Wanderlust

Does the act of traveling somehow rob us of our most basic grasp of common sense and common courtesy? Just because we are outside of our everyday realm of existence, do we inherently become entitled to be really stupid and shockingly rude?

Yesterday, I went into Copley Square, fully aware of the fact that a summer Saturday in one of the most touristed areas of Boston left the situation ripe for moments of frustration. Boy, was I right.



I poked around in the Prudential Mall for a while and when it came time to leave, I headed for the Boylston Street exit. There is a long escalator to descend to reach the actual street level. Normally I'd just take the stairs down, but yesterday I was wearing these wedge shoes that make going downstairs seem like a precarious proposition for me. I can be quite clumsy sometimes. (You should see the MASSIVE bruises on my legs, sustained in a fall from my bike last weekend.) Anyway, as I neared the escalator, I noticed an older couple standing there talking. The closer I got to the escalator, the clearer the details of the scene became. The couple, who were speaking what seemed to be a northern European language, were actually standing there, shooting the breeze in a most leisurely manner, ON THE TOP ESCALATOR LANDING. They weren't going anywhere. They were not preparing to step onto the actual moving belt of the escalator. They were simply standing there chatting. I know my readers will accuse me of exaggerating. I admit that I am prone to hyperbole, but I'm not joking you here. These folks were not near the escalator, or even just somewhere annoyingly close to it. They were ON the landing and were making no haste to move anywhere. Other people seemed to approach, under the delusion that these folks were going to get on the escalator, and they would just sort of wait there, behind the couple, for a few seconds. When it became clear that the couple were just squatting on the escalator landing, the other shoppers would invariably just step aside and take the stairs. I wish I could say that I were as kind and as patient. Although I, too, fell into the trap of waiting for a few seconds before realizing that these people were taking up residence there, and although I too took the stairs, I did not refrain from telling them, "Hey, that's probably not the best place to just stand around talking." You could argue that they were not English speakers and therefore didn't understand what I said. But don't fool yourselves. All these northern Europeans speak at least 9 languages fluently, flawlessly and without accent. And one of them is ALWAYS English. I can say with confidence that these people would NOT have done this in Norway or Finland or whatever. I assert that since they were traveling, they were overcome by the traveler stupidity virus.



Later in the day, I took the bus back to Central Square. It was raining ever so lightly when the bus arrived in Central. Some Japanese family (obvious tourists) were on the bus, too. The mother decided to open her umbrella ON THE BUS before getting out. As if that weren't bad enough, the umbrella was broken and this woman went a full 15 rounds with it in the doorway to the bus while 78 people behind her (of which I was one) waited for her to move her ass so we could get off the bus. This is to say nothing of the 890 people waiting to board the bus. How stupid and inconsiderate can somebody get! "Let me salvage my hairdo from the one drop of rain that might hit it at all costs...even if it means falsely imprisoning the people behind me on the bus, and preventing people waiting for the bus from getting to their jobs and appointments on time." Once again, you know as well as I do that this woman is no moron. When she's home in Tokyo, she's probably a model of Japanese efficiency, moving through the crowded streets and navigating the jam packed subway system of Tokyo with a machine-like deftness. But here, she can't walk and chew gum at the same time.




A few years ago, I traveled to Germany and France with my colleague, Jenn. She turned out to be a real loser. She was reliant upon me to negotiate travel arrangements and organize the various legs of the trip. And why shouldn't she? I know Germany and France, and more importantly, I am able to communicate with people. What would be the point of making her try to communicate with people when I can do it? That was never the problem. The problem was that she was extremely ungrateful to my friends who put us up. They all put their kids out of their rooms and onto living room sofas to give us our own space in their places. They went out of their way to make nice meals for us and generally ensure that we had a pleasant stay. All Jenn did, however, was complain. She is a vegan. Germans don't understand what that means. Jenn bitched and moaned about everything. The food they prepared. The lack of organic vegetables. The fact that her bedroom window faced a busy street and she was awakened early in the morning. The lack of screens on the window, which obviously allows mosquitoes into the place. The lack of airconditioning. Everything. Nothing pleased her.

And she was soooooo stupid and helpless on the trip. Once again, I fully expected to help her communicate. I had no problem with that. But to give you an idea of a typical exchange...



The picture above shows a store called Karstadt. It is a huge chain of department stores in Germany. They have several branches. They have Karstadt sport, Karstadt clothing, Karstadt Home, etc. The picture above shows a Karstadt Home store. We were walking through a small town one day (Celle), and we walked by a Karstadt Wohnen (Home.) The entire front of the store was one massive display window, and in the display window, there were entire bedrooms set up, as well as living rooms, kitchen tables and chairs, and a plethora of household items. You don't have to be able to speak a language to look into a store display window and figure out what they sell. Imagine some Chinese guy walking past a Crate and Barrel store and looking in the window. He doesn't speak a word of English, but the displays of desks, beds, chairs, table settings, plates, pots, pans and kettles might give a slight hint as to what's available inside.

Anyway, Jenn approached the window and looked at it in such a concentrated, bewildered state that it immediately called to mind the little girl in Poltergeist when she was staring at the static-filled TV screen, just before she turned around and eerily announced, "They're baaaaaaaaack."

She actually placed her hands on the glass of the store before turning to me and asking, "What is this?"

I looked closely at the display, thinking there must have been some item of curiosity there. Seeing a mere kettle surrounded by teacups and spoons, I asked, "What's what?"

She gestured broadly to the entire store and said, "This. What's this?"

I looked around, wondering if I could possibly be missing something. I replied, "Am...its a store. A Karstadt Home Store."

To this she replied, "OOOOhhhhhhhh!."

I thought to myself, "Jesus, that really WAS what she was asking" She wanted to know what this large building in the middle of a shopping district with display windows featuring items with price tags could possibly be. The people going in and then exiting with bags full of boxed goods didn't seem to add any clarity to the sitatution either apparently.

When I thought this conversation had mercifully come to an end, she piped up again and asked, "What do you think they sell here.?"

I started looking all around me, convinced that the crew of the German equivalent of "Candid Camera" was going to pop out and surprise me at any second.

But this was not to be.

I said, "I'm pretty sure they sell homegoods and furniture in here."

She asked, "How do you know? Is it because you used to live in Germany?

Jesus, I used to always say that I thought everybody should try to go live overseas at some point in their lives, but after seeing the effect that expatriation had on Jenn, I'm going to recant.

On the way home from Germany, we had a connection in Newark. For some reason, my bag was searched and seized first by Customs, and then again by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Jenn kept trying to wait for me, and the customs workers kept telling her that she had to move on. I reassured her that since we each individually held our own tickets and could see the gate numbers on them, she should just go ahead and I'd meet her at the gate.

You would have thought I was telling a 3 year-old child to go negotiate her way through a major airport on her own. She actually asked me, "But how will I find it?"

I told her that there was a pretty good chance the directions would be indicated in 6 foot letters on every single wall, door and ramp.

When I finally caught up with her at the gate, I noticed that there was a little Swatch stand closeby. I love Swatches, so I went to have a look. Jenn joined me. What a shocker. Otherwise, she would have had to sit there on her own for 12 seconds. She took a liking to a particular Swatch. The guy working the little counter came over and asked if we needed any help. Keep in mind, we're back in Newark. In the United States. Everybody speaks English again. However, Jenn asks me, "Can you ask the guy how much this watch it?" THE GUY WAS RIGHT THERE!!!!! The guy and I both looked at her, stupefied. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she had become so used to being overseas and needing me to translate that she was just not thinking clearly. I said, "Hey, we're in New Jersey. The guy speaks English!" I said it kind of jokingly, although I was ready to have myself committed to a rubber room at this point. The best part came when she replied, "Oh, I know. Can you ask him how much this costs?" The guy and I exchanged befuddled looks and then the guy said, without my having to ask him, "Ahh...its 45 dollars." He was looking all around, too. Apparently he also thought he was the unwitting victim of some hidden camera show.


Once, when I was flying back from Europe, I had to stop through Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport first. That place is the armpit of humanity. They never put passengers right into a plane. Instead, they keep you waiting for ages, then herd you into a room where you wait for a shuttle bus. The bus takes you across the entire runway to your awaiting plane. There was a guy on the shuttle with is kid. He had a little umbrella stroller folded up. He only had a backpack on his back, the kid in one arm, and the carriage in the other arm. He seemed to be managing fine. When the bus stopped on the tarmac, next to the plane, the guy was the first to exit. He felt the need, for some reason, to get the kid into the stroller for the 20 foot walk to the plane. Instead of simply stepping to the side of the bus to set up the stroller, he actually stepped off the bus, and proceeded not only to open the carriage, but also to change the kid's diaper RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR. Nobody could get off the bus because this jackass hadn't had the good sense to move 2 feet out of his way to get off to the side. Ridiculous!




And finally, my favorite. On that very same trip home, when I finally arrived in Boston, I made my way to baggage claim. My LEAST favorite thing in the world. There were a million people there, 10 thousand flights had just arrived and were spilling baggage onto the belts, and people were tired, cranky, smelly and just wanted to get the hell home.

