A Year of Ramblings ...

Granted, I started this blog in March, so we're not quite at the anniversary yet, but since it'll be January in 2 days, I figured I'll be nostalgic and look back at my year (okay, 9 months) of blogging.

I started out praising the Chantico (still do!) and rallying against OPC. I opened my husband's eyes up to another world. I realized how much public information I could find out when my neighbor's dog decided he liked to defecate on my lawn more than anywhere else. I got knocked up and laid off. What a pretty good year.

I'm not much into making resolutions. I have no idea if I even made any last year, that's how much I take them seriously. I still need to go to the gym more often. I still need to save and invest more than I have been. I still need to keep in touch more often. I still need to be less stubborn. And I still need to do everything else that is a typical resolution. But I'm not resolving to make changes because when the year is over, I'll either feel bad that I didn't keep the resolutions, or be where I am today - unsure if I made any in the first place.

I do hope that at this time next year, I will have found a job, I will be able to say that my daughter is happy and healthy, and that those around me are too. And that the trailer that has been the focal point of the view outside my bedroom window will be a thing of the past.

Happy New Year!

Happy Chrismakkawanzaa

One of my biggest pet peeves is when people take life too seriously. Or more commonly known as, "The PC Police."

Case in point. I was watching the local news the other day about the debate over taking "Christmas" out of everything and replacing it with the word "Holiday". Christmas lights will now be marketed as Holiday lights. The Boston Mayor also made it known that this year, at the annual tree lighting, it will be the Holiday tree that will be lit up. Saturday Night Live made fun of it during their news segment and then joked that instead of the annual lighting of the Menorah, the Mayor will be lighting the Holiday Candelabra. It's a bit out of hand.

My Christmas celebration is a tradition of dinner at at Chinese restaurant with about 10 relatives. I don't celebrate Christmas, and I have no desire to use any other terminology that a disgruntled member of society lobbied for. For the record, they are CHRISTMAS LIGHTS! Whatever colors they are, whatever shape you put them in, they are Christmas lights. If I did celebrate Christmas, I'd put up lights. Heck, I'd put up a tree and adorn my front lawn with one of those cute inflatable snow globes that are new this year. I don't know anyone who celebrates any other holiday, and still puts up lights. That is why they are called Christmas Lights. That's all there is too it.

When I was in high school, the winter semi-formal was called Santa's Dream, until someone complained. And so it was changed to to the equally corny Winter Wonderland. Maybe my distates for all things PC started then.

Why do we have to be so politically correct all the time? Who made that rule? Just let it be. That's the way it was, that's what we're used to, and that is what we know is right.

And changing the Pledge of Allegiance for the Atheists so that His name is removed? Seriously. Please just let us have this one. If you don't want to say it, don't. You don't have to stand, you don't have to face the flag, and you don't have to place one hand over your heart. That is your right. But let us do it if we want to. Isn't that our right?

Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, and Happy Kwanzaa. Whatever you celebrate, enjoy it.

Will Blog For Food

I've never been unemployed before. And now I am.

I haven't blogged because I've been emotionally drained, but without actually being emotional. When I found out that the major client that I work with has revamped their company and is taking everything in-house, I was relieved. The company had become quite a headache in the past few months and I was planning to look elsewhere next fall.

When the rumor that they were thinking about it was made public, I went onto Monster and applied for a job. I also contacted my old boss who was more than happy to look for an open position. Just to cover my bases. When the rumor became truth, I wasn't worried because I had minutes earlier checked my email and saw that Dunkin Donuts saw my resume on Monster and wanted to set up a phone interview for a position in their corporate offices. Now, I love Dunkin Donuts. Their coffee is my morning addiction (well, I've had to cut down in the past couple of months...) And so I figured that when the Mothership calls, you can't pass up the opportunity. And so a phone interview was set up. Knowing that this interview existed, and knowing that my previous employer is on the lookout, lightened the fall of my job situation. The phone interview went well, and the recruiter told me that she would pass my resume on to the hiring manager.

Which brings up another issue. Baby.

I'm due to have a child in 4 months. Seriously, would you hire me?

(It's a girl by the way. YAY!)

I know that not hiring a person based on being pregnant is illegal, blah blah blah. But the truth is, it happens. Of course I'll make it known in an interview (I'm not showing to the point where it's obvious) and let them know that daycare plans are in place (sort of) and that I would be available for anything while I'm out on leave, pretty much at their beck and call. But is that enough?

I was relieved a few days ago when I heard the news. Overjoyed. But now. I spent the morning on Monster sending out resumes before heading out and catching up on my million errands. Today was my first full day of not going into an office. I feel lost. Unsure. Drained. But hopeful.

Sometimes I'm Just An Idiot.

Saturday morning, I drove down to my car dealer to have my tires rotated and to have a piece of weather stripping that was coming loose on my door re-attached. I was expecting a long line waiting to get in, but was surprised to find that I was second in line, and thrilled that the wait wouldn't be too long. I couldn't find the spare key that I usually keep in my purse, so I took off the key from my keychain and put it loosely in the ignition, got out and closed the door. I told the tech the reason for my visit and he went over to the car to check out the weather stripping problem. And the door was locked.

I knew it. All the while I was taking my key off the chain, I was telling myself something will happen and I won't have a key. But I figured, what could happen? It's not like they're going to lose my key. So as he looked at me with that "Please, have a spare" look, I could only feel my face falling into my hands and mumbling, "I can't believe I just did that." I was embarrassed. I was holding up a line, and I had to wait at the desk as he asked everyone around if they knew anyone that could jimmy a car. I felt like calling a prison that was a few towns over. Surely someone there would know how to break into a car.

No one at the dealership knew how how to get the car open, and so 45 minutes and $90 later, a new key was made. I asked if this happens often, and he lied and told me it did. He couldn't have been nicer. And I couldn't have been more apologetic since I was holding up the line and wasting his time.

I was probably making more out of it than necessary, but I kick myself over stuff like this. Especially when I have to spend a ridiculous amount of money on something that could have been prevented.

And I still have no idea what I did with my original spare.

When will I know how to be a parent?

I try not to post much about my pregnancy. Of course, it's a huge part of my life right now, but I don't want this to turn into a strictly pregnancy blog. But I'm starting to freak out.

Driving home on Sunday, I felt the baby move. It was a little flutter, followed by what I assume was a kick. It was very cool. It just made this whole thing real. I saw the ultrasound two months ago (has it really been that long?), but actually feeling a kick? Just took it to a whole new level. And with that new level brought a little panic.

This weekend, spending time with my niece and nephew... made me think about what type of mom I'll be. I think I'm a cool aunt. I play with dolls and trucks and I buy toys when they beg and read them stories with funny voices and I play pretend. But then I go home. I'm not there for the important stuff, like disciplining, or cleaning up scrapes, or taking them to the doctors, or knowing how to stop a cry, or answering life's questions. My niece once asked me why I drink water all the time when it doesn't even taste like anything, and where does water even come from? That was easy to answer, compared to the rest of what she probably asks her parents.

I wish there were more books written by parents - not doctors - about what is right and what is wrong. Doctors seem to exaggerate and never tell you not to worry if your child is not walking/talking/potty trained/eating solid foods/out of a crib according to schedule. There is one answer for everything, according to doctors. Parents tell it like it is. Lessons they have learned from experience. "No need to worry," they'd write. "My child went through this, and turned out fine." That's what I want to hear. No medical terminology. No statistics. Just stories.

On Wednesday, we'll find out if these kicks belong to a boy or a girl. It's all just very overwhelming.

False Intruders and Being Stranded on an Island

aka... how I spent my Thanksgiving weekend.

We headed to Cape Cod on Wednesday night to avoid holiday traffic. It was a pretty quiet night since my brother and his family weren't coming until Thursday. The biggest surprise was when I walked in and my parents commented that I was starting to show. I knew I was growing. My pants still fit, though they had become quite snug. But it doesn't really sink in until someone else points it out that I'm getting fat.

