Two Boys, Four Cats, No Dogs Yet

Get the Children Out of the Room

2011-12-14T07:06:00.027-05:00

Well, more specifically, Jeanne, Kathy and Antoinette, get YOUR kids out of the room. Because I'm about to talk Christmas presents.

By virtue of geography, I don't see my niece and nephews (one girl and 5 boys) very often. At best it's 3 or maybe four times a year, and for the Texas branch of the family, even less than that. Bad auntie.

That said, I love giving them gifts, but I struggle with just what to give them. I like to think I know a bit about their interests, but it's really only their interests at the time we last visited that I'm familiar with. A favorite band, an upcoming trip, a new driver's license. But I don't always know what they want, or need, or already have ... or worse, hate ... and so buying something has always come hard for me.

While I really don't like giving cash as a gift, it's really the best in this situation. I mean, even if I knew Nephew Four had wanted a thusandsuch in October, if he really wanted it, he'd probably have it by Christmas. And how likely is it he'd need two?

So I hit on the idea years ago to give cash in some quirky way only Auntie Linda could come up with; hence my search every preholiday season for the newest money origami websites. Did you know you can fold a dollar bill into a flower or a bird or a shirt or a pair of boots or about ten thousand different star motifs? I even found instructions to fold a dollar bill into a dollar sign. This year most of the kids are getting money leis. Having a peripheral connection to Hawaii almost makes it logical.

What makes my little plan slightly less than logical is the simple fact that I think paper money is hands-down the most disgusting substance on the face of the earth. Researching this post (I know I'm using the word researching loosely here) I learned of (and will never be able to unlearn) the vile things people do with paper money before dropping it on the ground for the unsuspecting person to pick up. HuffPo has reported on a study that contends that nearly 90% of paper money is contaminated with cocaine (while snopes.com puts the number at 80%), due in large measure to the rollers in ATM machines, which serve to distribute traces of cocaine to all the other money in there. Time magazine reports that 94% of paper money is contaminated with e. coli and other pathogens.

I have been known to put paper money through the washing machine. Not because I left a few bills in a pocket by mistake. No, I have been known to do a load of bills. Okay, it was once. In my defense, it was mostly towels, but even I know the towels were only my ruse to justify washing my money.

When I was done with money folding for the day today, I resisted the urge to run down into the cellar to submerge my hands up to my elbows in bleach. But let me tell you. I scrubbed. With soap. And a brush. And that Clorox bleach pen from a week ago was still out, so some of that goop made it into my palms. I do feel much better now. Upside: I won't be biting my nails for a couple of days.

Wegman's Number 58

2011-11-15T17:59:00.001-05:00

Tom had a long and passionate relationship with Wegmans going back long before I met him, back to his Cornell days. How many conversations did I feel excluded from, and maybe a little jealous of, when he and the Ithaca menfolk (Eric, Peter and Steve, I'm talking about you) waxed poetic (and endless) about Mistress Wegman. Cheeses not to be beat, an international section without peer; the cafe, the prepared foods, the liquor. The Chiavettas.

When Tom was offered the opportunity to recruit at Cornell for the Lab he jumped at it, and I jumped at the chance to tag along and finally meet her, face to face. I was pregnant with 96 the first time we went.

Wegman's opened its newest store, number 58 (while the Customer Service Rep I chatted up explained that there are 70-something stores, she had no explanation for why the stores don't appear to be numbered sequentially), in Northborough, MA a few weeks ago. I purposely stayed away that first week, recalling the chaos that was Wellington Circle when New England's first Krispy Kreme opened up there. The weeks went by and one thing or another kept getting in the way of my day trip out to Wegman's. Part of it might have been was gas prices, since the store is 50 miles from the house. Wegman's certainly won't be part of the regular Sunday morning circuit until the store planned for Burlington opens. But I had to go. I had to have a Wegman's.

Wasabi Cheddar. Tom would have
been all over that.

I finally got there this morning, and she was exactly as I remembered her. The cats will be eating Buju & Ziggie dry food for a while, and I'm guessing Pop Tarts from Wegman's taste just like Pop Tarts from Stop & Shop, but I bought some anyway. Because I heart Pop Tarts. And I heart Wegmans.

About half of the cheese department

And the cheeses! I've solved one Thanksgiving question: We'll be serving cheese and crackers for an appetizer. Including a 5-year-aged smoked gouda, which has a consistency more like aged parm than the brown-wrapped "gouda processed cheese product" I usually pick up for mac & cheese, along with a soft sottocenere cheese which I first thought was coated with some kind of grey moldy layer from the aging, but no, it's actually ash. The cheese is matured in "a spicy ash". I'll let you know ...

It was bittersweet, being in that Wegman's without Tom. He would have loved it, and we likely would have left the store with a far greater credit card charge than I did, but I put in a good effort. I resisted the urge to drop $180 for the Wegman's Lionel train set.

The Indian section in International Foods

Tom probably would have liked the international foods section the best. Inside one of the shelving units in the international foods sections, underneath the Indian foods, I tucked one of his laminated memorial cards. Tom loved food, of course. All food. Any food. Especially Indian food. It's not my favorite cuisine, but I can't smell Indian spicing without thinking of Tom. So until it gets discovered during the next remodel of this brand new store he'll be among his favorite Pataks, and curries, and naan. I added a little note to the back of the card so that if someone does find it I hope they put it back where it belongs. Because for Tom, I think heaven might be a giant Wegmans.

_____

Where'd They Go?

2011-10-30T10:49:00.004-04:00

Where'd they go? You know, those cute little ghosties and goblins, scarfers of candy, trick-or-treaters who would gladly let me have the Reese's while they take the Sour Patch Kids.

And who left behind those smelly, smarmy Bigfoots?

1996: 96's first Halloween. 10 days old.

1997: 96 at one year (and ten days). He's a black cat, in case it isn't obvious (don't worry, it's not).

1998: Firefighter and his trusty sidekick, Dalmation.

1999: Ah, the Thomas days. 96 totally wore that Thomas the Tank Engine costume around the house for a week before Halloween, practicing for the big costume contest. On the day of the contest, he refused to parade before the judges. We woulda won, I'm certain! 98, still under 2, wasn't talking yet, but the passengers on his Bertie the Bus were all the animals whose sounds he liked to make.

Every parent's nightmare:
"Mom, I want to be a front end loader for Halloween."

2000: Buzz Lightyear. That's a pretzel bin
from BJ's I made the helmet out of. On Kwaj,
desperate times call for desperate measures.

2001: 98 wanted to be a skinny spider in 2001. And that's Rolie Polie Olie on the right.
(...he's small and smart and round, and in the land of curves and curls he's the swellest kid around ...)

2003: 96 won first prize at school's second grade Crazy Hat Day contest.
At $4 a pack for those Yugio cards, this hat probably cost $75.

2007: 96 was Link from Nintendo (not to worry, I didn't know wth that was, either)
and 98 was a Minuteman.

A Massacre in Medford

2011-09-26T14:21:00.007-04:00

This past Saturday morning I opened the back door to bring 96 to his guitar lesson, but instead screamed and slammed the door shut before any of the ten thousand flies which had alit on poor Papa Chipmunk's corpse could make it through the kitchen door. I called for 96 (98 conveniently at bowling for the morning) to take care of The Situation. I hadn't questioned why 96 had only minutes earlier gone out the back door with a bag of trash, only to return to the house through the front door.

He had of course seen the poor thing, stepped over it, and left it for me. What a charmer, eh?

So I holler and 96 comes running (more accurately described as: he yells down from upstairs, "Wotsa-maddama?" then comes sauntering) and cleans up the corpse. While he's disposing of the body in our usual manner (hint: it involves our shovel and our creek), I'm still grossed out and leave by way of the front door, and come around to the car in the back. 96 was still by the back door, replacing the shovel we leave there in the winter to shovel snow, and apparently the rest of the year for mortuary purposes. I see the thing is still there, and gesture towards it, about to accuse 96 of simply moving the it so I couldn't see it from the back door. (In my defense, that could totally have happened.) Literally, it was three feet away, but just out of the line of sight from the back door. He looked down at the same time, and performed a Dick-Van-Dyke-worthy pirouette, artfully proclaiming his surprise. So he takes the shovel again and again tosses one into the creek. And we're off to guitar lessons, free of any and all things morbid and bloody in, near, or around my abode.

So why am I here again, this fine autumn Monday morning, this time alone in the house, being held hostage by the one dead thing outside the front door and another dead thing outside the back door? I thought the whole point of having teenagers was to not have to deal with dead things anymore.

Note to self: cats stay inside for a while, so that Mr. and Mrs. Chipmunks have a flipping chance to gather their winter stores in peace. They have little baby chipmunk mouths to feed!

I Have To Be The Lamest Red Sox Fan On The Planet

2011-09-04T00:01:00.002-04:00

Tony C -- oooh, that jawline!

I have to be the lamest Red Sox fan on the planet. (Disclaimer: Although I am not a baseball fan, my first celebrity crush was Tony Conigliaro. Thank goodness I didn't meet Tom until after Tony died. AWK-ward!)

I was the grateful recipient the other day of three tickets to tonight's game against the Texas Rangers at Fenway Park. I was pleasantly surprised at how light the traffic was around Fenway driving in. I got there plenty early, though, to park and walk and settle into our seats. There were more happy surprises when the Park, while hopping busy, had no lines at the gate. Once inside I'm a wee bit surprised at how full the Park is at 6:15 before a 7:10 game, but I figure the crowd is there to watch the warmup which, again surprisingly, seems to be happening on the field already. And while I always thought the teams warmed up separately, there they were, both teams on the field, warming up together. Taking turns, you could even call it. And the crowd was freakishly enthusiastic watching the warmup. But with Red Sox Nation, you just never know.

So I settle the boys into our seats, which are actually our neighbors' seats, because our seats are filled by a group of already quite drunk guys. My first thought (well, third thought, after "Dammitall, why do you have to be drunk already?" and "And why do I have to sit next to you, Drunk Guy?") was to have 96 sit next to him, but he's already started in with the drunken blather. "Yeah, just sit there instead. I hope you don't mind if I hit on you, okay?" "Yeah, I kind of do mind," is what I was screaming in my head, but I knew I couldn't let 96 sit next to him. I made eye contact with Nice Lady In Back Of Me, and left the boys to get our beverages. When I got back with our soda and peanuts and popcorn for 98, there was now a drunk girlfriend in my seat, next to 96, and it appeared to be actual play taking place on the field.

Hmmmm. Could I have missed the National Anthem while I was getting food? I felt badly about that. Not being a sports fan, the National Anthem is usually the highlight of my stadium experience. I look at the scoreboard. It says we're in the bottom of the 6th. I check and recheck our tickets and it begins to dawn on me that something is amiss. I wonder to myself if it's a double header today. Could the security guard at the gate possibly have let me in at the end of Game 1? That would explain the DGs in our seats. It's beginning to make sense.

But that seems about as likely as the gate attendant at the airport letting me get on the wrong plane. They're paid not to let that happen. So I turn to NLIBOM and ask. Shaking her head no (and do I almost see a laugh?) she went on to explain that when the game was scheduled for national broadcast, they pushed the start time back. Three hours. I guess the network forgot to call me. Apparently, it's common knowledge that there will be a time change if a game is nationally broadcast. This was my critical mistake. So yeah, we got to the game in the bottom of the sixth, well after the grand slam in the fourth, part of an eight-run-inning. And it took me three outs, minimum, to figure this out.

The perp walk

On the upside, we got to see what you tv viewers missed: the streak across the grass from left field to right and the tackle in front of our seats. The runner was fully clothed, though, so what was the point?

On the downside, that $7.25 refillable drink I got so 96 and I could split it and get free refills? Not looking like such a bargain anymore.

And in case you're wondering about that Jordan's Furniture special: If a member of the Red Sox hits this baseball on their sign (not the sign -- just the baseball) between July 22 and the end of the regular play, my new sofa will be free.

Oh. My. Stars.

2011-08-21T12:55:00.000-04:00

So here's something not many people know about me. I'm not proud of this. I love poptarts. Love them. I'd eat them for breakfast, lunch (well, maybe dessert) and bedtime snack seven days a week if I could. I admit, they're kind of gross for dinner though. And they have to be the frosted kind. The unfrosted ones just strike me as too ... healthy.

Sometimes I'll buy the brown sugar ones because I know the boys don't like those, and then I'll get the whole package to myself.

So I got all excited when I was browsing the Williams Sonoma clearance table ($14 for a jar of hot pepper jam? No, thank you. I'll stick with your clearance items), where a ~~pop tart maker~~ toaster pastry press was marked down from $10 to $5. So of course I bought it. It came with a recipe on the package.

And this morning I made the oh-my-stars-best-freaking-poptarts I've ever eaten. The recipe called for two sticks of butter, and I ended up with 5 ~~pop tarts~~ toaster pastries. Subtracting the one tablespoon of butter that I dropped on the floor and left for Zoet, that's 3 tablespoons of butter per ~~tart~~ pastry. I used the food processor, and they could not have been easier to make. And of course, a single serving of these is two, right? I mean, they're poptarts. I filled them with Nutella and jam I made with those raspberries I picked a while back.

I think we'll have poptarts for supper tonight.

A Day In Western Massachusetts

2011-08-18T21:32:00.001-04:00

96 at Glendale Falls, Middlefield, MA

I spend so much time on here bellyaching about my kids. Stupid teenagers. How they have to complain about everything. Thank goodness they're there to correct me all the time because, well, I'm stupid.

Not all the time, I guess.

98 and Zoet at the Falls

I gotta tell you, my kids were great today. Today we did a little day trip to the western part of the state, to see some waterfalls and hike a bit. Did you know there are fossilized dinosaur footprints in Massachusetts? Neither did I!

Don't get me wrong -- they didn't want to go, and made sure I knew it. The lure of an early allowance (even with the caveat that early allowance meant no complaining today) bought me a day of peace and quiet (Unlike their mother, I guess these kids can be bought. For cheap.) So we drive the two-plus hours to the first stop, to the utterly foreign sound of ...

What is that sound, anyway? No. It can't be. But it is. Is it? I think it's siblings. Siblings getting along. With each other. Dare I detect even some enthusiasm?

We had a lovely picnic lunch at Glendale Falls, and took a bit longer rock climbing than I expected, so we decided to forgo Chesterfield Gorge so that we wouldn't miss the footprints. But there it was, right off the road we were on, so we stopped at the gorge, which might actually be the prettiest spot in Massachusetts, and then headed to our final destination: the footprints in Holyoke.

Chesterfield Gorge, Chesterfield, MA
And to think we almost skipped this place! This was my favorite stop of the day.

The Falls

Dinosaur footrprints. You can see the three toes in the upper left.

A closer look

All those fossil footprints are provided courtesy of all these layers

Did I mention the best part? All of these sites are maintained by The Trustees of Reservations, and all were free. Free to park, free to enter; donations appreciated.

18 Months ...

2011-08-07T11:03:00.002-04:00

Today is 18 months. Tom died at precisely 6am on Sunday, February 7, 2010. It's been a long haul, but I think the boys and I are adjusting okay, and we're getting on with business. The boys have done well in school, we're getting ready for our new school year in a couple of weeks. But I just miss Tom. So. Damned. Much.

A brief list of things I miss would include kissing his bald spot, scratching his back and cuddling on the couch watching the Sunday morning talking heads shows (I think he'd really like Christiane Amanpour on This Week. We patiently held on during the "Sam and Cokie" debacle and the George Stephanopoulos shoutfests, longing for the civilized Brinkley days of yore). I miss hearing him talk to himself in the shower, and the smell of coffee brewing in the morning (and the mug of tea that would have magically appeared in the bathroom before I stepped out of the shower). I miss the sound of his car pulling into the driveway at the end of the work day. And this week in particular I miss C and Ada, who thought Tom walked on water. And grocery stores will never feel the same to me.

I miss Tom's spectacular garden. Oh, I've put one in this year, of course, but this garden sucks and it's my fault because I didn't till, because that was Tom's job. He loved to fill the minivan with manure and bags of peat moss and fertilizer and spread it all out and then till it all in. And then he'd till again, deaf to (or more likely ignoring) my protestations that he was just making things harder for himself. I didn't till this year, and I didn't till last year, and so the garden sucks and it's all my fault.

I have had his ashes in one of his favorite pieces of pottery for a year and a half now, sitting on his dresser in my room. Unfortunately, the dresser is becoming increasingly cluttered with a year-and-a-half's worth of accumulated stuff that doesn't have a home. But Tom hated clutter and I can't imagine he'd approve of his current arrangement. Someone gave me the idea to put his ashes on his workbench until I'm ready to spread them in the Fells (which I'm not), and I think he'd like that. He'd be glad that I'm taking care of the workbench, using it, even. And with the help of about half a can of WD-40, I recently got the table saw up and running for the first time since the flood. All his tools are neatly sorted and hanging on his pegboard (no, I haven't gone so Martha-Stewarty as to draw outlines on the pegboard to indicate the exact location of every tool, but I'm tempted). There's his hammer and his Wonder Bar (probably his favorite hand tool. No household problem was so big it couldn't be resolved with the booming command, "Get me my Wonder Bar"), and his row of about 23 screwdrivers, sorted by size. I think he'd like to know his tools are okay.

I know he'd be glad to know we're getting there.

Ada - She Was A Great Cat

2011-08-04T19:46:00.005-04:00


I'm not going to lie to you. This photo makes me sad. Tom with Ada, Gibbs and C This photo sat in a frame on my desk at work for the longest time: Who's that? What's his name? What does he do? When are we gonna meet him? Who is he?

There's that honey paw.