Some woman, deciding that she really didn't need the luggage cart that she had taken, pushed it out of her way, with great vigor, and into the throngs of people standing there awaiting their luggage. The thing hit me, HARD, right in the knees and ankles. I was pissed. The woman had followed the trajectory of the cart with her eyes, observed it hitting me, and then looked away. HOW ABOUT "I'M SORRY ABOUT THAT?" Not a chance.

I took the cart, shoved it with even greater vigor right back into her legs when she had turned away and back to the luggage belt. Rest assured, I stood right there just waiting for her to look back over. When she did, with a filthy look on her face, I asked, "Yeah, how ya like me now?"

I know I've probably offended people during my travels, too, but I at least TRY to be aware. I can handle being stupid every once in a while, but I do try to refrain from being dead rude. I can't wait to be in Croatia, but getting there might be a real pain in the butt!

12 Days and Counting....

I took advantage of my day off yesterday to begin to pull some odds and ends together before my trip to Croatia. I can't believe I'm leaving in 12 days!

Just to satiate any curiosity as to what slice of heaven I will be visiting for two weeks, here is a photo of Mlini, a little town in which we will spend our first night in Croatia.



I always try not to spend too much money before going away on vacation, but there are the essentials that must be purchased before this and any trip. So, I went to my home-away-from-home (Target) yesterday morning to stock up.




On my way into Target, I noticed a couple of kids (Target employees) going around the parking lot collecting abandoned shopping carts. They were goofing off and screwing around, riding the cards all over the place and pushing each other around the parking lot. Typical teenagers on the job but out from under the direct supervision of the manager. Anyway, the boy started to make his way into the store with his carriages and the girl, while initially only a couple of steps behind him, began to lose control of her carts, thanks to a few errant carraiges with stubborn and uncooperative wheels. She was slowed up, and I ended up stepping in front of her. The boy, apparently unaware of my presence, and still laboring under the delusion that his partner in crime was right behind him, jumped and turned around, all the while screaming, "Yeah BE-ATCH!" He basically landed "right up in my grill" as the kids say. Immediately upon realizing that I was a customer, and not his pal, he turned scarlet and started apologizing profusely. I, meanwhile, thought the entire episode was hilarious. I thanked the kid for making my day.

Anyway, I bought a few of my travel necessities. Many of my little treasures came right from the "travel size" display.




I picked up a travel size Tide detergent. This has proven to be such a great vacation purchase for our past couple of big trips. In Croatia, especially, we were able to regularly hand wash a few garments, and then put them out on the terrace where, in the direct, blazing Croatia sun, they always dried in 3 seconds flat. Awesome! I bought a couple of mini toothpastes, too.

I bought full-size shampoo and conditioner. It kills me to carry that crap all the way overseas. If I were going to a country where I could read the freakin' language, I'd just take care of my shampoo needs over there. However, as was the case when I first arrived in Germany and couldn't read the language, I went through so much money guessing as to what the bottles said, and invariably buying shampoo that was disasterously wrong for my hair. I either had flyaway hair, static hair, greasy hair, dry hair, and any number of unattractive hair conditions until I learned how to read German and could select the right shampoo for my hair. Conditioner was even more of a nightmare. I use a LOT of conditioner when I wash my hair. Sometimes you can't even find conditioner in Europe. Or they have that crap shampoo/conditioner combo stuff. Nightmare! I picked up some sunblock, ponytail holders, deodorant and what have you. You get the idea.




My biggest purchase was my EMS backpack. I was in desperate need of a backpack, and I tried all the cheapie stores...Target, AJ Wrights, etc. Anyway, I had to break down and get this sexy EMS bag. EMS does great equipment. I spent 50 smackers on this thing, but it is awesome.

Another One Bites The Dust....

Actually, J. is the first of my summer school students to "bite the dust" but I have been known to be hyperbole-prone in my day.

J. has been expelled from summer school, as of 8:10 this morning.

I have to provide a little background on my summer school class. Maybe I already have. Stick with me, this won't take long. Our district's schools run from kindergarten to grade 8. All the worst kids from all the grade 8 classes around the city end up taking the same summer school class...mine. I am the only summer school teacher who has to prep two classes. (I teach math and English whereas all the other teachers have either one or the other), and I have the same kids for both classes. The 8th grade kids who need summer school to get to grade 9 have no choice but to take my class. For the most part, the first few days are pretty crazy; the kids all think they need to put on a performance for each other and for the older kids at the high school whose ranks they hope to join upon successful completion of summer school. I usually let them know that the only person they have to please is me, and that I'm not pleased with the performances, so they can abandon their academy award ambitions in my class. I also let them know that there is one person standing between their coming to high school and heading back to elementary school with their tails between their legs. That person is me.

Anyway, usually things calm down within a week or two, but there is always that one kid who feels the need to continue to push the envelope.

This year's envelope pusher is J. He is very sarcastic, rude, inappropriate and condescending. He is one of those teenagers who greets even simple, harmless questions, such as "Hi how are you?" as personal affronts to which he must respond with pure venom.

He has had a few "moments" throughout the first few weeks of the program, but I have been able to rather easily subdue him. Monday, however, he was in rare form. He was ignoring my instruction, having full volume conversations with classmates who were totally uncomfortable because they had the sense to know they would get in trouble. He was passing notes critical of me and other students. All while he sat there exuding his effeminate catty bitchiness. I nicely but sternly suggested that he might want to discontinue the inappropriate behavior. Of course, this unleashed the wrath of J. He wanted to know why I wouldn't "just get over it, already, Jesus!" Most of his sentences were punctuated alternatively with, "What the hell?" and "WHATEVEEEERRRRRR!" I realized he was losing control and so I invited him to the hallway to try to discuss he matter with him privately. Some kids are super sensitive to having things said to them in front of the class. I'm not into the humiliation thing, but I realize that even a simple "talking-to" can set some kids off and really get their backs up. So, I figured maybe a quiet conversation could help quell the situation.

In the hallway, J. Continued to demonstrate a completely rude and inappropriate demeanor. I was just standing there, not saying anything, for a good couple of minutes while he seethed and suffered from a case of explosive verbal diarrhea. (spelling?) I eventually tried to speak to him, but he just kept ranting over me, not listening. Finally he just screamed, "All right, whatever, OK? I was not paying attention. Are you friggin' happy?"

I actually was happy because I felt that at this point, I was completely justified in sending him to the office to undergo disciplinary action from the director of summer school. I figured it would get him out of my hair. He was removed from my math class for the remainder of the period, and I decided to find it within my heart to let him return to my room for the English class.

He returned and was an angel. When he reported to school Tuesday, I decided it best to move his seat in the math class. I chose a seat for him in the front of the room. The purpose was threefold. Number 1--bust the kids balls for being an asshole. That was first and foremost. Number 2--Keep him away from the other kids he was trying to drag down with him. Number 3--Keep him right under my nose so I would be able to monitor his every move.

He sat in his newly assigned seat without comment and for both classes, sat there, bent over his work wordlessly. He only spoke to raise his hands and ask or answer questions related to the curriculum. I thought he did some soul-searching and had come to the conclusion that he had best do an about-face.

I was really proud of him.

Today, everything fell apart.

J. Reported to math class and immediately began making his way to his old seat. I figured he had forgotten the change of seating. Hey, old habits die hard. I reminded him, by simply saying his name and gesturing toward his new seat, that he needed to sit there instead. Once again, the tantrum side of J. reared its ugly head. He "demanded to know for what reason his seat was being changed." Once again, every sentence was punctuated with, "Jesus Christ!" or "What the hell?" or "Whatever!"

I told him, "Ok, that's it. Back to the office."

He then tried to back peddle by saying, "What the hell's the problem? I'm going over there, aren't I?"

Gee, why doesn't Bush call on this kid to aid Condaleezza Rice in the Middle East Peace talks?

Anyway, I had no mercy. Not only did I send the little asshole to the office, but I actually accompanied him there, myself. I was glad, in a way, to see that he thought he had the right to speak to the director and assistant director the same exact way that he had spoken to me.

Mr. O, the assistant director, asked J., "Who is at home? You need to call a parent and tell them that they need to come up and see us."

J. replied, "Well, I'm not home am I? How am I supposed to know who is there when I'm here?"

Bad mistake.

Mr. O said, "Forget that option now, anyway. Now I am going to call home personally."

Once again, J. employed his favorite question, "For what reason??"

Mr. O ignored this question and asked the student, "Does anybody at home speak English?"

J replied, "Noooooo." (the sarcasm was oozing)

Mr. O said, "No problem. Mrs. C. is a Spanish teacher. She can speak Spanish, no problem." (Like Mr. O, I assumed, based upon the student's name, that he was a Spanish speaker.)

The student said, "Well good for Mrs. C. But my parents speak Portuguese, so Mrs. C's big positive just turned into a big negative, didn't it?"

A now completely pissed off and pushed-over-the-edge Mr. O said, as he hung up the phone himself, "Ok. You're gone for today. Go home. Don't come back unless you have a parent with you."

J said, "Whatever. OK. Fine. OK. Who cares. OK." He continued to yell all this as he continued down the hallway toward the exit.

