Reporting From the Front Lines of American Retail Stores (Holiday Shenanigans Edition)

If you've read my sister's blog, you'll know that she's filing frequent reports of the Holiday Bazaar Season. As for me, I'll be filing reports of the Holiday Bizarre Season. I'm not sure there's a real difference. Any line separating the two is fuzzy string of tinsel at best.

I actually started my day with a nice 45 minute walk to the gym, an hour long step aerobics class, and then a brisk walk with my husband through the Arnold Arboretum. I'm not sure what made us think that the natural progression of activity for a beautiful Autumn Sunday would be joining the ill-mannered masses in hauling our husks through the popular retailer, Target.

I know we haven't even reached Thanksgiving yet, but let's face it...people are already in full Christmas mode. Stores are crowded, parking lots are war zones, and wiser shoppers know to come to the shops having updated their living wills, left notes about their intended whereabouts with loved ones, clad in full body armor, and provisioned with snacks, drinks, flashlights, maps, GPS systems, flares, and first aid kits.

Johnny Mathis might think it's the "Most Wonderful Time of the Year" but I've never seen his ass in AJ Wrights at 5:59 PM on Christmas Eve and I beg to differ.



Anyway, as soon as we stepped foot into Target, we kind of knew it was a mistake. But we just sort of looked at each other and silently resolved to forge ahead.

As with most Target stores, the Watertown location boasts a robust trade at the "Dollar Zone" area right at the entrance. It was there that I saw two elderly women engaged in mortal combat over the last box of PoppyCock peanut brittle. I didn't feel compelled to referee the match. I figured that at worst, they would knock each other's single tooth out, which, of course, would be inevitable for whichever one ended up actually securing the dental-woe-inducing confection.

Who the hell had time to try to engage these ladies in peace talks? Not me. I was down to a mere 58 minutes to run the length, width, and depth of the store to get everything I needed. Rose Niland and Blanche Devereaux were on their own!

I made my way over to the womens clothing area to have a look at the advertised $9 sweaters. I had my doubts, but I figured I'd take a look. I should have gone with my gut instincts. The "ribbed knit" sweaters were,I think, made of a unique Muskrat hair-Glad bag hybrid material. Naturally that didn't stop frenzied bargain hunters from descending upon the dispaly of sweaters as if they were $9 Prada handbags instead of the North Korean state clothing factory rejects they actually were.

I continued to battle my way through the store.

I risked life and limb in the toy department (where about 4 kids had crossed the line from temper tantrum to full blown Chernobyl nuclear meltdown), the electronics department (where a droopy-pantsed youth was trying to slip an 80 inch plasma screen TV into his oversized Ed Hardy sweatshirt, much to the amusement of the hovering security guard), the health and beauty department (where a man dressed in cowboy boots, a denim mini-skirt, and a fringed vest circa 1975, was unabashedly opening up every single package of Physicians Formula makeup and sampling it on his own visage), and the food department (where two women used their shopping carts to cordon off the Nestles semi-sweet chocolate chip display, blocking both myself and the stock person who was there to replenish the supply).

Finally, with a splitting headache, sore legs, an aching back, and a general sense of malaise, I retired to the only area of the store that I knew would be empty so that I could collect my thouhts and tap into my second wind. Where might that quiet oasis in the middle of a busy Target store be? I'll give you one hint. I'm going to throw a conservative estimate out there that about 100% of the shoppers there today were illiterate. So, naturally I took to the book department. Success.

I don't know what made me think that a pit stop at the Target Starbucks on the way out would be a good idea. Maybe I got cocky, thinking that since I'd survived the shopping experience, that I was invincible and that even the Target Starbucks could not defeat me.

Yeah, right.

The 3'2" burqua clad woman in front of me ordered a big mocha, skim, soy, half-caf, breve, non-fat, half-fat thing that took a full half hour to order. I almost fell over when the barista announced the grand total of $6.78. And I think I may have legit fallen over when the customer produced an Iggy's bread plastic bag full of nickles and pennies and proceeded to count out the money....very slowly...and with great ceremony.

When, finally, I had my own coffee in hand, I went over to the milk and sugar bar. The woman was still holding court over there, but since it had taken the barista a full 7 hours to separate her coin payment into the register (before filling my order, of course), I figurd she'd had plenty of time to doctor up her drink to her liking. So, I went right in for the reach to the skim milk. As soon as I made my move, she literally flung herself at me, and started making a great production of showing me that it was a real effort to reach across me to get to what she needed. She kept huffing and puffing and moaning about my being in her way. Naturally I took my sweet time, releasing both Splenda packets into my beverage, one granule at a time, stopping after each one to replace the drink cover, adjust the straw, and then take a taste.

Payback's a bitch!

Anyway, I managed to find my husband, who was already in the throes of a major psychological breakdown after his meanderings through this shit show. So, we agreed that I'd drop him off at home and then continue on to Stop and Shop.

I won't really get too detailed about my experience at Stop and Shop. Suffice it to say that the general behavior patterns weren't much better than they had been at Target. However, there is one thing that makes the supreme uncouthness even more unacceptable and revolting at Stop and Shop. For example, when I enter the restroom at Target and see and employee in there hacking up a lung and then not washing their hands, I take a nosedive right into my always-handy hand sanitizer. When I see it at the Stop and Shop restroom, like I did today, I just want to die a million little deaths. I can't even talk any more about that because I'll just never eat anything again. Oh wait...that might not be a bad thing.

I had people ramming those enormous child-car carriages into my legs, reaching over me, bludgeoning me with coconuts, and literally taking shit right out of my cart...on purpose...not because they thought it was their own cart. But whatever. I survived.

I went over to the Dollar Store after food shopping. Again, clearly my power of levelheaded thinking had completely evaded me at this point. I was curious about the "Now accepting EBT cards" signs on the entrance. I wondered what the Dollar Store could offer for EBT cardholders.

Now before I "go there" let me confess that I'm actually kind of a socialist at heart. I think a government should provide for its citizens. I think of things like healthcare, higher education, and nutritious food as fundamental human rights.

However, I don't view "Burger King Onion Ring Chips" and "KFC chicken stock" as fundamental human rights. And yet...there at the Dollar Store, are people stocking up on these "essentials".

OK...I gotta run.

I have to delouse and sanitize myself in the shower following my filthy adventures in holiday retail.

For My Eyes Only?

My friend Scott recently asked me (via a Facebook comment on one of my "You'll-never-freakin'-believe-what-I-just-saw" status updates), "Do you think you just attract nuts or what?"

The answer to this question is an easy one. Yes, I do attract nuts. My long track record in managing to find myself next to the nuttiest bastard in the room would attest to my unparalleled magnetism with the mentally unstable.

Another friend asked me if the things I report really happen. She wanted to know if I embellish the truth, or if I might, perhaps, even fabricate these tales of woe. This is also an easy one. No. I do not make this crap up. I couldn't possibly. I'm not nearly creative, clever, or imaginative enough.

What I am is observant and eager to share.

A question that I have recently begun to put to myself is whether I'm actually seeing these things, or whether I'm just imagining them. Why would I wonder such a thing, you might ask? Here's the thing...sometimes when I'm seeing something that makes me stop short in shock and renders me utterly speechless, I realize that nobody else is even registering it or reacting to it in any way. And then I wonder how the hell people can seriously be seeing the same thing that I am seeing and NOT demonstrating any overt signs of disbelief.

I mean think about some of these things that I've seen and ask yourself if you would also be, at the very least, somewhat taken aback if you too saw them.

Snapshot:



A few months ago, a man got on the T in front of the Comm Ave Shaws. As he boarded the train, one of his grocery bags tipped over, spilling the contents on the floor. One of the items that came out was a whole coconut. The young woman who helped the man retrieve his belongings commented that she had seen the coconuts and was tempted to buy one, but lamented that she had no idea how to properly cut into one. With that, the man took a massive MACHETE out of his bag and proceeded to hack the coconut apart, by way of demonstration. At one point, the T operator came back. I was thinking, "Right, here's the part where the conductor tells the machete wielding passenger that he has to get off the T, because, well....2-foot long blades are not allowed on the T. Boy was I in for a shock when the operator simply said, "You know, I've always been curious about how to open a coconut. Do you mind if I watch?" ??????? HUH?????? As I looked around, I was expecting the other passengers to be shocked, stunned, enraged, baffled. But no...they were listening to iPods, texting, reading magazines, talking on their cell phones, and basically focusing their attentions on anything other than the lunatic who might decide, at any minute, to dismember any one of us. Luckily no dismemberment ensued. There was coconut milk everywhere, but that seems like a pretty minor casualty in light of the circumstances.

