Growing Up Granby

Amazing.

2012-01-27T09:09:00.001-08:00

Yeah, this guy is amazing.

Guess what?!

2012-01-27T05:54:00.000-08:00

I'm getting married!!!! And the groom so happens to be pretty fricking awesome.

(I just needed to see it written out to make sure it was real.)

51 Days

2012-01-26T07:53:00.000-08:00

Well, I did it. I lost the 20 lbs I wanted to. I am thinking another 10 or 15 now. I thought I'd be hella lot thinner than I am I guess. Whatevs. Goal reached. Spanx purchased. Wearing a blouse I haven't been able to button in years too. Its not even in style, but I could care less.

Planning a wedding, even a small one, is a super huge pain in the ass. I don't write that as a complaint, its just a fact. Most of it is really fun but the to do list is frigging huge. There are all these little details you don't think about, ettiquette shit to consider, ceremony to write and LOTS of things to buy. Seriously, its insane. I cannot imagine what brides go through who in their 20s plan out huge, elaborate weddings. I barely remember my first wedding. I think my mom did most of it.

Today my boss asked me, "Everything okay? How's your stomach thing? And how the hell much weight have you lost?!"

"Its okay. I think its stress. And 20 pounds!!"

"Stress? From here?"

"Oh God no!! This place is a haven!"

I don't think he understood that statement, but its true.

I can say one thing is certain: we are creating one special day for our family. The handfasting is going to be beautiful.

Kind of Cold

2012-01-24T09:28:00.000-08:00

Last night, shortly after his modeling stint, Seth had an upset stomach. He was pretty whiny and decided that the best thing to do would be to lie down in his sister's bed and watch Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. I'm not sure if the movie's food focus made things worse, but he was pretty certain that vomit was going to happen.

I walked him into the bathroom and explained the importance of never vomiting in said sister's bed. He didn't. He went back into bed and asked if he could fall asleep in there. I said yes, but only if he promised to try to make it to the bathroom in case he was sick.

He asked, "But what if I can't?"

"Well, I"ll bring you a pan just in case you don't think you can make it. Just NOT on the bed okay?"

I brought in a huge pan and handed it to him. He took the pan, laid it on its side and then placed his head inside the pan.

"Ummmm Seth?"

"Yeah?"

"Buddy, you don't have to sleep with your head in there. Just put it on the floor next to the bed."

"Oh. Okay. It was kind of cold anyway."

(If a writer of Modern Family is out there... this is a perfect Luke moment.)

Bluebird Silk Scarf

2012-01-23T17:31:00.000-08:00

A work in progress. Lace looks like a crumpled ball of mess before you block it.

This going to be a scarf for my mom. It is the Bluebird Lace Scarf and I am knitting it out of BMFA's Silk Thread II in Silver. I can't guarantee it will be done by the wedding, maybe Mother's Day?

There are 64 rows done and the thing is about 7 inches long!

Slouchy No Slouch Hat

2012-01-23T17:27:00.000-08:00

Well, he was loving his modeling gig, so I popped this one on his head too.

This is Slouchy's No Slouch. Another great, simple hat pattern. One color, nothing fancy.

That little iCord tail with the beads? Love!!! Knit it in Paton's Classic Wool that I picked up on

clearance on Michael's last year for like $3. The beads I bought at the bead shop near Web's for $1.

Phoncible Hat

2012-01-23T17:23:00.000-08:00

Seth is modeling my Phoncible Hat.

I finished it yesterday and it really only took a weekend to do.

The pattern is completely cool and super easy. The clever use of two different Noro Kureyon

self-striping yarn creates a pretty darn cool thing. The brim is just 2 stitches from each skein and

the body of the hat changes to 2 rows. If you ever wanted to try stranded knitting, this is a great project to do so. The Noro yarn is rustic and imperfect in all the ways you would want.

Very, very cool!

Knitting - Where in wool do I begin?

2012-01-19T06:21:00.000-08:00

Elizabeth Zimmerman - the Godmother of modern knitting*

"Really, all you need to become a good knitter are wool, needles, hands,

and slightly below-average intelligence. Of course superior intelligence,

such as yours and mine, is an advantage."

~Elizabeth Zimmerman in Knitting Without Tears

I have had quite a few friends ask me lately about how to start and the best places to learn. So here are a few pointers to help you get started:

I've never even held a needle...

* Ideally, you should take a class with live instruction. If you are local, check out WEB's. They have tons of classes and their Knitting I course is superb. Its also not cheap and you have to be able to get there when the classes are held. (I'm always fascinated by knitters' reactions when I tell them I live near WEB's. It really is America's favorite yarn store!)

* YouTube! This is a great introduction video.

* Start with a small project - NO SCARVES!!! Seriously, knitting a scarf is like saying "I"m going to start jogging! The Boston is marathon is next week, so I'll start with that." Scarves take a long time, they are tedious and if you screw up and don't notice until 3/4 of the way done? Ugh. You will never knit again.

* So, what should I start with? Hats or dishcloths knitted in worsted weight yarn. Hats are knit in the round and if you choose a simple pattern, you don't even have to purl. Just knit, knit, knit around and around until you are done. Dishclothes are super easy and a new knitter can finish one in a couple of days.

* Where do I find these patterns? Go to Ravelry and sign up for a free account. Use the advanced pattern search to really narrow down the results. Here are two patterns perfect for a beginner:

- Simple hat - Dishcloth

Soon to be a Phoncible hat knitted in Noro Kureyon

* Needles? If you can borrow a pair of needles, go for it. If you are purchasing a pair, go for sizes 6, 7, or 8. These are the most frequently used with the most common yarns (worsted weight). Personally, I hate bamboo needles. I find they stick to the yarn and things go slowly. This might be good for starting, but I found it horrible. A simple aluminum pair of straights is fine for a first dishcloth.

If you are going to start with a hat, you need a pair of circular needles. I only knit with these. I find them to be lighter, easier to hold and carry and completely useful for flat or circular knitting. I prefer Addi Turbo, but the new Knitter's Pride line at WEB's is pretty awesome too. Not to mention a lot cheaper. When you've done a few starter projects and you're ready to investigate, go to WEB's and ask a sales person where you can try out a few different needles. Everyone has their own preference.

* Remember, every single one of those knitted projects on Ravelry are all done with two stitches: knit and purl. That's it. If you can birth and raise children, drive a car, type, or write your name... you can knit.

* Check out YarnHarlot's blog. She is amazing and very funny. Her mantra is "There are no knitting police!" And there really aren't. What's awesome about knitting is that you can rip out mistakes and have do-over a hundred times and no one cares. Its pretty refreshing.

Matt never did learn to knit.

* Wool. Yes, its a couple of dollars more but its entirely worth it!! Why? Because wool can be blocked and stretched and it is forgiving and warm. Here's the thing - knitting isn't fast and sometimes it isn't easy (knitted lace for example). Why would anyone spend hours on something only to use cheap, plastic yarn?

There are some better quality acrylics out there, but Red Heart isn't one of them. Lion Brand has some decent stuff - check out their Woolease line. Its a blend of wool and acrylic and can be machine washed. I actually use this stuff when I knit for anyone under the age of 30.


My first sweater knitted in Lion Brand's Woolease. Perfect first sweater pattern - very easy!

* Some useful links:

Knitty - how to's, articles, awesome patterns
Knitting Help - best place for learning, tons of tutorials and videos

* And my very last suggestions -

Find a few friends to knit with. I miss my old stitch-n-bitch crew. Its fun, supportive and you get to hang out with people who "get it."
Knit projects for yourself at first. Its pretty neat to pick up a ball of string, a couple of sticks and in a few days have a bad ass hat on your head!
Seriously, go to WEB's.

1855 - A Shepherd knits while watching over his flock

*I say modern knitting up there because knitting was actually invented and done solely by men for centuries.

60 Days

2012-01-17T09:03:00.000-08:00

I bought a wedding dress. I'm going to vent, you ready?

Why? Why are dresses all designed for 22 year olds who are 5'11" and 110 lbs or their grandmothers? We stormed Nordstrom's and West Farms Mall on Saturday for seven hours. Seven. Hours.

We started at Nordstrom's because according to their website they have millions of dresses. They are lying liars who lie. Their store does not have millions or thousands of dresses. They have hundreds in sizes 0-8 and hundreds more for the 60+ crowd. They had three for me.

Suck it Nordstrom. After two hours, we needed food and I needed a new perspective.

P. F. Chang's? Delicious!!! If you ever go to the Rich Person's Mecca*, eat here. The food was fantastic, the service was excellent and the wine was downright yummy.

After lunch we headed to Lord and Taylor where I just started grabbing shit. I let go of my dream of wearing green or even having green in my wedding. I grabbed this one dress that I sort of shrugged into my pile and thought "Who fricking cares? Just get one that fits."

You know how it is. You know once a dress slides up onto your shoulders and it sort of falls into place and it hides the shit you want hidden and "Hey! Nice job on the boobs!" happens? That's what happened. It isn't green or blue or ivory. Its a weird sort of silvery/champagne color with spaghetti straps and a shrug that actually covers you up, its floor length. And it was perfect.

Paired with the navy blue dresses my girls had on, we looked pretty good! Of course my daughters could throw on potato sacks and look spectacular!

So, that's done. Now its invitations. Another entire issue that sucks. There is no excuse for the expense of these things. I need 15. It shouldn't cost $90 for 15 cards and envelopes. I"m making my own. Screw it.

People do this for a living. I cannot even begin to imagine.

*West Farms Mall - where the richest of Connecticut shop. My ten year old minivan was the oldest vehicle in the jammed lots. Every car was a Volvo SUV, BMW, Mercedes, Audi and the occasional Jeep. All brand new and mostly black in color. It was insane. I turned to my sisters and mom at one point and said, "Does anyone else feel like a peasant?"

Panic is setting in.

2012-01-12T06:51:00.000-08:00

I'm getting married in 65 days. I don't have anything done. A draft of our handfasting ceremony, vague ideas about color and what sort of dress I hate, a few fading images of what our invitations might look like and an idea about food.

Wow. I have a lot to get done.

My stomach just fell completely out of my body and onto the floor. This is gonna fly by isn't it?

Just some robots playing chess while the world explodes

2012-01-11T05:24:00.000-08:00

by Autumn Roberts, January 2012

Random Thoughts

2012-01-06T07:33:00.000-08:00

If you ever wondered what the term "too many balls in the air" meant, I think this post may well shed some light on it.

This week has been a month jammed into five days. And most of it was shitty too. Not a happy "I'm throwing a party and am super busy!" type of jamming, but a "What the frick else can happen?" type of non-stop shit.

Last night Seth, who is sick, stood in my kitchen with his hands on his hips and declared in the perfect tone of a 40 year old, "I'm getting really pissed off!" And he was, too. He was totally pissed off. It was over something silly but the lad had a damn fine point. Mothers should get Oscars for their stifling abilities. Somehow I didn't crack a smile when I said, "Wow Seth. I think that word isn't for kids and you can do better than that. How about trying again?" To which he replied, "Well, angry isn't good enough!" How do you argue with this? You can't. So I said, "How about 'super angry' then?"

He stomped away muttering something like, "So stupid! That's so stupid I can't even believe it."

Things are going on.

JP is full time in the ABA class at his school. There are two other students in it and I cannot tell you the huge difference in my child since he started this. Its nothing short of amazing. He is still significantly behind, but my son is writing and participating in a way he never has before. Its just fantastic.

And do you know what else this incredible school is doing? Recreating the ABA class in another area for Seth. Yes, he is going to be pulled out of his class and focused on totally by a para and the special ed staff to get him in a place where he can be successfully returned to his first grade classroom.

Its unbelievable and the word "blessing" seems too small. This school is an example of what public school can be and should be everywhere. I'll use the word again because its really the only one that works: amazing.

Work is rocking and rolling this week. Tons of shit done and tons more to do. All good. I love my job.

There is other stuff going on with my family healthwise but apparently if I mention it online people get nuts. So there is that but I'll leave it there (in the interest of world peace).

Wedding planning sucks. Especially when you have a budget our size. Eloping is still an option isn't it?

I knit some stuff. I made this super adorable hat called Slouchy's (No Slouch). I"ll post a pic as soon as I get the right size bead for the tail.

I am also working ever so slowly on a silk scarf for my mom. Its called Bluebird. I am knitting it in Blue Moon Fiber Arts Silk Thread II. They say its one step up from cobwebs, I agree. Its 100% hand-painted silk and if it weren't for my Addi Lace Turbo needles I'd be bald from tearing my hair out. If I were making this for anyone else, I wouldn't.

I read the entire Hunger Games series in around ten days. Its that good.

So, that was mostly my last week or so. Also see: four doctors appointments for me, two for kids, lots of testing and bloodwork for me. Also weight loss. I am down 15 pounds or so from the summer. Pretty cool!

And for your moment of pretty, check out these wedding goblets Autumn made for Aaron and me:

Love!!!!

Marking Time 2011 Style

2011-12-22T09:37:00.000-08:00

Marking time. I'm looking for my holiday normal and you know what? It apparently doesn't exist. I think the holidays tend to just throw shit at you and watch you duck and cover and rebound and hold onto the rails for dear life. This is why I felt like I did. I felt like there were no rails and this feeling has little to do with Christmas.

But, at least I have a way of marking time and realizing that its okay. I haven't ruined Christmas by not being in my normal mood. I think the problem is that I haven't really left the house very much this month. I don't leave the house much at all in fact. Work and home. The end. I stopped going to my writing group for a while and it sucks. Two hours, once a week in a room with like-minded folk writing crazy, sad, funny, touching, harsh, human stories is about as close to heaven as a girl like me can get. And there are cookies and coffee. Triple win.

In my quest of breaking out of the funk, I went back through time on the blog. Here a few shots from my boys' first Christmas:

My God we look young. No forehead lines Jenn!

December 2005 - Seth learned how to give kisses.

Sometimes they were more

welcome than others.

My four kids. Danielle is the only

one who hasn't changed at all.

The chase apparently began winter of 2005. Poor Stella.

And then there was the Great Dog Chase of 2007.

And then in 2008 the whole world went sideways.

In 2009 I quit my horrible job.

In 2010 I was so sick I had to cancel Christmas dinner. Everyone had to go to my parents' house while I was home with a fever, bronchitis and some sort of plague. I missed an entire week of work.

On New Year's Day 2009 I made myself a promise. Not a resolution, not a change to try something new. But a new way of being in the world. I was going to stop doing a lot of things, I was going to keep it simple and small and close to home. I was going to re-focus my life on one thing: my family.

And so, I did. For two years I didn't volunteer, I didn't take on, I didn't make hasty changes. A good thing too, because raising twins is crazy hard work. Trying to balance full time work and all the crap I went through at Mount Holyoke, raising teenage daughters and finding time for my relationship was damn exhausting. All worth it. All wanted and needed and loved and appreciated.

I'm looking back at those photos of my boys before things started to change. When they were just two little dudes who were late in speaking. All the things I wanted and hoped and dreamed of. All the things I thought they were. It turns out, they're better than all the things I had believed. Seth has a heart the size of Alaska. Those kissing pictures up there? Tip of the iceberg. My JP who refused to hold a pencil for the better part of a year? He gave me a book for Christmas. That he wrote. JP is in the middle of facing his fears and learning how to deal with a sensory system consistently on overload. He is learning to let go of his perfectionism and to embrace his eraser because "Erasers are our friends." They don't tell you that these kids with autism are among the bravest of kids. And they often find an extra guardian angel along way. One might even call them a partner for life.

I have days where I feel totally incapable of being the mother they need and deserve. I get tired. It wears on you, this constant and non-stop encouragement, fielding and boundary setting. The notes home from school filled sometimes with a barrage of bad news no matter how nicely its put... they are hard to take after a while. And then all of a sudden a day or two of smiley faced stickers and you are filled up again with hope that sustains you.

I can't help but wonder where we'll be a year from now. I'm marking this year's holiday season with this post. I'll look back next year and I'll remember all these feelings, all these thoughts and I will want to reach back through time and tell myself that it was all going to be fine. That no matter what happens, the journey is the thing. That it will get easier. That Autumn will find the right college and she'll love it the moment she closes her dorm room door and starts to unpack. That Danielle will find her place in the world and her passion. She'll be as stubborn and smart and beautiful as she always has been. And Aaron. He'll hang in there too. And he'll be in school. And he will be brilliant and finally, finally after all these years he will get to find his own silver lining.

That Christmas feeling is right there, its out of reach still, but I'll get there. It would really help if maybe we could have that snow though.

Total Grinch Here (Sorry mom for the bad words below)

2011-12-20T13:31:00.000-08:00

There is a pile of carboard boxes in my bedroom. Most of them are from Amazon, a few from Etsy and even one from a Craigslist purchase. Not one thing is wrapped. Its all sort of stacked up and hanging out. I don't really even know what is in most of them. I do know that this is really what Christmas has become for me. A pile of stuff for my kids, meticulously chosen to match a dollar amount budgeted for each of them. I like buying this stuff and its nice that I am able to do this. But really, I'm not feeling it this year. I am completely faking it.

I wanted to write about how much I love this time of year and what a joy life is, but for whatever reason, I only feel overwhelmed and stressed out. I'm either getting too old or too lazy for this. I hide that from the kids pretty well and I play the music and we do Santa stuff, but deep down? I could care less.

Here's what bothers me. I hear a lot of grumblings about putting Christ back in Christmas. Nobody took him out. Have Christmas. Go to church, eat your cracker thingy and sip on your wine. Have. At. It. You can even wish an agnostic like me Merry Christmas or Happy Festivus. I don't care. Its your religion, call it whatever you want. Get over yourselves, please.