Mr. O, now completely furious, was yelling back, "Yeah, sure. Ok. Its Ok with us. OK!"

(We would later discuss the fact that sometimes in our teaching, we hit low moment like these where some kid is being such an inappropriate jerk that you find youself sinking to their level and communicating with them in the same way.)

J turned around and yelled, "Shut the FUCK up to Mr. O."

With that, he had slammed the final nail into his coffin.

Mr. O followed the kid to the parking lot and told him that he was out for good. Don't bother coming back with his parents. Don't bother coming back PERIOD. He told the kid he just lost all his money for the courses (no refund...200 dollars), and bought himself a one-way ticket back to 8th grade.

I was delighted to get rid of this jerk.

I do, however dread the very real possibility that they will likely let the kid back in. If they do, I will honestly to God contemplate whether or not I will continue on in the program. What will the other kids think when they see this kid, who gave me such a hard time, walk back into the class . Doesn't that give him the last laugh? Doesn't that tell him that he can treat a teacher like shit and then get away with it? What about other kids who are "on the edge" and are just keeping themselves in check because they want to get out of elementary school? When they see this asshole walk back in, fully aware of how he behaved and treated me, what incentive will they have to continue keeping themselves in check?

I don't know. The money at summer school is decent. But I honestly feel that putting that jerk back into my class is just a slap in my face. How much is my dignity worth? Certainly more than 3 checks in the amount of 548 dollars.

I do.....

Apologize, that is. I do apologize for taking so long to blog at length about the Fwiz and Wes Florida wedding bonanza. I returned from the Sunshine State and immediately hit the ground running with summer school and other catch up chores. I know I put a little tid bit entry in to satiate my devoted readers, but I also know that a full, play-by-play account is expected. Far be it from me to disappoint.

The best way to report is, I think, to break down the weekend into pre-wedding festivities, the wedding itself, and post-wedding activities.

Pre Wedding:

Wedensday, 5 July: I spent the evening at Frank and Eileen’s in order to facilitate getting to the airport for the obscenely early Thursday morning flight. I slept on the very comfortable sofa and basked in the glory of E and the Maniac’s extensive cable television menu. I reacquainted myself with the luxury of the remote control, too. I was reluctant to sleep and squander precious television hours, but, alas, I knew I had to be awake at 4:30 and that a long day lay ahead. So, I struck an inner compromise; I allowed myself to fall asleep while some Lifetime drama starring Meredith Baxter-Birney as a drug-addicted mother who gets raped by an unscrupulous thug (Amand Assante) played out on TV. I’m not exactly sure when I fell asleep, but it was sometime after Birney undergoes a traumatizing ER rape kit examination at the hand of a sympathetic and competent physician portrayed brilliantly by Robin Givins, and before the determined DA (Bruce Boxleitner) brings the rapist to justice thanks to the gut-wrenching testimony given by Birney in a harrowing courtroom scene.

Thursday, 6 July:

I awoke at 4:00 AM. That was harsh! By 515, Lauren had E and me packed into her mini-van and en route to pick up Jules, who would accompany us on our flight. All travel went smoothly. Curbside check-in was as easy as pie. Our (DIRECT) flight took off and landed on time. Car rental in Tampa proved to be quick and painless. Fwiz’s directions to the airport were flawless. Everything fell right into place.

On the way to the hotel, we stopped to pick up a few essential provisions. These included a 19 gallon bottle of Tangueray for E, which she claimed was to “share with Julie.” Honestly, I doubt if there was anything left in that bottle by the time Julie crossed the state line into Florida. Jules picked up a bottle of tropical fruit infused Malibu. She became lost in a reverie involving the limitless possible drink combinations that could be concocted with her poison of choice. My faithful readers will hardy be shocked to know that I stuck with my old standard…BEER! I opted for some Corona, Heineken Light and a Bahamian brew. I also purchased a can of the Japanese beer, Kirinichiban, large enough for a small child to swim in. So, you see, it was really just a light drinking weekend for us. Oh, and Jules and I also invested in a package of pre-mixed lemon drop shots cleverly packaged in individual test tubes. We figured they would provide a quick boozy reinforcement in a pinch if necessary. One never knows when such a need might arise. Best to be prepared.

Upon arriving at our hotel, we discovered Reesie, Mary, Johnny and Fwiz, herself, relaxing by the pool. Everybody was remarkably calm and collected considering that the big event would take place in just 48 hours.

At 5:00 PM, uncle Johnny herded all of us (me, Jules, Reesie, Maggie, Peggy and Anthony) into his van and we headed to Tropicana Stadium to watch our beloved Red Sox take on the Tampa Devil Rays. Did Fwiz know, when she planned her wedding, that the Sox would be in town? I choose to believe that she did--that in fact she first consulted the MLB schedule before plannning her nuptuals. Well done Fwiz!

I know, I know, its about time for a pic. Here's the first of a few. Reesie, Maggie, Jules and Peggy make their way into Tropicana Stadium! I love the fact that they are completely decked out in Red Sox gear!



We met Wes's dad at the stadium. He called ahead of time to warn us that the place was simply packed. He said that since Tampa had defeated the Sox in 3 out of 4 games (this being the 4th), the fans were turning out in droves to cheer their team onto a clean sweep.

Let me discuss a few things that struck me about Tropicana Stadium:

1. If this place was, as Wes's dad had stated, "packed," I'd hate to see it on a slow night. At least half the seats were empty and remained so throughout the entire game. Possibly more. Entire sections of really good seats went unoccupied all night. Jesus, at Fenway, even if the Sox are having a horrific season, or even if the cold, crappy New England weather woul drive Shackleton himself indoors, you'd NEVER see even one empty seat. NEVER.

2. The stadium has a huge surrounding parking lot. You drive right up, park your vehicle in a well-lit, clearly-marked parking lot for FREE and then walk SIX INCHES to the entrance. At Fenway, which is honestly smack dab in the middle of the city, there is simply put, no parking at all. Most fans brave the slings and arrows of thousands of spectacularly drunk Sox fans on the green line to get to Fenway. Green line trains are slow, prone to frequent and lengthy breakdowns and delays, completely overcrowded, stuffy, stinky and choc full of the most obnoxious passangers anywhere on the MBTA. But of course....the green line services both major sporting arenas in the city (Fenway and the Fleet, which also doubles as a performance hall), as well as most of the city's colleges and universities. Anyway, those fans foolish enough to opt for driving to the game instead of subjecting themselves to certain torture on the greenline are lucky if they can even get their cars within a mile of Fenway. Oh sure, there are a couple of closeby privately-owned lots (which you can take a second mortgage on your home to afford), and a couple of gas stations whose attendants are willing to let you park in their places out of the kindness of their hearsts (to the tune of 100 dollars per car). All I'm saying is that the ease and facility of parking at Tropicana are at once comforting and kind of creepy (in that parallell universe kind of way!)

3. The third major difference is that Tropicana Stadium is indoors, creating an air-conditioned coccoon around the fans and players, while Fenway, in all its open-air splendor, leaves fans and players alike exposed to the broad spectrum of New England weather. I guess we New Englanders really are hearty stock after all. It seemed strange to see a ballgame indoors, I have to admit.

I should also mention two things Tropicana Stadium and Fenway have in common. Both are crawling with 99% Red Sox fans (true!...there were almost NO Tampa fans) and both charge NASA type numbers for a beer! It is good to know that some common comfort points could be found to make us feel at home!

We had to look long and hard to actually find a real, bonafide Tampa fan. In this guy, we found the real thing. Here is a picture of me fraternizing with "the enemy."




After the game, we had some pretty horrendous traffic to contend with on our trip back to the hotel. We were in the car for two very long and slow hours! When we arrived back at the hotel, I stopped to chat poolside with Auntie Mary and a couple that I presumed to be somehow related to Wes. Thinking this was the case, I figured I would eventually be introduced to them. After several moments, I saw the woman looking rather concentratedly at me. I battled to keep my weary eyes focused and realized that this woman was, in fact, Myra, and that the man sitting next to her was her husband, my uncle and godfather, Michael. I almost fainted. I hadn't seen them in so long that I honestly didn't recognize them. I have to go on record as saying that being reunited with Michael and Myra was definitely a high point of the wedding weekend. Here I am pictured with Michael and Myra. Just photographic evidence that we really HAVE seen each other in the past quarter century!



Friday, 7 July: The wedding rehearsal and preparations for it occupied most of our time this day. Reesie, Jules, Maggie and I went on a 6 hour trek across the entire state of Florida to get our eyebrows waxed. It was cheap enough at 5 dollars, and the woman did a great job.

We spent the afternoon by the pool, having a couple of cocktails and getting ready to go to the rehearsal.

The rehearsal went off without a hitch. Everybody practiced readings, processionals and recessionals. All just to cement the proceedings for the big day, now less than 24 hours hence.

Eileen, Jules and I managed to get spectacularly lost on the way back from the Church to the hotel. At least, we thought we did. In actuality, we just took a massive loop all around, landing back where we started, but taking 30 minutes to do so. Upon returning to the hotel, Jules and I decided that a lemon drop shot was just what the doctor ordered before the dinner. We had just had enough car time at that point. The shots, however, were disgusting, and the only person lamenting the fact that poor Uncle Paul smashed them to smithereens when trying to remove them from a cooler the following day would be Uncle Paul. And he wasn't lamenting the loss of the booze, but rather the fact that he had bare feet when he busted the things. Luckily, nobody sustained any serious injuries.

