MBTA Bus Driver Jerk!!!!! Unreal, I tell you!

This is a very upsetting story. I told it to my sister this afternoon, and over the course of the several hours I spent at her place, she would frequently go back, in the middle of an entirely unrelated conversation and say, "I can't believe that thing about the bus!"

Here's what happened...

I was out today, doing a long walk because I thought it would be a good way to loosen up my broken neck. I had gone all the way from my place, to Davis Square, Porter Square, Harvard Square, and was on my way to Central Square when the rain started coming down hard and heavy. I saw the bus to Central pull up and with a sense of relief, I got on. Another passenger was boarding the bus behind me, and I was still at the front of the boarding area as she made her way onto the bus because I was struggling to fit my dollar into the already jam-packed fare slot.

The passenger behind me was a woman, maybe around 50 or 55 years of age, and she was having difficulty boarding the bus because she was quite overweight. She was carrying a bag from the pastry shop, Au Bon Pain. She said to the driver, very pleasantly and apologetically and with a bashful smile on her face, "I'm sorry to hold you up like this." The driver looked at her with such an unmistakable expression of contempt and said, "Well, if you wanted to move any quicker the first thing you'd do is get rid of that bag of sweets."

I stopped dead in my tracks and in so far as my broken neck would permit, I quickly looked from the driver to the passenger and back again. The woman also stopped dead in her tracks, and I swear, there were tears welling up in her eyes. I don't know whether her face was just wet from the rain, but I swear there were tears forming there. She said, "You know something? I think I'll just walk." At that point, I pulled my dollar out from the fare slot and said, "You know? I think I'll just walk too."

The driver just shrugged at me and said, "Suit yourself."

With that, he peeled on the gas and took off. But not before I caught his bus number. I looked at the MBTA sign that was right there at the stop and reported his ass to a customer service agent. I described the driver's physical appearance, reported the bus number and destination, route number, and current location. The person in customer relations was profusely apologetic and swore that there would be "an MBTA superior waiting for him upon his arrival at the end point of the route."

Meanwhile, the woman thanked me for making the call, and standing up with her by getting off the bus. She said she was embarrassed and I assured her that she had absolutely nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed of, that if anybody should feel embarrassed, it was that asshole driver!

Jesus, I know this story is a complete downer, but I just had to share it because, like Lauren, I keep finding my thoughts wandering back there. I mean, that jerk will probably forget that he ever even made a comment like that, but what is the likelihood that the victim of his cruelty will forget that anytime soon?

I swear, I know I'm not perfect and that I sometimes make comments about peoples' wigs or whatever, but I hope that I would never sink so low as to make such a cruel and cutting remark to another human being's face like that! Man, this pisses me off!

Hey, this is like my 4th entry of the day, even though it is the first one you see. Read on for more lighthearted subject matter.

Great Christmas T-Shirts

I received the "Jackass" T-shirt and the "S'up Fool" T-shirt for Christmas. The "Where's my Bitches" T-shirt was custom-made for my friend, Meg. There are some great shirts on this site. Check it out. tshirtsthatsuck.com

Aveda Shopping Spree...Thanks Lauren, John, Meg and Jon!

I was delighted this Christmas to receive two very generous gift certificates to the Aveda salons. One certificate came from my sister, Lauren and her husband John, and the other from my girl Meg and her fiance Jon.

I freakin' love Aveda and wasted no time in rushing right to the Aveda shop in Harvard Square to stock up on my supplies. I had run completely out of my beautiful Verbena lip gloss and my beloved Purifying Gel Cleanser, so I made a Bee line to those shelves to recover those products. I also picked up a moisturizer, a toner, and exfoliant. I have a little bit of each of these products left, but decided it would be better to use the gift cards on backups for those items rather than experiment with something I'll never use, like disco-ball silver eyeshadow. I never use eyeshadow anyway.

The people in there are always trying to get me to "open up my eyes" with some purple eyeshadow. I'm all set with that. I have a huge phobia of anything or anybody touching my eyes, so that immediately rules out permitting an 18 year-old named Brittney to come at me with a mascara wand.

Anyway, I am delighted to have these products restocked and readily available. Thanks to my peeps, Lauren, John, Meg and Jon for these most generous gifts.

I highly recommend any Aveda skin products (although Lauren, a certified cosmetologist, claims that the presence of botanical extracts in Aveda products can act as an irritant to people with sensitive skin..although my skin is quite sensitive and I've never had a problem with Aveda), if you're in the market to try some new skincare. The hair stuff is also supposedly very good, but the only time I actually used it was when I went on a cruise several years ago. My friend and I decided, on our first night in Miami (we spent a few days there before getting on the cruise), to go have a drink or two by the hotel pool. One or two drinks turned into one or two HUNDRED drinks. I was on the strawberry daiquiris and I'm usually a straight-up beer girl. Needless to say, I was as sick as a dog following that little soiree of drunkenness. I awoke at around 5 in the morning with a banging headache and decided that maybe a shower would make me feel more refreshed. I also decided to wash my wig while I was at it. The Aveda products can sometimes smell very medicinal, and this particular shampoo had a very strong scent. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have appreciated the strong, almost antiseptic smell of it, but all I grew to associate that scent with was the worst hangover a human being could ever have.

That was my last tango with Aveda shampoo. It was so revolting to me, in fact, that I left the entire bottle of it behind at the hotel. My friend said she would take it, but then, in anticipation of the tiny rooms on the cruise ship, she decided it would be best not to use it on the trip. Very kind of her.

Oh, and another time I made use of some gift certificates to have my hair foiled at Aveda. The color looked beautiful...for a week. About 8 days after having it done, it looked as if I hadn't been to a salon in years. I went in to ask about getting a touch up or a re-do, and I had the receipt in my hand showing that the procedure had been done just a week before. They claimed that was the "inherent risk" some clients faced when getting their hair foiled with Aveda's line of non-chemical hair color treatments.

Come on now! Let's not act all concerned about being "natural" when people are paying half a year's salary to have their hair colored. And let's not pretend to be all concerned with the environment when half the clients are knocking over entire display cases of product with the 45 foot trains on their fur coats!

Oh well, I restate my belief in Aveda skincare products, and robustly recommend them to anybody who wants a glowing complexion. However, for hair color, go to your local Target and pick up a pack of Crayola finger paints. The color is likely to last longer!

Anyway, thanks again to my generous gift-givers! Next time I see you, I'll be radiant and without blemish. Promise!

Scenes from the Mall

People, join me in allowing the jean jacket to rest in peace. I was at the mall yesterday and couldn't believe how many ill-fitting, relic of the 80's, in-many-cases acid washed jean jackets I saw. Yes, just so that there are no questions, this blog is being written in 2005. I know it can be rough to let go of a good thing, but seriously, let's join hands and get each other through this. I know it will be a pretty intense mourning period, but you know what, let's just face our grief now rather than put it off until later. It always sucks to go through the pain, but my personal philosophy is that it is better to get it over with and make it water under the bridge and move on now. Why let the elephant continue to inhabit the room?

Go ahead, say it out loud. The jean jacket is dead. Go on, get a kleenex. Let it all out. Don't stifle your emotions. Go on, the tears are a good thing.

And while we're at it, let's just get our our scissors and make those mullets a thing of the past, too.

Please, join me in eradicating these fashion maladies!

We're Gonna Fly Like An Eagle...With Two Broken Wings

I woke up this morning at 8:00 AM. Although this is quite early for somebody who has the day, nay entire week, off, but for me, this could well qualify as sleeping in. We teachers are up each day at the crack of dawn. By 8:00 AM, I am already picking up my homeroom and rearing to face another daylong bout with the trials and tribulations that are inherent to working with teenagers.

I fell asleep before 10:00 PM, so I had a very good night's sleep for myself. I felt very refreshed and recharged, except for my neck, which was screaming at me for another 800 mg dose of ibuprofin.

I got up, gathered my gym stuff, and finally set about the task of assembling the items I needed to return to LL Bean via mail, and a package containing a gift for my friend Suzanne's little girl. The pathetic thing is that some of the items needing to be returned to LL Bean had been ordered back in the summer, and I bought the gift for the little girl on my day-after-Thanksgiving shopping spree. Does this indicate how much I hate to face the post office.

But, I figured, what the hell? I have the day off, it was early enough, and since the Christmas rush is clearly over, the lines couldn't be that bad, right?

I walked in and saw that the woman behind the counter was standing there idle. I thought I must be dreaming. Clearly there couldn't be just me in the post office. The reality of the situation settled in fast and furiously, however, when I realized that I had just entered the building on the opposite side to where the line formed. The woman was only unoccupied behind the counter because she had just finished with one customer and was waiting for another to approach the window.

There were only about 6 people in line, though, and seeing as where the man and woman in front of me were all but copulating right there in the middle of the Union Square Post Office, I assumed they must be in line together, and therefore estimated that although there were 6 people in front of me, only 5 transactions were to be made before me. I looked at my watch. 8:58 AM. Great. I had a class at the gym starting at 10:00. The walk from the post office to the gym should only take 25 or so minutes, so I figured I had at least a half hour to get out of the post office and still have enough time to walk to the gym. Great!