Snapshot




A woman got on the crowded T today with a legit 8X10 rolled Oriental carpet. She weighed about 90 pounds, and of course she had some rat-like dog with her. The rug was enormous and seemingly weighed a ton. She had one end of the rug on her shoulder, and was resting the other end on the dog's back. When the T pulled up, she and the dog eased onto the thing, still each holding an end of the carpet. It was amazing. This dog was literally helping this broad move this massive rug, like some kind of freakin' longshoreman. I was pretty stunned. I couldn't take my eyes off how the dog took the lead position in navigating the rug down the extremely crowded aisle, and then found the most convenient position for them to stand in with the rug. I looked around, expecting to see people as entertained as I was by this "moving-dog" but again, people were barely paying him any attention. I'll tell ya this, though, next time I have to move, I'm callin' that dog to come and help me. I mean really, what's he charge for his services, a can of Friskies or some shit?


Snapshot



I am no stranger to the concept of needing a little snack before or after a workout. It's not at all uncommon to see a gym member snacking on a Luna Bar before or after hitting the exercise floor. You'll understand my surprise, I think, when I saw a woman sitting down on the rowing machine on the fitness floor, preparing a full deli-style sandwich. She didn't have a prepared sandwich from home. She pulled out a loaf of bread, a package of Kraft American singles, a jar of mustard, a jar of pickles, a knife, and a plate and got to work assembling her lunch. I was half expecting her to pull out a side of beef and a rotating deli slicer. Shit, I was getting ready to go put in an order for a half pound of cracked pepper turkey sliced thin and pick it up after my spinning class. Again, I was expecting some Cambridge woman to come up and tell her off for preparing an entire meal on the cardio equipment, but NOBODY seemed to even register that it was going on. The woman rowing along on the machine right next to her kind of looked over, but never really had any reaction.

Snapshot



I don't think this really needs much elaboration for effect on my behalf. Some broad was sitting NAKED on a FABRIC chair (sans towel under her bare ass, mind you) in the gym locker room, snacking on a tray of sushi (complete with chopsticks, wasabi, soy sauce, fresh ginger and all the typical sushi accoutrements). I can't even tell you how floored I was. Shit, I've put my bag down once or twice on that very chair. How many other naked asses have graced that chair while dining on Pan-Asian cuisine? I can't even really think about it. I was gearing up for at least a few looks of disgust and shock. But again...NOTHING. Nobody even did a double take. I guess I made up for it because I did like a quadruple take when I saw this malarkey.

Snapshot

A man in 7-11 lets go of a disgusting, massive, loud, vial loogie. Yeah, that's right, in the middle of 7-11. INSIDE the 7-11. NOT OUTSIDE, BUT INSIDE!!! The cashier doesn't even bat an eye. The other waiting customers don't even stir. Nobody breaks stride in their talking, texting, shopping, paying, browsing, etc. I had to run the hell out of there and get home and take a bath in a straight vat of lye because I had stood within 8 feet of this swine.

I could go on and describe more of these random encounters, but the punch line is always the same. Yes, I attract nuts. No, I'm not making this crap up. And yes, I seem to be the only person in the world who notices this crap.

The Art of Nothing

On September 7th, I will enter the classroom to undertake my 16th year of teaching. I can't believe it's been that long. But I'm no Spring chicken, so there you have it.

Normally, in the summer, I'm taking courses, working (sometimes more than one job), or worse....BOTH. I've had summers that have felt more stressful than school years.

This summer, however, having saved enough money all year to eliminate the necessity for summer work, and having finally completed my courses at UMass Boston, I decided that I would spend the summer doing what millions of teachers around the world do.....NOTHING.

And I truly devoted myself to elevating NOTHING to an art form. I believe that, in taking stock of the past 6 weeks, that I have been wildly successful in that endeavor so far. I haven't perfected the craft yet, mind you. There was that ONE day that I worked at a substitute teacher in a summer school program, and there was that three-day professional development course in early August. But apart from that, I've done absolutely nothing to broaden my academic, educational, or professional horizons. And, in my defense, I got PAID for my participation in both activities, so really, you can't count them as blemishes on my "Do Nada" facade.

When we went to Germany, I almost gave into temptation a few times. Several times I was on the verge of entering a castle or museum, but each and every time, I thought better of it and got myself to a biergarten to wash away the cultural aspirations. I blame the heat for my many near lapses. Sometimes it was an effort to tear myself away from the cathedrals in order to take to the sale racks of H&M, or the self-service area of a local biergarten, but my commitment to my "do nada" goal prevailed in each and every instance. The only real work I did in Germany came in the form of lifting litres of beer to my lips (those bad boys are heavy!) and carrying my backpack around the country (a pain in the neck, literally, but not commanding of any intellectual prowess).

My computer use has pretty much been limited to (I'm borrowing my sister Lauren's word here) Facebook Fuckery. I haven't tried to learn anything or enrich my general knowledge bank in any way shape or form.

I don't watch the news on TV. If I did, I might run the risk of learning something about the world around me. That would put my "do nada" agendal in jeopardy. Speaking of Jeopardy, I love that show, but needless to say, I can't tune in this summer. I might have to showcase my knowledge about an obscure field, or worse yet, LEARN something new. Can't have that now, can we.

I usually listen to NPR, but this summer I've pretty much exclusively listened to Kiss 108. I already knew that California was on the west coast, so when I listen to Katie Perry and Snoop, I am NOT getting a geography lesson. No worries there. When I did listen to NPR yesterday, some woman was talking about how "elevating" the experience of fasting was. She spent a little too long talking about the "outcomes" of the fast, which, as she pointed out, were evident in her toilet bowl. What the what, lady? She urged all of us to "embark" (her word, not mine) on a similar "enlightening" fasting experience. I came home and immediately threw a frozen pizza in the oven and opened up a long neck Bud Light. Fuck that.


Anyway, that's about it for me this summer. If you want to come find me, look for me at the gym, at a local pub, or just hanging out in the sun somewhere. Do not look for me at work, at a library, at a museum, or any other cultural institution. For you will not find me there.

Somerville, I've Figured You Out!

Welcome to Somerville, a place that, up to now, has been a puzzle, inside of a riddle, inside of an enigma. Ever wondered at how housing prices and general living expenses can be so sky high in a city that seems to be peopled with a disproportionate amount of lowlives (see toothless wonders, degenerates, drunks, slobs, and dive bar affectionados)?

Don't get me wrong, I count myself as a lifelong, enthusiastic member of many of the abovementioned subgroups of our fair city's population. I just wonder how people afford to live in 'da Ville at all.

But I've got it figured out. It might sound strange, but a recent spate of really crap luck with both my teeth and my car have brought clarity and answers.

Up until last April, I had never owned a car. I dreamed about car ownership. It would surely be the answer to all my prayers...or at least to my MBTA-induced woes. It would mean independence, making my own schedule, going where I wanted when I wanted, and increased mobility.

What I hadn't considered was the downside of car ownership. In the year that I've owned the car, I have had to replace the shocks (a shocking price tag was attached to this repair), the rear passenger side window, the sideview mirror (which has been ripped off TWICE), and the AC. (Of course, the AC STILL does not work. I could get it fixed again, but screw that crap. I drove around in a pool of sweat all last summer, and I'm prepared to do it again. I love the summer and have always been a fan of the heat, so I will look at this as a positive, summertime enhancing experience). If I get a little overheated, so be it.





OK, so I'm finally realizing what every car owner has been warning me about since the day I first started dreaming of owning my own car. A car is a money pit. Even without repairs, there's gas, inspections, metered parking....and the list goes on.

I'm going to leave the car thing here for a second, and move onto my next topic. Stick with me because this is all going to come back together in the end.

Teeth.

This year, when my car hasn't been draining my bank account, my dental woes have made sure to keep the money flowing out.

If you'll recall, I busted a tooth. At first, we tried a very massive and very expensive filling. When that failed to do the trick, I had a very traumatic and very expensive root canal. Subsequent to that mess I had a very harrowing and very expensive crown. That whole dental shit show set me back around 1,300 smackeroos.

Now I need a goddamned mouth guard!!! It's gonna set me back 450 dollars. The dentist claimed I'm grinding my teeth, causing trauma to one of my top teeth, and that eventually I could do enough damage to put me in a situation where I'll need another root canal. "Wow! Only $450 for a piece of plastic that'll make me look like Cluber Lang from Rocky III? Sign me up. Here's the check. I'm delighted with the prospect of spending a grand total of just under $2,000 on my teeth within a five month period!"





OK, so where the hell am I going with this, you ask? What do my hooptie and my teeth have to do with arriving at the true answer to the question of how does one afford to reside in Somerville, frequently in lovely properties?

Here it is...

I never really thought much about cars or teeth before last year. I had never owned the former, and I had never had problems with the latter. So neither were really on my radar.

