Shameless self promotion (again)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

Rockin' the South Shore

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

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

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

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

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.

Wanted: The Easter Bunny

Let me start off by saying, I'm not religious. At all. For a time, when we were kids, my mother sent my brother and I on Sundays to the area Baptist church on a silver van driven by a very heavyset man who wore a towel over his lap so he could steer, but it never really took. Church, I mean.

So growing up, Easter was mostly about wearing a new outfit, eating ham and of course, hunting for our overflowing Easter baskets. This year Rich and I decided we wouldn't buy our son an Easter present. He's not even 2. He doesn't eat candy. And his birthday is one month away. But sure enough, there I was in Kmart last night, weaving through disgruntled last-minute Easter Bunnies who were all looking for candy, searching for this fire-engine shaped basket I'd had my eye on for weeks that I suddenly decided he needed to have. They sold out, so I settled on reusing the pail my mother had given him his Easter presents in last week.

Two match box cars, a Thomas coloring book and a couple of those plastic Easter eggs filled with Goldfish, and the kid was in heaven this morning. Whew! We headed to our neighbors' house for a terrific Easter brunch, then came home to relax. All in all, it was a pretty good day in its own uneventful way.

But what I really wanted to say about Easter was this. Last night, I saw some ridiculous news story on the Easter Bunny being banned from a RI school , another case of political correctness run amok. Apparently, the Superintendent of Tiverton schools felt the Easter Bunny was too religious an icon for an event at which he was scheduled to appear and might offend those who did not celebrate the holiday. So instead he proposed that event coordinators change the Easter Bunny's name to Peter Rabbit. What's next? Banning the phrase "Good Morning" because it offends night owls who can't possibly tolerate such a comment without first having had their coffee?

In response to this debacle, one local politician decided to take the Bunny's case to the state, and this week proposed the Easter Bunny bill, which would protect his name, along with the names of other traditional holiday symbols. Not that I'd want my tax dollars wasted on such nonsense, but do Tiverton school administrators realize that the Easter Bunny is NOT religious? Jesus rose from the dead, and oh, yeah, a giant, white rabbit brought you Peeps to celebrate.

Tiverton parents: If you don't like or want your kids to believe in the Easter Bunny, don't let them go and sit on his lap.

And by the way, Mr. Superintendent, as the politician aptly points out, Peter Rabbit stole cabbages. Not a great role model. In fact, if I were a Tiverton parent, I'd sue.

Three strikes you're out

There is a major battle going on right now in our tiny, little household.

My son, who will be two years old next month, has entered a new stage of his young life: the hitting phase. What started out as an occasional flailing of the arms has turned into an all out, one-sided boxing match at times. Give him some gloves, and I bet he could float like a butterfly and sting like a bee too.

And while I am occasionally the recipient of these blows, it's Rich who suffers the brunt. He comes home from work, after about an hour and a half commute, happy to see his family, and when he leans in for a kiss, he gets bopped in the nose by a tiny little fist. I try and tell him that it's not personal, that it's just a two-year-old's way of saying, "Hey Dad, where the hell were you all day? You should have been home rolling trucks with me!"

But that's like telling the 23 DePauw University girls kicked out of the Delta Zeta sorority that it wasn't because they were awkward, slightly overweight and unpopular that they were banished.

It's been going on for days now, and I cringe when Rich walks through the door and requests a hug from our son. I just try and remove all hard, plastic toys from his little hands and hope for the best. To his credit, Rich is taking his pounding like a champ, getting up round after round only to be knocked down again.

My hope is that it doesn't last much longer, 'cause I'm tired of playing referee.

The kindness of friends

(Nearly 100 people show up at Picasso's Pizza in Warwick, RI to lend support to a friend who was seriously injured in a workplace fire.)

There's so much bad in the world, it's nice to be part of something that's just plain good.

Over the weekend, we packed up the family Camry again for a road trip. This time it was to my hometown in Little Rhody, where my brother and his wife worked hard at organizing a fundraiser for one of his best friends who last month suffered serious injuries in a workplace fire. The road ahead is long for he, his wife and adorable one-year-old son Aidan, as doctors have told him that after numerous surgeries he will be out of work for up to a year.

The term sounds extremely cliche, but it really was heartwarming to see how many people showed up for a $10-dollar-per-ticket all-you-can-eat pizza buffet to help this young family. It must have been nearly a hundred, and they came from all corners of his life - family, friends, high school football and baseball players that he and my brother have coached, even strangers.

My sister-in-law pitched the idea to local businesses and, in the end, nine of them donated items to be raffled off. (Being a coffee addict, I put most of our 60 raffle tickets in for the D&D gift basket, and won!) The event was held at Picasso's Pizza, and the owner donated all food and drinks. And kudos to him because, I have to tell you, it was downright scary to watch those hungry teens circling the buffet table time after time like vultures, knocking down old ladies and waiting with plates in hand for the pizzas to be brought out.

(My brother and his wife with Aidan at the fundraiser.)

When all was said and done, my brother and his wife raised over $1,500 for his friend's family. They didn't want thanks or fanfare, and so they will surprise him with the check when he returns home from the hospital this week.

But what's more is that they restored my hope that when people are in trouble, others will help answer the call.

Sambuca Thursday

Do any other moms feel as self-conscious as I do about dragging their toddler to the liquor store?