Anyway, after the dinner, we decided to hit the bar for an evening of karaoke. Maggie wasted no time in securing a copy of the host's song list (very extensive) as well as volunteers to join her in singing. We were in hysterics because as soon as the first woman took to the stage, we knew that this was a very serious karaoke crowd. No screwing around. The "singers" wowed the crowd with their personal renditions of classic showtunes, Sinatra hits, and, my personal favorite, "I'm Too Sexy." This last song was performed by a rather portly and masculine lady who proceeded to make up her own lyrics. I doubt she made these lyrics up on the fly. They flowed way too easily. Suddenly I was glad to have taken the lemon-drop shot detour earlier in the evening. Jules, Maggie and I took to the stage to sing, "I Will Survive." We thought that the combo of our wounded-animal voices, the advanced age of the average karaoke-goer, and the lack of seriousness would cause bedlum, but instead, our song inspired the crowds to get up and dance. Perhaps they had enjoyed lemon drop shots, too? Poor Margaret was sexually assaulted by a lonely old codger who took her swanky dance moves as an invitation to get up and start bumping and grinding.

Reesie has a pretty priceless collection of photos of the disgusted expressions that crept across our faces as an elderly man took to the stage and started singing, "Stroke It." That was just wrong! I left the bar before Jules, Maggie and Reesie took to the stage yet again to perform "Sweet Caroline." In some ways I wish I had seen it, but I know that leaving when I did was what help me keep my sanity intact. Sort of.

Saturday, July 8. Goin' to the Chapel!

The wedding day was upon us.

Fwiz was radiant in her gown. Reesie and Peggy looked awesome in their bridesmaid dresses, too! The color was flattering. The style was delicate and feminine and they both looked fabulous. Auntie Mary's dress was lovely and she looked like the perfect, "mother of the bride." Uncle Johnny was so proud as he walked Fwiz down the aisle. Everything was picture perfect.

I have decided to include a picture of Fwiz and Bob because it is just a great brother/sister shot and also because they both look so great! For a picture of Fwiz and her husband, Wes, see the following posting. (I'm bummed that I can't include more than 5 pics per posting here!)



The wedding was lovely. The priest delivered a really nice mass and his messages about marraige were very poignant and meaningful. It was really beautiful.

The reception was FABULOUS! How often do you find yourself wishing a wedding reception would continue? I actually could not believe whent the DJ started announcing the final song! Everybody had a blast. The food was great. The hall was really pretty and the PARTY atmosphere of the reception was beyond great! I can't remember the last time I danced so much. EVERYBODY was up dancing. This is the sign of a truely successful wedding reception, I think.




Here is the DJ in his full Reggae outfit. Throughout the evening he put on various outfits to go with the kind of music he was playing. I think he donned this thing through Buster Poindexter's "Hot Hot Hot." He got a conga line going, handed out moroccas and outfitted several partygoers, including Uncle Johnny and Auntie Mary with hats identical to the one he is pictured wearing. The whole party was really, really high-energy and fun!

Perhaps I am just partial to the DJ because he proposed marriage to me right there at the reception. He also promised free DJ services if I agreed to go through with the marriage. He had his partner, the photographer, approach me and ask if I was interested in him. The line fed to me through the photographer was (and the photographer was very determined to let me know that he was simply the messenger), "If you marry me, the DJ's free." At first I thought they were simply handing out business cards to everybody, but I quickly realized that I was the sole object of his affections. Oh, lucky me!

Ha ha!

Anyway, seriously, it was a fantastic weekend. The wedding was beautiful. The party was kick-ass. It was awesome to get out of town for a few days. And, most importantly, it was great to be reunited with family members that I hadn't seen in ages!

Congratulations Liz and Wes!

I know you have all been DYING to read my wedding related missives. I have been pretty busy since my return from Florida, but for those of you who just can't wait, here is a little something to tide you over until the full wedding blog is crafted. These things take time!

This is the beautiful bride, Elizabeth (now that she's a married woman I shouldn't keep calling her Fwiz...yeah, right!) and her wonderful husband, Wes. The two are currently enjoying a blissful honeymoon in Hawaii, so it will be a while until she is able to update you on her own blog.

A wonderful time was had by all. More details soon...that's a promise!

Happy Summer

I love the baby pool pictures. I don't even have much to say on this particular topic. This picture says it all. How CUTE is our little Caroline? Obviously she has quite a sophisticated pallet, too. How many 11 month-olds to you know who can say the enjoy turtle?

Croatia Accomodations!

We decided to be "responsible" travelers this weekend and actually secure accomodations for Croatia ahead of time. Two years ago, when we last went to Croatia, we also planned ahead and secured reservations prior to our arrival. We were amazed, however, because within seconds of our arrival in the country, we realized that everywhere we looked, there were "rooms available" signs. These "rooms" are always immaculately kept private residential apartments that the owners would rent out for an absolute song.

We decided that if ever we were to return to Croatia, we'd take a more bohemian approach and just show up with our bags, report to a tourist office and find a room. Actually, it always seemed like old women were hanging out by the docks and bus stations just waiting for tourists to whisk off to their 2 dollar-a-night beautiful private accomodations. We were totally prepared to live life by the seat of our pants this time around.

But then the NBC Today Show decided to do a piece on Dubrovnik as part of their yearly "Where in the World is Matt Lauer" series. My phone rang incessantly and my email inbox was flooded with with people who wanted to know, "Croatia? Isn't that where you went?"

Prior to my trip last time, people had asked me whether I was going to Croatia to "help people" or on a missionary visit. Believe me, after seeing how gorgeous that place is and experiencing the therapeutic benefits of the pristine Adriatic beaches and the crisp, cold beer, I realized that the last thing the Croats needed was any help from me. But, try as I did to explain this to people, they just didn't hear me. They had visions of me climbing a mountainside with a scarf tied around my head and 3 orphaned babies with distended abdomens hanging off of hand-fashioned papooses tied around my neck and back. But even after my return home and photographic testimony to the breathtaking beauty of the Croatian land and the obvious prosperity of the people, my friends and colleagues still didn't believe me. In a way, I'm glad Matt Lauer went over there. Somehow, his visit and his glowing narratives of the splendor of the country, lent the place a certain credibility that I was unable to communicate. I kind of resent the fact that my friends, colleagues and family put more trust in Matt Lauer (a man who interviewed Brittney Spears wearing loafers with no socks, allowing his naked ankles to flap in the breeze for the entire world to see) than in me.

On the other hand, I'm kind of bummed that Lauer sang the praises of Dubrovnik. He and Forbes Magazine, which recently recognized Croatia as one of the most beautiful vacation spots in the world, have in some ways tainted Croatia for the average tourist who is looking for a beautiful place to visit for a reasonable price.

Two years ago when we went to Croatia, the place was really cheap. For example, Stephen and I regularly had amazing meals (with the quintessential 400 beers each) for in and around 10 dollars. One night, four of us went to dinner at a "fancy" restaurant. The tables were build on planks underneath the arches of an ancient Roman aquaduct. A stream rushed under our table as we each ate 2 exquisite entrees, endless appetizers and cheese plates (handcrafted-on-the-premesis cheese, mind you), dessert and copious amounts of booze. (We had been hiking all day long without so much as a morcel of food in our bellies.) At the end of the hours-long meal, a 3-piece-suit-clad waitor approached the table to tally up the final damage. He literally added up 3 little notebook pages worth of food and booze and the entire meal came, with tip, to 50 dollars.
The apartment in which we stayed (2 bedrooms, full kitchen, terrace the size of Deleware) slept 5 and was just under 50 dollars a night..total...tax included. Actually, the last night of our stay was only 30 dollars because it was one day past the designated "peak travel season" for this particular establishment. Had the woman not pointed this out to us, we would not have been any the wiser and we would have paid her the full 50 dollars with no questions asked. Actually, the first place we stayed in, for a few nights, was a little bit like a dorm situation. There were four rooms off of a hallway, two on each side. At the end of the hallway there were two full bathrooms. We had to share our bathrooms with the other people on the hall. I'm not even sure if there were any other people staying there because it was so damn quiet. The room was pretty sparcely furnished, but it was squeaky clean. Plus, the woman who ran the joint would rush up with her scrub brush and bucket of bleach every time she so much as hear the toilet flush. The place was immaculate. It was a few minutes walk outside of the town center and it had a little balcony. It was about 15 dollars a night.

Anyway, back to my Matt Lauer thing. The increasing popularity of Croatia forced us to do a little reality check. Yes, there is a chance that there will still be lots of rooms available, but we know there will be more people competing for those rooms. We therefore decided to be "super-cautious" (Lauren will like that) and make sure we had reservations ahead of time. This time, however, we are surprised at the cost of places.

