-hop avatar, or I have committed some sort of copyright infringement and an investigation as to my guilt has been launched.

Anyway, when I saw Istanbul on there recently, it reminded of They Might Be Giants. So, without further adieu, here is a blast from our musical pasts. Enjoy.

Little Drummer Boy

2008-03-26T14:30:00.001-04:00

I don't wanna work...I wanna bang on these drums all day......

After some prodding, Braedan decided he DID want to play the drums at his friend Ryan's house this morning. In true rocker fashion, notice how at the end he tosses the sticks to the floor. Show's over, people!

(Also, notice the miniature super hero gliding by in the background. That's Ryan, who rocks out hard on those drums, by the way.)

Bay State Parent Awards

2008-03-20T19:25:00.001-04:00

So I didn't win any individual awards, but it was still nice to be mentioned in the list of writers who contributed to Bay State Parent Magazine's overwhelming success in this year's national Parenting Publication Awards. Scroll down and you'll see my name (along with blogging buddy Kate M. Jackson) mentioned in several categories, including Overall Reporting, General Excellence and two special section awards (The Think Pink Guide-Oct. 2007, in which my story on breast cancer survivor and WCVB news reporter Kelly Tuthill appeared, and the Dreams Do Come True Arts Guide-Sept. 2007 where two stories I wrote on Stoughton mom and singer/songwriter Lori McKenna and mom/rocker group HRT appeared.)

House of Coughs and Sneezes

2008-03-17T08:52:00.000-04:00

There are piles of tissues everywhere, empty juice cups spread throughout the house, and no doubt this place is a giant petri dish of unimaginable germs.

Both husband and son have the flu.

Singuloso shall return when the place has been disinfected and the Haz-Mat guys have left the building.

What a witch

2008-02-27T07:31:00.000-05:00

This is when you know that a teacher should just hang up her hat - for good.

Makes you wonder what's going on when you drop your kids off at school, doesn't it?

How Rascal Flatts is helping me potty train

2008-02-26T13:51:00.003-05:00

Getting Braedan to pee in the potty is as elusive a trick as presidential hopeful Mike Huckabee winning the Republican nomination.

Over the last few weeks, Rich and I have resorted to all sorts of tactics - threats, promises of treats, reading lengthy books, multiple viewings of that damn Cars movie - anything. Most recently, the promise of listening to select songs from the Cars soundtrack seems to be working. We downloaded some on Itunes and all I have to say is, "Life is a Highway" and he's in the bathroom peeing. This is his standard reaction, even after listening to the song 14 times. (Seriously.)

Plum Island Surf

2008-02-20T13:22:00.001-05:00

Anxious to reclaim some inner peace and an appreciation of the outdoors, we headed out this morning to Plum Island to walk on the beach, even though a quick check at Weather.com said it was a mere 20 degrees. I bundled Braedan up to look like Randy from A Christmas Story.

(I can't put my arms down!)

We explored for about an hour. Braedan got knocked into the sand by a herd of over-zealous dogs and we both took a digger over some rocks while trying to escape the encroaching water. But all in all it was a great, peaceful morning.

(Braedan looks out into the crashing ocean.)

And for all you beach-lovers who are thrashing around helplessly in these last throes of winter, here is a reminded of what's to come. Turn up the volume and enjoy.....(but try to ignore the faint toddler musings, and my subsequent, "shhhhh.")

Love is in the air

2008-02-14T15:44:00.002-05:00

His and Hers
Any Questions?

Happy Valentine's Day!

Sledding

2008-02-10T18:44:00.000-05:00

Kids say weird things. Well, at least our kid does.

If you can't pick it up on the video, here's how the first part of that conversation went.

Rich: "I want you to count 3-2-1, and then we'll start going down. Go ahead."
Braedan: "I can't."
Rich: "Why?"
Braedan: "Because the trees are out and the sun's out today."

(What???!!!)

Anyway, this morning was spent sledding in the state park across the street from our house, which Braedan truly enjoyed.

A long time coming

2008-02-06T11:59:00.000-05:00

For the last couple of years, Braedan has been running around with the longest hair you've ever seen on a three-year-old. After months of saying I was going to do it, I finally gave in and took him to get those precious curls cut off. Here is a bit of what transpired.

He did eventually sit down and let the woman cut his hair, (though he did freak out just a little when the clippings started falling on him - he has a thing about hair). And here's the finished product.

In the words of Vince Vaughn, he's all growns up!

Didn't we almost have it all?

2008-02-04T14:56:00.001-05:00

I'm not going to say too much about the Patriots' heartbreaking loss last night. I won't expound upon the poor defense and offense, the lack of fire in Brady's eyes.

I will say only this. Those Motherf'ers. A flawless regular season. Football perfection. What happened?

This might be hard to swallow, but much of it is, unfortunately, true.

The Oceanic Six

2008-01-31T23:29:00.000-05:00

At first I thought it might be some crazy, screwed-up rock band Hurley threw together in memory of his best bud, Charlie.

Seriously though, here are my guesses for which of our favorite Island survivors make up the Oceanic Six:

Jack, Kate, Hurley, Sawyer....umm, hmmm....

Oh, damned if I know!

But I am so happy Lost is back. My only gripe is with my husband, who is an obsessive flipper, and insists on flipping to NESN to check the score of the Bruins game during Lost commercials. The three minute intervals are spent with me, hissing, "Back. Back." It finally ended this evening with Rich relinquishing control of the remote and suffering through that stupid Verizon commercial - the one where the guy and girl are texting love notes to each other - oh, about 7 times.

Hip Hop Addendum

2008-01-29T13:04:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I humiliatingly revealed the costume I would be forced to wear during a hip hop (yes - I said hip hop) recital I am reluctantly participating in this summer.

I am pleased to report that I learned last night that the following changes would be instituted. Over the red "Dance!" leotard, we will be wearing cropped black hoodies - old school, I love it. And second, we will be trading the candy cane tights for black, BAGGY!, cargo pants. Nice.

That part is a relief. What isn't, is that at last night's class, I was miserably lost, having missed the previous session. I basically stood at the back of the room laughing and getting pissed and threatening to quit. Honestly, I don't think anyone much cared.

Braedan gets Red, Stanley and Guido

2008-01-27T10:52:00.000-05:00

Watch as a little boy obsessed with Disney/Pixar's Cars movie receives gifts in the mail from Grammy.

Feeding the Cars habit

2008-01-23T06:54:00.000-05:00

Since he had a playdate last fall with an equally Matchbox-crazed toddler, Braedan has been obsessed with the Cars from the Disney/Pixar movie of the same name. See, prior to that my son didn't watch television, but when he saw how much his friend coveted those movie character vehicles with eyes, he immediately wanted them. And of course, I gave in. The whole thing started out with Lightning McQueen.

Since then it has been Cars nonstop. And he hadn't even seen the movie still. This Christmas, after Braedan sat comatose in front of the television at the gym day care each morning in the weeks leading to the holiday watching Cars, we finally broke down and bought it too. And along the way, he has acquired about 35 of the movie character cars. (A lesson for parents - Lightning McQueen is nearly the same as Bugface McQueen, Dirt Track McQueen, Cactus Patch McQueen, Tongue McQueen, Crusin' McQueen, Radiator Springs McQueen, etc, etc.)

Ever since Christmas, he has been talking about the two cars he didn't get - Red the Fire Truck and Guido - and how he plans to ask Santa for them. In true Grammy fashion, my mom, not for the first time, sent Braedan one of his beloved wishes in the mail yesterday. You can imagine the excitement it caused.

Braedan goes to bed talking about Cars, wakes up in the wee hours of the morning, stumbles to the living room to play with his Cars and can barely function if he isn't holding one of them in his hand at all times.

I never thought it would come to this

2008-01-18T07:49:00.000-05:00

Does this look like an outfit that a 30-something stay-at-home-mom would wear? Ok. Well, any self-respecting, 30-something stay-at-home mom?

As readers of Singuloso may know, a couple of months ago I, along with a couple of friends, decided to partake in a hip-hop dance class at a local studio, DESPITE the fact that there would be a recital at the end of the class.

The class was everything I thought it would be - stomping around to the likes of Kanye West in baggy sweatpants and tee-shirts, a suburban dose of 'street.' Now I will be made to look like a deranged, dancing candy-striper. (Yes, the tight-fitting bodice, in shiny, glittery, silver lettering, indeed reads DANCE.) What's worse is that I am not the slim and fit person I was in college. Doubly worse? During our routine - which by the way will not be done to a hip-hop diddy, but an N'Sync Christmas song (the theme is dancing through the holidays) - a group of 7 year old tumblers will join us on stage - WEARING THE SAME COSTUME!

The possibility of quitting just before the recital still exists for me. And each time I look at that costume, rumpled up in a plastic bag in my closet, that possibility becomes increasingly real. But (and at this point it's a big but(t), literally and figuratively) should I decide to join in this circus, I will NOT be posting the recital date here on Singuloso.

Apres Holiday

2008-01-05T20:09:00.000-05:00

Most everyone I know is glad the holidays are over. I, on the other hand, suffer a mild to moderate depression once all the festivities have finally come to an end.

I admit it. I am one of those "Christmas people." I love decorating the tree. Sitting by the fire listening to Christmas music. Watching Christmas Vacation over and over until the lines between my holidays and the Griswold's are blurred beyond recognition.