I usually try to avoid the situation altogether. You know, the looks, real or imagined, really start to make me feel like a terrible parent, as if I am about to rush home and down my bottle of Pinot Noir through a funnel, my son bawling beside me, stewing in his own poop, crying for his drunken mama to pay him some attention.

But today I had to go. Because I needed to buy some wine. Not in the sense that I needed it, as in I just had to have a drink right then. (though it wouldn't have hurt.) But I was attending a little writers' soiree to which I volunteered to bring wine, and I was supposed to arrive at 6:30 sharp, which is exactly when Rich arrives home from work. So I had no time to spare.

So here I am with my son in his winter jacket and sneakers which are still smeared with mud from yesterday's little hike through the still-defrosting woods, dragging him into the liquor store to buy two bottles of wine inexpensive enough to not feel that I overcompensated for strangers, but good enough not to look cheap. His nose is leaking like a sieve and he's trying to roll the little fire engine I bought him as a reward for not completely breaking down at our latest over-extended visit to Target between the bottles of Yellow Tail.

I grab two bottles of Blackstone, then get in the long line. Who knew Thursday's were such a busy day in a suburban liquor store? The woman in front of me, who is buying a bottle of Chardonnay, smiles at us, no doubt deciding whether or not she should call DSS as, in one hand I hold two wine bottles by their necks, and with the other try and tame my son, who is doing that thing toddler's do when they try and sit on the ground while you're holding their hand, so he looks like a malfunctioning marionette. I am starting to sweat.

I am ALWAYS carded at this liquor store, even though I am well beyond the legal drinking age, and as I get closer to the checkout counter, I wonder if the barely-legal clerk thinks I am old enough to even have a kid. Certainly wishful thinking, as he not only doesn't ask for my ID (bastard), he also pays no mind to the fact that my son, a trail of green running from his nostril to his upper lip, is swinging from my arm and trying to grab a bottle for himself.

A man steps in line behind us. He has nothing in his hands, no bottle of wine, no micro-brew six-pack. He says hello to my son, who hides behind me. I pat his head and notice the man -- 40-ish, graying, dressed in business casual and what looks like a Member's Only jacket -- is wearing sunglasses. Indoors. I hate when people do that.

I plop my wine on the counter while at the same time trying to hold onto my son's hand and pull my debit card out of my wallet. I punch in my pin then move my things over until I get situated. The sunglasses-wearing man steps up to the counter and asks quietly for a fifth of sambuca. While he is paying, my son and I make our way out onto the sidewalk and the man follows shortly thereafter. As we head to our car, the man straightens his back, flinches, then slips the bottle of sambuca into the pocket of his well-pressed khakis.

Bachelor, I think. Then he steps into his gleaming, white minivan.

Weekend at Parentsville

This weekend, we left the MA 'burbs, and made a beeline for the CT ones.

Funny thing is, we never left Parentsville.

We packed up the Camry and drove two and a half hours to see our favorite former Watertown peeps for a family-style soiree. We were joined by fellow party-goers hailing from Boston, New Jersey and Long Island and when the head count was in, we totaled 16 -- 10 adults and six kiddies. Food, company, and beer were aplenty.

The trip was a blast. However, it did serve as a reminder that the times, they are a-changing. The drinking started early (a.k.a. upon arrival, but it WAS noon). That part didn't change. Here's what has.

• Our friends have a three-year-old. The terrible twos, they said, that's a farce. It's the 3's that make you want to stick your head in a pre-heated oven. They also have a nine-month old. They are emotionally and physically exhausted. And though, as always, they played excellent hosts, there wasn't the traditional psycho-analysis group therapy session or quasi offensive, yet thought-provoking mind game. Bummer.
• We were never all in the same room at the same time. It was like the year my grandfather dressed up as Santa Claus. I began to wonder if certain people were actually real.
• Practically everyone loves the movie Office Space. So when March Madness continued to disappoint, and the kids were busy in the playroom, our host threw it in the DVD player. When we noticed the five and three-year old staring blankly at the screen as Michael Bolton harmonized a string of obscenities with the Geto boys, we quickly put in Shrek, then WE were the ones staring blankly at the screen.
• Normally a get-together such as this requires -- no, demands -- an overnight stay, but by late afternoon, people were dropping like flies.
• Those of us that were in it for the long haul put in a respectable showing with the continued drinking. And after a couple of tasty lasagnas (one veggie, one for the carnivores), and some socializing out on the deck, we, the standing few, started to drag. By the time all the remaining children were put to bed and we tried again for Office Space, we needed toothpicks to hold our eyes open. But we persevered. Then, by 10 p.m., as Peter Gibbons and his crew of disgruntled techies plotted to screw Initech, our hosts were quietly snoozing on the couch. When they woke with a start, one retired to bed. Then another fringe movie-watcher dropped. When I was offered a beer at 10:15, I took it to preserve the pretense that I still had it in me. At about 10:30, we were three strong, but fading fast. My beer was still half full. I had to give in. Then everyone folded. By 10:45, Rich and I were in bed. Ah, heavenly, peaceful sleep. (Insert sounds of crickets chirping here). But at midnight, as I still lay tossing and turning, unable to achieve slumber in a strange setting, our son decided it would be a good time to wake and demand milk. Then he lay in bed with us for the the rest of the night, flopping around like a fish out of water. It was just like being home.......