Thursday night, we were watching TV when my brother heard a noise coming from the garage. None of us heard it, but all went to the door where the garage meets the kitchen and pressed our ears to the door. Silence. My mother mentioned that there were some break-ins reported a few towns over and so she wanted to call the police because she automatically assumed that was the cause of the noise. We knew there was nothing in there, but after ruling out an animal and hearing more noises coming from the garage, my mother called. We were all against it, but given that we saw humor in it, we didn't stop her. We called it CSI: Cape Cod, and watched as the lights of the car flashed as it stopped at the house. We opened the garage door, and watched as the officers with their flashlights looked inside everything, under everything, and behind everything. No one was there. We thanked them for coming by and he left. My brother and I both heard the noises off an on for the next hour. We followed the noise and found the "Welcome" plaque that was outside, banging against the house in the wind. Nowhere close to the garage. My mother was embarrassed.

My father had seen an ad for a crafts show on Martha's Vineyard a few weeks ago, so our plan for Saturday was to spend the day there, and walk through some of the towns. My parents are craft show junkies. They stop at every booth and admire the talent, while I walk by until I see something interesting, stopping every so often of course, to sample the homemade mustards and jellies. The day before, we tried to schedule the car to go on one of the ferries and were told that we would have no problem going over, but there wasn't any room for the car on any of the ferries back as they were booked solid. We thought about renting a car, but the need for two carseats for my niece and nephew prevented that from happening. After calling the number on the bus schedule, was told of the bus that went to the craft show, and figured that would be our best option.

We made our way over to the island and waited at the bus stop right outside the Vineyard Haven Ferry Terminal. The bus we wanted came on time, but the driver mentioned that he wasn't going near where the show would be. And he wasn't sure if any bus did. We told him the conversation with the bus company the day before, and so he called his supervisor to see if any buses went in that direction. The supervisor came, checked his schedule, and found that the closest bus that went anywhere near there would drop us off 2 miles from the center, but wasn't scheduled to come by until 1:22. It was almost 11:00. And the show ended at 2. Winter hours, we were told. There was nothing he could do. As we walked away to find a cab, he called us back and said that he would drive us there himself, "to prove that islanders are nice." When we arrived at the center, he told us that when we were finished, to walk to the end of the road and wait for the bus. He also had told us that if we called a cab, we would be required to pay the fare from Point A to B. Apparently, where they started from was Point A. They would then pick us up and take us to Point B. Since the majority thought that paying for a fare when we weren't even in the cab yet was silly, we would wait for the bus. After the show, we walked to the end of the road where we joined another couple waiting for a bus, and we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It was freezing. Cars passed by, probably wondering why we were standing randomly on the side of the road. Knowing that we couldn't be waiting for a bus because buses didn't come by there. But we waited. Because we knew the second we started walking back, a bus would come. After 45 minutes we gave in, and made our way back to the center to call a cab. Apparently, the bus supervisor was wrong yet again. No weird cab fees. We decided to go to Oak Bluffs, one of the prettier towns on the island. The cab driver who took us there told us that she used to go bike-riding with JFK Jr, and that whenever Carolyn Kennedy comes over to the Vineyard, she always requests her as her cab driver. Now, I'm a fan of the Kennedys. Not in the political aspect, but the family. The history. And the legacy of Camelot. So when she mentioned John and Carolyn, my ears perked. I didn't believe her (neither did my father), but didn't question it. We just assumed she likes to impress the tourists with random tales. She also pointed out where Diane Sawyer and David Letterman have their houses. In Oak Bluffs, we had lunch, and explored the town a little bit. My father bought a Black Dog T-shirt and a bib for the baby. Black Dog is a huge label over there. It started out as a restaurant owned by a sailor who always had his black dog onboard with him, and now there are stores all over the island. It's amazing how fast it grew.

We wanted to head into Edgartown and Menemsha, but since our schedules were screwed up because of the bus that never was, we had to leave early in time to catch the ferry back.

Not the relaxing weekend I expected, but memorable nonetheless.

Thanksgiving Wishes

I'm heading home today at around 1:30, will make my famous candied yams (and if time permits, brownies), shower, pack, and head to my parents house where I'll feast and relax and shop and play with my niece and nephew until Sunday.

Safe travels to wherever you are going, and have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

When I Get A Round Tuit

When I was little, I remember a piece of paper hanging on our refrigerator. It was one of those sayings that my father must have laughed at and thought it was worth photocopying (or I guess it was mimeographing back them) and taking home to share with the family, and all who chose to enter our kitchen. It was similar to the "Today is not your day; Tomorrow doesn't look good either" type of sayings. The one on the fridge was titled, "A Round Tuit." Below the title was a definition for a round tuit. I forget exactly, but it was something like a disk that you held on to that somehow magically made you a more efficient person and avoided the putting off of what needed to get done until there was nothing left to do.

Confession: I am the world's worst procrastinator. How bad am I, you ask? Well, I was going to post a blog this afternoon about how I haven't responded to all the emails I need to respond to. Emails that have been sitting in my Inbox waiting to be answered. Plans that haven't been finalized because I haven't emailed back a date to get together. Relatives wondering if I have been swallowed up by this baby since I haven't responded to let them know how I'm feeling. I didn't post about it today because I figured it can wait and I'd get around to it later. The reason I'm getting around to it now? Because I am procrastinating on editing a magazine draft for work tomorrow.

I have to do this magazine. It usually takes me about 2 hours to do and I literally looked at the clock tonight and planned out the timeframe that I would dedicate to doing it. I figured that I would go online for half an hour and respond to emails. Responding to emails, I concluded, would get me motivated to do the magazine. Finish one task I had been putting off, conquer the next. I quickly visited the websites that are on my list of favorites, played a little Freecell (my addiction), and here I am. Over my allotted half hour. No emails have been responded to yet and the magazine is starting to collect dust on the kitchen table.

Don't get me wrong. I do get things done, eventually. And on time. I just wait until the last minute to do them. That's why I think I work best under pressure. I think better and so I feel that what is finally accomplished is better than what it would have been had I started on time. That's my logic.

On the bright side, I guess this could be considered crossing one off the list, since I technically put off blogging about procrastination and here I am getting it done. Aren't you proud of me?

I need a round tuit.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Trying To Get Home

Please... go back where you came from. Stay out of my town. I beg of you.

Wednesday morning at precisely 9 a.m., IKEA opened it's newest location. Two blocks from my house.

IKEA, if you're not familiar, is a huge Scandinavian furniture company with locations all over the world. Low prices, decent quality, most pieces require assembly. There are only a handful in the United States. Before the Massachusetts spot opened on Wednesday, the closest location to all of New England would have probably been in New Jersey.

I have to give them credit though. Their marketing and public relations campaign was phenomenal. I would have loved to work in their PR offices during the days, weeks, even months leading up to the grand opening. Everyone was talking about it. They offered a $5,000 gift certificate to the first person in line, and so a college aged guy camped out at the front door a week and a half before Opening Day. Cameras were on him to make sure he stayed there (with privilege to leave to relieve himself only) and sure enough, he got the prize. Opening Day promised more giveaways, samples of Scandinavian fare, a local high school band, as well as TV and radio personalities broadcasting live and offering their own prizes.

When my mother told me that she was going to head over there on Wednesday morning for Opening Day, I wanted to go. I was against it beforehand. They were expecting about 10,000 visitors that day and I originally didn't want to be anywhere near there. But then when she told me she was going something in me jumped and I wanted to be a part of it. Ken thought I was nuts.

I tried thinking of excuses I could use to be late for work, but in the end, the angel on my left shoulder convinced me that since I'm missing enough work for my monthly baby appointments, I shouldn't miss any more. Especially over this.

Ken went hiking this weekend and so I decided to venture over there. Ken wanted me to wait and go with him, but the intrigue was too much and so I started out anyway. I knew I should have turned around the instant I turned out of my street. I live off of a main street. A street that had an easy route to get to IKEA. A street that we were glad was not part of the published directions on how to get there. And apparently, a street managed to be discovered as an alternative route. IKEA is located in a huge shopping area that also offers a Christmas Tree Shop, a Home Depot, Michael's Arts & Crafts, Costco, and several other shops local to the area. I'm in that area often. What would be a 10 minute drive on a typical Saturday, took me 40 minutes yesterday. When I finally got into the shopping center, it was more lanes of traffic, more bumper to bumper, and so I decided to pull into Christmas Tree Shop instead, browse around in there for a little while, then go on about my day.