However, there's also Hanukkah. And Kwanzaa. And don't come at me with this "But that's made up?" THEY ARE ALL MADE UP. Unless you are worshiping the Babylonian sun god (which is where all these holidays stem from - it has to do with the sun and the moon and the shortness of days - that's it), you made it up. Jesus, if he was born at all, wasn't born on December 25th. That was a pagan holiday the newbie Christians stole. Get over it. So put Shamash back into Christmas. That actually might be really fun. I mean, they celebrated with a wild, drunken orgy at midnight. Now that's a midnight Mass!

This holiday is only reminding me of all the bullshit religion out there and the horror those religions have brought to this world. Yes, horror. Wars. Persecution. Guilt. Fear. Loathing. I hate them all exactly the same.

Its Giftmas in my house. Its about a tree (pagan ritual) with lights on it (also pagan). Its about a magical/made up dude (Santa) who leaves presents for my kids (real). They get very happy and very excited and then we eat ourselves silly. Essentially, its just Thanksgiving with a fucking tree and presents.

I can't believe it. I can't believe I actually went Full Scrooge.

There's still time right? To get it back I mean? Maybe I'm just grumpy today. You know what? Check back in another day and maybe I'll be back to normal. I used to love this stupid time of year.

Maybe I need snow?

Yep, pretty freaking awesome.

2011-12-15T11:21:00.000-08:00

A few shots of my daughter Autumn's latest pottery projects. That tea set is about the coolest damn thing I've ever seen.

Finis! Also with owl.

Coolest shit ever.

O.S.M.

2011-12-13T08:05:00.000-08:00

As mentioned below, I am getting married in 95 days. Just hold that in your brain as my justification for the following:

Oprah talks about "A ha!" moments. Well, I don't know if this was "A ha!" or "Oh shit." I went shopping for wedding dresses three weeks ago. There is nothing in this world that can make a grown person more insane than dress shopping. Bathing suit shopping sucks too, but this whole wedding dress thing for someone almost 40 is just stress wrapped up in an anxiety blanket.

I tried on many dresses. Maybe a dozen. I have some body issues and the past 7 years have not been kind to me. And I haven't been kind to my body. Neglected. Allowed to get fluffy and soft and well, fatter than I've been in my life. If you take a neglected 39 year old body and throw a strapless* ivory gown on it, good luck in trying to avoid the truth.

I felt ugly. I realize that I am not huge. I know that. Weight is subjective. For some people being a size 8 is giant, for others its a goal or "Never gonna happen and I don't want to try that and I could care less." Totally cool with that. I get it. However, for me, a size 16 dress just ain't gonna make me feel good. It was humiliating. I wanted to cry.

And there it was, my Oh Shit Moment. Actually, it was more like a series of them:

* Oh Shit: I have to wear a dress in front of people
* Oh Shit: I am having professional photos of this day
* Oh Shit: At our 25th anniversary those photos will be on display
* Oh Shit: When I die, those photos will be on display

* Oh Shit: Is that back fat popping out of the top of my dress?
* Oh Shit: How many chins does a person need?
* Oh Shit: I think I used to have biceps and a collar bone

Things didn't go well for me. I had a moment there in the dressing room while tugging at what I think was supposed to be a bra but was more of a medieval torture device where I thought: I've got time. I can fix this.

And so, I'm on a mission. And I am on it for all the wrong reasons. It isn't for my health, but it sounds nice to say it is. It isn't for any other reason than the fact that I felt nasty and yucky and old and frumpy and I don't want to spend my wedding day feeling anything other than happy and the effects of too much wine.

I started dieting about three weeks ago. Simple calorie counting to get me started. I downloaded myfitnesspal onto my iPhone and log my food. Its going just fine. I'm down around 13 pounds but the scale isn't where its at. Also, I'm sure mine is a damn lying liar. I need to lose inches.

I researched things and I found P90.

P90 is body boot camp. As much fun as boot camp sounds, I think this is worse. This is so bad people. I started yesterday and today I can't lower or raise myself without support. I am using the handicap bathroom folks. Not for the space or some hope that fewer people use it but for the bars on the walls. Because I can't lower myself unassisted. My office chair has arms and they may not make it to the end of the day today. Things are not good.

My legs, ass and sides of my torso are completely useless to me right now. I'm sore in places I didn't know had muscle. I worked out for the 40 minutes and wanted to vomit for about 20 minutes after. I kicked back Alka Seltzer hoping it would help. I was shaking and things looked all blurry and black spotty. But the pain? That kicked in pretty badly during the night. When my alarm went off at 4:30am I had a hard time rolling over to shut it off. The last time I had this problem I was 7 months pregnant with twins. Only that didn't hurt as much as this morning.

I have to do it again tonight. I know once I get started I'll feel better. I'm familiar with sore muscles - I survived 12 years with Mrs. Galipeau after all. But I was young then. And fit. This? This is torture. But I'll do it. I'll do it every damn day until March 17th and by then hopefully treating my body like this will be routine. And maybe it won't hurt so much by then?

I figure on March 18th I can start P90X. Because I'm nothing if not a sadist.

*What is UP with all dresses being strapless? Why? Why do we do this to women? To ourselves? Do you have any idea how many bicep curls you have to do to pull this off without looking like a sack of flesh? So awful. So purely horrible.

Seth's Reminder

2011-12-13T06:52:00.000-08:00

I getting married in like 95 days. I know that Giftmas is like two weeks away and I have a boatload of kids to buy stuff for, but this wedding thing is so much more difficult.

I had this moment the other night where the reality of it hit me. I was lying in bed and watching tv and all of a sudden I sat up in a state of complete panic. Like totally insane panic attack. My lungs stopped doing what they were supposed to, my heart was pounding, cold sweat and complete panic set in. I was baffled at the thought that I was going to get married again. That he wanted to marry me. That we were making a decision that involves no turning back. I couldn't stop thinking about it, about the possibility that in 15 years we might not make it. That I would go through another divorce. That our kids would suffer. I was freaked.

I do a lot of things. Getting freaked out about stuff like this isn't one of them. Heights freak me out. The glass railing at the Holyoke Mall freaks me out. Crowds and loud places make me uncomfortable. Wal-Mart freaks me out. Flying freaks me out. Giant Granby spiders freak me out. Marrying the greatest guy ever shouldn't freak me out. I mean, we've been living together for almost 8 years. We have kids. Twins no less.

I sat there and reminded myself of his better qualities and listing all the things that we have survived together. It started to help and as my heart rate slowed down Seth came down the stairs. He was sleepy and adorable and pink. He asked me for a drink of milk, so we went upstairs together and I poured him a cup of ice cold milk which he kicked back in one gulp. I snuggled him into bed and he kissed me.

"Love you mommy."

"I love you too Sethie." He smiled at me.

"Do you love daddy too?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh. I love him too."

"Yeah, he sort of rocks right?"

He laughed at that. "Yeah! He plays Craftmine with me (his name for Minecraft)."

"Yep, you're a lucky kid Seth."

"You're lucky too right?"

Hells yeah I am. 95 days...

Sweet swirling onion rings!!

2011-12-02T11:20:00.001-08:00

WANT!!!!

THERE'S MORE?

Someone forward this post to my daughters and/or almost-husband.

In the Land of Weird

2011-12-01T09:29:00.000-08:00

(I should add here that this story is completely made-up and has nothing to do with a psycho-boss I worked for in the past.)

Once upon a time there was a Pretty Princess who wore beautiful clothes and ate beautiful food. She lived in a Pretty Princess Palace and never had to work a day in her young life. One day, the Pretty Princess was chosen to rule a new land. She was chosen after two other Ugly Duckings declined the opportunity because the Queen of the land of Weird had taken too long to send them an email.

Pretty Princess arrived at the Land of Weird and smiled at her servants. She nodded and laughed, she ate with them and shared with them. Her servants thought they had gotten lucky, but they would soon find out how sadly mistaken they were. You see, the Pretty Princess hid within herself a deep and horrible ugliness. The sickness made the Pretty Princess lie and manipulate, it made her incapable of listening or trusting or being honest. She became secretive and stole the worst thing you can possibly steal: credit for a job well done. The Pretty Princess was so secretive about her real self, that nobody knew it even existed. Except of course for the Queen. You see, the Queen had a terrible secret too. She carried this very affliction within herself and upon discovering it in the Pretty Princess, she set out to make the Pretty Princess as deceptively horrible as the Queen herself. So effective in their falsity, their loyal subjects never suspected a thing.

Until one day, the Pretty Princess revealed her true self. She arrived at her palace and to the astonishment and bewilderment of those around her, she wasn't pretty anymore. Her face was quite the same, but there was a new truth to it. Her words no longer matched her actions. Her servants who had been thanked and congratulated and treated so sweetly were suddenly bleeding from the Princess's knives being tossed at their backs. The Pretty Princess would run and hide and take cover immediately after letting a shiny dagger fly towards one of her servants. For a little while, the servants had no way of knowing who was making them bleed. In fact, slowly, one by one, they disappeared into the world of Normal. Some went quietly and others loudly. Some were yelling and some were running. The remaining servants would hope to see them again and find out about the mysterious Princess and what had happened.

One by one they disappeared until only one servant remained. The servant tried to speak to the Queen, but this only made things worse. The servant was unaware of the horrible pact between the Queen and the Princess. There was much shock and awe one day when the Queen herself was disappeared from this particular corner of the Land of Weird. In her place the Land of Weird plunked down not another Queen but a King. He wore hipster glasses and a beard, he carried a backpack instead of a briefcase. He was the Queen's physical opposite but sadly, the servant was too far gone. She could no longer trust this land or the rulers that existed there. She was certain that the King would be unable or unwilling to help her.

Without the Queen on her throne, The Pretty Princess grew to become increasingly unhinged and terratic in her behavior. Her Perfection had taken over the land of Weird where the servant worked. No matter how hard the servant tried, there was never the right color on her signs or her paper, she could never get the right words in the exact order or the right food ordered and set up at exactly the correct moment. The servant was yelled at and reprimanded but never in person. The Pretty Princess was not good at speaking to her servant directly, she liked to send her letters and notes though. Every morning the servant was faced with several reminders about how horrible she was and how nothing she did was good enough. She became so fearful that she couldn't make a decision any more or do any of the things she used to be so good at.

As the days went by, the servant became sick. Her body hurt, she couldn't sleep, she couldn't eat. She was constantly afraid of the Pretty Princess and her scowling gaze. The servant decided one day that she could no longer work for the Pretty Princess, so she quit. As she stepped out into the sunlight after turning in her servant keys, she felt as though her old self was waiting outside the gates of the kingdom she had slaved at. She slipped back into her skin and remembered that she was good and capable and confident. She gazed at the tower where the Pretty Princess held court and took a big, deep breath. She was free now to go into the world and do all the things the Princess could never do. She would look people in the eye and speak the truth, she would treat others with understanding and kindness, she would allow others to succeed and learn to accept her own limitations. The servant and all of those before her would take with them one very important lesson: A truly Pretty Princess allows her actions to match her words.

The servant thought that perhaps that was the end of her story. But as luck would have it, there is an epilogue...

Two years later, the Servant (who was no longer a servant at all) found out that the Pretty Princess had displeased the land of Weird so much that they cast her out.

The servant and all of those who went before her were glad to hear of this. There was much merrymaking as the former servants were reminded that they were never horrible or inept or that they were unworthy. In fact, they had all found themselves much better off after leaving the Land of Weird. Each growing to become not Queen or King or even Princess, but Human. And Humans do one thing better than any other living creature, especially Pretty Princesses: they survive.

On turning 39

2011-11-29T09:34:00.000-08:00

My last year in my 30s. I feel like all the things I said I wanted to do as a grown-up now have a deadline. I was staring at myself in the mirror yesterday plucking my eyebrows and the light was hitting my face in exactly the worst way possible. Lines. Mostly light for now but it was peek into what was coming. The deep furrow between my brows that was excavating itself into my face for the last five years is only getting deeper. I had to let go of my very dark brown almost black hair. I was having to cover grays all too often so now I have an auburn thing with highlights happening.

These are superficial things. I know that. On the surface I am totally okay with the aging process. But every now and then it freaks me out. I have so much I want to do and I feel like I've started my life over a few times already so I'm way behind where I'm supposed to be. Its crazy, but there it is.

My next new beginning will be on March 17, 2012. I am getting married. It felt sort of fake and elusive there for a while but I tried on some wedding dresses recently and it hit me really suddenly. Aaron will no longer be my boyfriend or my fiance or my almost-husband or my baby daddy. He will just be my husband. Its crazy and wonderful and I feel like after raising twins together without killing each other, we can get through just about anything. People should be confident that this is gonna last. Seriously, you have no idea. All these other huge fancy weddings with true newlyweds got nothing on us. We survived a sort of exhaustion seen only in the Hunger Games or at the end of a marathon. And we really like each other. Its nothing short of miraculous.

Other things coming up before I turn 40? I'm still determined to run a 5K. My reasons have changed though. I want to do it because nobody, especially my daughters, thinks that I can. I have come to realize that how I view myself is not how anyone else does. They have put restrictions on me and what I can and cannot do. I hate that. Don't tell me what I can do! (Leftover teenagery right there.) I am still young enough to believe that I can do anything I want to. And 39 has arrived and I'm forced to reckon with time. I won't always have this option.

So, here I am. I am 39 years old. I have a furrowed brow, some things are hanging a bit lower than they used to, my hair isn't black anymore, my joints make weird sounds. I have a house full of kids and animals. My carpets are consistently in need of a vacuuming, the sink is never empty for more than three minutes at a time and the phrase "Finished the laundry" hasn't been spoken by me in 17 years. I rarely listen to music anymore and opt for audiobooks and podcasts instead. I buy shoes based on how comfortable they are. I am in a job I had to work for rather than just apply for. I have learned to accept the fact that I hate things I wanted to love: yard work, gardening, and decorating. I have big dreams still but those dreams aren't the same ones I had ten years ago. I will never be rich. I will never be known for my sense of fashion or how clean my car is.

The beautiful thing is, I'm old enough to be okay with all of that. If aging teaches us anything, its patience and the ability to believe that everything really will be all right.

Mother of the Year 2011

2011-11-15T05:33:00.000-08:00

I'm not feeling good. My body hurts and I'm exhausted. The two go hand in hand and when I get like this, it affects my mood and my ability to deal with things I normally don't struggle with. Parenting burnout is one of those things. I wasn't going to write about it, but you know what? We all deal with it and parents of little ones with special needs especially deal with it. Throw a full time job and a couple of teenagers on top and you bet your ass its exhausting at times.

So, last night it hit me. It was 5pm and it was a long day already. My legs hurt, my right hip feels like its on fire and the pain travels down the leg to my ankle. I know there is arthritis in there and the fibro doesn't help, but this is a new one that starts in my ass. Yes people. A pain my ass. Sciatic nerve? Who freaking knows. It balances out the slipped disc thing in my neck. Whatever. I was miserable. And the boys picked up on it (I wasn't very subtle). They fought. They smashed each other with various toys, pillows, play swords and I think I saw a boot fly across the room. And they climbed all the things. Did you know a recliner is scalable?

I got them to the table to eat and do their homework. They refuse said food and homework. I bribed with Halloween candy. It was like a goddamn auction house:

Three bites of mac and cheese for two pieces of candy?
Do I hear four? Four bits of mac and cheese?
And now five, how about five? Three candies for five! Going once, going twice...
Sold! To the boy with marker on his face and missing shoe!

And so they ate and they read me a story. This took the better part of an hour. And then they climbed the couch, again.

[As a quick digression: How the HELL do parents of young kids have nice anything? Seriously. I mean this. I have a hand-me-down couch (thank you Aunty!) that deserves an award for surviving last night. Why? Why must they always be climbing this thing? I know there are parents out there with new stuff and nice carpets and made beds. Do you just stay up all night cleaning? Do your children take Prozac? How is this happening when in my house all the things are climbed?]

By 6:10pm I realize there is no way all three of us are going to survive the night. I walked Seth to the computer and sat him down. I gave the mouse a good shake to wake it up and I said, "Please Seth. Please, for the love of God and all things holy, please play a video game for an hour. For mommy. Do it for mommy."

I forced my son to play a video game folks. I get Mother of the Year. Sorry all you home-schoolers, bakers, PTO organizers and Martha Stewart wannabes. I win. I want the freaking trophy so that my sons can break it when they scale the entertainment center to get to it. I want it so my dogs can chew it up and my daughters can leave it on the floor of their room, under the laundry pile. I want it to get lost under my bed with a few mateless socks and a random shoe whose partner was lost three years ago. I want the Mother of the Year award to sit in my minivan for a month because I'm too lazy to make two trips. All because I forced my six year old son to play Minecraft.

It was that or the bottle of Maker's Mark. I think I chose wisely.

Dark Arts

2011-11-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

My oldest daughter Autumn is pretty badass when it comes to making stuff with dirt. Here's an example of her latest WIP:

Pretty darn cool or what? These were taken while the project was still wet. Here's hoping it survives the kiln!

Feel like a good cry?

2011-11-04T12:06:00.000-07:00

Read this then.

Penn Jillette's 10 Commandments for Athiests

2011-11-01T11:09:00.000-07:00

1. The highest ideals are human intelligence, creativity and love. Respect these above all.

2. Do not put things or even ideas above other human beings. (Let's scream at each other about Kindle versus iPad, solar versus nuclear, Republican versus Libertarian, Garth Brooks versus Sun Ra— but when your house is on fire, I'll be there to help.)

3. Say what you mean, even when talking to yourself. (What used to be an oath to (G)od is now quite simply respecting yourself.)

4. Put aside some time to rest and think. (If you're religious, that might be the Sabbath; if you're a Vegas magician, that'll be the day with the lowest grosses.)

5. Be there for your family. Love your parents, your partner, and your children. (Love is deeper than honor, and parents matter, but so do spouse and children.)

6. Respect and protect all human life. (Many believe that "Thou shalt not kill" only refers to people in the same tribe. I say it's all human life.)

7. Keep your promises. (If you can't be sexually exclusive to your spouse, don't make that deal.)

8. Don't steal. (This includes magic tricks and jokes — you know who you are!)

9. Don't lie. (You know, unless you're doing magic tricks and it's part of your job. Does that make it OK for politicians, too?)

