Maximum Capacity

"Oh, no thanks! Really, I've had enough. I'm full. Honestly, I've had so much of it lately that I'm starting to get sick of it...."

Unfortunately, this is not my reply to the waitress at The Scarlet Oak Tavern regarding wine. Nor is it my response to the waiter at La Famiglia in the North End, where the dinners are served on what I believe to be sewer covers rather than actual plates. I wish I was saying this to Gustavo, our personal attendant on the cruise that my BFF's and I took twenty years ago...but no such pleasure.

I am talking about the godforsakenobnoxiouslyinsultinglyridiculoushowmuchmoreisthereofthismofo SNOW.
I am generally not a snow-hater, and I have been trying to deny the temptation to post some banal comment about it on my facebook status. I think though, that the refusal to comment has backfired and suddenly, as I am snapping about it, I am blogging about it. Enough already with this snow! Even my kids are starting to groan rather than cheer when the 5:45AM call comes in canceling school. Instead of the stomach-plunging sound of the plow going by and taking both the sidewalk and our basketball hoop with it, I want to hear the ICE CREAM MAN; instead of a cup of hot chocolate, I want (I hate the name of it right now!) a  SNOW CONE. Snow-blower? No...Lawn-mower! Snow boots? No...Flip-Flops! Snow pants? No...Capris! Ice-scraper and brush in the car? No...Beach chair and boogie boards in the car! Ya'll catch my drift?!?

Now, I know we get...wait a sec:
*An advance apology to the 'Gentle Readers' (as in- Mom, and Nana) but I will be referring to it as mofosnow....
As I was saying, I know we get mofosnow around here. We expect it. But, we don't expect three storms a week with 10 - 14 inches each time. (Hey, Mother Nature, what you've been dumping on us this winter is "MOJO-SNOW"!) So here's what I'm going to do: rather than bitch and moan about the mojo/mofosnow, I am going to reach deep down into my 'Glass-Is-Half-Full' file and see if I can put a positive spin on nature's White Delight.   I'm trying for a list of 10 here:

1. Your children could set a world record for making over 100 variations of a snowman. Start taking pictures...
2. It opens up a whole new world of shopping: boots, silk long-underwear (best stuff!), hats, scarves, and did I mention boots? ALL purchases are justified.
3. You can test your shift-on-the-fly 4WD in the mofosnow when you are trying to get out of your driveway. A totally new experience, compared to what you usually use the 4WD  for.
4. You'll eventually be on a first-name basis with the driver who is contracted by the city to plow your street. If you can time it right, run outside and start pathetically "shoveling". Give them a big wave and a "Hello (insert first name)!" because they may, on the next pass, take down the concrete wall between your driveway and the street, and plow it away into oblivion.
5. While you sit in the airport waiting for your flight to be rescheduled, you will have plenty of time to look over, pre-screen, and come to your own conclusions about your fellow flight-mates.
6. You will become a black diamond skiier by default as you attempt to retrieve your mail/newspaper everyday.
7. You have an absolutely legitimate excuse for sporting that dungeon tan. 
8. Think of the workout you get every single day. You're starting to look buff, man!
9. Your children will give you zero argument when you say this summer, "We're going to the beach today."
10. Lastly, many people are complaining that their kids will be in school until July 4th. Try to think of it this way- for every extra day that your kids are in school, it's one extra day for you to go to the beach without them.

That's it. I'm done; with the mofosnow and this list...it took me way longer than I thought it would to think up 10 positive things about all of this snow. I'm heading outside to go bat my eyelashes and wave to Cooper, our plow-guy......"HEY, COOOOP!"

The Badge List (?)

"The Bucket List"...Yeah, not a big fan of the term. I'm not sure what I'd like to call it, but I know that the things I want to do in this life would not fit in a bucket. Things that I have already managed to accomplish don't even fit into a bucket. I also think that a bucket is not worthy enough to hold all that you want to do/have done. Buckets are small - and while they have thousands of uses, I think of them as receptacles for trash, garbage, and well, throw-up.
"Mom, I feel sick!",  "Okay honey, do you want me to get the bucket?"