Tom adopted Ada and C shortly before we met, so Ada's been a fixture in this home as long as this home has been in my life. I will miss her sorely. She was definitely Tom's cat, though; Tom was definitely her favorite, but she tolerated me in a pinch. These last few months, it must have started with the cold weather last fall, Ada slept with me, under the covers nestled next to me, every night. I have a very heavy quilt that I use year-round (yes, even during these recent hot nights) and it got to the point where, when she walked across me at night, I couldn't feel her footsteps because she had lost so much weight. She was a bare little slip of a thing.

Adopted from the Northeast Animal Shelter, she came with the name "Honey" after a single, tan front paw. Not nerdy enough for a household containing a Gibbs, a Maxwell, and a C (who, tipping the scales at 24 pounds plus had a few nicknames, C Monster and C++ jumping immediately to mind). She was renamed after Ada Lovelace, whom some consider the actual inventor of the first mechanical computer, an invention more often credited to her gentleman friend, Charles Babbage.

Okay, history lesson over. Back to our sweet little Ada.

Don't get me wrong: Ada was not the friendliest cat. I'd call her tolerant, at best. On a bad day, you knew to steer clear (if you were another cat, I mean, or a dog). 98 nicknamed her Missy Hissy. I shudder to think of the nickname he'd have devised if he meant to comment on how she'd swat at you if you got too close to her food.

C and Ada, not littermates but adopted at the same time from the Northeast Animal Shelter, were a finely tuned pair, indeed. I do not believe I ever witnessed Ada eat a bite of human food. No cheese, no table scraps, no bones pulled from the garbage. Strictly cat food and kibbles. I worked my way into Tom's heart by way of C's stomach, never arriving at the house without an edible treat for him. I learned to fake cough whenever I unwrapped American cheese slices, lest C come bombing into the kitchen for his due. Ada took care of invading birds and insects while C was responsible for land crawlers and slitherers. I believe the forces of gravity worked against C when it came to leaping for a bird, so it seemed a natural division of labor.

Until yesterday, Ada partook of her meals with gusto. Even if her weight loss was interminable, it was not for lack of effort. Her mealtime pleasure was audible.

After breakfast yesterday I let her out, and like every other day, I expected her to walk out the back door, do whatever things cats do out there in the morning shade behind the garage, and come back in five minutes later, just as she has done every day for the last six months. None of us saw her again all day; I went out a few times checking for her, the last time with the flashlight at bedtime, to no avail. I sadly sort of assumed that we simply wouldn't see her again, but I was lifted when there she was at the door this morning.

Something was definitely different, though, and she was unable to nag at my feet to hustle me along with the breakfast preparation. She wouldn't be able to make it down the cellar stairs (where I feed the cats behind a dogproof cellar door) and fed her at the top of the stairs. She ate a bit, but I could tell it was a struggle.

She sleeps all day most days, but today's was a different kind of sleep, and it became clear when she couldn't walk across this kitchen floor to reach the water dish, that the end was near. I did not want her to suffer, and I do not believe she did. I think she was very tired, and I believe she was ready to cross the Rainbow Bridge.

She liked to sit in stuff.

Especially stuff that belonged to the boys.

I guess I should be flattered that she didn't like how much
attention the boys paid to the bookshelf. If there
was a little space on the bookshelf, she sat there.

She brought softness and warm cuddles and purrs and occasionally laughter to this home, for which I am grateful. She was, well, Ada.

Not a Drop To Drink

2011-08-03T09:35:00.001-04:00

My water bills since the beginning of the year:

			2/2/2011	$104.18
			4/2/2011	$91.92
			6/9/2011	$87.28

Then this came today:

click to enlarge

I was expecting an increase. What hurts is that when I first looked at the bill without my glasses I read it as $45.22. See how there's no dollar sign next to the amount due?

But what really hurts is that I've started on the paperwork to put in a second meter for the irrigation system, which the City says should save about half (the sewer amount). They've informed me that the line into the house is lead, which means I'm going to have to dig up the lawn to replace the line. Yes, the line that goes under my brand new lawn, the lawn which is probably steadfastly rooted because I've dumped about the equivalent of the Atlanta Aquarium on it in the last two months. Estimate for the project, including associated plumbing and yard work and the meter and its $300 application fee, is up to about $4500. Oh, and everything from the house to the street is my responsibility.

Now, think of the worst swear word you've ever heard me say.

Multiply that by eight hundred and forty-five point twenty-two.

Thank God for Small Favors

2011-07-25T11:12:00.001-04:00

So summer vacation came and went and now it's gone for good. Thank God for small favors.

Back in February my friend Lynn and I went to the travel expo at Boston's Seaport World Trade Center looking for vacation ideas. I brought home brochures, two grocery bags full, from every travel company and every possible travel destination, dumped my booty on the dining room table, and gave 96 and 98 carte blanche: "Pick a place, boys," I said, "And we'll go there for vacation. Pick a destination, pick a mode of travel, pick a meal plan. Pick anything at all, and we'll work it out somehow." Camping in Maine? We can do that (fingers crossed they didn't pick that). Drive to Nova Scotia? We have passports at the ready. They speak English in England, so that could work out; they drive on the right in Italy, so I'd be willing. Cruise the Galapagos? I'm in. RVing in New Zealand? (This was probably my first choice.) I even brought home a brochure about the Orient Express. "We don't want to go on vacation," came the response. "Why do we always have to do stuff?" I calmly explained to them that if they didn't pick a vacation spot, I would pick it on my own, and encouraged them again to think about where they'd like to go for vacation. "How can we pick a place if we don't want to go in the first place?" came the unified, lawyerly response. So I decided to spend our money domestically, and issued the edict: The boys and I would be headed to the Grand Canyon by way of my sister's house in San Antonio so she could join us for the fun.

I have her reassurances that it won't hurt her feelings when I tell you that this was the worst family vacation ever. She's the divorced mother of former teenage boys, so I'm sure she's seen her share of worst family vacations ever, and even she thinks this one was a doozy.

No, you can't have the $400 (each) Continental gave us for taking a bump just because your name was on the ticket. My name was on the receipt, so it's all mine.

Hoover Dam? I know it's hot. Thermally freaking hot. I'm sorry it's so hot. And boring, too. And no, we didn't have to come here, but I wanted to, and I'm driving.

Grand Canyon? Yeah, it's just a big pile of rocks. Sue me.

Cirque du Soleil? I was already aware, thank you, that it would be just (okay, no more saying "just" in front of any noun for the rest of the trip) acrobats in and above the water. Really, anyone can do it. I don't know why they even bother paying those people.

The best thing about Oklahoma City was that I didn't make the boys do anything. Any. Thing. In fact, OKC totally rocked because I left them behind at the house when my friend Jack gave my sister and me the grand tour and treated us to a wicked good cheeseburger at Earl's in Bricktown.

Did you wake up in a bad mood? Yeah, I know I deserve all the blame. And how is it a vacation if your mom makes you brush your teeth and hair every day, just like every other day? Clean underwear needs a day off, too, I suppose.

Still, I took pictures to, what? Preserve the memories? Yeah, not so much.

Hoover Dam


Grand Canyon National Park, South Rim

Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument


Oklahoma City National Memorial Beautiful. Beyond breathtaking.

Summer Vacation, Gentile-Style

2011-07-22T16:15:00.001-04:00

Some Truths About Plane Travel

2011-07-16T09:56:00.003-04:00

If you and your brother wish to share an armrest, your skin will touch. If you do not wish your skin to touch your brother’s skin, you must cede occupancy of said armrest. The person who invents a contactless, two-person armrest will deserve the millions they make and have the eternal and undying loyalty of parents of teens everywhere.

If you are a single parent flying with three children under 5, be sure to ask the kids’ most feckless grandparent to accompany you to sit with one of the children, preferably the fussiest of your young travelers. Granddad does not need to share his Cheetos, and no, granddad cannot sit on the aisle while 3 sits at the window, with poor innocent stranger stuck in the middle seat just trying to read her damned book. I mean, come on. Feckless is feckless, but that’s just stupid.

If the Concentration app on your iPad frustrates your kid because the colors don’t ever match, and this frustration results in shedding of tears and throwing of iPad onto the floor, your kid is too young for an iPad.

If you are a single parent flying with one girl, 5, watching “Enchanted” on the portable dvd player and drawing princess self-portraits for 3 hours and 55 minutes, and two boys, 3 and 2, who didn’t, be aware that your neighbors will wish you had stopped at one.

If you’re a cat named Yaz (in my mind, named for Red Sox icon Carl Yastrzemski but I don’t actually know if that’s true, because she was a black cat with white sox) then, no, of course you don’t need to stay in your carrier for the duration of the flight. The people up there in first class will think you’re cute, too.

Solid antiperspirants do not count as part of your “3 ounces or less each, all in a quart ziplock bag” booty. Thank goodness!

Tom Would Have Been So Pleased

2011-07-02T12:18:00.003-04:00

Tom would have been so pleased. During the summer of probably 2005 or 2006, after years of trying to discourage dog walkers from letting their dogs use our fence along the entrance to the Middlesex Fells for their ... business ... Tom and I planted raspberry bushes there, a spot of land owned by the state, maintained by the city, and accessible to all. Tom's theory was that everyone would be more invested in taking care of the driveway area, even though none of us owned it, with the siren song of those beautiful raspberries calling us to them.

We had a few extra plants that didn't fit along the fence and planted them just inside the gate into the Fells and have paid them not one whit of attention in all the ensuing years.

That first summer after we planted the bushes (and if you've ever seen raspberry seedlings, you know I should really just call them twigs) we didn't realize that the city's maintenance included weedwhacking the entire driveway flat. Oops. The next year, we replanted, but embedded wire mesh in the ground around the base of the plants, and mentioned it to the guys when they came around again, and the plants have happily survived our annual Weedwhacking Day ever since.

We nurtured those plants along the fence,watering them often. 96 and 98 poured a 2-liter bottle over each of the plants every Saturday, and spiked the water with fertilizer during the growing season.

Apparently the dogs and their owners didn't fully appreciate our gift to them, and the dogs continued abusing our fence and raspberries, despite every remedy we could think of, including (separately), polite signs, stern signs, cayenne pepper, baking soda and soap. Nothing worked. The berry bushes along the fence never thrived, but they're still alive and I haven't given up on them.

But oh, those bushes inside the Fells! All of a sudden (literally, like, this week) they're as tall as I am, and have spread to cover probably 75 square feet. I collected nearly a pint of berries this morning without even trying. In fact, with Medford being the birthplace of the infamous gypsy moth caterpillar on my mind, I worry a bit that maybe we have unleashed the next Medford invasion on the northeast. But even if we did, I mean, it's black raspberries. It could have been worse. It could have been wild broccoli.

You're welcome.

Enough! What Are You Trying To Do To Me?

2011-06-24T20:39:00.001-04:00

Okay, I admit it. I'm not big on change. I like things predictable. I like things today to be like they were yesterday. Tomorrow I'll want the same thing. My idea of shaking things up: I try to change my facebook profile pic to reflect my how statuses are trending. Today I learned that our long-anticipated local Five Guys finally opened up in Wellington Circle. So I got takeout.

And changed my pic. I figured it'll work: It's part advertisement, part biography. I'm not sure how the Savannah Morning News knows so much about me, but who am I to argue with them.

New restaurant location, new profile pic: an all-around exciting day. Blogworthy, even. So why did I pick today to upgrade 98's Vista machine to W7? And that whole Agent-96-nagging-the-hell-out-of-me-until-I-dump-Verizon-and-switch-to-Comcast thing? He's been hounding me for months. It worked. Today.

Granted, I haven't actually scheduled the change yet, but y'all know, I'm going to. Let me tell you, it's no advantage that I don't have to deal with all these changes this exact day. I just have an open-ended, undefined, grey cloud of malaise hanging over me between now and whenever installation day actually is.

In addition to worrying about getting all new television and phone service, I'm going to have to get a new email address. Which means that the college boyfriend I tried to sell Canadian Viagra to is going to get another email from me. Stalker much? I know I can take him out of the address book (and I will), but I'll also have to think of who else I need to delete before I port over my old address book to my new address. There's a boatload of names in that email address book.

And I'm going to have to learn how to use a new remote. Stupid new remotes are the worst.

I wish 96 understood that my sticking with Verizon and Direct TV, lo these many years, has nothing whatsoever to do with the five extra dollars per month I'll be paying for Xfinity. (Which, really, Xfinity? Do you know how hard it is to type a capital X? It ain't natural.) It has everything to do with the fact that this is what I had yesterday, and it (mostly) worked yesterday.

And we'll have a new wireless password. And all those new channel numbers! How will I find my channels?

Ooh, I do have an upside: For the rest of my life, when the boys are acting all pissy, I'll play the "Remember that time I gave up my email address for you?" card. Take that, summer vacation plans they are already complaining about ... Victory is mine!

I Can't Be Bought

2011-06-10T21:07:00.001-04:00

I've been doing a little research lately, planning to purchase a cd. Depending on the terms of the cd, the rates range from a whopping .15% (no, that's not a typo, that's actually supposed to be fifteen one-hundredths of one percent) to a nearly Winfreyesque 2.47% which I found at the Merrimack Valley Credit Union. I don't actually know where the Merrimack Valley is, but for a 2.47% apr (2.50% apy) I'm pretty sure I'd be willing to drive there. The CSR on the other end of the line explained to me that I needed to live or work in the Merrimack Valley to join the MVCU. "Well, live, work or worship," she corrected herself.

Wait. What? Let's back up, please. I realize you can know for sure where I live, and I don't live in the Merrimack Valley. And I assume you can easily check my employment, and you'd learn fast enough that I don't work in the Merrimack Valley. Struck by my own deviousness (and giggling), I asked the CSR, "Exactly what do I need to do to prove that I worship in the Merrimack Valley, anyway?" (Which I don't.) When I couldn't answer her straightforward, "Where do you worship?", I heard her clutch her pearls through the telephone line. The poor lady gasped, "Well, you wouldn't lie about that, would you?" Oh, lady, you live in the Merrimack Valley, don't you? You have no idea what I might do for 2.47%.

Luckily for my soul in the afterlife, another credit union in my area offers a similar term cd at 2.44%. So for a mere three-hundredths of a point I opted out of eternal damnation. Because I can't be bought.

I don't care how colorful your kid's temper tantrum was. I win.

2011-06-07T10:43:00.002-04:00

One of my kids, and I won't say which one, was in first grade, and I had made an appointment to see my doctor on a Friday morning when they'd be in school. The week of the appointment comes, too late to realize this particular Friday is Good Friday, and school will be out that day. At the time I had a lovely teenage girl living next door, A, who was always willing to watch the kids, and since she was in parochial school too, she was available that Good Friday morning.

I explained to the boys that when the babysitter got there, I wanted them to play outside for the hour or so that I'd be gone. They would have some tv later, but I wanted them to get some fresh air and exercise with the sitter. Probably the house was a mess.

Now, this particular Agent had the hots for this particular "older woman" and while she wasn't supposed to come over until 10, he started watching for her from the yard at about 8:30. Since only our driveway separated the houses, he had to wait quite a while until zing zing zing went his heartstrings, her front door opened, and like a sunrise sparkling over a white sand beach, suddenly the world looked all the more beautiful for A walking out her front door. Cue the slo-mo wind-in-their-hair run.

By this time Agent had decided he'd had enough of the great outdoors, and wanted to watch tv with his future bride. "No," I reminded him, "fresh air and exercise until I get back." Bent out of shape, he refused to cooperate. I explained that if he wasn't going to play by the rules we'd agreed to I'd have to take him to my appointment, and he wouldn't be able to hang with A at all. No, this stubborn mule had spent enough time outside, and he was going in.

Yeah, no.

Get in the car, kid, you're coming with me.

And that's how it began. I pulled out of the driveway, and hit the road with Agent in the back seat. "Noooo! I don't waaant to go with you. Let me ouuuuuut! I wanna go hooooooome! Take me home noooooow!" I was so mortified I actually rolled up the car windows because I didn't want passersby to hear him scream and call the police, thinking an abduction was taking place.

This continued down the side street, onto the main street, up the ramp onto the highway, down the exit ramp and into the doctor's parking lot in Kendall Square. Probably 15 minutes.

The purpose of the doctor's visit was to check in with the mental health provider who had set me up with an antidepressant. I thought the last thing her waiting room needed was a child screaming bloody murder, so I called up to her office from the parking lot, and over the din of the continuing I wanna go hooooooome! tantrum, explained to the secretary what was going on, and asked for advice on what to do. The doctor got on the phone with me, and we agreed that we couldn't let his Take me home noooooow! temper tantrum dictate my actions, so hand in hand we locked the car, crossed the Let go of meeee! street, entered the No I won't be quiet! building, took the elevator up (he wouldn't even press the button for her floor so that I'd know he was serious) and proceeded down the Leave me aloooooone! hall to her office. In what was a first, the doctor immediately took us back to her office, son still screaming. She had never seen me on time before, so that was a big win.

Son quieted down long enough for the doctor to hand him paper and crayons with the dreaded request, "So, Agent, can you draw me a picture of your family?" Hell, I hate that stupid question. It'll probably be a picture of his parents fighting in front of piles of unfolded laundry and dirty dishes with the tv on in the background. I hate that question.

Thankfully, Agent refused and resumed the Get me out of heeeeere! barrage. So the doctor and I had our chat over the din. After we finished our business, the doctor explained to son that she had told me that I can't drive home until he calms down. After we returned to the car, I reminded him that I couldn't go home until he was calm, and that the doctor had told me I had to just drive around aimlessly until he cooperated, and that this was his decision to make. I then started the car and headed home, grateful that my son didn't know the way. The ruckus continued out the parking lot, back up the ramp onto the highway and back down the exit ramp, until we were about a mile from the house. Then he stopped, took a breath, and said. "Okay mom, we can go home now. I'm hungry. Can I have a grilled cheese for lunch?""