I became somewhat nervous when the customer who had just approached the window on my arrival unloaded two shopping bags worth of small packages to be mailed, all to various locations around the globe. Considering that most of his communication with the English speaking postal worker involved smoke signals, interpretive dance and sign language, I could only assume that the items were being shipped overseas, and therefore would involve lots of forms and papers, none of which he seemed to have prepared ahead of time. Not only that, but the postal worker told the man that the items were packaged in domestic postal boxes, and had to be repackaged and obviously, therefore, readdressed. I have encountered this problem, myself, many times. I hardly ever just get it right when sending packages overseas, and am often relegated to a side table to readdress and repack items. The postal workers have never allowed me to perform all those foolish tasks right there at the window, holding up the rest of the line. But today, well, today was different. The woman started helping the customer open his gifts, repack them, fill out the paperwork, etc. Then she noticed that he was sending bottles of ibuprofin in his packages, and produced another pile of paperwork to be filled out. The couple in front of me, by this point going at it hot and heavy, put down their yellow bubble wrap and left, presumably to go buy an EPT kit. I think the woman left her bra right there on the floor. Anyway, by this time, the line is snaking several times over around the entire post office and tensions are rising.

The repackaging of the biomedical hazardous toxins was finally complete and we all started to breathe a sigh of relief. But, not so fast there, buckaroo. The customer now reports that SIX WEEKS ago he received a notice saying that he had a special delivery to pick up at the post office. When the postal worker asked him to produce the notice, HE DIDN'T HAVE IT...OF COURSE! Instead of telling the guy to buzz off, the postal worker takes another several moments looking for the thing out back.

Meanwhile, there was movement behind a second window and the people in line were getting all excited. Finally, at long last, the transaction with the guy was done. I looked at my watch. 9:37. He had been up there for 39 minutes! As he backed away from the window, everybody in line broke into spontaneous applause. I'm not joking! The second window was flung open as another postal worker came on to receive customers. Another round of applause. However, no sooner had the second woman opened her window, than the first woman, (the one who had just spent 39 minutes with the idiot with the 34 packages), announced, "Sorry folks, I'm closed. Morning break." I am glad everybody laughed out loud instead of getting mad. It was really funny, though, that everybody simultaneously started laughing. One guy in the line yelled out, "Ok, where's the hidden camera?" Some young kid yelled out, "Have we just been Punk'd?"

I finally got my two boxes taken care of. It took one minute. I was forced, however, to take a bus to the gym rather than walk. That stunk.

I got to the gym for the 11:00 class. The woman who usually teaches, Maria, is a phenomenal step instructor, but she is constantly out. Apparently she has about 7 kids, and each week, one or the other of them comes down with some rare disease usually only found in the deepest depths of the Amazon basin, but which somehow crops up in her suburban Lexington home to afflict her kids. I think she's off skiing, in reality. Every time she returns from nursing her sick young back to health, she has an ace bandage around her knee and a suntan/windburn that can only come from hurtling down a double back diamond trail at full throttle.

The substitute instructor was OK, but her class was so painfully boring. Dreadfully boring, in fact. She went over the same three second routine throughout the whole hour. It made the class seem soooooooo long. I mean, don't get me wrong, I was sweating my ass off by the end of the thing, but it just seemed like I was there forever and ever.

When I wash finished working out, I was getting ready to leave in the locker room. It was pretty funny because this woman came in and she had this massive duffel bag with her. There could only have been a dead body in there. It was that big and heavy. Anyway, for some reason, she chose to take a locker in the most crowded locker bay, and she chose the locker that was the wedged into the furthest corner of the bay. I guess that's what you do when you are hiding a dead body in your bag. On her way in, she hit every one of us with her bag, literally knocking one tiny woman right over onto a nearby bench. The woman who got knocked over hadn't seen it coming and let out a little surprised yelp. The bitch who hit her just turned stared at her, and then turned around and proceeded to go about her business. No apology. Cambridge people. The girl who had been knocked over just laughed out loud. We all followed. This still elicited no response from the woman who knocked the girl over.

From the gym, I went over to Anna's Taqueria to meet my mom for lunch. It was nice to hang out with her. In fact, its nice to just be outside during the day. Ahh....so this is what people with real jobs do. They get to leave their places of business to go have lunch with friends. Not I. I spent most of my 25 minute lunch break disciplining kids, chasing AWOL kids around the school, policing who stole lunch tickets from whom, and curbing the illegal trafficking of said stolen lunch tickets.

Anyway, I had planned to walk back to Harvard Square, but decided, instead, to take the bus down to the Galleria mall to see if I could take advantage of any of these fabulous post-holiday sales I'd heard so much about.

Boston has the oldest pubilc transportation system in the country. I can see being proud of this achievement of mass transport pioneering and wanting to be somewhat traditional, but still...perhaps the state could think about not having the same busses, trains and routes that were available at the time of the T's inception. The bus schedules are probably good for lining your bird cage, but otherwise, I can't think of much use for them. They certainly don't indicate the correct times at which busses and trains will show up. I can't tell you how many times I've arrived at the stop 5 minutes before the bus is supposed to be there, only to see it pulling away. I've had experiences where I'm standing at the stop and the driver speeds on by. And then there is the joy of waiting for hours and hours in the freezing cold for a bus that just never comes. Most busses run on a 15 to 20 minute interval (allegedly), but I have waited more than an hour for busses, which means they are missing 3 to 4 cycles of busses on the route. Last year, we had this massive snow storm, which resulted in an entire week off of school for us. I had been staying with a friend the night of the storm. When I got up the next day, I decided to take the bus home. There was little choice as the train in that area is above ground and was not running. I waited for TWO HOURS AND FOUR MINUTES and it was less than 5 degrees outside. How I still have all my digits and toes remains a mystery.

Anyway, today, the schedule indicated that the bus would be there at 12:55. It showed up at 1:35. Forty more minutes spent waiting today. When the bus came, I just walked right by the driver without paying. It seemed as if he was about to say something, but when he realized that the woman behind me and the man behind her were also not making any moves for their wallets, he backed off and chose to keep his pie hole shut. Good move.

I was disappointed to find that the sales at the mall were not as great as I thought they would be. There were a few good sales on at Ann Taylor, but everything that appealed to me was only available in size XS. Maybe I should have bought three or four of each and sewn them together. Please people! The reason all the XS garments are left is because nobody fucking wears size XS. Just a reality check to Ann Taylor, inc. But they are not the only guilty party. The Gap was also pushing size XS in every garment, in addition to size 00 jeans. Size 00? What the hell is that? Something for paper dolls? Certainly that is not made for 3 dimensional beings?

Whatever.

I had myself mentally prepared for the crowds at the mall. I knew there would be lines, bumping and shoving, slamming doors in peoples faces, cutting in line, etc.

Still, though, seeing all those behaviors in real life never ceases to amaze me.

One of my first stops was in Old Navy. They had jeans on sale for 20 dollars and I decided to pick up a pair. Why not? I was in line behind a woman who had a bag and nothing else. Obviously she was there to conduct a return. When her turn came in the line, she just thrusted the bag at the cashier and didn't say a single word. So, not only did she not say good morning, but she didn't even feel the need to tell the cashier that she was making an exchange (which may have been obvious, but still, come on..how much energy does it take to treat a fellow human being like, well, a fellow human being?), nor did she feel the need to even go so far as to remove the item from the bag to present to the cashier. The customer went through the entire transaction without speaking a word to the cashier and when the cashier said, "Thanks and have a nice day." the customer just turned on her heel and walked away. Did this woman feel that this young lady working at Old Navy was beneath her and not even worthy of the utterance of a single syllable in her direction? Christ!

I was buying a scarf at HM and this lady just walked right in front of me in the line. No joking. No confusion. I was right there, waiting to buy my scarf. There was one customer in front of me. She was called to the next available register, and this newly arrived customer just walked right up and occupied her space, right in front of me.

I can't count the number of times I stepped out of walkways to let people who were advancing from the opposite direction and showing no signs of slowing down or ceding the pathway to me. Now, I was not in any hurry and I certainly have no objection to letting people walk by. But I do object to people not even acknowledging that I've done so and not even saying thanks. Although I was pretty good about not confronting the line cutter in HM and the rude be-hotch in Old Navy, I did indeed shout, "you're welcome" to all the for whom I held doors or cleared walking paths and from whom I received not even the briefest of apologies.

Ahhhh....back at home. Safe and sound.

I won't be kissing anybody tonight...and other news flashes that are equally unlikely to change the course of you life...

I woke up this morning with the most debilitating neck pain I have ever experienced in my life. My neck was sore yesterday, but I ignored it, popped a few Advil, worked out at the gym, saw a movie with Becky, and then went over to visit with a friend. In all, a pretty productive day. The neck pain was only the most minor of inconveniences, really. Hardly noticed it.

However, when I woke up this morning, I was literally lying there whimpering in pain. I could barely lift my upper body from the bed. No matter what position in tried to recline into, I could not get comfortable. The pain honestly was taking my breath away.

I got up really early because it seemed to me that the worst thing would be to fall back asleep, further inhibit motion to the area, and become even stiffer than I obviously already was.

It was just after six when I set out of my apartment to take a walk somewhere...anywhere. I just had to get the blood flowing. I was bummed out when I opened the door and discovered a cruel, winter, whipping wind ready to tear right through me. I didn't care. I knew I had to get out.