I had to return something at Sears and so I went to the mall and was there for a while. I returned the clothes and went into Mimi Maternity and bought my first outfit. The top is still a little long since I won't "pop" for another month or so, but I can't wait to wear the jeans. They have an elastic waist and a thick cotton panel in the front that will be so comfortable as it covers my tummy.

On my way home, the highway electronic message board announced that my exit, as well as the following exit, were closed due to heavy traffic. The closest exit I would be able to get off for an easy, non-IKEA route would be 4 exits up. As I neared the exit I normally take, I notice that it is in fact open. I take the exit and as I near the merge onto the main road, I see the problem. A 2-lane road is now 3 lanes and it's ridiculously backed up. I make a U-turn when able and get back on the highway. Only being able to go 15 mph to the next available exit, it takes me over an hour to get home from a mall only 25 minutes away.

To call this crazy would be an understatement. It is insane. Madness. I'm still interested in going. I've never been and want to see what the fuss is about.

But I decided I'm not leaving my house today.

The Holidays Come Early

What better way to share the "wealth" than with others, right?

A few posts ago, I mentioned how ridiculous the ongoing rain and lack of sunshine has become. Remember? And I mentioned that rainfall is said to be a sign of good luck. And then I mentioned at the end of the post that if I happened to come across any good fortune, then I'll be sure to send a little your way. Remember? "A promise is a promise," as Nicholas Cage said to Bridget Fonda in It Could Happen To You.

No, I didn't win the NY Lottery.

I work for a small marketing firm. And I got something in the mail from one of the companies we used to deal with. Apparently, the person who was in this position before me ignored the brochures that kept being sent from this company because upon opening their latest brochure, I came across a little bit of excitement in the form of a balance. For each dollar spent with this company, she was racking up points. Points that can be redeemed for gift cards to many fantastic websites. Because she is gone and I am here, these points are mine, apparently to spend as I wish.

Ken chose a gift card to LL Bean. I chose a gift card to Red Envelope. I also ordered one from Staples, since I feel a little guilty not spending some on the office. Family will be questioned on Thanksgiving when I show them the brochure.

And since a promise is a promise, what would you like? I'm offering a gift card only to those bloggers whose blogs I read and who of course read my Ramblings... in return and respond with your words of wisdom and humor on an ongoing basis. You know who you are. If you're not sure, ask.

Your choices:

$25 Williams-Sonoma
$35 LL Bean
$40 Staples
$25 Red Envelope
$25 Sharper Image

If you wish, email me (listed in profile) with your address and choice and I'll leave a comment in your blog that I got the email, just to confirm that it is actually you who emailed me. The company will send it to me, and I'll send it along to you. This means that delivery will probably take about 3 weeks.

With a baby on the way and a sudden need to replace a dishwasher that broke last night, it makes me pretty happy that I'm able to give some gifts that don't require opening my wallet.

Happy Halloween

I have to go to the store on the way home tonight because I ate more than enough mini-Hershey's bars and mini-3 Musketeers bars over the weekend that I'm afraid that there won't be enough for the costumed characters that they're intended for. But I'm pregnant so that's my out.

I think I eat pretty well. Oatmeal or good-for-you cereal in the morning with orange juice, a decent lunch, and a pretty healthy dinner. For snacks I sneak in crackers (the new Sundried Tomato and Basil Wheat Thins are delicious!) and some fruit and veggies. For dessert I have ice cream or frozen berries and Cool Whip. All the while consuming ounce after ounce of water.

But some of the time I splurge. Like on chocolate. Or onion rings, which I would NEVER eat before. Before I was pregnant, I couldn't remember the last time I had an onion ring. I'm not much of a fried food person. But now? I've had them three times in 12 weeks. I never initiate, like I would never order them at a restaurant, but if others at the table ask if I'd like to share an order, I've never said no. But I'm pregnant so that's my out.

My husband can't wait for the cravings to start. He's looking forward to when I want a pizza at 2 in the morning just so he can have some too. That's what he hopes his "sympathy pains" will be - to share my sense of cravings.

But I haven't had any yet. With the exception of chocolate milk, which I had about 4 glasses in a row a few weeks ago, I haven't had the urge to eat anything in particular. But if I do want a pizza at 2 in the morning followed by an Oreo Cookie Blizzard from Dairy Queen, I won't turn it down. I'm pregnant and that's my out.

October Ramblings

This morning I played Dodge the Barrel on my way to work. It is so incredibly windy 'round here and every 5th house or so had a barrel blown into the street. If it's true what they say, that rain really does bring good luck, then I, along with pretty much the rest of the East and Gulf Coast, will soon be landing our soggy bottoms into a boatload of good fortune. I'll be waiting patiently.

Sorry to Leslie and John, but I'm happy that the White Sox are leading. The sight of Roger Clemens losing sends happy endorphins right through me. Carl Everett isn't much of an angel either, but he's not Roger Clemens.

The Dobermans house is coming along smoothly. Their house has been gutted, new windows were installed, and the roof has been fixed. The trailer is still there, but it's less of an annoyance now knowing that the end is soon near. That is, unless the wind blew it 20 feet into our yard this morning.

I'm 12 weeks along today. I won't know the gender for another month. My only symptoms right now are heartburn and the occasional backache, so I can only assume this baby is loving me and very happy with the food and sleeping accomodations I'm providing. So far my only craving have been chocolate milk. I'm not sure how much I have gained so far, but I do know that only one pair of jeans and two pairs of dress pants still fit me. I'm trying to prolong maternity clothes for as long as possible.

I went to the dentist last night and when I asked for an earlier than 6 month next appointment, was denied because insurance won't pay for it. So my next appointment is for April 27, approximately one week before I am due. I mentioned this to the receptionist. Without looking up, she replied, "Okay, well just call if there is a problem."

I also joined a local book club. The first book read was Broken For You by Stephanie Kallos and this Friday we will discuss The Pact by Jodi Picoult. I've been wanting to join a book club since I moved to the area and so far this one has a great mix of people and opinions. I'll know my next book on Friday. Hopefully it intrigues me as much as the first two have.

All for now. I haven't had much time to update or catch up. Hope the weather is better in your neck of the woods, and if so, then I'll try to pass along some of my potential good fortune boatload your way.

It's So Real

A little over a month ago, I woke up after a good night's sleep remembering a dream. In the dream, I was lying down and rubbing my stomach. I felt a little lump and said to a complete stranger, "Feel this. Does this feel pregnant to you?" They rubbed the lump on my stomach and said, "It does feel like you are pregnant." So I went to the store (still dreaming), bought a test, and came home. After I peed on a stick, I put it in the freezer (??) for a few minutes and took it out. It flashed 'PREGNANT' over and over. I woke up, gave the dream little thought, and went about my day. After work, I went to the store to get some stuff for dinner when I passed by the healthcare aisle and remembered the dream again. "What the hell," I thought. And so I bought a box of tests. One line means not pregnant, two lines mean pregnant. And sure enough, my dream was so very right on target. Two lines!

I'm having a baby.

Over the past month and a half, I have felt tired, queasy, had a few back aches, some heartburn, exhaustion (which I blame in part for lack of caffeine), absent-mindedness, and all the other wonderful symptoms that go along with this. Except morning sickness. I've been blessed with not having to run to the bathroom at the first sign of nausea. I've also been a nervous wreck.

Is it possible to malnourish the baby? Will it hurt him/her if I sneeze? What can't I eat? Does it matter which position I sleep in? It's amazing what goes through the mind when you realize that everything you do and everything you put into your body, has an effect on a child you're creating.

Hope for the best, expect the worst. That was my mentality the days and weeks leading up to yesterday's doctor's appointment. They may not hear a heartbeat. Sometimes that happens. Ken was more optimistic. The baby's fine, he would say, Stop thinking that. But that was me being realistic.

During the appointment, we went over the basics, and she answered all the questions I remembered to ask. I was too nervous to hear the heartbeat. Can't we wait until after the heartbeat to talk about this? I wanted to say. After all, if there is no heartbeat, this conversation is meaningless. When it was time to hear the heartbeat, I said a silent prayer to my unborn little fetus begging it to be there. And the microphone was turned on and we waited. No heartbeat. She moved it a little more and again. No heartbeat.