Before and After

2011-05-25T16:48:00.000-04:00


Before

Once upon a time we had a tree. It was a lovely tree. A sugar maple. But all spring, summer and fall, every time there was a breeze, it interfered with our satellite tv. But it was a fine tree, so it stayed. Even though every spring it dripped sap on my car, and all its pollen stuck to the sap, making my pretty blue-green car a blotchy, hideous shade of neon chartreuse. And the tree blocked all sun from the lawn, so not even shade-loving grass would grow there. You know what grew there? Dandelions. Dandelions and, well, that was about it.

Remember the little plumbing episode I had a few months ago? It turned out Mr. Maple had inched his roots in to the exit pipe. So my plumber, Mike, explained to me that I should expect to have to snake the pipe about once a year or so to the tune of $200 a visit, unless the tree came down.

This tree was planted probably 30 years ago by my lovely across-the-street neighbor, Dan, who was besties with the previous owner. I went back and forth about taking the tree down. It was really a perfectly healthy, if inconvenient tree. I even consulted Dan, a retired plumber, who gave his blessing, and his professional advice.

And so the tree came down. I figured while I was at it, I'd take down a pine tree that for years has been leaning evermore into the overhead wires that feed my entire neighborhood. I knew it would have to come down some day, and the guy was here today, so what the heck. Add that to the bill, please.

And then I discovered my (potentially) beautiful, sunny front lawn. But I couldn't put in a whole lawn from the ground up (heh) by myself, so I hired a guy. Who hires guys who apparently never pee, but that's another story.

I figured if I'm getting a lawn, I might as well irrigate. And if I'm getting the front done, the back will only look worse by comparison, so let's do the back, too. And think how much nicer everything will look with new foundation plantings instead of those boring yews. And you know what I've always wanted? An irrigated garden. (I even got Tom some of those dribble hoses for Christmas one year, which was an utter failure, as that meant having to disconnect the hose every time we finished with it, or driving over the hose each time we moved the cars.) Since I'm putting the irrigation system in the back anyway, I might as well swing one extra arm around the garage and do the garden, too. Yes, this is that garden, the one my neighbor actually owns but is mine to use as I please in perpetuity because three-owners-ago neighbor was an ass who thought she could mess with Tom Gentile's garden. Yeah, she's gone now. Good riddance.

After

So long and short, I: cut down two trees, put in a 6-zone irrigation system, mulched and sodded the front yard and the back yard, put in new foundation shrubs and got rid of a whole pile of waste wood from the back yard.

BUT I saved two hundred Washingtons in the mix.

So if you Google ...

2011-05-17T22:53:00.000-04:00

"2.06m results in .19 secs"

Yeah, she's fine. Dr. Zanotti explained that the chemical and dose is similar to a heartworm treatment. So we may even save a few bucks at her next checkup.

We're clearly not the first, and won't be the last. I'm okay with not spending $65 to contact the ASPCA Poison Control Center (which is where the regular poison control center directed me).

Tom was many things ...

2011-05-17T14:23:00.002-04:00

... but a procrastinator he was not.

The one thing he put off first for months and then for years was making a will. Oh, we eventually did. But not because we got married. Not because we had a baby. Not because we had a second baby. We finally got on the “gotta have a will” bandwagon when we were moving to Kwaj. And when I say “because we were moving to Kwaj” I mean, because our shipment was on the barge, the house was empty and our plane tickets were in our hands.

So I called the lawyer, and got the papers all drawn up, and stored them neatly in our carry-on. But we still hadn’t actually had them signed. Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit, we got on a plane, all four of us, intestate, that August in 1998. If the plane had gone down, the court would have done whatever it is the court does, and taken whatever it takes of our holdings -- this being pre-Kwaj probably a cool three figures.

Fortunately, this was only a shuttle to JFK, where we’d say our goodbye’s to Tom’s clan. We made it safe and sound. And continued procrastinating.

So our last day on Long Island we finally got in the car and just drove around until we found a notary sign in a window. It was an independently-owned copier place, and they were open (but quiet) that Saturday, so we had to wait there until she had her next customers. We wrangled these two total strangers, Kathryn E. Wansor and Geraldine Scharf, to witness our signatures. (I only mention their names in case they ever Google themselves. What a hoot that would be!)

And there we were, ready to hop on the plane or onto a roller coaster or a Formula One racecar with a clear conscience. Estate stuff: done.

Fast forward to February 2010. Indeed, Tom was not much of a procrastinator, and every other detail of our fiscal life has been tracked and documented and worked out and taken care of. After Tom died, everything was done and fell into place like dominoes. I was the joint owner where I needed to be the joint owner. I was the beneficiary when I needed to be the beneficiary. Proxies, powers-of-attorney – everything was in order. I’ve barely had to sign a piece of paper to straighten out necessary paperwork, and certainly I haven’t had to go into a probate courtroom. Tom made sure everything was taken care of for me. Because Tom was Tom.

So of course it took me fifteen months to get my new will in order. There I was this morning in the attorney’s office, and it hit me like a steel-toed-boot in the stomach. I’m signing my Last Will and Testament, and I’m not leaving everything to Tom.

That’s when I remembered the scramble to get that will stuff done in 1998. And that opened a floodgate of memories: the memories that only Tom and I shared. Not the quirky-kid stories, or the you-won’t-believe-what-an-ass-my-spouse-is-so-I-have-to-tell-you-this stories. I mean the nanomemories that it wouldn’t even occur to me to share because, well, they’re private. And a lot of them are boring as all get out.

But now I’m the only person on the face of the earth that holds those memories, and that made signing my new will this morning just about the saddest moment of my life.

May 10

2011-05-10T18:09:00.003-04:00

Our wedding gift from Laura still hangs over my bed

I likely met Tom 17 years ago today. To. The. Hour. Dinner at Bertucci's in Central Square, so I'm thinking we met at 6pm? No, I wasn't watching the clock all day, waiting for the moment. But I'm about ready to take dinner out of the oven, and I happened to notice the time.

Not like driving home from Connecticut one night (it was my friend Laura's birthday and I think we had dinner in Mystic). We were in the Sundance, and my phone number at Harvard (with 5-digit dialing) was 5-8250. And yes, I nearly drove off the road, in the middle of the night, watching for the odometer to turn 58,250 miles.

FYI: Laura is an astounding craftsperson and artist. Check out her website!

Ah, Mother's Day. Good Times, Good Times

2011-05-07T23:52:00.004-04:00

To fully appreciate the story, you have to understand that on Kwaj, a lot of the menfolk went to work every day on another island, Roi-Namur. It was about a 40 mile commute: a quick plane ride most days.   That is, if the windshield doesn't fall out on landing, like it did Tom's very first day of work in August of '98. There followed a scramble of plane inspections and months of boatrides and abbreviated workdays because of the 3-hour commute each way.   But usually, the guys (it was mostly husbands at least in my circle of friends) all got back on-island at the same time, all hopped on their bikes at the airport and walked in their respective front doors within minutes of landing.   It was pretty predictable.

So it was the day before Mother's Day in '99 (the workweek was Tuesday through Saturday, to maximize overlapping office hours with CONUS [Continental US]). I heard the plane come in, and got supper on the table, expecting Tom any minute. Minutes ticked away, no Tom. More time passed, and still no husband walking through the door.   "Oh, yeah. Tomorrow's Mother's Day. He's probably stopped off to buy me something. What a great guy," I thought to myself (because my thought bubbles are always grammatically structured sentences.) This, even though I had known this man some number of years already, and really should have known better. Eventually he walked through the door, with no gift hiding under his arm, and I surmised he dropped it at a friend's house on the way home. Cute.

He played it totally cool, even though I knew something was up, and I knew he knew I knew something was up. Cool as a cucumber.

So Saturday night morphs into Sunday morning, and here I am, surrounded by my little family on my first Mother's Day on Kwaj. Breakfast comes, breakfast goes. Nothing. We pass the morning, and I begin to wonder just when my dear, sweet husband is going to retrieve the gift from the friend's house to give me.   Lunch.   Nothing. I start getting a little concerned, and I guess I can admit now that my half of our conversation might have gotten a bit, well, let's call it "curt" by mid-afternoon.

Eventually my -- okay -- total bitchiness gets the better of him, and he snaps at me. "What the hell bug flew up your ass today?" he inquires. (Can't you just hear him?) "You ... forgot ... sniff, sniff, ... Motherrrr's Daaaaaaay!" I wept, running up the stairs.

I never did find out why Tom was those few minutes late that day. Maybe he had a flat, or his chain slipped, or he was talking with a friend before leaving for home; I don't know.    I know he felt just awful, and he went to 1010 (the store) and got me a very nice card and a bottle of expensive wine.    I drank the wine, and I probably didn't share with him.

Then he got onto the internet, making his first online purchase that night. And that, children, is how Momma got those pretty diamond and sapphire earrings.

________________________________________________________________________

My membership dues:

Agent 96 in November 1996 - 1 month old

Agent 98 in March 1998 - 1 month old

Easter Dinner

2011-04-24T22:04:00.003-04:00

It was a lovely Easter dinner. Not a perfect day, what with the bickering and the tears, and what with the boys being "too old" for an egg hunt, but a lovely visit and dinner with terrific company. I guess this is my first "second", holidaywise anyway. Last year was the year of firsts: "first Easter without Tom," first Mother's Day, Father's Day, birthday, Christmas ... I expected the "seconds" series to be easier, but it's not. Not really. His seat is still empty at the table, unless I sit in it, which I do, because certainly no one else ever will.

We were on Long Island last weekend with Tom's family. We left Sunday morning, intending to stop at my Mom's house so 96 could help with some chores for a school service project, and to celebrate my brother and sister's birthday, which was that day. (How cool is it that my brother was born at 4:17 a.m. on 4/17? Pretty cool.) We stopped at a terrific little bakery in North Bellmore near Madeline's house, A Taste of Home and picked up a raspberry swirl cheesecake for Jack (my sister Jeanne lives in Texas, and had to settle for my annual invisible birthday card).

I was intrigued by the wheat pie, which I learned from the baker is a Neopolitan ricotta and wheatberry cheesecake in a pie crust traditionally served at Easter, so I picked one up intending to freeze it for today.

Good intentions aside, 96 was starting with the sniffles before we reached the Throgs Neck Bridge (which never looks like this when we're driving over it). I've never seen a cold come on with such ... gusto. By the time we hit the Charter Oak Bridge it was clear we simply weren't going to make it to Grandmothers house, so we headed home and froze both beauties for today, and Jack would have to wait a week for his birthday treat. Poor 96 spent almost the whole school vacation sick as a dog.

By week's end I decided to bake a cake for Jack's birthday for Sunday, too. This cake. Nothing special about this cake.

I've been wanting to bake this cake for a while. What's so special about this ordinary-looking cake, you might ask ... Well, I might answer ... it's just that this is ...

↓
↓
↓
↓
↓

The. Coolest. Cake. Ever.

A Couple of Quickies

2011-04-17T17:58:00.006-04:00

On the Road Again ... Every time we'd drive home from Long Island, Tom would remind me not to be the fastest car on the road on that stretch of 84 northbound, just south of the Massachusetts border. Years ago he had seen a speed trap there. Mind you, I had never seen a speed trap there, but his position certainly made sense: Connecticut would try to catch non-Connecticut residents passing through, and where better than just before the border? So today as usual, I carefully set my cruise control to 74 (that magical not-quite-10 mph over the speed limit) in Hartford and still had people passing me in the left lane.

I happened to stop at the last rest stop in the state today, and pulling back on to the highway I was behind a nifty red Mustang and thought to myself, "Now, that's the car to get behind. Surely he'll attract the state trooper's attention before my minivan does." So he pulls out; I pull out behind him. He gets up to speed, pulls into the left lane and passes a few putterers who are only going 65 mph; I follow suit. But after a couple of miles my game of chicken is over, and Mr. Mustang is quickly out of sight. So I roll back to my usual cruise-controlled 74, retreat to the middle lane, and commence annoying the boys by singing along with "Hey Jude" on the oldies station because I can't resist the naaah-naaah-naaah-na-na-na-naaahs. Before I can respond to it, there's a blue flashing light pulling out of the median next to me. "Oh, dang ..." I thought to myself (not really, but I try to keep my blog grandparent-friendly) "... busted."

But no, the trooper stayed beside me for a few seconds, but didn't try to pull me over. Then he sped up, and a minute or so later we passed the blue flashing light in the breakdown lane on a long, straight stretch of road. I felt very sorry leaving my pacesetter, poor Mr. Mustang, to eat my dust, but I was happy that Tom was finally vindicated.

Seventh Grade Bio ... Agent 98 had a project due a few days ago. He needed to make a 3D model of a plant cell and an animal cell. So we went to Michael's to pick up some ... modeling clay? No. Papier mâché? No. This is 98 we're talking about, so of course I should have guessed no mere mortal craft supplies, available at a mere mortal craft store, would suit his plan.

98's Cell Project: Click to enlarge

Nope, indeed.

He wanted to make his model out of ... gela-freaka-tin. "Are you sure about this, 98? This is going to be really hard to do. Are you sure you don't want to use air drying modeling clay? You can make all the little pieces removable, and it will be really cool." No luck, though. He was determined. So we stopped at the grocery store, and picked up a package (well, four four-packs) of unflavored gelatin along with a few flavored packages to use for the various parts. "Oh yeah, Mom, we'll also need some licorice and marshmallows for the cytoskeleton and mitochondria," he tells me. Turns out we also needed root beer barrels (for the nucleus) and whole nutmegs (because root beer barrels melt in gelatin), multicolored nonpariels (for the ribosomes) and duct tape for the golgi bodies.

And we needed another trip to the grocery store, this time a grocery store that sells a 32-pack of unflavored gelatin, because, well, it takes a lot of unflavored gelatin to fill up a plastic shoebox (because plant cells are rectangular because they have cell walls) and a gallon plastic bowl (because animal cells aren't, because they don't).

And Speaking of Who'da Thunk It ... My first conscious thought on waking this morning, in my Mother-in-Law's guest room: I was sad that I couldn't walk Zoet. Yeah, I actually missed that sweet little poopmachine. I'm doomed, I tell ya, doooomed!

Career Day

2011-03-31T20:44:00.001-04:00

I recently started online banking, and it's really convenient. Too convenient in at least one particular aspect, and I made a comment to this effect on Facebook recently, and had a back-and-forth with a friend, which was interrupted by a second friend's castigation about discussing such things on Facebook. Facebook! Of all places! He was right, of course, and we dropped the subject.

Within 24 hours, I began receiving indications that something was amiss with my online identity. I became a proud purveyor of drugs. Canadian drugs. Canadian Viagra, to be specific. If you got an offer from me for drugs, you're in good company. So did my mom. My brothers and sister, my in-laws. Friends. Neighbors. My kids' teachers. The travel agent we used when we lived on Kwaj. An ex-boyfriend from college. The White House. And oh, let's not forget: my parish priest.

Oops.

I don't actually think my excursion into online employment had anything at all to do with my Facebook comment, but nonetheless, I've decided it's time to retire from my discount online Canadian drug sales gig. It was taking too much time away from my training to become a telephone psychic. And you just know how that's going to work out ... or do you?

Want To Know What 98 Did Today?

2011-03-27T16:41:00.006-04:00

So I just mentioned on Facebook last week that Agent 98 got a lifetime high score in bowling of 159. A mere 8 days later he blew that record right out of the water on the final day of his travel league. I'm not much of a photographer, so the scores are a little hard to read (and I 'shopped out the names). In addition to the new game high personal best, his play today also earned him a lifetime series high of 450 (scratch).

Game 1: 192 scratch; 283 handicap

Game 2: 125 scratch; 216 handicap

Game 3: 133 scratch; 224 handicap

Topping off an already awesome day, 98 won the third place trophy for an Individual High Game (with Handicap) for the season at the league banquet. His team also took home the 2nd place trophy for Team Total (Scratch Score). Congratulations to 98 and Lanes & Games travel team!

In Case You've Ever Wondered ...

2011-03-25T21:14:00.001-04:00

... about that warning on the side of aerosol cans: Do not puncture or incinerate. That label always made me want to toss one into a fire, you know, just to see.

Clearly the warning is not addressed to dogs. Because effective this very evening I know for a fact that if a dog punctures an aerosol can, it just makes a quiet hissing sound that makes you go, "Hey, I wonder what that sound is," until the entire contents of even a very small can will fill up the room with a mushroom cloud of propellant that will make you run for fresh air or a gas mask.

Oh, Zoet. Of all the things in this house you can chew on, you choose my brand new inhaler? Yes, that inhaler. The one the pharmacist lectured me about not 24 hours ago, "Don't waste these, Mrs. JEN-Tile (grrrr) because every time we sell one, we lose money, you know (double grrrrr).

To those of you out there with exploding punctured aerosol cans of asthma medicine, Zoet tells you this: You're doing it wrong.

Small Victories

2011-03-19T20:47:00.002-04:00

I don't recall the last time Tom changed the propane tank on the gas grill, but I do specifically recall coercing a visitor to change it for me once, probably in the fall of 2009. We are big time grillers, and Tom used to grill at least once or twice a week, year round. But I used this last propane tank judiciously, often lighting only the first of the three burners, which was usually enough heat for my purposes. That tank of propane lasted me until just after Christmas 2010. I know this because I was at a New Year's Day open house held by some dear friends and asked the Mister for a quick propane tank changing tutorial while he was grillmastering his wicked awesome steak tips. He made it seem simple enough.