Over the last couple of days, I have been periodically (and sadly) removing Christmas decorations from the rooms in my home. On New Year's night, still nursing a bit of a hangover, I took all the ornaments off the tree, leaving it naked with nothing but it's twinkling white lights to cover its fading needles. The next morning, my son got up from bed, went into the living room, and came running back as if someone had just taken off with his shiny new squad of Pixar Cars. "Where are all the
ornaments?" he asked. "It's time for us to put the tree outside," I told him. "But why?" he pleaded. "Christmas is over," I said bitterly.

But for four days the tree stood there in our living room, naked and twinkling, hanging on. It's star shining like a beacon of hope. On day three, I noticed one lone ornament hanging from a low branch - a sign of solidarity, no doubt, put up by my son.

Tonight marked the complete removal of our beloved Tannenbaum. The removal on this particular day has nothing to do with the Epiphany but rather the fact that our tree stopped drinking water well before Christmas and there was a rather well-defined circle of pine needles circumventing our tree skirt.

Our son, eager to help with this obviously ceremonious task, told us in no uncertain terms that we would be getting a new tree to replace this "old" one. I didn't have the heart to tell him that a new tree would not arrive for another 335 days. Our collective disappointment would have been too much to bear.

The silver lining to all this Christmas tree removal business though is that our small living room feels unusually large without that all important symbol of the holiday season taking up half our space. A couple of minutes after the tree was tossed out into the icy snow, I was already talking up a few new pieces of furniture and conjuring mental blueprints for our "new" room. I'm feeling better already. And after all, Christmas is only a mere 354 days away now.

Damn. But it's a leap year, isn't it?

The Holidays in Pictures

2008-01-02T15:02:00.000-05:00

Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Ours was filled with much laughter, fun, food and spirit, some of which can be seen here.

Happy New Year!

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

For Aunt Sherry

2007-12-16T11:44:00.000-05:00

These pics are for my Aunt Sherry, who hosted a wonderful Thanksgiving this year, and who has been waiting patiently to see them.

And yes, that bear was once living.

Not only was the food delicious (especially the duck, which I had to ask for on the sly), but the games, conversation and company that followed was, of course, the best.

Are those matching aprons?

2007-12-15T08:43:00.000-05:00

So corny, it's cute....

"I Demand a Cupcake"

2007-12-05T12:52:00.000-05:00

In the weeks leading up to our trip to the North Pole, I talked the event up to the little man. "We're going on a train ride. It's going to take us to the North Pole, where Santa lives. Santa's going to get on board and say hello. And so will Rudolph and Frosty and some elves. There will be a treat."

"What kind of treat, Mommy?" was all he asked.

"I don't know. Probably a cupcake."

"Yeah. I want a cupcake!" He was grinning from ear to ear.

This past Saturday, after waiting in line in arctic temperatures, we boarded the train in Newburyport, and we weren't sitting down for more than a minute before our son started yelling for his cupcake. For a toddler, the wait for a promised treat must seem like an eternity. But we got through the reading of Chris Van Allsburg's story and singing some Christmas songs. And we weren't half-way to the North Pole (aka the Beverly MBTA stop) before the chefs started to bring out the snack.

When one of them handed my son a chocolate brownie, he looked at it, handed it back to me with a look of disdain in his eyes, and said, "I want a cupcake."

"Oh, but it's a delicious brownie," I said, biting into my own, and exaggerating my chew.

"No. I want a cupcake. I would like a cupcake, PLEASE!"

"Just try it. Take a bite."

Finally, he succumbed, and bit into it.

"I like it!" he said.

He spent the rest of the train ride - a visit from Santa and his elves, Frosty and Rudolph and some more caroling - with chocolate smeared across his lips, and ringing the silver bell, handed to him by one of Santa's helpers as the first gift of Christmas

Two years ago on the Polar Express, when I was handed the silver bell for our son, then only an infant, I shook it for him. But it didn't make a sound. If you know the story, you know what that means. But this year, the bell rang loud and clear.

"It's from Santa's sleigh!" Braedan yelled to Rich and I.

"It is," we said. "It is."

It was the triptipan

2007-11-26T20:28:00.000-05:00

I have just woken from my post Turkey-day slumber.

I will have details about the meal, apres-party and the real, stuffed black bear at my aunt's house (with pics), tomorrow.

Hope everyone had a great holiday.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

2007-11-19T12:44:00.000-05:00

Yes. It's early. But nonetheless we made a holiday season pilgrimage to the Yankee Candle flagship store in South Deerfield, MA on Saturday. Just like Clark Griswold, I build things up in my mind, and so it wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it would be.

However, they have the BEST Santa Claus you could imagine. Even though it was early in the season, I still waited in line for 20 minutes while the troops entertained the little man at the train table. I wasn't sure how he'd react to the man in the red suit considering last year he cried and arched his back as we tried to put him on his lap.

This year though, he marched right up to Santa, climbed up into the oversized velvet chair set next to him and said matter-of-factly, "Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas, Santa. I want a car."

Santa took a few minutes to talk to him about the kind of cars he likes, and rolled the car he had brought with him back and forth across the table. And my son said, "Where's my car?"

Very difficult to explain to a 2 1/2 year old that he has to wait 38 more days to get what he asked for.

Hey! He's not a policeman

2007-11-13T14:04:00.000-05:00

A trip to the fire station - what little boy wouldn't like that?

My son (pictured in the red cap) could barely contain his excitement when we walked into the station and he was able to climb inside the big red engine. "I am in a BIG firetruck" he would shout to anyone who would listen. He didn't want to come out. But I finally made him. And when the fireman was showing the kids how he puts on all his equipment before heading into a fire, my son, turned to me, dejected, and yelled, "I want to see a policeman." "Shhh," I whispered into his ear. "We're at the fire station."
"But where's the policeman?" he asked.

And being 2 1/2, he was more enthralled with the fire engine than with the fireman, who was explaining to this group of toddlers how he can breathe clean air through his mask that made him sound like Darth Vader. Finally I gave in and let my son play around on the truck while the fireman wrapped up his demonstration. But a big hit for all the kids was watching Fireman Chris slide down the fire pole. "Again," they chanted.

But the actual firefighters had more of an impact on him than I thought. Because he wore his little plastic fire chief hat and carried around his "fireman" crayons and eraser - handed out to the kids by one of the firemen after the tour - all day long. He brought them to the store. He brought them to his friend's house. He put them on the table in plain sight as he ate his dinner.

3,579 down, 46,421 to go

2007-11-09T13:03:00.000-05:00

By the end of the day today, I should have 15,000 words of a 50,000 word novel written.

As part of National Novel Writing Month, I am joining thousands of people across the country who are attempting the ridiculous and idiotic task of completing a novel in a month. The idea is just to sit down and write, without thinking, without self-editing - something that is very hard for me to do. You're talking about a person who will take an hour to write a perfect lede before I can complete a freelance assignment. It makes the money per hour ratio very low.

So I am only about 12,000 words behind so far. And I met up with some friends the other night at a local coffee shop for a "write-in" to try and boost my word count. But there was this couple sitting directly behind us, and it was painfully obvious that they were on a first date. A lot of that get-to-know-you type conversation was happening.

But when I heard the guy talking, very loudly, about how much better he was at his job than any of his co-workers, how he has had three wives and 8 kids with 7 different women, and how his doctors tried to persuade him to go on meds for his ADD, we all wanted to turn around and tell her to run, run as fast as she could and never look back.

But what broke the camel's back for me was when I heard the term "beastiality" mentioned. Seriously. I'm not lying. After that, I couldn't concentrate on anything else but their conversation, which was very anti-climactic after that.

Halloween Quizzilla (Stolen)

2007-10-31T12:45:00.000-04:00

These questions are ripped off from fellow blogger KJ.

1.What are your plans for Halloween Night?

Trick-or-treating by 5:30. Last year, my neighbor hauled the kids around in a wagon. This year they can walk! Most likely pizza and beers with the neighbors after. (Or during, last year some of the parents in our neighborhood were sporting beers as they trudged around begging for candy.)

2. What are your top three favorite Halloween costumes of all time? (Doesn't have to be one of your own)

1. Cindy Lauper in the mid 80s. (Me.) Actually I wasn't intending to be Cindy Lauper, more just like a punk rocker, but when my mother took us to Halloween at the mall, and a passer-by asked me if I was Cindy Lauper, I decided I'd better say yes.

2. My son's scarecrow costume last year, though some commented that he looked more like a tree. But others thought it was an incredibly well-made homemade costume, and I didn't tell them otherwise.

3. When Rich dressed up as Lenny Kravitz a few years back. He spent a sh*tload of money on that get-up and it was worth it.

3.Have you "boo-ed" or been "boo-ed?"

Both. The other day I was taking a much-needed nap when the doorbell rang. I got up in a fog and looked out the front door. No one. Then the back. Again. No one. I thought maybe I'd dreamed it. About 10 minutes later though I opened up the front door and there was a bag of treats on my front step. I cautiously opened the bag and was pleasantly surprised to find it full of things for my little man. Crayons, cookies, Thomas the Tank Engine flash cards.

The accompanying note said I must "boo" two other neighbors within 48 hours and hang the enclosed ghost sign on my front door so others would know I'd already been boo-ed. The next day I went to Walgreens and bought a bunch of crap, intending to boo two of my neighbors with toddlers. I put the bag on my friend and next-door neighbor's step and ran like a bat out of hell. I still haven't boo-ed the other one.

4. What is your Halloween candy personality?

Click Here to find out.