She wasn't concerned because sometimes it happens. I'll go in for an ultrasound and that will show everything. She left me to change and I broke down. I know she would have told me if she thought there was a problem so I was a little optimistic. But at the same time, my main goal in this appointment, failed.

Ken and I went down the hall, walked into a smaller room, and again, hoped for the best.
The machine was hooked up, and as I watched the screen looking for a little miracle, it appeared. A little head, but bigger than the rest of the body. Little arms and tiny stumps for legs. And the microphone turned on and the heartbeat was loud and clear. It was a little shadow of a being, but it was beautiful.

Simply amazing.

I've Got the Fever

That's right. Red Sox Fever.

I am a Sox fan. And now that we're thisclose to doing it again, I just can't control myself.

Last night, on the last Friday of the regular season, we tied the Yankees for first place. "Yankees suck" is a common chant around here. People wear the saying on t-shirts, on bumper stickers, even shout it randomly at Patriots games. It went so far that the city has banned all anti-Yankee type anything from Fenway Park. It's silly, but it goes both ways. "Red Sox suck" is a common chant in NYC bars, and yesterday afternoon Sox t-shirts and other memorabilia were thrown into a bonfire outside Yankee Stadium. The Yankees don't suck. They're not as great of a team as they once were, but they don't suck. Neither do the Red Sox, even though they are a better team then they once were.

A Yankees-Red Sox game is unlike no other. You can just see the fire and determination in the eyes of both teams that is not present when they're playing anyone else. Part of the reason I watch is for the game. The other is because of the plays that will be talked about and replayed on tv. Pedro sidelining Don Zimmer. A-Rod knocking the ball out of Arroyo's hand on his way to a base. The fights, the facial expressions. It's a nail-biting game with a touch of comic relief.

During the early part of the season, I am fine. If they're not doing so well, I'm okay with it, because we still have time. I am incredibly optimistic. So what if we're 20 games behind and there are only 10 games left. We can still pull through! That's my mentality.

But now we really can pull through. And I'll be watching it all.

You'll Have To Say That Again

So I have something that has been distracting me lately. I can't tell you what just yet because I am that superstitious. And because I'm a little nervous about the whole thing. It's amazing how something totally controls your mind, leaving you little concentration to focus much on anything else.

I have the attention span of a young puppy. I'll start to say something, take a sip of whatever I am drinking, or even cough or sneeze, and then forget what I was even talking about.

One of the qualities I was most proud of having in my last job was my ability to remember everything. A client could call me for the smallest task or the simplest question, and if I didn't speak to them again until they called again 5 months later, I'd remember their situation vividly. Not anymore. My recall is shot.

But oddly enough, dreams I remember. I've been having really weird dreams. One night I had a dream that I was running from Saddam Hussein (a kinder, gentler Saddam, but still somewhat dangerous.) Another night I dreamed that I visited my brother at his new job for Reebok and all the employees were dressed to the nines, except that they were all wearing Reeboks. I thought that I could never work for Reebok because I wouldn't want to dress up everyday, but the idea of wearing sneakers was tempting. My brother doesn't work for Reebok. I have no idea where that came from.

Last night, two bloggers were in my dream. I don't want to reveal any names for fear of freaking certain people out, but here is how the dream went. We lived in an apartment complex that was laid out like a college campus and I was on the phone with one blogger and asked this person if they could babysit. They lived on the other side of the complex and I couldn't give them directions to where I lived because I had no idea where my building was in relation to theirs. I went outside and asked the first person I saw (who happens to be the other blogger) if they knew, and since they did, got on the phone and gave the first blogger directions to my building.

These symptoms are expected I guess.

September Musings

Sunday I turned 31. It's weird having a birthday on 9/11. For the past four years, my self-imposed birthday ritual has been to watch the morning remembrances on television. Usually family members reading names. For the past three years, all the local and national news stations dedicated a decent portion of their telecast to the memorials. This year, they all took a back seat to Katrina. Another devasting tragedy. Another time to stare blankly at the television set amazed that scenes like that are unfolding. Another reminder how fragile human life can be. A former co-worker called me today. "Hi Jodi, it's Leslie. I just wanted to wish you a late happy birthday and to let you know that I thought of you on September 11th." That just sounds weird. She thought of me on September 11th. For some reason, I find that very humbling.

My company is finalizing the sale of the office building, so I'll be working from home soon, possibly by the end of November. I can't wait. I thought I would miss the office banter and the comraderie among all of us on a daily basis, but the thought of ending my commute and the random annoyances of the building are too awesome to want to pass up.

The Doberman's are working their tails off (pun intended) in getting their house revamped FINALLY. They're not demolishing and starting over, which I thought they would. More like taking down a wall, putting up a wall. This week they removed the vinyl siding they had done only weeks before the fire and the windows in their side room (if you scroll down the pics in "Meet The Dobermans", you'll see what I'm talking about) are completely gone. That side room (last pic, room in front of the garage) now looks like a cardboard house with big square holes cut out for the windows.

I have news, which I can't disclose just yet. Maybe you can guess, maybe not. It has consumed my mind lately, which is why I haven't been updatng or commenting on your blogs.

And thank you to Jodi for promising me a mix CD. She makes them for her friends, and she so awesomely offered to send a few to her readers. I used to make mix tapes when I was in junior high, so when she put the offer out there, I couldn't help but beg for one. Okay, I didn't beg, but I would have.

Sending you to Cancun

I come home from some heavy duty shopping on Saturday. Birthday presents for my niece and a paper bag from the liquor store, stocked with stuff for an end of summer barbecue we were having that night for about 15 of our friends. As I'm struggling from the car, I hear a voice yelling from behind.

Do you need help with that?

I turn around and see a cute young girl heading my way from down the street. She had to be maybe 18.

"No, I've got it thanks." I've never seen her before. I head into the house and Ken asks if she stopped me, too. He tell me she is selling magazines for a trip and he told her he wasn't interested. I subscribe to a few magazines so if she was offering a better deal on a renewal rate, then sure, I'll contribute to her cause. I head outside to get more bags from my car when I see her walking in my direction.

This girl is dressed like she is on her way to Mexico. Just give her an umbrella drink and a tiki hut and she is the poster child for why students want to spend Spring Break south of the border.

She starts in on her cause, about a point system and how she needs 20,000 points for a free trip. So far she has 19, 460. Or was that 640? Anyway, she is almost there. Or atleast she tells me she was almost there so that I'll think that my subscription will send her over the 20,000. She is very outgoing. Talkative, friendly, a little flirty with Ken (who eats it up COMPLETELY).

I look at all the forms and lists she has and the only one on the list I subscribe to is Woman's Day. I tell her that the renewal rate I get through the magazine is a lot better than the rate on her card. She tells me that it's through another company, unafflliated with the magazine, which is why it's a little more. I look at the card again and notice that the number of issues listed doesn't match the number of issues I would be receiving if I subscribe for that period of time. I ask about it. She concludes that I'll probably miss the first issue depending on when during the month the subscription starts. And the remaining number of lost issues she's not sure about. I sort of feel bad that I'm not her ticket to paradise, but I decline and tell her I'll stick to renewing when my subscription is up. She then hands me a form that has a few carbon sheets attached, and asks me to fill it out. I question it, since I'm not going to be renewing through her. She has to get a name from everyone she comes in contact with so that the Director of whatever club she's a part of knows she's being productive and not slacking off. I don't have to use my real name and address if I don't want to. I take back the form and think of a fabulous pseudonym.

I start writing and she asks me to include my phone number so that her Director can call and make sure she was professional. Um.. what's the point of being Regina Felangie if I have to give out my real phone number? She doesn't understand the big deal and tells me so. I tell her that I don't want my name or information sold to other companies and put on a mailing list. And that there is no fine print anywhere that indicates that my information is kept private. She has no idea what I'm talking about. Mailing list? Information sold? Apparently, she either welcomes junk mail or isn't old enough to be approved for a credit card. She says, That's okay, once you fill it out, I'll give it to my boss and he'll rip it up. She doesn't get it. And my patience for her selling tactics is wearing thin.

