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.