My grill spent the season under that hump on the right

But I am embarrassed to tell you how terrified I am of propane tanks. Those suckers can explode, you know, and they probably do on a daily basis even though I've never actually heard of it happening (propane tank industry lobbyists probably paid to squelch any negative press), nor do I know anyone who knows anyone who it happened to. When Tom and I would refill the tanks at BJ's he'd have me in the front passenger seat with the tank (sometimes two of them) at my feet. I would be wearing my worst backseat driver hat, heart in my throat, begging Tom, "Hey, watch out for that pothole;" or instructing, "Do you see that car? There? That car there?" (said vehicle likely being a half-mile away, down a side street, going in the opposite direction), and the ever-helpful, "For the love of God, slow down!"

Between my fear of driving with the propane tank in the car, the sixteen feet of snow that covered the grill for much of the last three months, and my absolute certainty of the explosion that would ensue once I connected the tank and lit the grill, well, I just never got around to changing the tank.

I had a bit of a quandary, though: I can't quite ask the neighbor, "Hey, Mister, would you please come to my house and connect my propane tank and ignite it for me, so that I am not the one harmed during the inevitable explosion. Whenever it's convenient, thanks." I mean, he has a wife and kids, and they live just a few houses away. They'd probably hear the explosion and blame me.

With 96 off at a school event this Saturday afternoon, 98 was home with me doing a chores. I called him down, and quite nonchalantly explained that when you install a new propane tank and light it the first time, it's usually a good idea to have someone else around. You know, like when someone spots you in gym class. I didn't say anything about explosions or fireballs, and I was very calm, indeed. But 98 says, "Hmmm, that sounds pretty dangerous. You're not going to make it explode are you?" My lips said, "Of course not." (Did I just see a flicker of disappointment on 98's face?)

My eyebrow furrow might have sent a different message: Oh, 98, you have no idea how scared of an explosion I am. I still don't have all my paperwork taken care of, so I really don't want to die in a fireball today. But man, I really want that steak I've been marinating since yesterday.

No. Instead I continued, "It's just a good habit to get into. So come outside with me, okay?" No suggestion to take the phone with him and pre-dial 911. No precautionary unwinding of the garden hose. Not even so much as a reminder that the fire extinguisher is inside the cellar door. We just we head outside with a wrench to free up the old tank and tighten the new one, and a package of fireplace matches so that once I have opened the burner valve I can drop in the wooden match and at least step back.

Old tank, check. New tank, check. Valve, burner, match. Check, check, check. Then the best sound I'd heard in three months, the tiniest little whoosh as the flame kicked on. Fingers, lips, eyebrows: check, check, check.

A few minutes to preheat and that other sound that was music to these ears: the sizzle of the steak hitting the grill.

Oh, medium rare ribeye steaks from the butcher shop at Hilltop Steak House, come to mama!

98's a Whackjob Sometimes

2011-03-16T09:32:00.000-04:00

We stopped by a Dunkin Donuts Saturday morning on the way to bowling. 98 wanted a frosted donut, but all they had were these.

So he turns to me and says, "You know what, Mom, I should complain. I paid my dollar, I want my sprinkles.

Yeah, 98's a whackjob sometimes.

I Wish My Dog Spoke English

2011-03-12T22:24:00.000-05:00

I know she understands when I say, "Good dog, good dog," and I give her plenty of those, because she really is a sweet little thing. And I'm pretty sure she knows "Sit" and "Stay" if there's a milk bone involved.

But it would be much more helpful to me if she understood a few other colloquialisms:

"I'm going to bed after this, so if you don't pee now, you won't be able to go again until the morning."

"It's a litterbox, not a snack bar."

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but I'm only going to the washing machine. I'll be back in 90 seconds."

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but I've only been gone 90 seconds, just like I said."

"Get away from that rubbish barrel, please."

"Have you never heard of toilet paper?" (The cats could stand to learn that one, too, come to think of it.)

... and the related ...

"OMFG, Zoet, not on the mouth!"

Happy Birthday, 98

2011-02-26T22:23:00.005-05:00

98's birthday was last month, and I gave him tickets to Blue Man Group.   We didn't go until tonight, a month later, because this was the first 5:00 pm show I could get five front row seats for, and I knew I couldn't be trusted to stay awake for the 8:00 pm show.   It was: me, 96, 98, and two of 98's friends, let's call them Curt and Rod. They weren't twins, but if I had twins I would totally have named them Curt 'n Rod. I am happy to report that I ~~survived the evening without running away screaming, leaving them to take the train home alone~~ spent the evening with four teenage boys. I love all four of these boys, and would run in to a burning building to save any of them but man, oh man, are teenage boys insufferable.

They argued about Pokemons (the plural of which 96 has reminded me more than once is Pokemon, but I say Pokemons because, well, I know it bugs him) and they argued about how long ago 15 minutes was. They disagreed about 'Droid or iPhone. They debated the merits of public vs. private vs. parochial. They each knew stuff that the others didn't know, and they each had to make sure that all the others knew they knew this stuff they didn't know.   Do you remember Charlie Brown's teacher? By the end of the car ride, that's all I heard.   That, punctuated with the random, "No, you're wrong," and "Shut up," and "You don't know anything."    Good to know it's not just mine.

The other thing I noticed about teenage boys: They havetohavetohaveto have the last word. Every. Single. Time.   The last word. Spoken. Has to be theirs.   And not someone else's.

See how annoying that is?

All's well that ends well, though. 98 made it home with a piece of spit-paintball-artwork from one of the bits. As we were leaving I handed him a sharpie to ask one of the Blue Men for an autograph on the way out. The Blue Man did him one better, and swiped a bit of blue ink/makeup/whatever it is off his face and planted a cool thumbprint in the corner. And the next time we go, we're going to count how many marshmallows that one guy ultimately crammed into his mouth. Double digits, for sure.

Multiple Choice

2011-02-21T10:54:00.005-05:00

I could really use some advice. Seriously.

So, remember the Great Flood of 2010? Because the creek behind my house was bringing so much of the flooding to the neighborhood, the city spent a fair amount of time hanging around my house, watching stuff. They sandbagged the creek, the sandbagged my driveway, and we all got to be good friends. The foreman, Charlie, had a peek at the cellar before and during the worst of the flooding and arranged for a plumber friend of his to install a sump pump for me, and an electrician friend to install a new outlet, since a pump requires its own, separate, grounded power source. So that gets all done in the wee hours the day before that second flood, and the whole system worked like a charm.   Sure, I got a couple of inches of water during the second storm, but the week-old water heater and furnace, replaced after the first round of flooding, were unscathed. And dry. I was immensely grateful, and made them cookies.

Well, the plumber that did the work is a city employee (who did the work on his own time, so no tax dollars involved). But the only number I have to reach him is the city water department. Thinking it was his cell phone, I called him on Saturday for a rather urgent plumbing ... ah, let's just call it a "situation".    More about that later.   So the city guy (who remembered the cookies) passed along a message, and the plumber called me Saturday and told me he'd be here on Sunday afternoon.   Well, here it is now Monday morning, and still no plumber.

And in case you're curious, here's the sequence of events: I came home on Friday night to a wet downstairs bathroom floor and both boys denying any knowledge of a toilet backing up. This was just the first "hmm" of many this weekend, it would turn out. The toilet flushes fine, but for lack of a better word, it's a little gurglier than usual. Then, on Saturday morning I went into the cellar to do laundry, only to find an inch-deep puddle, about 10 feet in diameter, directly under said bathroom. With an appropriately audible "harumph" I cleaned this up, did my laundry, and went on with my day.

Ah, but now the plot thickens. The washer drains into a soapstone sink, which thankfully has a greater capacity than the front-loading washer, because when I returned to the cellar to change the laundry, both basins of the sink are filled with water. Not overflowing, but filled 4/5 of capacity.

And the toilet that was gurgly but working fine? Not so much. Someone flushed and walked away, leaving lucky me to discover another wet floor and another inch-deep puddle in the cellar. Thank you, FEMA, for that awesome shopvac.

No, I'm not done yet. There's more.

So this morning I'm sitting quietly on the couch with Zoet, and we're watching Good Morning America (yeah, she thinks George Stephanopoulos is hot) and we hear a very distant ... can't quite place it ... barely audible woofing sound from ... is it outside? Even Zoet noticed it, and I was curious. It didn't sound like Daisy, our shepherd next-door-neighbor, and it didn't sound close enough to be a dog walking into the Fells right outside our window. So I pulled a Timmy, and sent ~~Lassie~~ Zoet to find the source of the noise.

One of the boys was in the shower, which is directly over the downstairs bathroom, the aforementioned gurgly-toilet-bathroom. And the running shower was somehow causing air to bubble up through the toilet bowl: hence, the gurgling. What's worse, as the gurgles continued, I saw the water level in the bowl rising.

So here we are, in a house with an upstairs shower that empties into a blocked downstairs toilet and a downstairs toilet that empties directly onto the cellar floor. (So no shampoo-rinse-repeat today, boys. Today you can take an if-you-really-took-a-shower-why-is-the-soap-still-dry shower.)

I am reluctant to call the city department again to try to get ahold of the plumber I was expecting to see yesterday, and in the meantime, I have found the name and number of a actual plumber who did actual work for us a couple of years ago.   So do I ...

A.) Wait for the first guy? And if so, how long do I sit in silence?
2.) Call the city again and have them pass along another message?
C.) Call 2-years-ago-guy and hope he remembers us and can come out?

Please advise. Quickly.

Valentine's Day, 1996

2011-02-14T20:42:00.005-05:00

It seems to me I'm always mentioning how I find treasures rifling through drawers and files while I'm looking for something else. Today's tale is no different, except I don't recall that I was particularly looking for anything. I just recently stumbled across the little card I used to tell Tom I was pregnant with Agent 96 on Valentine's Day, 1996. And even with the evidence in my hand, including the positive pregnancy test, which today still shows the [+] (and no, I'm not going to show you a picture of it!), I honestly have no recollection of doing this. I recall the card; in fact, when I was putting together photos for his memorial I wanted to include the card, a small, die-cut tiger. A little secret between us was that I called him "Tiger", and he called me "Kitten". Eww, I know. What worse, when 96 was born, we called him "Tigger" sometimes. (Remember that rattle Zoet chewed up? It was 96's Tigger.)

Quick, get the insulin.

I remember giving him the card for Valentine's Day in 1996, I just don't recall the whole "I'm having a baby" spin. How does a person forget something like that?

Usually, events with the second child take a back seat to the first: 96's baby book is complete, including the first day he sat, unaided, in a grocery cart (5 months) and his first fat lip (during the April Fool's Day blizzard in 1997); I sold 98's baby book in a yard sale, factory seal unbroken. The photos in 96's first year album are labeled; I don't even have a first-year album for 98. Of course, I famously have both boys' umbilical stumps in a carton in the attic. They are in the jeweler's boxes my engagement ring and wedding band came in. Suffice it to say, saving those little belly buttons had me off raisins for a while.

Back to Agent 98. It's hard to imagine a memory burned more strongly into my synapses:. There I was, 40 years old, in the upstairs bathroom: 6-month-old 96 (who was still nursing full time, for the record) in one arm, and there, in my other hand, another [+].

"Tom ... can you come up here for a sec?"

No Snow Days Allowed

2011-02-06T10:33:00.003-05:00

One of the early lessons we learned on Kwaj was that a person could, indeed, survive a full year, a complete trip around the sun, without so much as a single snowflake. Four years, in fact. I have made it my life's plan to experience another such existence, but alas, this plan shall have to wait a few years, probably until the boys are in college. But I predict a warm climate for this blogger's retirement years.

Why would I have days like this ...

... or this ...

or this ...

... when this ...

... qualifies as a snow day in San Antonio, Texas? I kid you not: a snow day. A classes-cancelled, government-offices-opening-late, honest-to-God snow day. Can you see my nephew Isaac inside that heavy winter coat? No? That's because he's in a sweatshirt! For the record, he doesn't even own a winter coat. I own three: dressy, everyday, and a one just for snowblowing. Blowing snow blows.Unlike the Inuit, I don't need fifteen words to describe it. I only need four: It belongs somewhere else.

I have no use for snow. I don't ski, or skate or play ice hockey or make snow angels. I don't make ice cream out of snow. My nose gets red and stays red the rest of the day. I look like I've been crying, or I've had too much to drink when I come in from the cold. I really like hot cocoa, but I can make that a summer drink: I'll just turn my air conditioning on full blast. Yeah, that'll work.

Give me a good tropical downpour any day of the week. It took some getting used to -- that bath water that fell from the sky on Kwaj. I can recall a dreary November day, the first day of the rainy season there in 1998. Maybe I had the a/c set a little too low, because I was kind of chilly. I looked outside before we left the house on our errands (as always on foot with the double stroller; I used the bike with the trailer as little as possible) and bemoaned to the boys, babies at the time, the grey and bone-chilling kind of November day I was so used to and was surely unconsciously expecting. I even took off my usual flipflops, trading them in for socks and sneakers. Then I opened the door, and the warmest, humidest solid block of air I had ever felt knocked me backwards. Especially during the rainy season, you had to have at least a couple of sets of clothes planned for the day, because you knew you'd get rained on at least once. You had to plan photography ahead, because you had to give your camera 20 minutes to adjust from the dry 70's inside the house to the humid 88 it invariably was outside. The lens would instantly fog over, like eternally living in your bathroom after a hot shower.

But by golly, it didn't snow once. And we lived to tell the story!

Interstate Adventures

2011-01-23T19:14:00.002-05:00

I found myself in Cranston, RI this morning, where Agent 98 had a bowling tournament at Lang's Lanes. (Don't miss the chili cheese fries!) It was our second time bowling in Cranston in as many weeks. He didn't have the best day, but with a high score of 103, he beat his average, and that's really the point anyway.

So I get on the highway to come home after we're done, and notice a couple of interesting buildings that I hadn't noticed on the ride down ... and then another one ... and then I think to myself, "Where'd Providence go?" I had driven eight miles on 95 South before I realized my mistake.

If that was only the first time I'd ever gotten lost on 95 that would be one thing. Or if it had been the most lost, I could accept that. But I have an even stupider lost than that. One that makes me cringe every time I think of it. Thankfully, I was alone in the car when it happened.

I had just moved to Medford, and had previously had few, if any, reasons to take Rte. 2 west to 95. I was headed to Waltham (this was in our Costco days) which meant 2W to 95S. After a couple of minutes on 95 I noticed that the Burlington Mall was on the wrong side of the road (and later learned it wasn't even along my expected route). I absolutely believe that any normal, functioning human being, on seeing the Burlington Mall on the left hand side of the road but expecting it to be on the right, would think "Oh, I'm going the wrong way." Totally normal reaction. But me? I thought to myself, "Hey, when did they move the Burlington Mall?"

So you try waking up with this brain every morning.

January 17, 2011

2011-01-17T07:52:00.002-05:00

I have struggled with how to recognize today: what would have been, and what should have been, Tom's 58th birthday. So I thought I'd share some more moments. In no particular order:

This was Agent 96's first cous cous dinner. About a half-step lower on the spectrum than a Thanksgiving feast, cous cous dinners were a ritual at our home. In fact, on Kwaj we once had a cous cous feast instead of a Thanksgiving turkey dinner. Tom loved himself some Moroccan food. Tom loved himself food, and sharing it with his friends.

We had to put Neko to sleep in 1998, when she was 18 years old. I knew we'd be going to the vet later this day, and my heart knew Tom wouldn't get to hold her again. Poor little Neko looks comfortable in this photo, but she could barely stand, and could no longer walk. A few months before she died, Neko, who had taken to hanging out with Tom in the office (where Tom had jury-rigged a running water fountain out of a plastic box, an aquarium pump, and tubing) and increasingly tired of walking up and down two flights of stairs to the litter box, had taught herself to use the toilet. We were alone in the house one day, just Tom, sleeping 96, and I, when from the kitchen we heard someone using the bathroom upstairs. We looked at each other, and remarked upon it, but it wasn't until days later that we actually saw that little kitty sitting up there, assuming the position.

Oh, how we loved our tropical Christmases. And what better way to spend Christmas Eve than teaching your 4- and 5-year-olds how to drive?

This might be my actual, official wedding portrait ...

... but here, my friend Laura caught Tom speaking his vows -- proof! This is my favorite wedding photo. In our church service a few months later, Fr. Hehir, unhappy that we used the same vows, tacked on to the end that God had put Tom in charge of family security, and put me in charge of the household. So whenever I'd ask Tom to take out the rubbish, he had to do it ... because God said so!

About two weeks before we pcs'd from Kwaj in 2002, Tom and I spent a long weekend in Pohnpei, FSM, where we visited Nan Madol. We met our friends Mooch and TOO (short for "The Other One") who let us stay in their thatched hut at The Village as long as we fed them. I don't remember which is which, but I know they were fatter when we left than when we got there.

Our first visit to the Big Island, 1999. Don't you love 96 & 98 all matchy-matchy like that? I'd still put them in matching t-shirts if I could! This was moments before the dotcom bubble burst, and if we had had our checkbook with us the day we stepped off the plane on that vacation we would own a little piece of paradise today. And we would never have left.

Lake Mooselookmeguntic, Oquossoc, Maine. Tom had been going there with friends for years before we met, and I was quite honored the first time he invited me along. We went once with the kids in the early days, but were so mortified by "the great magic marker debacle of '99" that we were afraid to make reservations again until the summer of 2006. Ever wonder what to do if you find an unattended black magic marker? Stop. Don't touch. Leave the area. Tell an adult.

I don't know which was more of a chick magnet: the cool Daytona, or Maxwell. They're both pretty hot. Hmmmm ... all three of them were pretty hot, actually!

I treasure every moment, every memory. The lifetime of moments that make the life of a man.