Urge to purge

It's the time of year when I feel the need to purge my home of unnecessary items - clothing, knickknacks, paperwork, small appliances, furniture, that sort of thing, and then wrap the whole cleansing event up by using a little bit of good ole fashioned elbow grease to sanitize, deodorize, and make sure all remnants of goldfish, raisins, animal crackers and the like are swept from underneath the couch before bug season arrives.

The proverbial Spring cleaning.

But there are certain items that, no matter how useless or forgotten, never seem to make it to the discard pile. Here are a few.


1. This tee-shirt that my mother bought for Rich before our son was born. She thought it would be cute for him to wear it in the hospital once everything was all said and done. I remember the day I went into labor (10 days late - and I had been testing the quickness of my skills, I guess, when I refused to pack a bag until the very moment when my contractions became less than 5 minutes apart). As I was tossing in personal items and clothing for both me and baby and we were making our way out the door, I asked Rich, "What about the shirt?" "What shirt?" "The dad shirt my mom got you." "Forget it."

But me, being the sentimental sap that I am, ran back to our room and tossed it in the bag. Needless to say, the shirt came home unworn and hasn't EVER been worn. But I can't seem to part with it.

2. This 100th anniversary Hummel collector's plate, which, according to the person who gave it to us, was supposed to yield us a pretty penny. After numerous hopeful checks on Ebay and crazy collector sites, I found out this hideous knickknack will bring in no more than about $100. Very disappointing. But, like the real estate market, I am hoping the market for creepy angel dinnerware will increase. So I am holding onto it.

3. My Girl Scout autograph book, which I used at the end of fifth grade for friends to sign before school let out for the summer. If you went through the autograph craze when you were in elementary school, you might also remember the nifty way of folding each page up and writing the person's name on the outside, (as shown in the photo below on the right, and yes, that really IS that boy's name, which shouldn't illicit laughter at my age, but what a way to go through fifth grade) so you could immediately turn to your favorite messages written by crushes and best girl friends.

There is some funny shit in this book. Mostly written by people I haven't thought of in years. You know, the normal stuff, about how I am a "super kid" and I should have a "super summer" and, my favorite, that I should "never change."

There are also some messages that shed a little light on the kind of person I was in elementary school. Nothing I am proud of, to be sure, like this matter-of-fact note shown on the left. Now that I am reading it again, I have the urge to seek out and call this guy -- whose real identity I'll keep secret but who, you should know, wound up beating me in the 6th grade spelling bee -- and apologize for my insensitivity. Looking back, I know now that my thoughtlessness was clearly a defense mechanism, as I too was taunted by insensitive jerks who felt the need to put others down to make themselves feel better. I am over it though.

Incidentally, this is the same boy who bought me a box of chocolates for Valentine's Day in the 6th grade, and who I secretly pined after until freshman year.

How can I be expected to part with this memento of my youth?

I Love/Hate 'New York'

Reality TV has sunk to a new low when a reject from a show starring Flavor Flav that features the former Public Enemy time-keeper being fawned over by a group of trashy women, gets her own spinoff series.

"I Love New York," which I know has been on the air on VH1 for some time, is equally as trashy, disgusting and degrading as it's parent show. However, it's also as strangely and repulsively riveting. It features a woman, nicknamed 'New York,' a big-breasted, over-the-top hoochie who was kicked out of Flavor Flav's mansion, deemed unworthy of being his lady friend. Now she's got the mansion and with the help of her mother, is supposed to pick a man from the group of meatheads, drug addicts, babies daddies and plain, old jackasses that have been invited to live there.

The only reason I know so much about the show is because every time I go to the gym, it's on. It doesn't matter the day or hour. And when I hop on the treadmill, and see these guys duking it out in a boxing ring, dancing in their underwear or any other one of the "tests" New York puts them through, I roll my eyes. When I purposely plop in front of VH1, I EXPECT to see music. But they too have gone the road of MTV.

So, I listen to my ipod and strain my neck for distractions from CNN, which is informative and educational and all that, but, to be honest, not very entertaining for getting through a workout. And because my ipod shuffle, which can hold over 200 songs or something , contains only 28 that haven't been updated in about 2 months, I am constantly sneaking peaks at New York and her small gang of wannabes. It's like witnessing a train wreck you can't peel your eyes from.

Now that she's down to five guys, I am actually curious as to who she picks - the gay body builder, the pothead, the Eminem wannabe, the hothead, or the quiet one who has no personality. I am disgusted now, with myself.

Oh. Wait a minute. News flash. For the purposes of this blog, I have just checked the VH1 Web site and discovered that New York has whittled her selection of men down to three. So not only have I been watching an absolutely revolting piece of garbage, I have been watching reruns of an absolutely revolting piece of garbage.

But still, I think she's gonna pick the pothead.

Britney!

Let's see. If I were a 25-year-old, recently divorced mother of two whose personal and professional lives have both gone down the tubes in a major way, where would I look for a new man? I got it! Rehab.

Britney Spears, whose most recent fame has been derived from bad haircuts and making a revolving door out of rehab, is reportedly "close" to Riva rocker Jason Filyaw, a recovering alcoholic himself. Although the two have known each other since 2003, they recently met up at an AA meeting and Filyaw is helping her "spiritually." Yeah.