I bought like 5 different kinds of candy. Only two of which made the above list. Reese's and Twizzlers. Reese's = generous soul. Twizzlers = a truly demented sicko. Sounds about right. (In my defense, the Twizzler's were bought after the fact, for fear I might run out of candy and be persecuted by the neighborhood kids.)

5. What was the last Halloween party you attended?

Four days ago. A friend hosted a party for the kiddies and went all out. Halloween parade. Decorate your own pumpkin and cookies. A reading of a spooky Halloween story. Personalized gift bags for the guests. Truly a Martha Stewart affair.

Thank goodness for the local loony

2007-10-31T07:25:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow, I will embark on a month-long novel-writing journey. For years I have been saying I was going to write the next great American novel. This month, I am aiming just for 50,000 words as part of National Novel Writing Month .

I'm not going to overthink it. I don't have an outline. Only an opening sentence. "The porch light had been shining for four days." Or something like that. My loose idea stems from a local neighborhood eccentric, who leaves food out for the raccoons, (they WERE here before us, after all).

The plan is to write something like 1,667 words per day, and end up with a rough novel by Nov. 30.

We'll see how it goes. One day at a time.

Knock on wood

2007-10-26T12:50:00.000-04:00

Is this going to be a repeat of the 2004 WS sweep?

What's happening in Boston? Sox leading it 2-0 in the World Series. Pats undefeated. Also undefeated BC beats Virginia Tech in a dramatic fourth-quarter win. Celtics on the cover of Sports Illustrated, touted as a "brand new green machine."

Oh, and we can't forget that this guy here earned everyone in America a free taco last night.

The Red Sox Win! The Red Sox Win!

2007-10-22T15:09:00.000-04:00

(Pics from Boston.com)

As most Red Sox fans, I am walking around today with a perma-grin and bags under my eyes.

What a night! Bring on Colorado!

Oh nuts! Again

2007-10-17T23:44:00.000-04:00

No, it's not alright.

If I see another white towel, or hear the phrase "tribe time" again, I think I'll go mental.

But still, in the land of a dejected Nation, there's still hope. Beckett's up tomorrow.

What a day!

2007-10-16T09:42:00.000-04:00

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Sunday was truly a "Norman Rockwell" day in suburbia - dads (and some moms) playing flag football, hot wings on the field, the kiddies running free through the cool, fall air. Then a Pats party (and glorious win!) at the Davis abode.

Fun was had by all, even if the guys couldn't move the next day.

Oh nuts! Part deux

2007-10-16T00:44:00.000-04:00

$100 million-plus?

It's alright Dice-K. After THIS loss, it should be all good, right? Right?

Oh nuts!

2007-10-14T11:56:00.001-04:00

We all feel the same way, Kevin.

I am just thankful I didn't stay up to see the extra-inning massacre.

But we're back to square one and now that we've got that out of our systems, it should be all good.

Funny story

2007-10-11T17:01:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I let my worries get the best of me, and so my mom suggested I practice a form of quick meditation in the mornings. So yesterday morning, while the little man and I were eating breakfast, I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and repeated, "Today, I will control my thoughts. I will control them. I will control them. I will control them."

Then, bang, it was over, and my two-year-old continued happily eating his Rice Krispies.

Later that night, all hell broke loose, as my over-tired son ripped up and tossed his turkey and cheese sandwich in every direction. When I held his arm, and sternly told him that he was, under no circumstances to throw his food, he wriggled free of my grasp, but his palms flat on the table, closed his eyes and repeated, "I will control them. I will control them. I will control them."

There was nothing else I could do but burst out laughing.

Like mother, like son.

Pure joy

2007-10-11T08:18:00.000-04:00

What is it that changes from the time when you're a kid and can't get high enough, to when you're an adult? When I attempt to do this over on the "big kid" swings, I just feel sick.

Just when I thought it was fall

2007-10-04T23:23:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, we were out frolicking in the pumpkin patch, enjoying the cool September air at Applecrest Farm. This weekend, we'll most likely be hitting the beach on PI.

The forecast is calling for near 80 degree temperatures.

And though today my son was dressed in t-shirt and shorts, we continued to ring in the spirit of fall by purchasing his Halloween costume (the subject of a future blog). And, during a spontaneous trip to Marshall's, we perused the already burgeoning Christmas isles and picked up a (gasp!) silver bell-encrusted hanger for our wreath.

I know, I know, the holidays are nearly three months away. And even though I plan to "green" my White Christmas this year by giving myself the permission to wipe out all the excess nonsense, I am STILL such a sucker for commercialism.

A story of strength

2007-10-01T13:21:00.000-04:00

Please read WCVB reporter Kelley Tuthill's story of strength as written by yours truly.

Personally, I think it's amazing how people can respond when faced with something like breast cancer.

Your brain on trash TV

2007-09-28T14:23:00.000-04:00

This is your brain on trash TV

Yesterday I did something I haven't done in a long, long time.

I spent my son's nap watching trash tv.

Synopsis:

Dr. Phil: The episode was about a hobo named "Jerry" who up and left his wife and two kids for a life spent roaming the Mississippi, paddling downstream and staying in various camps with other like-minded individuals along the River's banks. A couple of documentary filmmakers decide to make a movie about this "free spirit." The daughter, now in her 20s, catches wind of her deadbeat dad's screen debut and contacts Dr. Phil, who then reaches Jerry through the movie's producers. Jerry agrees to appear on the show to confront his daughter, who blames him, at least in part, for the fact that her brother, who spent his youth smoking weed with his dad, committed suicide. Chaos ensues. Nothing's resolved. Jerry thinks he's done nothing wrong.

Montel: Young girl at age 11 starts abusing drugs, becoming sexually active, and prostituting herself to older men for drug money. Now substance-free, the teenager smiles and chuckles as she explains her past to an appalled Montel, who vows to catch the man - whom she met while working out at the gym - who started her turning tricks. This episode left me with several questions. 1.Why did the girl think this all was so funny? 2. Where in THE HELL were her parents? 3. What 13 year old works out at a gym?

Steve Wilkos: You probably never heard of him. Neither had I. He's a former Marine, Chicago police officer and former "head of security" on the Jerry Springer show. Interesting combo. His new talk show just started airing this month and yesterday's episode was a white-trash smorgesbourg of people in bad situations. A drug-happy teenage girl who refuses to give up her baby. A toothless father who lands himself in jail more often than he changes diapers. Wilkos is relentless and badgers his "guests" until they agree to get help. This Springer protege is right on track. Today's episode is about a young girl who is in a cycle of consistently birthing children, then giving them away.

I can feel myself getting dumber.

A mom's William Tell overture

2007-09-27T16:06:00.000-04:00

I don't say all of these things yet, but know they will soon come.

Adventures in Hip Hop

2007-09-25T08:08:00.000-04:00

Monday was lesson two of my quest to become Kanye West's new backup dancer. They way I figure it, the most talented man in Hip Hop should have the most talented female dancer appearing by his side.

Two friends and I decided a few weeks ago that we would take a Hip Hop dance class at a local dance studio. It was my idea actually, as I have always fancied myself a hip-hopper, ever since the day, oh so many years ago, I made up a routine to TLC's "Hat to da back." I still remember it to this day.

We're in the "advanced" class, not because of our exploding talent so much, but because the time worked out for us. I'm proud to say we are keeping up and are giving Beyonce a run for her money. Ok, not so much. But the instructor, who is extremely talented, hasn't kicked us out yet.

We've been working on a routine to West's "Stronger," and when I practiced it in front of my son, (of course screaming toddler-appropriate words over West's profanities), he actually said, "That's great mommy," and walked away. He's two.

Anyway: The pros: hip-hop is a great workout and a good stress reliever, not to mention a way for me to retain my "streetness." The cons: There is a recital at the end of the year. And no, I will not be telling you when it is.

And we danced...

2007-09-16T14:52:00.000-04:00

Whoever said guys can't pole dance. Boy, were they wrong.

The seemingly quiet Derek proved that as I caught him with my camera mid swing around the pole holding up the tent at the annual Mother's Club Cocktail party.

The night began with a rendezvous at the The Black Cow and four glasses of pinot noir for me. (Thanks to Tommy for expensing our bill. Nice!) Then we headed over to the party, which takes place at the ridiculously gorgeous and enormous home of one of the Club's members. Its stellar setting right on the River made for an elegant evening, or as elegant as an evening can get when you have a gang of pole dancers hogging the patch of grass designated for groovin'.

It was a bit more sparsely populated than last year, but there was still plenty of food, drink and good laughs to go around. And feel-good music from Don't Call Me Shirley rounded out the night, which ended when we were the last people on the dance floor, scavenging at the hors d'oeuvres table in an attempt to stave off morning hangovers. It didn't work.

For us, thank goodness the little man was with Grammy and didn't arrive back home until this afternoon, giving us some much needed time to recuperate, which we did with a load of grease ordered from the local pizza shop.

Anyway, check us out. It was a night to remember....or not.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Shorts- Drinking wine, sand dollars and a little boy in women's shoes

2007-09-10T14:55:00.000-04:00

Sunday I took a trip down to Newport with my mom and aunt and a few other post-menopausal women for a wine tasting at Newport Vineyards.

It proved to be a great afternoon with a tour, the tasting and good company. I impressed the group with my vast knowledge of wine, i.e. that I knew the carafes of water at the tasting counter were for rinsing glasses after each taste and the ceramic canisters were for dumping said water. The tasting manager responded kindly to the intelligent questions I posed to him in my quest to raise my wine IQ and my mother lovingly complained that he filled my glass a little more than the others. He also responded very diplomatically when one of the women in our group told him that one of the wines stunk. When the others looked at her aghast, she said, "Well, it does. It has an awful odor!"