Plus, bucket rhymes with that phrase beginning with "F" - which happens to carry a huge negative connotation, and that particular phrase is similar to "forget it", "screw it". No, a bucket is not an appropriate vehicle to store your goals; the goals you have set and the goals you have achieved. I think it should be called something else that has a little more grandeur attached.  How about an "armoire" perhaps, or  a "wardrobe"? A friend of mine SH (*You Go, Girl!) calls hers a "Life List" rather than a "Bucket List", and believe me, if you could see what she has done with her List, her Life, it is both phenomenal and amazing; and it don't belong in no bucket!
I like the "wardrobe" reference because in fashion-terms, one of the golden rules is: If it FEELS better, it LOOKS better. Ergo, to tie it all in, the goals you set for yourself - and what you accomplish along the way - can be WORN like a badge. Badges tell people who you are. Whether they are badges of honor, courage, endurance, or faith - they show up on the outside to everyone as pride. Think of a highly decorated military official. All of those ribbons and medals on their dress uniform- I believe some refer to this as "salad" ; worn with extreme honor, pride...and humility. It's less about blatant bragging, and more about the pride in achieving. So, imagine if we walked around like this: for everything we've accomplished thus far, the various insignia is consolidated to the left side, and what we wish to do - would be worn on the right. Each time something is achieved, we would move the device, or pin, from the right to the left. When that fills up, a new one is started and the full one is placed in the wardrobe. (Not the bucket!)
Anyhoo, after a lengthy attempt to garner a common visual, what am I calling it? The Wardrobe Badges? The Badge List? I still don't know yet...

Call it whatever you like, but make it your own. There are many "suggestion" lists and ideas of things to do in your lifetime. (Just Google "Bucket List" and you'll see.) But come on, you can come up with a few of your own. One of the lists I saw said "Meet The Pope." Who, me? Sorry - zero interest. But I would love to meet Bono and The Dalai Lama .
If I met The Pope, I'd say "Hello, nice to meet you", and then I'd feel all.....guilty.
On the other hand, I have a thousand questions for Bono and The Dalai Lama; I mean, I honestly believe that together, these two can save the world! Hello Burton's? Reservation for three, please.

I've been doing pretty good recently. I've always wanted to start a blog (check.) I wanted to start playing soccer again (check.) I finally started doing yoga (thank you, self!). I've wanted to sing with the band... which I did this past Saturday night and man! I felt like a G-D Superstar ! Might not seem like much, but it's mine.

What else for me? Well, for starters, I'd like to write a book. Run a marathon. Surf in Hawaii. Dance in a Flashmob. Hold the Stanley Cup.
What about you? What's on your list - the "I've done this" list, and the "I want to do this" list? Anyone want to share?

Gotta go...I need to make a phone call to inquire about a women's hockey league I just heard about; it's called "Chicks With Sticks". Awesome...

Am I Being Punk'd?

Is this seriously happening to me right now? For real? Wait a sec, what day is today- is it April 1st? Should I SMILE because I'm on Candid Camera?
Am I being punk'd?

Have you ever been in a situation where, once you realize of the total absurdity of it, you stop and ask yourself- sometimes out loud - this question?  Getting "punk'd" became popular thanks to Ashton Kutcher and his show on MTV beginning in 2003. He would stage an elaborate prank on a superstar in an attempt to bring them back down a bit or, help them get over themselves; it was an Ashton-sponsored dose of humility. "Punk'd" was an amped-up version of Allen Funt's "Candid Camera" from back in the day. Both shows, with their video crews rolling as the prank unfolded, affected me enough to cause me small bouts of paranoia on more than a few occasions. There have been times that I was literally waiting for Ashton to come around the corner, shit-eating grin on his face. Pranks can be funny sometimes, but other times- not so much.