10. Don't waste too much time wishing, hoping, and being envious; it'll make you bugnutty.

(Got this from here.)

White Halloween

2011-11-01T08:07:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't heard, we had a bit of a storm here in Western Mass over the weekend. We lost power at 5pm Saturday and it was back on this morning (Tuesday).

This is directly across the street from my house. It looks like this normally.

The entire entrance is blocked by downed trees and branches.

And yes, those are power lines several feet lower than they should be.

Oh that? Yeah that's a chunk of tree dangling from power lines on our street.

We had to drive around it or else we would have taken the whole thing down.

Being without power for a few hours is fun. Being without it in freezing temperatures for a few days? Sucks. Stay safe WMass!

3

2011-10-28T08:09:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how its possible or where the time went or that my brain has wrapped around it, but on Sunday it will be three years since Patrick died.

Some of my family spent their morning today at a church service for him. I didn't go. Part of me felt guilty for that. For my folks and my sister, this is a special moment for them and it helps them. But for me, well, it just doesn't leave me feeling anything. I do my own thing. That's what matters, finding a way to visit a place inside of yourself and take a breathe. Finding a way to mark the calendar and remember and be sad for a while. Allowing yourself to feel the shit that you push back every other day, that's what anniversaries and ceremony and ritual do.

Losing someone close to you means always grieving. You never, never stop. We miss Patrick every single day. We have our own little ways of giving him props or a shout-out. We cry. We visit his grave and look at his photographs. We laugh. We find ways to say his name and honor his memory. Its all you can do really. Its all any of us can do when someone we love passes.

We do one more thing though. We tend to do all of those things together. And in those excellent moments, when we're all in the same house and Lisa has us all laughing, in the backs of our minds we're wishing he was there. And in unison that little thought combined underlines every laugh and every hug. I'd like to think that its then he hears us somehow. That in those silent little wishes and hopes, he knows that we carry him within us. That together we got through and together we will be once again.

2011-10-25T06:04:00.000-07:00

You've been warned. This blog post will be random and will span the worlds of home, hearth, yarn and game. Also birthdays. But to kick things off, here is a picture of my boys at Grandma and Grandpa's house, you know... raking:

JP and Seth "helping" Grandpa with the leaves.

People who don't know me and see me either in the act of knitting or wearing knitted garment usually say, "You're lucky to have that kind of time." People who do know me will at some point say, "How do you have that kind of time?"

I am reading the Yarn Harlot's new book All Wound Up. And wouldn't you know it? Her opening chapter is about this very thing. You can read the opening bit on Amazon to hear her take on this crazy idea that knitters have more hours in their day than non-knitters. That we have a life that supports sitting idly and doing nothing. Which is really crazy because everyone has time in their day for television where they sit with a bag of chips and a glass of diet coke zombied out for a couple of hours. Or maybe they spend inordinate amounts of time on Facebook or reading blogs. Knitters just do these things with string and sticks in their hands and instead of shoveling chips into our mouths we end up with a new sweater or a pair of wool socks. My mother is rarely without her crochet hook, yarn and an afghan in the works. Its idle time that ends up with something useful and awesome.

When I'm at the receiving end of the "I wish I had that kind of time" statement I never know what to say right away. If I come back with, "Well, I do work full time and have four kids and five pets and am planning a wedding and one of my sons is autistic and I'm trying to help my oldest find a college and my middle child is neglected between the two and the other son has to fit in there too and then there's my fiance who will be starting school in January and then there's that book I"m trying to write, so if I can do it you can too." People just think I'm either lying, bragging, an asshole or a bitch. In truth I'm only one of things and I'm not even that all the time. Just three days a month. Or when the beer runs out.

When I hear it, and I think all those things I just listed, I usually just say, "Well, its relaxing and it takes your mind off all the other crap you should be doing." And then I laugh and walk away and remember the quote, "If you want something done, ask a busy person." This is true, but it should also include "Just don't put a deadline on it."

Meandering Vines scarf - finally finished!

The Yarn Harlot (Stephanie Pearl-McPhee) goes on to write about the social implications and the cultural change that has changed knitting from something necessary to something unnecessary or frivolous. She writes, "In no time at all, we've manged to become such a consumeristic, product-driven society that people have stopped thinking that it's a waste to buy something you could make yourself and started thinking that it's wasteful to make something you could be buying." As if mittens or socks aren't made?

Needless to say, I love her and I love this book that I've only read twelve pages of.

Moving on.

Aaron's 30th birthday was last week. Stop laughing. He also had the week off of work. Can I just say right now that if there was any way in hell to make ends meet and have him home 24 hours a day I would do it? Dogs walked, bathed, house cleaned, help with little boys and driving teenagers, sharing a couch and a bottle of wine... all wonderful things.

We played Dungeons and Dragons. And it was so fun! Yeah, I'm a half-elf Druid. Also I have a dire wolf. Before things reach a new level of dork, I'm going to just move on.

We went to Hartford overnight Friday. I was there to review a play at TheaterWorks. The review is here if you would like to read it. If you are ever inclined to go to Hartford to see a play, I cannot recommend this little theater enough. Seriously wonderful stuff happening there.

I did this in Hartford. Nobody asked me for milk or juice or food. It was heavenly.

While in the city we had a snack at Black-Eyed Sally's and then a light dinner at Hot Tomatoes. The wine we had at Hot Tomatoes was 14 Hands Cabernet Sauvignon and it was freaking delicious!! Sally's had delicious crab cakes and fried dill pickles. Also beer.

Black-Eyed Sally's fried pickle chips (goes perfect with Sam Adams Octoberfest)

And then on Saturday! Guess what I did! I went to Stitches East which was a mere 2 miles from our hotel. I was in a convention center FILLED with silk, merino, cashmere, hand-spun, hand-painted and bags and baskets and all sorts of knitterly delights. And you know what I bought??? A $12 tin with hand-made stitch markers inside. Also, Aaron was the only man there under 60. He didn't complain one time and when I was ready to leave, he was actually surprised. Also he wants me to make the Great American Aran Afghan.... in cashmere. They had three on display in various yarn weights (bulky, worsted and 4-ply fingering weight) all in white. Stunning. You can sign up and receive your yarn monthly or quarterly so you don't like go into bankruptcy to make this thing. For the weight we loved, it would cost $50 a month for 20 months. That is my friends a $1,000 afghan. As in A THOUSAND DOLLARS. Did I mention it was 100% cashmere and not a blend??

The worsted weight is $30. I should be talked out of it, but talk about a great one year anniversary gift. Who am I kidding? Two year anniversary. Maybe 5.

Anne Rice, Queen of the Vampire Lore

2011-10-18T04:35:00.000-07:00

Oh you have no idea how hard I laughed at this. Thank you Sandra!

One chicken, two meals. Both easy.

2011-10-17T07:05:00.000-07:00

No exactly one for the dieters, but I switched up a simple recipe I found online and created a most delicious chicken meal last night. Here's what I did:

* One Roaster Chicken
* 6-8 cloves of garlic, minced
* Stick of butter
* About a half cup chicken broth
* Salt, pepper, paprika, favorite seasonings, etc.

Give the chicken a nice rub down with the minced garlic, place in slow cooker. Sprinkle seasonings all over it. Cut up the stick of butter and dot the chicken with it. Pour the broth into the crockpot and cover. Cook on high for an hour, then switch to low for around 7 more hours.

The sauce can be used as a gravy and I highly recommend pouring it over potatoes.

~~~

I reserved all the leftovers and bones and made a chicken stock with it. I even poured the garlic butter sauce in with:

* 3 carrots
* 1 sweet onion
* 1 leek's greens only
* 3 stalks celery
* Fresh thyme
* 2 bay leaves

Things simmered for about 4 hours and I ended up with a very condensed stock. Tonight, we will use that to make some chicken orzo soup. Here's what I'm planning:

* I will add a cup or two of water to my stock to tast
* Slice up a carrot or two
* Slice up the white part of my leek from the stock
* If needed, a bit of onion
* I am going to buy an already cooked and cut up chicken breast - I'll shred this in my chopper

* 3/4 cup of orzo, uncooked

I plan on simmering the whole thing for an hour or so. Because my stock is so heavily flavored from where it came from, I don't know that it will need much salt or pepper.

~~~

Fall must be here!! The cooking frenzy is taking off.

It Matters

2011-09-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

"We've got to look at ourselves, and not society. When we talk about society then we stop taking responsibility for our own behavior and the behavior that goes on in our communities. It's about what we can do with the kids that we know in our own families. And honestly, if people are gonna say 'Well those were some bad kids.' If you're watching this and you're part of this community, talk to your children even if they weren't involved. Even if they sat there and they were stunned. Even if they sat there and they wanted to do something, but they couldn't. Because those are the conversations that matter to kids, so that things like this do not continue in the future."

Rosalind Wiseman, Bullying Expert, on Anderson 360 discussing the suicide of Jamey Rodemeyer.

Apple Picking

2011-09-19T08:01:00.000-07:00

Thought I would share a totally adorable picture of two of my favorite people. We went to Cold Spring Orchard in Belchertown on Sunday and it was amazing. I am going to post pics of the mutant apples we picked. Seriously, the biggest damn things I've ever seen. JP is holding a Cortland. These other apples are called Spigolds and are known for being super large and super delicious.

And one more for good measure (Seth was not still long enough to grab his pic):

Moving Targets

2011-09-09T05:19:00.000-07:00

The following was written during Thursday's Main Street Writer's workshop. The prompt was to write down a question you really want an answer to. The second instruction was to write the answer as if you knew it exactly.

Disclaimer: This was written to be silly. I do not personally have anything against bicyclists. In fact, I know a few avid bikers and they are the nicest people possible. Mostly because I'm not driving behind or next to them while they are riding though.

Are you supposed to treat bicyclists like pedestrians or vehicles?

It depends on a few things. Firstly, is the bicycle in a small, special bike lane? If yes, then the bike and its rider are in fact a moving vehicle. Except you can’t cross into that special lane, get too close, pass or otherwise fake out the rider as you pretend to make a right hand turn. This will likely result in one pissed off bicyclist. But worry not because they were pissed off to begin with. All bicyclists are generally in foul moods. Anyone who needs to wear padded shorts in order to get from Point A to Point B reserves the right to be an asshole. Also, if the rider moves into an actual lane at a traffic light, he or she knows what they are doing. They are likely not afraid of you or the fact that you are driving a metal moving combustible engine capable of flattening them. Make nice and smile, let them go first. They may or may not use hand signals, so please be sure your ESP is working especially well as no matter what happens, you will look like the asshole if you strike the bicycle.

Secondly, if the bike is moving down the side of a road sans special lane, then it should be considered a pedestrian. This is because the rider is likely a parent out with children and is doing something they absolutely do not want to be doing and are therefore deserving of kindness and perhaps pity. Watch out for the erratic moving tiny bike being ridden by a seven year old whose helmet is slipping forward into her eyes because bike helmets are useless pieces of plastic-coated Styrofoam that never stay in place. Do not worry about the helmets. Though they may constantly slip forward or back to the sides, there are forces at work that guarantee it will save your child’s life should he or she be struck by a car moving 50 mph. Do not question this fact. If the helmet is moving its not a design flaw, its just that you are a bad parent and completely incapable of the most simplest of tasks. This is why the government made the decision for you to begin with. Do not question the Nanny State. That will be $30 plus tax, please.

Thirdly, if the bicycle is pulling a small cart with an orange flag you have spotted a new parent who is young enough to not only voluntarily peddle her ass to the farm stand, she is strong enough to pull an additional fifty pounds of cart and kid behind her. She is obviously psychotic and should be avoided at all costs. Treat this moving caravan as though it were Al Qaeda themselves and they have lined the perimeter with IED’s. Stay the fuck out of her way. How it is she is still moving forward without stopping every seven seconds to put a pacifier or sippy cup back in place, only the gods know. Also, she probably started this trip at six in the morning when she packed up her Subaru with bike, trailer, child, toys, snacks, drinks and then drove to a location to ride her bike. Because driving somewhere to go ride a bike is normal in the Valley. Do not mention this oddity to her, simply drive on by and wish her well. Smile smugly at the amateur mommy and know that one day she, too, will be foreswearing helmets and voluntary bike rides.

Lastly, if the bike is a recumbent vehicle this means that the person pedaling from a tiny, hard recliner is in desperate need of getting laid. Give this poor slob plenty of space as he is certainly as angry with the world as the rider wearing padded shorts and sporting shaved legs. He is already regretting not going for the two-seater convertible after Shirley packed up and left, so be easy on him. He is likely on his way to his annual DnD reunion game, so if he falls beware of plastic, hand-painted miniatures and six-sided dice being scattered like so much dust. Also, that’s not a smile on his face. That’s gas from the quickie breakfast he had to make himself, another sad reminder of Shirley’s leaving.

It is best to avoid all eye contact with bicyclists as a general rule. They are either career bikers or folks who bought a bike because the idea of it was appealing. The newbie biker is easy to spot. Watch for the stand up and pedal stance which has become nothing more than a desperate use of one’s own body weight to keep the bike upright and inching forward. Also, note the either complete lack of a helmet, a helmet hanging by its strap from the handle bars or a helmet sliding ever so slowly down the side of the rider’s purple face as beads of sweat creep down between his furrowed brows. The magazine’s ad showed a happy family rolling easily along a perfectly flat rail trail. The mom is thin and tanned, her white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun. Dad is looking back proudly at their son, who isn’t screaming about the strap under his chin being too tight or that his brother is getting too close. No one in that picture has asked to pee nine times already that morning or was hungry four minutes after getting on the trail. Everyone’s gears are shifting just fine and the idea of a flat tire is nothing more than a distant and abstract idea that happens to everyone else.

In reality, the guy riding down the sidewalk is halfway to his destination and just realized he made a $400 mistake and just wants to fucking get home already. He forgot about the hill that’s on the way to Cumberland’s and he is cursing himself for not just taking the God damn car. He’s imagining how he is going to balance a gallon of milk on his thigh (because baskets are "girlie") while hurtling down the hill on the way home and knows with certainty that it will be nothing if not completely terrifying, so go easy on him. Besides, he has a bike and a slightly used helmet to sell.

Safe

2011-09-08T05:28:00.000-07:00

The attacks on our country nearly a decade ago resulted in many, many things. For a while there we were flag waving, yellow ribbon wearing patriots again. And then the politicians got involved and gave us things like Homeland Security, The Patriot Act and the TSA.

Out of fear we have given up personal freedoms, rights and privacy. The TSA has never prevented a thing nor found anything that saved a single life. And yet, passengers line up shoeless and submit to either the naked scan or a fierce "search."

One woman was subjected to a particularly harsh search. When she complained, she was sued for $500,000. Her attorney's response speaks for millions of Americans desperate to stop the madness. I invite you to read this truly brilliant piece.

Here is a highlight:

"After the 9/11 attacks, America wallowed in fear, and ignoble politicians took advantage of that national temporary psychosis. In doing so, they foisted an intrusive security apparatus upon us, but one that was never effective at making us safer. It was, however, effective at rolling back our rights under the Fourth Amendment. We may have killed Osama Bin Laden this year, but he actually defeated the American way of life ten years ago. On September. 11, 2001, America went from “the land of the free and the home of the brave” to a nation of mewling cowards, eager to give up their liberties for perceived “safety.” One of the worst symptoms of this transformation is the TSA and its minions of blue-shirted “officers.” As numerous investigations1 of these checkpoints’ efficacy reveal, anyone with a marginal IQ and the desire to evade them can and will do so."

This woman should be heralded as a hero. She did what every American should do - protest and complain loudly and clearly. The TSA is what happens when you govern out of fear, when you allow the fat cats to take over and make decisions for you. Yes, September 11th was scary and horrific and it forever changed how we perceive the world and our place in it. But this is America and you should be able to fly to Disney World without being raped at the airport. You know, because there's bombs up there.

Where is our country? Where is our anger and frustration? Our apathy and shoulder shrugging has gotten us here. What are you willing to stand up for? Where does it end?

Is it 1950?

2011-09-01T06:10:00.000-07:00

I'm not entirely sure who put this together or who created the ad.... but seriously?

There is a "Women's Expo" at the Mass Mutual Center. Here, look at this.

And this.

There is also a print ad out there somewhere I can't seem to find again that shows an eighteen year old pumping iron in a black sports bra with D cups, a pair of stilettos, a handbag tipped over spilling out hundreds of dollars of expensive make-up, a perfect living room, and a mannequin wearing a perfectly put together outfit.

WHAT. THE. FRICK.

Isn't this 2011? Am I stuck in some sort of weird time warp where all women have to do all day is look pretty and make sure their bag matches their shoes? What are they thinking??? Who put this ad together and how did he get this gig?

I'm so annoyed.

Explaining 9/11 to Kids

2011-09-01T05:23:00.000-07:00

Tonight there is a special edition of Nick News that attempts to explain what happened on September 11, 2001 to kids. You can read a bit about here. My guys are a bit too young I think and the show is on way after their bedtime. However, it looks perfect for the 10 and up age.

If its well done, sometimes kids' shows get right what adult shows often screw up: keep it simple, keep it honest and keep the fear tactics for the elections. DVR here we come.

Temonos - A Writer's Retreat

2011-08-31T08:47:00.000-07:00

On Saturday past I attended a day long writing retreat with Kathy Dunn. It was bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss. If you love the outdoors and are in the Western Mass area, I cannot recommend this amazing place more. Temonos has a really cool history and once you walk into its space you sorta know it. There is a peace that comes with being unplugged that I can't quite describe.

After spending several hours with seven other writers and listening to their stories or their poems, the weight of a work week is long gone. After sipping on a cup of hot chamomile tea and nibbling on cheese and strawberries, the worries of email and voicemail have gone over the horizon and out of sight. There was nothing to think about but the white blank page and filling it with words that flowed and sentences that built themselves. It was a magical day.

