Weathering The Storm

I haven't blogged in a while. Partly because in this day and age of instant Facebook status update gratification, actually taking the time to write a lengthy missive seems quaint and outdated. Partly because I have been too busy to pen such a lengthy missive. At present, I find myself grounded at home because of the massive blizzard, Nemo, that has paralyzed the region. (Since when did they start naming winter storms? And since when did they start naming crippling winter storms after Disney fish?) Under normal circumstances, the storm may have been a welcome diversion. After all, I got Friday off and I spent the day cooking, cleaning my place, catching up on leisure reading, doing laundry, and patently ignoring the Matterhorn of grading I brought home with me. Sounds good, right? Wrong. You see, I should NOT have been doing my best impersonation of Martha Stewart this weekend. What I should have been doing is molesting my girlhood-to-womanhood crush, Jon Bon Jovi. Let me explain. About three weeks ago, my sister, Lauren, called me, completely out of breath and seemingly on the verge of a breakdown. I thought she was about to tell me that somebody had died or been seriously injured. So, I braced myself to become the pillar of strength one knows one should become in the face of devastating news. I encouraged my sister to take a deep breath and tell me whatever she had to say. Eventually she recovered her breathing enough to tell me that she had won tickets to see a dress rehearsal for a Bon Jovi concert on Friday, February 8th at Mohegan Suns Casino. This was a promotional gig, open only to 500 ticket winners, of which we were two. Plans immediately went into effect. I would take a personal day for Friday. The concert would be general admission, so we would need to use our considerable height to our advantage. We'd just have to step right on or over people, causing bodily injury if necessary. We've done it before and were fully prepared to do it again. Those of you who have never seen Bon Jovi in concert may not understand our willingness to inflict injury on innocent souls. Those of you who have been within groping distance of Jon Bon Jovi's walnut-cracking ass will fully understand. (I hope there are Bon Jovi fans on a jury if my sister and I are ever charged with Jovi mayhem. We'll win acquittal for sure.) Wardrobe choices needed to be made accordingly. I bought us both small cross-body purses, and we agreed that sneakers would be our best stomping-other-bitches-to-the-ground-to-get-closest-to-the-stage sensible footwear. And because life is never easy.... Predictions of snowfall on Friday began to fill the media airwaves. At first there was passing mention of a few flakes. Then a few inches. Then a substantial snowfall. By midweek, there was talk of apocalyptic snowfall. Undeterred, we agreed to leave Boston late Thursday evening. And then reports of closed roads, shut down casinos, shuttered hotel restaurants, and roofs unable to bear the load of the girth of the anticipated snowfall arose. And so we had to back out and forego the chance of a lifetime. Skunked again.

So as I spend the weekend digging out my car and contending with gale force winds and thigh-high snow banks, I'll seek warmth in dreaming of what could have been.