I don't know, maybe Filyaw will be good for the former pop princess. He's got experience and age on his side. (He's 33.) But when his band is self-described as having a liking to "a fine aged tequila," it makes you wonder how beneficial this budding romance might be to an alcoholic on the road to recovery. Meanwhile, on her official site, Brit is seeking further help by asking fans to send her their thoughts and words of inspiration.

I've got some for her:

Dear Brit:
Stop acting f'***ing crazy!

The great outdoors

I am one of those people who wants to be an outdoorsy person, but is sooooo not, mainly because of my severe fear of bugs - of any kind, from ants to bees to spiders to flies. I hate them. I loathe them. They give me the creepy crawlies. They make my skin itch. You get the picture.

However, I do not want to pass this on to my son, though I am afraid that is already in the works. I want him to love the outside, and fear nothing. I want him to hike and explore and climb trees and yes, even examine insects. (Is it ok for kids to still pull the legs off of spiders? Probably not.) So, I am going to have to learn to love it. I mean, the real outdoors. Yes, I enjoy having drinks out on the deck of a waterfront restaurant, strolling around downtown, feeling the ocean breeze blowing through my hair. And, if Rich can stand to have me loudly clap my hands to keep the bears at bay, I even love hiking. But I want my son to love camping, white water rafting, tree climbing. I have always secretly envied the family who does those sorts of things together.

Writing this article gave me some inspiration for starting to ease my way into becoming a nature-loving person. The outdoors can be a great catalyst for learning, and even though I may not be it's BIGGEST fan, I certainly want it to be intact for future generations to enjoy. Maybe my son, given the right circumstances, will even help to ensure that.

So, when I finished writing the piece, I contacted the Joppa Flats Education Center to inquire if they too, like the Audubon Center in my piece, would consider starting a nature preschool, a place where, at a young age, children are exposed to the outdoors and taught to be aware of and appreciate their surroundings. The director of education there congratulated me on thinking "outside the sandbox" and said she would bring it up at the next board meeting.

Now, I am not REALLY expecting anything. But I feel good about possibly planting the seed. Who knows? Maybe, with a little bit of effort, I can even learn to LOVE the great outdoors. Maybe, in a few years, you'll hear from me, and I will be off hiking in the South American rain forests or climbing Mount Everest. Or maybe, I'll simply be able to go hiking without worrying about being attacked by a Grizzly.

Isn't it ironic?

Irony has once again reared its not-so-ugly head.

This afternoon, after arriving home from a day-trip into Boston to spend the day with a friend, I walk through the door to find Rich at the sink doing dishes. Our son is still napping. I talk with the quick pace of contentment and tell him about my day - eating breakfast at a Charles Street Cafe, taking a leisurely walk around the River, lounging at my friend's North End condo without a responsibility in the world but to comment on her new built-in closet storage system.

Then, I sift through the Sunday mess of ads and pick up the Boston Globe Magazine. My eyes are immediately directed to this article, "The Job Without Benefits."

It begins with the story of Susan Luongo, a 41-year-old business owner, wife and mother. Luongo, who runs a technology consulting firm and works up to 80 hours a week, earns twice what her husband, a systems analyst, makes.

"But she's still the one who usually picks up their 9-year-old son at his after-school program each day, comes home and makes dinner, does some laundry, helps her son with his homework, and gets him ready for bed," the article says.

It's about gender-equality, and how women who "have-it-all" and then some (all the women in the piece are the dominant breadwinners in the family), are their own worst enemies. Even though they demand a fair split of household duties with their husbands, they are resigned to doing it all themselves because, they claim, their husbands just aren't as good at it.

This part, I can understand. And what I mean is, I can understand this type of OCD. I can't tell you how many times I have rewashed a dish or monitored vacuuming or inspected folded towels in the linen closet to make sure the crease was facing out. But this article says that even when the women make more money - a rational men have used, it says, to get OUT of housework - household chores are still broken down by gender. "In other words, women do most of it."

It strikes me as almost funny, the timing of this piece, as my husband retrieves our son from his nap, then changes his diaper. Then he runs downstairs to put the laundry in the dryer. "Can I dry your new, red shirt?" he yells from the basement. Then he's back upstairs, putting away dishes. Then baking banana muffins - after all, they were too ripe for just regular eating. Then cooking a pizza for our son. Then cutting up chicken and chopping vegetables and boiling rice for our dinner. Seriously.

And this day is not an anomaly. Of course, weekends are. And during the week, I pick up more of the household slack than today, but certainly not ALL.

Of course, my situation is not like these other women. I don'work outside the home. And I DEFINTELY don't make twice what my husband does. But it gets me to thinking how lucky I am. That I married someone who doesn't subscribe to these gender roles. He bakes. I take out the trash. He makes dinner. I haul in some firewood. Other days, it's the exact opposite. And then there are days, like today, when super-dad does it all, and mom, who has "the job without benefits" kicks back, and really does nothing at all.

Thanks.

My little bruiser.....

"I'm tough," I taught my son to say, after scraping his cheek on the doorway earlier this week in an attempt to escape brushing his teeth.

Certainly, though, I am teaching him to embrace his emotional side by letting him know through example that it's ok to cry. Which he did, as I was sopping up what seemed like enormous amounts of blood with a cold cloth. (Not visible in this pic is the black and blue mark close to his left ear.)