 Some of the best ones happened to me while I was working. I was in the delivery business and I was all over Cambridge (MA) - a very cool, eclectic and diverse city. "The People's Republic"...of millionaires and the homeless. I was punk'd on the very first day I reported for duty in Cambridge. I was escorted to my new route by a supervisor. I was given a map, my keys, and a ridiculous amount of mail. Supervisor leaves, and a clerk sidles up next to me. "Here. Go give this mail to the carrier upstairs on route 29." He hands me a large bundle and a warning of sorts, "Hey, just so you know, that carrier- he's a nasty, surly SOB. He hates women and he never showers so he stinks real bad.... but make sure you hand the mail directly to him, otherwise he won't take it out for you." Nervously, I head upstairs and open the door onto this enormous workroom floor. Totally unfamiliar with the layout, I ask a 'friendly-looking' carrier where route 29 is located. He growls at me, so I move on. Couple of cases down, I ask the next ONE- only to have FOUR of them turn around and stare at me. They don't know where Rt. 29 is, I'm told. I continue on, the sound of clapping and laughter erupting behind me, getting louder as I go. By now, my face is beet-red and I am 5 seconds away from a full-on panic attack. A 'sympathizer' takes my arm, tries to call off the troops, and leads me finally, to 29. He looks nothing like the way he was described, and now he's reluctant to turn around and face me. Apparently, he was expecting a greasy-haired, unshaven, toothless "wrecking ball" of a woman. Joke was on both of us, (those punks!) but he and I were 'buds' from that day on. A good prank, it was.

In another episode at work, it was Christmas Day. It was freezing out, in the low teens. I was forced in and I was miserable. The double-time pay was not consolation enough to me. The city was all but deserted and I was waiting in Central Square at a collection box for the 1PM pick-up. It was about quarter of, but I couldn't hit it early because "they" might be watching. Watching...always watching...
See, we were always told that at any moment, at any point during the day, The Inspectors could be watching us. From the cat-walks above, to the civilians on the the street, or even the guy working right next to you; Inspector- maybe. So, that's how I worked - as though I was being watched. I was not going to hit that box a minute sooner than 1300hours.
I'm waiting. A homeless woman approaches me and bangs on the window; I am, after all, sitting curbside (as in, the driver's seat is on the right). I recognize her, I've seen her around. I think her street name was "Trash-Ninja" or something like that. I roll down the window, and she's slurring "Merry Christmas" to me. "Same to you", I say. She brings her un-gloved frozen hands up and she has a bottle of Listerine. "Can you open this for me? My hands are too freezin' to get it, sweet thing like you, sweet thing like you, too freezin', too freezin' ", she keeps repeating. The slow tingling of paranoia starts crawling up my spine. If I open it, how is this going to affect me ethically, professionally, even legally? I start looking all around me, trusting no one, suspecting everyone. She starts getting angry, "Come on, sweet thing! What are you waiting for! Can't even give me a Christmas gift by helping me open this? You ain't so sweet, ain't so sweet..." She's making me nervous now because her anger is obvious. I decide that I will tell "them" that for safety's sake, I opened it to get her away from me. "Gimmie it!" I say. I open it, hand the bottle back to her - that, and my gloves. I hit the box, and high-tail it out of there feeling horrible about the whole thing.
Fast forward a couple of weeks. I go into work, grab my mail, my keys and head out to the truck. I UNLOCK the truck, throw my mail on the big tray beside me. I didn't have any large packages so there was no need to open up the back. I hop in and start it up. That's when I notice how bad it smells in there. We're supposed to 'inspect' our trucks each day before we hit the street. I didn't that day, naturally. I blew it off because the mail was heavy and well, I 'checked' it last night when I brought it back to the lot. I'm motoring out to my route, and by now the smell is overbearing; it's killing me. I take a curve a little faster than I should, trying to make the light, but there is no way I'm going to make it so I jam on the brakes. That is when I hear this head-banging thump in the back. And then, the loud moaning. I freak. I throw it in "Park" and I jump out of the truck right there in the intersection: Kendall Square. 8AM. This is not a good idea...
Mace in one hand, I throw open the back door with the other, and TRASH NINJA tumbles out. "Hi  sweething! I 'member your truck number with the 4-3 at the end. So freezin' last night!, so freezin'! ", she says, smiling innocently.
"HOLY SH** T-N!" I scream, "W-T-F are you doing in my truck?!? I can't believe this!!!" And then I shout, "AM I BEING PUNK'D?!?" Well, no, that's not true- Punk'd wasn't even on yet. I asked her, and everyone else around me, if  'I was on Candid Camera'? I seriously thought I was being set-up by either the actual show- or -by "them".
I ended up ordering her back in my truck. I knew where to bring her, and so I did. Then I finished my route, feeling bad for her, and horrified for me; how much trouble am I in? I went back to the office. Only after several weeks, and hearing nothing of the incident, did I feel any sense of relief. I ran into her again a few weeks later, walking down Mass Ave - she was wearing my gloves and an old Benneton sweater of mine that I had donated to Salvation Army. It got me wondering again.