The clock is ticking down on yet another school year. My 17th to be exact. Well, I guess if you really want to get technical about it, it's my 35th. I've been living on a September-June academic calendar since I started "Project Smile" at the age of 3. Elementary school...high school....college...teaching. In my world, the concepts of last year, this year, and next year have absolutely nothing to do with January 1st. For me, "this year" is over on Wednesday, June 20th and "next year" starts in September. Every teacher is familiar with the envious quips that non-teachers start making at us at around this time. "You're so lucky," is probably the most familiar refrain heard by teachers 'round the world as we near our summer holidays. I like to remind people that they too can be as lucky as I am by simply enrolling in the Graduate College of Education at UMass Boston, completing the 36 credit graduate school program, student teaching for 6 months, compiling a massive teaching portfolio, and then dealing with the bureaucratic monolith commonly referred to as the Department of Elementary and Secondary Education. And all this can be theirs for a mere $25,000! Yes, that's right. Anybody can be as lucky as the teacher friends they so envy. But seriously, folks. There is something to be said about this teaching thing. And it IS great work if you can get it and if you can do it. Every year at this time, I start to prematurely wax nostalgic for the outgoing 8th graders. They're still with me for another few days, but I'm already starting to miss them. I know people say middle school kids are oppositional, complicated, argumentative, confusing, and unpredictable. But the thing is....who the heck isn't? I'm pushing 40 and these things can just as easily be said about me! The last few days of the year are the most hectic and the toughest to get through. This past week, for example, we had a Duck Tour field trip on Monday (sounds lovely, but try herding 65 kids on foot from our school to the departure point at the Museum of Science), a district-wide project presentation on Wednesday AND the middle school banquet on Wednesday night, the 9-5 Field trip to Canobie Lake park on Thursday, and a crop of surprise meetings on Friday that resulted in my having to fly solo with 80 kids for all but the last hour of the day. On Monday we've got the 7th grade graduation in the morning, 8th grade Cake Boss competition right after that, and 8th grade graduation in the evening. And on Tuesday...well that's when we say goodbye to our 8th graders. And there will be tears. Lots of them. And not all from the kids. My colleagues and I have our cluster of kids for two years. It's really difficult to say goodbye to them after all that time together. Yesterday I took the kids out for a 7th v 8th grade kickball game. Usually the entire team of teachers goes out for this, but as I said, I was alone with the kids, so it was just me. One the way in to lunch, one of the kids said, "Thanks for taking us out. It was fun. I don't mean to complain, but it wasn't the same without all the teachers. You know, you and Mr. K (8th grade homeroom teachers) are supposed to play on our team and trash talk Mr. D. and Mrs. L (7th grade teachers) when they play on the 7th grade team." How sweet was she to make sure to start off by thanking me before voicing her "complaint" about how she regretted not having more time with her teachers at this activity which is a traditional end of year rite of passage? I assured her that wishing all of the teachers were there to enjoy the moment could hardly qualify as a complaint. If the worst thing a kids says to a teacher all day is, "Hey, I wish we had more time to spend with the teachers because you're really fun," the teacher in question is having a great day. And more than a great day, it's been a great year. I guess when it really comes down to it, I am lucky.

Officially Over It.

I don't do B+. At least I never have done B+. I guess now I do.

I am taking a hellish class at UMass Boston. It's a semester-long (13 week) class. In that time span, we have to read 13 novels, write 5 papers, do 3 presentations, and take a final exam. In addition to that little nugget of work, I have my full time teaching job to deal with every day. Oh, and somewhere in there, I have to try to squeeze in a personal life.

Last week, I had two papers and a presentation due. Yes, all in one day. And in order to prepare the work, I had to read a 200 page Samuel Beckett novel, and read the lengthy attachment articles the professor floated along every day. Did I mention that I had one week to get this work done?

I got both papers back tonight. I got B+ on both of them.



It was like somebody punched me in the gut. I don't get B plusses. I don't even know what the hell to do with a B+. I'm supposed to be an A student.

Or maybe I am a B+ student now. Maybe I WAS an A student. Maybe I need to update my verb tenses.

The funny thing is that I KNEW full well, at the outset of this class, that I was going to be, at best, able to phone in the work. I took one look at the syllabus and kind of knew that taking this class would be a major mistake, that I'd never be able to give it the full effort that it would clearly require. But I forged ahead, reasoning that it would be better to just get the damned thing over with.

I know...I know...a B+ is a decent grade. It doesn't make me feel any better.

I am not taking a class next semester. There's no way. I'm already living for December 8th, when this thing ends.


I might not care if these classes didn't cost 1700 a pop.

Hey, James Joyce....eff you!!



I am SO, SO, SO over this graduate class crap. I HAVE a masters degree. I have had it since 1999. I am done with studying, researching, reading crappy books, preparing research papers, doing group presentations, and paying out the nose for useless crap classes. I'm done. I really, really, really am!!!!

Canobie Lake Park...The Family Fun Spot That Time Forgot

Today was the day that every 8th grade student anticipates with joy and delight. From the time they show up at kindergarten registration, the seed of the idea of today is planted in their heads, and incubated over the course of the next 9 school years. It is the stuff of legends, the anchor that keeps many of them in school, the zenith of their k-8 education.

It is Canobie Lake Field Trip Day!