The woman conducting the tour taught us much about the wine-making process, including that you shouldn't look down on wines sealed with a screw cap. (If you are buying one sealed in such a way, test first to make sure that it does not wiggle.) Towards the end of September, the public is invited to watch Newport Vineyard's grape-crushing process, and I am thinking that wouldn't be a bad way to spend an early fall afternoon.

I left the winery with two bottles of white, including their delicious ice wine (the tasting manager described it as liquid creme brule), which is made from grapes picked frozen from the vine. Their reds, unfortunately, were a little under par.

Then after the tasting, we adjourned to the home of one of the women in our group, who prepared some delicious grilled chicken, all accoutrements supplied by the rest of the gang, (excluding me because I was rude and showed up empty handed). Fun was had by all, though I felt a little out of my element with all the talk about hot flashes.

My new obsession is sand dollars. I don't know why, but when I spotted a few others collecting them on the beach last week, I too decided I had to collect as many as possible. (Up until now, I have been obsessed with those little spirally shells, but this is a whole new ball game.) So I've been to Plum Island three out of the last four days. Today, in 65-degree weather, we drove down the 6 mile dirt road to get to Sandy Point Reservation. I dragged my toddler up and down the beach looking for the things, which I have decided I will make into Christmas ornaments for people. (If you get one, and don't want it, throw it back into the ocean.) It's not really a hobby befitting a 32-year-old, but nonetheless we spent two hours scouring the beach. When I saw an elderly couple cupping several of the purple-ly fragile shells in their hands, I inquired about them, and they skirted my questions and hustled down the beach, as if I had just asked where their buried treasure could be found. Who knew?

I found one (and I practically had to dive head first into the icy waters to retrieve it) and that brings my grand total up to 8 or so.

And this - well, this is a picture I felt I needed to share. Not something Rich would be thrilled to see. But they are very stylish shoes - even if they are worn with sweat pants!

Summer's last hurrah

2007-09-03T19:56:00.000-04:00

Labor Day - the unofficial end of summer. We decided to go out with a bang, and packed up the family car and made our way down to Falmouth early Friday morning. We were welcomed into the home of our best friend's dad with open arms. HIs accomodations were superb as he basically let us have the run of the hiz-ouse all weekend, a generous thing to start, and even more so when you are bringing along a two-year-old.

The weekend was filled with good eats and spirits, and even better company (including that of Golden Retriever Bailey, who had no shortage of slobbery kisses for all us guests). Upon arrival, we immediately set off for the British Beer Company for some lunch. Though our waitress was nearly deaf and messed up our orders, she was too grandmotherly to snub, so we left her the 20 percent tip and made for the beach across the street complete with a great view of Nantucket Sound.

Early mornings were spent lounging as the cool breeze blew through the trees and rustled the leaves that are too soon going to change and fall. The beach was just a short walk to the end of the street and the gusty wind did not deter us from relaxing, reading and exploring the shoreline where hermit crabs, fish and the odd shrimp-like creature crawled and darted around our feet.

On Saturday, DG and I played tennis, albeit a sub-par game and in the evening we all went to The Flying Bridge and enjoyed a mediocre meal (Native baked scrod sprinkled with Ritz cracker crumbs) but a spectacular view and walk along the boardwalk.

I, unfortunately, missed the no hitter thrown by Red Sox rookie Clay Buchholz on Saturday night, as I was upstairs for three hours trying to get an ornary toddler to fall asleep, which he never really did. But all other house guests assured me that it was very exciting.

Sunday morning we went to Moonakis Cafe for breakfast. Everyone else on the Cape seemed to have the same idea, as there were dozens of people milling around outside when we rolled up hungry and in need of caffeine. But once ushered inside, the food proved to be worth the wait. I stuck with my old standby of a cheese omelet, but ordered the little man some legendary blueberry pancakes so I could sneak a taste. Dee-Lish-Us.

The weekend was a great summer send off, and no traffic to or fro to boot.

Early Sunday afternoon, as we packed up our things, it was already sinking in. Back to life. Back to reality. No more beach at the end of the street. No more eating and drinking like there was no tomorrow. Work awaits. Deadlines loom before me. The chimney man is coming at the crack of dawn Tuesday morning. But then I remember the Cape and the breeze blowing through the trees.

And as we cross the Bourne, then head up 495, we notice that trees are already starting to change. Auburn reds pop through rows of green. Then there is talk of apple picking and halloween. A twinge of excitement runs through me as I entertain thoughts of Christmas. And I know that while the end of summer means the end of a lot of things, it also signifies the beginning of lots of others. And I am glad for it.

A sign that birthdays are just not the same as when you were a kid

2007-08-23T15:26:00.000-04:00

There were few responsibilities. Sure, if you're birthday fell on a weekday in any season but the summer, you had to go to school. But there was a party - cupcakes, ice cream, a song.

But being a grown up and a parent, birthdays aren't those carefree, it's all about me, days anymore. Here is how I spent my day.

At 8 a.m. I am already on the road dragging my toddler to the Registry of Motor Vehicles because I waited until the last possible second to renew my license. Fortunately, we were in and out. Unfortunately, my picture is still horrible.

9 a.m. Enter Brooks Pharmacy for a pregnancy test.

9:30 a.m. Home. Conducting said pregnancy test. I am surprisingly disappointed when only one pink line appears in the little window.

10:00 a.m. Off to the playground. Enjoyable. But if I had my choice (I mean it WAS my birthday) I would have been sipping a mimosa somewhere where there weren't seashorse shaped ride-on toys.

11:45 a.m. We are having lunch at a favorite haunt of ours, Fowle's. We order the same as usual. A Turkey Havarti sandwich. It's so good it's too hard to pass up. We have a very pleasant time. I nearly cry because I am able to have a conversation with my two-year-old.

1 p.m. Naptime. Ahhhh. Sweet. Sweet naptime.

1:30 p.m. I discover another bird in our woodstove pipe. He's flapping his wings like crazy, poor thing. This sends me into a worrying frenzy for the rest of the afternoon about what else can get into our house.

3 p.m. Go out and get mail. Open b-day cards from mom and friends. Listen to messages from friends and family members who have called to send me their best wishes.

4:15 p.m. Naptime over.

4:30 Off to the gym. I watch the end of Oprah while on the treadmill. It's an episode about inspirational guests. A woman with terminal cancer. Another woman hit by a drunk driver. A little boy with a terminal illness who still manages to write poetry about the beauty of life. I feel like a jerk because I am worried about a bird.

6 p.m. Home from gym. Son will not eat dinner. We enlist Grammy's help via telephone. He eats when I promise him one of the cupcakes left inside my door by a well-meaning, but damned friend. He does. Then he stuffs the cupcake into his mouth, chews, and spits it all out onto the table. Apparently I have the only toddler who doesn't like chocolate.

6:30 p.m. I am counting down the seconds until Rich gets home. I am tired, smelly and hungry.

7 p.m. Rich arrives home with a pastry box from Cafe Di Sienna. I am both excited and pissed at the prospect of eating a 1,000 calorie dessert.

7:15 p.m. Rich goes to pick up our Thai food (a special birthday request). I read bedtime books to our son and nearly fall asleep in the middle of the Adventures of Max the Minnow.

7:30 p.m. Rich comes home. We put our son to bed.

7:45 p.m. We unpack said Thai food and eat our Tofu Pad Thai while our son screams bloody murder from his room.

7:48 p.m. I go into his room.
7:50 p.m. Rich goes into his room
8 p.m We decide to let him scream.

8:15 We engage in our well-developed method of getting birds out of the wood stove.

9:15 p.m. Bird still in woodstove. Rich and I are tired and pissed. We sit down to eat dessert. Rich sings Happy Birthday. We laugh and dig in. I feel myself getting fatter, but enjoy every minute of it.

9:30 Take a shower.

10 p.m. I read in bed, and fall asleep.

All in all a good day.

This day in history

2007-08-22T13:31:00.000-04:00

On this day in history 1975, I was born.

Yup. That makes me 32 freakin' years old.

I'm not going to get all reflective and sappy. But turning another year older does make me think about the things I haven't yet accomplished that I thought I would have at a much younger age. Most notably, writing a book. When I was 25, I said by the time I turned 28, I would have penned the next great American novel. But 4 years after my deadline expired, here I am, with a computer full of good starts, but no finished product. Oh well.

On the other hand, I definitely don't feel that old. In fact, sometimes I still don't feel old enough to be a wife and mother. Hell, I was like 23 before I finally realized that I could actually purchase alcohol myself.

I am a true believer that age is only in the mind. I still laugh at fart jokes, watch Christmas Vacation at least 10 times over the holidays and drink sometimes just for the buzz, though I have seriously upgraded on the method.

Lori McKenna rocks

2007-08-17T20:08:00.000-04:00

It's been three days, but the euphoria from attending Lori McKenna's CD release party has not yet worn off, though her CD, which I received a week early from Warner Brothers, has worn thin. I have been listening to the thing nonstop.

McKenna's story is one that has been told over and over. The plumber's wife and Stoughton mother of five, long a staple on the Boston folk scene, is discovered by country music star Faith Hill, who covers three of McKenna's songs. The pair appear together on Oprah. McKenna goes on tour with Hill and husband Tim McGraw, who co-produces her new album, Unglamorous. People might think McKenna is lucky that Hill found her. As for me - who has never been a fan of country music - I think it's the other way around.