I walked to Davis Square (half hour walk) and had a coffee at the neighborhood Lesbian cafe. Let me qualify that. The place was originally established as a Lesbian coffee house. That particular neighborhood is a big draw for the girls. When it opened, years ago, I didn't know what to expect. But I, along with everybody else, soon caught on to the fact that gay or straight, male or female, you'll be happier at this place than any other in the neighborhood. There are several reasons for this..
A. This coffee shop seems more relaxed than others in the area by default. The local Starbucks is just way too pretentious. The customers are the type to sit there all day long, pontificating about the obvious superiority of rice milk to soy milk. They all sit there with their Apple iBooks open on their tables, pretending to be graphic artists. Hmmm...note their presence in Starbucks as opposed to in an office. Gets ya askin' yourself a few questions, doesn't it? I once saw this total jackass come into Starbucks, (you know the kind, with the wool cap on in the middle of a 89 degree day in August), and when he couldn't find a free power outlet among the many made available to customers, he literally got on his hands and knees and crawled behind the coffee prep area and started groping around for an outlet. I was ordering my coffee and the barista got a little freaked out when she heard this disembodied voice (complete with pretentious cheerleader/college student/valley girl cadence) calling out, "Ah, do you think I could just sneak this cord into an outlet back here?" What the HELL is up with people asking if they can SNEAK stuff? They are obviously doing it in full view and completely overtly. Why do they feel they need to ask to sneak something? Did something permit them to labor under the false delusion that this is cute and likely to sway the person of whom the request is being made? I don't get it. Anyway, moving on. The other locally run coffee shop in the area, called the Someday Cafe is even more pretentious than the Starbucks. You have be under the impression that you're a poet (the more Spleen to which you can lay claim, the better), an artist (the more your artwork looks like the handywork of a two year-old the better), designer (the more days in a row that you wear your alleged fashion designs, the better), or film maker (the more grim and angst ridden the plot of your film, the better.) You have to have one of the following items on your person in order to even gain entrance into the someday: A well worn folk guitar, an art kit complete with overused color pastels, clothing covered with paint stains (from painting "PIECES" and not houses, thank you very much), or a CD from some band named The Canned Ham Bonanza or the Infected Toe Nail or something else nobody has ever heard of. At least in the Lesbian coffee shop, you can just walk in without worrying that you don't have the right costume or props and you certainly do not have to worry about being pulled into a discussion about the virtues of bean curd burgers. The people working in there may walk to the beat of their own respective drummers, but still, they don't look down their noses at people like me, whose edgiest wardrobe pieces come straight from the Gap.
B. The Lesbian coffeehouse is, relatively speaking, cleaner than the others. I'm a little freaked out by the fabric furnitures (sofas, easy chairs, etc.) found in some coffee houses. You know there are toddlers sitting there, spilling milk all over these things, mothers breastfeeding their 8 year-olds to help them wash down the FUCKING BAGEL THEY JUST TOASTED, SLICED AND BUTTERED THEMSELVES, and people with every critter and creepy crawler known to bacteriologists clamoring around in their wigs and clothes. All of these things are being regularly deposited into these sofas and couches and I just can't get comfortable sitting in them. I don't want to go in to get a coffee and walk out with Asian Bird Flu or some other equally dangerous colony of protozoa taking up residence in my clothes. I'm all set with that. Give me a wooden or plastic chair that I can at least fool myself into thinking is being rinsed down on a regular basis. Most of the seats in the Lesbian cafe are plastic, so I can relax while I enjoy my coffee and bagel and not worry about contracting malaria from the velvet setee located before the faux fireplace. True, the seats in Dunkin Donuts are also plastic, and the people in that particular Dunks keep the place pretty clean, but I'm gonna hold off on going in there to lounge around because there's always some elderly man with whooping cough, or a mother of 6 kids, each of whom has picked up a rare tropical disease at day care that day, waiting for the bus inside the doorway.
C. The Lesbian coffee house just has better coffee than the other places. And their bagels and other food selections are pretty good, too.

Anyway, back on to the other useless tidbits of news that I, for some reason, feel compelled to share.

I called Lauren and she told me she and Al and Caroline were going to Target. I joined them, and we had a slice of pizza at Pappa Gino's afterwards, much to Al's delight. Lauren and I have this strange thing where we sometimes feel badly for people of a certain age working in less than glamorous jobs. For example, the man working at the register at Pappa Gino's today, was a very nice gentleman nearing, I'd guess 55 years of age. I guess I don't go into fast food places that often, but when I do go in, and I see some high school or college kid working there, I think nothing of it. I mean, I did my share of crap jobs when I was younger and looking to make a few bucks, too. But when I see an older adult in one of those jobs, I wonder if they are happy there. I wonder if there are decent benefits or retirement plans. Do their bosses treat them like crap? I feel badly enough when I see some retail jerk boss telling a kid employee off, but it is really horrible to see one of these older workers "get in trouble" by the 19 year-old manager. I get to thinking about all kinds of things. Is this guy happy working here? Does he have any other options? Are they making his life here pleasant? I went up, at one point, because we ordered a child's meal for Al and he didn't give us her toy or her ice cream. I figured he might not have been sure that the meal was for a little kid because Al and I were seated at the back of the restaurant when Lauren ordered the food. I just asked him if I could grab the ice cream and toy and he was profusely apologetic for not having given it to us in the first place. I didn't even care. It wasn't a big deal. I was a little embarrassed that this guy, obviously quite a few years my senior, was all humbling himself to me. And then, of course, another big question that nags at me when I have these thoughts...is it really bitchy and mean for me to have these thoughts? Is it mean of me to think that because I would not want that kind of job for my life, that it is "sad" or "wrong" for somebody else to do it?

Profound thought of the day.

At Target I bought a "ponytail" plant and some pots to replant a few of my potbound plants. I was happy to get that taken care of.

I came home, popped a flexaril for my neck, and took a three hour nap. I was surprised. I never nap.

I got up just before 4 and thought about going to the gym for my 4:30 class, but my neck is still too stiff and I don't want to push it.

I felt gross though, because even after having a Papa Gino's salad and half of Al's pizza slice, I was kind of hungry again. Of course, we had eaten at around 11:00 AM. I didn't exercise all day, so I didn't want to overdo any junk food or anything.

I have a Hungarian friend introduced me to the art of salad making as she practices it. The key ingredient, I swear, is the scallion. I usually shy away from garlic big time because I hate the garlic breath, but I'm totally hooked on her scallion-laden salads. The salad consists mainly of green and orange bell pepper, tomato, cheese (I use crumbled goat cheese), and avocado. I also add some artichoke hearts and corn. It is delicious, and basically guilt-free. I did use a little olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette, but still...

Anyway, back to the title of this entry..after all these scallions, it is certainly lucky that I won't be kissing anybody tonight!

Peace out, Chumps!

The True Meaning of Christmas.....Family and Flamable Snakes

I've just returned home after a lovely visit to my Aunt Julie and Uncle Paul's house. I should backtrack a little bit and say that I spent yesterday (Christmas Eve) at my parents' place because, well, after an evening of belly-busting gluttony and gift-exchange, the last thing I actually wanted to do was try to button my jeans back up to face the public and head home. So, I stayed there on my mother's very comfortable sofa. I am always happy to stay overnight at my mother's house becuase I can turn into an utter TV junkie and unabashedly watch hours upon hours of cable stations I don't have, or order up a marathon of "Sex and The City" episodes with On Demand.

Of course, the trade off is that I had to get up bright and early to see Al open her gifts from Santa. But this is a labor of love. Al is such a great kid, and seeing her squeal with delight as she opened her presents was a gift in and of itself. She would periodically exclaim, "Oh My Goodness", or "Oh, how cute!" when opening up a gift. The best moment, by far, was when she realized that the huge gift bag in the center of the living room contained the purple princess bike she had been asking for for the past three months. She was so overcome and so impatient to get at the thing, that instead of letting my sister pull it out of the bag for her, she actually climbed in the bag with it. Now how could a few more hours' of sleep compete with that???

My family celebrates the bulk of the Christmas bonanza on Christmas Eve. We started doing this back when we were older teenagers and could not be bothered with waking up at 4 AM to open gifts. We have been doing it this way ever since. Now that there are little kids in the picture again, it makes sense for the adults to exchange gifts the night before. Christmas morning with the kiddies is just too confusing!

My family members were extremely generous, as always. My parents gave me a plethora of gift certificates to local stores and markets, and my sister and brother-in-law spoiled me with a very decadant gift certificate to my beloved Aveda store. On top of the certificate, they begifted me with my hands-down favorite "purifying gel cleanser." My shower this morning was luxurious!

This morning, there was a beautiful necklace for me under the tree! How exciting. Al had been saying all along that Santa was going to bring Auntie a boo-ful necklace, and sure enough, right there under the tree, there was the most boo-ful necklace this Auntie had ever seen!

I headed home shortly after breakfast (the total calories of which Bill Gates himself could not possibly compute). My intention was to do some cleaning. I have not been home much in the past week, and everytime I walk through the door, I seem to have a new bag to dump on the table. There was a Mount Fuji of Target items forming in my beautiful new table. As Carol Brady would say, it was really "gnawing at my craw." I really wanted to clear it up.