I tell her Good Luck, but I'm not interested. Then she starts to whine. But I'm almost at 20,000 points. So what if you spend a little more on the renewal, don't you want to help me out? When she realizes it is a losing battle, she asks for referrals. I tell her I couldn't think of anyone at the moment.

I would never wish junk mail on anyone.

Extreme Home Makeover: Doberman Edition

One of the neighbors from up the street told Ken that the Doberman's have received their building permit. Ken excitedly told me. I wasn't as excited as he was. Color me skeptical.

And so I put a call into the town this morning.

"Building Department."

Me: Good morning. Is the status of a resident's building permit public knowledge?

BD: Yes it is. What's the address?

I tell her the address that I think it is. Because the house is on the main street, and not the street I live on, I'm not sure what their exact address is. Before the phone call, I went onto the Building Assessor's page on the town website. It lists every house in the town by address and lists the type of house it is. I found their house number by the street, then finding their last name.

BD: There is no permit for that address. Are you sure that's the correct address?

Me: Um.. I thought so. Do you have a second? I might have been off by a number.

I feel like an idiot. I hope she sees through my disorganization and realizes she's my only hope for relief.

BD: Sure. I'll put you on hold.

I go back online and find the address again. I am pretty sure that's their last name. She comes back and asks if I had any luck.

Me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's it. I'll tell you why I'm asking.

I tell her the street I live on, and how they live on the corner of that street so their backyard faces my side yard.

Me: They had a house fire there in July 2004 and .....

She cuts me off.

BD: They did receive their permit. You had the wrong street number.

I notice how she, along when several other town officials I've spoken to, know the house I'm talking about without looking. I'm sure I could have started the conversation with the fire and she would have known right away instead of having me guess at house numbers.

Me: Oh, they did! Can you let me know if they have a time limit? Does the permit expire after a certain time?

This was the reasoning behind my initial skepticism. I never doubted that they received the permit. My concern was that they would sit on it for a while.

BD: Because it was a fire issue the fire department and insurance company will be overseeing them. There was a dispute between the insurance company and the homeowner, which is why it took this long. This should move pretty quickly.

Meet The Desordems

The Desordems are my neighbors to my right. No pictures yet, since the one picture I would LOVE to take is being blocked by a deflated swimming pool. More on that later.

I'm not sure of their last name, or actually their first name come to think of it, since they don't speak English too well. They're Portuguese. The Portuguese word for 'clutter' is "desordem". And so that is what they shall be called.

Before the Desordems moved next door, the landscaping of the house next door was immaculate. Even ants took their shoes off before walking into their yard. Carol, the previous owner, was outside routinely to mulch, plant new flowers, and trim the bushes. Carol was a great person and a great neighbor. Last year, her mother passed away and so she put her house on the market and moved in with her father. Ken and I were sorry to see her go, but anxious to see who would move next door.

When the house was sold, one of our other neighbors "in the know" told us it was a young couple, the husband's father, and their baby girl. We didn't see when they moved in, sometime in the winter. We had a horrible snow-filled and bone-chilling winter, and so we figured we'd meet them in the springtime.

If we were outside, we saw them a few times, but they were extremely antisocial. They never waved back or glanced our way. We noticed they gutted the basement because old carpet and wood paneling were thrown into their backyard. And to this day it has not been cleaned up. We were frustrated. At one point I hated this neighborhood. The rest of the lawns on the street are well-managed. I just happen to live between the two houses that aren't. It really depressed me.

When the summer hit, they installed a huge inflatable pool on our side of their house. No big deal, I knew there was a little girl there so I thought it was cute. One day Ken and I came home to find her in the pool with who we assume is her grandfather (Papi). We walked over to him and introduced ourselves. He didn't understand a word of it. Everything we said was responded to in the universal sign of "I have no idea what you're saying": the smile and nod. He told us in broken English that he was Portuguese and told us what his name was. We smiled and nodded.

They left the pool up for a few weeks before deflating it and leaving it there still in its somewhat round shape, with just enough water to cover the bottom of the pool. Just enough water to turn green and still be ignored a few days later. I came home from work at the end of the week and the pool was gone (YAY) but where it stood was a pool-shaped round patch of dead grass. It looked like a crop circle. This is the picture I would love to take but I imagine they're somewhat embarrassed by it because they threw the deflated pool over it to cover it up. And to this day it has not been cleaned up.

What is bizarre is that they do take care of their grass. The father (the little girl's father (Papa), not Papi) is out there every week watering the lawn and mowing. Go figure.

Que Sera Sera. What ever will be, will be.

Stepping into Adulthood

I have my moments where I take a moment and realize that I'm an adult with responsibilities and a life of my own. Going to the drugstore and leaving with a bag of Charmin, Tide, and Windex. Being stuck in rush hour traffic. Turning the car radio on for the news/traffic/weather, not the music. Going to the bank or post office on Saturday morning before food shopping. Any others?

Then there is our yard sale this weekend. Saturday and Sunday. We've advertised a million places so we're hoping for success. This site is fantastic if you're planning a sale. Chris (I think that's her name) is a fanatic.

Ken has taken the last three days off from work because of his company's "use them or lose them" policy. You'd think that would mean that he would help me out and organize our mess of a downstairs. Bags from my parents, boxes from his. But of course not. Apparently, meeting his mother for lunch and going to Town Hall is exhausting because both days I have come home from work, he is asleep in front of the TV. I give him a kiss to wake him up and he opens his sleepy eyes and smiles and tells me he missed me all day. Then in the same breath, he asks, "What's for dinner?"

My parents are coming to help us with the sale this weekend, as we did for their moving sale in May. Then they're sleeping over, which is huge since they'll be our first overnight guests.

Earlier this week, I walked out of the house I grew up in for the last time. Seeing it filled with boxes and clutter one day, and the very next day seeing it EMPTY.


When did I become a grown-up?

Truth in Advertising

Going through the circulars in the Sunday paper, I came across the Kohl's ads. I almost choked on my coffee when I came across this little nugget.

Look at the model on the right. Now follow his gaze. You think that's why he's smiling?

That package just cannot be possible. Sweetie, when Kohl's told you to model underwear and socks, they meant that the socks should be worn on the outside.

Meet the Dobermans

This is what I look at everyday from my front yard.
Actually here. Let me give you a better idea.








This is the view from my bedroom window. Lovely, isn't it?





It really is frustrating. I've started to use their house as a landmark in directions. "We're the third street down on the left, right after the charred house with the boarded up windows."

Would it really take over a year to get this house fixed again? Insurance reimbursement aside. Over a year?! And counting!

If they were nice, and if I didn't already know they would automatically decline any help from anyone, I would volunteer to help them out. Because I am a good neighbor and because I would benefit from the effort. But they're not. And knowing that they wouldn't appreciate any of our efforts and say thank you... it's not worth it to me.

During the second week of July, their windows were open for the first time in years. Old furniture was sitting on the curbside waiting for trash pick-up. But what I didn't know, was that it meant nothing. I imagined they would be outside every weekend doing a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Cleaning up the mess they call a yard. Preparing to go back to a life in a home without wheels. Alas, no. They're taking their sweet damn time. Even this weekend, when I saw their front door open, I had a glimmer of hope. But I know it will be short-lived.

They're like a tease. Every now and then they doing something that will get my hopes up, make me optimistic for a well-kept neighborhood. And then just like that I realize that they're like the pre-2004 Red Sox. They do so well that you envision a different end of season, then just like that they ruin it and kill your hopes. Maybe next year.

There Goes The Little Man

Alan Jackson has a song about "The Little Man." The mom and pop stores and independents that are taken over by corporate conglomerates. Money talks. It happens.

It's sad, but it happens.

But this is ridiculous.

Two boys in Salem, Massachusetts operated a lemonade stand in the town Square to make a little money for themselves. They are, after all, kids. Kids who know that Salem is a popular tourist spot during the summer months.

Crowds + hot summer weather + icy cold lemonade = $$$

Smart, right?

A sausage vendor who also sells lemonade at his sausage stand in the same area complained to authorities because the kids were hurting his sales and stealing his customers. They don't have a vendor's license, he wrote in his complaint.