I had the pleasure of interviewing McKenna for a piece that will appear in the September issue of Bay State Parent Magazine. She's humble, pleasant, down-to-earth and makes great music to boot.

I must admit that I'd never heard of McKenna until about a year ago when best pal DG told me she'd seen her at Club Passim in Cambridge, an institution in the local folk scene. And even then, I had not heard her music. But when I popped in Unglamorous, I was hooked. And for those fans who were worried about McKenna's transition to a major Nashville label, it's not straight country. Yes, it has a certain twang about it, but it just rocks.

Seeing her live at her CD release party was even better. She's personable, weaving family tales in between songs, and sounds better than she does on disc. She performed most of the tracks from her new album, and didn't waiver when the ship rocked in the wake of a passing boat.

(Lori McKenna rocks the house during her CD release party on the Boston Harbor.)

She was even gracious enough to take a picture with me and DG, who came along for the ride.

(Me, Lori McKenna and my best pal DG)

After a couple of glasses of Merlot, I began to take pics of the characters on board, including a Jesus look-a-like and a man resembling Melvin from the movie Office Space who attempted to pick me up. It didn't work, and DG was horrified. A woman sitting near us glared at me as DG and I guffawed and in general had a great time. The best part of the night? Me and DG get to wear really pretty shoes.

(DG and I get to wear pretty shoes. That's my foot on the right.)

Another highlight: At the end of the night, just after the boat docked and one of the security guards shouted that unless you were family or with the band, you needed to disembark, now! I looked at him, with balls made of Merlot, and asked, "But what if you're just a really cool person?" Not thinking I was very funny, he looked me square in the eye, a scowl on his face, and said, "I can't go home until you do."

But of course, the REAL highlight of the night was the music. Check out some of it and find out more about Lori McKenna here.

I promise. You won't be disappointed.

It's a zoo out there

2007-08-12T10:10:00.000-04:00

Saturday morning, we packed up and headed down to Little Rhody for a trip to Roger Williams Park Zoo.

The prospect of viewing creatures you rarely get to see in nature is always a little exciting, especially with an inquisitive toddler in tow. However, I always seem to come away a bit disappointed because, well, animals like zebras, anteaters, giraffes and bald eagles aren't really meant to be kept in captivity and so they punish us humans by hiding or remaining so still as to almost be invisible to the intruding eye. The elephants would only show their behinds. The kangaroos lay flat in the tall grass. And the penguins huddled together in a corner where there was no glass window through which to steal an optimal view.

And while it was difficult to imagine the bison on the "Marco Polo Trail" in the middle of Providence, RI, and we only caught glimpses of the more interesting species, the day was not without its highlights:

- The giraffe exhibit was the most popular by far, given one male's uncomfortably obvious and incessant quest to make another baby giraffe, and the female giraffe version of, "Now now, I have a headache. And besides, do you really NEED an audience." People were drawn to this like they are to a horrific traffic accident. My mom could be heard saying, "Did you see the size of his....?" as could numerous other onlookers.

(The giraffe that would not give up.)

-For my two-year-old, the animals were slightly more interesting than last year (especially when they actually appeared to be alive. "Mommy, he's moving," he cried at the bison.) But the most interesting thing to him was the water fountain where kids were dunking their heads for relief from the heat. We stood there for several minutes while he first put in a tentative hand, then both his arms and finally his baseball-capped head. He stood there dancing his little toddler dance and screaming, "I like that!" The other thing that made said toddler incredibly happy was Grammy's visit to the zoo gift shop, where he was presented with a safari hat, two plastic animal drinking cups and the be-all, end-all - a safari truck with trailer and ATV.

(Left, the water fountain. Below, the safari hat and truck and trailer courtesy of Grammy.)

- The polar bears may no longer grace the rough grounds of Roger Williams Park Zoo, but the place did have their fair share of turtles - which made appearances in Tropical South America, Africa, the Reptile House and on the Marco Polo Trail. Rich and I failed to see the importance of the turtle in our geographical history until this point.

- Our son was most excited about seeing the farmyard animals. For some reason, in the days leading up to our trip, he could be repeatedly heard saying that he wanted to see a turkey and a chicken at the zoo. But when we got to this "farmyard," the pot-bellied pig lay sleeping (at least I think he was only sleeping) inside his miniature house, as did the goat. The cow hid behind a tall hay bale. And a rumored donkey was nowhere to be seen. Oh yeah, and the damn farmyard had no chickens! What kind of a farm has no chickens? However, there was this very cute photo opportunity with Fred the field mouse.

All in all, it was an enjoyable day. We spent some QT with Grammy and an impromptu trip to the movies to see Harry Potter topped it off for Rich and I. Fun was had by all.

I'm not saying you have to be carbon-neutral...

2007-08-09T22:08:00.000-04:00

We can't all be the Gore's. But I am really angered by people that don't recycle.

Case in point. My neighbors - a family of five that hauls their overflowing trash bins to the curb every week, launching renegade cheese wrappers onto lawns throughout the neighborhood.

Again, I am no environmental martyr - my obsessive fear of bugs sends me running to the phone to call the exterminator each Spring - but I do buy environmentally-friendly cleaning products, shut off lights in rooms that are not occupied, use the air conditioner only when the air is as thick and soupy as beef stew and find the time to put paper in one bin and glass and plastic in another. It's not hard.

I was actually giddy when I read in my local paper months ago that there would be a fine imposed to anyone found guilty of NOT recycling, but then I remembered that the garbage men, who are extremely friendly and indulge my vehicle-obsessed toddler by giving him a wave every Friday morning, graciously collected and quietly disposed of all of our unsold yard sale items (some which I'm guessing were prohibited curbside) this spring. They are not going to rat out anyone stuffing Coke bottles into a trash bag.

But seriously, recycling is the freakin' easiest thing you can do. I'm not sure if one family of five is going to clear landfills or hault global warming, but how can someone care so little about the environment that they would purposely send plastic to slowly breakdown in the ground?

If the Mayor will hire me, perhaps I can secretly drive around the city, toddler in tow, and get footage of all the people that don't recycle. They can call me Special Under Cover Environmental Investigator for the City. Of course, I might be spotted by someone from the Mother's Club, deemed a vagrant and be banned from the annual cocktail party held on the sprawling front lawn overlooking the Merrimack River. And THAT would be unacceptable.

How I would look if I was a comic book character

2007-08-08T23:06:00.000-04:00

Life's little inconveniences

2007-08-08T22:32:00.000-04:00

Today was the third day in a row that the barrel of disinfectant wipes closest to the treadmills I work out on at the gym was empty.

They have a "rule" that everyone must wipe off their machines after use. And usually I adhere strictly to this social statute. But since they ran out of wipes (there must be some kind of strike at the disinfectant-wipe-making company) the next best thing they have to offer is a roll of paper towels and a bottle of disinfectant they've inconveniently placed all the way at the front of the gym.

Monday I was so tired, I couldn't bear to take the extra steps there and back, and at the risk of being labeled "that girl," I didn't give my treadmill a wipe down. Yesterday, conscious of onlookers around me and feeling a tad guilty for my lack of consideration the previous day, I went ahead and wiped. Today, annoyed that they had not yet filled the barrel, I bucked the system, and purposely did not wipe.

Then I realized that if other sweathogs at the gym were operating in the same manner, I was likely using a damn dirty machine. So I have instead decided that on my walk TO the treadmill, I will stop and grab a paper towel, spritz it with cleaner and wipe off my machine BEFORE I work out. Just like how John Cage in Ally McBeal wanted a fresh toilet bowl every time he peed, I feel I deserve a sweat-free machine before I work out.

It's every sweathog for herself.

Talk about a waste of time

2007-08-07T15:37:00.000-04:00

My "normal" business hours range from 12:30 to 2:30, anytime after 7 p.m. and sometimes into the wee hours of the night. On weekends, it's a free-for-all. I work during naptime, after bed, Saturday and Sunday when I can, and on those rare occasions when we have a babysitter, then too.

That's why I am sitting here fuming that I just wasted several of those precious hours searching for a tiny piece of paper with the contact info of a source I need for a story I am writing. I solicited this source while climbing the monkey bars at the playground with my son a couple of weeks ago, and now that I have been given the go-ahead for the story, it's nowhere to be found.

I calculated the time spent looking for this info, and if ever turns up, I am going to attempt to add two hours of my hourly rate to the peanuts I will make for writing the damn thing.

This scenario has caused me to think about how I spend my valuable "work" time. I could have been using this time to pitch other, more lucrative stories. Or to research stories I already have assigned and have contact info for.

My son is still asleep, so perhaps I could salvage what little time I have left. Wait! Who is that I hear harkening from his bedroom?

Murphy's Law strikes again.

Wow

2007-07-29T19:46:00.000-04:00

(If you haven't read HP and the Deathly Hallows yet and plan to, don't read this post.)

One week and several hours after purchasing it, I have finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

What a satisfying end to a tremendously entertaining series. Snape is good - mostly. Voldemort dies. Harry lives, though almost until the very end, J.K. Rowling wants you to think he's going to die, and she does a pretty good job of making you feel like it may happen. Dumbledore's actions, as they are revealed, were questionable, though I believe done for the right reasons. It just goes to show that even the most wise wizards are still human.

Those people we wanted to end up together, did. And in the epilogue, we get a glimpse of their lives after Hogwarts and youth. (If you are left wanting more, you can read an interview with Rowling here to find out more details about some of the characters' adult lives.) My one beef is that none of Harry's and Ginny's children are named after poor Fred Weasley.