At any rate, I managed to get the mountain significantly pared down. It now looks like a gently rolling hill of Target crap residing on my table. Better than Fuji. I wanted to continue on my cleaning crusade, but then I spotted my exercise equipment in the corner, and was guilted into working out. Once again, I spent an hour of my life with those southern belle bitches in "The Firm", but it was worth it. Especially when I was eating chocolates at my sister's place later on. And especially when I was washing down those chocolates with a gallon of peppermint stick ice cream at my Aunt's place. How could I say no to peppermint stick??

After working out, I returned to my mother's house for an early dinner. Do you see the food theme developing here? Keep reading if you need more to work with. I'm sure the subject of holiday waist-expansion will rear its ugly head at least once more in this blog!

Following dinner, Lauren, John and I broke open the VH1 I-Love-The-80s game I gave Lauren for Christmas. It was actually pretty funny. How often do subjects like kangaroo sneakers, Bon Jovi, Mili Vanili, Full House, William the Refrigerator Perrry, Geraldine Ferraro, Gerry Falwell, The Carebears and the blockbuster Pretty in Pink all come up within the course of one hour's worth of conversation? With the exception of Bon Jovi, whom I discuss for a minimum of 34 minutes daily, it had been at least a week since I'd thought about or discussed the other topics. And I certainly had mentioned only two or three of them in the same conversation. Never all at once!

We busted up the game because Lauren et al had to head over to her in-laws place. I hung out and watched a few more hours worth of mindless television. I tuned in to the Discovery Health station, where a show on medical mysteries was airing. Crazy crap. A woman who took a common antibiotic and subsequently lost all her skin (no joke!), a guy who sprouted a HORN from his arm, a woman with lobster claw like hands, and a pregnant man. I have to congratulate the programming manager over there for his impeccable taste in Christmas day scheduling.

Anyway, over at my Aunt's house, I had a really great time. Everybody was pretty mellow at first. Once again, the food-induced coma usually starts to manifest itself around that early evening time of Christmas day. We enjoyed bringing gifts to my gorgeous 3 year-old cousin Brier. The little girl thinks she's a princess. As far as I can tell, she is absolutely right! That child is beautiful. She's so funny and bright and she really enjoyed her gifts.

Something got us on the topic of Little House on the Prarie. I guess that topic is never really too far outside of anybody's realm of daily thought, so it shouldn't surprise me that much.

We quickly moved onto the more specific topic of naming our favorite guest characters, or perhaps I should call them minor characters as opposed to guest characters.

Reesie expressed a fondness for the Ape Child. The Ingalls family claimed they were going to take care of the child and adopt him as their own. In his debut episode, the child had his unruly wig shorn, and was given a hand-tailored blouse and pair of gouchos fresh from Caroline's needle. However, Reesie shared her disappointment at the fact that this child never appeared in another episode. Perhaps the ratings were unfavorable? Perhaps Pa was afraid of having his highly acclaimed dramatic scenes upstaged by this undoubtedly talented actor. Perhaps he got Iziah drunk at the local saloon, and then convinced him that the kid was an advancing bear, thus prompting Iziah to take aim with his shotgun. And we all know that Iziah was the pioneer equivalent of a modern-day sharp shooter. That kid was as good as dead! Reesie went on to praise the performance of Jason Bateman, who portrayed the unforgettable James, who was accepted into the loving embrace of the Ingalls family without so much as a second thought.

Pam waxed nostalic for the child who had the short leg, and for whom Pa fashioned a special shoe with a much thicker sole, so as to even the child's gait. Forgive us for not knowing the child's name. How much do we want to bet that Lauren will have a comment with the kids first, last, middle and social? Prior to Pa's futuristic achievements in the field of orthopedic walking aids, the little girl was the vicim of the hurtful jeers and mocking of the other children of Walnut Grove. Pam was right to condemn Nelly Olson's further taunting of the child when Nelly bullied the child into removing the special shoe in order to wade in Plum Creek. This, of course, served as a cruel reminder to the onlookers that this child was nothing but a gimp, and would always be nothing but a pathetic gimp, even with Pa's marvels of orthopedic engineering.

After the reminder of Nelly's cruelty, I was hoping for a more humorous interlude in the conversation, but Julie further darkened the mood by calling to memory Sylvia, the little girl who was raped by the circus clown. As if we weren't freaked out enough about clowns as it is. That was a very traumatizing episode, but I always took comfort in the fact that Albert, himself a morphine addict and therefore completely personally unstable, offered to take care of Sylvia and her bastard child. That was very moving and it just reminded us that even though James was the cuter of the adopted Ingalls boys, Albert was, in spite of his narcotic dependancy, the REAL adopted Ingalls boy. James just couldn't measure up. If given the opportunity to help poor Sylvia, James would undoubtedly have turned his back and taken the next stagecoach to Sleepy Eye where he would take up residence in one of those inns featuring women of ill-repute.

Pam then took the conversation down a different path by discussing which of the characters on Little House she would like to be. Sure, you probably think she went for the obvious. Did she want to be little Half Pint, always so cute and mature beyond her years? What about beautiful, blue-eyed blonde Mary? The heroic Charles? No, her logic went much deeper than that. Pam said that she would be Grace. Julie reminded her that Grace was killed in the blind school fire, caused by Albert's selfish indulgance of a few cigarette puffs in the basement, and that she should be Harriet, the woman saved by Grace. Pam said she would rather go down in a blaze of glory, such as was Grace's fate, rather than live on with the shroud of survivor's guilt forever hovering overhead, as was the case with Harriet.

At one point, Reesie proffered her opinon that Iziah might be gay. Pam jumped to Iziah's defense, asserting, "There wasn't a gay bone in Iziah's body." To back Pam up, I reminded them all that Iziah was often fond of advertising the fact that he combed his hair with a wagon wheel. What gay man would do that? Reesie accepted our logic and, much to my relief, dropped this ill-conveived theory.

Bobby was feeling left out of the converstaion as he was never much of a Little House fan. Understandably, he felt the need to shift the converstaion into somewhat of a more personal comfort zone. To that end, he bagan to discuss the summer that Lauren and I spent up there at the Tarpey abode in York, Maine. The Summer of Infamy, as it were!

Now that was a crazy summer!

I was 11 and Lauren was 13.

That summer, I was the object of one of the neighbor's childhood crush. I believe the kid's name was Shane Pokenis. There were about 7 sons in the Pokenis family, all of whom had first names starting with the letter S. Several weeks ago, Reesie informed me that this family won the lottery and picked up and moved out of the area. This was years ago.

Tonight, Reesie began to rehash that story, obviously thinking it old news to all involved. Bobby nearly lept from the Masterpiece Theatre Rocker upon hearing the news. He hadn't heard the lottery tales. However interesting Bobby found the story, he had to question its veracity. You see, he has a conflicting theory as to what happened to this mystery family. He claimed the mother, having had enough of their tobacco-chewing asses, escaped to Florida. The woman's peace was apparently short-lived because, according to Bobby, the husband and sons found out where she was and headed down to Florida to be with her. I reckon Reesie and Bobby will get on the case of trying to figure out the true story. I would advise them to start with the mental hospitals in Florida, for if that crew hunted me down in spite of my best efforts to ditch them, that's where I'd end up!

We were having a few laughs about all the crazy things we did that summer. One of our favorite activities was to save up the money my aunt would give us to go to the beach and buy cold drinks or ice creams in order to buy packages of snaps, ash snake tablets, matches, lighters, and other paraphanalia (spelling?) with which to start fires. (Sure, we were often thirsty on the beach because we didn't spend our beverage money of beverages, but shit, don't believe the hype, if you're thirsty enough, a nice big sip of salt water will do you fine!)

Every day, we would claim that we were taking a walk to the top of the hill to visit the neighbors. Hogwash! We were actually going up there to satiate our thirst for arson!

We wouldn't just light one of the snake tablets on fire. That would not provide us with enough of a rush. We started off by lighting two or three at a time. When that got old, we'd do an entire package. When that bored us, we would light the whole package, box and all. Eventually, we were throwing multiple boxes of snakes into the flame. Nothing was sacred. We burned jelly shoes, rubber bracelets, my Aunt and Uncle's junk mail...anything that was flammable was good enough for us.

This activity has gone down in the annals of our personal history as "Big Flame!"

Now, all summer long, we did this. Bobby was still a little guy, but he was curious as to what we were up to. Eventually, caving into his plantive cries about being constantly left behind, we swore him to secrecy and brought him along. We didn't want to think too long about it, because if we really stopped to analyze our decision to let him come along, we certainly would have reasoned against it and ditched him at home.

Lauren, Reesie, Fwiz and Julie (a special guest that weekend, and an eager participant in "Big Flame!"), all had on sneakers and socks or other substantial footwear. Bobby barely had time to put on his flimsy Transformer flip-flops. And he certainly did not have time to change out of his Super Man pajames (complete with cape.) As usual, the geniuses that we were, we began a flame right in the woods. This day was particularly dry and hot, and we naturally panicked when the flame started to get a little out of control. Again, we girls were all in protective footwear, but, for some reason, we all started spontaneously shouting for Bobby to stomp out the flame, which he did swiftly and deftly. He probably saved my Aunt and Uncle's property, to be quite honest. We lauded his heroics, but saw no reason to apologize to this small child for forcing him to step on an open forest fire with bare feet. Maybe it was the Super Man outfit that made us think he was up for the job. He didn't seem to mind, so we didn't force the issue. It was a little awkward, however, later in the day, when Auntie Mary found his melted Transformer flip-flops beside the garage door. Bobby was always an obedient kid; he stomped out open flames with bare feet when ordered to do so, and he always made sure to leave his shoes, melted flip-flops and sneakers alike, outside the garage door.