Today at 9:00 AM, the yellow busses rolled out of the school parking lot and headed to that fried dough and teen body odor scented heaven in Salem New Hampshire.

I will not blog about my students, save to say that they were awesome. They were fabulous on the bus trips to and from the park. They enjoyed themselves responsibly at the park. They all showed up at the designated departure time and place as directed. They were great.

What prompts me to take to the web to chronicle my experiences at Canobie Lake Park is the fact that, once you step through the entrance turn styles, it is as though you've left 2011 behind and walked straight back into 1983.

The twice-life size statue of Michael Jackson sitting immediately in the entrance definitely sets the tone. I'm not sure what's going on with the statue's feet. Today, for the first time ever, I noticed that MJ's feet are about three times larger than need be for a statue of this size. Was Michael Jackson known to have suffered from the gout? Was he club-footed unbeknownst to me? Was he abusing podiatric steroids? All's I can say for sure is that this shit's disturbing.

The music issuing forth from the loudspeakers does nothing to dispel the myth that one has gone back about 28 years in time.

Tears for Fears. Duran Duran. Oingo Boingo. Thomas Dolby.

Rhianna? Beyonce? What's that?

At first, when I saw people decked out in Skidz...



or sporting neon mesh half shirts....



I thought for sure that there must be some specially designated 80's day that I hadn't been informed of. Damn, if only I had dug out my "Choose Life" t-shirt for the occasion! I was all set to approach an obese man in an ill-fitting wife beater with a decal of Don Johnson and Phillilp Michael Thomas in their Miami Vice roles and pat him on the back for his obvious good sense of humor, but then I saw a guy with a bad porn 'stache and a permed mullet and I knew this couldn't just be some ruse to elicit a few laughs at Canobie Lake Park. Who would intentionally groom themselves in this manner to garner a few chuckles? Clearly this man was SERIOUS and he thought he looked good. This was an image he'd been cultivating for some time...on purpose.



I refrained from approaching these "good sports" once I realized that this was, in fact, their current day style. New millennium (sorry, I can NEVER spell that word correctly, but you get my drift) be damned.

I want to wear my Quiet Riot fringed half shirt and damn you to hell if you don't like it!!

I saw all kinds of questionable characters today, including the following trademark Canobie Lake Guests:


The mom carting around a 2 day old baby in a papoose, not because it was more practical to manage the baby's diaper bags and other infant-related paraphernalia (another word I have NO clue how to spell, but use all the time), but to facilitate her chain smoking and ceaseless text messaging.

The guy with the two broken legs charging through the line of the Ultimate Frisbee ride and insisting that they could just attach his wheelchair to the ride with the standard office-issue rubber band he'd brought along for the occasion.

An elderly woman with National Geographic body parts sporting short shorts reading, "Hot Buttered" across the sagging derriere.

So, yes, you can enter Canobie Lake Park and feel like you've re-entered the fold of your own middle school experience without missing a beat.

The only difference, of course, is that Canobie Lake is not as "broke" as it used to be in the past.

Memba when the biggest thrill ride there was the Caterpillar? Or when their idea of landscape architecture was to fashionably place a trash barrel in the middle of the park?

Well, now Canobie Lake Park has found its way to 2011, even if its average guest has not.

Case in point...

They have just unveiled their new roller coaster, Untamed. And let me tell you, for a small piddly-arsed park in the middle of nowhere, NH, it's a pretty respectable roller coaster. I'm no Stephen Hawking. (My number sense is pretty much limited to knowing that a #1 G'Ranimal shirt matched a #1 G'Ranimal pair of pants), but I am pretty sure that the incline to the first hill is 90 degrees, and that the first drop is even more acute or whatever the hell you math people call it. I just call it straight up scary. And I don't need a slide rule or a compass to tell me that!



It's a pretty good coaster. OK, so I had to ride it next to a guy wearing an acid washed jeans jacket with a Kix patch ironed onto the back. So what?