Some of it was perhaps predictable, but had the book ended any other way, I would have been extrodinarily disappointed. Now that the story is complete, I look forward to starting over from book 1.

I'm just wild about Harry

2007-07-24T22:29:00.000-04:00

(Professor Trelawney reads the fortune of a Muggle present at a Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows release party Friday night.)

No. I am not done with the book. It's 759 pages and I have a toddler!

But I did purchase Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows shortly after midnight on Friday. And yes. I attended a book release party. But it was under the guise of reporting on it for my local paper. No. I didn't dress up. But yes. I thought it would be funny to go as Rita Skeeter, horribly annoying reporter for the Daily Prophet, a wizard paper.

It was incredible to see how much excitement a BOOK caused amongst readers both young and old. Nearly 1000 people showed to the party held at my local, independent bookstore, which featured games, crafts, fortune telling, animal demonstrations. treats and a costume contest. The only thing missing was a full-on Quidditch match.

I am about 400 pages into the book, and, well...it's incredible, and dark. As the owner of the bookstore told me, Deathly Hallows is "not something you would normally give your 7- or 8-year-old."

But I, for one, am enjoying it.

My biggest hope? That Draco Malfoy finally gets his.

Ghostbusters

2007-07-19T07:00:00.000-04:00

(Medium Maureen Wood, in the basement of The Windham restaurant in Windham, NH, channels the ghost of Jacob, an angry and violent man who haunts the place. Please note that the EMF meter in the bottom right hand corner is bright red, a sign a spirit is near. )

It's been 6 days, and still I am running on little sleep. Nights just haven't been the same since I went on the ghosthunting expedition with the New England Ghost Project. I am more scared now than I was in the deserted restaurant with no one but DG to protect me. I am afriad that every time I peek out from under the blankets I will see an orb, or, the holy grail of ghosthunting, a full body apparition, hovering above me. (Now I know why my mother BEGGED me not to go. You were right, mom.)

Besides the fact that my dashboard lights blew out on the way there, the night started out easy enough. The restaurant was full of people. Lights were blazing. And DG and I were putting Ray Parker, Jr. to shame with our rendition of the theme song to the movie Ghostbusters. (Rich, by the way, has been referring to me as Dr. Venkman since Friday.)

We hung around for a couple of hours, listened to the group's live radio show, talked to the techies who were busy setting up base camp with cameras and EMF readers and infrared video. At midnight, though, the real fun started. Contractual obligations prohibit me from telling you exactly what happened. (The full story will appear in Merrimack Valley Magazine in September.) But we were visited by Jacob and watched him attack the Project's lead investigator Ron Kolek when he didn't want to answer any more of his questions.

I suppose my continued fright could mean I believe in this stuff, but I was also scared after I watched the Blair Witch Project, a movie in the theater I thought was completely ridiculous. It's funny how the mind will grow an idea that is planted in it.

I hope I don't see dead people

2007-07-11T15:12:00.000-04:00

This Friday, I am going to be doing something that I know is going to scare the shit out of me.

For a magazine piece I am writing, I am going on a ghost hunt.

My guides will be the people at the New England Ghost Project , an outfit out of Dracut that investigates paranormal activity in peoples' homes and businesses.

My journey will take me to the Windham Restaurant long reported to be haunted. Windows open, chairs move, the ghost of Jacob roams the basement. Awesome.

The folks at the NEGP have been there before, and if you click on the pic on their home page, you can hear all about it. I listened, for about a minute, but Maureen Wood, a medium, channeling the ghost of Jacob, completely freaked me out. Heavy breathing. Gravelly voice. Eyes closed. I do not want to talk to dead people.

So why am I doing it?

Because as someone that loves to write, I think it will be fun to WRITE about this. I only wish I could do it without actually having to go in a dark basement with all sorts of sophisticated equipment, and potentially rub elbows with old dead eyes. Because I AM SCARED. Which is why I have enlisted the help of best pal D.G., who thinks the ghost stuff is just a bunch of bullshit. She will act as bodyguard against evil spirits.

What's worse, in case you haven't already checked the date, Friday is the 13th. Again. Awesome. To make it worse, we will be starting at 10 p.m. Double awesome. And if you are interested, the show will be broadcast live. Find the link on NEGP's Web site. And if you hear someone screaming like they've seen a ghost - it's me.

There's no sorry in tennis

2007-07-08T21:03:00.000-04:00

Despite the ominous clouds that hung in the sky much of the morning, when D.G. - up for a weekend visit - suggested we play a bit o' tennis this morning, I felt up to the challenge.

Having not played, for oh about 4 years, Rich and I dusted off our rackets, packed up the little man in the car, and, with D.G. talking a lot of smack about how she was going to open up a can of whoop-ass on us, we headed to Cashman Park, a perfect spot, complete with tennis court AND playground. Rich and I thought we could tag-team it, one getting his "ass whipped" while the other climbed the faux boat with the little man. But much to all our dismay, the court was taken by a mom and son duo who mostly seemed to be stopping for snacks at the net.

So, it was off to Atkinson Common.

Yes, two courts free! But as we approached the courts and I saw two women dressed in serious tennis gear, playing hard (complete with grunts), I panicked. I am not much of a tennis player, and often spent much of my playing time running over to the next court to retrieve ill-hit balls. But, we were here, and I was jazzed to play. So I let it slide.

I took first shift while Rich and the little man, dragging around his little red wagon, walked around the Common. I waited for my ass-whooping, but it never came. Me and D.G. are actually pretty on par when it comes to tennis. So the first few minutes were less like a tennis match and more like a warmup to an Abbott and Costello routine. But then we got our groove on and managed a few good volleys. I love the "thwack" of a well-hit ball.

Rich was up. I'm not exactly sure how it went because the little man was obsessed with the tiny bridge that spans the tiny manmade pond on the other side of the park. But when we returned for snack, there was a couple of good rallies, but again, no ass-whooping, as promised. My turn, again. It went something like this.

"Thwack." Sorry. "Thwack." Sorry. "Thwack." Sorry. And D.G. reminding herself and me, "There's no sorry in tennis."

That's my tough warrior princess.

All totaled, we played for about an hour and a half. We were tired, dripping with sweat and sore. But damn it felt good. Thanks D.G.

Next time, there will be an ass-whooping. Only, it will be all yours.

Traveling the marginal way with a toddler

2007-07-08T00:35:00.000-04:00

The two men "hike" to the top of a rocky knoll in Ogunquit.

We three explorers set out Friday morning for Perkins Cove, a haven for fanny-pack wearing, tee-shirt buying tourists, but home to the scenic Marginal Way, a three-mile path that hugs the coastline of Ogunquit, ME, and offers spectacular views of wildlife, waves rolling into tiny inlets and a dilapidated, spooky house bearing a wigged skeleton head in it's large front window overlooking the ocean.

It was an enjoyable and pleasantly uneventful morning. We moved at a turtle's pace down the path, our son pausing to painstakingly pick out a special rock every few feet. He also insisted on growling every time he spotted a child a bit older than him, which we've determined means he's excited. We made it about a half-mile in a half-hour before we decided we'd better turn around and start heading back to reach the car by dark. Other than that, there's not too much to report, except that when spotted a few feet behind my family holding my son's sippy cup, two men holding hands accused me of having a drinking problem.

How can this happen?

2007-07-05T13:23:00.000-04:00

There are a lot of things I just don't understand. But at least many of them I can wrap my head around enough to know that.

This however, I just can't grasp, at all. Not only the sheer brutality of the physical attack, but also, how anyone, nevermind a mother, could knowingly conceal from police that this was happening to another human being. And the fact that the biological father places NO blame on the mother is also unfathomable and leads me to believe there was a VERY good reason for him being barred from seeing his 3-year-old daughter, who was so disfigured, Boston Childrens' Hospital doctors could not put her back together again.

When I read the report online, I stared at the two mugshots of Bryan M. James, 34, and Jessica Silveira, 26, and imagined all the punishments that would befit a crime of this magnitude. I don't think I should go into detail about those thoughts here. What really pisses me off though, is that SOMEONE, a friend, relative, neighbor, the DSS workers who had been working with the family for months, HAD to know something wasn't right.

All I know is that someone didn't do their job - legally and morally - and now an innocent, 3-year-old girl, is suffering, and will suffer all her life for it. And that makes me extremely sad.

Shameless self promotion (again)

2007-06-28T21:33:00.000-04:00

The summer issue of Merrimack Valley Magazine is out and each issue looks better than the last.

Besides articles on colonial landscapes and a summer guide to the Merrimack Valley, I have FINALLY taken the plunge and done something that I have been talking about for years - publishing a short story. It's in the summer issue, and I find myself wanting everyone - and no one - to read it. But, it's out there now, and it is what it is. But it's done.

Also, thanks to the amazing KJ I have been fortunate enough to write for Bay State Parent Magazine as of late, and am really enjoying it.

Check out the July issue for a piece on the performers of Circus Smirkus a popular Vermont-based youth circus that makes its way to Mass this summer.

My new Kenmore dishwasher is saving my life

2007-06-21T13:43:00.000-04:00

I don't know quite where to start, so I guess I'll start at the very beginning.

I am a horribly annoying worrier. I won't go into details, except to say that my worrying (most often about household issues- mold is a favorite) many times reaches unreasonable and irrational levels. It is heightened even more when I begin to "research" concerns online.

So, when our dishwasher broke, I would say no less than 10 months ago, I decided we should NOT get a new one. "I just don't think our plumbing system can handle a new one," I told my husband.