On the first day, we arrive in Dubrovnik at noon. Dubrovnik is crazy busy with tourists, and we decided it would really suck to have to pound the pavement in the (hopefully) 95 degree temps, with our suitcases, looking for accomodations. Today, therefore, we booked a hotel in the Dubrovnik area, in a little town called Mlini. It is the only actual hotel we'll stay in as we prefer the private accomodations. This place is 130 dollars, but we had not other choice. See, we want to arrive, stay one day in Dubrovnik and then head off to an island the following morning. We did not want to have to try to make some ferry on our first day, what with potential flight delays, etc. So, we decided it would be best to stay the first night in Dubrovnik. We'd have the luxury of having a place to stay in, a nice shower at our immediate disposal, a place to set our bags, and a short walk to the beach and BEER! We would have preferred a private accomodation as they are cheaper than the hotels, but most understandably want a longer committment than one night. As for the other hotels, they were super expensive.

Anyway, here is our hotel for the first night.



We are going to do the Bohemian drifter thing on the second day. Our second day there will be August 5th. We are meeting friends on August 8th, so we have a few days to kick around and do whatever. So, we are going to get up early on the 5th, hop a ferry to the nearby lovely island of Lopud, and try to find a room there. If we are unsuccessful, we will head back to the mainland and try our hand with the tourist information office. I'm much more willing to do that on the second day, after a decent night's sleep, than on the first day, after a ridiculously long, exhausing flight.

As for the remainder of our trip, from August 8th to the 17th. We have found this lovely little place in Cavtat, just across the bay from Croatia. It sleeps 6, had 3 bedrooms, a full laundry setup, AC, Satellite TV, pool, sun-drenched terrace, full kitchen and living room and is in the dead center of town. It costs, (drumroll please) 90 dollars per night. Not per person/per night...just per night. And it includes tax. And for a majority of the trip we will be splitting that cost with 5 adults.

What's New Pussycat?

On Friday night Meg, Gene and I were fortunate enough to attend the performance of the illustrious Welsh singing sensation, Tom Jones. (Or, seeing as where Jones was knighted on 29 March, 2006, perhaps I should be calling him Sir Tom Jones.)



The 66 year young Jones still has the chops to thrill female audience members with classics like "What's New, Pussycat", "Delilah", "Its Not Unusual" and "Help Yourself." And when he enters into his more contemplative mode, performing hits like "Green, Green Grass of Home" and "Without Love", male and female fans alike can't help but get lost in the Jones reverie. Of course, nobody can resist Jones's magnetic appeal when he launches into "You Can Leave Your Hat On." Nobody is immune to his charms!

Meg and I were delighted to see that Jones has not lost any of his physical stamina, either. He's a bundle of energy up there on stage, making the ladies squeal when he starts his swiveling, jirating and booty-shaking.

Suffice it to say, we left there with a big smile on our faces, anticipating Jones's eventual return to the South Shore Music Circus next year. You can be the three of us will be there, front and center, upon his return.

No Way To Treat A Lady

I like to think of myself as a fully independent woman, capable of making my own way in this world. I guess I'm somewhat of a feminist in that I support equal educational, career and social opportunities for women. However, I DO shave my legs and pits, I DO wear makeup when I'm not too lazy, and I DO like to buy pretty lotions at the Body Shop. I do NOT, however, listen to Andrea Dwarkin male-bashing speeches, I do NOT attend feminist rallies, and I do NOT believe that any female over the age of 18 months has any business wearing denim overalls-- particularly if combat boots factor into the outfit equation.

Where do I stand on the whole chivarly thing? What obligations to men have toward women? Tough questions.

What has made me ponder such issues? This question is easy to answer. As you all know, I don't have a car, so I cannot get myself from point A to point B in a nice little cocoon on wheels. My outings involve walking or taking public transportation, which puts me in much closer proximity with far more people on a daily basis. It gives me occasion to observe many facets of human behavior. The topic of interest for me today is that of how m men and women interact. Here are some things I noted today.

8:00 AM: I was walking down my street and a driver pulled up alongside me, looking for directions. (Those of you who know my sense of direction can resume reading once you have finished your laughing fit). His introductory line was, "Hey, Sweetheart, do you know the area?" Now, the man was very nice and appreciative of my help, but if I had been a man, would he have called out, "Hey Sweetheart?" Doubtful. It would likely have been, "Hey, Chief!" (This man just didn't seem like the, "Excuse me, Sir" type.) Or, if the driver had been a woman, would she have called, "Hey Sweetheart?" Most likely not.

8:15 AM: I boarded the bus to the gym and discovered that I had only a $20 bill in my wallet. I had not change. I was not about to pay 20 dollars for the bus, nor was I prepared to get off the bus, go make change, an then wait for the next bus. I explained my quandary to the bus driver, who said, "Don't worry, Honey. Just get on in!" With that, he even gave me a transfer pass, good for a free ride later in the day. I'm pretty sure this guy would have allowed a male passenger to get on for free just as easily, but I don't think he would have called a guy passenger, "Honey."

I'm not complaining about either of these two situations, mind you. I'm just pointing out that sometimes women are treated or spoken to ever-so-slightly differently because we have boobs.

9:00 AM: I arrived at the gym (all-female) for my step class. There are several male personal trainers and fitness instructors at my gym. Today, as they always do when one of these men reports for work, they made an announcement, "Attention Healthhworks Members. A male fitness instructor is now approaching the fitness floor. He will be on the fitness floor from 9 to noon today. We apologize for any inconvenience." They make the same announcement when any man enters the gym, be he a personal trainer, electrician or the guy who fills the water bottle vending machine. Totally asinine in my opinion. Imagine being the electrician or the Coca Cola guy and having to deal with that crap every time you go to that place? You're treated like a common criminal because you were born with a Y chromosome.

11:00: I left the gym and headed down Highland Avenue. Some guy driving a massive Mercury Grand Marquis beater that looks like a retired crash test vehicle literally lifted his entire upper body out of his car to serenade me with a chorus of smooching sounds. Jeez---what a shocker that he's in that car alone. With seduction tactics like that, he's a real romantic tour de force. How do the ladies ever resist? How is this toothless Casanova still on the market?

11:50 AM: I walked by the Dunkin Donuts on Broadway where, through their enthusiastic whistles and "grrrrrr" sounds, the local unemployed male Hispanic contingency convey their approval of my appearance. Could it be the Tevas that so flatteringly cut my leg off at the ankle, adding 10 pounds and stealing 3 inches of height? Could it be my post-gym unwashed hair? Could it be my iced-coffee stained t-shirt? Maybe it is the month-overdue-for-a-pedicure feet? Either way, I'm extremely flattered. It kind of annoys me, to be honest. Why do these jerks believe they have a right, nay- an obligation, to make lude remarks to women? Do they understand that the Earth would continue to spin and that the laws of gravity would remain in effect even if they did not comment on every woman's appearance?

1:00 PM: A man was entering a store just several feet ahead of me. He saw me. We made eye contact. I came within an arm's reach of the man. He entered the store, but not before closing the door in my face. Nevermind male to female politeness. Shouldn't holding the door be covered by a universal human being to human being politeness policy?

1:30 PM: As I exited the same store, I held the door open for a group of 4 men who were right behind me. Not ONE of them uttered even a monosyllabic "thanks." As I always do in these situations, I loudly barked, "You're welcome!" As per usual, this solicited several dirty looks from the offenders. Jesus, my 3 year-old niece employs the words, "please," "thanks" and "sorry" more frequently and with more accuracy that many adults, both male and female.




2: 30 PM: As I made my way on foot to the Cambridgeside Galleria, some guy honked to get my attention. And boy, what a vision! The first thing I noticed were the 2 gold teeth set amid the decaying remnants of the surrounding real choppers. My eye wandered next to the hairnet-covered slicked back wig. I thought I had seen the end of that look when Lou Diamond Phillips sported it in the inspirational early 90s film, "Stand and Deliver" in which an inner city Hispanic teen (Phillips), triumphs over his personal demons and an impossible calculus curriculum with the unwavering support of his dedicated teacher, Mr. Escalante. But alas, the 'do is still alive and well in East Cambridge. Anyway, another attractive element of the getup was the sweat stained wife beater. And I could never forget to mention the hairy chest adorned with the Mr. T. Starter kit medallion collection. The reason I even bother to report on this incident is because this jackass had his wife and kid in the car with him. Utterly despicable. Talk about having NO respect for women. I mean it is bad enough that he feels completely within his rights to harass some random woman on the street, but to do so in the presence of his wife and child just takes the act to an all-time low. Gee, what a lucky little lady his wife is! She sure landed herself a winner!

5:00 PM: I take the bus over to Stephen's place, using the aforementioned free transfer pass. It had long-since expired, but I presented it to the driver strategically folded so as to cover the expire time. Jeez, I'm sure he's never seen this trick before. I'm so clever. I sat near the rear of the bus. It was already pretty crowded. When the bus arrived at Harvard Square, it filled up even more. An elderly woman boarded and all the young able-bodied men who were seated in the front seats under the signs that say, "Please allow aged and disabled passengers to sit here" just ignored the woman. Not a one stirred. Eventually, a teenage girl offered her seat to the woman. In order to reach the seat, the elderly woman had to climb over all the men's backpacks, laptop cases, umbrellas and outstretched limbs. Oh, and of course the bus was moving.