Dogproofing Fail

2011-01-10T19:51:00.003-05:00

I remember the days when putting a cup on the coffee table got it safely out of reach. I remember scrambling to move stuff to the end table, because suddenly the coffee table no longer meant childproof. Then, to the kitchen table, or higher and higher on the stairs; or, God forbid, I'd have to put something away in order to ensure its safety.

If I wanted to have to childproof my home, I'd have had another baby, thankyouverymuch. Said baby wouldn't have stolen my leftover orange chicken, though, or eaten my Burt's Bees lip balm, container and all. Admittedly, the baby might have chewed through a rattle or two, and maybe an occasional bag of dog treats. But really, Zoet? Pipe insulation?

This is a straggler I just found under the couch. I really hope this was an open can she found and thoughtfully cleaned for me, and not a can she opened herself. Have I mentioned the dog only gets dry food? The cats eat canned. Miraculously, this treat did not require a followup visit to the vet. But I predict this episode did not involve any learning, either (by either one of us.)

About the only pristine stuff in my house anymore: dog toys. Man, they make that stuff to last! The orange ball and the bone? Those came with Zoet in August.

Oops - gotta run. Duty calls ...

Dont Get Me Wrong

2011-01-02T07:14:00.001-05:00

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids. This is not even a "I love my kids, but ..." post.

I love my kids. Period. Unconditionally. Forever and always. Blah, blah, blah.

I love my kids, but ... being the single mom of two teenage boys sucks. Sucks bad.

I totally get that I'm not the first single parent in the world, or the only one. I can't even use the excuse that I'm the least experienced one, since I've been going at it almost a year now. I was raised by a pretty competent one, in fact, who also had two concurrent teenage boys. And two simultaneous teenage girls. But we were the sensible ones, so I like to think we mitigated a bit. And when she was done with us, she still had one more left to go.

Argue all you want about politics, Agent 96, and society, and how people stink and there's no God, and go right ahead and argue that comic books are literature. And yeah, you can even have input into bedtimes, and menus, and schedules, and extracurricular activities. But this getting an argument about every little thing is getting really old really fast. If I mention that we need a new couch, you know what would be totally awesome?

"Okay, Mom."

Yeah, this deviates from my usual fare ...

2010-12-28T15:46:00.006-05:00

... but I couldn't resist sharing this StumbleUpon'ed funny!

http://www.boingboing.net/2010/12/28/people-who-touch-you.html

Have a happy, healthy and safe New Year's -- I'll be in-front-of-the-computer-type-stumbling!

It Was Bittersweet

2010-12-19T17:07:00.004-05:00

It was bittersweet.

Today Agent 98 had a bowling tournament in Lowell and the Garmin sent me up on 95 to 495 which is my preferred route to points north. But it brought me home via Rte 3, a route I always detested because before it was rebuilt many years ago it was narrow, curvy, slow, and crowded -- and all speedtrappy whenever it wasn't slow and crowded. I have never have gotten into the habit of using it, and almost didn't today, but it was a Sunday afternoon, so I went along with the instructions.

It was bitter, because for the first time since May 10, 1994, when we crossed 110, I didn't hear how Mr. An Wang had bought the land and built the Wang Labs building (which is shaped like a "W" you know) for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's. It was sweet because, well, for the first time since May 10, 1994, I didn't hear how Mr. Wang had bought the land and built the building for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's. I mean, really, Tom? You've told me that story before. Like. Every. Single. Time.

So what did I do? When we crossed 110 I pointed out the building and told 98 the story of how Mr. An Wang had bought the land and built the building (which is shaped like a "W" you know) for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's.

It wasn't quite the same, but family traditions have to start somewhere, right?

Lap Cat Seeking Lap

2010-12-09T18:51:00.005-05:00

From a friend-of-a-friend at the Dana ... her young son is allergic, so she needs to find a new home for her sweet kitty, Anne.

Hard working lap cat seeks new lap to nap on. Also excels at purring, playing with toy mice and generally being cute. Anne needs a new lap as Alec, the 3 year old human child in her family, has been hospitalized twice this year with severe asthma complicated by cat allergies. Anne is an affectionate, sweet 5 year old torti. She has been an inside cat, but would enjoy some outside time in a safe environment. She enjoys the company of other cats. If you or someone you know needs an accomplished lap warmer and all around companion, leave Anne’s mom, Lorri, a message in the comments section, and I'll make sure she gets them. Also feel free to check out more details on Anne’s facebook page: “Lap cat seeking lap”.

Oh, such good news, which my humble blog helped facilitate! Thank you, all!!

Not My Typical Friday Afternoon

2010-12-04T23:13:00.022-05:00

I volunteer at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston a day or so a week, usually Fridays. I work at the front desk, and spend a lot of time pointing people to the elevators and the bathrooms. I really love it, and love being a smiling face when patients walk in the front door. Tom was treated there for over a year, and believe me when I tell you that a smiling face could define a day.

Anyway, what with it only being one day a week, and usually a half-day at that, the learning curve has been pretty steep. But the feedback I get from the volunteer supervisor has been generally positive. And they keep inviting me back.

Okay, so now the story of my hopefully atypical Friday begins: A young man walked in and approached the front desk and asked to speak with a woman in the bone marrow transplantation department. He only knew her first name, and it was not an unusual first name, so it took a bit of research to find the right person, but eventually I connected the two of them up. No joke, an hour later a different person calls on the phone and says, "Hello, I'm Joe Goodsamaritan (name changed) and I just got a phone call that I'm a donor match for a transplant, and I need to speak to ..." someone with the same first name - and he also did not know her last name. But because it was a such common name, I did not immediately make the connection "Oh, he's looking for that same person from an hour ago" so I put him on hold while I tracked down how I should handle the call. (In the online directory there are five pages of people with her first name!) I then realized who he needed to talk to, and was about to transfer Mr. G (Are you still with me? Good for you! Z-z-z-z-z...) when I realized I had disconnected him!

Let's make sure I have this right, Linda: You have a cancer patient's lifesaving marrow donor on the phone, and he doesn't know who he's supposed to be talking to ... and you disconnect him. WTG.

If a heart can sink to the ground and jump into my throat at the same time, that's what happened to me at that moment.

So I called Bone-Marrow-Lady-With-The-Common-First-Name and explained what happened. She told me not to worry about it, and that she thought she knew who it probably was and that in any event, if he was contacted today, he'll be contacted again tomorrow, so she told me that the situation is no big deal.

I can't help but think one extra day without treatment is the definition of a big deal for a cancer patient waiting for a bone marrow match. I promised BMLWTCFN I wouldn't obsess about it all weekend, but I told her I was surely going to worry about it nonetheless.

All I know is it's never good when that darn phone rings. It's never a question about elevators or bathrooms!

Buried Deep in the Back of my Already Overpacked Linen Closet ...

2010-12-03T21:18:00.002-05:00

About a week before Tom started his first drug clinical trial (mid-2009) we spent an afternoon and a fair pile of cash in our local Vitamin Shoppe, GNC and CVS on vitamins, supplements and whatnot. Of course, one of the caveats of clinical trialdom is "no non-prescribed drugs or supplements". So while he had consumed a few pills from some of the bottles, some of the bottles are still factory sealed.

Here's what I have. If I note that the bottle is open, then only a few days' worth are gone.

American Health Chewable Super Papaya Enzyme Plus 360 tablets - open - exp 6/11
MushroomScience Certified Organic Coriolus Super Strength 90 tablets 600 mg - exp 1/12 (I have five of these factory sealed and one open)
Osteo Bi-Flex 120 tablets - open - exp 2/11
Vitamin Shoppe Selenium 300 tablets 200 mcg - open - exp 10/10
CVS Glucosamine Chondroitin Double Strength 120 caplets - exp 9/10 (I have one of these opened and one factory sealed)
Nature's Way Reservatol Synergistic Formula 60 Vcaps 37.5 mcg - open - exp 2/10
GNC L-Glutamine Powder 8 oz - factory sealed - exp 5/11
Vitamin Shoppe Borage Oil 300 softgel capsules 1000 mg -open - exp 10/09
Vitamin Shoppe Soy Isoflavones 120 tablets - open - exp 1/11
Vitamin Shoppe Turmeric Extract 95% curcumin 300 capsules - open - exp 11/11
Vitamin Shoppe Green Tea Extract 75% Polyphenols 300 Capsules 250 mg - open - exp 8/10
CVS Natural Fish Oil 198 Softgels 1200 mg - factory sealed - exp 7/11
CVS Spectravite multivitamin 250 tablets - factory sealed - exp 1/10

If you are interested in any or all of these dietary supplements, drop me a comment or send me an email and we'll work something out. I don't want to sell them; I want to give them to you. I'll even pay postage. I just don't want these to go to waste.

You will see that some have passed their expiration date. Keep in mind that I have codeine in my medicine cabinet that was prescribed in 1998 after my son was born (in case you didn't notice, their blog nicknames are their birth years - Agents 96 and 98) by a doctor in Medford. Then we moved to Kwaj for nearly 5 years, and we've been back in Medford for 8 more years. And I took one a couple of weeks ago when I had that sinus headache. So no, we're not so much into expiration dates around here. I won't side-eye you if you respect them. Just don't lecture me that I don't.

Welcome to My World

2010-11-27T20:56:00.001-05:00

"Mom, do you think the cider will be warm enough if I zap it for 15 seconds?"

"No, 98, I'd zap it for a minute."

"Do you think 30 seconds would work?"

"No, I think a minute would be enough."

"Okay, I'll try 30 seconds."

True Story

You May Want to Come Back Later if You're Having Lunch Now

2010-11-15T09:48:00.001-05:00

I've had some pretty disgusting moments in my history of marriage and parenting. I was with my husband for sixteen years, and I have two boys, now teenagers, and we've had more than ten pets, if you count all the cats, frogs, turtles, snakes and the dog. And during this time, I have had some pretty disgusting moments. I'm not sure I've ever told my most disgusting moment story from beginning to end.

My most disgusting moment was not the very early on poopy diaper contest, which I won by default when my newborn son turned up on the changing table with poop on the top of his head, and the soles of he feet, and most spots in between. It was also not the time an out-of-town friend so admired some cardinal feathers she found that she displayed them for the rest of her visit on the edge of my upstairs bathroom sink. Unfortunately for us, those feather were still attached to a wing, and the wing had been recently ripped from the shoulder socket of poor Mr. Cardinal, which I knew because flesh still hung from the bones. The bones which rested so artfully next to our toothpaste and soap.

It was also not the great fly debacle, which was not so much a disgusting moment as a disgusting and very long month-and-a-half. Our cat, Alpha, had found an already-dead (read: maggot-infested) frog, which he brought into the house before I could stop him. He ran into the cellar with it, and I ran after him, but I never found the frog. Days later, flies started showing up in the house; first in ones and twos; eventually we had scores, and probably hundreds of flies, mostly in the dining room and kitchen. So at least our tv watching wasn't too impacted. Only our food prep and consumption. I would herd flies into the area between window and screen and then quickly close the window, cross my fingers and then just wait patiently for all the flies to die. I hoped they wouldn't reproduce in there, envisioning my brand new windows closed and permanently nailed shut as generation after generation grew and thrived: our own miniature entomological Great Barrier Reef, Medford-style, in the making.

And over the years I have simply gotten used to picking up every sort of dead animal, or remaining parts thereof, with the longest-handled shovel I own, and flinging it across the fence into the Fells, or into the creek behind the house for burial, eventually, at sea. So dead rodents aren't involved in my most disgusting moment, either.

Agent 98 is.

He was 8 or 9, and came to me with a hangnail. I kept an eye on it, because there's really nothing but time that can heal a hangnail. A day or so later, a soothing soak in epsom salts. A day or so after that he showed me the finger again, but by now it was swollen and red, and really quite infected.

Look away now if you're still eating.

I did the only thing I could think of: I squeezed it to get rid of the infection. I heard an audible "pop", and 98 felt instant relief. I found a tiny speck on the kitchen floor, and cleaned it up with a wet paper towel. I recall being a bit surprised that his giant swollen finger didn't leave more ... ahem, sorry ... evidence. But I cleaned up, and went on with my life. Ah, not so disgusting, you say?

Weeks later, Tom was in the kitchen, glanced up at the ceiling, and spied what he immediately recognized ... again, ahem, sorry ... as the missing piece of the puzzle.

Yup, I took a picture.

Nine Months ...

2010-11-07T05:55:00.002-05:00

Waking early today, what with it being "fall back" and all, and with more Tom on my mind than usual. I've already mentioned so many things I miss about Tom: the snoring, the bickering, his CQ (carguy quotient), which I will really miss later today. My check engine light came on yesterday, but today we drive to Lowell for a bowling tournament. I cross-my-fingers and hope it's just because I'm late for my oil change. Until a couple of years ago, the light would not have come on, because Tom would have changed the oil weeks ago, before the light, and before the ground got too cold. And if the light had come on anyway? I would have received the usual stern lecture about how this wouldn't be an issue if I'd just learn to drive a standard, and then he'd have driven to Lowell. He'd be bellyaching the whole way, of course, but with no check engine light blinding my vision, I'd be okay with that.

In my own self interest, these days I'm also missing his awesome headache massage skills. I'm working on day 16 of a sinus headache. Yes, I've tried the netti pot, and nasal sprays, and warm compresses, and the decongestant that you can get on the shelf and the good stuff you ask the pharmacist for. I even went to the doctor and got an antibiotic, which is finally working, but that headache is just not altogether gone yet. So I tried to massage it away myself, but, alas, to no avail. I think headache massages must be like tickling: it's just not the same if you try it on yourself. I enlisted poor Agent 98 for a headrub, but I could hear the ca-ching of future therapist bills ringing in my ears, and put an end to that idea pronto. "My memory's fuzzy, doc, but she was making funny moaning noises."

So today, I'll clip coupons in Tom's honor, and then, for old time's sake, forget to bring the coupon wallet with me to the grocery store.

They Did Their Bit to Restore Sanity and/or Fear

2010-11-01T05:44:00.003-04:00

Jack and Agent 96 had a blast in DC.

They brought a sign with an obscure literary reference. And wore costumes to coordinate with the sign, what with it being Halloween weekend and all.

They jumped when the Mythbusters said, "Jump", and waved when the Mythbusters said, "Wave."

They had a Five Guys burger.

They nudged Sen. John Cornyn (R, TX) after his appearance on This Week. I think he thought he had a fan in Jack, what with the enthusiasm and all. Umm ... not so much. (FTR, I did not mean to imply they "assaulted/nudged" the Senator. I meant to say they irritated/noodged him, but I don't know how to spell that word and spellcheck isn't helping ...)

And they ordered room service.

They did their part; now let's all go out Tuesday and vote.

I thought this was too cool not to share ...

2010-10-27T12:16:00.003-04:00

... guess who's Google's number two result on the search term "factory sealed pork past expiration date". What did YOU accomplish today?

Please don't ask how I know this.

Happy Birthday Agent 96

2010-10-22T19:59:00.002-04:00

Agent 96 turned 14 the other day. I guess I've been watching too many of those cake shows. I used a timer to keep track of how long it took to carve and decorate this cake: I would have made it well within their usual timeframe, with time to spare. But I don't think in actual competitions they allow competitors an hour break in the middle to watch The View and take a nap.

I wish I had a picture of Tom with this guitar. This is was his when he was in college, and the guitar that 96 started with, Tom was so proud when he became interested in playing. This was Christmas at Madeline's house, 2007 I think.

I Think I'll Wait 'Til It's Over to Put This Up

2010-10-20T13:12:00.002-04:00

Part 1

I learned quickly after Tom's diagnosis mostly to trust (dot)gov, edu, and org websites when looking for educational information about cancer. While lots of (dot)coms are there to sell stuff, some will provide helpful anecdotal information, which is valuable if you're looking for anecdotes. When I was searching for information, information that I literally was going to bet my husband's life on, I only trusted (dot)gov's and org's and edu's. And not just any (dot)gov or (dot)edu. Along with Harvard Medical School and its affiliated institutions, my top go-to sites included the NIH (National Institutes of Health), Johns Hopkins and Memorial Sloan-Kettering. They served me well and are eminently readable. The Mayo Clinic was the major exception to my "no-dot-coms" rule.

I have a little time on my hands today to blog, because I need to stay close to home. At home, actually. At home near the bathroom.

I'm prepping for my colonoscopy tomorrow and have started the - ahem - clear liquid part of the process. So here are some sites I'd recommend for information about colonoscopies, and colorectal cancer prevention and treatment:

No offense, Dr. Gastroenterology, but for those of us being so conscientious and getting our colonoscopies starting at age 50, and then following up the recommended every 10 years unless abnormal results are found, when can we STOP getting screened for this type of cancer?

And here's everything you ever wanted to know about polyps but were afraid to ask.

I'm not exactly clear on the benefits of a virtual colonoscopy. You have to go through the same prep process, the verb "insert" is still a major player. But if anything out of the ordinary is found, the doctor cannot take a sample (for a biopsy) or remove it (in the case of polyps). In that case (remember, I'm no doctor), wouldn't you have to have an old-fashioned colonoscopy anyway?

One question I haven't been able to find an answer to online is why this electrolyte solution has to taste so freaking bad. If we can put a man on the moon, can't we at least make this stuff taste like Moxie? I don't think I'm asking too much.

I don't know if it's just because my grandfather died of colon cancer when I was very young and he seemed very old (he was probably in his sixties), but I think of it as an old man disease; certainly it's not front-and-center on my radar. But these famous non-old-men have all been diagnosed with or died of colorectal cancer.

I'm just sayin' ...

—————————————

Part 2

I can't not have pictures, can I?

Everything's fine. Back again in 2015.