This assertion, I believed, was based somewhat on fact. Again, I won't go into details, except to say that my "facts" are often based on assertions I actually have no business making.

Anyway, for those said 10 months, I was ALWAYS at the sink, cursing under my breath that my family had the audacity to use so many dishes. I considered converting to paper. But, after trying to calculate which was the lesser of two evils for the environment - using absurd amounts of water or chopping down trees - I decided I'd better stick with my dishware.

I was miserable. But I persevered. And I bought environmentally-friendly dishwashing soap.

But a few months ago, when we decided we would put our house on the market, we HAD to get a new dishwasher. So, we did. About two weeks ago. While it was being installed, I was a nervous wreck and I annoyed the plumber by sauntering into the kitchen every so often to ask if it was leaking yet. "Nope, not leaking," he told me.

When he left, I was afraid to test it. But I did. And guess what? No leaks!

My new Kenmore dishwasher is saving my life.

No more naptime dishwashing sessions. No more hour-long after dinner clean-ups. No longer am I a slave to the sponge (mold and bacteria!). And no longer do I glare at my husband when, how dare he, reaches for a second drinking glass. I feel as if I have gained my life back.

Plus, we got the warranty.

And now, we're not moving. And I am beginning to think that the whole relocating thing was a ruse for this new appliance.

recalling early d&d days

2007-06-04T22:52:00.000-04:00

So, this Sunday, while reading the Globe magazine, I was reminded of my donut-tree-dress wearing days. This article on
adolescent coffee drinking brought me back to the tender age of 14, when I took my first sip of the liquid energy I have come to rely so heavily on today.

I don't remember ever drinking coffee prior to slinging donuts at D&D, but then again, I still don't remember how I managed to wake up in said D&D dress on the morning after my 21st birthday, so that doesn't mean much.

What I do remember is working at the Dunk before they actually had iced coffee machines. In the summer, when demand was high, we would continuously brew pots of coffee and leave them out on the counter, uncovered, until the next day. We stored as many as we could in the mini refrigerator we kept behind the counter, but on Saturdays and Sundays, when the Warwick beach goers sporting their bikini tops and cutoffs streamed in for their large iced coffees with extra cream and 20 sugars, we poured the coffee from the pots on the counter over tall, full cups of ice, and hoped for the best. (As an aside, after multiple customers returned bearing iced coffees with dead flies floating near the top, our location finally invested in machines).

During my young, "health conscious" days, I used to drink my iced-coffee black, loaded with sweet & low. That is, I would drink this if I wasn't sipping a wine cooler provided for me by one of the shop's managers, a 40-something woman and parent to two adolescent girls, with whom I often worked evening shifts and who probably still works there today, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Anyway, I'd drink so much iced coffee, usually on an empty stomach- in those days I didn't eat - and I remember spending shifts calling a friend of mine who was transferred to a D&D about a mile away, and comparing notes as to how many coffees we drank and how "buzzed" we felt. Good times.

No wonder I am so high strung now.

Other things I remember about my d&d days:

- the old guy who every day used to order an extra-small coffee (no longer available now) and then complain that it was the size of a thimble.

- the time I got pissed at a customer, and spread horseradish sauce on his egg and cheese bagel.

- being challenged by a co-worker to take one bite of every treat that D&D offered, then, after meeting such challenge, attempting to drink a combination of mustard and raw eggs to throw it all up.

- crawling into work at 4 a.m. to make the donuts after a heavy night of drinking and mistakenly picking up the fresh-from-the-fryer rack with my bare hands.

-the day we shed the orange, pink and beige donut tree dresses for the more flattering and stylish gray polyester pants and maroon polos.

Don't hate me 'cause I'm busy

2007-05-30T22:33:00.000-04:00

Starting this weekend, I plan to revive Singuloso.

This whole getting your house ready to sell thing is for the birds. It's starting to look nicer now than it ever did, and it's making me want to stay - sometimes. I am living the nightmare known as "Design to Sell," only I don't have a fancy interior designer telling me what to do.

Ok. gotta go for now. My son is sleeping in his pack and play in his bare bedroom (new carpet being installed tomorrow) and he is bound to wake up at any time. So I better get some sleep.

Stay tuned.

The Week of Season Finales

2007-05-23T13:04:00.000-04:00

I never thought I would say it. But 24 stunk. I won't recap here, but at the end of the two-hour season finale Monday night, I did not, as I have at the end of all other seasons, feel depressed because it was over. In fact, I felt glad, because I will gain an hour of my life back each and every Monday night instead of watching a show which has sadly gone down the tubes. Of course, I will watch when the next season starts up in January, but I pray that the storyline will NOT involve Jack tryng to get locate his crazy girlfriend. And what was that ridiculous exchange between Jack and Audrey's father? That was perhaps some of the worst acting I have seen on the show.

Anyway, then last night, I watched most of the season of Dancing With the Stars, but shut it off an hour and a half into it without even finding out who won. I just couldn't take any more memory montages that included Lance Bass talking about Joey Fatone's cha-cha abilities.

And I will NOT be watching the two-hour Idol finale tonight 1) Because it's the season finale of LOST (insert excited shivers here) and 2) Because I refuse to watch that idiot Blake beat-box any longer than I have to. BLAKE, it's a s-i-n-g-i-n-g competition, dawg. One of the most fun things about watching Idol is how Rich and I are able to predict, just as easy as Jack Bauer going rogue at any given time, what Randy will say when it comes time to hand out judgements to the contestants. His repetoire consists of "So, yo yo yo," "You know what dawg," "So, you know what," and many variations on these three.

Also, it's too frustrating to try and figure out what's going on with Paula Abdul's lips. Straight up.

Speaking of Lost, I have no theories. It almost hurts my head when I try and figure out what the hell is going on. But in addition to finding out clues about all the mysteries of the Island, and why the hell they are there, I hope the writers will solve the love square going on between Jack, Sawyer, Kate and Juliet. Even though Jack has been pissing me off as of late, I am still hoping he ends up with Kate, though I know that it will have the same effect on the show as Rachel and Ross getting together on Friends, and Sam and Diane hooking up on Cheers.

One season finale of note which took place last week, The Office. That is one f'ing funny show. Michael gets back with Jan because of her boob job, but those bastards at NBC left us with the same clifhanger as last year - Pam and Jim - and I LOVE them for it.

Birthday Boy

2007-05-14T13:55:00.000-04:00

Well, another successful birthday has come and gone.

My son turned two on the 11th, as you know, and it was a weekend of birthday activities.

First, the butter.

Now, for those of you who don't know about the butter, and most of you probably don't, I can't really offer you much except that it has been a tradition in our family passed down from one generation to the next. On the morning of a birthday, you are supposed to wake up the birthday boy/girl by smearing a glob of greasy margarine, or, in my case, I Can't Believe It's Butter, on their nose. Last year, it was done to smiles. This year, as you can see from the picture above, the little man wasn't too thrilled. But still, when my mother asked on the day of his party if I had put butter on his nose the previous morning, I was able to give her a resounding yes!

During a family discussion, I was told once that it was for good luck. A little research comes up with this explanation from a birthday traditions around the world Web site.

Canada - Greasing the nose with butter or margarine. In Atlantic Canada (Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick and Newfoundland) the birthday child is ambushed and their nose is greased for good luck. The greased nose makes the child too slippery for bad luck to catch them. This tradition is reputed to be of Scottish decent.

I suppose this makes sense since I believe I am about 1/64th Scottish.

Anyhow, this year I forgot to grease Rich, whose birthday passed on the 8th with much less fanfare, I am afraid, than our son's. I suppose that means he is doomed for a year of bad luck. Perhaps if I get him on my birthday, I can reverse the curse.

Anyway, the party went off without a hitch. Last year, for his first birthday, I was worried about the fact that I didn't have fancy holders for the condiments. This year, we were smart and ordered pizza and bought four cases of beer. That way, people were too drunk to realize we did not have quite the spread as last year. But it certainly made for a stress-free partay. I was so relaxed, I didn't even vaccuum the welcome mat before guests started arriving.

Obviously, gifts were the highlight of the party. And I don't know if you can see from this pic, but my son was literally jumping for joy when we finally let him in the family room with all the presents.

It's hard to figure out yet which one is his favorite, but he certainly enjoyed playing on his sand and water table he got from Nani, which, by the way, took me two hours to put together!

(p.s. the little blond cutie in the pic is Braedan's main squeeze!)

All growns up

2007-05-10T15:30:00.000-04:00

To the 2 or 3 people who read this blog, I apologize for having been so lax in keeping my posts up to date.

My neglect is the result of being burnt out for the past week or so. And every time I sign into Blogger, all I end up doing is noticing how badly I need a manicure as I look at my still hands splayed out on the keyboard.

Anyway, my son turns 2 tomorrow and we went to the market this morning to order his Thomas birthday cake. It's all he's been talking about for the last month, and had I not gotten him one, there was sure to be mutiny. He kept repeating "Thomas cake, Thomas cake," over and over again to the bakery guy as he took our order.

It's amazing to me how in the last few weeks, his vocabulary had just ballooned, and all he does now is talk - and repeat. In fact, every once in a while, he comes out with "damn it" and I don't know where it's coming from, because I usually, and I stress the word usually, try to refrain from swearing in front of him, and I normally tend to choose a different four-letter word when I am angry. Every time I hear him say it, I think of that scene in "A Christmas Story" when Ralphie is helping his father change the tire, and he drops the bolts and says, "Fudge" only he doesn't say fudge. Then I think of the woman on the phone who says, "He probably heard it from his father." I'll have to ask Rich.