So all week, I've been self-consciously carting him to gym and music class, and to friends' houses and stores, wondering if everyone is deciding whether or not to call DSS. Luckily, no one has. And the little man is doing just fine. He may be banged up, but at least his ego's not bruised. He's too young for that - yet.

Straight outta Rhody - no longer

Straight Outta Rhody, not really sure where that came from. Well, yes I am, but it has no bearing on what this blog is all about. An ironic play on N.W.A.'s Straight Outta Compton, Straight Outta Rhody says yeah, mother f'ers, I'm from the Ocean State, so what you gonna do? But since very little of this blog is actually about RI, it's just not working. Not to mention that I'm not really very gansta.

So, while I am from RI, and no one will ever take that away from me (no matter how hard they try), I had to come up with something a little more appropriate for the content of this site. And what better than a made-up word?

Singuloso, loosely defined, means "all mine."

It was coined during a particularly heated game of Pictionary being played by myself, Rich, my brother, and my sister-in-law. We always play guys against girls, and because my sister-in-law is an amazing artist, the girls usually win. If you are a Pictionary fan, you know about the all-plays (a card, when drawn, that allows all teams to guess the clue) and in a game where one team is a sure thing, those dreaded all-plays can prove devastating to a couple of men who, when one draws a fire then a stick, and angrily points between each one with his pen while the white sand runs too quickly through the tiny hourglass, the other guesses "fire stick." What the hell is a fire stick? You guessed it - a match.

On each turn, when the girls drew their card, the guys would ask hopefully, "All-play?" because they desperately needed that chance. When we shook our heads, they would solemnly utter, "singuloso," meaning the clue was ours, and only ours, for the taking. On their turn, the sentiments, of course, were the exact opposite.

Anyway, this word, singuloso, has survived all these years of Pictionary-playing, and has come to define our game play. And, in the same vain, I hope it can come to define this blog, which is filled with my thoughts on things that may concern you, and others you don't give a damn about.
Whatever the case, it's all mine.
My own.
My precious.

Why I don't watch the news

I don't really watch the news anymore. Partly because my formerly free time is now occupied by being a parent, and there's only so many stories of shootings, rapes, fires, suicides, robberies and general death and destruction one can take.

And if I'm being honest, it's a bit desensitizing, learning about the world around you through the eyes of those murderers, burglars, arsonists - and victims. It's not that I'm unsympathetic. It's just that I'd still like to believe that there are good things going on in the world, even if they don't make headlines.

So I get much of my news from the Net, where I can pick and choose what I want to read about. Yesterday, I happened upon a video with a tease I couldn't resist, because it was just too outrageous to believe it could be true. In it, a couple of Texas teens place a joint between the lips of two boys, ages 2 and 5, who inhale and take off coughing, as the teens laugh and urge them back for more. I watch in horror, and over the blurred face of the toddler in the video, I picture my own son, being exploited for the amusement of a couple of dime store punks, and I get angry.

But not just angry, saddened. Because it reminds me that not everyone respects the sanctity of childhood, not even when the perpetrators are still children themselves. I hope those boys receive proper punishment, but I also hope that when brought to face what they've done - and I guarantee there's so much more than that 45-second clip can even begin to uncover - they are smacked hard in the face with their own stupidity.

Happy birthday, old friend

Today is Kerrie Gannon's birthday. Now, unless you went to Warwick Vets, and graduated in '93, you probably don't know Kerrie Gannon. But you probably know someone just like her.

Kerrie is someone I only used to know, back when I was 16 and drinking Purple Passion from a two-liter bottle at the Sea Wall on a Friday night. She wasn't my best friend, but, for a time, she was someone who was very much a part of my high school years. There's not too much I could tell you about her, except that she had a hot, older brother named Scott, and that if you pinched her, she thought she would get cancer.

When I was in high school, I straddled several cliques, my foot just far enough inside the circle of each one to be called one of them, but not so deep that I could be pigeon-holed. They may not have been as well-defined as in other schools, sometimes the lines were blurred, a sign of unity, I suppose. And they weren't really named. But the cliques were there, and you knew who belonged where, for the most part. There were the kids in honors classes, a group of which I was a proud, card-carrying member, and from whom I drew my best friends. There were the the sort-of alternative kids, many of whom were also in honors classes, but hung in different circles after the bell. (Incidentally, this is the only group of people with whom I remain friends.) Then there were the "cool" kids, the kids who got wasted before the Hendricken Carnival and always seemed to be able to get beer, girls who, as upperclassmen, egged the houses of ambitious freshmen who stole the hearts (or pants) of the senior heartthrobs.

Kerrie was part of this last group, but not really. In part, so was I - but not really at all.

Anyway, for some reason, I guess because of my propensity to recall number sequences linked with my past (I still remember the telephone number of my second-grade best friend Dawn Steiner, whom I've not seen since I was 7) I remember Kerrie's birthday, even though I have not spoken with her since graduation.

Sometimes, I wonder about the people who seemed, back then, like they would always be there, like they'd never just disappear and morph into strangers whom I'd hardly recognize on the street. I wonder if they're married. If they have kids. If they work, or stay home. If they turned out to be gay. If they live in mansions on the ocean or have fallen on hard times. I wonder about them, and wonder, sometimes, if they ever wonder about me.

Today, I am wondering about Kerrie Gannon and wishing her a Happy Birthday, wherever she may be.