Are you kidding me? No, dear readers, I'm afraid I'm not.

So the local authorities acted on his complaint and shut the boys down. I wonder if the person who made this decision, to close a child's lemonade stand, had kids of his own. And one day he would have to tell them that instead of wanting to be productive and starting on their college funds a little early, they can't because they need a license, and unfortunately, also too young to apply for said license.

Once word got out that the Sausage Guy closed the kids down, no one wanted to buy from him anymore.

Sausage Guy - Lemonade stand + Local news media = NO business for Sausage Guy

So the Sausage Guy, seeing how his business was suffering, called the boys and asked for a merger. What if, he asked, we combine our stands. You can sell your lemonade and I can sell my sausages together. And I'll let you work under my vendor license.

Greedy Sausage Guy + Innocent lemonade stand = satisfied customers.

Long live the Little Man.

Onions and Orchids

In the recent issue of Good Housekeeping Magazine, there was an article written by a former TWA employee on the issue of filing complaints with companies she has had to deal with.

She writes about how the airline always received negative letters - my luggage was lost, my plane was delayed, so-and-so was rude to me - but never anything positive. Where were her letters about how planes were on time, smooth flights without turbulence, wonderful flight attendants? (Possibly because those instances are pretty slim, but not the point....)

When she left TWA, she made it a point to write those letters. She takes a notepad with her everywhere she goes and writes down names and dates of every customer service contact she has had. And then she writes letters. Good letters are called Orchids. Bad letters are called Onions. She receives handwritten apologies in the mail, coupons for services, and overall she is happy that her letters are being read and that some action is being taken to correct the negative experiences. I thought that was such a great idea and I started to contribute to her cause by writing my own letters.

I was a supervising manager for a CVS throughout college and on occasion I play secret shopper. I know what good service is supposed to be, and what can be improved in certain stores. CVS has forms available at the door to every store with the location stamped on the top and a request for customers to fill out and send in their positive and negative experiences. And they did. I think it's a great way for stores to improve and a way for those in customer service to stand out when they do something remarkable, like prompting a customer to take the time and write something positive about them.

Maybe I need to relax more, but when someone is rude to me as a customer, it pisses me off to some extent. I'm pretty laid back and understanding if someone is new and doesn't know, or just not as personable. But when someone is outright rude, it gets to me. And so to make it better, per se, I figure I'll let the boss know what's up. I wrote two letters so far. One to Stop and Shop complaining about a cashier, and one to a restaurant commending their great service and food again and again, and naming the server of my most recent visit. I'm not doing it to get rewarded by the company (though I am a little curious...), but mostly because I like knowing that my comments will be read and (I assume) action will be taken to prevent another negative experience from happening.

I just want to be appreciated, dammit! Is that too much to ask?

Bring Out Your Inner Wildchild

I met a very cool woman a few days ago. I was sitting at a restaurant eating dinner with the family when a woman was seated at the table next to us. The details of how we came to interact are fuzzy, but her accent stuck out like a sore thumb in this part of New England. As did her cowboy hat and black leather boots.

She's a truckdriver, or "trucker" as she called it, because the term 'truckdriver' is too PC. "And truckers are anything but PC," she twanged. She hailed from Alabama and before we knew it, our dinners had taken a backseat to learning about her and her life on the road.

This leg of her trip, she was delivering meat to the 99 Restaurants in Massachusetts and Rhode Island, then was off to Connecticut to pick up some Peter Paul Candies (Almond Joy, Mounds, Cadbury, etc.) and head west. She drives on her own, never wanting a partner or other company. Her only source of communication is CB radio. We asked what her handle was. "Wildchild."

Wildchild has been driving trucks for 3 years. Her husband was killed in a car accident 10 years ago and her only child is married. She doesn't have anyone to depend on her and so this is her new life. And she loves it.

There have been so many times I have wanted to be Wildchild. Not to the point of leaving my husband and taking off for points unknown (it wouldn't be the same if he wasn't with me), but to get up and go. We would take turns driving and travel the country. See the sights. Meet people. Experience adventure. The hotel we end up staying at the end of the day depends on where we are on our trip. No itinerary, no known destination.

She said that she loves her job and I do believe her. I believe that the truckers she meets along the way are like her family now. But I couldn't imagine a family not waiting for me when I got back. Not having someone in the passenger's seat along for the ride with me. I envy Wildchild because she is doing what I would love to do. But the difference is that to her it is life. To me, a vacation.

Pictures

I did something yesterday that almost pushed me to the verge of tears. I went through family photos.

My father is officially retired. His last day of work was technically Thursday, but since yesterday was the last day of the month, he would always say Sunday when you asked him when is his last day of work. "I'm on the payroll until Sunday and therefore, I will be working until Sunday." He had been looking forward to this day for over a year when the company dynamics changed. He was in sales, so he had built lasting relationships with his clients over the past 40 years. Then little by little some of his accounts were transferred to those younger than him, so that they could build the same longevity and trust that they had with my father. They had to have known that he was nearing the time, seeing as how so many of his colleagues who were with him from the beginning had thinned out and said their goodbyes as they headed to reserve their daily 8am tee times.

Over the past few months, his eagerness to retire turned into nerves. He wasn't ready to let go just yet. He never showed it. He would get excited over the retirement party his company is throwing him and his plans for what he wants to do next. Wake up early, relax, play golf, take walks, go to the beach, enjoy friends, eat, and sleep.That would be his daily routine. The past few weeks it hot him that it was soon going to be final. He listened to his voicemails over and over, knowing that those who depended on him and needed him wouldn't be leaving him messages anymore.

Ken and I took my parents out for dinner last night and the running comment came from dad who kept saying, "No need to rush, I don't have to get up early. I have nothing to do."

Hours before this dinner, I headed to my parents house to find pictures while they were out. They're moving in a week from today to Cape Cod and their house is a mess with boxes. Most of their furniture is gone, but not the memories. My brother and I decided to make a photo DVD - like a photo slideshow - and include music of our choice for them.

[Insert music to In My Life by The Beatles]

I thought they'd be packed and moved already. I thought I'd have to head to the Cape this week (Plan B) to find them there. But I thought I'd look anyway and sure enough, in the bureau they were always in, I found them. I grabbed the pictures I could find and ran out of the house, but not before doing a quick walkthrough to see the evolving emptiness that has become the house I grew up in.

When I got home, I dumped the envelopes on my couch and started to reminisce. The majority of the pictures were from trips they've taken without us. My father used to mention that those pictures he could do without since 5 years after those trips, he wouldn't even remember what they were standing next to or what country they were in. Which is why of course they were still in the house.

He already took with him the pictures that mattered.

Good thing there is a Plan B.

If You're Not Going To Use It, Give It Back!

For those just joining us, my next door neighbors live in a trailer. Read my Neighborly Advice post to find out why, and scroll up for updates. I'm going to refer to these neighbors from now on as the Dobermans. I have no idea what their actual last name is, but I see their dogs more often than I see them, so I figured referring to them by the breed of dog they own would be more fitting.

I looked out the window this morning.

"It's gone!"

"The lawnmower? Seriously?"

Recently, Ken's father gave us their lawnmower to replace the piece o' crap that we had. So Ken put the old one in front of our mailbox with a sign, "Take Me." And someone did.

On my way to work, as I pulled out of the driveway. Something caught my eye. I couldn't quite make it out, but as I got closer to the Doberman's, I saw it. Our lawnmower. In their yard. The sight of it made me laugh out loud. I know they won't use it. Their yard is a mess, considering that there is a mobile home smack dab in the middle of it. I assume the primary reason they took it because it's free. But I question what it will be used for. A lawn ornament to cover a patch the last piece of visible crabgrass? Or maybe as a gentle reminder of what lies ahead when they move the trailer.

Time will tell.

I have a new theme

I've decided my blog needs a theme.

My new blog theme will be "Tales from the 'hood."

I have weird neighbors. They need to be addressed.

Cooking for Dummies

Confession: I love to cook.