Another thing that Canobie Lake has done to "keep with the times" is locate hand sanitzer dispensers at regular intervals throughout the park. This is much appreciated, especially since the restroom soap dispensers are frequently empty. However, I'd like to ask Canobie Lake park administrators to acknowledge that rancid body odor, as quaint and retro as that might be, is just not charming. Perhaps they could put automated deodorant dispensers alongside the hand sanitizer ones in order to eradicate the pervading odor of Teen Spirit from lingering on every breeze wafting through the park.

Anyway, I have to go rub some aloe on my Canobie Lake Chaperone farmer's sunburn.

Yes, I used sunblock, and lots of it. But there's only so much Neutrogena factor 55 can do in 6 hours of direct sunlight.

Hey, I could have gone all out 80's and used Hawaiian Tropic "SPF" 4 baby oil. But, in this day and age, a girl's gotta rub some intensive coverage under her off-the-shoulder Flashdance inspired sweatshirt!

And the Academy Award Goes To...

I'm trying to convince Stephen to go see Black Swan with me today. Not because I really have any burning desire to see it, per se, but because it will be a great procrastination tool to further derail the plans I had to get to my pile of grading I've been staring at for the entire vacation week. Why Black Swan and not one of the other nominees? Simply put, I've heard of Black Swan. That's enough to pique my curiosity.

Mistaking my "interest" in the movie for a desire to keep current on this year's Academy Awards race, Stephen went in and put on an episode of NPR's "On-Point" in which the venerable Tom Ashbrook moderated a discussion about this year's film nominees. (In the entire time I've known Stephen, I don't think we've seen a single movie together. In fact, I think my last foray to the movie theatre was to see ET...the original, not the 20 year re-release. So I'm not sure why Stephen thought I was so enthralled with the subject of the Oscars, but hey, if listening to the show meant further procrastination from grading, who was I to argue?)

"We're" in the process of painting the kitchen (I've drifted in there a few times to tell Stephen it looks good, so I guess I can say "we're" painting the kitchen. So he's done all the work and I've supervised. I think that's a pretty good working dynamic, don't you?), so Stephen didn't want to break momentum to head to the theatre. I am trying to coax him to see a later show. I'm sure if I pressure him enough, he'll abandon his paint roller and step ladder.

This Academy Award episode of "On Point" showcases various movie experts weighing in on what films and actors are likely to pick up the coveted little gold man. They talk about potential surprises and upsets. Typical fodder for this kind of broadcast.

What I think is missing is commentary on what can reasonably be expected as predictable Academy Award happenings. We all know that the following will happen...

1. Some over-the-top and performance by overrated hosts (I have never even heard of the two people hosting this year's show.) The comedic value will be lost on me because I've seen none of the movies being referenced. However, I will recognize the telltale signs of the hosts thinking they are the greatest things since sliced bread, and basking in the self-congratulatory glow of their wit and brilliance.

2. Frequent shots of Jack Nicholson, the denizen of the front row center seat of the Academy Awards audience, wearing the same tired old sunglasses and flashing that overexposed "Batman Joker" grin.

3. Joan Rivers and her hideous daughter Melissa interviewing stars on the red carpet, asking them what designers they're wearing, and then conducting post-mortems on the celebs the next day on some "E Fashion Wrap" show or some shit. I wouldn't mind, but Jesus, the "experts" who comment on Joan Rivers appearance are employees of the Boston-based McCourt Construction. It takes that level of knowledge to comment with authority on the extensive reconstruction she's done to what used to be her face.

4. Women refusing to refer to themselves as "actresses", instead using the term "actor" to promote and engender equality in the acting world. (Gag) Meanwhile, though, if they win the academy award for "Best Actress" they'll suddenly embrace the term.

5. Some young female "actor" winning the academy awared over a vaunted and veteran actress and then tapping into method acting chops to feign humility at having even been nominated alongside said veteran actress. Usually the lines, "It is such an honor to even be considered in the same company as Merrel Streep, Shirley McLane, Judy Dench, Cloris Leechman, etc.", factor into the stunned starlet's speech. This year, I predict Natalie Portman is practicing sticking toothpicks in her eyes to force tears at winning over "the amazing" (Portman's inevitable words, not mine) Annette Benning.