—————————————

Part 3

And I thought this was just too funny not to include. So during the prep I had a question, and called the doctor's office, and spoke with someone on his staff. She mentioned in passing, "Oh, I'm late for mine; I need to schedule it for myself." I made a comment about cobbler's children, and then asked what was probably wildly inappropriate, but I know for a fact I've done worse: "So", I asked, "when you need a colonoscopy do you go to this Dr. Gastroenterology, or do you have your own?" I could hear her shaking her head, responding that she does, indeed, have her boss perform her colonoscopy. Just think about that the next time you think your boss is way too far up your a$$.

Way to Play to the Masses, Boston Globe G Section

2010-10-14T08:30:00.004-04:00

The October 13 Boston Globe G section contained an article about where to get a great burger in greater Boston. With two teenage boys, I have a bit of experience with burger joints, and I have my favorite spots already. But I'm always open to a great new burger place. Imagine my disappointment when the article turned out to be about great burgers under $20.

Twenty dollars, Boston Globe? Have you read a newspaper recently?

I'll stick with some of my reliable favorites, thank you very much.

In no particular order, we have Five Guys burgers, which Tom introduced us to during a visit to DC, where the Alexandria, VA location was a regular destination for us. The one in Dedham, MA is a bit too fast-food-restauranty for me, but you can get a four burgers there for under $20. Total.

If you're in Harvard Square and want a burger, and don't mind if your burger comes with a side of political cooties, there's Mr. Bartley's Burgers on Mass Ave. You might want to head there during off-peak hours, but you can get a burger there named after, among others, Scott Brown, Teddy Kennedy, Deval Patrick or Mitt Romney. Don't forget the sweet potato fries. You can also get a Viagra there, without a prescription.

Tied with me for burger quality and menu variety, but with maybe a little more ambiance, check out the Boston Burger Company in Davis Square. The boys' favorite there is the Artery Clogger, a chicken-fried hamburger. You could get two Artery Cloggers, with beverages, for that same $20.

For my money the only burger worth $20 is one that comes with a side of prime rib. And I haven't found that one on a menu yet.

I don't drink

2010-10-10T09:25:00.001-04:00

I don't drink.

When I gave up alcohol nearly six years (really, Linda, it's been that long?) ago it was a simple experiment to see how long I'd go with out a drink. Well, it's been 2141 days and counting.And I'm actually pretty proud of myself that I made it through these last two years without caving. I won't lie: I wanted more than one, more than once. I breathed through it, and made it home again.

Until just a couple of weeks ago we had a very fully stocked liquor cabinet: Tom's Bushmills, of course, and a very special bottle of Chivas. Then the usual rum, vodka, gin, etc., and some less common but still useful ouzo, port, sherry, sundry liquers.And we had on hand whatever it takes for strawberry daiquaris, including strawberries in the freezer. And if you knew Tom, you know that many of these bottles were gallons or at least liters. No pints for him: even liquor has to be cost effective.

I know what the law in Massachusetts is regarding open liquor containers in cars: It's against the law to drive with open containers in the passenger section of a vehicle. Having them in the trunk is okay. I drive a minivan, though, so the entire car is "passenger section". So I put all the liquor (except the amaretto and kahlua [cheesecakes] and sherry [for marinades] and the two buck Chucks I keep in the cellar for tomato sauce), into heavy brown paper bags, placed the bags behind the driver's seat, and brought them to a friend who had just moved to a rather distant Boston suburb, where I'm sure she'll find a good home for all of these treasures.

I drove very carefully: I stayed in my own lane, stopped at every yellow light, yielded at every intersection, and flicked the blinker on well before each necessary turn.

Over the summer I was driving with my brother Jack who is now a college professor, but formerly was a Boston cab driver. He commented while driving with me once that I could be a Boston cabbie if I ever wanted to. I took that as a high compliment.

Until then, if you see me stopping at yellow lights, using my blinker to change lanes, or yielding at a yield sign, I probably just have booze in the back seat.

No Longer Applicable

2010-10-02T18:20:00.011-04:00

Recently, our new dog got up onto the kitchen table and scarfed down a good portion of a very nice steak that I had planned serve for dinner that evening. I had been marinating it in the fridge, but pulled it out early to take the chill off before grilling it.

I told a friend about it, and she empathized. I started to reply. “Oh, thanks. It was a beautiful steak, and big enough to feed all of us” &mdash but my reply got stuck in my throat.

Really, Linda, all three of us? We are not a family of three. We are a family of four, and “all of us” no longer applies.

Breakfast of Champions ... If We're Talking About Junk Food Champions

2010-09-29T21:16:00.010-04:00

I'm at the grocery store thinking maybe I should get some healthier snacks for the boys' lunches and whatnot. So I pick these up off the shelf: $2.99 on special this week, 2/$5. And I have a 50¢ coupon. Doubled. So I pick up two. I woke up a bit peckish this morning, and was inspired to have a healthy-ish breakfast. After all, it says right on the label:

• All Natural
• No Trans Fats
• Baked
• Pita Chips

I figure, good breakfast = good day. I even had orange juice instead of my usual beverage-not-to-be-named. Then I look at the nutrition facts panel on the back. Why, oh, why, do I do this to myself?

Are you kidding me? Eight, as in onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight servings per container?

Seven chips per serving? Oh, I'm sorry, it says "about 7 chips". Still, you're kidding me, right? Nobody counts their chips unless they're playing poker.

This ...

... is a recommended single serving.

By way of comparison, this ...

... was my breakfast.

And no, I don't normally eat junk food breakfast off of Aunt Lee's formal china. But I needed a good shot so I thought I'd brag on my china a bit. I love this pattern, and use the dishes far, far too infrequently. They were a wedding gift to Tom's Great-Aunt Lee from her mother, and I was honored that she gave them to me when we came back from Kwajalein. She was married for 72 years when Uncle Johnny died in 1998. She was the youngest of her siblings: all 23 of them.

Feline Burglar Alarm (Patent Pending)

2010-09-26T06:04:00.007-04:00

I'm cool with being old enough to be my sons’ grandmother, but not so much with being old enough for my friends’ babies to be having babies. Talking about baby showers got me remembering mine.

It was one of the most terrifying experiences in my life.

On a Saturday morning that September I was pregnant with Agent 96, we had planned a morning of apple picking with some friends. Neatnik Tom was more annoying than usual, making sure the house was picked up, the dishes done, and the rugs vacuumed All before 9am. Like I'm supposed to know all our knickknacks had to face forward before we leave to pick apples. I had one particular towel that I used in the downstairs bathroom (aka the downstairs bathroom towel, sheesh) and I was peeved that, with that towel in the laundry he made me, made me, put a random towel in the bathroom.

“The yellow towel? Are you effing kidding me? No, I don’t need to put the yellow towel in the bathroom. I’ll put the right one back when the laundry’s done. Jerkwad.” Forgive me. I had hormones. And a big honking watermelon pressing on my bladder.

“Humor me, Linda. I just want a towel in the bathroom, okay?” Harumphing loudly enough that I was sure he'd know I was the better person, I hung up the towel, and we headed for the door. Leaving the house, I gathered up C and tossed him inside then closed the door behind me, checking, as always, that it had latched.

I’m sure I bellyached during the drive to the orchard about the foolishness of putting the yellow towel in the downstairs bathroom. I’m quite sure I complained to our apple picking companions, Eric and Barbara, about how unreasonable Tom had been over the great towel debacle. But I enjoyed the apple picking, and the fresh air, and the company of our friends. I can only assume they did not equally enjoy the company of my insufferable self.

I knew something was wrong when we returned and I saw C in the front yard waiting for us.

“What’s C doing out, Tom? I’m sure I left him inside.”

“I must have gone back in for something and let him out by mistake”, was Tom’s explanation.

Confused, I knew that Tom had been waiting for me in the car. That was the usual scenario; I invariably forget something, and never make it out the door on the first attempt. The only reasonable explanation for C's presence in the front yard was that the house had been broken into, and the burglars were unaware C had escaped. Was he trying to tell us something? (Like, “There’s a burglar in our house. Maybe two. Meow. And is there any food out here?”)

“No, Tom, really; C shouldn’t be outside. Something’s wrong.”

Adding to my overall pissedness at Tom was that he was making me, his beloved and by now seventy-three-weeks-pregnant wife, go in first. I touched the doorlatch. My heart stopped, my fears of an intruder confirmed. We have one of those old-style front doors with the button on the edge that locks and unlocks the mechanism, and we always have the button set so that the door won’t unlatch from the outside. You have to use the key to open it, and the door locks automatically when you close it. The door was unlatched. Clearly someone unfamiliar with our doorlatch protocols had been messing with the door. All signs pointed to a burglar.

Holy hot cross buns. There’s a band of armed robbers in my house, and you’re making me walk in first? Who are you? And what have you done with Tom? Was what I was thinking.

What I said was, “You want me to open the g-d front door? Okay, then, I’ll open the g-d front door and then I’ll say I effing told you so.” Or words to that effect.

So I open the door, take a step inside, and …

I just realized I still wear this t-shirt

Tom and Agent 96, Fall 1997

By the following year I had recovered from the trauma, and we went apple picking again. I was pregnant. Again. But the day didn't involve a single curse word.

Siblings ...

2010-09-15T19:44:00.001-04:00

For every "Hey, cut it out, doofus" I have at least one "Woof, get away from my food dish" or "Hiss, get off my couch".

Now, onto dessert

Feeding time at the zoo is, well, a zoo. Approach Zoetje's food dish at your own risk. I have tried a variety of locations for the cat's dish that will be inaccessible to the dog but easily accessible to Ada -- poor, sweet 18-year-old Ada, who doesn't jump quite like she used to. After a couple of days cats on the -- eww -- kitchen table, I found a shelf by the cellar stairs that has worked okay so far. (Alas, Scruffy still sits on the table, waiting for food. All those years I've spent training cats not to go on tables and counters? Back to the drawing board.) I open all the cans at the same time and plate the contents simultaneously while Zoetje, with her low growl, stands guard to keep the cats from getting too close. First, I give Zoetje her food, but I make sure the cats see theirs, too. Then, during that 3.5 second window when Z's face is in her food, I quick-as-a-bunny bring the cats' food to a shelf in the cellar next to the stairs. I count on out-of-sight-out-of-mind, because there's simply no place in our house that works to keep Z away from the food. She usually heads straight for the cellar stairs when she'd done with her meal. Agent 96 has been known to feed the cats in complete silence before Z wakes up. Those are the only days the cats get all the cat food.

Dogs are like teenage boys in the housekeeping department, too, and the house looks more like a frat house than a private home. 96 walks in from school, and within a minute, his jacket is shrugged off his shoulders and the phone's tossed onto a chair. I spy Agent 98's bowling ball in the middle of the living room floor, and ask him, the only bowler in the family, to put it away. "I don't know how it got there, Mom. It was there when I got home from school". It wasn't me: I know for a fact that I don't allow bowling in the house. Breathe, Linda. Just walk away.

So I pop into the kitchen, and there's Zoetje, eating a stick of butter. A wrapped stick of butter. And of course she just left some uneaten wrapper bits there on the floor next to the paper towels she's snatched from the rubbish barrel. The rest -- well I guess I'll clean them up the next time we go for our walk.

Wait. Did I just say dog ate a quarter of a pound of butter? Maybe this time the boys take her for her walk.

Next Time You'll Have to Check the Fine Print

2010-09-08T12:31:00.002-04:00

Sure, it's in my contract that I have to bark and growl and whatnot, but show me where it says I have to get off the bed to be a guard dog ...

... And you can complain all you like, but that contract doesn't actually specify how many times a day I'm allowed to poop.

Please Hold My Neighbors In Your Collective Hearts

2010-08-23T16:22:00.001-04:00

I have wonderful neighbors. My circle of wonderful neighbors extends for several houses up and down. I've always known this, but they have been unfailingly kind to us particularly since Tom was diagnosed. I'm not playing favorites, but the family next door couldn't be sweeter, and the kids (two teens and almost a tween) couldn't be more polite. They always greet me with a smile and some polite conversation. I don't know how the Mom does it, but I'm in awe.

Recently the youngest one was dressed as if for the first day of school, tossing the ball against the front steps, obviously waiting for Mom or Dad. Our chat went something like this:

Me: Hi, Boyneighbor, you look nice today. Going someplace special?

Neighbor: Not really. I'm getting my haircut for school. Well that and I have something wrong with my head, so I'm having a CAT scan afterwards. And I have an MRI on Friday.

Me (silently): Excuse me dear while I go throw up.

I didn't see his mom for a few days, but spied her carrying in groceries, and our conversation went something like this:

Me: Oh, Momneighbor, I'm so glad to see you. I totally understand this is none of my business, but your son told me about his CAT scan and MRI, and I've been so worried about him and about you. Is there anything I can do to help?

Neighbor: No, thanks, not at the moment. The CAT scan ruled out leukemia, but he needs a few more tests. So keep us in your prayers, okay?

Me (silently): Oh, I can so do that for you.

I am simply unable to wrap my brain around being the mom taking my son for a CAT scan to rule out leukemia. He still has a series of tests ahead of him. One of them is a colonoscopy. This boy is nine years old.

So if you wouldn't mind, could you hold my neighbors in your collective hearts?

Have You Ever Owned A Dog?

2010-08-18T19:04:00.001-04:00

There couldn’t have been a more straightforward question, particularly coming from the adoption desk at the Northeast Animal Shelter while you’re adopting a dog. As I was uttering my response, I knew I had misplaced my modifier, and the woman at the desk, Marianne, wasn’t going to understand. I tried to take them back, but the words had already spilled from my mouth.

Standing next to me, my sister Jeanne heard the words as they were floating through the air, and tried to grab them and give them back to me. No such luck.

Marianne heard my answer, and replied with the only reasonable response.


Tom with Maxwell, about 1989

Marianne: Have you ever owned a dog?
Me: My husband had a dog, but he died.
Marianne: Your husband or the dog?

Jeanne and I looked at each other, then looked at ashen-faced Marianne who realized what she had just asked, and all three of us laughed at the absurdity of the exchange. Then I told Marianne about my animal loving husband, Tom, feeling pretty assured we'd take our dog home after that.

No Dog Yet, You Say?

2010-08-17T23:09:00.007-04:00

I started wanting a dog when Tom was sick. I'm sure the pain is the same whether your spouse has brain cancer, or heart disease or any terminal illness (Tom considered his cancer "terminal" with the quotes, having read much about long-term survivors. Few though they were, they were not non-existent.), but brain cancer had already robbed me of my hard-working, cuttingly-sarcastic, animal-loving, handyman-project-doing, car-guy husband, and my sense of loneliness was all the more acute because Tom was alive, but no longer, well, Tom. A dog would love me, and keep me warm, and fill the hole in my heart that I shouldn't have had because I should have just been grateful my husband was there, sleeping right next to me in the bed every night, drinking his coffee and reading his paper every morning. But that emptiness in my heart continued to grow, and my desolation darkened. And that dog? I really just wanted a dog to love me. I wanted somebody to love me. And for God's sake, at least the damned dog wouldn't die of brain cancer.

Then, Tom died. I don't know how else to explain it. Tom died, and the loneliness that I felt finally at least felt normal. My husband was dead, my sons' father was gone, and that the loneliness was expected made it somehow more tolerable. Getting from today to tomorrow became easier after Tom died, as I found myself already partway through the process of grieving his loss. The desperate yearning for a dog slowly subsided, replaced by the quiet belief that there's a place in our family for a dog.

So there we were today, at the Northeast Animal Shelter: the place Tom took me on our second date; one of his memorial charities; and the place where the sweetest little Belgian Schipperke x picked us for her forever family. She came with the utterly unacceptable name Skippette, so we're down to business picking out a name. I think her name is supposed to be Zoetje, dutch for "little sweet one". Any dutch speaking readers out there? Please advise.

And say hello to the newest Gentile, Zoetje.

Next Stop: Memory Lane

2010-08-12T08:43:00.016-04:00

So I'm searching through my files for some piece of paper that I'm sure is in there, but I sure as heck can't find. I'm desperate, and truly hoping that this particular item wasn't part of that 2 1/2 big black construction bags of paperwork I shredded after Tom died. All those bank statements and credit card statements from 1978; the electric bills from the 1980's; all that paper. I could have heated the house all winter with the paper I culled from our files. It's the only "winnowing" I've done since Tom died, and it was months ago. So now I'm hyperventilating, and pulling out one file at a time,searching through each, sheet by sheet. I eventually found whatever piece of paper I was looking for, filed right where it belonged under "W" for "where should I put this so I'll be sure to find it six years from now when I finally need it", but not before finding some very special treats. I didn't even know Tom had these, and I love them all.

Except for the laminated birth announcement photo that was in the paper when he was a couple of months old, this undated photo is the earliest picture of Tom I have. I see that the unease that Gentile menfolk feel with Santa is a genetic thing. 'Splains a lot.

I'm guessing, since his birthday is in January, that this is just before he turned 2. Seems too old for turning 1, and too young for almost 3. I love the shoes, which seem to be one of the few things Tom didn't save-in-case-he-might-need-them-later.

As Madeline efficiently noted on the back of this photo, it's "Tommy 28 months, Gerald 2 months May 1955" Tom and I may have been destined to meet, but I'm glad he had a brother to keep him occupied at this time, as I hadn't even been conceived yet. This may have been the last time my husband did not object to being called Tommy.

Tom and Gerry at Aunt Lee's house in Jamaica, Queens. 1961 Calling them "Tom and Gerry" always makes me giggle.

I don't have any childhood photos (that I'm aware of, and I only just this week even became aware of these, so who knows what else lurks in the bowels of this house?) of Tom with his brother Jim (hint, hint, Kathy!)