I sometimes think that if I grow tired of marketing, I'd love to own a cafe. Homemade soups, salads, and sandwiches. Maybe I'd have a sitting area with a bookshelf and a rack of the daily newspapers for those that like to linger. I wouldn't want to be in the city where there is way too much competition. Just a small place in the 'burbs, on a somewhat busy street, with plenty of windows so passersby can see the pastry case in clear view. I'll rotate my soup menu each week, but in the winter, chili will always be served. I make a mean chili. What's your specialty?

On Sundays, I turn into the Weekend Gourmet. I am not restricted to ingredients on hand or time to prepare, like I am during the week. I'll find a new recipe (or use an old favorite), run to the market during my Sunday errands and pick up the ingredients I need, and take the time to prepare dinner. Ken blames me for the pounds he is putting on, but I cook extremely healthy, and he doesn't understand the term 'portion control." The again, sometimes I don't either.

The only dessert that has worked for me is pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. For some reason other desserts never come out right. I'd love to take a dessert cooking class. I cringe when I'm asked to bring a dessert, and want to bribe someone into switching dishes, warning them that otherwise they'd be getting charcoal brownies.

Birds of Paradise, aka Neighbor Update!

I saw a dove on Wednesday. My mother and I were at the house on the Cape and while enjoying the weather on the deck, we saw a dove walking in the backyard. I asked, "Does this mean something peaceful is about to happen?" Black cats crossing your path are meant to bring bad luck, right? I could only assume that doves crossing your path bring peace.

I forgot about the bird until I came home a few hours later. My mother was pulling into my street when lo and behold, we saw furniture on the sidewalk in front of the neighbors house, waiting for trash pick-up. And one of those huge driveway-length trash receptacles in the driveway, almost filled. And the windows open! (Though I do question how long it would take to air the house out since no air has gotten in there in a year.)

This must mean that they got their insurance reimbursement. Could they be done by the end of the summer? I wouldn't think they'd stall and risk another winter in that thing. I can't even imagine having a trailer-less view from my bedroom window. I forgot what that was even like!

Signs My Father is Close to Losing It

1. "I want a BMW."

In a little over two weeks, my father will be officially retired. He will wake up on August 1st and for the first time in 40-something years, he will be out of a job.

As the responsibility-free days approach, the realization of waking up without a thing to do are sinking in.

2. "I'd love a boat. Not a big boat, just a small boat to sail in a lake and be able to relax."

He wants part-time work, nothing to do with what he does now. And so I helped him create his very first resume.

3. "Wouldn't it be cool to work for the Cape Cod Potato Chip Company? I could answer the hotline and talk to people about how great the chips are."

This is when my brother and I tease him about the prank call we'd make telling him we'd found a finger in one of the bags.

4. "Maybe I can apply to the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. Just part-time. Maybe I could do some office work."

This is actually a good idea. It would be a great fit for him. In browsing through some job postings, he finds a few part-time listings for seniors, then is disappointed to learn that the qualifications are for seniors in high school as part of an after-school program.

5. "No, we are not selling my computer desk. Hear me out. We can put it in the storage area and I can use it the top of the desk as a workbench. You know, for cutting wood. Or maybe if I have to glue something."

My father is not handy. He's never cut a piece of wood in his life.

And my personal favorite...

6. "You know what I'd love? A metal detector. I'd love to wake up at 6 every morning and head to the beach and walk around with a metal detector. Wouldn't it be fun to see what I'd find? You don't think that's cool?"

Blog Under Maintenance

When I started this blog, I had no idea what it would be. What would make up my stories? Would I talk about my day? Would I talk about my life and family? What would drive me to write?

Looking back, all of my blogs are pretty lighthearted. Rants about what makes me tick. Neighbors who would assumably choose to live in a trailer rather than expedite their home repairs. Raves about what I like. Websites that made me laugh. Even a few travelogues.

I never wrote anything from the heart, choosing (an attempt at) humor instead. I sometimes question blogging my hurt, my confusion, my anger alongside the other stuff, but always chose not to because it was safer that way. Do I really want to open myself up? By being somewhat anonymous and not letting anyone know what I'm about, I'm sort of protecting myself, right?

I'm getting a little bored with a sugar-coated blog. Maybe I need to revamp things a bit.

While I Slept

While I slept a city was attacked. Commuters going to work. Tourists starting their daily adventure.
While I slept phone calls were made to cell phones, frantically hoping the call would be answered.

A witness was in London at a meeting, right down the street from one of the underground stations. In an interview this morning, he told of how the British were so incredibly together through it all. So brave. So prepared.

"Prepared?" the interviewer asks. He mentions the abundance of the many terror threats that they have received, as well as the IRA attacks 10 years ago. They were prepared. And I wondered how anyone could be prepared for something like this, and of course I wondered if I was prepared. If Boston were attacked would I know what to do? To save my life, I'm sure I would. But now I wonder.

Red often uses lyrics of songs in her blog to portray her feelings in a given situation. Today she uses Living on the Edge by Aerosmith. It reminded me of this song, which I played often after our 9/11. I hope she doesn't mind that I'm using her idea:

Land of Confusion - Genesis

I must’ve dreamed a thousand dreams
Been haunted by a million screams
But I can hear the marching feet
They’re moving into the street.

Now did you read the news today
They say the danger’s gone away
But I can see the fire’s still alight
There burning into the night.

There’s too many men
Too many people
Making too many problems
And not much love to go round
Can’t you see
This is a land of confusion.

This is the world we live in
And these are the hands we’re given
Use them and let’s start trying
To make it a place worth living in.

Ooh superman where are you now
When everything’s gone wrong somehow
The men of steel, the men of power
Are losing control by the hour.

This is the time
This is the place
So we look for the future
But there’s not much love to go round
Tell me why, this is a land of confusion.

This is the world we live in
And these are the hands we’re given
Use them and let’s start trying
To make it a place worth living in.

I remember long ago -Ooh
when the sun was shining
Yes and the stars were bright
All through the night

And the sound of your laughter
As I held you tight
So long ago -I won’t be coming home tonight
My generation will put it right

We’re not just making promises
That we know, we’ll never keep.

Too many men
There’s too many people
Making too many problems
And not much love to go round
Can’t you see
This is a land of confusion.

Now this is the world we live in
And these are the hands we’re given
Use them and let’s start trying
To make it a place worth fighting for.

This is the world we live in
And these are the names we’re given
Stand up and let’s start showing
Just where our lives are going to

Blank

My mind is blank.

I just don't know what to write.

I'm sad for the Brits today. To have to go through what we did. Anger, confusion, sadness. I wonder if it's someone's birthday. I can relate.

Work is busy. First a lull. Then piles of paperwork. Landing on my desk all at once.

My contact lens ripped last weekend, so I've been wearing glasses all week. I seem more alert with my contacts in. Like they are made with caffeine. I seem more absent-minded with my glasses on. Forgetful.

I quietly wished my neighbors a happy anniversary. A year ago, July 5th, it happened. Nothing has changed. Trailer is still there. Dogs are still barking. I've grown tired of fighting. But that could be because I'm wearing glasses. My other neighbors, on the other side, have a young daughter. And last weekend, they put one of those inflatable pools on the side of their house, facing mine. When she was in the pool with her daddy, the dogs were barking. Scaring her I would imagine. The father wasn't too happy. Maybe that is all it would take to get the dogs off my lawn. A father, angry because his little girl is too scared to play in her pool now.

To my friends across the water, Daniel, this includes you. Know that we think of you today. I wish my arms were long enough to reach out to you.

MySpace...

I'm now addicted.

Anyone have a page?

Know When To Fold 'Em

Know when to walk away,
Know when to run.

Oh, Kenny Rogers. Where were you this weekend when I gambled away what I put aside for something else, save $6? If you only whispered those sweet lyrics into my ear when I was ahead, I would have walked away and cashed out. Because you are the true Gambler.

Foxwoods Casino is a little over an hour away. A stone's throw. No matter how far deep into the middle of nowhere they build, it will always be too easily accessible.

I lost, my husband won. And I was bitter. Bitter because I should of said "No, not this weekend," when he asked me to go. Plans were made in advance, so as much as I would love to, I can't blame my losses over the excitement from the spontaneity of this trip. I was looking forward to it and simply couldn't wait.