Now I understand that both cars and teeth can be extremely expensive to own and maintain.

Look around Somerville, my friends.

Just go to The Sligo or Razzy's for a drink and you'll realize that none of the patrons, who also happen to reside in Somerville, have teeth or cars! Teeth only get in the way of ingesting beer, and cars only get you into trouble when you drive home after an evening at the aforementioned establishments.

And there it is. If you have no teeth, you will not face costly root canals, fillings, cleanings, mouth guards, and other routine and/or emergency dental care. If you forego a car, there will be no gas, no repairs, no meters, no inspections. It's just you and your Charlie Card, baby.

If I didn't own a car, and if I had no teeth, like many of my Somerville compatriots, I'd be living large!

So, next time you drive by one of those crazy expensive houses in Somerville, note the empty driveway and lack of toothpaste boxes in the recycle bins. It's no coincidence.

An Open Letter of Apology to Ricky Schroeder

Dear Ricky Schroeder,

I cannot call you Rick Schroeder. I just can't. You will always be Ricky Schroeder to me. But this is a mea culpa, after all, so I'll just add this to the list of the many things for which I owe you a long overdue apology.

Ricky, here's the thing. You have been living your life blissfully unaware of the harm that I meant to cause you 29 years ago, when I was just a wee girl of 7.

My sister and I were regular viewers of your smash sit-com, Silver Spoons, and while we were routinely wowed by the acting chops and dramatic prowess of your small screen costars, Joel Higgins, Erin Gray, Franklyn Seales, and Alfonso Ribeiro, we just didn't have the same enthusiasm for you. We just didn't buy you as Ricky Stratten. Something seemed forced, inauthentic. Whenever you rode that train into the set's living room, we knew we were supposed to be amazed, but we just never felt that you fully embraced the character's lust for life. If you couldn't feel it, how could you make us, the viewers, feel it?

At the time, we were amateur critics. We blamed you and you alone for your shortcomings. We never realized that the directors and casting personnel had set you up for failure. How could any young actor hold a candle to the riveting portrayal of Dexter by the illustrious Franklyn Seales? But again, we were too young and too wet behind the ears as television viewers to see the big picture. We just thought you sucked becasue, well, you couldn't act to save your life. When I look back at reruns of the show in syndication now, I realize that you were doing the best you were. Seales was just a natural scene stealer, and he robbed your thunder at every turn. That wasn't your fault.

So I apologize to you for judging your performance unnecessarily and unfairly harshly. You were just a child.

I hope you can accept my apologies for the vicious and heartless insults we hurled from our lazy-boy recliners. We were so smug with our Kool Aid and Doritos, lobbing insults and subjecting your performance to our harsh scrutiny.

Ricky, I wish I could end my apology here. As shocking and hurtful as this revelation must be to you, I'm afraid I have to admit that there's more. I might as well warn you that what I'm about to tell you is even worse. You might need to brace yourself.

One day, when my sister and I were pondering the most recent installation of the series, we found ourselves feeling a particularly strong dissatisfaction with the quality of your acting. You had entered adolescence, and the creators of the show didn't really seem to know what to do with you. Should they make you the cute little boy that had captured the hearts of Americans? Should they turn you into a cheeky but affable pre-teen?

The lack of clear direction for your character was off-putting enough to cause us to take to our Hello Kitty notebooks and interchangeable-tip pencils. I'm ashamed to say that our intention was not to offer you constructive professional critique, or to show our support for you in this ambiguous stage of your career. Ricky, our intentions were purely cruel and mean. At the age of 7, I penned perhaps the most vicious missive of my entire life. I am 36 now, and I have composed quite a few more poison pen letters in the intervening 29 years, but none have been quite as hurtful and vengeful as the one that I authored on that fateful day in my attic bedroom, my sister keeping watch for our mother and monitoring the content of the letter.

I do not remember all the specifics of the letter. I think my memory and subconscious have suppressed the majority of the details of the letter. But the one line that has seared itself into my brain as the hallmark of the cruelty that I meant to inflict is this one:

"Ricky Schroeder, why don't you take your half-bakaed shit and shove it up your ass?"

Yes, Ricky, it's true. I wrote this all by myself as a seven year-old second grader.


As you well know, there was no internet in those days. I could not simply take to the world wide web to shoot off the hateful missive on a whim. And I could not simply look up your address online.

I had no problem at the tender age of 7 composing a hate letter with a level of verbal dexterity that would make an Obama speech writer jealous; my biggest challenge was trying to figure out a way to get the letter to you.

So, I tucked the letter into a book and put the book under my bed.

I suppose a few things came up in my busy second grade life, because the letter was quickly forgotten. Needless to say, we never got around to mailing it.

One day, my mother, on one of her infamous cleaning jags, found the letter under my bed.

As you can imagine, my mother, who at this point was in her mid-thirties and working full time to raise her children, was not able to indulge herself in the weekly pleasure of watching Silver Spoons. She therefore had no idea who you were. Having mistaken you for a poor defenseless classmate of mine, she flew into an angry tirade. She demanded to know who I was bullying, and for what poor hapless soul I could possibly harbor such hatred.

I frantically explained that I was directing my 7 year-old venom toward a television celebrity, and not a member of my second grade class. She wasn't buying it. She eventually called my Aunt Julie, her sister, to confirm.

Oddly enough, Ricky, once she found out that I was directing my rage and viciousness at a small screen starlet, she was less perturbed than when she thought I had penned the letter for a classmate. She was, however, still irate about the aforementioned line from the letter.

My mother is still quick, to this day, to tell anybody who'll listen, about how my first grade teacher was so awed by my advanced reading skills that she awarded me her first "A" in reading to any first grader of her entire career. The teacher told my mother that in her experience, emerging readers always have room to improve, but that I had torn through her entire library like a cyclone. My mother will go on to talk about how grade two standardized tests revealed that I had the reading level of a 12th grader. Doubtless she had visions of her nobel-prize-in-literature daughter dancing in her head, when the realization that I would be more likely to serve jail time for the federal offense of mail harassment came crashing down on her.

Ricky, I never did get to mail you the letter. If memory serves, I got a rather stiff punishment, and was relegated to my room and deprived of television privileges. Clearly, I deserved that and much more. Having been confined to my room for days on end, I'm sure I missed an episode or two of Silver Spoons. Oddly enough, missing the show made me realize that you were more important to me than I thought. I grew to appreciate you during that lonely period of solitary confinement.

Why, after all these years, am I coming clean to you when you'd be none the wiser without my true confession? I don't know. I can't say for sure. I guess that with your recent birthday, and with your turning 40, it seemed time that we all grow up. You're calling yourself "Rick" after all. I guess it's time I grew up, too. So, in the spirit of turning over new leaves and looking to a brighter future, I have to lay it all out on the table.

Ricky, I hope you can forgive me.

With much love,

Nancy

Lights, Camera, Action!

I'm no idiot. I know I'm not really supposed to believe what Hollywood tries to sell as "reality" in the movies.

Something tells me Roman Soldiers did NOT have the Nike Shox sneakers sported by the actors who brought them to life in the movie "300". I know Frank McCourt's poverty-stricken and toothless mother didn't REALLY dress in vintage Hermes and Dior like the actress who portrayed her in the movie "Angela's Ashes". I'm pretty sure that if I adopted an adorable red-headed child like "Annie", we would not lapse into perfectly choreographed song and dance routines upon her arrival at my home. I'm also fairly certain that Hitler didn't shout commands to Nazi soldiers in English as we have seen him do in countless World War II related films.

Why, then, in spite of having obtained first-hand, hard evidence to the contrary, do I continue to expect the clientele and employees of casinos to look like the cast in the popular "Oceans 11, 12, and 13" film trilogy?

I've just come back from my 3rd trip to the Foxwoods casino in Connecticut. And just this past summer, Stephen and I were in that Mecca of Gambling in the American desert, Las Vegas. I am not by any means a seasoned gambler, and I know absolutely nothing about statistical slight-of-hand that might help me beat the house. But I can speak with authority on this one thing....You are definitely NOT going to run into the likes of George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Don Cheadle, or Andy Garcia in your amblings through the gaming floor.

You WILL, however, run into the following "cast of characters":

1. Skinny ass, leather-faced, washed-up old whore who looks as if she has already died and gone through full taxidermy treatment before being propped up for the rest of eternity at her favorite machine in the penny slot corner. The only (and very subtle) sign of life issuing forth is the occasional flick of the 4-inch long ash dangling precariously from the edge of her cigarette.

2. Barrel-chested obnoxious loudmouth who seems to have forgotten the advent of the shower. This creature will manage to sit in the slot right next to yours, even if ever other slot on the floor is empty. He'll then make sure to exhale a steady stream of cigarette smoke into your face throughout the duration of your play. Eventually, even if the machine is red hot and you're winning money hand over fist, you'll have to vacate the premises in order to salvage what's left of your pulmonary health.