More recently, I took my kids to McDonald's- the one with the nasty Playland. The kids knew not to even bother asking me about that. We got our food and- not surprising- a snack wrap or something was forgotten. Receipt in hand, I head back to the front. The line is heinous, and I'm ready to grab the first employee who walks by, when I notice a little boy standing up front waiting for something as well, a dollar bill in his hand. Nothing bothers me more: when kids are waiting at the counter and they are completely ignored by the staff. Sure enough, a cashier acknowledges me, looking right past the boy with his dollar. (Actually, it's more like - she can't escape the burning sensation on her skin which is being beamed directly at her from my eyes.)
"Help you?" she asks.
"Yes, but this little guy was here first, what do you need, buddy?" I ask him. I'm thinking ketchup, sweet & sour sauce, a straw, perhaps; and I'm also thinking how cute it is that he thinks these things cost money.
He looks away...so shy. I ask him again, "Do you need ketchup?"
He looks down and mumbles something I can't understand, but what clearly sounded like the word "socks".
And it is in this very moment, I start looking around for Ashton.
Cashier looks at me, "What did he say?" I'm sort of chuckling as I say, "I have no idea."
The 'audience' is getting bigger...
One more time..."what do you need?"
He yells now, "SOCKS!" I'm about to suggest to him that maybe he should ask his mother to come and help him (Where is she anyways? It's been like, 20 minutes already.) when McD girl says, "Oh, socks! Here you go. That'll be one dollar please." She reaches underneath the counter, comes up with some white ankle socks, golden arches logo and all, and he's off to Playland! Socks, at Mickey D's. Who knew?
She looks at me, "What did you need, now?" 
"Yeah, I need...A Super-Size Grimace T-Shirt."

Last one, and it comes from the "It-Can-Only-Happen-To-Me" files:
I just got a letter from my Atty's Office, telling me "that for all intents and purposes your divorce is currently legal and binding."  I read on, "Your divorce will be FINAL after "x" amount of days. Once this period is over, your divorce will become final ON OR ABOUT FEBRUARY 29th, 2011".

There is NO February 29th this year! It's not even a leap year!
.......This is so NOT funny, Ashton!

Micro-Managing: TIME To Go On Strike!

Cue up The Stones: "T-i-i-i-ime is on my side."
Maybe it is for Mick and his cronies, but that's not the case for me. I never seem to have enough of it. (I know, does anyone, ever?). I am always supposed to be somewhere...10 minutes ago. I always thought that I used my time wisely, but it wasn't until I actually sat down and tried to figure out what's got me playing catch-up with the clock all day long, that the sad truth hit me like some bad epiphany; I don't use my time wisely at all.