The other habit my son has gotten into is to hound people. At the grocery store the other day, while I was checking out the grapes, Braedan kept holding his animal cracker in some old guy's face and repeating, "animal cracker, animal cracker." He literally said it about 20 times (the grapes were not looking good that day). Either the old guy was deaf, or he was giving the best facial ever. Then today at the playground, he did the same thing to another old guy, except this time it was a munchkin, and my son was not parked in a grocery cart. Instead, he kept following the guy around. The man did not seem amused.

He's just getting too old too fast. He knows his ABC's, his numbers and his colors. We can actually have a conversation. Yesterday he let me know that a blueberry I dropped rolled underneath the oven. He's making up his own songs and talking on the phone. He knows how to ask for something so that I can't refuse.

My little baby is all growns up.

I should be rich

2007-05-03T22:28:00.000-04:00

According to Salary.com, if I were paid for the work I do as a stay-at-home mom, I would make over $145,000 per year - and that's if I was only a mediocre parent. The cap for my area on the North Shore tops $174,000. Now that's what I'm talking about.

Now I know that in today's world, being able to stay at home is a privilege - and I really do feel lucky for this luxury - but this is what I feel like I should get paid at the end of every day. And I only have one two-year-old son. Would the salary double if I had two?

The whole issue got me to thinking. Am I really a stay-at-home mom?

Yes, I physically am at home. I am here when he wakes at 6 a.m. in the morning. We go to the park, have play dates and sing and dance our butts off in music class each week, and can basically do whatever we want whenever we want. It is my most prized possession, being able to stay home and watch him grow and learn new things each and every day.

But I also work as a freelance writer. I write when he's napping, conduct interviews at night and on the weekends, and sometimes, when it's appropriate, I bring him with me to cover stories. What does this make me? Does it demote me to quasi stay-at-home-mom status? I don't know.

But what I do know is that the last few weeks it's really been wearing on me, this dual role I am trying to play day in and day out, switching gears by the hour and never slowing down. One minute I am sweeping crumbs from a soynut butter and jelly sandwich from the kitchen floor, and the next I am brainstorming ideas for an article on solar power I have been assigned for an environmental news Web site. Somehow, the two just don't seem to go together. But still I manage to persevere every week.

With bags under my eyes and caffeine running through my veins, I somehow (usually) meet my deadlines. I manage to write something coherent and printable. I'm just wondering when my luck is going to run out. And I am thinking about that $145,000 pay check. But would I want to be paid for something I truly love to do? I'm not so sure. But a mom can dream.

Are you a Soccer Mom?

2007-05-01T14:33:00.000-04:00

Read this article by yours truly, find out, and let me know.

Rockin' the South Shore

2007-04-29T21:44:00.000-04:00

No truer word has ever been spoken.

In our quest to scour the South Shore for a more convenient home base, we stopped at this unlikely jewel in Hanover for a bite to eat on Saturday afternoon in between house drive by's (not the shooting kind).

Though I am sure some out-of-town motorists driving down Washington Street pull into the parking lot expecting legs and eggs, apparently, The Squires has no connection to the Revere strip club of the same name. I don't know what kind of rep this place has on the South Shore, but don't let the somewhat shady exterior fool you. For $37, we ordered 3 Sam Adams, mozarella sticks, a burger and fries and the best grilled chicken salad I have ever had. At a place with white and red checked vinyl cloths on the tables, I expected iceburg lettuce and a slab of rubbery chicken, but what I got was real Mesclun greens and strips of char-grilled chicken sprinkled with cranberries, walnuts and feta cheese. Rich was equally impressed with his burger.

What the place lacks in atmosphere, (tired knotty pine walls with beer signs hung on much of the available wall space) it makes up for with its food.

"I know this place is so townie, but I like it," Rich said taking a swig of his Sam.

Anyway, it was a good start to our South Shore excursion, which, after four hours of house-gawking, continued with a trek to the City of Champions - Rich's old stomping grounds - to see the Sergi's, then an impromptu party at Stoneforge Grill in South Easton, where Rich was treated to a surprise visit by a couple of long-lost high school pals. His hyena-like laughter could be heard throughout the restaurant as he told stories with Serg and Wayne and sipped his Guinness. After, we were fortunate enough to be invited to crash at the North Warren Inn, especially after my five glasses of pinot noir.

Fun was had by all, and I hope we get to do it again very soon.

An ode to Mrs. Sweeny

2007-04-26T13:04:00.000-04:00

In an attempt to clean the clutter out of my literary closet, I went through a bunch of manuscripts (mostly crap) from high school and college that, for some reason, I had been saving. Because I hope someday to write something of worth, I don't want anyone to find these things when I am dead, so I threw most of them away.

However, I came across this poem that I wrote during one particularly boring English class senior year of high school. I chose to save this one, not for it's literary value as you'll see, but for the memories it brings back. Anyway, here it is. (Please note: I recently got a Mac, and for some reason the spell check on Blogger doesn't work. Since in today's world, we rely on computers for things people used to do themselves, please excuse any errors in spelling. I am only human. I cannot be held accountable.)

I once had a teacher
Who was all the time distressed
Not that she was cruel
Or like the Wicked Witch of the West.

But there is something about her
I find a bit hard to explain.
She just has a way about her
Of which I wish to complain.

Continuously contradicting herself
Morning, noon and night.
Always looking for an argument
Always looking for a fight.

I find her very humorous
For it is very funny to see
My teacher claims she knows
So much more than me.

Not to sound conceited
Or to make you think I'm smart,
But let me tell you just one thing,
She makes ignorance seem an art.

She says one thing, then the opposite
Perhaps she's trying to confuse
But I don't think that's what it is,
It's more like a type of abuse.

I think she is just unaware
Because she just does not know,
And every day I sat in class,
My anger would just grow.

Ask her a question, and she'd tell you no lies
At least that's what she thought,
But after asking the question
You'll see it was all for naught.

Her actions are of a politician,
Circling questions like a hawk,
For upon hearing the answer
You'll realize it's all just talk.

"How many times can I ask you," she once said,
"To be quiet without having to say it?"
I looked around the room and thought,
Doesn't she ever quit?

The whole class was laughing
At this not-so-teeny meany
I just have to say hello,
TO my English teacher, Mrs. Sweeny.

Audrey's crazy

2007-04-23T22:38:00.000-04:00

well, he's done it again. That fun-loving combatant of all things terrorist has bucked the system and decided to risk World War III to save his formerly dead girlfriend.

Jack Bauer has gone "rogue."

Who couldn't see that coming a mile away?

In fact, when Jack received the call that Audrey was still alive, Rich and I both looked at each other and said "Jack's going rogue." And sure enough, only moments later, those were the exact words out of Bill Buchanan's mouth.

It feels like the writers for 24, which has been one of my favorite shows since it began, have run out of ideas. How can you go from having Bauer saving the US from its destruction a la nukes to demanding presidential permission to rescue his former love interest from a Chinese national who is holding her hostage? It's just very anti-climatic.

There are only 4 episodes left, and unless Fayed comes back from the dead and has five more suitcase nukes, I just don't see how this season can keep my interest.

Perhaps Lisa Miller, now-President Daniels' assistant and sometimes lover played by ex-alien Kari Matchett will shake things up. She definitely has something up her sleeve.

Death of the PC

2007-04-22T19:32:00.000-04:00

Our computer has been dying a slow death for the last two years. Blue screens, unexpected shutdowns, sizzling noises coming from inside the guts of the thing. It made every log on experience a virtual nightmare, like waging a war you know you're going to lose.

Yesterday, our Gateway took the final, slow walk down death row. It was three years old.

It was a good computer, for a year. We went through a lot together. Deadlines, late-night fact-checking, the uploading of my first digital photo. I can never replace those memories.

But what I hope to replace is that f'ing awful customer service. When my computer was overheating, one of the "technical support" people told me to stack it on top of some books to give it more air. When I told her that solution wasn't very technical, she responded, miffed, that she was only making a suggestion. What's more is that I had to pay $50 every time I needed to ship the thing out, then wait 5 days for it to come back, only to blue-screen on me again a few weeks later. It made working as a freelance writer the worst job in the world.

So, when it totally bit the dust yesterday (and by the way, even though this computer has given me trouble before, I STILL didn't back everything up) we went out and, after much research, bought a Mac.

So far, so good.

Now if I only knew what a widget was.

An unfortunate hero

2007-04-18T00:19:00.000-04:00

I've been watching in disbelief the coverage of the Virginia Tech shootings. I have always been the type of person to take events like these to heart, even though I know no one involved.

No doubt stories of sorrow and heroism will slowly unfold over the coming hours, days and weeks, but one that I heard today was particularly moving.

It is the story of Liviu Librescu, 76, a Romanian-born Israeli engineering professor who worked at the school for 20 years. The man survived the brutality of the Holocaust, but fell victim yesterday to the gun of a young man who I can only assume was very, very lost.

But Librescu's story doesn't stop with his death.

Those students whose lives he saved by barricading the door against the gunman, 23-year-old Cho Seung-hui, while they obediently took refuge by jumping out the classroom's windows, will remember him forever. They will imagine a life, I am sure, in which Librescu wasn't there to risk his to save them. What if? But then, eventually, life will go on. Because it has to.

My hope is that, one day, as their lives begin to move forward, those students will remember why it is so. I hope they land their first jobs and remember him. Take their vows and thank him. Look at their children and honor him.