3. Jackass who is convinced that if he/she screams loudly enough at the machine, that it will yield copious winnings.

4. Shower-phobe who has been gambling straight through the night without so much as a "freshen up" pause to get his/her bodily aromas under control.

5. Money-saver who decided to forgo the hotel room and has opted, instead, to lounge across the chairs of about 16 machines, one of which you might actually like to play. If you so much as ask this degenerate to move his legs, arms, suitcase, you'll get a dirty look accompanied by a more-determined-than-ever-to-stay-rooted-in-place attitude. I guess the rule is that once you've taken up residence at a machine (even if you're not using it, but rather using it as an ottoman to rest your weary bones, you've officially earned the right to sit there until you goddamn well feel like getting up and moving.

6. The drunken jackass, who thinks you actually traveled to the casino to hear him slur his life story, and NOT to get some gaming action at the slots!

Anyway, the list could go on. But again, what's more important than the people you ARE guaranteed to see, are the people you are guaranteed NOT to see.

There will be no Andy Garcia, no Matt Damon, no Brad Pitt, and No George Clooney.

There will be you and a gaming floor of desperados.

Just sayin.

An Ode To Porter Square Shopping Center

Where the hell on Earth are we, you ask
as you reach for liquid courage in your pocket flask.
Is it a war-torn battle field?
Shall I ready my weapon and shield?
My dear little friend, fear you not
T'is just the Porter Square parking lot


The parking spaces here are impossibly tight
causing new car drivers justifiable fright
"I won't be here very long" you say
You leave your new car and you walk away
Not five seconds after you depart
Your car WILL be smashed by an errant shopping cart

Let's head to Dunks for coffee and a snack
Be sure to order extra cream if you really want black.

Next stop's Q'doba for a burrito with rice
and pinch yourself, because the employees are actually nice
Hold on, you think, wait a sec.
"This is Cambridge," after all. "What the heck?"
Aren't they supposed to treat me like chopped liver?
Reduce my humanity to a mere sliver?
They'd be rude, I'm sure, if they weren't afraid
Of a sudden INS raid.
Give a Cambridge woman hot salsa instead of mild
and she's likely to go hog wild
She'll call the INS on the double
and make sure your burrito-making ass is in trouble
Out of the country you'll be sent
to avenge the Cambridge woman the money she spent


Did you drop some salsa on your boots?
Well, head right next door to clean 'em at Zoots.
Do you have a dress to be altered as well?
They've got a seamstress named Olga, and she's just swell.
Olga comes to us from with Russia with love
But don't expect her to handle you with a kid glove
You'll advise her of your couture hopes
as she chain smokes and watches her Russian soaps
But Olga will come through, and this I swear
She'll turn out garments you're proud to wear

I'm already here so what the hell
I might as well brave Cambridge Naturals as well
I need an herbal remedy for an itch on my ass
as well as a tube of lipstick made of grass
I try to find deodorant for my pits
but eventually I call my search quits
The do-gooder at the counter informs me
that I should set my natural odor free
Apparently he practices what he rants
'cuz it smells as if he's shat his pants
I have to get out of here, I think
I can barely stomach this stink
If being "natural" gives rise to this toxic stench
Then in chemical perfumes I shall myself drench

I don't know about you
but I definitely need a drink or two
I make my way to Liquor World in a hurry
They've got plenty of booze, so don't you worry
Beer, booze, wine....they've got it all
This is seriously the best store in the mall
But of course, nothing's that easy
My shopping experience here isn't quite so breezy
Some asshole wearing a BERET
is blocking the aisle leading to the cabernet
It's fine if he wants to be a caricature of himself
but does he have to block the beer shelf?
Eventually I get in line behind this hack
And I'm effectively bludgeoned by his overstuffed backpack
You really wonder why I drink?
Just look at this shit; don't overthink.

Whatever, I'm off to Porter Square books
Where I'm sure to engender some condescending looks
from moms nursing their teenagers in the book stacks
or people at the coffee bar eating overpriced wheat germ based snacks.

I'm outta here, I'm going to Tags
Where they actually give you carbon-footprint magnifying plastic bags
I can't quite say what it is for sure
But Tags always leaves me wanting to come back for more
Maybe it's the lack of pretense
or the items to be had at little expense
You don't have to bathe in patchouli or grow a stupid goatee
You can just come in and have the ancient guy in the basement copy your key

Let's head to Shaw's, shall we?
Not sure what to say here, you see.
Yeah, they have the keepin' it real stuff
Ramen noodles and marshmellow fluff
But Shaw's has gone "Cambridgey" too
Come on in for Quinoa and Tofu
Just when you think the yuppies have managed to dominate
Go over to the customer service booth to see Shaw's true fate
The lady with one tooth in her entire head
is selling "scratchies" to a guy who looks like he's already dead
He won't let his iron lung get in the way
of his daily lottery daily game play
A Canterbridgian approaches the counter to gripe
about her package of marinated tofu tripe
Toothless Wonder and iron lung just stare her down
and strip her of her Cambridge "I'm entitled" crown.
Then I chuckle and find a bit of peace
because I know Toothless Wonder's spirit will never cease

And then of course, that leaves the gym
Healthworks Fitness Centers for her, not him
I am not sure I can even describe with the written word
All of the bizarreness I've seen and heard
Suffice it to say here an now
Well...ah....in a brief word....WOW
Why wear clothes
when everybody knows
We all want to see you whip off your full kit
and then stand around chatting, revealing arse, gut, and tit
Modesty is totally overrated
Remain fully clothed and you'll be berated

There's so much more; I could say more
But really, folks, what the hell for?

A Real (Market) Basket Case

What do the following songs all have in common:

"Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns n' Roses

"Circus" by Brit Spears

"Animal" by Def Leppard

"Let's Go Crazy" by Prince

Give up? Well, let me tell ya.

Like all artists, Axl, Brit, Prince, and our good friend Joe, are forever in search of that elusive muse to inspire their next top-selling hit song. In this case, all of these seemingly unrelated songs have one commonality. You see, they were all written in reference to Somerville Ave's own Demoula's Market Basket supermarket.




Yes, that's right. All of these songs were inspired by the daily shit show that unfurls in the aisles, the produce section, the deli counter, and the cash registeres of Market Basket.

Sure, the prices are lower, and the international groceries are fabulous (and can be had at a fraction of the price of these pretentious swanky, "international groceries" like Cardullo's in Harvard Square), but you WILL risk life and limb if you venture beyond the front doors and into its hallowed (and sawdust covered) halls.

Nobody escapes Market Basket without a few bumps, bruises, and minor skin lacerations. Make no mistakes, these injuries are sustained on a GOOD day at Market Basket.

You see, shopping at Market Basket brings out the basest, most primal survial instincts of the customers. You WILL use that shopping cart as a weapon to get at that last mango. You WILL jeopardize the life of an infant in a nearby shopping cart if if means getting that last packet of wholesale family sized chicken gizzards, goddamn it!

If another shopper gets his arm, leg, hand, or foot in your way...well, he's just ASKING you to go ahead and perform amputation surgery with the aid of your very unsterile shopping basket, jar of pimentos, and bag of spicy pork rinds as your surgical tools.

Who the hell needs two feet anyway?

Actually, the one-legged shoppers are at a distinct advantage at Market Basket. They get to use the shopping CARS with the baskets attached to the front. There's no stopping them when they see those fermented fish heads. If peg-leg wants to get at that last packet of goat entrails in the packaged meat section, he'll run your ass down without so much as a second thought. You'll be peeling yourself up off the floor like a flattened pancake cartoon character. (Think Bugs Bunny getting crushed by a steam roller and then peeling his now one-dimensional body off the middle of the road).

I've found myself in Bug's position a few times, but hey, you gotta give Peg-Leg a wink for pluck!

Anyway, today was like a greatest hits at Market Basket. I hadn't been there in a while, so I was delighted with my exceptional timing in getting there when all of the typical Market Basket shenanigans were going down. Let me share them with you here:

The produce section was particularly crowded. It must be tropical fruit harvesting time in Latin America and Asia because the guavas, mangos, coconuts, and pineapples filled the fruit bins to capacity. It was pretty packed in there. I guess I'm not the only one who likes a good mango.