6. Some star using this venue as a totally inappropriate forum to voice his/her out-of-touch political or environmental views. Sure, Matt Damon, I'll go out and buy a 17 million dollar energy efficient home in the Hollywood Hills.

7. Alternating audience shots of Brad and Angelina and Jennifer Aniston.

8. Some inexplicably hideous fashion statements.

9. Some embarrassing moment when some celeb gets called for an award, but is in the can or hitting the bar or something.

10. Some celeb proving his/her illiteracy as he/she struggles to read the 1 syllable words on the presentation speech from the teleprompter.

11. Some horrible dance-moderne presentation to a medley of all the best song nominees.

12. Every celebrity thanking every person they ever met in their entire lives as they ignore the "shut up" music.

13. Me shutting off the show three minutes into the broadcast and hearing a recap of the results on the radio tomorrow morning.

Any other Oscar Predictions?

Boston "T" Party

It's no secret that I HATE the damn MBTA. Late busses. Surly drivers. Dilapidated equipment. Uncouth fellow passengers. For those of you unfamiliar with the ins and outs of travel on the MBTA, that's a basic snapshot of what goes on during a typical commute.

You know how they say that if you locked a chimpanzee in a room with a typewriter for 20 years, he would eventually be able to type out the entire canon of Shakespearian oeuvres? Well, I have a theory that if you lock a chimpanzee in the command center of the MBTA for 3 seconds, he could eventually run the entire system more efficiently and effectively than it is currently run by its "human" overseers.

A couple of weeks ago, when I caught wind of the MBTA's contest for a rider to become "General Manager for a Day" I decided to enter. I was asked to write a 150 word essay stating why I would like to step up to the position. Basically, I said, "I think any idiot could run the T better. Let me try." I did not win the contest, but a few days ago, I got an email from the T, saying that I had been one of the 10 finalists, and that the finalists were being invited to participate in a 10 person roundtable discussion with the General Manager of the MBTA. The goal? To provide suggestions as to how to improve T customer service.

Naturally I accepted the invitation.

I reported to the MBTA Central Operations Center on High Street today in Boston. In the invitation from the T, there were no directions (T or otherwise) as to how to get to the location. I went onto the MBTA website to get the directions. The trip time was estimated at 53 minutes. I left myself about an hour and 40 minutes to make the trip. I got there just in time. Not bad, Team T. The estimated time was just 47 minutes off. Oh, and the walking directions from South Station to the address were entirely wrong. Typical T.

I arrived at the appointed hour and found one other participant anxiously awaiting the beginning of the "T Party".

Let me just say that as a middle school teacher, I'm pretty good at picking out troublemakers. My radar was beeping like crazy when I saw this jackass. People, he was a totally neurotic (bordering on psychotic) geek. He started loudly and boisterously complaining about the T while I was trying to sign in and get information from the front desk guy. We rolled our eyes at each other. The front desk guy said, "Sorry. This is gonna be a looooooong day for you". Then he went back to his Boston Herald and effectively tuned us out.

We got to the meeting room, located above the very impressive command center for the entire subway system.


(This is my own picture, yo!)


Psychopath booted up his laptop to reveal a freakin' Power Point presentation that he had prepared. The take-no-prisoners, very imposing T command officer shut his ass down with that nonsense, but she could not stop him from barraging her with annoying, repetitive, and obscure questions. He asked why, when the train is delayed, the conductors don't give an estimated wait time. (A good enough question). she explained why that cannot happen. Her answer seemed valid, but he kept pummeling her with the same question over and over.

As she supplied information, psychopath kept sprawling out all over the table to write in his notebook. The T employee suggested that might want to take a seat. When he refused, she basically threw his ass into a chair. Normally I'm not in favor at excessive force at the hands of a T employee, but I nearly applauded the woman in this case.

Psychopath hammered away at the Commuter Rail operator when he took us to their command center, as well. He supplied the same answer, but psychopath was on a mission.