Whew!

I may not be smarter than one, but at least if I went head-to-head with a fifth-grader, there's a very good possibility I might come out on top.

According to a quiz on the Fox Website, I am AS smart as a fifth-grader - not bad when you consider it has been many years since I was a student in Mr. DelSesto's fifth grade class at Lippitt Elementary School in Warwick, RI.

Answering 9 out of 10 questions correctly, the only one I missed was "What is the largest South American country by area?" I nearly selected the correct answer - Brazil - but instead checked Argentina. I'm not sure why. Maybe because the name is longer.

I'm old enough now to know that I should always follow my gut, which is the advice I would give the adult contestants who'll appear on Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?, a game show hosted by redneck comedian Jeff Foxworthy and conceived by Survivor creator Mark Burnett, which premiers in three episodes this week. (Way to milk it.)

On the show, adult contestants will be asked a series of questions, supposedly taken from an elementary-school text book. If they answer 11 questions correctly, they win a million bucks. Not bad. And apparently, if they don't know the answers, contestants will have the opportunity to ask a panel of actual fifth-graders who play along. Hopefully these fifth-graders are not just a gang of pint-sized know-it-alls who bask in the glory of stupefying adults. Cause I know how I'd react to that.

They look innocent enough. But I'd watch out for the tall girl in the jean jacket. She looks like she's ready to rip you a new one.

And the winner is...

Beats the hell out of me. I didn't bother to watch because the only nominated movie I saw was Little Miss Sunshine, which I suspected wouldn't win.

My only news of the Oscars came from Sandi during the tail-end of lunch at Friendly's with two screaming toddlers who were in need of naps. And now I've forgotten what she told me.

Incidentally, a Friendly's lunch too close to nap time - bad idea. (Is it ever really a good idea?!) Not only did I receive my garden salad (aka iceberg lettuce with loads of cheese) only moments before the check, but when, in an attempt to make my crispy chicken wrap a more healthy meal, I asked for it in lieu of fries, I was told the fries come with it anyway. Bastards!

To top it all off, we waited for the check as the kids serenaded the entire place with screams of dada! crayons! juice! hi! and our clueless waitress lingered at the table of two tattooed (ahem) gentlemen, discussing the semantics of serpents. This would have been the perfect opportunity to chew and screw (known in some circles as dine and dash) but I figured since I'm a mom now, I probably shouldn't risk getting arrested.

Instead, I knocked a dollar off her tip. So there!

The power of Seuss

So I never really got Dr. Seuss. I mean, I understood the stories - in the way that you can understand stories about rotting food and one creature's quest to get another to eat them.

But what I mean is, I never really quite got why the writer is so well-loved, so revered. But now I do. Before my son was even born, he received a ton of Dr. Seuss books. But, for some reason, maybe because I thought he wasn't old enough yet, I put them aside each and every time story time rolled around. Yesterday, he seemed so hell bent on being read Green Eggs and Ham, that I decided to go for it. Two things happened.


1. He giggled through the ENTIRE book. I mean an all-out belly laugh that was totally infectious and one that usually only occurs during major tickle battles. The more excited he became, the more animated I became until we found ourselves laughing through all 62 pages - quite a feat for an easily distracted 21-month-old. Rather then reading a story just to pass some time, it was more like an experience. As if I were possessed by the ghost of some Shakespearean actor, I began reading the absurd rhymes - Would you eat them in a box? Would you eat them with a fox? - in tongues I had not thought myself capable of, and my son, nestled comfortably in my lap, would keep looking back at me, with those saucer-like green-brown eyes, to watch the expression on my face as I recited the words. He loved it all. He even marveled at the surreal drawings.

2. I too was reminded of an important lesson, thanks to the pestering, but lovable, Sam-I-Am. Don't knock something until you've tried it. Because if you do, you might just be missing out on a really great time.

Sunchunck

A couple of weeks ago, I interviewed members of the band Sunchunck, a trio of guys you'd want to be friends with before you even heard their music. They scored fourth place overall during last summer's Boston Emergenza festival and their new EP, titled "Late" is due out mid-March.

The band's bassist, Mike Bertolami, tried to coax me into singing backup during the interview - which took place during a recording session at Bobcat Studios - after I told him that I had once recorded a song with a few work friends a couple years back. Our single, which we recorded under the name AFPCB (the All For Profit Christmas Band - yeah, not my idea) was moderately successful, and it was given away free to friends and family members.

Anyway, you won't hear my voice on Sunchunck's new album (thank goodness for them) but you will hear band members Bertolami, John Catino and Brett Manoloff rocking their melodic sound on four brand-new songs.

Hear them live at the Grog in Newburyport on St. Patty's Day. And check out my story on them in the upcoming issue of Merrimack Valley Magazine.

The end is near

We are approaching the end of our childless long weekend. Two days, one hour and fifty-two minutes ago, I dropped off our son at his Grammy's house, which, with the help of Toys R' Us, had been transformed into a toddler's dream worthy of the type of magic only Christmas morning can bring.

And slow, but sure, the novelty of our temporary freedom has worn itself just a little thin as we navigated our way through the streets of downtown Newburyport this morning, looking wistfully at other parents holding the tiny hands of their toddlers, guiding them over the dirty banks of snow. Yes, we are enjoying our time, but this morning, we spent nearly a half-hour in Eureka perusing the shelves of toddler puzzles and trains as if our son has been gone a month and it'll be another month before we can see him again.