School photo, 3rd grade, 8 years old. But I don't know the name of the elementary school Tom attended. I'm only aware of Molloy, which was junior high and high school. I don't know what SMS on the tie stands for. (St. Mary's School; thanks A!)

And speaking of Archbishop Molloy, here's Tom's high school graduation inside what I can only guess is the house in Woodside, for which I probably still have a key. We can see the nascent long hair. I think he really liked that Agent 96 has long hair, but I wonder how Joe felt about it on his son. My brother Jack used to get "Jacqueline" alot, although no one would dare that move now. May 1970

I've left his First Holy Communion pictures for last, so I can sneak in a few of my own, too. May 21, 1960.

Agent 96's picture on the occasion of his First Communion, normal enough. And above, with his cousin C, who celebrated her confirmation at the same time; and his co-First-Eucharister cousin J.

Agent 98's First Holy Communion picture. Nothing that would set off alarms ... but this is 98, remember. Behind that cute face lies the soul of a person who would ask for ...

... a word search cake for his First Holy Communion celebration. Can it really be okay to eat chocolate cupcakes that say "Body of Christ"? (So far, so good.)

Solution below, but c'mon, it's not that hard!

Six Months

2010-08-07T13:36:00.003-04:00

Six months. Six months, and I have not yet cleaned out a drawer or a closet or thrown out a single sock. Among the stuff I have not thrown away is a Lincoln phone list dated June 5, 2005. And MacInTax disks for a mac that's been gone since before Kwaj. And in this pile of keys is a key to the Daytona (the chick magnet, which he sold for $400 in 1998), and probably a key to the house in Rochester, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was a key to the house in Woodside.

I see the key to one of Tom's ex's here

I wear his t-shirts as nightgowns, and I wear his underwear every day. I wore them in Niagara Falls, and I wore them in Hawaii, and Pennsylvania; and yes, I have them on right now. It makes me feel like Tom is still taking care of me.

Yup, probably ...

This is not a new thing, this obsession I have with his underwear (briefs, not boxers). I had an ER visit once for an asthma attack, at least ten years but probably much longer ago than that, and poor Tom was mortified to discover I was wearing his underwear. "Ew, gross! What if the doctor finds out?! Won't you be embarrassed?", I remember him asking at the time. (He did, and I wasn't.) And I know it traumatized Tom, because his first question before any subsequent ER visit, I kid you not, was always: "You're not wearing my underwear, are you?" Ever the Good Wife, I always changed into my own underwear for an ER visit.

Since we've been married, I've always worn his underwear and had my morning tea in his mug when he travelled. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, I suppose I thought at the time. Nowadays, I guess I do it because I just like having his cooties.

Six months, and counting.

I Need to Get Out More

2010-07-28T03:04:00.013-04:00

Cursed jet lag.

So, I was watching Colbert today, well, yesterday, and he was doing some bit about the Chase Sapphire card, and mentions a commercial called "The Dress" which you've probably seen, in which the husband's tossing out suggestions, trying to convince the wife to take a trip on their points. "No", she shakes her head, but with a smile, objecting to his every idea.

Turns out, she's used the points to buy The Dress. The dress she's wearing. She does a quick runway spin in the silky, drapey dress for her husband, with a sexy little glint in her eye.

(Click the image to enlarge it. Use your [Back] button to return here.)

Check out Mr. EyesUpHerePlease in the last frame. I still think she used their points for a boob job.

21°21′59.82″N, 157°47′49.06″W

2010-07-27T17:45:00.008-04:00

My little corner of paradise is relegated to my memory banks, now. Soon enough it'll be back to the everyday mundane, but just one more vacation post, if you don't mind. I'm not much of a photographer, and my digital camera is usually just set to automatic, but here are some of my favorite photos from the trip.

Rainbow eucalyptus at the Hono zoo. I wish my photo did this tree justice. I think God must have invented Crayola crayons just so He could make these trees.

I love hibiscus. They remind me of Kwaj, and I really miss being able to have them outdoors, in the ground, year-round. Hibiscus is the antidote to winter. Hibiscus => sundress => tan lines on my feet => ahhh. You can't have any of those things in New England in the winter. I haven't mentioned recently how much I hate winter but I'm sure that'll be a post in about 6 months. I'm sure I'll write about about using my brand-new snowblower, which was delivered just after the last snowstorm of last winter, so the warranty should just about have run out the first time I start it up. If the flood didn't already do it in, that is.

Agents 96 and 98 weren't interested in climbing Diamondhead -- they were much more interested in being unsupervised at the hotel. So one afternoon I abandoned them with their comic books (There's this whole new marketing ploy for comic books: bind them together and sell them to parents as "graphic novels". I don't care how thick it is, it's still comic book, and I'm not going to pay you to read one) and their gameboys while I hiked up to the crater's edge by myself. I loved this little cactus I found trailside. I looks like it could be a landscape scene with trees and plants and gravel and boulders, but in reality it was about 6 inches across. When I got back from my hike the hotel was still standing and no police were on site, so it was a winning afternoon for all of us.

Another one from the zoo. You can see how it got its name, Bird of Paradise.

Interesting leaves always evoke Kwaj for me. I loved gathering leaves to texture my pottery. I think after the school year begins in September I'll start up with pottery again.Winters notwithstanding, Boston has its share of interesting textures, too, so I'll be fine; but one thing that's better on Kwaj: free pottery studio time!

This tree reminded me of the angry apple trees in the Wizard of Oz. The branches look ready to throw an apple at the next person who walks by. And I swear I see scowly eyebrows in the bark!

I think my favorite spot, my favorite moment, on vacation was Pali Lookout. Too cheap to pay for, and not really interested in taking, a bus tour, one morning we nabbed a bus company's guided tour itinerary, and picked a few of its most interesting-sounding sites to explore on our own. As we arrived at each one, we saw the bus companies carting their passengers to and from, but we were doing it for free and on our own schedule, making it all the sweeter. At Pali Lookout we were greeted by a flock of hungry chickens who enjoyed part of my sandwich, but by few other humans. We had the place almost to ourselves. A hot a humid day, a cooling mist fell as we left the parking lot for the short walk (too short to even qualify as an easy hike), but the clouds parted in time for breathtaking views. I couldn't pick a single favorite picture.

One of the boys, and I shan't say which one, bellyached that I was wasting time taking pictures of a bunch of branches, apparently unaware that this is a living Hau tree.

And besides, it's not wasting time, it's "being on vacation", thankyouverymuch.

This is not going to be my last post about prices in Hawaii, I can pretty much promise that ...

2010-07-26T21:17:00.001-04:00

... this just happens to be the last purchase I made in the state: 2 20-oz cokes and a lemonade at the airport:

Kualoa Ranch, North Shore, Oahu

2010-07-26T20:45:00.002-04:00

Photos you won't see anywhere else on the worldwide web ...

Agent 98 riding Chico ...

Agent 96 riding Romeo ...

You'd better sit down now ... Are you ready for this?

Me, riding Cowboy. I'm still sore.

And we're all home, safe, sound and just a little bit tired!

Adventure Day on Maui

2010-07-23T19:06:00.001-04:00

Airfare to Maui: $385.20
Admission to the Maui Ocean Center: $60.11

When we first arrived in Hono and were unpacking at the hotel, David laughed and brought my attention to his backpack. He had unwittingly but successfully brought his Swiss Army knife through Logan security in his carry-on. Initially surprised, on reflection I assumed that maybe the rules had changed, as they had with sewing scissors, and maybe now it’s okay to carry a Swiss Army knife on a plane. Still, I thought to myself, “We should check that on the way home”.

For our daytrip to Maui, since we had no baggage to check, we planned to arrive about 45 minutes before departure. We drove to the airport, parked in central parking, and started looking for our airline. We finally learned it was as far from where we were while still able to be in the airport. The clock was ticking, and we were about 30 minutes prior to departure now (and we had not checked in online the night before because the Hilton Hawaiian Village charges like, $24 a day for internet.) We finally hailed a cab and jumped in, but the driver seemed not to understand where we want to go. So I got the dispatcher to explain to him, and the cabbie got all bent out of shape that he was only getting a $5 fare from me. He didn’t want to take me, and frankly, I had heard enough bellyaching this week: “ENOUGH! Just take us to the airline, please.” Yes, I may have yelled at the guy, but at least I was polite about it. We finally get to the airline and check in at the counter with a few minutes to spare.

We can walk casually, at last, through security. Shoes and belts off, laptops in their own bins, pockets empty, we walk through the metal detector, and are waiting for our bags to come through, when I hear it. “I need a bag check please … strap” Oh, crap. There it is: David’s knife is still in the pocket on the strap of his backpack (a Swiss Army backpack, by the way, with a special pocket just for the knife). “Ma’am, this can’t go through. You can check it or discard it. What would you like to do?”

Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.

Now, if this had been my Swiss Army knife, I probably would have abandoned it and hoped that the TSA guy ended the day with a nice new-to-him knife. But this was Tom’s knife, which holds so much more value than any old knife ever could. So, feet still bare, I run back to the counter while the flight begins to board and find Charmaine, the facilitator, who takes pity on me, grabs the bag, literally writes my name and destination on her hand so she can hand check the bag while I run back to the gate. I’m still not sure if she even charged me the $10 checked bag fee.

I get back to the gate and go through security again. The TSA folks smiled at me and were very nice but (and I really think this is a good thing and I’m totally not complaining) were just as careful in their search the second time I went though. Not that I'd ever try to pull a fast one on TSA ...

We arrive at Maui (still wondering where the airport abbreviation OGG comes from), and go to baggage claim. Suitcase. Suitcase. Duffle. Carton. Suitcase. And on it goes, but no almost-empty backpack, save for a Swiss Army knife in the strap pocket.

No one’s in the baggage office, so we make our way to the airline ticket counter where, a few phone calls later, we learn it will arrive on the next flight, in about 90 minutes. Nothing to do except sit at a nearby Starbucks (Is this the only Starbuck’s in the US that doesn’t have free wifi? Grrrrrr.), sip our beverages v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and wait for the next flight. I used the time to figure out how to get to the aquarium most cheaply, and it turns out Maui has a pretty good public bus system. We could take a cab for about $45 each way, or we could take the bus for $2 each. Ca-ching. Only problem is, the shuttle bus arrives about 10 minutes after the flight lands. If David’s backpack is the last thing off the plane, we simply won’t make the connection, and we’ll have to wait another hour for the next shuttle. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Hallelujah, it’s here, it’s down, down the chute, and at last within reach. I grabbed the backpack and on cue, we all run to the shuttle stop. Within seconds, the bus is there, and we’re on our way to the aquarium. We make our connecting bus, and the bus stop is, thankfully, right in front of the aquarium. We’re there at last, and have a wonderful walk through this marvelous little place, see the jellies, walk through the tunnel, and catch a fleeting glimpse of Geoffrey’s favorite, the tiger shark.

Visit over, we meander back to the bus stop in time for the next bus, and grab a ramen lunch at the Queen Ka’ahumanu mall before making our 4:30 connection to the airport bus, with plenty of time to check the bag and make our 6:18 flight.

So we’re on the shuttle, and the drive announces each stop. She announced the airport stop, and so I prepared to depart. Geoffrey even stood up, ready to leave. But I waited for the bus to stop before I stood up … hmm, I wondered to myself, what’s up with that sign, “Airport Exit Left Lane”? I turned to the passenger behind me. “Did I just miss the airport stop?” Yup.

So I fly to the front of the bus, and ask the driver. No one got up to debark, so she didn’t stop. And we didn’t get up to debark because she didn’t stop. Oh, well, can we just get off here? (We were at a red light.) Nope, only at stops. One thing I had already noticed about the Maui bus is that stops are not every couple of blocks, like on the T, they are miles, literally miles, apart. Stuff in Maui is, itself, miles apart. Little groups of houses and businesses comprising separate little villages and towns, and probably a stop for each.

I was not angry at the bus driver, because I totally get the rule that you can’t just drop somebody any old place they request. But it’s miles to the next stop, and another 40 minutes before we loop back to the airport. So yeah, I’m mad at myself for missing the airport. I look at the bus schedule, look at the scenery (it’s beautiful on Maui), look back at the bus schedule. At the next stop, after about a 20 minute bus ride, I tell the kids to grab their stuff because going to debark and find a cab. The man sitting next to us, a very nice man carrying his pet cockatiel, advised me to stay on the bus, that there simply aren’t any taxis upcountry.

Deep cleansing breath. Okay … we stay on the bus. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I look at the schedule again and see that we will arrive at the airport at 5:45, and look at our boarding passes (during the long wait this morning, I had the good sense to check in for this afternoon’s flight) to see that boarding will commence at 5:50. Deep cleansing breath.

The bus driver has announced each stop as she arrived at it. At the Hali’imale stop, she had the grace and good sense to add “Next stop: Airport” (unspoken comma stupid). So we pulled that string requesting a stop, and then sat, breathing cleansing breaths, for the remaining 20 minutes. I like to think she picked up the pace on my behalf, because each stop heretofore has been exactly on schedule, but we arrived at the airport at 5:37, a full 8 minutes early. We ran to the ticket counter, checked the bag and ran to security. Shoes and belts off, laptops in their own bins, pockets empty, this time we make it through uneventfully. I had absolutely no expectation that the bag would make it onto the plane this time, though, and had already decided to come back tomorrow and pick up the bag after it arrived on the next flight, whenever that might be.

In line to board the plane, the luggage truck arrives to load everyone else’s luggage – all those fellow travelers that don’t have weapons in their checked bags and arrived the requisite two hours ahead of departure. I see the distinctive suitcases belonging to the family that checked in before us, a family of 10 from Salt Lake City. I am all but certain that their day was less chaotic than ours.

With the sun dipping behind the mountains, clouds circling the island, I saw the most beautiful sight. It took my breath away. I saw some beautiful blue, tinged with red, and some silvery-grey. Not the sunset, it was that sucker of a backpack being loaded into the plane! It made the flight with us, we would pick it up in Hono, and after a quick drive back to the hotel this crazy daytrip to Maui would be over.

Adventure day on Maui: priceless.

Family Vacations are Like ...

2010-07-22T02:05:00.003-04:00

Family vacations are like labor. There you are, too many people crammed into a too small room, and you're still only partway through it. “Oh, my God, what have we done? Get me out of here now!” you scream, out of control and unable to stop the horror.

Eventually it ends, and you have a pretty little baby or a funny refrigerator magnet (and maybe one or two unflattering photos), but somehow you don’t remember the awful parts.

Then, some amount of time later – six months, a year, whatever -- you have this great idea: Let’s do it again. The last time worked out so well, and I think we can handle it.

Then, there you all are, crammed once again into that too-small room, and the realization slowly dawns: “Oh, my God, what have I done? Get me out of here now!” you scream, wondering if it will ever end ...

You Say Nine-Hour-Flight ... I Say SkyMall

2010-07-20T22:24:00.003-04:00

Even with a bag of books and magazines, all the movies offered on demand by the airline (I watched When in Rome, Date Night and another movie that was so forgettable I’ve already forgotten it) and Bejeweled in seatback during our nine-freaking-hour flight from Detroit to Hono, I still made time to peek at the SkyMall catalog. That’s my favorite part of flying.

Who knew my living room needed a litter box disguised as a planter, which, if I turn like they have it in the picture, the cat can’t get into. So no, I won’t have that awful litter box smell in my living room; but I will have an ugly fake plant in an ugly fake planter in the corner. And cat poop under the couch, no doubt.

And speaking of pet excretory systems, I can buy any one of a variety of Astroturf rectangles to train my soon-to-be-new-dog to crap and pee in grass. Never mind this strip of grass would be right there in the middle of my living room floor. How can I choose one among the slew, from the low-end $49 plus shipping grass patch to the $279 premium “Sleep Late on Saturdays” model which includes a built in sprinkler system? Isn’t the problem this item is trying to address is that a dog come with its own built in sprinkler system? Now THAT’S what I call flying high! Or do you just have to be high to want to teach your dog to crap in grass on your living room floor?

And you tell me what you think of this Hammacher-Schlemmer chair: does it spell c-o-m-f-o-r-t to you, or does it say “I’m an a-hole who wants to sit in a 5½ -foot-tall folding seat, and screw the people sitting behind me”? It channels my inner Edith Ann. Nothing says comfort to me like my legs dangling over the edge of a gigantic folding canvas chair cutting off circulation behind my knees.

I'm certain nothing stops snoring quite like the Breathe Fit Snoring Aid. I snore just fine for free, thank you very much. And sure, I’ll have a quiet night with a nose ring stuck in my nostrils. I’ll be too busy yanking that sucker out and stumbling around the darkened, strange hotel room trying to find the rubbish bin (swearing loudly and waking the neighbors) to snore.

You’ve probably seen the as-seen-on-tv Snuggie, the blanket with sleeves. In SkyMall, I can actually purchase a knockoff Snuggie-built-for-two: the Siamese Slanket. (Direct your cards and letters to SkyMall, please. They named it, not me.) It's perfect for sitting bolt upright on the couch with your loved one, watching tv. Now, I don’t know how you do your cuddling, but when our couch got too small for Tom and me to cuddle side-by-side (who knew couches could shrink?) we devised the next best thing: opposite ends of the couch, legs entwined, toes tucked under each other’s torso for warmth. Now, find me a cuddling companion and a Siamese Slanket with arms at opposite ends and maybe you’ve got a sale.

Opinions expressed in this piece are strictly my own. If you own any of the above-mentioned items, I hope we can still be friends.

View out our window the first morning

2010-07-19T15:46:00.003-04:00

then

and then ...

Good start, I’d say.

Niagara Falls: The New York Side

2010-07-16T13:04:00.003-04:00

The new (to me) rules at the border crossing made it unfeasible to go back-and-forth between Canada and the US when we were visiting Niagara Falls recently, staying on the Canadian side. We all agreed we'd stop briefly on the US side on the way home.