Before leaving, Kathy asked us to write a brief piece about what we hoped we would leave behind and what we wanted to take with us. Here was my writing:

I hope I leave nothing behind. I hope Temonos forgets I was here so there is space for the next visitor who sits in this chair and steps barefooted across this warm, wood floor. I hope my loud laughs will fade away and wait for me back home where they match the resident decibel level. I hope that whatever tiny piece of myself that escaped will welcome me back one day.

What I will take with me is an echo of the words I was privileged to hear. The stories that were shared and the honesty that released them out into the universe. Writers are brave folk. They don't just say the words, rather they scribble them down madly as they lay bare the essence of their souls. Writers cannot hide who they are; heroes of humanity and soldiers of their story.

Thank you Kathy!

Daily To Do List

2011-08-30T10:48:00.000-07:00

Moving right along, keeping it real and honest and getting it done. Constant motion and doing and trying and thinking and reacting. Deciding, considering, be thoughtful but not slow to decide. Be swift without being brash. Hang it up but don't quit. Stick with it, see it through but know when to say no without saying no. Say yes to most but not all. Be confident, never cocky. Know what you know. Know what you don't know. Be careful who you ask - but ask. Consider the answers and stick with your process. Be smart. Be kind. Don't be weak. Expect hard work and reward it. Work hard right back. Don't be late.

But most of all....

Don't fuck up the payroll.

Its all here

2011-08-19T18:34:00.001-07:00

In all its glory and bad writing, its honesty and bullshit, its all here. History is a good thing and it was sorta weird to erase it.

Pretty darn cool

2011-07-29T05:28:00.000-07:00

I saw this link on Reddit.com.

My 1940's room.

Some guy is re-creating a 1940's era living room. He wants it too be as authentic as possible. The link will take you to his blog where he is documenting all his purchases and items being donated to him. Its very, very cool!

74

2011-07-20T05:39:00.000-07:00

Me and Dad, 2008ish

Today my dad is 74 years old. You see that shit eating grin on his face up there? He was cracking up while I was demonstrating Phone Booth on my then brand new Macbook. That's exactly the expression he gets on his face whenever something is totally cool but also totally fun. He smiles like that at my kids sometimes. Other times we see it when someone wins something or whenever something happens really great. And sometimes we see it when we're walking up the driveway and he's standing in the doorway saying hello.

It doesn't escape me that our family is mightily blessed to have the parents we have. People meet my folks and usually the next words out of their mouths go something like, "You have great fricking parents." What I say to my kids though is usually something like, "These are not the people who raised me!"

But that's just it. These are the people who raised me. These are miraculously the same people who refused certain skirt lengths, had strict curfews, used the word "no" a lot, had a set dinner time that included rules and expectations about what dinner should be and that ice cream was not in fact a good choice. These are the same people who gave a firm re-buff when I wanted to dye my hair pink or wear high heels before my sixteenth birthday.

These are the same people who see my daughters doing all of the above and tell me , "What's the big deal? Its just hair! She looks great!"

What really gets me though is that somehow, even with a 360 degree turnaround, they're still right after all these years.

Random Thoughts and Rambles

2011-07-07T05:41:00.000-07:00

Its summer, what can I say? I'm using the heat to avoid doing anything other than breathing, going to work and avoiding housework at all costs. And it hasn't even been that hot yet. I say by August I'll be a lump of flesh sinking into my recliner and all will be well with the universe.

Things I have been doing to avoid cleaning my house:

1. Watching the following most awesome shows: True Blood, Weeds, Big C, Falling Skies (mom, you'll love it if you haven't been watching it already), and the last few eps of Game of Thrones. Which brings me to....

2. Reading: Game of Thrones. Folks, I never thought I was a fantasy book reader type but these books are AMAZING! Seriously fantastic writing, unbelievable world and the plot twists are insane. I have never known of an author who so willingly and easily kills off main characters. You never know what is coming next because ANYTHING can happen next. Its crazy. I'm on book four and there hasn't been a moment where I have said, "Book 2 was better." They are all wonderful.

3. Knitting - precious little of that. Herniated discs in my neck have created a big problem. I'm doing literally 15 minutes at the most every two or three days. It sucks. And when I tell the doctor that knitting ability is the gauge of how I'm feeling she sort of nods and looks at me like, "Sure,knitting. Of course. Perfectly normal." And then she offers me meds.

4. Complaining about my yard without actually doing anything about it. I rent my house. My landlord won't let me mow the lawn which is usually perfectly fine. But then this huge fricking tornado ripped through Western Mass and destroyed entire neighborhoods. Thankfully my wee town didn't get nailed by it but many of my co-workers' homes were destroyed or damaged or their cars were. My landlords are great people and they are area commanders for the Red Cross. You can imagine that this might mean my lawn has taken a very large step down on the list of priorities. This is fine. In the meantime though, the place has been looking, well, abandoned. I don't own a lawnmower and cutting two acres of grass with scissors is what crazy people do. I have a hard time weeding. So yes, I am not proud of it, but I have complained a few times about the state of the yard. I just want keys to the ride-on mower, that's it. Moving on....

5. Working - I don't blog about work. But let's just say I was promoted recently and I'm very, very excited about it. I love my job.

6. Montreal - I am going away for three days to visit my bestie and his husband!!! I am going for Pride Weekend and I cannot wait! Its in August and I'm counting the days.

7. Camping - I want to be a camper. So this isn't exactly a "Things I'm doing" item but more of a "Things I want to be doing" type of thing. Not in a campground though. Like in a mountain with a tent and cool tools and a backpack. Aaron thinks I am insane and mumbles something about the military and how it isn't fun for him. I want to do this. My boys would love it. My daughters would likely stay home.

8. Planning a big trip - Aaron and I have been on one family vacation in 7 years. A week in NH. To make up for lost time and a history of near poverty, we are planning a whopper of a trip. We are taking the four kids and my niece to Disney World! We are renting a huge RV and driving there next June after the kids are out of school. Excited doesn't begin to cover it.

9. Writing - just not blogging apparently. But yes, I am writing. Weekly at group and then even at home! Taryn is a hell-raiser and I am having so much fun with her story. Its dark, its violent, its all of those things and more. Also, I am going to attend Use Your Outdoor Voice in July. Its a day long writing workshop led by the always awesome, Feep creator and poet Kathy Dunn!

10. Theatre - I am reviewing a few shows this month for In the Spotlight, Inc. I went to see "moonchildren" over the weekend at the Berkshire Theatre Festival in Stockbridge and loved it. You can read the review here. Next up is "Dinner with Friends" and "Superior Donuts" both at Smith College.

Okay, so maybe I'm not really avoiding that much after all. This post brought to you by REALITY CHECK!

Summer Vacation is for Parents Too

2011-06-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

In the summertime, it doesn't matter what is on the schedule tomorrow. It doesn't matter that its nine at night and the kids are still playing.

In the summer, gym days are every day and library days are moments laying in a twin bed flipping through the pages.

In the summer, the sun beating through the windows at just such an angle means its time for dinner or ice cream or bike rides or a nap.

In the summer, a dirty face matters not. Long fingernails and hair that needs cutting, worn out sneakers and threadbare shorts are all acceptable accoutrements.

In the summer, a bathing suit worn under shorts for six days straight is a victory for the school-aged and a win for the laundry washers of the world.

In the summer, homework arguments disappear into thin air as we wait in line at Cindy's for our soft serve.

In the summer we all bask in the glow of NO SCHOOL!

Thursday Night Group

2011-06-19T06:39:00.000-07:00

We were given a prompt this week to write a list of things were were and then a list of things we were NOT. Then we had to look at all the things we weren't and write from there. I won't give you the list, but here is the result. Its a first draft and pretty raw, but it was fun!

~~~~~~~

Her house was model home perfect. The carpet runner inside the front door had fringe running along each edge that appearing to be super glued to the mirror shining hardwood floor.

“Teak. The floors throughout are teak. You can leave your shoves by the door. No dear, there, on the shoe tray? That’s it.”

I slipped my Old Navy flip flops onto the Pottery Barn shoe organizer and searched furtively for the Air Wick plug ins. There was no way a house in the dead of summer could smell like that naturally.

She was wearing a black halter top with pin striped gabardine pants complete with matching wedge mules. Her toes and fingernails were painted a red reserved for emergency vehicles. Her hair was slicked back into a tight bun. She wore diamond studs in her ears, a tasteful half carat in each. The gold bangles on her wrists jangled with every move.

“In here is the kitchen, there is the breakfast alcove complete with floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the le’nai.” I nodded approvingly, as if there was actually a chance in hell I could afford this place. That’s the thing with For Sale by Owner people, they don’t seem to screen their potential buyers very well. And they usually over-price their houses by at least ten grand, but I could care less. I wasn’t here to buy her fucking palace, I was here to do a job.

“What kind of cabinets are these? Is this oak?” I knew exactly what they were, but I couldn’t let her know that.

“Uh, no. No not oak.” She sniffed and ran her hand along the cabinet nearest her. She smiled at it as if it were alive and could feel her touch. I wondered if she touched him that way. “This is mahogany. Pure, solid and beautiful.”

“Ah! Sorry, my mistake. I’ve never seen mahagony that light before.”

“That’s because it hasn’t been painted over dear. You sure you want to finish the tour? I am sorry, but I’m not so sure if this house is really, well, let’s be honest sweety, isn’t it a bit out of your price range?”

I smiled at Laura and swallowed back the bile that had risen to the back of my throat. “Actually, I inherited a large sum of money recently so, no, it isn’t. Its actually cheap enough for me to pay with cash. If I wanted it that is.”

“Well then, shall we continue? I do apologize but there are just so many rubber neckers a woman can take. I’m sure you understand.” Laura smoothed her shellacked black hair with both of her hands. She breathed in deep and started to turn toward the living room. I didn’t want to see that room. I knew that room too well. It was the upstairs I wanted. I wanted to see where he slept when he left my bed. Where he flew off to every other weekend.

“I’m a bit pressed for time Laura. I have three children, so I’d really like to see the bedrooms if that’s okay? You did say in the ad that they were spacious and had their own bathrooms correct?”

“Fine with me dear. What is your name again?”

“Oh, I didn’t give it. Wow! Great view! Is that Mt. Washington?”

She blathered on for another ten minutes while I looked around furiously for the bathroom. The revolver in my pocket was getting heavier and heavier by the minute. The silencer added extra weight and I had to keep adjusting my pants so the end of it wouldn’t show.

As we moved away from the windows and towards the master suite, I spotted a photo on a dresser. It was my husband with his bride. Only it was her husband in the photo. I wondered if she suspected anything. If she wondered where he was off to and how he kept his lives so separate. Or his wives for that matter.

We moved into their bedroom and I spotted the shoes I’d bought for him last Christmas. Bruno Mali’s. They were his favorite. I was hoping to bury him in them but it was too late now. Now I knew where they were at least. I thought maybe I”d lost my mind.

“Mom! Mommy! I’m home!” The sound of a young boy traveled up the stairs. I hadn’t counted on a kid. He never told me about the kid. I heard his foot steps coming up the stairs quickly.

“In here Brian! I’m showing this nice lady our home. Would you like to say hi?”

Brian came into the room led by a huge German Shepherd. It was wearing a harness and the boy was holding onto the lead. Blind. The kid was blind. He looked exactly like him though. It was freaky to see my own son’s twin stand before me. He looked to be around ten years old. My own Brian was nine, his older brother eleven. Busy, busy man. We married a very busy man. A very dead man who used to be busy anyhow.

As Laura spoke to her precious Brian I stared at the dog to keep my eyes from the photos of the two of them. They had travelled a lot. There shots of them on various yachts and mountains and holding beautiful wine glasses in beautiful restaurants. She was living the life I had wanted, she stole it all from me and he let her.

Brian was mumbling something about going to the neighbor’s to play and I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around how a blind kid was gonna play baseball, but whatever. Good luck Brian. I hope you have a nice aunty somewhere.

I slipped the gun from my pocket as Laura leaned over to fluff a pillow that didn’t need fluffing. I raised it slowly, my lips curling into a smile as I did so.

She froze in place. She didn’t say a word as I picked up the framed wedding photo. “He was mine first.”

“I know.”

“You know? How long have you known?”

“About a year. I divorced him. You can have him. I haven’t even seen him in two months.”

“He’s dead. I killed him.”

She nodded and in her crispy voice replied, “I’m glad. I am. Thank you. Did you know we divorced or did you think we were still married?”

“Why do you have these photos still up then?”

“They remind me we were happy once. If you put that gun down and leave my house I won’t call the cops. You could just go.”

“Do you honestly think that a divorce matters? A fucking piece of paper? He loved you more! Do you have any idea what that was like? How many birthdays and holidays and school plays he skipped to be with you? His west coast whore?!”

“I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know and when I found out, I left him! I promise!”

Fucking begging was only going to get worse. The sound of the gun seemed like a movie sound effect. The damage it did didn’t match its tiny wizzing. Laura crumpled to the floor, the perfect white carpet was turning a brilliant shade of crimson. As I walked slowly out the front door, I saw Brian outside watching the boys play ball. His guide dog gazed at me with a cold stare I would come to remember so perfectly.

One down. Two more to go.

Dad

2011-06-19T06:11:00.000-07:00

I remember being four or five and afraid of the dark. I’m sure I incessantly called my dad into my room every three minutes for various requests and being the sort of guy he was, he would bring me my glasses of milk or adjust the door just so. Eventually though, likely out of desperation for some peace and quiet, he would do something I don't think many fathers would do. He didn't yell, my father never yelled. He didn't threaten either. He didn't do that ever. What he did do was slide a Jim Reeve’s album out of its cardboard sleeve and place it on the turn table. Ha! That was my cue.

I would clamber over the side of my bunk bed and stand on the top step of my ladder. He would lift me up hold me in his arms and as the music started, he would begin to spin me slowly in a circle. We would dance that way in my tiny room, the crackling of the album in my ear and the worn cotton of his work shirt against my cheek. After a verse or two, my dad would sing along with Jim Reeves. I remember his voice sounding exactly like the one from the record. It was deep and smooth and it was the most beautiful thing I ever heard.

He would spin slowly around and around. I would catch a glimpse of us in the mirror over my dresser, him in his olive green shirt and navy blue pants and stocking feet and me in my Holly Hobby flannel nightgown and bare feet dangling. His cigarette pack in his shirt front pocket being smashed by my chest. After a few songs he would pull away and ask, “All set for bed now?” With my nod, he would lift me with his superhuman daddy strength, airplane sound effects and everything, up over the bar of my top bunk and pull my blanket over my shoulders.

He never said no to my request of a late night song and dance. I’m sure he was exhausted and there were many nights the recliner was especially difficult to leave behind. But he danced away my fears and made me feel like the only person in the entire world that mattered while he sang to me.

As he pulled my door partly closed he would usually leave me with his nightly, “Good night Squirt. Love you.” As I drifted off to sleep I felt completely loved and completely safe.

For those moments and for countless others, thank you Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Scaredy Cat

2011-06-08T06:48:00.000-07:00

Its early and I'm still sipping on my morning coffee so please excuse the laziness. I can't remember who said it, but someone smarter than me said "Do what scares you." Or some sort of thing that sorta sounds like that.

I took this advice. Actually, I'm taking it twice. No, wait... three times. And I have to say that it sounds really great when you read it from a bumper sticker. Its entirely different when you actually do it. If I wasn't scared, I'd be stupid. At least that's what they said on Game of Thrones this past week (Theon to Robb, in the tent as they prepared to go to war to fight for Ned Stark. Obsessed? Me? A little.)

1. Public speaking: I am performing a wedding on Saturday. For people I don't know. I am terrified of one thing only: crying. I'm a mushball and if I start crying during the ceremony I will feel like the biggest loser in the world. I don't know these people!!!

2. Dance class: I am signing up for ballet lessons for the summer with my daughters. Normally this would be awesome and fun, but the thing is, I'm terrified. I get to see just how far this body has fallen from where it was. Its easy to fool yourself into thinking you're just a bit chunky from the recliner. You put tights on and things get real, real fast. Also, my mind knows what to do. It knows all the places your arms and shoulders and hips and knees and feet are supposed to do. I'm wondering what's going to happen when old habit tries to kick in and my body just falls to tiny pieces all over the floor. This is gonna hurt.

3. Promotion: I was recently promoted to Telecommunications Supervisor. My new gig starts Monday. And after all these years of having all the answers, knowing how to fix it and making sure everyone around me knew I had these solutions, I get to actually put my money where my mouth is.

Doing what you fear makes you want to cry, quit, cancel, bury your head under a pillow. I have wanted to chicken out of the wedding at least 100 times but now its way too close. My procrastination has forced me to do this.

Seriously though, if I cry at this wedding do you have any idea how horrible that will be? Its one thing to sniffle at your best friends' secret wedding in Stanley Park, but its entirely different to stand in front of 200 people and cry over strangers getting hitched. They're lovely people and they have an adorable little boy with these blond curls that make you giggle in your head. If I ruin their moment with my own sappy bologna I will never forgive myself.

Special Sucks

2011-06-01T05:19:00.000-07:00

On June 2, 2011 The Main Street Writers will be performing public readings of selected short stories, poetry, or any other creative writing they choose. The reading is a fundraiser for Food for Thought Books in Amherst, MA. For more information, you can about it here. Below is what I'll be reading: a revised, re-worked piece I first wrote last fall.