However, the weekend has not been without it's pleasures. Among them:

1. Sleeping late, which for us means 8:30. And it's not even really sleeping, more like a forced laying in bed, periodically checking the alarm clock for a respectable time to rise.

2. Eating out, Out of the six childless meals we've had, only one has been at home.

3. Drinking, Self-explanatory. When you are expected to rise at the break of dawn to take care of a well-rested toddler, you just can't drink like you used to. We still can't drink like we used to, but in the absence of our son, at least we can pretend. And we did.

4. Enjoying a leisurely pot of expertly brewed tea at Licorice and Sloe, where we learned that drinking tea without accoutrements such as cream and sugar (preferred by experts) is called enjoying it "neat," and where the extremely polite teenage staffer informed us that they prefer you do not bus your own table, as this would cause "cross-contamination" at the tea counter, where drinks are brewed for customers. These guys are the real deal. We even witnessed Licorice and Sloe owner, Bil Siliker, quizzing his "Tea-Slingers" on random tea facts. Incidentally, the Nilgiris, or Blue Mountains, of Southern India is home to many tea farms.

5. Voguing. When DJ Rhythm Nights started spinning Madonna's Vogue at the Harborside Saturday night, you could see the people squirming in their seats. But the dance floor remained empty. Taking a chug of her Sam Adams, Sandi turns to me and says, "How much will you give me to get out there and vogue?" I tell her $20. She quickly lays her coat over a chair at the bar, slams down her beer and saunters to the dance floor. Then, much to Rich's chagrin, (you told her $20???!!!), Sandi vogues like the wind, to the backdrop of the NBA's Slam Dunk contest on the big screen.

Me and the husbands sipped our beers and cracked up on the sidelines. Funny thing is, no one else seemed to notice.

I heart the snow

Well, it's here.

I don't know where you are, but up here on the North Shore, it's snowing to beat the band, whatever that means.

Even though I don't work out of the home, and my son is too young yet for school, it still feels like one of those snowstorms of old, when I'd sit by the television, praying that Warwick, RI, would appear in the scrolling list of districts that were cancelling school, an experience second only to hearing legendary WPRO radio host Salty Brine shouting his infamous "No School Foster-Glocester," a sound as inherently Rhode Island as squawking seagulls eating discarded clam cakes at Rocky Point.



Well, there's no more Salty, but today's snowstorm has been enjoyed just as much, as the Sandy Acres rat pack of miniature snow bunnies got outside for a little sledding and fun.

Nothing says I Love You more than a big and blustery Nor' Easter. Happy Valentine's Day!

Hug it out bitch

I am truly saddened.

We just finished watching the last disc of season two of Entourage. Part of our Netflix queue, it took us a while, (we are lame-o's and only subscribe to the one-disc-at-a-time plan), but over the last few weeks, I have grown quite fond of Vince, Eric, Drama and Turtle and will miss those guys. I will also miss Ari's gay, Chinese assistant Lloyd, who, at the end of season two, in a Jerry Maguire moment, decides to stick with Ari (despite the racist and sexist harrassment he suffers) as his ass is being tossed from the agency he helped build.

I know season three is well under way. But we don't have HBO, so, unfortunately, we will be left in limbo about how Aquaman will turn out and if Vince crumbles again over Mandy Moore. We won't know if Drama scores his dream part. Or if Turtle will hit it big with Saigon.

I think the reason I like it so much is because Entourage is like a throw-back to youth. (No, I was never a million dollar movie star living in L.A.) But more than once I looked over at Rich, and said, "Wouldn't that be awesome?"

He usually said no. But we were still doubled over laughing at every episode. These guys, sadly enough, had become part of our rotation of nightly entertainment. Now, alas, our Tuesday nights (Mondays=24, Wednesdays=Friday Night Lights and Lost, Thursdays=The Office) will be devoid of meaning.

Until April 3, 2007.

The aftermath

Jack Bauer and Co. didn't disappoint last night, as the action-packed drama unfolded over two glorius hours. I was equal parts pissed (the skulking duo of Lennox and Reed planning President Palmers demise in high voltage utility closets); elated (when someone, finally! was made aware of Papa Bauer's pure wickedness) and disgusted (poor Morris and that drill).

Rich, insistent that had he been in Morris' place, he would have attempted to attack one of the terrorists, forcing them to shoot him, rather than be tortured by Fayed's drill and frightened into building the detonator and possibly leading the U.S. to its destruction, kept knocking the poor bastard after his rescue.

Me? I'm guessing I would have folded after the first blow to the head.

Two hours!

I don't think that even if I won the Massachusetts State Lottery, I could be any more jazzed than I am right now.

Okay, okay. I could use the millions. But seriously. Two hours of 24! You can bet the rest of my day will be focused on getting my to-do list done before 8 p.m. - and that includes putting my CTU tee (bought after season 1, thank you very much) through the wash.


Tick-tock-tick-tock.............

Showing New England Up - Big time

People enjoy skaing at the Bartlett Mall on a wintry Sunday.



Depending on how you look at things, we've been real lucky so far this winter. A pretty mild first half, and no bona fide snow to speak of.