Questionable parts of several non-traditional (for American consumers, anyway), were on full display in the packaged meat section. Llamas, goats, muskrats, hedgehogs, emus.....each of those animals had some shady body part, organ, appendage, or antler on sale for your dining pleasure. I felt so boring and American when I reached into the refrigerator case for my chicken breast tenderloins. I could feel the disapproving stares of my Salvadorian, Mongolian, German, and Russian shoppers boring in on me as I chose this most vanilla of protein options. They seemed to be willing me to try the Sea Lion fillets. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

Two shoppers were engaged in a heated, passionate brawl over their place in line. One of them was 99th and one of them was 100th. It was hard to say who got there first. The lines wrap all the way to the back of the store, and so I think #99 thought #100 was in the deli line, but #100 was sure she had clearly staked her claim in the 99 position by placing her newborn baby there while she ordered her pig skin at the deli counter.

All of the interesting groceries were labeled in 19 languages, none of which were English, and only about a third of which actually used the Roman alphabet.

The lines were moving slow as molasses because each customer was paying with his own nation's currency. Some people were even trying to pay with home rememdies they'd concocted in thier bathroom sinks. I'm pretty sure the cashier took the pesos, rubles, euros, and witch hazel balm.

Live animals were running around the store. No, they had not escaped from the meat department, but rather were the family pets of the other shoppers. Chickens? Turkeys? Antelope? Sure, come one come all to Market Basket!

Some rug rat dropped and smashed a foul smelling syrup, prompting the "Clean up on Aisle 3" distress call over the PA.

As you can see, all the MB Delights were in store for me today! It was great.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention that it took me longer to get the hell out of the front door than it did to do my whole shopping order. For some reason, a shopping foray into MB seems to put people into somes slow-moving zombie mode. I was stuck behind Herman Munster, Lurch, and Cousin It, none of whom could pick up the pace!

When I got out of there, I put my face to the sun and wept tears of relief at my newfound freedom. It was kinda like the last scene in that "Midnight Express" movie. You know the one...where the guy escapes from a horrendous Turkish prison after about 18 years of incarceration. He runs the hell out of there, and the camera freezes on him as he leaps into the air, a newly free man savoring his liberty.

OK, so my bags were heavy and I had a couple of glass bottles in there, so I didn't leap, but you get my point.

Bar Stool Olympic Judges

I'm not really a big winter olympics person. Actually, that's an understatement. I don't give one miserable rat's ass about the winter olympics. Yeah, that about captures my attitude toward what is admittedly one of the largest and most significant sporting events to come to the world stage.

I mean, come on. I can't stand winter, so why would I have any time for the winter olympics? I know everybody celebrates the will, determination, and discipline of the athletes. I just mock their idiotic willingness to stand around outside in sub-zero temperatures and hurl themselves, feet fully tethered to a glofiried skateboard, at breakneck speed off of structures called "half pipes". But hey, whatever floats their boat, right?

Now the summer olympics...I can get with that. Running and throwing heavy stuff in track and field events isn't necessarily my cup of tea, but at least the athletes can work on their tans while they're at it. And the spectators run very little risk of freezing to death. Have you seen the chumps in the stands at the winter olympics? All the overpriced concession stand hot chocolate ain't gonna warm those bitches up.

One thing I will say in favor of the athletes at both the winter and summer olympics is that they are so well prepared that they actually make their respective sports look easy.

I sit there in my living room watching the olympics, washing my chips and salsa down with a Bud Light thinking, "Shoot...Stephen and I could dominate that pairs figure skating yoke!" I seriously think that if only Stephen had a fully body spandex leotard and I had a feathered tutu, we'd be good to go. Mercifully, for the viewing public, we are not in possession of those articles of clothing, so you're safe for now.

I'm wiping my glass coffee table down with Windex and paper towels thinking, "Is THAT all there is to the mogul run?"

I watch a few ski long jumps and think, "I know where the German guy went wrong. It's all in the hand positioning. If I held my hands flat and palms facing downward like that Japanese guy, I'd win the gold." (Of course, I would also have to lose 140 lbs and shrink 8 inches to obtain the physique of the very aerodynamic Japanese man who won the gold, but that's just a minor detail)

Effortless. That's how the athletes make it look.

But of course I realize that these people train like 45 hours a day and that they live, eat, sleep, breath, and dream about their sports. They do nothign else. They are machines. I know that if I took to the ski jump mountain, I'd better have a last will and testament ready to go before they even sounded the "GO!" signal.

Moguls? Really? How do those people still have knees? How are they not hobbled? And that snowboard crap? How do they get that height, find their landing, and NOT bash their heads open off the ledge of the half pipe?

I guess the bottom line is that I realize that the appearance of effortlessness is just that...a mere appearance. These people are masters of their sport and they are at the Olympics for a reason.

Yesterday, Stephen and I went for lunch at a local pub. We had a beer while we watched a recap of the Olympic events that was being broadcast on the enormous TV.

We were more enteratined, I think, by the drunk next to us who saw fit to critique the performance handed in by each and every athlete. Nobody lived up to his stringent standards.

Lindsay Vonn (or whatever her name is) couldn't fool him! Everybody was trying to say that she skiied like a champ on her broken leg. And even though she managed to snag the gold, our neighbor at the bar saw right through her cherade. She didn't get enough lower body rotation, and her time was way off. She also slammed her poles into too many of the barriers, and her mid-course jumps really left a lot to be desired. She skiied like "an amateur" according to Tipsy McStagger.

After he offered this stinging critique, he took advantage of the television commercial to make his way to the bathroom. His own dismount from his bar stool was less than graceful. He nearly stumbled over the nacho-toting waitress and barely managed to break "slow shuffle" speed.

When he came back, he was quick to point out the flaws in Apolo Ohno's technique on the short course speed skating event. He waited too long to launch his attack on the skaters in the lead and should be embarrassed by his bronze finish. Tipsy McStagger then realized that his own attack on the beer taps was lacking in the speed department. He went to take a sip of his beer and was faced with an empty glass. In utter disgust, he beckoned the bartender over and proceeded to abraid him for not filling his glass in a timely manner. The bartender was shaken, but at least the heat was off of Apolo Ohno. Once the beer was filled, Ohno was back under fire. How could they even let this "loser" onto the team, Tipsy mused. I attempted to point out that Ohno is now the sigle most decorated American winter olympian. My argument held no water, however, as Tipsy declared it, "Hogwash!" I guess he showed me.

There was a break in the programming and Stephen and I took off. They were supposed to have hilights from the couples figure skating when the show resumed. I'm kind of sorry I didn't hear what Tipsy had to offer in the way of commentary.

Who needs Marv Albert, Peggy Flemming and Scott Hamilton ringside when Tipsy McStagger could do a much more entertaining commentary? But seriously, thank god Tipsyy isn't a judge. Nobody would win any medals at all. They'd never pass his stringent standards!

Bad Blood

I've learned something important during this school vacation week.

I really have to be careful what I wish for.

I'm constantly bellyaching about how, as a teacher, I have very little flexibility in my schedule. Now, before you start it about how much time off I get, please hear me out. I DO get lots of time off. I realize that most working people would happily sell their first born's soul to the devil for my work calendar. However, what I'm talking about is flexibility, not time off. Most of my friends can say, "I don't feel great. I'll go in a little later today," or, "I have to make a doctor's appointment. I'll take a longer lunch and then make up the time at the end of the day." You know, that kind of thing. I can't do that kind of stuff. If I have a 15 minute appointment, I have to take an entire day off, leave substitute lesson plans, and then worry about my students mauling the poor sub to death.

The American Red Cross called me late last week and asked me to donate blood this week. I was all delighted to set up a late morning appointment. Normally, during work weeks, I have to make late afternoon appointments. When I get there, they're running behind and taking walk-ins and crap. I also can't go to the gym because you can't work out after you've donated. (Nice excuse...I'm also not supposed to drink booze after, but when they tell me to "double up on my fluid intake" I just get the big jug of wine instead of the single bottle on the way home.)

Anyway, I set up an appointment for 11:30 yesterday, figuring I could take two cool Friday AM gym classes and THEN donate.

What I failed to take into consideration is that at that time of day, all the other donors would likely be crazy, effed up, and unemployed.

There was a guy giving his health history to the nurse in the station next to mine. You know how they always ask you those crazy sexual health history questions? Like, have you had sex with a Samoan guy with Barry White playing in the background? If yes, which Barry White track was it? Was the Samoan man wearing his native dress prior to the sex acts?

You know..that kind of crap.

Anyway, the donor in the station next to mine was asking the nurse questions that would make John Holmes blush. He was asking, "If I've had sex with a person whose gender I'm unsure of, and whose sexual history I did not obtain prior to having that encounter, should I be giving blood?"

Guys....I am NOT kidding. That was his question VERBATIM!

The nurse said she was going to get her supervisor involved in his history screening because she was unsure of how to answer his questions. As she made her way away, seemingly to get her supervisor, he started calling after her, "I mean, I'm sure you've been through the same thing, right? You've probably had partners whose gender you're unsure of. That's pretty common, right?"

She tried to gracefully exit the thing, but he continued to call after her, "I mean, what would you do under the circumstances? Would you be surprised?"