I think I know when it started. At work, my job was to get "x" number of things delivered by a certain time. Other than, "When is my next class?" in college, this job was the first time I had to be constantly aware of the time. Moving on to motherhood- time awareness was crucially important to my newborn's appetite and sleep schedule. "He's crying. Is it time for his nap? He must be hungry. When did I feed him last? Let me check, I wrote it down..."  Even now- "She still has a fever. She needs more Motrin. What time did she have it last?".  All reasonable scenarios in which time is an important factor, no? Sure. What time is practice? The appointment? The meeting? The birthday party? Bed???
But when did I, and our society, I'm suspecting- (don't let me be the only one!) -When, did the Genetic Mutation - that morphed me into this time-obsessive micro-managing freak - take place? And, it wasn't exactly successful by the way - I am not adapting well to this new, minute by minute, "digital environment".

I now find myself trying to complete some inane task in the allotted time it takes to say, reheat a cup of coffee. It is a sick yet compelling competition. The microwave: it might as well be a giant stopwatch.
Can I empty the dishwasher in...45 seconds? I put my coffee cup in the microwave, I punch in 4, then 5, then I hit "start" and...GO! If I can do it, I win. (Win what???) If I can't, I failed.
How about if I start this wash, and when it fills up all of the way, jump in and take a shower and be out before the washer fills up again? For the rinse cycle. GO! YES! I can do it!
Or, before bed- let me see if I can use the bathroom, flush, then brushmyteeth, washmyface, andmoisturize...all before the tank fills up again. Ready, Flush, GO!
Am I alright??? There's more....
I'm at the deli: I'm #83 and they're on #78...do I have TIME to run and grab some chicken nuggets, salad dressing and some Chips Ahoy? It could be close; I'd feel better if  there were 6 or more numbers in between ...unless, maybe #79 wants to 'scalp' me his number so I can just be done with it?....Nah, I'm going to GO FOR IT!
Even in the car: "Guys, check it out. It only took us 6 minutes to get to the rink - 6 minutes, pretty good, huh?" Six minutes...six minutes....six minutes, Doug E. Fresh, you're on.... aw - aw - on.....
Another one while at home: I'm on the phone, on hold, listening to how important my call is to them, and I am thinking, "This call is important to me, too - otherwise, I would not be calling - but I REFUSE to sit here like a jackass and do NOTHING in the meantime!!!" Nope, I put the phone on speaker so that I can put it down and fold laundry. Bonus Bonanza!

That's me...getting things done, so I have "extra time". And that's where I'm wrong.

There's no "extra time" at the end of the day. I fool myself into thinking that I'm getting SO much done, when in fact- I'm trying to do more things than I have time for. Really, what's wrong with sitting idle while I wait?
When I was a kid, there was one clock in our kitchen, on the wall by the table. Counting the microwave, the stove, the cordless phone, the coffee maker, the space-saving-under-the-cabinet stereo and, the clock on the wall by the table - there are six in my kitchen alone. SIX "time-tellers"- One room. Think power outage: Once the power comes back on, it's like, "I'm done resetting the clocks...in the kitchen..." (20 minutes later!). Crazy. I'm done. All this "time-saver" stuff, and I'm getting nowhere. I can't do it. I'm tired.
Multi-tasking is totally overrated. One day, one thing at a time from now on.

One final note to the meteorologists out there:
Do you suppose you could focus LESS on the expected snowfall amounts? You know it's a total crap-shoot. Perhaps you could start honing in on exactly WHAT TIME the storm is going to start?
No. Never mind...don't tell me.

The Haircut

The Haircut: Tuesday 09/07/10

*Author's Note - I wrote this originally in Sept 2010 as a "note" on my facebook page, so some of you may have already read this.

A haircut. It was just supposed to be a haircut - well, that and a much needed "color", I  reluctantly admit.

The appointment is for 9AM. Why did I pick the very first day that my kids would be in school for a full session? I mean, I was busy! I had shit to do. I had no business sitting in a chair for some 3 hours-plus, rendered completely useless by a straight-jacketed 'color cape', and my cell phone - completely out of reach. Out of touch with everything and everyone. I swear, some days I really do believe that I would rather lose my car keys than my  "Reality"...Ya, "Reality" is what this new cell phone is called. Imagine that.

