Garden of Last Days

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

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

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!

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

Istanbul? (Not Constantinople)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His and Hers
Any Questions?

Happy Valentine's Day!

Sledding

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

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?

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

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

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

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

Feeding the Cars habit

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

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

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

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

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?

So corny, it's cute....

"I Demand a Cupcake"

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

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!

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

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

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)

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

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

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!

(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

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!

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

$100 million-plus?

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

Oh nuts!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures in Hip Hop

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...

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

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!