I know this seems hard on men. Even as I write I understand that men have it rough in this day and age. If they hold a door open or offer their seat, will they incur the wrath of an angry woman who will blast them for treating her as though she were weak and helpless? If they don't help out, will a woman think they are impolite and jerky? I do not envy men in that respect.

I also acknowledge that in the cases of holding doors and helping out elderly folks, we should ALL do our part. These are cases of it being right for one person to help another, regardless of gender.

But still, there are times, whether they illicit laughter or annoyance, where I KNOW this would NOT be happening if I were a guy!

Our Little Quirks

*This comes from a blog notebook missive I wrote yesterday.

Rituals. Quirks. Peculiarities. Routines. Idiosynchrasies. Habits. Call 'em what you want. We all have 'em.

One of my little hang-ups is that I really HATE to write with a pen that does not have its cap placed on the top end. I don't know why, and it isn't terribly interesting, but writing with a "naked" pen is very unpleasant for me. But, here's the really strange thing...I love to have not one, but two caps on top of my pen. This, I assure you, helps me enjoy the actual act of writing to much more. I can also note the difference in the neatness of my penmanship based upon how many caps my pen has on it. No cap = hideous, messy handwriting. One cap = acceptable writing, legible to most. Two caps = handwriting that earns me kudos and accolades. And my admirers are often further impressed upon learning that I'm lefthanded. I can understand this shock and awe as most of my lefty brethren are cursed with tragic penmanship.

One advantage of this double pen cap thing, aside from the fact that it provides me with some strange writing gratification, is that I always know when the kids have stolen my pens in school. They have not copped on to the fact that if they have the double-capped pen, I am going to bust them for theft!



While I'm on the topic of lefthandedness, I might as well expose another little personal oddity. Though I do write with the lefthanded hook, I hold my paper not with the lines horizontal, but rather vertical. In effect, I have th paper sideways while I write top to bottom as opposed to left to right. I have had many people express amazement at this over the years, but I was never really able to truely grasp the utter bizarreness of this until I had a student in Germany a few years ago who wrote the same way. I was finally able to see what other people are looking at when they see me writing. Dude, that's just messed up, Yo!



Another oddity I can lay claim to is being the only person I know who does not like airconditioning at home. I don't own an AC and I am quite sure I never will. Sure, I like to seek refuge from the heat and humidity in an airconditionied mall or movie theatre from time to time, but the way I see it, I wait ALL YEAR for the all-too-short New England summer. I love the heat. Love it! I embrace it. I refuse to turn my apartment into a meat locker in the summer. I also cannot stand the fact that even on 90 degree days, I'm forced to leave the house with a fleece or sweater in order to be prepared for the subarctic temperatures in coffee shops, busses, whatever. I guess I am unable to grasp the concept of cursing the cold during our 11 and a half month winter, and then, as the mercury AT LAST starts to rise, embarking on a quest to recrerate the climatic elements of Shackletons epic South Pole expedition.



Lately, another idiosynchracy I can ascribe to myself is the uncanny ability to break my neck at the drop of a hat. It doesn't take much. Lifting weights. Sleeping funny. Turning my head. Breathing. Existing. all of the aforementioned activities are potiential catalysts for days upon days of intolerable neck pain. You know, the kind that makes its rounds of the physiological neighborhood. It schmoozes with the head, partys with the shoulder blade and courts the upper arm. This is a very generous neck pain, mind you. It is a free spirit that sees no need to confine itself quiety to one place. In the past 6 months, I have had quite a few such episodes. I'm having one now, in fact.

I saw my doctor yesterday. I had a coffee in a Starbucks which boasted sub-zero temperatures before boarding the meat-freezer bus on the way to the igloo hospital. Thank god I had that fleece with me. Although it sucked having to carry it along in the heat. But whatever...



I'd like to discuss my doctor's quirks here. Why not, since we're on the topic. Let me explain the splendor of the Boston Hospitals for my out-of-region readers. Boston is renowned worldwide for its superior hospitals. The hospital I go to, the New England Baptist Hospital, is known for its groundbreaking work in bone and joint care. In particular, they are "the back guys." If you have back issues, you go to NEBH. Simple as that. And although my back is still a thorn in my side from time to time, these people have improved my quality of life 100,000,000 percent through thier physical therapy treatments. I mean, I have never had surgery or anything, but if I did have to, I would be very fortunate to go under the knife with these people. These people are the official orthopedic treating hospital to the Boston Celtics, and when Nomar G. had his wrist operated on, it was done at the UMASS Medical Center in Worcester, but NEBH is their teaching hospital. Golf great Jack Nicklaus had his hip replacement done here. These people are also pioneering disc replacement surgery. All I'm saying is that if a person is working as a physiatrist (back doctor) at this place, they are obviously one of the best in their field. My doctor, although she is good and she obviously knows what she's talking about and although I trust her completely, is, well, totally lacking in the whole "bedside manner" thing. She is rather cold, actually. And while I can deal with that, the thing that drives me nuts about her is that whenever I have a flare up and I go to see her, she asks me, "So, what do you think is the problem?" This is not her way of asking what my symptoms are. Usually, we have already covered that. I have told her where the radiating pain is, etc. I have explained how long it has been going on and how severe it is, etc. Normally, upon the conclusion of such a conversation, the doctor (the one with the medical degree), would introduce some kind of diagnostic theroy to the patient (the one without the medical degree.) But, my doctor always wants to know what my assessment of the situation is. When I tell her I'm not sure what's going on or why the flare up has occured, she asks me, "Ok, so, how should we treat it? Do you want me to give you a steroid treatment? Do you want to continue taking Aleve until it clears up? What should we do?" It is usually at this point that I gently remind her that I am there to seek her advice on the issue because, once again, SHE HAS THE MEDICAL DEGREE AND I DO NOT. I mean, christ, I can't even imagine having a parent come in and telling them that their kid is doing poorly and then asking the parent what they think I should do to help the kid. The parent would say, and rightfully so, "Ahhh...isn't that your job?" Well, yes, in fact it is. Another annoying quirk that she has is outright refusal to perscribe painkillers or muscle relaxers. I mean, I do understand that you don't want to get people with chronic pain issues addicted to painkillers, but Jesus, a few muscle relaxers from time to time would be helpful.

Hmmm.....

A few guilty pleasures quirks...

Every once in a while, I indulge in a Starbucks iced coffee with (and here's the naughty part) a few pumps of chocolate syrup. I had one today, in fact. But, I don't do the whipped cream, and I doctor it up with skim milk. Hell, I don't even have to add Splenda because the chocolate makes it sweet enough.

I am addicted to gummi candies. I love those little things. It takes all the will power in the world to walk by them.

I don't even need to tell you about my love of beer.

I have been watching episodes of the Gillmore Girls almost non-stop.

I am utterly fascinated by the whole Star Jones and Babs Walters feud. And I have literally NEVER seen "the View." I don't even know what the hell they babble about. I only just learned about this Babs and Star Wars (ha ha) yesterday and I can't get enough coveragae of it on the news. I think it has something to do with seeing Walters lose her cool.

In the morning, when I get up, before I even shower, I turn on my computer and quickly check all my favorite blogs!

Anyway, what are your little quirks?

WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??

I think this is my 3rd blog post with the same title, but every once in a while, I do find myself wondering, WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??

I am now free for a couple of weeks until summer school starts. This gives me time to relax, move more slowly, and most importantly, to really take notice of my environs. I wish I could report that I'm refreshed by what I see taking place around me, but more often than not, the happenings unfolding beg the question, WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT?

I am actually writing in my blog notebook at the Laundromat. This writing will later be transcribed, unchanged, onto my home computer for blog purposes. Anyway, given the fact that I'm here in the Laundromat, this armpit of humanity, and given my history in this dump, you know this post will be ripe with shocking observations of the human race.

I walked in here to find a mother allowing her 3 young, butt-ugly and totally OBNOXIOUS offspring to jump up and down on the laundry-folding table. I guess I'll be doing my folding at home today. If it isn't a family enjoying a blood sausage meal at this table, it has to be the kids jumping on it with filthy shoes. Anyway, I digress.... The table is this rickety, collapsible thing that appears to be on its last legs. I hope these little bastards wind up in a splintery pile of kindling. It would serve them right. And mom is just sitting there serenely smiling. SMILING. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??????

Two Hispanic women are "chatting" at eardrum-splitting volume. I know enough Spanish to figure out that they are discussing a wedding they both attended this weekend. The consensus seems to be that the bride was gorgeous. The meal, which was described as "delightful" obviously met, if not surpassed, their expectations. The music was wonderful and Julio and Maria were just glowing. A great time was had by all! And yet, as is so frequently the case with Spanish language conversation, the sheer volume, the shrill voices and the manic animation might suggest to the un-Spanish-trained ear that one of these women was confronting the other for sleeping with her husband, mudering her child, or worse still, failing to TiVo the Spanish soap in which Erick Estrada plays the male leading heartthrob. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT????