I go to the casino maybe 4 times a year, with Christmas Eve being one of those times. Christmas Eve at a casino means less smoky and less populated, which are always a plus. I always take the same amount of money, as well as whatever is in my wallet at the time. I would never use a casino ATM. That's just asking for trouble. Instead of money, whomever puts in their ATM card and password should receive a receipt naming the location of the nearest Gamblers Anonymous meeting.

I usually walk away happy, winning something or atleast breaking even. Not this time.

Next time it will be different.

Please Pass The Jello

I hate the dentist. Yes, I know that 'hate' is a very strong word, but I hate the dentist.

My first time with this new dentist, he replaced some fillings. They were over 15 years old and were due to be replaced. Take the silver out, put the white in. After he stuck the novocaine needle into my gums, I began to sweat. And my hands started to shake. It must be the epinephrine, he said, I guess you have a bad reaction to it. I wondered if I could have nitrous oxide the next time. Even though that mask was uncomfortable, I used to have mini-hallucinations when they gave it to me when I was younger. A calm, floating feeling. His voice snapped me out of the memory. No more epinephrine for you, he promised. He replaced one filling and I was on my way. Next time he'll replace the top tooth on the other side. Then I'll be done.

The second appt. I asked for the gas. Not for this, he said. Besides, I'm not going to use epinephrine on you today. It'll be something much milder. He was right, whatever he used wasn't too bad. He replaced that filling, and as soon as I was about to tell him that I'll see him for my 6-month cleaning, he announced that next time he'll do the bottom. "I thought you were done," I begged. Done with the top. I can't do it all in one appointment, he replied. Of course.

Third time is not the charm. My last appointment. I went in and was told that he was very behind schedule and could I wait 45 minutes? I lied and told them that I had somewhere to be at 8:00. It was 6:30. "If that's a problem, I can reschedule." I had no problem going home and putting this off longer. The receptionist came back and said that he would take me in 10 minutes, and I'll definitely be home by 8.

Ten minutes later, I went in and sat on the chair, more relaxed. It was the last appointment and I knew that I would be getting the milder sedative. He gave me the novocaine and I started to get a little shaky again. I looked at him concerned. Must be the epinephrine again, he said. If I could feel my tongue, I would have complained. He put a damp towel on my head and left the room while I relaxed. He then apologized for the delay, but he's bouncing between appointments. He excused himself again, but not before putting in a video of aquatic life. That should relax you more, he said, before heading off to Unlucky Patient #2.

He was in and out throughout my visit, and yes, maybe had I waited the 45 minutes, I would have had his undivided attention. But I knew the faster I was in, the faster I get out. I have to hand it to him because miraculously, I was home a few minutes after 8:00.

As I sat with a towel on my forehead, no feeling in my gums, and watching sharks look for food and scuba divers examine seaweed, I pondered why I was there in the first place.

Junk food. Junk food at 10 years old led to cavities that led to the fillings. Forget childhood obesity. The real reason to avoid eating loads of sugar when you're a child is to avoid sitting in a dentists chair when you're 30 watching fish swim.

Because I Can

I've decided to take and post pictures to go along with my neighbor debacle. If they see me and complain (and the devilish side of me hopes they do), I'll just let them know that I'm taking pictures of the trees in my yard and if their dog just happens to be in my yard at the time, then so be it.

Happy Father's Day!

I get strange looks from a few people when I tell them that we're having the family over for a barbecue on Father's Day.

My family celebrates every holiday together. Every birthday and other gift-giving holiday is a get-together, even if schedules aren't compatible until a month later. My husband and my sister-in-law never did this either, until they joined our family. Before they married into the clan, they were used to cards and a phone call. Now they deal with looking at calendars and finding a day to set aside, asking, "What can I bring?", and preparing for a full day with the family.

Yesterday was our turn to host. This is our 3rd annual Father's Day at my house, and luckily the weather was perfect. Everyone was assigned a food. We supplied the burgers and hot dogs, I made a salad, mom brought chicken wings, mom-in-law brought potato salad and cole slaw, brother brought dessert and sister-in-law brought corn on the cob. Afterwards, the women cleaned up (now that's a tradition I'd like to see changed!), gifts were exchanged, and that was it. It's what I'm used to. And I couldn't imagine it any other way.

I asked two fathers last week what their plans were for Sunday. Mowing the lawn, probably the gym, nothing much. Both were father's of young children, which to me seemed odd. It would make sense to me if they lived far enough away from their kids that celebrating with family wasn't possible, but to be with their kids and not celebrate it in fashion just seems.... unorthodox.

Is celebrating holidays together passe?

Going To Bed Mad

I went to bed mad last night. I know they say you shouldn't, that if there is one rule of marriage, it is not going to bed mad. But I did. I do.

Is the rule applied to everyone? If I am exhausted, the last thing I want to do is stay up and fight, because when I am that tired, I just get more and more annoyed. And the more we repeat ourselves, the less patience I have. Sleep on it, and in the morning, talk it through. That's my rule.

We also have other rules. Never go to bed or leave the house without a kiss. And no matter how mad we are, we never break that rule.

A couple last month from Germany celebrated their 80th wedding anniversary. The secret to a happy marriage, the husband said, is to never go to bed angry. (He passed away last week at 105 years old.)

We have a wonderful marriage, and I couldn't ask for better... And if you ask me, I think going to bed mad once in a while isn't that bad.

Picture of the Week

Check out this pic. Doesn't it look like trick photography?

I bought a telescope last year and ever since then I've been fascinated by astronomy.

I thought it would be cool to have one. One night outside my husband pointed out some formations and mentioned he used to love the subject in school, and so I bought it.

I don't use it too often, but every now and then when the night sky is clear, I'll take it and head to our porch and look up. And it really is an awesome sight.

I Take it Back

So yesterday I posted about how my world was sunny and happy now that the dogs next door are on the other side of the yard. So happy. So relieved...

We had friends over last night and they asked about the situation and I started to tell them about how happy and sunny my world was when Ken mentioned that he saw them in the yard again (leashed), "further in then before." I didn't believe him. Surely he must be joking. He wasn't. And don't call him Shirley!

I didn't believe him until I left for work this morning. As soon as I walked out of the house, the barking started. I looked over, and there he was. Looking at me, with his "Don't threaten the Board of Health on me, bitch" look in his small beady eyes.

The leash wasn't as long as Ken exaggerated, but still over the property line.

If I were rich, I'd want to pay for their house repairs, just because I want to end the frustration. But I'm not even close. So I'll just wait patiently. And when my patience runs out, which will be at some point today, I'll give the Board of Health another phone call.

Random

I went to Waldenbooks to start a gift bag for my father for Father's Day. He loves Rachael Ray so one item that is going in his gift bag is a 30 Minute Meals for Guys cookbook. The clerk who was there looked to be about my age. I asked her if she had any fun retirement gifts, like maybe a "Retirement for Dummies" book. She couldn't find any, but suggested something along a joke theme of getting old. Then she said, "When my mom turned 30, I gave something like that to her." I almost fell. Did she say her mother is 30? How old was this girl? I made a comment about how when I turned 30, a friend wished me a "Happy Anniversary of my 29th birthday" and she said that she wished she thought of that. I left the store picturing her saying, "That girl is the same age as my mom!"

Trading Spouses is hilarious. It's my new summer guilty pleasure.

I haven't followed up with the Board of Health, given that our last conversation didn't go as well as I'd hoped, but since the day she was going to stop over to see the neighbors, the dogs are almost non-existent. When I have seen them, they've been leashed to the side of the trailer, away from our yard. Not the outcome we hoped for since I first made the call to the Fire Inspector, but still a huge improvement to what it was before. Who says you can't fight City Hall?

I feel like a moron when I go into a restaurant chain where the menu never changes and cannot for the life of me order a meal intelligently. I ordered a grilled chicken filet pocket from D'Angelo's for lunch and was asked what I wanted on it.
"What comes with it?"
"Whatever you want."
I look at the menu for any vegetables or dressings offered. Nothing.
"How bout lettuce, onion, pickles?"
"Okay. Anything else on it?"
"What else can I get?"
"Anything you want."
So I order everything but mayo and he seemed relieved. It was a really good sandwich.