Bobby was unflappable when confronted by his mother. "They must have been out in the Sun too long" he said nonchalantly, the ash stains still visible on this blistered toes.

We thought we were pretty lucky that she didn't question us further. We thought we were pretty smart, that we'd duped my Aunt and Uncle all summer.

It turns out, years later, she confessed the truth. She and her neighbor, Gloria Shaw, who between the two of their homes, had sweeping views of the entire neighborhood, knew exactly what we were up to all summer long. When we headed up the hill, in clear view of Gloria's window, she would call my aunt, and the two of them would sit and drink coffee while talking on the phone and watching us engage in petty larson from their respective windows. Mr. Shaw would often have a bucket of water on hand in the event that he had to run up the hill and bail us out. Fortunatley, thanks to Bobby's bravery and willingness to put out a fire with his bare feet, no such emergency rescues were required of Mr. Shaw.

What does any of this have to do with Christmas, you may ask?

Everything. It has everything to do with Christmas.

If it weren't Christmas today, we would not all have convened at my aunt's place. It took the whole group of us to "add fuel" (pardon the pun) to these stories and to help us collectively relive them. It wasn't a fancy Christmas, but it was a fun one, and that's all that counts.

Thanks to Lauren, John, Reesie, Bobby, Pam, Julie, Karen, Maryanne and anybody else who brought the past alive this Christmas. Hopefully there will be a lot more future fun for us to relive again and again at Christmastimes to come!

Merry Christmas!

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I think I've been a pretty good girl this year, so I don't feel the least bit bashful about asking you for a few simple items. I always encourage to format lists as, well, lists, so as to make for easier reading. I will now follow my own advice in formatting this letter to you, dear, generous Saint Nick.

1. I am in the mood for a really nice, frosty cold beer right now. Although I would swill back a Pabst Blue Ribbon or something of equally dubious quality if I had to, I would deeply appreciate a more sophisticated, more high-quality German-brewed libation. Perhaps a nice Hacker-Pschorr or a Spaten. I know these beers can be a little more pricey than the aforementioned PBR, but I think Jerry's in Union Square might be running a deal. I am pretty sure you're sleigh will be passing by there tonight. I think it might be worth making a stop. I hear Jerry isn't really known for leaving out snacks like cookies and milk. But I'm sure he'd at least leave you a bag of wasabi peas or pork rinds and a bottle of stout. What do you think, Santa? Does that sound do-able?

2. I would love to have buns of steel like the woman who hosts the video of the same name, but I would like to have this physical attribute without having to actually perform any of the exercises. Is this within your realm of possibility? If not, you could always get me a voucher for a Beverly Hills Plastic Surgeon and the airline ticket to get me to and from the surgery. While I'm at it, my boobs could use a little lift. And I have the beginnings of little wrinkles around my eyes....Just write the surgeon a blank check, if you don't mind, come to think of it.

3. The ability to wrap Christmas gifts so that they do not look like they were done by a blind, drunk man who had no means of cutting the paper other than his one jagged tooth, and who just so happened to be in the throes of a major 9 day bender when he decided to undertake the gift-wrapping project.

4. A lifetime supply of products from my favorite companies. Aveda, Origins, Gap, Lucky Jeans, LLBean, EMS come to mind.

5. A psychic ability to know what everybody on my shopping list wants, and where I can obtain these items at their cheapest prices.

6. An ability to shed the desire to actually cave in and get a remote control for my TV. I secretly enjoy the fact that I can say I don't have one, but I also secretly wish I had one so I could just indulge in another degree of laziness.

7. Full knowledge of how to use my beautiful iMac computer to its full potential. I know there are things this computer can do, and places it can go, and that I, in my ignorance of computers in general, am not even tapping into its full power. What is that you say? I could read the manuals and watch the video clips of instructions that clearly demonstrate how to use all the features? Yeah, but that would require work. If you haven't already learned, I like to gain the benefits of hard work without actually doing the work.

8. A self-cleaning apartment.

9. Lifetime supply of Diet Pepsi. Ability to sleep soundly even after putting a major dent in my lifetime supply of this highly-caffienated beverage.

10. To be better organized.

11. A classroom full of perfect, stepford children.

12. To restore Bill Clinton back to the Presidency. Hey, say what you will about the guy (and I know my republican family members will do just that), but this lone democrat in the crowd is a huge admirer of Bill Clinton. I know Monica was a bad decision, but really, did that particular bad decision affect millions? OK, this is a politics-free zone. Sorry, sorry, sorry!!!

13. A chia head onto which I could transplant a few of Al's gorgeous curls and have a head-full of my own!

14. Permanent hair dye that would eliminate the need of touchups and re-foils!

15. A private performance by Jovi right in my living room. (Yes, a MUSICAL performance...get your minds out of the gutter people!)

16. A red Toyota Echo and a complete eradication of my reluctance to drive.

17. Chocolate that is actually good for you.

18. A huge platter of fresh sushi...right now!

19. Free iTunes whenever I want them!

20. Happiness for myself and all of you! Really!

Thoughtfulness

As a teacher, I find that I spend much more time focusing on the "bad" than the "good." This is sad, but this is often the way things have to be.

If I have to choose between writing a mid-term failure warning for one student, and writing a commendation letter home to a student who did outstanding work on a project, I hate to say that I have no choice but to opt for the first. You see, I have to "cover" myself, and make sure that I document the potential failure of students so that I have a leg to stand on if parents come to challenge me on a report card littered with F's. So, I write the failure letters home, maintain "the log" in which I document all the evil deeds of the youngsters in the class, and follow up on all of these with phone calls home. Often times, I find myself the victim of an onslaught of insults from the parents of the offenders, leaving me to wonder, when these people clearly have no respect for teachers, is it any wonder that their kids don't? I have been blamed, accused, threatened, belittled, berated, insulted, and shouted at by irate parents. I guess that people can't discern between a public servant (which, as a public school teacher, I clearly am) and public doormat (which, irrespective of my job title, I outright refuse to be.)

Let's' see, today I was called a dumb bitch by a student who didn't like that I actually had the gaul to ask him to sit out o fthe mock trial we were staging in order to get moving on getting the paper (that was due Monday) started. Note that I said, "started' and not "done." He didn't even know what the assignment was. I figured this out when he shouted over to me, 'What are we supposed to be doing here?", as one of his classmates was "testifying" on the "witness stand."

In all, I resent that these trouble-makers take so much of my time, but I have no choice but to deal with it and spend the necessary time performing the crowd control tasks.

One thing I always appreciate, as a teacher, is that those kids who are lovely and who can always be depended upon to be nice, sweet, reliable, hardworking kids, always seem to know that even though I can't spend the time commending them for their outstanding behavior and work habits, I still do appreciate everything they do.

I appreciate these kids on a really profound level. Some of them are not straight A students. Many of them struggle. Many of them find the work incredibly difficult and have a really hard time earning an A. However, they try really hard, show up to school prepared to work and learn, and always have a positive attitude. I think sometimes kids are under the impression that only the A students are valued by the teacher. Not true. I value anybody who can walk into that space and show me that they want to be there.

This week, as Christmas nears, many of my students have begun to show up with generous gifts for my colleagues and myself. I always feel badly for the kids' parents as they enter 7th and 8th grade. Prior to this year, the kids all had one class teacher, meaning parents only had to buy 1 teacher gift. Now, in 7th grade, these parents feel compelled to go out and buy 4 gifts, one for each teacher of each academic discipline.

The really moving thing is that many of these kids come from families who are struggling to put enough gifts under the tree for the kids. And yet, this does not stop them from going out and buying gifts for us.

The funny thing is that while all the gifts are generous and much appreciated, it is the ones that cost the least or are handmade that mean the most to me. I think I speak for all teachers when I express this sentiment. When I receive a very modest gift from a child, and I look at the child standing there proudly as I open the gift, I often have to fight back a tear. I know this sounds sappy, but I'm serious here. I know that it was difficult for that family to pull enough money together for that gift, and the fact that they did and that they value the role I play in the child's life enough to make sacrafices is an extremely powerful statement for them to make. It is very moving to be on the receiving end of such appreciation. Not many of our careers afford us moment like those.

I have happily doused myself in horrible perfumes, worn gaudy jewelry, and eaten my fair share of homemade cookies (all the while fully aware of the fact that the child has sneezed into the batter or licked the spoon that later turned the batter...gross, I know, but that's just what you do.) These are all occupational hazards that I accept as a blessing of this career.

Any parent who reads this should know that while teachers do not expect any gifts from their students, the fact that you think enough of us to buy us a gift or share a portion of your holiday cooking with us, or even make a thank-you card for us, means so much to us and it keeps us going.

Anyway, this year I have already received the requisite scented candles, chocolates, hand-drawn cards, snow globes, tree ornaments and body lotions. Tomorrow is our last day of school before Christmas. I am sure that I will get a stuffed animal that some little girl takes off her own bed to place in a gift bag, or a book that has clearly been read many times. I look forward to expressing my gratitude and genuine excitement over these gifts in front of these generous children.