Some Middle Eastern guy has been smiling and leering at me since I walked in. Needless to say, as today is the first time I've done laundry in over two weeks, I'm in an outfit that would disgrace my family for generations if anybody saw me. And yet neither that fact, nor the spectacle of watching me sort out my dirty laundry has served as a deterrent for this moron. And, Jesus, the teeth.....his dental status alone could be cause enough to make him stand trial for crimes against humanity. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT???



Ok, enough about the Laundromat. I have got another baffling experience to report. Two days ago, I returned a 120 dollar item to a reputable clothing retailer. I had folded the item and tied a plastic bag around it to protect it from the relentless rain that has become so typical of Boston in the past couple of months. Before I returned it, I went to the gym, where I stuck it in my locker and where it inevitably landed under 100 other things, thus wrinkling it even further. When I got to the store and the saleswoman took it out of the bag, she was entirely unphased by the horrific state of it. (Granted, it still had the tags and I did have the receipt, but still, if she had wanted to complain about it, she would have been well within her right.) Clearly, the thing would need to be ironed thoroughly before being placed back on the salesfloor. But, with a smile on her face and no questions asked, the saleswoman issued me a full refund. She only expressed concern that I might have been dissatisfied with my item or my shopping experience. When I assured her that neither was the case, she wished me a nice day and I was on my way. The entire transaction took 9 seconds. Immediately thereafter, I went to Target, where I had to return a gym shirt that was not the right size. Again, the item had the tags and I had a receipt. I figured it would be a cake walk. Lauren had often told me of horrendous Target return stories, but I had never had a negative experience. This day would change all of that. The manager at Target conducted an intense interrogation of me, forcing me to explain, in detail, why I wanted to return the shirt. When I replied, "It didn't fit," she demanded to know how. Was it too big? Too small? Too short? Too long. I eventually was forced to go into detail about how it was too big through the boobs, (pretty amazing as I'm not a small girl), and a bit pouchy through the back. When she completed her interrogation, she focused her energies on performing an intense scrutiny of the sales receipt. I felt like one of those Russian counterfeitters of American currency getting caught out at the Federal Reserve bank or something. At one point, the manager even asked if I had worn the shirt. I thought maybe she was trying to add a little levity to the situation, but before long, I realized that she was, indeed, completely straightfaced. I explained that if I had worn the shirt to the gym, there would, in fact, be some unmistakable telltale signs---like removed tags, sweat marks and an extremely unpleasant aroma. After lengthy conversation with another Target manager (were the Yalta conferences this drawn out? Did NATO take this long?), I was allowed to exchange the shirt for something from the SAME department. So, to sum this up, Target basically called in the FBI to assist with the return of a $10 athletic shirt, while the other retailer accepts the return of a piece of merchandise worth 12 times that value without so much as a batted eyelash. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT???

OK, so, another Laundromat item...I'm sorry, but I can't avoid reporting on this one. When I went over to begin removing my clothes from the washers, the middle eastern dude with the criminal teeth got up from his temporary perch in order to reposition himself in front of the machines I was using. it was a thrill to remove all my bras and other unmentionables right in front of this A-hole. My favorite moment came when I dropped a pair of panties. In a flash, the guy was out of his seat, no doubt with the goal of rendering "assistance" by picking up my panties. But, I beat him to it. I bent over so quickly I almost gave myself whiplash. I could have been accused of pirating Allie's signature dance recital bow. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??




I got my crap into the dryer and now I'm at the coffee shop around the corner. Some woman is here with her two hideously behaved children. The older kid is repeatedly kicking the bench that wraps around the entire wall and is, therefore, my seat, too. He is also screaming the same unintelligible word over and over ad nauseum. Mom has so much baby equipment that at first I thought she was holding a garage sale right here in the middle of the coffee shop. Her stuff is strewn out over three tables, forcing other people to eat standing up. I swear, I was watching Dateline NBC last night and there was some segment on climbing Everest. As always, I was amazed at how much CRAP the Sherpas heft up that 29,000 foot face for the western climbers. Christ, they have oxygen tanks, tents, stoves, food, etc....enough for the 6 week assault on the mountain. Unreal! But, I'm not even joking when I say that I think that if even the most seasoned Sherpa were confronted with the challenge of hauling this woman's diaper bag up there, he'd just fall to his knees, weep heartily and concede defeat before even beginning to undertake the expedition. Meanwhile, with the screaming kids, the bench-stomper, the double stroller parked square in front of the ordering counter, equipment enough to clutter 3 tables, Mom gives ME a filthy look when my cell phone rings and I pick it up. Disgusted, she packs up Abraham and Gus (REAL names), and takes off. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT?

Anyway, enough with this. I'm out of here. My laundry should be ready. I now have to go pick it up and haul it up the hill atop which I reside. Of course, it weighed 6 tons when I took it down the hill. Now, because some of it is wet still (you know those items that conveniently can't be dried), it weighs 12,000 pounds. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??

Maybe I should hire a Sherpa to help me carry my laundry home!!

The Sun? What the hell is that? Never heard of it.

As my last post indicates, my official last day of school was Wednesday, 21 June. Coincidentally, that was also the last time I saw the sun. The weather here has been, in a word, DREADFUL. The sun has not appeared in days and days and days. It has been pissing down with rain almost non-stop. At least it is warm out.

I have been successful at getting my ass to the gym and taking care of my general errands, but I have not felt any great motivation to spend more time than necessary outdoors. For to do so would be to unnecessarily and willingly expose myself to becoming soaking wet within seconds of my venturing out. And to what end?

So, because Stephen had Friday off, we spent most of the weekend hanging out. And most of that weekend time was spent catching up on some long neglected television, movie and reading entertainment.



Reesie lent me her Gilmore Girls (seasons 1 and 2) DVDs and I have been enjoying them immensely. I'm annoyed by many of the characters (more shortly) and yet I find myself oddly compelled to keep watching. I am annoyed by the fact that, as with many shows, the characters are all the same exact person! Sure, there are tall ones, short ones, thin ones, heavy ones, male ones and female ones, but they are all possessed of the exact same sarcastic, cyincal and dry humor. They all speak far too quickly. They are all completely neurotic. They are all gifted in the enviable art of quick-witted verbal repartee and nobody is ever short of a piercing comeback.

Rory's barracuda teeth and closed-mouth mumbling bother me as does Loralei's complete inability to simply ask a question or make a statement without lapsing into a grandiose solliloquy, riddled with pop-culture references, clever puns and obtuse analogies.

And yet, I keep watching. I actually like the show. I can't explain how exactly that works, but there you have it. I'm psyched that I still have another whole disc of season one and the entire second season to watch! Reesie, keep 'em coming.

Great...another show to become addicted to in the Fall. Or is it over now? Either way, no danger in becoming chained to my boob tube each week; Reesie's blog was often filled with references to her disappointment at yet another week without a new episode of GG.



We rented the movie, "Vera Drake." The first time I had heard of the movie was during the most recent Academy Awards. I don't get to the movies very frequently, so it is often the case that the movies which procured the most prestigious nominations are completely unknown to me. Anyway, I hate to admit this because I'm sure it will come across as completely dispicable, but when I saw the lead actress in the movie sitting there at the Academy Awards show, I was completely put off. She is this older, rather dowdy looking woman. I likened her immediately to that Judi Dench bitch. Anyway, shortly after the broadcast, the film was on the shelves of the movie stores. It took me a while to even pick up the box for a look at the movie description. But finally, during one visit to the video store, I did read the thing, only to discover that it looked rather interesting. I finally rented it this weekend, and we both really enjoyed it. It is a film about a British woman who, in 1950, goes around helping women who get pregnant and wish to terminate their pregnancies, but have nowhere to turn. She actually performs the procedure for them. Eventually, of course, she gets found out and has to face the courts. It is a very good movie. You should check it out. There were a few times when I wanted to scream, "JUST SPEAK ALREADY!" when Vera was, due to uncontrollable crying jags, unable to speak. These scenes were interminable. But the movie is worth it. Check it out if you have time. And feel free to fast forward through the crying jag scenes. Don't you just love DVD players??



We also rented Syriana, which I had been wanting to see for a while. I just couldn't get through it, though. Stephen loved it...enough to watch it twice. Actually, he watched it twice because he needed the second viewing to cement everything together. Actually, to be completely honest, he watched the movie once, then read an explanation of the movie on the internet, and then watched it a second time. This movie is very good, and very interesting, but it is jam packed with action, information and characters. And it is very wordy. If you miss one thing, you're lost for the rest of the film.

I wanted to be into it. I watched an hour of it the first time before drifting off into a book (more soon). Then, the next day, I read the internet article on it and attempted to watch it again. I made it to the exact same point as the night before, and then drifted into another book.



This is the first book I drifted into. Marian Keyes is an Irish "chick-lit" author whose work I first encountered while I was living in Germany. I read about 5 books by her and then kind of burned out. She has come out with a few more over the years, including the one pictured here, "Cracks in my Foundation." I had looked at and indeed looked OVER many of her books in the past few years, but I bought this one because it was on the discount table at Brookline Booksmith. It was actually very good and I'm glad I read it. I would recommend anything by her to any of you girs. Perfect beach reading!