So, there I am, trying to settle in but, thinking of all the things I am NOT doing. Still totally keyed-up with anxiety left over from Thursday's and Friday's Back-to-School-Cluster-F***; my son's 5th grade bus still nowhere in sight going on 3:45PM. Which in turn made me late meeting my 2 daughters in the schoolyard. "Here comes Mrs. M_______" (running down here late, like a jack-ass)... I could almost hear everyone thinking.  Still stressed out. Food shopping.What's for dinner?Hockey practice tonight.3 showers.No, they are not going to play outside if they ask me... Way too much to do. And getting a cut/color is absolutely the last thing I should be doing at this point in time.

Then something starts happening. Since I can't do anything, I begin to do nothing.  I start taking things in - The smell of french-pressed coffee. This beautiful salon I am sitting in, which is essentially closed on this day. It's quiet, just Andrea Bocelli and his melodious, vocal beauty. The fresh flowers on the table and at the front desk. These women, working so hard at what they love to do.  I am starting to relax. And I notice it. I'm actually in the present - a totally foreign concept to me; (anyone who knows me will say that I'm all about yesterday, last year, in high school; OR next week, 6 months from now, summer2011;... I often "borrow sorrow from tomorrow") But I'm in the moment so I'm going with this, then. I'm turning this into not a chore, but an experience. I catch up with the Ladies who work here, the owner, hell, I even greet the "Boy in Brown" when he delivers the big boxes of Hair Product.

Then, the timer goes off. The bell rings. Rinse me, or I am Grape-Ape! I'm rinsed. I'm cut. Then, I'm done, right? Noooo, the color needs a "glaze".  Umm, alright, glaze me... I guess I have time. Do I? Starting to doubt and feel guilty. Have I been here too long? What about all the STUFF I have to get done? Hello, self??? I begin to get anxious again. The bell rings once more. I'm getting rinsed again, and ya ya ya water feels fine,shampoo smells great,I have to get out of here,I have things to do.

This is what I am thinking when we hear The Man's voice. We look at each other, because we can't see him. Another stylist comes around the corner. Now there's 3 of us at the sinks in back. We hear him say,  "Mom, are you sure you are ok? We can come back, do this another day."

I am lead to my stylist's chair and seated right next to her. This beautiful, proud, woman of about 80 years old. And there is the girl that just cut my hair- this gorgeous, young, vibrant girl, who is so bravely shaving off this elderly woman's hair. We all quietly, respectfully sit in silence, exchanging small hesitant smiles with each other as this is taking place. I am now looking through a completely different window from within my soul and I see two; two profiles in courage. No wait, I see three- Her Son; he's late 50's, maybe sixty. Another one...offers to show her how to tie a scarf. That's four. They are all over the place, these brave and scared and kind and courageous people.

Once her hair was gone, she stood up tall. Her strength and pride clearly evident, as she looks in the mirror. She turns to look at all of us, this woman who is now all humility and face, and says through her tentative smile, "Now, I am beautiful."  Copious amounts of both tears and compassion begin to flow through the salon. Hugs are exchanged with everyone. Mother and son take their leave. We bid them well, tell them to LIVESTRONG.  I hear my cell phone ring. My so called "Reality"...I ignore it, because I am already there. This is REALITY.

A haircut. It was just supposed to be a haircut. I went home with so much more. That, and red hair.

I (Don't) Want My MTV

It is Day 12, and still no cable. Since The Blizzard of 2010, we've had no cable reception. 457 channels and nothin's on. Even the DVR and OnDemand - nada. When we turn on the television, which works fine - both of them, actually - the screen comes on with something that reads "One moment please...this channel will be available shortly". I'm asking right now, How long is "shortly"?