By the way, I always make it a point to open the kids' gifts in front of them. I hated it when I was a kid and the teacher put the gift aside and didnt' open it. I also keep a stash of thank-you cards on hand, and these get sent home to the child and family the very same day.

I had better get going. I have to place a "Teachers Make the World A Better Place" lapel pin on my jacket. I also have to iron my green sweater to wear with a set of very large green earrings that I received curtosy of an 8th grade girl who was so clearly proud of her gift that I could not do anything but wear those accessories proudly tomorrow for her to see.

Pre Holiday Stress Release

Screw the holiday stress. I order you all to go out and immediately immitate the activity being enjoyed by yours sincerely in the attached photo! When in Holiday Stress, kick back with a frosty cold beverage and put all the angst out of your mind. Your Aunt Myrtle will love that box of Hershey's Pot of Gold chocolate you just picked up at Target for 4 dollars. Who cares that the box is all dented, deformed and obviously chewed through by the Target resident mice. Myrtle won't notice. Just consider all your shopping done, leave the store, and head straight to your local watering hole! Merry Christmas, Be-otches!

Yankee Swap Disasters and General Complains about Oprah

I ran the school Holiday Party for the second year in a row. Before I delve further into the subject of the party itself, let me comment upon the fact that I'm calling it "The Holiday Party" instead of "The Christmas Party." Are we becoming (or indeed, have we already become) overly P.C.? I don't know, but I don't see any harm in asking people to generalize their greetings to those they don't know well or to large groups of people. After all, we don't all celebrate the same holidays and we aren't all followers of the same religion. I guess an argument could be made in either direction. Screw it and say Merry Christmas to everybody, or play it safe and keep the greeting nondenominational. I guess after my years of working in public schools and being so preconditioned to keep things neutral and noncontroversial, I have moved more toward the P.C. end of the spectrum.

Anyway, enough about that.

More about the staff party.

I made the decision, two years ago, to help another colleague run the party. She had been running it for years, and I always felt badly that she had to do all the work alone. It really is a thankless job. It really is a pain in the neck, too. The constant reminders and chasing people down gets exhausting. The stress surrounding trying to finalize numbers to give to the restaurant and the realization that somebody is eventually going to try to stiff you is pretty stressful.

Things went smoothly. A good time was had by all and I only had three people try to stiff me out of the cash. Thank god I'm not too proud to conduct a full shake down, because this is exactly what occured on all three occasions. If any shame will be experienced, it will not be on my end. I mean, come on, who should be more ashamed, someone who is sitting there with a full plate of food that they have no intention of paying for, or the one whose pocket their full plate of food is potentially going to come from? I think we can all mutually agree that shame shall be appropriately visited upon the freeloader.

I just don't get this stuff.

As always, there was a Yankee Swap at the party. I presided over this mayhem, but not before establishing some very important ground rules.

1. Unlimited swapping of gifts. (It became necessary to establish this rule several years back when a woman who received a couple of lottery scratch tickets insisted that there was a three-trade limit on any given gift. Funny, she had obtained these tickets on the third switch. I had never heard of that rule before. Since then, the "unlimited swapping" policy has been stated both up front, on the initial party invitation, as well as before the swapping actually takes place at the party.)

2. You must keep all gifts in full view throughout the duration of the swapping. (Explicit clarification of this rule was born of a colleague's attempt to thwart me from getting her Crate and Barrel Kitchen Towel set. When I started looking for it and could not locate it, I had to ask for it several times. Eventually, the woman begrudgingly pulled it out of her bag, but complained OUT LOUD that since I didn't have a husband to cook for, I should not take her towels. I was never so happy to rip the cool gift of a woman's hands in my life as I was at that moment. Just for the record...I gave her a brick of a fruit cake it place of her towels.)

3. You must not scratch lottery tickets if you get them as they can be traded throughout the process.

4. The person who draws number one at the beginning has the ultimate and final swap upon conclusion of gift selection.

The whole point of Yankee swaps seems to be lost at most Christmas parties. I guess I think that the idea is to buy a relatively decent gift (unless a joke gift swap has been specified), and to have some fun while doing the swap. I don't understand why some people go out and purposely buy shit gifts, and then of course, they are the ones who end up taking the nicest gifts home. I brought a cute little centerpiece from Crate and Barrel, and ended up getting some horrible flea market quality rose sculpture. What the hell was that? Where would I even put it? Could it have possibly met the ten dollar requirement? I mean, really. It was the ugliest, most useless, stupidest thing I had ever seen in my life. I was going to leave it there in the restaurant and not even give it the effort it would require to carry it home.

Some woman I work with said she thought it was beautiful. Honest to Christ I thought she was joking and I almost laughed. Luckily I got it under control and fought back the laugh. I gave her the thing. I mean, really. I would have just ended up throwing it away. I couldn't even be bothered!

I was pretty disgusted, though. For once, will I end up with a decent Yankee Swap? Every year I think I'm going to buy some crappy gift to put in there, but I just end up getting something decent, and then getting screwed in the end!

Anyway, I was happy just to end up with enough money to cover the bill and a willing pawn upon whom to dump the tacky sculpture. Nobody got drunk and embarrassed themselves and nobody got fired. So, all in all, I guess it was a good day.

As for the Oprah business...

I generally respect Oprah on many levels.

She is an extremely generous and compassionate woman who has shed so much light on the sufferings of people around the world. She is very public about her charity work, and people critisize her for this, saying that she is too self-congratulatory. I think, however, that there is an excellent reason for her to be very high profile in her acts of charity; she is doing these things in full public view to enlighten people as to the plights of the have-nots of the world. She knows that she has such a huge viewing audience and she knows that she has the power to bring this most important message to them, so I'm convinced that even though there might be some egotism involved in her actions, that ultimately, she is doing the right things for the right reasons.

There is also no denying that she looks beautiful. She has done so much work to get healthy and in shape. She's gorgeous.

The thing that drives me nuts about her is that she is such a name dropper. When she has "regular people" in her show, she is lovely. When she has famous people as guests, she's obnoxious. She is such a kiss ass. Sometimes I think she cannot believe how famous she, herself, is, and that she feels this need to advertise her friendships with other famous people.

Jamie Foxx was on her show yesterday and I caught the last few minutes of it. I have to admit that I have pretty much only seen him in Ray. He was amazing playing Ray Charles. However, on this particular installment of Oprah, his musical talents, as opposed to his acting, were being highlighted.

I was surprised at how much I didn not enjoy his music. Jamie Foxx is an extremely handsome man, and he seems bright and articulate, so it was interesting to hear him speak and talk about his musical experiences. However, when he set in to sing, I was utterly bored. His voice is fine. He seems to have a great stage presence. He interacted nicely with the crowd. He seemed to have all the right buttons in the right places. So, what's the problem? As I said, he was boring. His songs sound like these cheesy, contrived ballads, the lyrics of which an 8th grade girl would write in her poetry notebook. He likens his daughter to an angel and sings about how, when it comes to his romantic capabilities, "missionary position" is not in his repertoire. I'm not making this up. These were the lyrics. How freakin' cheesy. I wanted to run out and grab a sleeve of Ritz crackers and a bottle of white to go with that cheese!

As I said, I was disappointed. I would have expected greater things from a man who did such a masterful job of channeling Ray Charles on the big screen.

Whatever.

As for the business about Oprah herself, she just annoys me sometimes, is all I'm saying.

Why won't my spell check work??

A Cream Puff Forced Me To Rethink My Trump Philosophy

I went to Bates College in Lewiston, Maine. I have to say that, while there, I acquired quite an exotic array of friends. All of them funny and super smart, and each one more fantastic than the rest. None, however, can even come close to Ian on the Great-Pals-Of-All-Times charts.

I met Ian just a day or two after my arrival on campus. Our meeting was inevitable as we lived across from each other on the infamous fourth floor of Page Hall, one of the more ill reputed dormitories on campus. It wasn't that there were any illegal activities or unethical trysts going on there, unless you count the guy who shagged his girlfriend on the stairmaster in his room every day. It was just kind of a dump. The carpets bore constant reminders, both visual and olfactory, of the nightly beer fests, the walls were pretty dinged up from the constant to and fro with Salvation Army couches and other furnishings, and the music blared just a little more loudly than it tended to in other spots on campus.

Anyway, I thought it was pretty cool that my freshman center was located on a floor that housed both freshmen and sophomores, rather than freshmen alone.

On perhaps our second night at school, this very handsome sophomore barged right into our room (yes, the door was closed, and no, he did not knock) to see if we would be interested in partaking in a keg. Hmmm...let's see if I can remember my response to that question. I was 17 years old and away from home for the first time. If memory serves, I left this sophomore in a cloud of dust as I made haste to grab my wallet.

I asked this mysterious beer man what his name was. "Garrett," he replied. "Gary?" I asked. Obviously he had heard this before. He smirked, shook his head in utter disgust and enunciated, as if to a deaf four year-old, "No. Garrett. Two Rs. Two T's."

I thought it was so cool that this sophomore was seeking my company for his drinking soiree. Turns out, in reality, he just needed the money.

Anyway, when the keg arrived, Garrett ushered us into his room where I met his roommate, the aforementioned Ian. You know how you sometimes just meet a person and, for some unexplained reason, you just like that person intensely right from the beginning? Well, that pretty much sums up my immediate reaction to Ian. How could you not love this guy?