OK, here's the gross part, as he was asking her these questions, he was getting increasingly frenzied and kind of (it grosses me out to say it) excited. He was getting loud and his stutter was getting more and more pronounced.

Clearly he was trying to get his freakin' rockets off by asking this poor young woman these questions.

Jesus, all I could think of was that Buffalo Bill guy in Silence of the Lambs. (It puts the lotion in the basket. SKIN SUIT!!)

Finally, I was taken out of there and brought to the donation room. Thank God.

Several moments later, though, Buffalo Bill appeared. I kept thinking, "I hope they are flagging this maniac's blood for immediate disposal after the donation."

For some reason, the nurse on duty was telling all of us how long we'd taken to donate a complete pint of blood. I am always told that I go pretty fast, and the nurse was commenting on it throughout the collection. Buffalo Bill kept asking the nurse, "How fast? How fast is she going? Is she ahead of me?" He kept turning it into this sick competition. I didn't realize there was a speed medal for blood donation.

Anyway, in the end, it took me 7.5 minutes. Buffalo Bill came in a full minute behind me. Yes!

I was taken over to the snack table. There was some really sweet old lady over there. She had just finished donating and was having her snack. (And, in typical New England Nana fashion, she was emptying half the contents of the snack and beverage table into her purse. She wasn't even trying to hide the fact, either. Awesome. That's so gonna be me when I retire!)

The Tiger Woods conference was on, but the volume was off. The woman and I were speculating on what Tiger was saying. Suddenly, Buffalo Bill surfaces at the snack table. He looks at my Concord grape juice and says, in this attempted sultry tone, "I'll have what you're having." I just ignored him. There were 40 cans of the shit right in front of him. What was he expecting me to pour it and put a little umbrella in it for his ass. Yeah..I don't think so. (It puts the lotion in the basket!)

Whatever. The woman sitting next to me called Tiger Woods a disgrace. Buffalo Bill immediately jumps to Tiger's defense. "A man's got needs!" The elderly woman jabs back. "What he needs is a kick in the pants!"

Ha ha.

The woman turns to me and tells me that her husband cheated on her years ago and she dumped his ass. (She was still stuffing snacks in her suitcase sized purse at this point).

Buffalo Bill looks at her and says, "Maybe you weren't satisfying him in the bedroom."

For REALZ.

The woman and I try to ignore BB, but he keeps it up.

I sort of gently told him that maybe we could change the subject, that clearly the woman was uncomfortable.

Finally, though, upon his insistence of dissecting this woman's sex life, I had to go all Clarice Starling on his ass and tell him that I thought the line of discussion was inappropriate and offensive to two women he didn't even know. I suggested that we steer the discussion back to more neutral topics, or that we stop talking altogether.

The woman smugly stared Buffalo Bill down because I had come to her defense.

She and I both got up and left Buffalo Bill there, stewing in his grape juice.

I even wheeled her snack-filled luggage to the elevator and eventually to her car for her.

I could tell I had earned her forever friendship when, before closing her trunk, she opened her suitcase, reached in, and took out a pack of Lorna Dunes for me.

The EGO Has Landed

Like most of my fellow Americans, I spent some time last nigh watching the "Hope for Haiti" telethon. I want to believe that most of the celebs who showed up to sing, man the phone lines, and convince us to give to the relief effort were genuine in their desire to help the Haitain people. I want to think that they were really there out of the goodness of their hearts, and that their top...nay, only priority was to help.

But I have that nagging feeling that while some of them were indeed there sincerely, others were there to "be seen".

As my husband pointed out, "Who cares?" They were there to raise money, and they raised money. Haitain people are in dire need, and really, who the hell cares how the aid gets to them?

I'm going to give George Clooney, Samuel L. Jackson, and Bill Clinton a free pass on this one. I fully believe that they were compelled to go because the plight of the Haitain people truly speaks to them. You can criticize George Clooney here, but let me just give you fair warning that this is NOT the appropriate venue to question the motives of Bill Clinton or Samuel L. Jackson. I won't have it.



I have to admit that I tried to call last night because once I realized SLJ was manning the phone lines, I knew that if I ever got through, I would definitely get SLJ on the horn. But then I was worried that I'd lose my cool if I ever had the chance to talk to him directly, so I rethought the call. Also, I was worried that I might get Mel Gibson on the line and that would not end well.

While I'm on the topic of Mel Gibson...

Can I just ask...WTF? Why was that asshole let within a ten mile radius of this telethon?




This jerk has a laundry list of victims resulting from his own personal earthquakes. I couldn't even get over seeing Hollywood's favorite Anti-Semite sitting next to Steven Spielberg at the phone bank. REALLY?

I mean, wasn't there enough celebrity power there? Did they really need the likes of Gibson there? Talk about having no standards. Again, the people of Haiti probably wouldn't turn down any money garnered through Gibson's fundraising attempts, but still....

Maybe he should have just given anonymously and then disappeared into the woodwork....where he BELONGS!

I get that they were doing the whole "humble" thing and not introducing the celebrities by name before performing. Madonna launches into "Like a Prayer" without so much as a, "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Madonna!" Ok, I'm down with that. But it seemed like they were trying so hard to NOT make it an ego-fest, that it became quite a massive ego-fest.

Ok, and what was with Julia Roberts? I was sitting around in my sweats in my living room, and I was dressed better than she. I understand that she wanted to go with the understated look. You know, a natural disaster has struck. This isn't a runway show. But really, Julia? You didn't have something a little less frumpy in your wardrobe? Jesus, I was almost ready to crack my wallet open to donate to the Julia Roberts wardrobe charity.



Maybe I shouldn't be such a negative nelly, but I am always really skeptical of these egomaniacal Hollywood types.

1019 Reasons To Avoid Strawberry Jam

With a name like Smuckers it has to be.....

A dental disaster in the making.

It all started off when I bit into a seed that was lurking in my strawberry jam. (Jesus...why did I opt for toast and jam that day? What possessed me to opt for that over the oatmeal?)

Talk about sowing the seeds for a pain-in-the ass repair and recovery mission.

So far this nonsense has set me back 1019 bones.

179 for the first temporary filling procedure.

340 for my portion of the root canal. (That was just the estimate. They told me they'd reimburse me if I overpaid, and bill me additionally if I underpaid. I'll give you one guess which way I think that one is going to fall!)

And today, had to pay 500 dollars for my portion of the crown I received to cover up the root canal. (And of course the woman at the dentist's office thinks that it's likely I'll have to pay a couple hundred more when all is said and done.)

Oh, and in case you were wondering...YES I DO carry dental insurance. And the real kick in the teeth (God forbid...I'd need more dental work), my dentist says that comparatively speaking, I have good dental insurance.

Jesus, I'd hate to see what would happen if I had crap dental insurance.

All's I'm saying is that I've already shelled out over 1000 bucks, and I'm not deluding myself into thinking that this is the extent of it.

Ain't that a bitch?

In any event, I made my return to my original dentist. Totally awesome.

I've learned two things from all of this...

1. Avoid fucking strawberry jam as if your oral health depended on it....because it DOES.

2. If you love your dentist, do NOT set him free!

The Eagle Has Landed

As Boston College students make their way back to the 'hood, the relative quiet of life in Brighton comes to an abrupt halt.

I have to admit that I actually like living in a college neighborhood. That's probably a good thing, because the campus is a two minute walk from my house, and half my building is in habited by BC undergrads. So essentially, what I'm telling you is that my 36 year-old self and my 42 year-old husband are essentially residing in a college dormitory. We do not mistake ourselves to be among the youngsters, but rather have taken on the self-appointed role of "Building Den Parents". Newly arriving students quickly recognize us as the go-to people for advice, directions, and simple kitchen items. Their kitchens are all equipped with keg-o-rators and shot glasses, but they are frequently lacking such basic essentials as a baking sheet or a fork.

"Details," they think, as they pack their bags in preparation for the big arrival on campus.

It seems like the BC kids have had a pretty long winter break this school year. It's been calm and quiet around here for weeks now.

They must have started trickling back within the past 24 hours or so.

I ventured to Cleveland Circle today. One of the things I miss most when BC students are off campus is the awesome BC Shuttle. It stops right in front of my building, and will cart my ass down to Cleveland Circle and back for gratis. Technically I'm sure I'm supposed to have some affiliation with BC in order to ride the bus, and when I first moved into the neighborhood, I never even though to take the shuttle. Then, on night, I saw some 80 year-old couple piling onto the bus alongside a bunch of drunk ass college punks, and I figured, "Oh come on. Grandma and Gramps have NOTHING to do with BC, and yet they're rockin' that bus like it were their own personal chauffeured limo." I climbed aboard, got dropped off at my front door, and have not looked back since!