The first couple of cable-less days, I paced around the house like a caged tiger sporting something resembling hives all over my chest, all the while clenching my jaw so tightly I think my entire bite is off now. Not that I missed watching TV, what I missed was the zombie-like zone my kids would go into when they watched; the down time. And how was I going to get away with doing that stuff you do while the kids are distracted and enthralled by "Sunny With a Chance"? The kids got restless- it was school vacation after all (timing is everything) but on the bright side, they had plenty of new booty to play with from Santa, right? Yeah, that novelty lasted about 18 hours - minus the 10 they slept. Here's an idea guys! Go out and play in the snow! That lasted a little bit longer - a couple of days...but when they realized I was keeping them furnished with shovels mainly to exhaust them, the gig was up. ("Mom, why are we clearing this person's driveway? We don't know them, and besides, we don't even live in Springfield!").
Speaking of school vacation week, my son had a hockey tournament. Normally, one game takes a pretty good chunk out of the day, but since goalies were in high demand that week he got a ton of extra ice time. My two girls, never big fans of the game, the rink, the cold, were suddenly NOT complaining about spending a couple of hours at their brother's hockey game. It finally dawned on me. Each time we arrived at the rink, they would excitedly race up to the warm, enclosed balcony room on the 3rd floor - the one with the 2 huge flat-screens at either end? - they couldn't wait to go hang out and get their TV fix. I think there was even a "King of the Remote" fight just for prosperity.

A side story- I've already gone through a similar situation. My parents were pretty strict with the TV- as in, we could NEVER watch it. I remember having arguments with them asking, "Then, WHY do we even have a TV if we can't watch it?" and, "I'm the ONLY one in the WHOLE SCHOOL who doesn't get to watch 'Mork and Mindy', and because of YOU GUYS, I won't have any CLUE when everyone starts talking about it at lunch tomorrow!!!" (I got absolutely no sympathy with that one.)
Then in 1984, to my absolute horror, the TV broke. "THE". As in singular. It was the only one we had. So, while "EVERYONE ELSE" was getting cable - and pirating all the movie channels with a common pin* -  my brother, sister and I were being exiled further into "Massive Geek Weirdo World"  because my parents decided that we would not get a new TV. We didn't NEED one, they said.
More arguments ensued:
"Remember how we moved here when I started 1st Grade, and this house was SO OLD that it didn't even have telephone service?!? Do you know how much of a LOSER I felt like when my teacher had all of the kids recite their phone #'s out loud and I had to say, 'WE DON'T HAVE A PHONE!?!'....Now I'm a sophomore in high school, and I have to tell everyone, 'WE DON'T HAVE A TV?!?'....You guys are RUINING MY LIFE!"
18 months. A year and a half. No boob tube. I am certain to this day that as we moved into 1986, and all teams BOSTON were kicking some serious ass across the boards, that this was the singular reason why my parents caved and got a new TV - with cable, even! That, and the fact that during those insane Celtics days with Bird, McHale and The Chief, listening to the game on the radio during supper was no longer such a good idea. Johnny Most was getting so worked up, I remember my little sister asking, "What does it mean to get 'raped in the lane bydawkins'? What IS a 'bydawkins'?"  Ahhh, Johnny. RIP - You were beautiful!

Back to the present. I have called the cable company. I won't mention any names, but it rhymes with "KomKast". A dozen phone calls later and countless episodes of iCarly and other crappy canned-laughter shows on the Disney Channel, The Winter Classic, The Rose Parade, Patriots, Celtics, Bruins games - all gone by - and nothing has been resolved. And I hate the phone. I can't, or won't call you back in 40 - 60 minutes to tell you that the cable is still out, especially since I've just wasted the last 45 with you! Calling them is becoming less of a priority as each day passes though, because guess what's happening? We're all getting used it. More like, getting used to not having it.