We became great friends at Bates! We hung out, had tons of laughs and had this very honest and straight-up friendship. Totally unconditional.

Ian is such a nice guy that his universally accepted nickname became, "Cream Puff." By universally accepted, I mean that we universally accepted that it was funny to call him this, and he universally resented it. Well, that's not entirely true. He didn't seem to mind my calling him Cream Puff. In fact, when leaving me a phone or dry erase message, he often identified himself as Cream Puff. I guess I mean to intone that he resented his male roommate and friends call him Cream Puff. In fact, I think he once attempted to impale Garrett's throat with a ski pole for the offense.

Ian is the kind of friend who would go the ends of the earth for you. In fact, I've seen him do it for me. He came all the way to Bates to attend my graduation, and when I lived in Germany, he took a massive detour on his trip to Europe to come visit me in the very cool, but un-sought-after Hannover. Anytime he has made his way to the Boston are, he always makes every attempt to get together. He has taken trains all over the greater Boston area to meet me at my work or just wherever.

I think I'm a pretty good friend, but I don't think I can even measure up to the kind of friendship that Ian offers up. This kid is rock solid! I think, though, that he owes me big time for the time I blessed him with my wise advice and urged him to "dump the Weenie!" Or maybe he had been dumped by the Weenie and I told him to face the freakin' facts, that the woman was a Weenie and he needed to stop crying in his beer and move on. (No need to dilute already shitty beer. Hey, we were drinkin' the Beast..it was all we could afford!) We will stick to the story that Ian did the dumping because, well, we love Ian and the Weenie is, well...a Weenie. No need to go out of our way to depict her favorably. Right? Ian is the winner in every story.

We've seen each other at our best and worst. The fact that anybody who has seen me at my worst and continues to stick around says it all right there! Ian rules!

Anyway, our friendship has endured over the years. Mostly by phone and email, but the strength of the bond has never wavered.

Now onto my reasons for admiring Ian so much. As I've already mentioned, this kid is such a great friend and no favor is too big to ask of him. He is extremely intelligent and energetic. The one thing that I most admire about him, though, and which I don't think that I've ever seen any other person display, is his willingness to take risks in areas of our lives that most of us are way too scared to "shake up." When Ian wants to try to do something, he just does it. I remember noting this very early on in my friendship with him. He is pretty much a native French speaker, so being a French major would have been super easy for him. Instead, he studied biology. He always found his courses really hard, but he worked his butt off to get great grades. I forced him to take a French course with me one time. He had reservations. I could completely understand his trepidation as the professor, a man, often showed up to class wearing a gold-flecked lame blouse. I could understand his discomfort with the situation. I recall Ian having a really kick-ass biology course that semester. When I asked him why he didn't just take the easy road and become a French major, he sort of looked at me funny and said, quite simply, "Because I like biology. Its interesting."

My first encounter with somebody totally comfortable with being outside of his comfort zone.

In the years since graduation from Bates, Ian has worked as a French tourguide in a Canadian Zoo, has gone through formal training to become a professional chef, and has undertaken countless way cool endeavors, both personal and professional.

This is getting very long, so I will cut to the chase.

Ian emailed me to tell me that perhaps my judgement of Randal's decision not to share his Apprenticeship with Rebecca at the culmination of the Donald Trump show was overly harsh. Ian asked me to see the logic in Randal's decision. After all, Randal did go through a very difficult ten-week interview period, beating out fierce competitors every step of the way. As Ian pointed out, if I had been in Randal's position, I might also have found it hard to share the wealth. Maybe it is easy for me to be an armchair quarterback (first and only football reference I will ever make in my life..savor it now), in judging Randal.

Here's the funny thing..Ian would rather remind one of Randal. Very laid back. Very kind. Very driven and determined all while being very compassionate and aware of how those around him are feeling. Very smart. Well loved by everybody around him. The peacekeeper. The reliable one. The worker. The positive teammate.

There are only two slight differences between these two, really. First, Ian is white and Randal is black. Second, Ian could never pull off the white suit that Randal wore to the boardroom on the day he was assigned his final task. On Randal it looked rather retro cool. On Ian, it would look rather retro pimp.

Other than these two little details, you'd have a hard time telling these two apart in a lineup.

Anyway, enough of my sappy Ian fan club president mail! Sometimes you just have to talk about how great somebody is!

Ian, you rule!

Merry Christmas to AL and to AL a Good Night

How cute is this? Well, then again, I shouldn't even have to start off with this question. If any story of mine has AL as a subject, then the story will, by default, be cute.

Last Friday, before the Jovi show, Lauren was preparing Allison for the fact that she would be going out. She reminded her, several times during the day, that "Mommy and Auntie are going to see Bon Jovi and you get to stay home with Caroline and Daddy and have pizza!" (Ally is obsessed with pizza, the pizza man, the pizza box, folding the pizza so as to avoid getting a single stain on her clothes, a skill she mastered at the tender age of 18 months).

I stayed at Lauren's the night of the Bon Jovi show, and early the next morning, Ally was righ in the room waking me up. She was so excited that I was there. We had gone to bed at 2 AM and it was now just before 7 AM. I wanted desperately to get more sleep, but when I saw that cute little face with the banana curls aflutter, how could I close my eyes again? So, my day was set into full throttle thanks to the sweetest alarm clock in the world.

Anyway, as I struggled to drag myself to my feet, Lauren said, "Ally, tell Auntie where Mommy was last night." Ally, obviously well-trained from the day before said, "Mommy and Auntie go see Bon Jovi!"

As if that weren't cute enough, Lauren prompted her further. "Do you like Bon Jovi?" she asked.

Ally said,"Yes. He have nice smile."

Cute. Bright. And great taste. This kid is a chip off the old auntie block!

Anyway, as if that weren't cute enough, Lauren was talking with her the other day about Santa and Christmas. For the past month, Al has been insisting that Lauren would be getting a necklace from Santa. When Lauren asked her "What is Santa going to bring Mommy?" she was expecting the "necklace" reply. However, Ally became immersed in some deep thought. Lauren decided to help her along by asking, "Is Santa bringing Mommy a necklace?" Ally replied, "Ahhhh...no. I fink Santa bring mommy Bon Jovi."

This would be a very merry christmas indeed for Lauren.

Yesterday, when Lauren and I were making our seemingly daily run to Target, I asked Ally where we were going. She said, "Ahhh...Mommy see Bon Jovi. Auntie go Target with Allison."

Lauren and I have this child well trained!!!

What The Hell Is Up With That...Second Installment

Once again, I feel compelled to comment upon some of the daily happenings unfolding around me...events of which I have little or no understanding.

1. First of all, what the hell is up with these big epic action/adventure and fantasy films that are being unleashed on the movie viewing public with an unprecedented frequency?

Every time I turn around, there is some massive Peter Jackson film being released, the main characters of which are computer-generated apes and grotesque insects. I mean, really. Who cares?

As if this Kong foolishness weren't enough, now I have to contend with the release of The Chronicles of Narnia. That story is total crap. I hated it when I was forced to read it in fourth grade. I believe I refused to read it. I was a straight A student, so this could most likely be documented as my first act of defiance in the academic arena, but even as a child, I had standards.

When I opened my closet I never saw any White Witch with Turkish Delight or a regal lion named Aslan waiting to rescue the day. All I ever saw in my closet was the dreaded camel hair jacket (the very same that Lauren once claimed was too small after trying it on for my mother with 9 shetland wool sweaters underneath, thus passing the detested garment on to me and treating me to a winter or two of suffering the slings and arrows of its itchiness and choke-hold collar) or ill-fitting v-neck Winnie the Pooh sweater vest.

I digress, of course.

I'm just saying that I hate these kinds of movies. Enough of people touting their "amazing special effects" and "cinematographic genius." These movies SUCK, people. Just realize it, join me in refusing to see them, and send these directors a message that they should move on to more worthwhile projects.

A few suggestions? How about a few movies about just regular people doing regular people stuff. Look to the Lifetime network for some ideas. Lifetime movies depict the normal, daily triumphs and defeats of your average everyday person. Take the film where Bruce Boxleitner was facing the angst and judgement of his closest friends, family members and colleagues upon announcing his plans to undergo a sex change operation. Now, come on. Isn't that storyline just as Hollywood-worthy as a giant ape crashing through the streets of New York?

Or take the film starring Melissa Gilbert (a.k.a. Mrs. Boxleitner..I guess Lifetime is fond of giving movie contracts to married couples.. I wonder how fucking Almanzo Wilder feels about that..) opposite William Shatner. In this acclaimed film, Gilbert and Shatner serve up riveting perfomances as a daughter and her adoptive father who, upon learning that Gilbert's character is ill, must confront the truth of their past and embark on a search for Gilber's biological mother in order to reconstruct her medical history.

I say these human story movies are not getting the attention they deserve and are being overshadowed by completely unrealistic special effects riddled box office monstrosities that teach us nothing about life. I mean, really, which seems a more likely even that the average person will have to deal with in an average lifetime:

A. Encountering an Empire-State-Building-Sized ape whilst walking the streets of New York
or
B. Encountering a rather awkward silence upon being greeted by a pre-op Boxleitner at Thanksgiving dinner?