~~~~~~~~~

I lean forward, straining against my seat belt to catch a glimpse of my newly minted kindergartener . His school bus ambles along slow-paced and ponderous in front of my mud-streaked, impatient station wagon. With my Mother Vision I can see straight through the rows of seats, lasering through the backpacks and expeditious bodies of the bustling children. I see straight through the masses and light upon his perfect little face, his cherub’s mouth and puppy dog brown eyes. Ah! Those eyes… filled with uncertainty and expectation and things I haven’t remembered to worry about in decades. I can’t help but be scared for him. In my own fearless imagination, I am flinging open my car door and sprinting heroically toward the bus, I am slamming through its folding doors with a karate kick. I am not unlike a modern day Calamity Jane come to save the innocent, special boy from a fearful future. I can feel my aching arms reaching down to scoop him up, I can feel his whole forty-five pounds curl against my body as I carry him home. It’s a selfish dream though. Boys do not stay boys and the world is not built to shelter even the special ones. I shake off my protective instincts and place them in a back pocket. I save them for future use. In the Way Back of my mind I can’t help but wonder if he will ever be just a regular little boy whose toughest day includes homework left undone or choking back green beans to get to the pudding. Too much pressure on “special”, I decide; I would be very happy with average.

The sounds I see reverberating off the bus windows, the hollers and screeches of the other children; they do not make my boy smile. He does not answer their incessant demands for attention. Today, he doesn't want to be invited to play, to share, to jump and yell. Not today, maybe tomorrow, but maybe not. Maybe in a moment until the chance passes, but then again, maybe not. My boy wants his space, his peace and his toys. He wants his red race car with the yellow flames down the side. They must have “Hotwheels” engraved in the silver bottom because “Matchbox” isn’t his favorite. He can’t read these words, but he knows them by sight and logo. He wants to zoom his cars along the old gold shag carpet of our cozy living room with his tinier than average fingers gently resting on their roofs; just him and his metal best friends in his raceway-world.

Special is over-rated. Special didn’t help when I was carrying my screaming three year-old over a shoulder out the grocery store sliding doors. The abandoned shopping cart left nearly full in the freezer section filled with organic, food coloring free, gluten free, casein free food- the foods that took me months to discover, whose labels had all been read and studied and committed to memory. The food that would take forever to pass off as delicious, that promised so much and delivered so little would be abandoned again for the insulation of our silent, predictable, safe car.

Special is hard. Special gets me scorns and head shakes, and the worst of them all, eye rolls and conspiratorial single eyebrow raises between strangers who should know better. Educated women who drop their loose change into the Awareness Canisters, these Other Mothers who are brought to tears by the stories on NPR or Oprah but can’t be bothered to acknowledge the truth of the disorder as its screaming through the aisles of Trader Joe’s. The “if only” crowd. For the next ten minutes all of their thoughts will begin with “If only she….” Indeed, if only you.

Special means appointments, prescriptions that don’t work, wait lists, specialists and therapists. It means special diets that cost more than rent, it means charts, scale ratings, questionnaires and graphs and educational plans. It means late nights scouring the internet for answers and weighing the risks and challenging the chances. It means staring at a sleeping boy in the middle of the night trying to fit together a magical puzzle that has no solution and makes no final picture. Sometimes I put it all aside, put it all down and ignore it completely. Sometimes special boys just need to be boys. One day I piled up all the mail, the non-profit packets, the applications, the plans and notes and ideas and the program brochures and I filled the recycling bin. It sat over-flowing on the curb for two days before they were all taken away. I sometimes wished I had used them for a bonfire instead. The warmth would have provided solace and the flames some proof that cause and effect were still in the world.

The bus makes an achingly slow right turn to my station wagon's efficient left; we halve our tiny caravan and take roads often travelled. I accelerate and catch up to a crispy clean Volvo. It is wearing the small puzzle piece sticker on its sunlit bumper. I stare at the purple parasite latched onto the spotless car and wonder if the driver has a special boy too. I wonder if perhaps she snatched it up from a convenience store counter because it was free, because it would make her look erudite without any actual effort or learning required.

Our two cars approach a stop sign, I close my eyes and breathe through the powerful urge to slam down onto the gas pedal and smash into the iconic logo. My boy is more than a corporate logo, more than a fad or a cause of the week. He is more than her bumper sticker emotion. As I make my solo right turn toward my waiting desk and tiny office, I peer into the rear view mirror and secretly hate the Volvo and it’s perfectly coiffed driver. The immature emotion offers my aimless anger a temporary target. I make the feeble attempt to push away my fleeting, politically incorrect, completely un-heroic and unwanted honest belief that right now, special sucks. It didn’t yesterday, maybe it will tomorrow, but maybe not. Maybe in a moment until the emotion passes, but then again, maybe not.

Words

2011-05-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

The power of the spoken word or the mighty slash of the pen, words carry meaning and weight beyond their meager intentions. In moments of unadulterated joy or unspeakable grief, they can soothe and calm the troubled spirit or bring a depth of meaning to the moment.

When I was a girl, I knew I loved books and stories. There is a timeless need for tale-telling and folklore. For some of us, the need dissipates over time, but for the rest of us, a good book is as necessary as sunlight and oxygen. I understood from a young age that a simple flick of the wrist and turning of a page could take me away from my present and into a world where anything was possible. My mother would take me on Saturday afternoons to a little bookstore next to Zayre's in Chicopee and there we would browse the shelves for hours or sometimes just a few moments. We would leave with our white paper bags in hand, a tiny world hiding in between the pages, ready to be discovered.

I have witnessed, as you surely have as well, the power of angry words or words misunderstood or mis-used. Words tossed from the corner of a mouth or dug from a place deep within one's soul, they all have a lasting effect. Too often, its the thoughtless ones we remember rather than the ones hardest to say or hear. I have had the great experience of seeing heads nodding and weepy smiles of family members who understood what I wrote completely and known that in that tiny moment, I got something right. I also know that every time I sit at a desk and tap out whatever comes to mind, I'm usually writing for them. Every writer writes for someone. For me, its my parents, my brothers and sisters, my children and my Aaron. I am always surprised when someone outside the circle mentions my writing. In my mind I'm thinking, "Oh! Jane! You got that too! You read my stuff?!" It never ceases to amaze me.

I wish I knew twenty years ago what I know now. That for me, there is no other way of being in the world than to be a writer. I wonder if I knew, if my life would have taken a different path? I lacked confidence as a teenager, but I like to think that if I knew I could it, I would have taken the chance. Who really knows though? And besides, life is pretty damn terrific just the way it is.

This blog was an outlet for me for the past five years and I kidded myself into thinking I had to break away. What I needed was to focus. To figure out what should be here and what shouldn't. What you will find here are words. I know photos sell and bring about page hits, but I'm no photographer. And I never really cared about page hits anyhow.

I won't post as often as I used to. The new iteration of this page will be more about stories and words and ideas and poetry than it will be about my personal life. I hope you enjoy the new Growing Up Granby and that you find something of yourself in the stories that I hope to tell.

Thank you for visiting,

Jennifer

Building

2011-05-10T05:06:00.000-07:00

Slowly building it back... more to come!

Day 6

2011-05-05T10:35:00.000-07:00

A picture of a person I would like to trade places with for one day:


Brad Pitt

Day 5

2011-05-05T10:32:00.000-07:00

A picture of my favorite memory. This is a trick. Why? Because the best memories usually happen when a camera isn't around. Also, memories tend to happen in a group don't they? For example, most of my childhood is a favorite memory. You can't really take a picture of that. I see that the flaw though is that I'm using the work "picture." Maybe what I should be doing is writing this stuff instead of choosing from available photos?

I think that's what I'm gonna do. A story then:

When I was fifteen, I went on a trip with my friend Marcy. She lived on a horse farm and invited me to go on the Vermont Cross State Trail Ride. Essentially you ride approximately a hundred miles in five days through the Green Mountains of Vermont. On this, my first trip, I rode Joey. Joey was a pony. The only pony out of three hundred horses. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Add to this my lack of formal riding lessons and that I wasn't a true "horse person" and you have someone who had a hell of a lot to prove.I was also very short and very skinny with very long black hair. I was a ballet dancer. Yep, if I had a neon sign over my head I wouldn't have stuck out more.

We arrived on a Monday to find that it had been raining in Vermont for about a month. The rain would continue through to Friday when we would be packing up to go home. Imagine with me for a moment what that might look like. Three hundred horses and weeks of rain equals the most amount of mud I have ever seen in my entire life. It looked like some sort of disaster movie was being filmed at our base camp. Tractors were pulling the horse trailers and trucks out of the camp for all the whimps would decided to pack it in early. We were not one of them. We rode on.

At the end of the first day, I had been on Joey's back for about nine hours. If you have never ridden a horse before I can only suggest that you go try it for ten minutes. The next day when your legs, ass and back are achy you can imagine what nine hours might feel like. I had done a lot of riding before this trip to get Joey and I in good shape but the thing is, you just can't really prepare for this. It was insane. We were riding through mountains and trails and dirt roads and rivers and people's backyards. At one point the path opened up and there we were, hundreds of riders suddenly in the center of a small town. People were running out of their houses to take pictures of us, children were chasing us. Some were offering us water or beer or whiskey (gotta lover Vermonters!). The enormity of what we were doing hit me then. I looked around and as far as I could see in front and behind me were horses. The sound of 1200 hooves on pavement was deafening.

After the first two days of the ride our attempts at being dry were abandoned. People were just damn soaked. Horses dry have a smell. Three hundred wet horses with riders who haven't bathed in a few days? Oh my gosh. We were the definition of stink. I can only say that the early June timing was a blessing. In the mountains it didn't really get hot and for that I was pretty damn thankful.

On day three we discovered a swimming hole. The teenagers had found each other and there was a small army of us. After dinner one night we decided to ride bareback to the hole and go for a swim. No one bothered with actual bridles either, we were bareback and using a halter and lead to get there. Normally I could do this. Joey had other ideas though. He had his maniacal idea that he should be allowed to rest. He didn't want to go to a watering hole. And he sure as hell didn't want to go with that horse over there, the white one? Yeah, apparently Joey and White Horse were on the outs. It took everything I had to get this little guy to the swimming hole. Getting back? Oh that was easy. So easy. All I had to do was get on and the little beast TOOK OFF RUNNING as fast as he his little legs could carry him. He took off running so fast that I was barely on his back. And he kept on running, right back to where he was tied. He was tied to a clothesline type of rigging that was approximately four feet off the ground. Lucky for me, this was the exact same distance from the ground as my neck.

I didn't hear the laughter until I stood up and started brushing the horse shit off my butt. Joey had knocked me off his back and I did this amazing backward flip landed square on my behind. He stood over me with this "Whatcha doin' down there?" sort of look on his face. Three hundred horse people were essentially staring and laughing at the newbie who just got thrown from a tiny pony.

By the end of the week, I was so exhausted and so sore I could do little other than sit and hang on. I walked into my house the morning after we'd returned - I hadn't yet showered. I stepped through the back door and was fully expecting my mother to greet me with open arms and to revel in my accomplishment: I SURVIVED! The door hadn't closed all the way when I heard, "What in God's name is that smell? Oh my God! Get in the shower and get that crap outside!" I was never so happy to hear those words.

The following year, I would have my revenge. I rode a horse. A real, live, grown horse. His name was Navajo Cheater. Cheater was the first horse Marcy had ever broke herself. I had known Cheater since he was a day old. At the time of our trip he was two or three years old. He was a purebred Appaloosa. He was beautiful. And he was an asshole.

For the entire week of our ride, Cheater never had four feet on the ground at the same time unless the moon was out and I was off his back. I was more seasoned as rider that year and better prepared to not look like a newbie jerk. Unfortunately, Cheater had another idea. Allow me to explain:

There is a mentality issue with some horses. Its what I like to call, "Me First Syndrome." Like the pretty blonde during high school, some horses just like to be first. Its like being Prom Queen to them or something. This isn't usually a big deal, but when you're number 213 in a line of 300, its a pretty difficult thing to deal with. Cheater had Me First Syndrome. In fact, if there was a Wikipedia article about this, it would be his photo that would be featured in the right-hand column. His front feet flying into the air and a sixteen year old girl with a look of feigned calm on her face would be standing in her stirrups. The caption would read, "Navajo Cheater, famed MFS sufferer, nearly killed several hundred riders in 1986 as he made his mark on the Vermont Cross State Trail Ride. He never had four feet on the ground in five days of riding. Several horses were wounded in his quest for firstdom."

Cheater coped with his Me First Syndrome by kicking, biting, bucking, rearing, spinning and attacking all 212 horses that were in front of him. For five days. It got so bad that at one point, I was asked to stay behind and ride way after everyone got a good head start. I spent an entire day out there in the mountains alone. It was the best/easiest day of the week. It was also pretty scary. Thing was, Cheater had been duped. He believed he was indeed first when really we were dead last.

At the last night's campfire I sat around on a bale of hay with the other ~~survivors~~ riders listening to the Riding Dumb Fucks (yes, a real name of an actual riding group of guys) play guitar and harmonica and sing old cowboy songs in their signature black hats and red bandanas around their necks. These were the guys who knew how to pack a twelve-pack of beer in their saddle bags, who every night raced at barrels and bare-back jumping. They weren't the life of the party, they were the party.

I was once again sore, exhausted and my hands were bandaged from holding Cheater back for most of the week. I wasn't defeated though and I was dry. My arms were sore in places I didn't know were part of the human anatomy, but I felt pretty good all things considered. I hadn't been tossed that week by a maniacal horse. I wasn't clothes-lined by a pony dead set on rest. A newly broke horse with a mental deficiency hadn't done me or anyone permanent damage. I never once let that horse get me off his back. In fact, my rear end stayed pretty firm in its seat and I'd handled that beast pretty damn good.

At the end of the night I was walking back to our campsite with my friend. She was busily chatting up a son of one of the RDFers and quickly turned to me and said, "Be back later!" I waved her away and kept heading toward my sleeping bag. One of the organizers and founding RDFer came trotting over to me . He stuck a hand out and said, "Nicely done kid. You rode that son of a bitch of a horse like you knew what you was doing. And you din't kill nobody."

"Uh, thanks." He was standing there smiling at me like he had done something wrong. I started to feel a bit weird about this confrontation and looked around to make sure there were other adults in my general vicinity.

"Well, anyway, if you come back next year, I would try to find a horse that uses all of his legs to move forward at the same time." He cracked up at his joke. I joined him and shook my head.

"Yeah, no kidding! He was a handful that's for sure." I turned to start back when he stopped me.

"Here, ah, Jenn is it? You, um, you earned this." And with that, he placed a black cowboy hat on my head, gave me a wink and walked away.

And that moment? That very moment? One of my favorite memories.

You might want to mark your calendars

2011-05-05T09:38:00.000-07:00

CLICK HERE FOR TWO VERY IMPORTANT DATES.

Party at my house October 22nd!!

Day 4

2011-05-03T11:26:00.000-07:00

A picture of my favorite night:

Hmmm... I think you don't get to see that.

;0)

Day 3

2011-05-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

A picture of the cast from my favorite show (I went with tv, but if I had a cast shot with me, this would be an All My Sons cast picture):

The Wire

Day 2 (late)

2011-05-02T07:54:00.000-07:00

Day 2 is supposed to be a picture of me and the person I've been closest to the longest. And so, I give you the very worst picture of us:

Dan and me

I was stage managing a show whose name I cannot even remember. This was in 2004 I think. And this is what I look like when I stage manage: a lesbian. Well done, Jenn.

So, my bestie is Dan. We met in college in 1997 and I thought he was a snob. He is, but I learned to love that about him! Anyhow, Dan was with me during the most difficult time in my life - my split with Ken in 2002. Since then, we've been through an awful lot together but the best of times were definitely when we were roomies in Westfield.

Also, he is going to kill me for posting this pic! LOL!

Bin Laden...

2011-05-02T07:49:00.000-07:00

Anyone else remember when the Taliban tried to give this dude to us in 2001 and Bush said, "Yeaaahhhhh, no thanks!"

Lest we forget.

Day 1

2011-04-30T06:45:00.000-07:00

Post a picture and 10 facts about yourself:

1. That 's me August 2009
2. I am the least photogenic person I know. Seriously. About 1 in 20 end up looking anything like me. I usually end up looking like a morbidly obese, 20 years older version of myself. You have to wait for a new moon, use Barbara Walter lighting and screens, stand on a chair and put sunglasses on me.
3. I am incredibly insecure about 90% of the time
4. I want to be a writer more than anything but, well, see number 5
5. I am undisciplined
6. I love everything about theatre
7. I am head over heels in love with Aaron. Still.
8. I often the idea of something more than that something's reality (chickens anyone?)
9. I am a Libertarian. Mostly.
10. I was once a Bible thumping, born again Christian. I'd rather not talk about it.

30 Day Challenge

2011-04-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

There is this Facebook thing called the 30 Day Challenge. Basically its centered around photos. FB creeps me out a bit and I am not sure I want to do this there, so I'm gonna re-tool it for the blog. Beside, my blog has been sorta in need of a shot in the arm lately. So, for the next 30 days I'm going to do:

A picture of yourself with 10 facts
A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest
A picture of the cast from your favorite show
A picture of your favorite night
A picture of your favorite memory
A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
A picture of your most treasured item
A picture that makes you laugh
A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
A picture of something you hate
A picture of something you love
A picture of your favorite band or artist
A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without
A picture of something you want to do before you die
A picture of someone who inspires you
A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
A picture of your biggest insecurity
A picture and a letter
A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
A picture of something you wish you could forget
A picture of something you wish you were better at
A picture of your favorite book
A picture of something you wish you could change
A picture of your favorite day
A picture of something that means a lot to you
A picture of yourself and a family member
A picture of something you're afraid of
A picture that can always make you smile
A picture of someone you miss

I want to go to there.

2011-04-27T04:28:00.000-07:00

A day-long writing retreat with Main Street Writers! I'll give anyone a $1 if they tell Aaron this would be a GREAT Mother's Day gift!! This is actually the first retreat in a whole series. The first location is a place called Temenos in Shutesbury. It looks absolutely wonderful!!

Comedy Defined

2011-04-20T12:22:00.000-07:00

"At the end of the day, comedy may be nothing more than a visitation to the book of dreams. The bedtime stories of all the crashes we walked away from. Comedy is proof that we survived the crash and laughter is just recognition that it left a mark."