The longer we don't have TV, the less and less we miss it. The TV is not the first thing turned on anymore when we come home. The kids are playing together. They are reading books. I'm seeing long-forgotten toys back in the mix. They are playing games; we - are playing games. The Baldwin is no longer dusty and neglected. We're jamming! It's been okay and we are actually surviving. Just like I survived in '85. I won't go 18 months probably, but I feel like calling the cable company and telling them just to shut it down. That, and the land-line.
Now, does anyone feel like having some company tonight while you watch the Bruin's game? Anyone? Please?.....

*Circa 1985: Thx, DD! xo

Ever Wonder?

Whose "Box" are you in? And who's in your "Box"?  I'm not talking about the mail box or the inbox, I'm talking about THE BOX. Doesn't everybody have one? It's in your attic or garage, maybe in the back of your closet, or in the shed? You know - "The Box" that you've been saving things in? The one with your most precious and cherished tokens; the proof of your memories. 

My Box is in my attic. I have 2 of them, actually. One contains things that, either my parents or I, had the foresight to save from Kindergarten through High School. The second one contains all things college, career, marriage and child birth. I have moved several times over the years and I wonder how it came to be that no matter where I've gone, the cherished items in my 2 boxes have managed to arrive safely and with priority at each destination. I wonder; Why this stuff? and, How did this particular thing make the cut?

Some of the things I have saved are no-brainers. Obviously, I saved my "gold" medal from winning the spelling bee in 2nd grade. The blue, red and yellow ribbons I got from running the 50- and -100 yard dashes every Tues night during the summer over at the high school. I won a bunch of trophies playing soccer and I tried to hang onto them, but since space was becoming limited, I ended up removing the front plate with the information and I just saved those in some random ziploc bag. I smile about these little trophy-tokens now because back then, you really and truly had to WIN to receive a trophy. I have my autograph book from 6th grade, all successive yearbooks, notes from friends/crushes, and prom mugs. Mugs! Are mugs still being given out on "Prom Night"??? An old BC High hockey roster, a beach towel with my high school's name and mascot on it, a "Co-Ed Naked Lacrosse" t-shirt; anyone remember those? How about that ticket stub from the Celtics Game that EM and I went to with our 6th grade teacher, Mr. D?  We were both in 6th grade when we went. Yeah, like THAT would ever happen now! All of this stuff though - it's in The Box. More recently, I have added both a guitar pick and a drumstick, given to me by two members of the band "Bald Walter".

Alas, all of that stuff is the "What"... What about the "Who"? Who is in your box?
Nate "Tiny" Archibald is in my box. Not REALLY him, but my (first-ever!) pair of Nike canvas high-top sneakers that Tiny #7 autographed. He was my Hero for Hoop, and I couldn't wait for his basketball clinic at (where else?)... the high school. I was in 7th grade and my whole team was going. Unfortunately for me, THE DAY had arrived but I needed surgery ASAP (yup, appendix!) so I was devastated that I had to miss it! The good part? The very next day, my basketball teammates visited me in the hospital- with said, signed sneakers. How awesome is that?
Mike Milbury is in my box, along with Pie McKenzie, Ken Hodge, Dee Brown; pictures of me standing next to them and I'm totally Star-Struck in each photo. I've got my favorite World Cup Italian soccer player in there, favorite that is- until Roberto Baggio choked on a penalty shot the following season. They are all great to have; good "proof" but still, a bit removed from me personally.

Down to the nitty-gritty. Who have I carried with me everywhere I've gone for the past 30-something years? Who have you been carrying? And, by 'carrying', I don't mean it in a heavy, burdensome way; I mean it more in the ceremonial, revered way. To me, "The Box" is a physical, tangible manifestation of the heart. Inside it are all things good and significant; the most invaluable and exquisitely appreciated things and people and memories. I can't tell you exactly who is in my "Box", but you would think that they'd all definitely know this.  I'm willing to bet though, that not everybody in there would realize it. I was lucky enough to find out recently that I was in someone's Box, and I'm giving them props right now because first: who woulda thunk? And second: they sparked this particular blog. See? You never know...

Start a Box for your kids. Or keep adding to your own.  In fact, go open up your Box. It'll open up your heart.