This is the second book I attacked this weekend. I bought it for Stephen for his birthday. What can I say, we're both liberals and we got a kick out of the attacks on our least favorite Republican leaders. But, that said, I love this country for the fact that people are allowed to write, publish and sell books that are critical of whatever governmental administration happens to sit in power. Gotta love the USA for that if for nothing else!

I have to go watch this Dateline NBC show about the guy who gets rescued from a harrowing experience on Mt. Everest. The climber's name is Lincoln Hall. Why do people who climb mountains and/or ride mountainbikes have names like Lincoln?

Free at Last. Free at Last. Thank God Almighty, I am Free at Last!

Today is my official last day of school. The kids left yesterday, but we have one more day of professional development to get through today. I can assure you, I would much rather have a full day with the kids than a pointless professional development pow-wow.

But, before I get into a full blown bitching and griping session about today's meeting, let me talk about my last day with the kids.

As per usual, with our graduating 8th graders, the last day was bittersweet. Our school district does not have the traditional "middle school model." Instead, our schools go from k-8 and high school, of course, is grades 9-12.

Back to my point about the bittersweet departure. The last day of school obviously signals the end of homework, early mornings, tests, projects and other such obligations. This traditionall gives rise to a very understandable sense of relief coupled with overwhelming merriment and glee on behalf of hte students.

However, as our 8th graders prepare to leave, the reality of being ripped from their comfy, cozy little k-8 womb hits and the high school angst begins to set in. While their younger peers burst out of the school, a-hootin' and a-hollarin', wasting no time in commencing their summer vacations, the 8th graders linger and hug and cry and pledge to be "best friendz 4-EVA."

My colleagues and I, the 7th and 8th grade team, line the hallway to the exit, hugging all the departing students, issuing parting words and encouragement and wisdom and some well wishes, too.

It can be bittersweet for us, too. We area always sad to see our good kids go and relieved as hell to bid good riddance, at long last, to the pains in the ass.

The last day is always hectic. I'm sure you can imagine. So much movement. So much noise. Signing yearbooks. Emptying out lockers. Cleaning out desks. Just general chaos. You get the picture. Dismissal itself is nuts.





Then, suddenly, the busses pull up. The kids pile on and are carted off. Within seconds of the busses leaving, the crying, shouting, screaming, screeching, pushing, shoving, arguing, whooping, cheering and ruckus are replaced with total silence. The four of us stand there, smiling and waving until the busses turn the corner and then, for a few moments after, we stand there, not talking, just reveling in the newfound peace and quiet. Eventually, we turn and head back into our classrooms, where we are struck by the immense emptiness.

In a way, there is a kind of empty nest syndrome that sets in. This room that has brimmed with young, energetic life for the past 9 months, now stands lifeless and still.

And then, inevitably, my eyes begin to sweep the vast expanse (the room seems so crowded with all the kids, but now seems quite empty), landing on lost and forgotten objects.

Oh, look..over there. Tyler's winter jacket. The same that I've been telling him to bring home ever since it first appeared in my room back in November.

And look...over there...on the floor. There's Kendra's lip gloss. Oh man. Its her favorite one. How will she get through the summer without her frosted cherry cola shine?

Oh, and ahhhh...poor Chelsea. She left her writing notebook. And she worked so hard on it all year! I'll keep it and give it to her next year.

Just as I begin to allow myself to wax nostalgic for the kids who've just left, one of my colleagues pokes his head in the room and reminds me that we are free as birds and that the kids who just finished terrorizing us for the past year are now setting off into the sunset to terrorize ther families, friends or society at large....anybody but us!

And with that, I shake off my insane nostalgia, turn off the lights in my room, and go to my one and only truly official "duty free" lunch of the year. (During the school year we have 30 minute lunch breaks which, in accordance with our union contract, are "duty free." Funny how what's on paper so often contradicts what goes down in reality. I usually spend about 22 of my 30 "duty free" minutes quelling cafeteria riots, calling parents, and dealing with kids who've lost lunch tickets.)

Anyway, then I get to the lunchroom and sit with my colleagues, take a big deep sigh of relief and tuck into my lunch. There are no phone calls from parents. No photocopies to run. No kids to keep from recess. No tests to grade. No last minute lesson planning. Just me, my colleagues and something very rare to your average teacher...adult conversation...and NOT about kids.

Anyway, onto my meeting today. In years past, under the old superintendnet, we used to leave school promptly at 9:30 AM, just after arrival of the payroll checks. However, the new super insists that we stay until 2:45 and that we not be released a minute before.

Oh well. 6 more hours and counting.

Now excuse me while I go and throw away Chelsea's notebook. Who needs that crap cluttering up my room.

Ole..Ole..Ole..Ole..BRASIL....BRASIL

I have been named an "honorary Brazilian" by my many, many Brazilian students. They collectively decided to bestow this title upon me because of my unflappable devotion to the Brazilian football* team in the 2006 World Cup.

*In most countries, the word "soccer" does not exist. The sport we call soccer here is called "football" in most of the world. What, then, do non-Americans call the sport we call "football"? They simply call it "American Football." So, from this point further in this post, I will use the word "football" instead of "soccer."

Anyway, back to my unflappable devotion to Brazil.

My Brazilian kids asked, "Ms. B., who will you support in the World Cup?

I replied, "Why, Brazil, of course!"

This surprised them, as they all jumped to the conclusion that I would support the USA team.

Let me just say that I have absolutely nothing against the American team. I would be very happy if they won. In the games they have played so far, I have rooted for them all the way. However, I just feel that football is something that might be important to some people here in the USA, but the Brazilians are freakin' fanatical football fans! It is always such a hoot to see the most invested fans claim victory. I love seeing the pure joy of an entire nation, as would be the case if Brazil won. If the USA won, me and some other guy in like Arkansas might be aware of the victory, but really, would we revel in the victory as much as our friends in Brazil would? Clearly not.

Last week, when Brazil faced Croatia in a match, my students were very concerned that I might be conflicted, seeing as where I love Croatia. I reassured them that, yes, I love Croatia, but that I feel no real allegiance to the Croat football team. On the other hand, I feel much more invested in Brazil because I know so many Brazilian people personally and I ADORE them, so I'd love to see their team win. (I have to tell you, if you don't know any Brazilians, they are the absolute NICEST people you can ever meet! I love 'em.) This seemed to allay their fears as they knew that I would push on with my cheering for Brazil.

Then the kids got a little nervous that I might be all up in the German team, seeing as where I lived in Germany, and clearly love German people. Once again, I reassured them that my love of Germany and all things German will not impede my active backing of the Brazilian side.

The kids must have decided that I passed the test because, as I said, today they decreed that I would, from here on out, be an honorary Brazilian. They gave me a little card with the Brazilian flag on it and a bunch of stuff written in Portuguese. Of course, I can't understand any of the Portuguese, but I have a feeling the little greetings they wrote are warm and effusive. Why do I assume these things? Well, because Brazilians themselves are warm and effusive by nature.




The picture contained a picture of Renaldo (pictured above.) Renaldo is Brazil's national hero. He is the best footballer on the team today, and one of the best in Brazil's history. In a country where football is the lifeblood, being one of the best ever is no small feat. They were delighted that I recognized Renaldo at once and didn't require any explanation.

Anyway, I'm thrilled to be an honorary Brazilian, but I must say that I kind of wish I were the real thing. Brazilian women are always gorgeous and thin and have the most bubbly personalities. I guess I'll have to settle for the honorary status. I was kind of hoping the kids would give me one of the cool Brazil t-shirts they are all wearing. Or maybe a pair of the great sparkley Brazil flag earrings. Or even one of the necklaces. Or the bracelets. Or the hats. Or the flip-flops. You get my point. There is no shortage of Brazil football clothing. Many of the kids wear some, if not all, of the items listed above at any one time.

it is really awesome to see people so devoted to their country and culture in such a fun way.

I have to get to Brazil some day.



Anyway, as for the World Cup. I love it. I never really follow football at any other time. I watch the World Cup with very little investment in any particular team (except Brazil, of course), or any particular player. I don't even know any of the individual players. I enjoy watching the game and it is that simple.

If you haven't been sold on the World Cup yet, let me try to sell you on a couple of points...

1. The World Cup is just that...the WORLD Cup. Whereas the Superbowl and the World Series generally involve American teams (unless a Canadian team makes the world series) playing sports that are mainly played in the USA, the World Cup brings teams from every continent and many, many countries together. The fans come from all over the world to see their teams play. The winner of this event is truly the WORLD champ.

2. The World Cup is always played in a great country and the games are spread out over many cities. This year, for example, the World Cup is taking place in Germany. Games are being held all over the country. (Stephen and I saw the Munich Stadium in its final stages of construction last year. It was the one that looks like a huge bouncy castle on the outside). During commercial breaks, historical points about the country are incorporated and aerial views of the relevant cities are shown. It is a neat thing to see.

3. There are always some great commercials on the boob tube during the thing.

4. And it never hurts that there are totally hot men to stare at the entire time. I mean, look at the guy below. He's some Croatian hottie. I mean, Christ. What's wrong with looking at this for 90 straight minutes.