~Stephen Tobolowsky
The Tobolowsky Files #37

The Journey - by Mary Oliver

2011-04-18T10:27:00.000-07:00

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.

~ Mary Oliver ~

Use Your Outdoor Voice

2011-04-18T05:21:00.000-07:00

Main Street Writers is having a series of day-long writing workshops throughout the Pioneer Valley. So cool! You can read more about it here.

Tobolowsky Files

2011-04-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

About two or three weeks ago I discovered a podcast. Now, I've tried podcasts in the past and they often run the risk of being completely boring, poorly planned, poorly executed, etc. And then Stephen Tobolowsky did an IAMA on reddit.com.

He mentioned his podcast on reddit and I was pretty fascinated with the guy already. I mean, he has been in hundreds of movies and television shows! How cool is that?

Turns out, his podcast isn't exactly focused on that stuff. Oh sure there are plenty of great stories and lots of good advice for the aspiring thespian. But the real story here is a life story. And one that finds ways of revealing truth and honesty and love and hardship in a such a way that it sneaks up on you and leaves you breathless. More often than not I find myself wiping the tears out of my eyes or laughing hysterically while waiting for a traffic light to turn green.

I can't get it quite right, but this review does a pretty darn good job. If you have the internet, download this podcast and listen to it in order (this is important!) right from iTunes. If you have a smartphone or mp3 player... download it and listen anywhere you like. Seriously, you will not be disappointed. And hey, its free!

Happy Birthday Pat

2011-04-12T09:40:00.000-07:00

The years, they roll on by
They take so much with them
And leave so little behind

Memorizing the laughter
Cementing the pictures in my mind
Telling the same stories years after

I know you didn't throw the first punch
I watched as Elvis hit the ground
Well, maybe you did, its just a hunch

I'm not so sure where to even begin
I won't let it all out
And I can't hold it all in

New pads, pedals and hand brakes
On your gleaming black and yellow bike
I wish you could have seen your face

Fighting time, battling a lazy memory
I think I remember the words
And what we found so damn funny

Convinced there were snakes
Swimming under our rubber raft
Drifting together on Little Squam Lake

I hold out hope, but I'm afraid
I can't bear to forget your laugh
Or the memories we made

Patrick's Mustang

2011-04-10T15:32:00.000-07:00

Today we finally got around to getting Pat's 1973 Mach I Mustang running again. Its been hibernating in my garage since he passed away. It was pretty awesome to see it moving again.

The Pale Blue Dot

2011-04-06T16:54:00.000-07:00

Autumn's Junior Prom

2011-04-03T15:05:00.000-07:00

Cast On (For Double Knitting)

2011-04-01T15:59:00.000-07:00

Old Pic

2011-04-01T08:46:00.000-07:00

A friend of our family emailed this today. Must be twenty years old! HA! This is from right to left: My brother Jim (aka The Golden Child), dad, mom and my biggest brother Mike. I think this might be a Christmas Eve shot.

You don't mess with "The Greek Seaman"

2011-03-31T11:42:00.000-07:00

There is a viral story that is tearing up the internets right now. The source is here.

A bit of homework: read the review and then see her response to it. And then her response to other people trying to say, "Ummmm... dude... your writing doesn't make sense."

At one point she even tells the reviewer and others to "Fuck off." Score!

You see, there is an underbelly in the self-publishing world. Essentially, any talentless asshole can bang out 300 pages and then throw money at it and call themselves an "author." No editing, no proofing, no agent, no publisher. Just you and Microsoft Word. With just a few thousand dollars you can get your story on Amazon and start selling your swill to the Kindle-owning crowd.

Thing is, people read this stuff And then they review it. Hence, a freak out by an unprofessional "writer" when she is called out for her terrible writing, poor grammar, and all out disregard for craft, education and uh, well, talent.

Before this thing went viral, her reviews on Amazon were all positive. Okay, so they were all from her family and friends but so what? Now though, there are some really good constructive reviews. (There are also some really mean ones and normally I would feel bad about that, but this woman is more than a little insane. And pretty mean. And unwilling to become a better writer. Or to listen to reason. All of these things does not make me want to feel pity for her.)

She completely disregards all constructive criticism and sticks to her "I write great!" mantra. Someone was coddled at home. Someone was never told "Almost, but not quite." Someone has money to throw at the things she wants and like Varuca Salt wants herself a nut-shelling squirrel and bitch don't take no for an answer! Its pretty funny stuff.

Point is, some of the reviews point out the need for her to either hire an editor or learn how, uh, write. Sentences like this:

"Katy detected in her mother in laws eyes her reading into something more with where they were really going together in life."

Wow. Imagine a whole book like that?

Here's the thing I want to take away from this:

There is hope for me!

You see, if this crazy lady can write a truly shitty book and then people buy it... I have the reason to hold onto hope for my own book.

Way to spin it or what?

Okay, okay...one more!

2011-03-30T09:19:00.000-07:00

I love reddit.com probably a bit too much. Anyhow, this product was linked in a comment and I thought would share the hilarity.

Read the reviews! They are awesome. Okay, now click on "customer images" and continue your gratuitous Wednesday giggle.

What kind of a...

2011-03-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

SERIOUSLY???

6 - 12 inches of freaking snow on Friday.

Ilovenewenglandilovenewengland....

No, really, I do. I swear.

The Story of a Pit Bull Puppy named Patrick

2011-03-30T08:05:00.000-07:00

There was a link posted on the Masslive.com Pets Forum about a puppy Pit Bull that was starved and then literally thrown out into the garbage. This happened on March 16th. The pup was still alive in the garbage bag and a maintenance man saw movement in the bag. Upon opening it, he discovered an emaciated and nearly dead puppy inside.

The pup has since been named Patrick and is slowly coming back to life. His story is here. I linked to the most recent photos of him, but if you are so inclined there are links along the side to see him when he was discovered. The oldest photos are very, very graphic - you've been warned.

These stories always beg the questions:

Is the risk of a fine and possible few weeks in jail really enough for these sick people?

If animal cruelty is a pre-cursor to violence/child abuse... shouldn't these people be placed in a database with social services?

There needs to be more done.

BluRay

2011-03-28T11:18:00.000-07:00

So, I got into a wee debate with Aaron a week or two ago concerning BluRay and whether old movies look better/different when re-released onto BluRay. He said "Nay - they weren't shot in HD so it matters not." Okay, so it wasn't so Old English-y but you get the idea.

I held out.

And I'm glad I did, because it turns out, we're both right.

You see, most old flicks (think Wizard of Oz) were shot on 35mm film. This film if converted properly actually looks pretty fantastic on BluRay. In fact, some digitally shot movies are at a disadvantage when it comes to being transferred to BlueRay compared to some pretty old flicks shot in good ole 35mm.

I found this site that has great screen shots that compare several formats of film. Turns out, the BluRay is just soooo pretty.

But I knew that already.

We bought a Playstation 3 a few months back and I gotta tell you, the BluRay flicks I've seen have been just stunning. We watched Inception and it was even more awesome than in the theater. Then my folks stopped over with Bambi and the restoration and conversion Disney did for its BluRay release are just gorgeous.

Wire Quote Day

2011-03-25T07:39:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Wire Quote Day on Twitter. Best damn television show ever.

Josh: Asshole Cat

2011-03-24T18:33:00.000-07:00

A little short story I wrote in group tonight.

Josh at 8 weeks

He's right there, right fricking there! He's just out of leaping reach. A robin poking for breakfast. Stupid bird. He doesn't see me at all. I have been crouching there for twenty minutes with only a twitch of my tail every few minutes to help keep my paws where they need to be. I have no idea why that works, I just know that it does. I know it the way I know that that damn Robin is going to be delicious.

Birds. They don't even walk. They hop. Maybe to people that seems like a quiet, birdlike thing to do, but I gotta tell ya.. its super loud to a feline. Not too mention what it feels like to that worm he's hunting. And I use that term loosely. Birds have no clue about hunting. No clue at all. Almost as bad at it as dogs. But that hopping is literally echoing through my eardrums.

Look, here's the thing. I don't like to brag. I really don't. Its just that my sense of hearing is matched only by my sense of balance and smell. I'm Josh by the way and according to the people inside that house about forty feet behind me, I'm about as cool a cat there is.

Idiot bird. He's still bopping around the worm hole. Dashing forward with his beak and trying to catch the end of that disgusting, rubbery tube of guts and stomachs. I mean, the worm can feel that bouncing and believe you me... he ain't hanging out waiting. Hey Mr. Robin! Moron! The slimeball is halfway to China by now!

Oh! Oh! Wait for it... his back is turned. Okay, okay, here goes!

LEAPING!!!

STRETCHING!!!

TACKLING!!!

Not Josh

Othay. Tho he got away. Thtupid theathers. Puh!

“Whatever dude! You have wings you know? Kinda hard to catch ya when you can just take off like that!” Show off.

God I hate Robins. They're actually not that delicious anyhow. Now Blue Jays? Blue Jays are fantastic! So succulent, so tender. I can't wait for the immigrating bastards come back. Yeah, Blue Jays man. Its all about the Jays.

Whoa! Did you see that?! There's a fricking cat! In my yard!

“Hey! You! Yeah you!”

Did you see that? He looked at me like, “Who me?” Who the hell else? You see any dogs out here? No! You know why? Because dogs are scared of me!

“Hey! What's up man? This is my yard!” You can't just let strange animals stroll around without sayin' something. I mean, it'd be, it'd be ANARCHY! Next thing you know, he'll be peeing on my stuff and then no one will know its my stuff. I hate that. You have any idea how much water I have to drink to pee on all this shit? Its a lot of work. There's like two acres of trees to pee on. Its a full time job I tell ya, what with the idiotic dogs and all.

I hate dogs. Except Clancy. He's cool. Well, actually he's warm and its pretty damn useful when the people turn the heat down to sixty at night in the dead of winter. Fur coat my ass, you need two to keep warm in that house! Cheap assholes.

“Hey! I said this is my yard! Get off my lawn!”

Maybe if I rush him? Yeah, that'll do it! I 'll just like run right up like this... and then swerve here around this tree, and, “DUDE! Get out!”

Why isn't he moving? Hey, what the... why the back arch? I don't want to fight. “Whoa, whoa, chill man. Chill. Let's not-” Oh crap. He's doing the side bounce. I can't let that go.

There, I side bounced you back! How you like me now Mr. Tough Maine Coon Kitty Witty! You want a piece of... Oh shit. He's coming back.

Frick! That hurts! “What the hell?! Not in the face, not in the face!”

There! Take that side swipe and how about I raise you a little ear chewing action? “You like that do ya? Do ya? Oh God! Is that, is that Advantix? Dude, you totally taste like neurotoxins! Oh man that's gross!”

The tree! I'll just, yeah, I'll jump right up here. And then bounce right.... back.... on YOUR FACE!! “Ow! Get off! Get off my head! Its biting me!! Its biting my head! Oh God the humanity!!”

“JOSH! Josh! Stop it and get inside this house! Asshole cat! Knock it off and leave that kitten alone! Oh my God, are you bleeding? Did that baby cat bite you Joshy?? Hey, girls.... there's a kitten out there, go get it and bring it in.”

Is that sardines I smell? Oh sardines are just the best. Oh yes, right here in my bowl. So simple, so civil. God I hate Robins. Its always their fault.

Also, that was no kitten. That thing was huge. Just sayin'.

One Lesson I Would Teach My Sons and Daughters:

2011-03-21T06:21:00.000-07:00

“Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”

~Shel Silverstein
Author of "The Giving Tree"

6

2011-03-21T05:11:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to wrap my brain around a few things this morning. I'm only about a quarter of the way through my coffee so the neurons aren't exactly firing at normal speed. I think I'll let the boys take over for a moment. Our morning conversations went thusly:

Me: Hey birthday boy!

Seth: Morning mom.

Me: How's it feel to be six?

Seth: I don't know I can't feel anything yet.

Me: Why not?

Seth: Mommy! Its too early to talk. Ask me later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About four minutes later... JP enters the bathroom while I'm in the shower:

JP: Morning mom!

Me: (from inside the shower - I slid the door open about two inches and peeked out) Morning Birthday Boy!

JP: (eyes wider now) I'm SIX?!

Me: Yup, you sure are! Pretty cool right?

JP: I'm not five any more?

Me: Not any more. As of right this very minute you are six.

JP: Mom! Am I awesome now that I'm six?

Me: You were already awesome.

JP: Yeah but now I'm HUGE and I'm almost a superhero!