Last year, we went in on a snowblower with our neighbors. The husbands trekked up to Sears one Sunday morning, on the verge of the season's first storm, and returned, giddy with excitement, eager to see what that puppy could do. Later that afternoon, as what would turn out to be nearly a foot of snow, began coating our driveway, we finally felt part of the winter-fighting in-crowd, as snowblowers revved up around the neighborhood, and arches of propelled snow lined the street.

It was the only time our purchase saw the light of day last year. This year, we haven't even thought about the thing. Didn't even bother to get the hunk of metal tuned up.

Most people I know consider this an uncommon stroke of good luck. It's friggin' cold, but thank God there's no snow.

In Massachusetts, the mere hint of a snowstorm jumpstarts the local meteorologists into quick action - with their stormtrack, winter force teams, doppler radar and hourly updates - and frightens even the most "hardy" New Englander into making an emergency trip to the grocery store. And that's if we're expecting a few inches of snow. Inches!

Can you imagine, then, if somehow the entire population of Massachusetts were magically transported to the upstate New York village of Redfield, where they are on the brink of breaking the state record of the most snowfall in a week? The record was set in 2002, where ten feet, seven inches fell over a seven-day period in the nearby town of Montague. Redfield is reported to have seen 11 feet of snowfall last week. Tomorrow, an official from the National Weather Service will verify that claim. There are some Bay Staters who, no doubt, could handle it. But most of us would be curled up in the fetal position wondering how the hell we were going to watch 24 with no electricity.

Quoted in an AP article, lifelong Redfield resident Allan Babcock said, "It's snow. We get a lot of it. So what?"

He makes us hardy New Englanders, complaining about our recent cold snap, look like a bunch of you-know-whats.

Yeah, it's cold. But it's winter. In New England.

MC Toddler

He definitely gets it from his mother.....

Oh and forgive the looped video with cheesy, dubbed music. It was my first time uploading from my camcorder. But better to hear the soundtrack to a late 90's step aerobics video than my way-to-hyper voice screaming, "Do it again baby! Show mommy how you dance."

Bizzare love triangle

Silly old me. I really thought that the long-awaited legal union of Phyllis and Bob would pave the way for lovebirds Jim and Pam. I was literally heartbroken when Pam, instead, snuck off with Roy, her ex-fiancee who's still hanging onto the notion that he and she will reunite, after dancing to a Scrantonicity version of Jewel's You Were Meant for Me.

Jim, seeing this, claims "I am so glad I'm with Karen."

Damn those writers from The Office.

No more crack

Rich says I have lost my calling card.

I say I am gaining back some long-lost self respect.

Whatever you want to call it, I finally purchased some new glasses. For those of you who know me, you know too that this was indeed long overdue. It was humiliating to tell an interview subject for the second time that my infant son - who is now almost 2 - had thrown my glasses on the floor at the grocery store.

While I am happy wearing my new (and unarguably more stylish) specs, part of me feels a piece of my identity has been sacrificed.

Addendum

It has been brought to my attention that I made parenting sound like the worst thing that could possibly happen to a person.

Not at all.

Parenting is the best thing in the world. Though the long and cold winter days may induce claustrophobia and stir-craziness, there are a million other things to rejoice about day to day. Like this blissful bagel and cream cheese session at breakfast.

Help...

It's five degrees. My son is sick. My house is basically uninhabitable by humans (though we seem to be managing ok). And I have a shitload of work to do.

To top it off, I've had no sleep - I shared my bed last night with said sick toddler, who flopped like a fish out of water until 4:30 a.m.

As we speak, he is handing me a partially-chewed raisin, which he found on the dust-bunny covered floor, and begging, like a forlorn puppy dog, for more snacks.

I know how today is going to go. He'll ask to construct his jumbo Thomas puzzle, which request I will oblige. But halfway through, he'll pull apart the pieces I have sleepily put together, then dump out his wooden train set. By the time I have that set up, his heart will again be set on Thomas, not the puzzle, but the squadron of various blue trains bearing that creepy happy face that are too big to push on said train track. The puzzle is interesting again. He'll point to the window and ask to see the moon, which is not yet visible. I will wipe his nose. This routine will go on for a good hour or two.

I'll call my next-door-neighbor Sandi, who thankfully will listen to my lament and have a few toddler horror stories of her own. My son will emit screams of displeasure and throw something to get my attention. We'll eat lunch.

He'll nap. I'll search the net, trying to self-diagnose the disease of the week, then when I am finally fully prepared to work, he'll wake. I'll bemoan that I have no time. Sub-zero temperatures persist, so of course we can't go outside. So, the afternoon will go much the same.

But of course, I love all this. It's part of being a parent. And on Wednesdays, at least, we have music class.

If you're gonna hurl.....

I read yesterday in a blurb published in the Sunday Globe Magazine that some Boston-area restaurants are now serving a popular French delicacy that might make even cow tongue- and frog leg-eaters shiver.

Bone marrow.

The writer describes the gelatinous-looking material as having a deeply meaty flavor. I wonder if Kathy Burge tried it herself.

It's served by one restaurant, the piece explains, as a red wine and bone marrow risotto. At another, as a side dish to the filet mignon. And in the most appalling and revolting (at least to me) way, it's offered to diners at one restaurant right on the bone.

I like to think of myself as having sophisticated palate, but when I think about eating the insides of an animal's bone, I want to hurl.