I finished conducting my business at CVS and then headed to the BC bus stop shelter. There, right on the bench, was a half-drunk cocktail from Roggies (I recognize the glassware). It had a lime and little umbrella and shit in it.

Awww.....BC parents. There's your money well spent!

I am going to suggest to Roggies that they send their barback out there to pick up any errant glassware. That's not joke. That'll end up costing them.

When I came home, the first thing I noticed was that the lower glass panels on the front locked door to the building had been shattered. Oh, that's right. The door buzzer is busted. Most people have been simply telling their friends, through the door intercom, that the buzzer is broken and the door isn't releasing, and then the person in receipt of the visitor comes to actually unlock the door. Now that the BC kids are back, waiting around for a friend to come open the door has clearly been decreed a waste of time, and so the glass pane was shattered clear out so that eager guests can climb right through and report directly to the party!

The second thing I noticed was that there is already an array of beer bottles littering the stairway. Kids, these were NOT here this morning.

I wonder when I'll see my first passed out coed on the stairs. Probably this weekend.

I can't imagine I'm going to have to hold my breath too long to see that familiar sight.

All I know is that there is currently a parade of bulky guys wearing shorts, those gym shower shoes, and ill-fitting BC shirts, lugging cases of beer into the apartment next door to ours. I can only kind of hope that they wait until Friday night to celebrate their return to campus. But hey, if they decide to kick off their revelry tonight, I can hardly blame them.

I used to so look forward to my return to campus after lengthy breaks. No parents. No rules. No official drinking age.

It's kind of fun.

City Upon a Hill. Come Worship.

My friend called last night, suggesting that we do some shopping and maybe grab a bite to eat.

Shopping? Eating? I'm game.

The only thing I wasn't looking forward to was what I suspected would be her proposed venue for our rendez-vous. Since the Chestnut Hill Mall is located about halfway between us, I kind of knew she was going to throw it out there. Keep in mind, she's a very flexible person. If I told her that I abhor this place and more specifically, the people who frequent it, I'm sure she would easily have agreed to meet me elsewhere. But I couldn't think of anywhere else, and I wasn't feeling like taking the T all over creation, so I agreed to meet here there.

I know I have ranted about "Cambridge People" and "Brookline People" in the past. Let me just say, though, that after you've been exposed to "Chestnut Hill People", those other species look like harmless houseflies.

In Cambridge, where I'm clearly an outsider because I don't have a toddler suckling at my breast in public at all times, at least people will deign to speak to me. They might even hold a door open for me or say "thanks" if I do the same for them. Cambridge people like to be seen as non-judgmental and tolerant of lower life forms such as myself. Even though they are really practicing their humanitarian awards acceptance speeches in their heads when they let me get in line ahead of them at Whole Foods because I only have two apples (which sets me back roughly one month's salary), and they have four shopping carts of tofu, I don't mind. They aren't really looking to help me out, but rather they want their neighbors in the "Fromagerie" to see their act of kindness and bring it up at the next book club meeting. (Think Angelina Jolie traveling to the lowest pits of humanity with a full camera crew and makeup and wardrobe team in tow. Even though she's boosting her own image, and she'll eventually return to her 17 million dollar chateau in France, she's still done something kind for people who have far less than she).


Brookline people don't really care whether they appear to have any humanitarian tendencies. They slam doors in the faces of lowlifes like me. They stare blankly when I greet them. They seem not to be able to register the sound frequencies of the voice pitch of my species. They throw frequent temper tantrums about the 1/4 inch of foam in their latte, as opposed to the 1/5 inch they requested of the barista at Starbucks. Apparently in order to be a barista in a Brookline Starbucks location, one need's PhD in thermo-nuclear physics from MIT. The one thing that manages to salvage Brookline, in my book, is that there are still a few areas of town where people are keepin' it real. There are a couple of grimy spots. Plus the place is constantly infiltrated by Brighton and Alston dwellers, so they get that reality check. So although Brookline people are pretty frightening, and they have no inclination to demonstrate good will to their fellow man, I can still somewhat handle being there. Granted, I usually plan my route through Brookline very carefully so as to minimize my time there. I get in and out of the places I need to go and then retreat to Brighton as soon as I can.

Chestnut Hill is a whole other ball of wax, kids. If you do not personally have the purchasing power of a small, wealthy, Western European nation, you have no business here and your existence will simply not be acknowledged. Well, let me clarify that one. Nobody acknowledges each other's existence in Chestnut Hill. For to do so would be to admit that you are not alone in the world, and that there might be times when, gasp, other people might actually be entitled to do or get something before you. I don't think the people of Chestnut Hill have grasped that concept because it would be too earth-shattering of a reality check. If you venture to Chestnut Hill, you will be bumped aside, crashed into, cut in lines, stepped on, and bowled over. I guarantee that all of the above will happen.

The Chestnut Hill Mall is located on Route 9. I'm still terrified to drive on Route 9. Usually, on Sunday mornings, when I got to the gym in CH, I just walk there. Last night, I decided to walk to the mall.

What I kind of failed to take into account is that it is one thing to walk somewhere in the full daylight hours of a Sunday morning when nobody is around (And I really no mean nobody is around. It's not the CH version of "nobody around" when there really are a lot of other people, but you just don't see past your own nose to realize they're there), and another thing entirely to walk down a highway in the pitch black on a Saturday evening. Granted it was only 5:30 PM, but it might as well have been the dead still of the night.

There are sidewalks, but the side streets leading up to Route 9 were so poorly lit that I admittedly bumped into a few of the 15 feet stone walls that buttress the properties to keep slobs like me away. Then of course motion sensors activate lights and dogs start barking. God forbid a 36 year old middle school teacher walk down the street and accidentally make contact with your stone wall. They'll be sending the contamination crews out there today to delouse the areas of the fence where I had the temerity to make bodily contact.

When I got to Route 9, where there are also, thankfully, sidewalks, I was still kind of terrified. Yes, there are sidewalks, and yes, in other parts of the world that would signal to drivers that they should cede that space to pedestrians. But this is Chestnut Hill and damn it, if somebody wants to drive their BMW 7 series over a sidewalk, well, they just will.



I kept thinking that if I am going to meet my death on a sidewalk, it might as well be on the underside of a luxury automobile. Then again, in Chestnut Hill, a BMW 7 series is somebody's idea of a beater. They were probably driving so damn fast because they wanted to get home to their mansions and house these embarrassing vehicles in their bigger-than-my-condo garages before anybody in a Mybach could see them.

Whatever.

Then I realized that while a lot of the world is really geared more toward drivers than pedestrians, Chestnut Hill would prefer to think that pedestrians don't even exist. Why would anybody need to walk anywhere when they can take their Lexus?

Or maybe they just don't have street lights because it would only make the residents of Chestnut Hill uncomfortable to have to look upon any lowly creature who doesn't have the means to go get a new Rolls Royce for every day of the week, and is rather doomed to walking. Dude, even the #60 bus went by with the lights out! The headlights were on, but the inside of the bus was totally blackened. I could only see the outlines of the house servants, maids, and pool cleaners riding the bus. These folks can't even show their faces. Silhouettes only, please, domestic helpers. Thanks! I don't know who is more pathetic in the eyes of CH people, bus riders or walkers? Oh well, I've been both, so I'm an all around sad sack.

Whatever.

I get to the mall. Bloomingdales? No thanks. I did go into a couple of stores, but I didn't really find anything I liked until I got to Sephora. I found a little something for 9 bucks. I figured I'd pick it up. I was surprised at how long the line was. I hunkered down to wait. There was one general line feeding into the two open registers.



I realized that what was holding up the line was that as the cashiers were ringing up sales, the customers purchasing the items were going into neurotic rants about the items they had chosen AND customers who were shopping on the sales floor kept approaching the registers, asking questions of the cashiers. The cashiers in most stores in most parts of the world would likely explain to such intrusive customers, "Sorry, I'm with a customer here at the register. There are sales people on the floor whould would be happy to help."

But in Chestnut Hill, that doesn't work. As I've already said, each person in Chestnut Hill is the only person in the world. So, the woman who comes to the cashier (*) to ask a question cannot see that the cashier is with another customer, because that other customer simply doesn't exist in her world.

(*) The cashier and other service personnel do exist in Chestnut Hill. Why? Because they are there to wait on people. Amazingly, they have the ability to be seen by all CH residents, although I bet they'd be quite happy to be in possession of a CH invisibility cloak. (I bet JK Rowling got the invisibility cloak idea when she visited Chestnut Hill and realized that nobody could see her!)

Anyway, the cashiers have obviously learned that it is of no use to try to thwart these customers' interruptions, so now they are not only ringing up customers in the line, but they are fielding detailed, CH-neurotic questions about the entire store inventory.