Me: (grabbing him with soaking wet arms through the opening and hugging him) Come here superhero and kiss your mother!

~~~~~

The beauty of twins. If you don't get the desired reaction from one, there's always another to give it another shot.

2011-03-21T04:05:00.000-07:00

Uncle Tom

2011-03-17T04:24:00.000-07:00

The first Irish music I heard was at my Uncle Tom's house. Every year after the parade we would gather there... my father's family, The Currans. My dad's siblings: Aunty Peggy, Uncle Tom, Uncle Jerry and all of our cousins would gather in the living room and listen at the feet of our parents to stories many times told. We would watch them laughing and telling jokes and eventually, if the day went just right, and the sun had set and the beer had flowed long enough... they would sing. It would start with records: The Clancy Brothers, Tommy Makem, my Uncle Tom had them all. And there , the three brothers would sit up very straight and tall. They would start soft and take a cue from the other and eventually, they would meet up somewhere in the middle. Tom seemed to know the words the best, Jerry would harmonize and my dad would carry the tune a little better than the others (I might be partial though). They usually screwed up the lyrics and forgot which verse came next, but they sang on, committed to their merrymaking and their legacy. And we would listen, even if we had left the room and were almost out of ear shot... we would listen. And then we would wait every year for the ritual to repeat itself... for family to gather and be something we weren't really didn't get to be every other day of the year. Together.

On this St. Patrick's Day, my Uncle is going home. He is going to be with his wife who has been waiting for him. I have a feeling that the heavens will never be the same again. For surely this world is forever changed because of them. Changed in ways they likely never thought to imagine, in ways that will be carried on by their family and friends. So much left to say but the words seem powerless and ineffective. I think you really did just have to know them.

Fighting Back

2011-03-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

Bullied kid fights back. It isn't pretty and that little twerp likely had his ankle busted. But I'm thinking the kid getting picked on won't be bothered so much anymore.

One more warning: this isn't nice to watch.

But there is an element of poetic justice here.

Leprechaun Plunge 2011

2011-03-13T15:32:00.000-07:00

Today, we went to Brunelle's Marina in South Hadley and watched grown people fling themselves into the freezing water to raise money for Shriner's. Naturally, our friend Lisa P. took part!

I haven't posted recent pics of the boys, so here are two I took today.

Seth is slowly just morphing into his father's twin. Its insane!!

2011-03-13T15:28:00.000-07:00

This is our dear friend Lisa. She took the plunge today while we stood outside thanking the lord that we weren't in that water with her!!

This is another friend of ours who was one of the flew that actually walked out of the water sorta slowly. It was 38 degrees!

I don't know any of these people, but I love this shot.

Perspective

2011-03-09T11:35:00.000-08:00

Felt

2011-03-08T09:43:00.000-08:00

I know how you feel. In fact, I used to feel that same way but I found....

The oldest sales scam pitch in the book. Known as "Feel, Felt, Found." It uses empathy, alliteration and a little shmooze to get you all mushy and open to spending your cash. Car salesmen used to use this. And now I know why: It works.

I had a skein of sock yarn from Blue Moon Fiber Arts that was labeled "superwash." I'm not sure what happened, but it wasn't so super after it was washed. I had turned the skein into socks for me and then I, uh, I washed them. They felted. As in a perfect block of felt. After their washing, they were a little big for the boys (and pink) so I couldn't' hand them down. Too small for my daughters though. I couldn't bring myself to throw them out, so they sort of floated around my room for several months. Every now and then I would see them and shake my head at the shame of it. The yarn isn't cheap and the color was just awesome. Not too mention that socks, while super fun, are a bit of work.

Anyhow.. fast forward to this past Superbowl Sunday. Pre-game I went to Web's in search of a perfect yarn for a pair of worsted weight socks for Aaron. He was with me and he picked out Plymouth Select Merino Superwash in Olive. (As a side note... this yarn is a dream to knit with!!! Love, love, love!) Anyhow, as we walked over to the counter to check out I asked the sales lady if she had tried to actually wash this stuff. I told her the horror story of my BMF socks and she suggested I email them and see if I couldn't get a replacement skein. She then suggested that we never use the dryer for pure wool socks, superwash or no. Noted.

So I did. I sent an email to the company and very politely explained what happened and how bummed out I was. I shmoozed. I admit it. But hey, at $22 a pop... I want my damn socks to last more than two wearings.

About a week later I received an email back. It was a little Feel, Felt, Found but you know what? Totally worked. I got me a little skein of this stuff coming to me!

I won't wash this one in a machine or let it ever see the inside of a dryer. And I'm thinking scarf anyhow. Or shawl. Or wrap. That color is just too damn pretty to put on your feet.

2011-02-25T09:06:00.000-08:00

Merrill Auto

2011-02-24T06:46:00.000-08:00

It must be a new year because we just bought a car. Its like a new tradition or something and I have to say, this time it was almost fun. In our desperate search for a minivan on a very, very tiny cash budget (read - no payments) and a search that had a countdown in accordance to the functionality of our 1995 Buick things got hectic quick.

I was told about Merrill Auto by a fellow townie. Merrill Auto is owned and operated by Doug Merrill of Dressel's Service Station fame. I honestly wasn't sure if Doug would be able to help us out on such a short notice and with a budget of a whopping $4000. I sent him a message and thought I would give it a shot. Doug emailed me within 24 hours and included a whole report of the minivans that had sold at auction the previous three weeks and how much they sold for. This helped establish expectations. He was direct and up front about the various costs that would have to figure into those prices so we had a very realistic idea about what we might be getting.

Car auctions happen on Wednesdays, so Tuesday evening I received a follow up email from Doug making sure we were still in and on the same page. We were. In the previous week I had continued my own search on Craigslist.com and had found a possible backup in case things didn't go well at the auction. I wouldn't have bothered with this if we weren't in a rush, but as it was the Buick* was barely making the trip to work and back for Aaron. As it was, we were on a serious time crunch. For a family of six with the two bread winners working opposite shifts, two cars are an absolute necessity.

The day of the auction was actually really, really fun. Doug was sending me photos, Car Fax reports, he test drove the vans and checked them out totally. If one looked pretty good and I agreed, he bid on it. It was like a roller coaster! I would get his call, then text Aaron or forward the photos to him. Then the bidding would start and we would wait for the call about how it went. At one point Doug stopped bidding because the value of the van was less than the costs. He was absolutely committed to finding us the right van at the best price possible. It was fantastic.

After a few hours of being beaten back by bigger budgets, it was a bust. Doug was certain that in another week we would probably find something but this time around we just couldn't wait. So what did Doug do? He got us a Car Fax on another van that I had found at another dealer! It was awesome.

All of this to say that if you're in the market for a car and you have cash on hand.. Merrill Auto is absolutely the way to go. Its like having a personal mechanic do your car shopping for you while you sit at home or at work. Totally cool. And the fact that his family has owned and operated one of the most reputable car repair shops for almost 50 years is just another bonus point. It was such a great experience. Next year with more time and more cash on hand the first person I'm contacting is Doug.

*On a side note - the Buick overheard our conversations about buying a van. Wednesday Sadonne died after 16 years of dedicated service (2 with us). His failing brakes, fuel leak, destroyed exhaust system, broken window, failed transmission and various other issues were the main causes of death. He will be remembered well.

Never good news

2011-02-23T10:52:00.000-08:00

A quick conversation upon informing Aaron of a happy pregnancy:

Me: Did you hear xxx is pregnant?!

Aaron: Ohhhh maaaaannnn.

Me: Its just never good news for you is it?

Because My Dad Said So

2011-02-23T10:12:00.000-08:00

The topic of bullying is being discussed in an online group (where isn't it?) for parents of children with developmental delays/austism. This is my take on the topic. It will likely piss some people off. I'm okay with that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bullying is the new catch phrase. Its the new "awareness" band wagon and its been on the front pages for a while. I'm nothing if not cutting edge (insert giggle here).

It seems the focus on what to do about it is divided up between keeping things "nice," saving the bully and sheilding the bullied. I'm not sure we can do all three at the same time. And honestly, I'm not sure that we should try. I come down on a different side of the topic though. You see, I have a little guy with special needs. His social skills aren't like other kids, he is small and he learns differently than others. This makes him a future prime target for bullies. There is a pecking order out there on the playgrounds and in the classrooms and as his mom I need to face that. I have a few options when and if the need arises. I can watch for the signs and talk with teachers - and I will do that. But I'm also going to do what my father did: I am going to teach my son how to land a fair punch dead in the nose.

My dad believed that everyone should be able to defend themselves. Not start a fight, but finish one. He taught his daughters as well as his sons that the quickest way to fight back was to curl up a fist and aim for the nose. He said it was so painful it would drop the other guy to his knees instantly. And kids are afraid of blood, so if the nose bleeds then everyone who sees what you did will back off too.

I was seven when he taught me that. He also told me that if I needed to use this trick as self defense he would back me up but I should never hit without it being a last resort. He said I should be scared when I do it. In fact, I should be terrified that if I didn't do it, it would be me bleeding. He said it was okay to be frightened but it wasn't okay to get your arse beat. He'd bend right over and look at me in the eyes and in that Father Voice say, "Don't let anyone hit you ever. You got that? They get one hit and then you end it. YOU. You end it. And then you run like hell." He would laugh at that last part which made it all seem like it would be okay if I had to do that. That if he could laugh at it, then I could survive it. Considering that my father seemed like he could kick He-Man's ass, I listened closely.

I was ten when I used Dad's lesson. There was a boy on my bus who teased me incessantly. It was horrible. I was terrified and I was small and I was quiet. One day, he was really hammering away at me. I warned him twice, "If you don't knock it off I'm going to hit you!" I figured if I warned him then I was clearly in the right. So when he didn't stop, I slowly curled my hand in a puny fist. I don't remember actually deciding to swing, but the next thing I knew he was looking very, very surprised. It felt like I hit him hard but there was so little blood I obviously didn't break his nose. I sat back in my seat and I said, "I warned you. Now leave me alone." He flipped around in his seat and I heard him cry. I was so angry I couldn't feel sorry about it.

The bus driver pulled the bus to the side of the road. She got up out of her seat and walked back to where the boy was sitting. A few of the kids had started clapping and sort of pointing at my bully. Looking back as a parent, I feel pretty bad for the kid. Obviously there were issues at home, obviously this was a kid who needed help. But I needed help too and I took it upon myself to end the violence aimed at me. I calmly explained to the bus driver exactly what had happened and what I did. She turned to the boy and said, "Well, now you'll leave her alone won't you?" And that was that. No parental involvement, no one got in trouble, no drama, no police, no therapists or meetings. No hand wringing and no tip toeing. No laws were passed and no special committees were formed.

He never teased me again. Not only did he have an immediate negative (and painful) response to his bad behavior, but something else happened. I suddenly had a bit of self-confidence that I didn't have before. I knew that if I could smack this dude and end the problem, I could do it again if I had to. Word spread that I'd hit a boy and other little problems with kids seemed to fall away. I raised my hand a little more in class, I did better on tests and I would walk in the woods alone. The confidence building was a side-effect I was too young to really understand but as an adult I can look back and see it.

Interestingly, I know this boy now. I know him as an adult and we laugh about this incident. He says he never teased anyone after that, that he learned to respect people and that if he acted like an asshole he would probably get sucker punched for it. He's a dad and he's a good one, too.

Parents believe that they have all the answers so surely they can handle this too. But aren't we robbing these kids of that self-empowerment in exchange for politically-correct passivism? Do we really think that its okay to have a child terrorized while we teach them how to "cope" with being bullied? You don't cope with this, you END it. And that ending, if at all possible, should come from the victim. Yes! It's hitting! Its a little violent. And its totally against the grain of this common nicey-nice bullshit that school administrators, law enforcement and local officials are cramming down our throats.

I say, don't go to a teacher. Go to karate.

It isn't up to a ten year old to see that his or her bully gets therapy. Children are hanging themselves out of a feeling of helplessness and outright fear of the tyrants they face at school. The tragedy is more than the loss of their lives, its the loss of their hope that things can never and will never get better. That they can't fix it. That no one can fix it. This is a lie. Children are powerless in so many ways. This is the one place where they actually hold all the power. Its right there at the end of their arms, they just need our okay to use it when nothing else is working.

After the bleeding stops, maybe this would be the perfect moment for a teacher to open a dialogue about what's really going on.

.

2011-02-18T05:28:00.000-08:00

2011-02-17T07:29:00.000-08:00

A small win

2011-02-16T06:30:00.000-08:00

I entered a national writing contest last fall. It was with WOW! Women on Writing. And I found out about ten minutes ago that I won Honorable Mention. Very neat.

Here is a revision of what I submitted:

Special Sucks

Jennifer Curran

February 2011

The mother leans forward, straining against her seatbelt to catch a glimpse of her little boy’s face. Slow paced and rambling along, his school bus chugs along in front of her mud streaked and weary station wagon. With her Mother Vision, she can see through the rows of seats, through the backpacks and bodies of the bustling children that he is wearing a mask of uncertainty on his face. She can’t help but be scared for him. She imagines herself sprinting heroically out of her car and slamming through the folding doors of the bus like a modern day Calamity Jane. She can feel her aching arms reaching down to scoop him up and carry him home. It’s a selfish dream. Boys do not stay boys and the world is not built to shelter even the special ones. She shakes off her protective instincts and saves them for future use. Somewhere in the way back of her mind she wonders if he will ever be just a regular little boy whose toughest day includes homework left undone or choking back green beans to get to the pudding. Too much pressure on special, she would be very happy with average.

The sounds she sees reverberating off the bus windows, the hollers and screeches of the other children, do not make her boy smile. He does not answer their incessant demands for attention. Today, he doesn't want to be invited to play, to share, to jump and yell. Not today, maybe tomorrow, but maybe not. Maybe in a moment until the chance passes, but then again, maybe not. Her boy wants his space, his peace and his toys. He wants his red race car with the yellow flames down the side. It must have “Hotwheels” engraved in the silver bottom because “Matchbox” isn’t his favorite. He can’t read those words, but he knows them by sight. He wants to zoom his cars along the old gold shag carpet of their humble living room with his tinier than average fingers gently resting on their roofs; just him and his metal best friends in his raceway-world.

Her little boy sits far away from the bus aisle and a safe distance from the busting-at-the-seams boys, the girl that grabs everything that doesn’t belong to her and the drill-sergeant driver. She can picture his perfectly shaped nose pressing against the glass as he peers out at the farms rolling by. The mother wonders if he is looking for the magnificent white horses in the falling down brown barn they like to wave too. She thinks maybe he is listening for the dulcet sound of the hoof beats they each cherish. She wonders if he loves them because she loves them and if he feels defeated because their sounds will not penetrate the volume of the school bus riders. Does he instead imagine the sound of their horsey neighs and whinnies? Is he wondering what it would be like to sit on the back of the horse with the black spots and grey tail? Does he wonder what it would be like to let one run as fast he pleases, to lean forward and into the wind and see the world framed by triangle ears? She reminds herself to call the place, the organization, the non-profit, the one that has riding lessons for boys like him. Special boys special like him.

Special is over-rated. Special doesn't help when the mother is carrying her screaming five year old boy over her shoulder out the grocery store sliding doors. The abandoned shopping cart left nearly full with organic, food coloring free, all natural, gluten free, casein free food; the foods that took her months to discover, whose labels have all been read and studied and remembered. The food that will take forever to pass off as delicious are abandoned for the insulation of her beaten down car.

Special is hard. Special gets her scorns and head shakes, and the worst of them all, patronizing smiles from strangers who should know better. Educated strangers who drop their loose change into the Awareness Canisters that are the quickest to judge and remind themselves that they would handle things differently, they could do it better. The enlightened elitists carrying their reusable bags under their arms who are brought to tears when hearing about the epidemic on NPR but can’t be bothered to acknowledge its truth as it’s screaming down the aisles in Target.

The mother wants to join him in his rage in those moments of raw and beautiful and honest emotion. She imagines the release it would provide her and in a desperate plea with her nerves she sucks in her breath and blows it out. Blindfolds in place, she n longer sees or hears the disapproval surrounding her. She crouches down in front of her special boy and focuses her attention on the miniscule chance that he will be able to settle and transition to the suddenness of this change in routine. Her boy shields his eyes from the fluorescent glare bouncing back at him from the hard tile of the floor and the sheen of plastic wrappings. He focuses on nothing, his eyes wander the store aisles filled with toys he cannot have and all the things she wishes he would know how to play with.

Special means appointments, prescriptions, wait lists and therapists. It means special diets that cost more than rent, it means charts, scale ratings, questionnaires and graphs and educational plans. It means late nights scouring the internet for answers and weighing the risks and challenging the chances. Sometimes she puts it all aside, puts it all down and ignores it completely. Sometimes special boys just need to be boys. One day she piled up all the mail and the program brochures and filled her recycling bin. It sat on the curb for two days before they were taken away. She sometimes wished she had used them for a bonfire instead.

The bus makes a right turn to her station wagon's left; they halve their tiny caravan and take the roads often travelled. The mother catches up to a crispy clean Volvo. It is wearing the small puzzle piece sticker on its sunlit bumper. She stares at the purple parasite latched onto the spotless car and wonders if the driver has a special boy too. She wonders if perhaps the driver snatched it up from a convenience store counter because it was free, because it makes her look erudite without any actual effort or learning required.

At the stop sign the two cars approach, the mother closes her eyes for a moment and breathes through the urge to slam down onto the gas pedal and smash into the iconic logo. She wants to make sure the driver knows her boy is more than a logo, more than a fad or a cause. He is more than a bumper sticker emotion. As the mother makes her solo right turn toward her waiting desk and tiny office, she peers into the rearview mirror and secretly hates the Volvo and its driver. The immature emotion offers her aimless anger a temporary target. She pushes away her politically incorrect, completely un-heroic and unwanted honest belief: Special sucks.

Pipe Cleaner Roses

2011-02-14T07:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, there was talk all over FaceBook by frustrated young men (friends of my daughters) concerning Valentine's Day. They seem to think, or their girlfriends would have them believe, that an expensive gift and a dinner is a requisite for a happy evening. I shake my head and try to resist the temptation to set them straight. I tried. I failed.

~~~

Its impossible to explain to someone under 25 that a made-up holiday marketed this heavily means nothing.

Let me re-phrase that: It means nothing if every other day of the year you don't *want* to do the things the holiday is supposed to include. It means nothing if its about the gift and not the time. It means nothing if it has to come with sparkle to get the spark. The two have nothing to do with one another. If I had as much sparkle as I do spark, Elizabeth Taylor would be envious of the vault in my house.

On my windowsill in my kitchen there is a small hand-made vase. Autumn made it. It holds these pipe-cleaner roses Aaron made for me a couple years ago. As I stand at the kitchen sink I have a spectacular view outside the window. Winter in Granby is nothing if not completely breathtakingly beautiful. But I usually let my eyes settle on the fuzzy little flowers, bending their wiry faces toward me. They're my favorite flowers. Whenever someone asks me what my favorite flower is, I am always tempted to say "pipe cleaner." I don't remember if he made them around a holiday or not. Probably not. He probably just made them for the silliness of it, which means I love them even more.

Holidays don't define a relationship. They shouldn't mean a forced night out, a silent dinner at a restaurant with two people who don't look at each other anymore. What defines a happy home is the ability to make a few hours of video games the most fun thing you've done in a long time. Its walking through a messy house with a smile on your face for no particular reason. Its waking up just long enough to hear the front door close when he comes home from work. Its card games on a Sunday afternoon, a glass of wine on a Tuesday evening and holding hands driving to Target. Its knowing that there is no one else on this planet you would rather have smile back at you.

The knowing is important. When its real and true and honest, there are no second guesses or doubts or what ifs. It takes on a life of its own and in the middle of chaos or difficulty, its there to cradle you both. It softens the blows, it makes the impossible possible and against all odds, it makes a family greater than the sum of its parts. No matter how tough 2011 started, this day means one thing to me. At least I have him to come home to. No matter how bad I screw things up, I got this one thing right. And maybe, just maybe, in the years to come, my kids will be ahead of the game because their mom got this part right.

The Very True Story of the Scar on my Elbow

2011-02-10T08:19:00.000-08:00

I have no life right now. Essentially its Alaska outside and apparently even Mother Nature is so sick of snow she's decided to start throwing ice at Western Massachusetts. I'm not sure what she has against us, but we did something very, very bad to her. Here's what is happening in my life:

1. Not a God damn thing

Right, so that's hard to blog. I thought maybe I'd tell you a story. A true one, too. If you know me (and let's face it... most of you know me) then you probably know this story. And so, I'm sorry mom and sister Kathy. If you want other funny stories instead of this same old, same old... I point you here.

~~~~~

Let's travel back then shall we? All the way to June 2001. I graduated from Westfield State in May and in celebration of that difficult task (you can laugh, its okay) my then-husband Ken decided to take me to New Orleans to celebrate.

Now, let me explain a bit here. Our life then was mostly impoverished, so this trip was 4 days long and on a very, very tight budget. So tight in fact, that we had to go during "the rainy season." During this time of year travelers get to stay at $300 per night hotels for $49!! Wow!!

The issue wasn't our necessary frugality. It was our point of reference. You see, the rainy season in Massachusetts involves rain for a few days followed up with sunshine to dry the puddles. It works out rather nicely and while being forced to stay inside cleaning, its warm enough to keep the windows open. Quite lovely in fact. We knew that New Orleans was situated along the banks of the Mississippi (I still can't spell that without singing the song), but this was also way before Hurricane Katrina. The fear of crazy flooding simply was not on our radar.

We hop onto the plane and take our $79 round-trip seats (that was a total score). We are sans children for a very rare weekend getaway. To say we were mildly giddy is an understatement. The thing with Ken and I was, no matter the state of our marriage, we really did have a lot of fun together.

Upon arriving in New Orleans we are treated to jazz music immediately. There are musicians, singers and tap dancing (I use that term loosely) kids right in the airport. I'm beyond excited. I am here for a simple reason: Anne Rice. This is my pilgrimage, my mecca, my place of worship where I can finally see her muse in person.

We find a taxi and get a great cab driver/tour guide. He talks all the way from the airport to the French Quarter. We understood enough to laugh when appropriate. I have a difficult time with accents - I always end up listening to the sound of the words rather than the words themselves. I find them beautiful and for me, its like hearing a song for the first time. I get the chorus because its repeated, but the verses escape me for at least the first four or five listenings.

The cab takes a left-hand corner from the city part of New Orleans and all of a sudden the streets close in and there's black iron fences and balconies everywhere. I reflect on my intense study of the city (Vampire Chronicles series and The Mayfair Witches series and a few cheesy VC Andrews novels) and immediately point to where Lestat and Louis likely kissed on a corner in the late 18th century. Ken looks like he is ready to crawl under the seat.

We drop off our luggage at the Royal Sonesta Hotel on 300 Bourbon Street. Its 1pm and check-in is at 3pm, so we do what every tourist in that city does: we find the Bourbon Street Blues Company (BBC). Its Happy Hour. Of course its Happy Hour, its always Happy Hour in the Quarter. But this Happy Hour is downright silly with its deal: "Buy 1 Beer for $5, Get 3 Beers Free." It was like we'd died and gone to heaven. Shots were $2. We gave the waitress ten bucks and like magic there would be four beers and two shots on our table.

About forty dollars later (budgets seem less important during Happy Hour), it started to rain. This would be maybe 45 minutes after arriving. We were sitting on bar stools and I noticed a few people started picking up belongings and not touching the ground. That's when I realized that there wasn't a real door to get into the bar, just swingy cowboy shutter things. About a half hour later, we somehow earned the collective nickname of "Boston." This name would stick for the remainder of our trip. The fact that I've been to Boston exactly five times in my life did not matter: If you're from Massachusetts, you live in or near Boston. People started to like us, probably because we were buying rounds for everyone. After a while, Ken's master plan paid off and people started to buy US rounds. And then the waitress (aka "Shot Girl") got super friendly and started giving me free shots. These shots were German and they tasted like grape soda and they came in these adorable little bottles that she would open, pop into her mouth the opening of the open facing out. She would then lean over and pour the contents into my mouth. This was a big hit for the other patrons in the bar. So big, that they started buying more grape shots for us. It was New Orleans, what can I say? You check good judgment with your bags.

It kept raining.

And raining.

And raining.

$120 later (go ahead, do the math - That's either 96 beers or some sort of combination of a helluva lot of beer and a disgusting amount of shots and likely a very large tip) the bar's floor was under six inches of water. We decided that it might be a good time to check into the hotel. This was around 6pm. That's a lot of alcohol for a weekend, but for a few hours, it was the stuff of legends. And Ken and I were nothing if not legends in our own minds. We bid adieu to the BBC (which likely sounded a lot like "Ahhhh dee-youse!") and stepped out into into ~~the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house,~~ Tropical Storm Allison.

Bourbon Street is difficult to navigate on a sunny day. Its brick or cobble stone or something equally old and uneven and filled with loose things that make people fall. Bourbon Street after $120 at Happy Hour, in the almost dark and under a river of storm water? Its enough to make Indiana Jones cringe. And I didn't have a whip.

You know where this is going right?

I fell. I fell down. I fell down at the feet of a homeless man seated on a milk crate and painted silver (the man, not the crate). He didn't have teeth. I sat there, in the river of disgusting-ness laughing my very drunk ass off. Homeless Silver Man looks down at me and says (insert very heavy NOLA accent here), "You gonna git arrested." Ken is now annoyed because I am making no attempt at getting up and it really is pretty disgusting. The water is rushing down the street and directly up my pants legs and looks more like the Mississippi (yep I sang it again) every minute. I'm up to my waist in this filth. And yet, I laugh.

Ken reaches down to grab my hands so he can haul me up. This is where things went poorly. My hands are soaking wet and kinda slimy to be honest... so I fall backwards. Of course. Huge splash of water. HSM abandons us in case the stupid suddenly became contagious. I land on my elbows. Mostly my right elbow. It is split open and immediately begins to bleed. Not bleed as in "Wow, I could use a band-aid." but bleed as in "Get a bucket/bath towel/stand in the shower" bleed. Its gross.

Please note, we still have to check in. Here. And so, we walk into the hotel which is almost directly across the street from the bar. I am now covered in city dredges of muck, blood, and things that were floating in the Bourbon Street water. I'm still bleeding. And my right elbow has doubled in size already. Ken decides that he'll go right up to the counter and all normal-like get a key to the room. I sit on the silk couch in the marble entrance and notice that "Hey, this fucking place is sweeet!" I decide that out loud, to no one. Of course.

Now, the hotel is large. Many floors and lots of confusing hallways that all look exactly the same. Had Inception been released back then, it would have looked exactly like that. Of course, I'm dealing with some sort of alcohol poisoning and blood loss, but that's what things looked like to me. Ken wasn't doing much better. It took us 45 minutes to find our room. I was cradling my still bleeding arm and trying to get the blood to drip onto my pants because we hadn't the mental capacity to use a rest room in the lobby and get paper towels.

Here's where things get blurry. We found the room. It was still early-ish, perhaps 7:30pm and the rest of the night is a total blank slate. Something about a mini-bar and a lack of a credit card which made us sad. There was something else about a shower and the inability to undress myself.

I woke up in the morning stuck to the sheets. I had bled from both elbows all night long. The mini-bar was upside down and it was partially disassembled. Somehow there was an empty wine bottle in the sink but neither of us to this day remember how it got there. I wrapped the bloody sheets around me because they were really, really stuck to the open gashes on my arms and stood in the shower. As the caked blood was washed away, eventually the sheets fell away and I got to see the real damage. My right elbow wasn't just cut, it was a war wound. It was the type of injury people take pictures of and are scarred for life from. It probably needed stitches. My entire arm was swollen all the way to my wrists and the elbow itself was turning a very interesting shade of greenish-blue. It was probably fractured, but my ER copay at the time was $50. There was no way I was going to waste our precious dollars on that.

I got out of the shower and showed Ken who then pointed to the bed. Now, I've seen horror movies and crime scene tv shows. I know what a lot of blood looks like on a screen, but to actually stand there and see that much blood, my own blood, soaking into a mattress? It was revolting. And it explained the light-headedness that was making my hangover oh so interesting. We were concerned the hotel people might not like this, so we left to find beignets and chicory coffee. Miraculously, the elevators moved during the night to directly across the hall from our room. The same room that took us almost an hour to find.

I self-medicated all day. I started with the Hurricanes at 10am. Mint Juleps at noon. Something green from Pat O'Brien's. By dinner time we knew we had to go back to the hotel and see what the cost was going to be. We walked into the lobby and were greeted with smiles all around. We swiped our card in the door to our room and slowly let it swing open. Shoulder to shoulder, we leaned in unison to peer at the murder scene bed. The bedspread was there, neatly tucked and draped. We peeled it back, eyes squinting and faces wrinkled in anticipation.

It was as though we had never been there.

The mini bar was put back together. The bloody sheets in the shower were gone, replaced by a crisp white collection of bath towels. And there, on the sink was the only acknowledgement of my unfortunate situation: a roll of first-aid tape, a box of gauze pads and three disposable ice packs. On my pillow? A small bottle of Tylenol. And a nip of whiskey. Oh these people were goooood. I used everything they had left for me and Ken immediately tossed a twenty on the nightstand for maid. It probably should have been more, but considering we were down to $200 and had three days left, the twenty was all we could spare.

For the rest of our trip, Tropical Storm Allison stayed with us. We stood in cemeteries, rode the Street Car through the Garden District and gaped at the Greek Revival mansions while shielding our eyes from the raindrops. Our shoes were soaked through. The bottoms of our jeans were dripping wet as we made our way through St. Elizabeth's to see Anne Rice's doll collection. As we found our way to Louis Armstrong park and then Jackson Square, Allison kept up her pace. On the last day, we saw the sun for an hour. I stood outside Lafitte's and leaned against the street sign while Ken snapped my picture. My arm was stuck in a permanent bend, so I casually laid my lower arm across my back so years from that moment I wouldn't remember that my elbow had been broken and medically un-treated for 4 days. What can I say, I was probably drunk at the time and dealing with an incredible amount of pain.

Allison came back though. She waited until we made it to the airport and then BAM! Thunder, lightening, dark rolling clouds fill the sky. She followed us home on the six different planes we were re-routed to. She tossed and shook the 747's so much that the fat guys I was stuck sitting in-between (Ken was waaaay up in front) were kind enough to try to cushion the blows aimed at my elbow from the turbulence. Thing is, when you're sitting in between two dudes who easily weighed at least 350 pounds each, there's not a helluva lot of room left for a broken elbow.

To add to the journey, we had $3.47 when we boarded the first plane in New Orleans at noon. At the time, we were okay with that. We would be home in a few hours and we'd eat then. I kicked back a couple of whiskey sours at Lafitte's and chewed up four Tylenols. I was ready to travel.

We arrived in Bradley airport 14 hours later, hungover, exhausted, and starving. My entire right hand was swollen to the point where I could no longer even move a finger. The only food we had eaten all day were airplane nuts and water. We split a Cinnabon somewhere in Texas after I found a five dollar bill in my back pocket. Honestly, I didn't think we looked that wrecked, but my parents' faces changed my mind on that pretty fast

The next day, I had an x-ray which proved two things:

1. I had a fractured elbow

2. I was bad ass (in my own mind)

And that's the story of the scar on my right elbow.

I hope it never, never disappears.

They make it so easy

2011-02-09T09:31:00.000-08:00

Its not that I want to pick on the Catholic Church a lot. Its just that they make it so damn easy.

Sinner? Now, there's an app for that. Really. CLICK ME.

Oy.

Conferences

2011-02-04T11:22:00.000-08:00

I was at parent/teacher conferences last night. It was ten minutes with each teacher for two kids. Talk about a whirlwind adventure! The first four meetings were with Danielle's teachers. If I were to do a word cloud these words be on it:

Brilliant
Incredibly sharp
Challenges authority
Critical thinking skills beyond her years
Enigma
Kind to a fault
Leader
Unique
Social
Questions everything
Capable of taking on the world

Danielle's math teacher put it best: Thing with Danielle is, she knows the game. She's on the insider track and she knows what we're all holding. All we can do is hope she decides to sit down and join the game. And then we can watch her run the tables and take us for everything we got.

She'll be bumping to honors next year.

Damn. I am blessed with the coolest kids ever.

Want

2011-02-04T07:20:00.000-08:00

Oh wow. This is gorgeous!!!

17

2011-02-03T05:53:00.000-08:00

Autumn - self portrait - 2011

I just spent a good hour scouring the internet for a quote to open this post with. I failed miserably.

Something happened during the last year to Autumn. It is that rare and extraordinary metamorphosis that involves listening. Listening to and accepting advice. I've boiled it down to this because until this past year, they were mutually exclusive from one another. A fifteen year old will listen to the advice that is offered. Its the accepting part that is avoided at all costs until a certain magical progression of hormones and brain chemicals align with the stars and the planets. It is elusive and for some, this happening doesn't come at all. For others, it takes drastic and caustic measures to force this evolution.

For Autumn, it happened mostly in the past year. She is a rare soul. In fact, I've always thought of Autumn as having an old soul. She knows what she wants and her fearlessness will lead her to that path. I have the luxury of feeling confident in her ability and in her sound judgement. Normal rules don't apply to her not because she bucks the system, but because she can play it deftly and effortlessly.

I have never in my life had to ask her to do her homework. Ever.

She isn't a straight A student. She isn't a perfectionist. She's a spender like her parents. She has a stubborn streak that has to come from my father. She sometimes confuses leadership with bossiness. She cusses. She isn't always right, though I pity the fool to try to win that argument. She is persuasive in such a way that were she so inclined, she would quickly become one of the greatest lawyers or politicians of her time.

You are looking old curtains re-purposed and second generation Magenta (I used to dress as her too!)

She likely will not become either of those. Because with all her brains and abilities, she is above all else a creator. Autumn will create art out of a skillfully folded roll of duct tape and some thread. She slaps her lump of clay on a wheel and in moments will have something that was not there before.

Chip 'n dip platter - 2010

Her love of art, of color and of molding and sculpting and painting and drawing will likely not lead her down a road paved with gold. She doesn't want that road, she is choosing a way through life whose path has yet to be worn into the forest floor. She will make her way on her own terms and in her own time. She said to me a few weeks ago that she doesn't want to be rich or famous. Then she took that back and said, "Well, I don't want to be rich."

I can see her ten years from now living quite happily in a small apartment in the city. Brightly colored walls and hand-made mugs filled with steaming black coffee. She never adds cream to her coffee. When she was three her father and I bought an espresso machine. She would perch herself in a kitchen chair and ask for "Cappuccino please." We would steam the milk on the machine and give her hot chocolate. She would sip her cappucinno slowly, pinky extended, small moustache of coco above her lip. She would close her brown eyes and soak in the flavor.

Autumn at the wheel

I can see her kitchen in shades of purple because yellow isn't her color. I can see her tattoos and pieircings. For some kids its a phase, but Autumn doesn't follow those. She's had tattoos on her body all her life, even if they were only in her imagination. When she was two years old we took her to lunch. Three adults and Autumn. The waitress stopped by to take our orders and Autumn had a crest-fallen look on her face. The waitress asked her what was wrong and to which she replied, "My fricking dragon ran away!" After the adults recovered she then described the dragon in great detail and then said, "When I get big, I'm going to have a dragon tattoo on my belly." She later insisted that we buy a pack of fake dragon tattoos and for months she walked around with a dragon tattoo on her belly.

Stonewarre coffee mug - 2010

Autumn will live exactly the kind of life she wants. She always has. She can create a world unto herself and for that reason alone, I do not doubt her for one second. Most of my parenting now involves simply staying out of her way. That she asks me for my opinion or my advice and then listens to what I say is nothing short of a miracle. She doesn't always take the advice, but she hears what others have to say and then weighs her options. I'd like to say that I taught her that, but I didn't.

This is her Mrs. Lovett costume. She made this from old clothes she ripped apart and re-assembled.

I think most people just stand back and let her do her thing. Of all the things my oldest child is, the one thing that I admire the most in her is her fearlessness. That one thing alone will carry her through her life.

I can't find a quote to fit Autumn. Somehow, that fits her better than anything Maya Angelou could have written.

Juiced

2011-01-26T16:53:00.000-08:00

Tonight while tucking in the boys, this went down:

Seth: Mommy, I need more juice.

Me: You already had juice.

Seth: No I didn't. Alice just drank it.

Me: Honey, kitties don't like juice.

Seth: Well, I don't think so. Alice came in and drank allll my juice so now I don't have any.

Me: Seth, cats really don't like juice. I think maybe you drank it and now you want more? I will give you a tiny bit but that's it okay?

Seth: Well, I think you should tell Alice about that. Cuz she DRINKS MY JUICE. (said without yelling but with gusto)

Me: Okay Seth. I will go and tell the cat that she shouldn't drink your juice.

I then walk back to the living room where there on the little table is my glass of juice. And there is Alice with her entire head inside of it as she is lapping away at my stupid juice.

I said not a word to Miss Alice. I turned on my heel, grabbed the juice from the fridge and went into the boys' room and filled Seth's glass with nary a word.

Seth: (in a whisper) I told you she likes juice.

I got nothing

2011-01-26T10:08:00.000-08:00

The blog as been quiet. Its mostly because I feel tapped out. I'm actually staring at the screen wondering where the heck I can go with this.

On a sad note Sadonne, our Buick, is dying a slow and painful death. We put an engine in him last summer but now the transmission refuses to acknowledge Reverse. And the exhaust needs replacing. Oh and the brakes. And now the back driver-side window is gone. Good times!

So, the search is on for a 7 passenger vehicle that costs under $10,000. This should be easy but in fact my head is sorta spinning. I love having AWD on my Subaru so I'm in love with the Ford Freestyle. Unfortunately they are pretty expensive. I keep going between SUV's with the third row to minivans. I guess when I have cash in my hands the answer will appear and things will fall into place. I have an obsession with cars and vehicles but unfortunately I'm also cursed.

Words

2011-01-20T07:35:00.000-08:00

The world of words, publishing, and book stores. There is a jostle in the normal activity of writers wanting to be published and readers wanting both the cozy atmosphere of a wee book store nestled onto Main Street. These readers want all that but they are also fully enjoying all the techie gadgets are slowly killing these little shops. Or are they?

Its a weird thing. I love gadgets and my Kindle is about the coolest thing ever. The mindset of the folks who are refusing to give in and buy one think that these will be the death of the local bookshop. I gotta say, I don't agree. Why? Because I'm an avid reader and I haven't walked into a small shop since I was 10. I would borrow my books and pass them to the next family member. Or I would buy them at a grocery store or tag sale. And then in the 1990's Barnes and Noble opened up in Holyoke and I bought my books there. And then Amazon.com took about 90% of my business.

Here's the thing. I haven't had the sort of life that allows me to spend a couple hours in a book store curled up in a chair and reading. I haven't had that life in about 17 years now. You probably don't either. In fact, I could count on one hand the people I know who have that sort of time, and the majority of them shop on Amazon. Amazon is easy. The Kindle is stupid easy. Click, click, click.... Voila! Book is in my hands. And on my two computers and my iPhone. The things talk to each other so no matter where I leave off, my bookmarks sync up with each other. And if that isn't the coolest damn thing I don't know what is. So yes, Amazon has taken my business. Almost all of it. I've been a Prime member for years and don't pay shipping for the things that can't magically appear on my Kindle. They took my business from Barnes, not from a local book seller.

Here's the other thing. Publishing is about to be (if it hasn't been already) turned upside down because of these new gadgets. No longer will publishing companies run the risk of printing thousands of books only to have them end up in the clearance bin. Now, you don't even need a publishing company or an agent. There's CreateSpace. Yep, its owned by Amazon. They do print on demand. And they work with individual writers to help get their books out to the world. The writer is then responsible for marketing their own book with some help from Amazon. Not really that difficult with the internets at one's fingertips.

So, is Amazon the evil Wal-Mart of the book world? I guess that depends. I was thinking the other day as I was waiting for my latest free book to be delivered to my Kindle that without this thing, I would never have read 5 books since Christmas. I couldn't afford to buy all those hardcovers at $20 a pop. The books I was getting were either free or maybe $5 each. I didn't have to wait for the planets to align so I could escape my house and get to a store, I didn't use any gas in my car, no trees died and these books weren't taking up space in a warehouse or coming out of a factory.

Clean. Simple. Easy. Fast. Cheap.

Those five words will mean that more people read more books. How is this bad???

Now... the flip side is that there is a chance folks are going to lose jobs and their stores. In fact, this is likely to happen eventually. But that is the nature of growth and technological advancement. Should we never have driven cars because blacksmiths were going to lose business when people stopped traveling by horse and buggy? Should we not send emails because the postman will lose his job? What about the millions of jobs created by the building of cars and their repair? How many thousands more are employed by companies like Google, Microsoft, and yes Amazon?

So, after thinking about all that stuff in about 10 seconds, I clicked open my new book and promptly started reading. I didn't even have to get out bed. Amazing.