We had a meeting scheduled with Rich Davey, the T General Manager, at 11:00. I kept glancing at my watch. We were still standing there in South Station at 10:50, and we had to get all the way to the Arlington St. Stop by 11. Of course we were poised to be late for the T meeting. (Not to mention, they were calling the 11:00 AM meeting "The Noon RoundTable").


(General Manager Rich Davey, picture on the right. Although Wally could probably run the T just as well)

Rich Davey was lovely, charming, friendly, and well....funny. I was seated right next to him at our meeting. He went around the table and I raised some concerns about the bus service on the 86. Namely, the bus shelter in Harvard Square has schedules for four routes that do NOT run through Harvard Square, but NO schedules for routes that do run through Harvard Square. He asked when I'd be out there again. I said I'd be there tomorrow night. He promised that would be fixed by then. I'll let you know. He also found it very when I said that my travel plans are always "86'd" by the 86. You have to give him credit for laughing at that crap, right? He also promised to put plain-clothesed MBTA employees on the 86 bus within the week to track the bus to see if it is being driven efficiently, and/or, whether the schedule needs to be changed to reflect the reality of the schedule. (He also chuckled when I referred to the 86 schedule as a great work of literary fiction.)

Everybody pretty much had a chance to raise a gripe or two. Davey listened to all of us, and promised that each and every problem would be investigated. It's hard no to find the guy affable and friendly. And I have to give him credit for trying to reach out to passengers. The psychopath kept harping on the tired old question, to the point that he was taking time away from other participants. Finally, losing my patience with his ass, I called out, "Look, you're beating a dead horse here. You got an answer. You didn't like it. Beating the dead horse isn't going to make them change their answer!" Mr. Davey laughed out loud...king of a barking laugh that he promptly disguised as a cough, but it was a definite laugh. It made everybody else laugh, too.



The above photo shows a typical red line commute. I hope our meeting with Mr. Davey helps improve T service.

Next time you see accurate bus schedules at Harvard Square, give me a silent shout out.

Snow Days

Let me just say that New England is not fit for human habitation. And yet, here I am. When I walk around tempted to call other people idiots and morons for their various transgressions, I'm going to try really hard to remember that I reside here...in New England...where winter lasts for 11 months, 3 weeks, 6 days, 24 hours, and 59 minutes, and 59 seconds a year.

I continue to live in a place where, when my small white car is buried beneath a snow drift, a perspective shoveler will scratch his head and ask, "I'm sorry....where is your car?"

I voluntarily call a place home where, upon waking up in the morning, I am greeted by the radio newscaster announcing, "It's almost 5:00 AM and zero degrees on this Monday morning".

I do this of my own free will. I haven't been sentenced here, much like hardened Russian criminals are banished to the far reaches of Siberia. At least when those jackasses are slipping and sliding around on a layer of permafrost, they can take comfort in knowing that at least they're not dumb enough to actually want to be there. I have no such excuse. My life in New England is not the result of court proceedings or a sentencing hearing.

We're looking at our 4th snow day tomorrow. This is going to extend our school year until June 28th. Has anybody reading this ever tried to keep an 8th grader engaged in learning beyond June 1st (or ever)? Let me tell you, I can predict now, with a certain confidence, that there will be no earthshattering scientific discoveries issuing forth from our middle school science lab on June 28th.

I used to look forward to snow days when I was a kid. It was GREAT to get up and hear the weather guy announce that there was no school in my community. I'd roll over in bed, catch a few more hours of ZZZZs, and then take to the sofa to put a serious dent in the daytime TV lineup.

These days, however, I dread snow. Yes, the occasional snow day is a welcome retreat from the rigors of a full work day. It gives me time to catch up on my grading and to catch a favorite weekday gym class. But at this point, I'm just straight up sick of it. I HATE digging my car out (or shoveling out money for somebody to do it for me). I hate the prospect of having to be in school straight on through the summer. Yes, our contract prohibits the district from having school beyond June 30th, but there's nothing in there to protect our Feb or April vacations. And at this point in my life, I just hate being cold and slipping and sliding all over creation when I open my front door.

At this point, I'm probably going to be making up 2011 snow days until I retire.

Summer.....where are you?

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!