I think its pretty obvious that scenario "B" is the far more likely potential occurance. I don't know about you, but I'd appreciate a movie that would help me deal with this rather awkward social situation.

3. Ok, I'm done with my rage against the Hollywood film industry. I will now take up a crusade against the fashion industry. I have a few rants here. Humor me.
A. I still don't get the stupid straight-bill, tipped-to-the-side baseball cap thing. I 'm honestly feeling very out of the loop on this front. Try as I may, I simply do not get it. Why? Why do these kids want to walk around wearing their hats the same way that the 90 year old retirement-community residents in Fort Lauderdale are wearing theirs? Has anybody shown these kids a picture of the elderly mens contingency of ball cap wearers? I have tried to, believe me. I have searched on the internet for pictures, but there don't seem to be any. Please, if you can dig up a picture of your grandfather wearing a ball hat in this dastardly manner, dig it up and show it to the youth in your community. Believe me, you'll be doing them a favor. I look back and wince in pain when I see pictures of myself and my friends back in the 80's, resplendent in legwarmers, mesh half shirts and feathered wigs. I get so sad when I picture these kids having to look at pictures of themselves in these stupid hats 20 years from now.
B. My second bone of contention lies in the length of womens' pants. I am 5'8" and yet, when I try on pants, I invariably find myself standing on 9 extra inches of material at the bottom of the leg. Keep in mind that I try on the "average" length pants. I have to ask myself what all the shorter women are doing out there. And I know that, at 4 inches above the average height of 5'4" for an American woman, I am experiencing the problem at its least disturbing extreme. I need to see who these "average" women are. Furthermore, I need to see who the hell is buying the "tall" pants. I demand to see these Amazon women front and center right away! The size 2 salesgirls always reason that the jeans are meant to be worn with a heel. OK, let me go right down to that transvestive shoe store in Central Square in Cambridge (Teddy's) and buy 11'' stiletto heel and race right back here to buy these jeans. So, it would appear that the only two options are to buy these pants and either wear a reasonable heel (which will require trapsing the hems through mud and snow all day long), or buying the transvestite heels (and risk falling in the ice and thus ending up in full traction for 6 months.) Maybe I should go for the traction option. At least if I'm laid up for 6 months capris will be back in style by the time I'm up and around, and the whole issue will be solved!

3. To my fellow pedestrians in Boston.....What the hell is up with people refusing to shovel snow or, at the very least, lay sand/salt over the ice rink that accumulates in front of their homes? I swear, I saw my 32 years of life flash before my life on numerous occasions as I walked/slid to work on Friday morning. People coming out of their homes were falling down stairs, slipping and sliding across their sidewalks, and from the looks of it, suffering some pretty bad injuries. And so I'm forced to wonder why, if they don't care about protecting pedestrians in front of their homes, they don't at least take precautions to prevent their own ice-related injuries. I can't figure it out.

4. What the hell is up with my procrastination? I need to go work out. Peace out!

Damn, Rebecca, You Was TRUMPED!!

I freely admit (although not without a slight sense of shame), that I'm totally addicted to "The Apprentice."

From this point forward, I will refer to this program as "The Donald Trump Show," the name I assigned it upon first seeing it. I have never really called it the Apprentice. I'm surprised Trump didn't insist upon it being called the Donald Trump Show, actually. I think that is the REAL name of the show anyway. Christ, why am I doing the work of the NBC executives? Furthermore, why am I not getting remuneration and recognition for my efforts?

Anyway, I have seen every single episode of this season. Most of the early tasks were botch jobs due to the utter incompetence of many of the "candidates." Of course, Trump doesn't give anybody any second chances, so, one by one, as these Bozos exposed themselves for the complete ninnies they really are, Trump cut their "Apprentice" aspirations short with a curt slap of the conference table and a bark of "You're Fired!"

Immediately, Marcus comes to mind. What a fool! This guy's only talent was to talk for hour on end while managing to say absolutely nothing. I was tempted to post a "vacant lot" sign where his freakin' brain should have been.

The women created a cartoon character for Dairy Queen in which they did absolutely no Dairy Queen logo placement.

I'm a teacher, right? What do I know about advertisement, right? Well, I do know that it is wise to at least mention the product being advertised in your campaign.

I could go on and on about these fools, but really, who has the time to write or read about their displays of abject stupidity?

Trump was all over the place this season. Sometimes he fired one person. Sometimes two. Sometimes he let people who were clearly useless stay around for weeks on end. And then there was the firing of the four. Four candidates axed at one time. They deserved it, though, as they managed to not only fail miserably at increasing sales at a sports store promotion, but actually average lower sales than the store usually did in a normal business day.

Ok, so the final two competitors were the saintly Randal and the Go-Getter Rebecca.

Randal was the happy-go-lucky, mellow, relaxed, super nice, Rhodes scholar with degrees from Harvard, Oxford and MIT, to name a few. He was the founder of a fortune 500 multi-million dollar company. He had vast experience in business and seemed to be, by far, the most sought-after task partner by all of his colleagues on the show. He was project manager 3 times, and won all three of those tasks. Every time a team had a chance to reorganize, they always chose to take Randal. He was this saintly, beloved genius. It was clear to me, from very early in the season, that Randal had a very strong change of winning.

Rebecca was this cool-as-a-cucumber, super smart 23 year-old woman whose business experience paled in comparison to Randal's. I am fully aware, as I say this, that Rebecca could not possibly compete with Randal's experience as she was more than 10 years his junior.

Throughout the show, Rebecca and Randal worked well together, formed a great bond, and had nothing but good things to say to and about each other.

Randal's last task was to organize a charity celeb baseball game for "Autism Speaks." His major screw up? He didn't even bother to consult the weather forecast before the event. Of course, it pissed rain, and Randal was forced to hold his charity auction in a basement room of the stadium's inner building. It made me think of my middle school cafeteria, complete with cinder block walls and industrial tile floors.

The event went smoothly, though, and Randy raised 11,000 for Autism speaks. I wasn't impressed, though, with the fact that Randal's teammates were doing the lion's share of the work. The sponsor from Outback Steak House noted the same.

Rebecca, on the other hand, seemed to have things much more under control and be a much more hands on leader. She did screw up, though, in that she caved to her Yahoo Sponsor's trepidation about asking people directly for donations to the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation, and subsequently decided to just place a "donation envelope" in the VIP backpacks. As a result, she didn't raise any money!

In the board room, Caroline, the Trump Wench I love to fear, blasted Randall for not checking the weather and Rebecca for not collecting money.

Anyway, enough of the boardroom shenanigans and play by play. I don't really need to get into it. If you really wanted to see it, you would have watched it.

Trump hired Randal in the end. (I know, my relaying of the events are so anti-climactic. Whatever. Deal!) Randal was understandably jumping for joy all over the set of the very authentic looking live studio audience boardroom. Trump called his celebration to a halt, however, long enough to ask Randal to come back and join him, Caroline, George and the shunned Rebecca at the table.

Trump, who usually is a shark when it comes to making decisions, did something very strange. He asked Randal to tell him whether he should also hire Rebecca. I was all excited for Rebecca and Randal because I was sure this lovely, generous man would be quick to want to share his bounty with his esteemed colleague.

However, Randal shocked me to the core in jumping right at the chance to deny Rebecca the chance to be name co-Apprentice. Randal's line was some lame crap like, "Mr. Trump, this show is called the Apprentice, not the Aprentii, so one slot, one apprentice."

Naturally Rebecca was floored.

I think I was even more so.

I felt very let down and betrayed by Randal. He was just a wolf in sheep clothing all along. But why did he turn into a jerk at the end, when he had already won? In previous tasks, in which he was fighting for his life against Rebecca or others, he seemingly went out of his way to be kind to his competitors. And yet, here he is, the laurel crown sitting firmly on his head, and he denies Rebecca the right to share in the glory.

I tell you, I was hurt for Rebecca and really deflated by Randal. As far as I'm concerned, Randal leaves this show with a pall of tackiness hanging over him. How unclassy!

Cheesy Workout Videos!

I am meeting some friends for a few drinks tonight, but I desperately need to get a workout in. I didn't make it to the gym yesterday after having my back doctor poke around and causing a little pain. I decided to take the night off from the gym. Convenient excuse. Anyway, as much of a pain as it is to exercise sometimes, I find that the feeling of guilt I experience when i don't is far stronger than any sense of aggravation I get at having to work out.

I hate guilt!

Anyway, I don't have time to make it to the gym tonight, so, as is always the case when I can't get to the gym, I'm going to bust out one of my cheesy workout videos. About 2 and a half years ago, I saw this infomercial for a workout system called "The Firm." I probably saw it on the boob tube at like 3 AM or something.

It looked kind of interesting. A good mixture of strength training and cardio. So, I ordered it . I fully expected that it would sit there, doing nothing but take up space and collect dust. In fact, just the opposite has occured. I use it all the time, and I have bought several different "Firm" series.

The women in these videos are ridiculous, of course. They are supposedly this cult of Texas moms who decided to break into the home fitness industry. They all have the full face of makeup, the sprayed wigs and the little matching workout outfits. They have names like Tammy and Libby and they all have the most annoying accents. They sound like they're talking straight out of their noses.

Prissy Texas bitches.

I have to admit, however, that these workout are excellent. I still sweat my butt off every time I do them!

I especially like the arm strength training segments. Welcome to the gun show!