Just as the cashier was finished ringing up the sale in front of me, and turned to me in greeting, some typical Chestnut Hill overly-wealthy, deeply dissatisfied matron lept in front of me, barrel-assed to the open register, and called over her shoulder, "I'm in a real rush here." The saleswoman looked at me, clearly distressed, and I encouraged her to wait on this asshole. What can you do? Anywhere else in the world, I may have stood my ground. But this isn't anywhere else in the world. This is Chestnut Hill. And like the wildlife conservationists always say, when you enter a creature's natural habitat, you need to respect their way of life. Such is the case with Chestnut Hill, I know. I went there willingly. It's like your passport. Read the State Department notification inside. Even though you have an American passport, when you travel to other countries, you are willingly subjecting yourself to the laws of that land.

I will say, though, that maybe there's hope for CH people. As I think of the woman cutting me yesterday, I'm encouraged that she thought to actually yell back at me, "I'm in a rush here." Granted, she did not ask if she could cut me. She did no apologize. She did not thank me when I allowed her to cut. But she must have at least seen me there. That's progress. Maybe she was born elsewhere and has moved to CH, and thus has some primal memories of a time when there were other people in her world.

Who knows?

All I know is that I was happy as a clam to get the hell out of there last night.

I do not belong in Chestnut Hill.

I do not expect people to grovel at my feet...



I dot not have money to burn....




And more importantly, I don't want to belong there.

See ya in Brighton!

Breaking Up is Hard to Do...Unless the Person You're Breaking Up With Has No Idea That You've Broken Up With Them. Then It's Not So Bad.

I've recently had two pretty dramatic breakups and reconciliations. The strange thing is that I'm the only party, in each situation, who has been left emotionally drained. In both circumstances, the receiving end of the breakup/reconciliation had no idea that anything had ever happened.

Of course I have to harken back to my life's recent dental drama to recount the first one-sided breakup and reconciliation.

About two years ago, my husband told me that I should see his dentist. He said that his dentist was happy to take me on as a patient. I was sure to make my husband check with this dentist to make sure that he could handle my manic behavior in the dental chair. My husband asked, and the dentist assured him it would be no problem. We could start "seeing" eacho other, thanks to my husband acting as the go-between to negotiate the terms of the relationship. (Doesn't this sound like 7th grade romance? Remember sending your friend across the school yard to confirm that your object of affection felt the same way about you?)

My very first visit to this dentist resulted in my getting a filling. Drills were involved, as you can imagine. I did my usual dental dance. I shook, trembled, yelped, cried...you get the picture. The dentist was totally unfazed by it. He was encouraging and calming. He called me dear and reassured me that I was doing a great job. He even called me later that evening to make sure that everything was going OK, and to tell me that I had been "very brave."

Now I'm no idiot. I know the guy probably rued the day he decided to pursue a career in dentistry after he was confronted with my antics in his office. And we all know that he must have turned to his staff in disgust/dismay as soon as I left. They probably all demanded raises and he was probably obligated to give them to them just to keep them employed at his office.

At the very least we can hope they had a good laugh at my expense behind my back, but in all probability, they had to go into group therapy for PTSD after dealing with me.

But the long and short of it all is that the guy was awesome. I knew it was love at first filling. THIS was MY dentist!

I even have referred a few fellow dental-phobes to this guy, and they all love him, too.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when I busted a tooth while biting into a seed in strawberry jelly. Yeah, I'm not even joking.

I went to the dentist, and he hooked me up with some massive filling thingee. He had been talking about some horrifying sounding periodontal procedure, but seemed, after his examination and filling, to think that that would not be necessary.

Things were great for a a while, but eventually the filling started to kind of hurt. When I called to check in with the dentist, I thought he sounded a little jerky on the phone with me. I was shocked by his behavior. I got all in my head over it and decided that I could not allow a person who was annoyed with me to come at me with a dental drill. I've pretty much got the anxiety level maxed out. No need to compound it.

So, I decided I had to break up this till-then harmonious relationship. I decided to go elsewhere to have the filling checked out. And of course, we all know where that landed me. Root canal city, baby.

The asshole who performed the root canal made me feel so horrible about myself. He yelled at me throughout the procedure, and then said, "Thank god I don't have too many patients like you. It would be very draining on me."

Not to worry...I did confront him and remind him that I had spoken directly with him on the phone and warned him of my anxiety. At one point in our conversation, he said, "Oh, don't worry. You can't be that bad." I was quick to assure him that, "Yes. Yes I am that bad. And in fact, I'm 100 times worse. And that's just when I walk through your door."

Of course my retort was not as strong as I would have hoped for. My face was numb with novocaine, so I am pretty sure I was drooling all over the place while I mumbled my rant. I don't even know if the guy knew what the hell I was talking about.

But I left there feeling like a jerk. I was thinking, "My dentist would NEVER do this to me. Not to my face."

I was all upset that night, lamenting to my husband the fact that I had broken up with my dentist. I rethought our conversation on the phone. Was he really being jerky to me, or was he just asking me questions to try to figure out what was going on? Was I so anxious about it that I read into his tone? Did I completely let my phobia cloud my judgment of the conversation? I mean, really. The guy had NEVER been a jerk to me before.

It was my husband who pointed out that it since the dentist was never aware of the fact that I had broken up with him, I could reconcile with him...again, without his even being aware of it. Then I started fretting over how I would justify my straying to another dentist for this root canal. I knew my dentist would take it hard. We've been building up our relationship for so long. If anybody was going to earn my trust to rip an entire tooth apart in my head, it should rightfully have been him. I mean, he did all this work with me and then for the "big show" I called in a wannabe, second rate understudy.

Stephen pointed out that since I had the procedure on a Saturday, we could depict it as an emergency, where I woke up and was in terrible pain and we went to that office because they had Saturday hours and he does not.

Great plan. Reconciliation in the bag.

I still have to get a crown to finish this nightmare. I called my original dentist's office and explained the "emergency root canal" procedure to the secretary. Stephen had an appointment there for a cleaning Thursday. As the hygienist was bracing him to get the cleaning underway, the dentist came in and asked what had happened to me. Luckily Stephen and I had our stories straight, because he explained the whole "emergency" thing. The dentist was very sympathetic and explained that he always responds to emergency calls and that I should never go through anything like that again.

So, he has no idea that we suffered a brief breakup and staged a reconciliation. As far as he's concerned, we've had a peaceful (well, ok, maybe not peaceful...I'm hardly at my best in his office) and uninterrupted relationship for the past 2 years.

Why am I always the one suffering in dental situations, and the dentists always
escape unscathed?

My second one-sided breakup took place today.

I got a letter in the mail from my gym. I expect it every January. It's the rate increase letter.

I usually just suck it up. This year, however, the increase just bothered me.

I had already gone to the gym, and I rocked my two awesome Saturday morning classes. Then I got home and found this letter.

I decided, "That's it. I'm breaking up with Healthworks!"

In my head, they were already dumped and kicked to the curb. Out of my life. Good riddance! Who needs a clean, well-maintained, superbly-equipped gym with loads of classes on tap at all hours of the day? Not me! I'm going to Bally's!

And I did. I walked down to Bally's. I was all but resolved to just join up.

People, the first thing that assaulted me on the walk in was the stench. It was like walking directly into a filthy gym sock. Then I looked over and saw a guy working out in Skidz. SKIDZ!!!! I looked at the calendar on the desk to check the date. Yep...just like I thought, 2010. Apparently this gym is in some kind of time warp. Then I saw another guy who was sweating so much hair gel out of his buzz cut that every time he touched the handles of his treadmill, you could just see the grease coating growing thicker. The guy behind the desk was missing a front tooth. I know I'm hardly one to talk at this point, but really? That's the receptionist? That's "the face" of Bally's fitness? I know there are all kinds of myths about women walking around in full faces of makeup. Actually, most of the women there seemed kind of normal. And the guys didn't seem lecherous or anything, but they were cheesy and gross at worst, and stuck in a different decade at best.

I didn't get very far into the discussion with the guy behind the desk. Just far enough to find out that they don't have any fitness group exercise classes, that the only words "Rough and Toothless" seemed capable of muttering at me were "you can purchase personal training packages for an additional rate" and to be offered a free can of "Rock Star Energy Drink" if I joined today.

Ah....I'm gonna give all of that a miss.

So, I gracefully exited the club and resolved to continue paying my monthly membership dues at Healthworks. If I divide the membership into weekly payments in my head, I think of all the silly ways I could spend that amount of money weekly and have nothing to show for it. At least I actually use the gym all the time, and the money spend is an investment in my health.

So, I decided to smooth things over with Healthworks and reconcile.

Damn, all this breaking up and making up has taken its toll on me emotionally. I'm glad to have this three day weekend to recover.