We crossed the border with my questionable booty in the trunk, and found, a mere feet away, the entrance to the Niagara Falls State Park in New York. It couldn't have been easier. Flaggers were directing people into parking facilities, which were everywhere. I had passed a small space on the street, but wasn't sure about its legality. So before pulling into my selected lot, I asked the park ranger nearby about parking. It's $10 in all these lots, and yes, parking is available on the street, but only between those poles, she explained, gesturing.

What about that space, there, between the poles? Is it okay to park there? (It was about 6 car lengths in back of me.) Sure, she said, if you can get into it.

I may be weak in the math department, and I may have forgotten every word of Japanese I ever learned, and I may not be the most efficient housekeeper ever to walk on this earth, but by golly, can I ever parallel park.

So I threw that baby into reverse, waived an oncoming car around me, and backed into that spot, turned the wheel, straightened out the tires, shut the ignition and was done. You don't see parallel parking like that in a minivan very often.

The guy supervising the lot across from the space on the street had the best view of my action. He may have lost my business, but I think he appreciated the perfection he had just witnessed, and gave me a thumbs up and a whistle when he saw the job I did.

We had two hours at Niagara Falls, and saved ourselves one cool Hamilton. Tom would have been so pleased.

Mom-to-English Translator

2010-07-15T22:54:00.003-04:00

I always feel particularly maternal when I share a memory with one of my kids. I can remember having this exact conversation with my mom at this exact same place on the highway when I was Agent 98's age. Driving home from New York last week, 98 saw the sign on the Mass Pike - Trucks: Test Brakes. He asked me why trucks needed to test their brakes. With a hopefully inaudible roll of the eyes I explained that trucks need to test their brakes so the driver doesn't lose control when braking on an upcoming steep stretch of road.

Mom, what's that runaway truck turnout for? See, when a truck loses its brakes, and the driver knows because he tested his brakes, he can divert off the highway, and stop safely, and no one gets hurt. Clever civil engineering, huh?

Mom, why do the signs always say toll booth ahead? Mom, what's a fortnight? Hey, Mom, I figured out that if you put Momo's collar on her backwards, she won't bite you when you're putting it on her have you ever tried that because Momo gets pretty excited when I'm trying to put her collar on and she scratches a lot but she likes to be scratched behind her ears have you ever scratched her behind her ear Mom cause she really likes it. The next time you have a tube don't throw it out because I need it to make a mortar with some tape and that leg from a broken chair, just like they did on Mythbusters. Okay, mom?

I don't recall being a chatterbox as a kid, but I reckon I must have been. My mother explained mortality to me, at about this age: God grants you a certain number of words, Linda, and once you use up your words, you die. I think that's Mom for "Oh, for the love of God and all that's holy, please, I'm begging you, please, shut up already, for Pete's sake!"

The trick is that we don't know how many words God has granted us: did he give us a lot or only a few? No matter; either way we certainly shouldn't squander them. Especially when Mom's driving.

Ninety-eight, why don't you take a nap for a little while?

Ninety-eight, maybe you should pull out one of your books and read for a bit.

David, can you let 98 listen to your iPod for a while, please? Please? Pretty please? I'll give you cash.

By the end of that car ride with the kids I was humbly apologizing to my mother for every "Mom, it's raining. Should I close the windows?" I ever sent her way. At least she didn't let me hear her eyes roll.

And I was silently praying that 98 got into the word line twice.

Who Needs Canine Teeth Anyway? We're A Cat Family ...

2010-07-12T18:05:00.002-04:00

Agent 98 saw his orthodontist today. We have been waiting for his eye teeth to come in, making room for them before we can really progress with the braces. He won't get the bottom braces on until those two top teeth are dealt with. One's coming in slowly, and will likely need a little "nudge", by which I mean an oral surgeon will open a hole in his gum, attach some kind of bracket to the tooth, and attach a wire to that bracket, so that the orthodontist can begin slowly yanking it down into its proper position. Eww. And that's the good news.

The second tooth, the one on 98's left, not so much. That tooth is growing nearly sideways; in fact, since the neighboring teeth have proceeded to grow in since he got those top braces on, the wayward eye tooth has less guidance, and is moving even more out of alignment, making it look virtually impossible to bring down correctly.

We haven't ruled this out altogether, but the orthodontist isn't really holding out a whole lot of hope that the tooth can be rerouted. We'll know better after consulting with the oral surgeon later this week, but it looks like the decision to be made will be: does 98 get a bridge or does he get an implant?

How do I make that kind of decision for my 12-year-old?

Memories: All Shapes and Sizes

2010-07-11T16:09:00.005-04:00

Don't get me wrong, I like the occasional souvenir refrigerator magnet, t-shirt and model, as witnessed by the treasures we returned with from our recent trip to Niagara Falls. But I like my memorabilia a little bit on the funky side, too.

When we first checked into our hotel, there was a very small construction project taking up a couple of parking spaces in the lot, and the area was demarcated with some traffic cones labeled "City of Niagara Falls, Ontario". Ooh, boy, I wanted one of those construction cones. For a souvenir. But it was performing a safety function, even if barely, and I couldn't just steal it. Alas, I had to let the dream of my perfect Niagara Falls souvenir slip away in the wind, like the mist over the Falls.

I needed something -- I don't remember what -- from the car later in the vacation, and there they were: the construction workers, burying the whatever they were burying in that parking lot in the morning sun. I got what I needed from the car, and was returning to my room, coveting the cone once again, but silent about it, when it spilled from my mouth, uncontrollable, "Hi, fellas -- I really want a funky souvenir from this trip, and that construction cone just fits the bill. Do you think it would be okay if I took it?" They looked at me, looked at each other, shook their heads as if to make sure they heard correctly. Whaa? You want our construction cone? THAT construction cone? We chatted for a couple of minutes (I think they were glad for the break from the labor on that very hot day), determined that I did, indeed, want one of their construction cones. They were happy to accommodate, but advised me to wait until the foreman wasn't looking to take it away. With the foreman out of sight, one acted as lookout while the other brought it over to my car while I popped the trunk and threw it in. (Fade out Mission: Impossible music.)

At the car later I showed the cone to the boys and the friends who had joined us on the trip, and told them the story. The boys didn't believe me, and I think they still think I stole it; and my friend Debra suggested I turn it so the label of ownership at least wasn't showing.

Martin wondered what would happen if it was discovered during the border crossing. So, of course, I obsessed about the border crossing for the rest of the trip. But not so much that I would have discarded my booty before being hauled off to jail. I briefly wondered how the boys would get home if I was arrested, and I tried to act innocent when the border guard was interrogating me at the crossing. I must have played my hand well enough, because there it is out there in the driveway, keeping the car away from the basketball court: one wicked awesome safety cone from Niagara Falls.

Home Again. A Few More Photos to Share

2010-07-10T21:17:00.016-04:00

We're all glad to be home. I can only speak for myself: I had a wonderful time, but I'm really not a very good traveller. I missed my own bed, and the cats, and the Globe in the morning, and 12-packs of Pepsi priced four for $10 instead of $1.99 per can.

A very pretty rainbow over the falls, from the US side.

Nope, on second thought, this addition doesn't improve on nature's majesty

Ah, here we go. That does the trick!

This was our last day on vacation. We stopped briefly on the US side before we hit the road for home.

During the long ride home, we took a break at Old Erie Canal State Park. What a lovely, serene setting.

Just a few photos ...

2010-07-09T17:35:00.003-04:00

Just a few photos to share from our trip to Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada ...

Here is the only photo so far this vacation of me. So don't say I didn't share any.

These black-eyed susies just struck my fancy. I liked the color against the grey rocks.

David, jus' doin' what comes natural.

Near the end of a long, hot day.

Geoffrey, Zach, Madeline, David

Niagara Falls from the Maid of the Mist VII.

Falls: US side from the Canadian side.

Letchworth State Park, New York

If you thought to yourself, when you saw this photo, "Hmm, that looks like a photo of a gender-indeterminate corn snake named Larrietta eating a previously frozen mouse that was thawed in the microwave", well, you'd have been exactly right.

David & Geoffrey on the Maid of the Mist

Like Mother Like Sons?

2010-07-03T10:55:00.002-04:00

I cannot count the number of times Tom and I went grocery shopping together. Both of us had sweet ... tooths? ... teeth? I don't know what the plural of sweet tooth is, but we both had them. Most times that we went shopping together, one of us (he was usually driving of course, so this would be me that I'm talking about) would sneak out a package of cookies during that 3-minute ride home, open it and scarf a couple down.

When we got home, I'd point out the open package, indignant, and demand to know if at least we got it at a markdown, seeing how it was open, and some were missing. Tom would humor me and laugh, but not without the eyeroll that spoke so eloquently if wordlessly.

I bought some cookies for our upcoming drive to Niagara Falls when I was shopping yesterday. I hid them so they'd last until next week's drive. This morning, there they were, sitting on the counter, open, cookies missing. Busted. And I know I paid full price for them!

Rest Stop Ahead

2010-06-29T20:35:00.014-04:00

I don't know what it is with me and highway rest stops.

This week, I drove from Medford to Springfield, about 100 miles, to meet up with my wonderful cousin Steve who grew up in Connecticut but now lives in the San Francisco area, and is in New England for vacation. We had a wonderful lunch and a lovely visit, but the drive out was not entirely uneventful. I wear reading glasses, and if you've ever met me, you may have noticed that I carry them tucked into the neckline of my blouse when I'm not wearing them. You may also have noticed that I — ahem — don't have a whole lotta real estate in that neighborhood to anchor them, if you get my drift.

I was in the women's room, doing what comes naturally, and somehow adjusted my footing, but in doing so knocked the glasses out of my blouse and into the toilet. The toilet in the public restroom. The toilet in the public restroom that I've already peed in. So my quandary, as I'm sitting there: do I reach in and pull out these glasses? They were cheapo $4 reading glasses from Christmas Tree Shops (a tchatchki shop for you non-New Englanders), and my first instinct was an unambiguous "Are you insane? No, for Pete's sake!" But I know how toilets work, and I know glasses are really bad for plumbing, and I didn't want to imagine what would happen if they went down. On behalf of every woman who's ever been grossed out in a public bathroom, I realized I had to retrieve them. Ewww.

Don't thank me yet.

So I start to reach for them; but the electric eye that flushes automatically detected my movement as the signal that I was done. The toilet flushed, and before I could say "Holy crap", they were gone. I took that as a message that I was not supposed to reach in to a public toilet to retrieve anything, ever. Lesson learned.

———

For Thanksgiving 2008 we were driving our usual route to Madeline's house on Long Island, and stopped at the rest stop on 684 in Katonah. We often stopped there because that's about as far as I can get without a pitstop. I drink alot of tonic when I'm driving. (Tom's pet peeve #4,893: I never drink to the bottom of the can when I'm driving. That last swig takes too long.)

As I'm walking into the women's restroom, a man standing out front of the buiding asks me if I'd like a pork loin. I muttered some kind of "don't bother me" response, and continued inside. As I was returning to the car, I was horrified (okay, maybe horrified is too strong a word — I didn't like) to see that Tom was talking to the man, and holding one of the frozen, cryovac-sealed pork loins - the kind you can get at BJ's or Costco: they're about 18 to 24 inches long, and 6 inches or even more in diameter. When we buy them we cut them up into three sections before freezing them. I'm sure you know the cut of meat I'm talking about. Anyway, there he is, Tom, with a pork loin under his arm, and I approach the men and join the conversation. It turns out the man is a truck driving minister from Fort Bragg, finishing up a delivery to the area, but doesn't know how to get rid of about 18 of these cryovacked pork loins. I suggest possibly a food pantry in the town, but he is in a rush to be rid of them, unfamiliar with the area, and needs to get back to North Carolina quickly. So we relieved him of one of the roasts, thanked him and bade him farewell and good luck.

We were giddy with our good fortune, although not completely convinced we hadn't just taken poisoned or expired meat from the mysterious stranger (the meat was frozen solid and factory sealed but bore no label or expiration date). We looked at each other and said almost in unsion - Think Jimmy and Gerry would want one, too? So we walked back to the man and offered to take another two. leaving him with three plus an unopened case. What the heck, we thought, we can probably give these roasts to Madeline's church's pantry, so we might as well take all six from the opened box. So we left with our pork loin treasure, leaving the man with just the unopened case.

We couldn't contain our glee when we got to Long Island and told and retold the story of the truck driving minister in Connecticut, and Jim & Kathy and Gerry & Antoinette each took home a pork loin, although to this day I don't actually know if they ate them or if they were just being polite.

Giving the other three to St. Raphael's in East Meadow didn't work out, so we brought the still-frozen roasts back with us, and I passed them along to our food pantry, Friends of St. Francis here in Medford — but not before cooking a family-sized portion of one of the roasts and eating it to make sure they were good. St. Francis was grateful for the donation, and planned to cook them for the day-after-Thanksgiving meal at Bread of Life, a provider that serves a multi-town constituency. I told them about the truck driving military chaplain from North Carolina, but left out the part about the rest stop.

Every time we drive to East Meadow now we stop at "our" rest stop, but alas, we've never again been offered free meat. A girl can dream, no?

Tale of Two Dishwashers

2010-06-23T19:19:00.001-04:00

What planet was I on when I decided it was a good idea to purchase a dishwasher on June 3 that could not be delivered until July 8?

My old dishwasher — and I use the term “old” loosely, because we purchased it on January 1, 2007 — had died and been restored to life one too many times to justify a another $200 + parts service call. I knew ahead of time that the part, the electronic control panel, would be about $125. This would be the dishwasher's fourth control panel, and I was pretty clear on the numbers. Nope, I wasn't about to repair this dishwasher with the design flaw one more time.

So I went to Sears, found the dishwasher I wanted, got the details and went home to research it on the web: price, reliability, reviews, etc. Two days later I went back to purchase it, but, alas, the 20% off sale was over, and the salesman wouldn’t budge. So I hemmed and hawed and huffed and puffed and bought the dishwasher anyway (plus a service contract and an air conditioner as well — I figured: that'll teach him!) and scheduled the first available delivery date, more than a month out. Now I sit, or rather, stand, washing dirty dishes day after day, night after night, and pretty much any time in between. There are always, always dishes in the sink. The very surprising upside is that while I'm washing that last sinkful of the day, the boys are drying and putting away. I know it's actually more hygenic to air dry dishes, but I really enjoy those few minutes each night as we accomplish this one little task, all of us focused on a singular goal.

My old dishwasher is not utterly useless, though: it makes a great stand for piling stuff on top of and up against. Hey, anybody want to buy a working dishdryer? Cheap.

The Grotto

2010-06-23T18:56:00.001-04:00

Momo has found poor Pixel's favorite spot. And funny how all the older cats now have the honorific "poor" in front of their names when the sentence also includes the word "Momo".

And man oh man, don't I need to wash my windows?

Momo's a Celtics Fan!

2010-06-17T23:02:00.005-04:00

We were leading until I snapped this picture.

No Birthday Cake? You Say That Like It’s A Bad Thing

2010-06-15T13:12:00.036-04:00

It's my birthday, and you can be sure I brought the boys out yesterday to buy a present AND a card. Gift and card notwithstanding, I'm also enforcing the standard we-forgot-to-get-you-a-gift gift: no bickering for 24 hours. By golly, I'll be queen for the day! But I think I’ll skip the birthday cake this year and go with one of my favorite cookies instead.

I have previously mentioned that I am programmed not to follow recipes to the letter. This particular cookie is a family favorite that I invented one day when I was out of peanut butter, but had hazelnuts in the freezer (far stranger things than this happened when we lived 2400 miles from the nearest grocery chain.)

Kwajalein photo courtesy Sue Rosoff Photography.

HAZELNUT CYCLOPS COOKIES

1 ¼ c all purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
1 c toasted, blanched and cooled hazelnuts
¼ c granulated sugar
½ c butter
½ c brown sugar
½ tsp vanilla
1 egg
Coarse brown sugar (for dipping)
Guittard Bittersweet Onyx Wafers (or Hershey Kisses)

Sift together the flour, baking soda and salt in a large mixing bowl and set aside.

Grind the cooled hazelnuts and granulated sugar in a food processor until very fine. Add the butter, brown sugar, vanilla and egg and continue processing until very smooth.

Pour the hazelnut mixture into the flour and stir together until well blended. Use a wooden spoon instead of a mixer to prevent overmixing, which will make the cookies tough.

Wrap the dough in plastic and chill well, or freeze until ready to use. (If freezing, thaw in the refrigerator before shaping).

Preheat the oven to 350° F. Shape the dough into 1” balls, dip into the coarse brown sugar and place about 2” apart on a cookie sheet. Bake 10 to 12 minutes until slightly browned. While the cookies are still hot and on the cookie sheet, press a Bittersweet Onyx chocolate disk (or a Hershey Kiss) into the center of each. Let the cookies set about 5 minutes, then remove to a cooling rack to cool completely.

Note: To toast the hazelnuts, spread them in a single layer on a heavy skillet over medium heat, stirring often, until the oils begin to release and the nuts begin to lightly brown. Alton Brown says if you can smell the nuts toasting you’ve overdone them, but I usually toast them until they are fragrant. Cool the nuts completely before grinding.

Variations:

Mix 12 ounces of chocolate chips into the dough before wrapping and chilling, and skip the chocolate disk at the end.
Skip the chocolate altogether and mix about a cup of coarsely chopped hazelnuts into the dough before wrapping and chilling.

And in case you're wondering, no, I didn't follow the recipe exactly. I didn't chill the dough.

C Stands for Cool, Calm and Collected

2010-06-11T08:45:00.000-04:00

This is the first time I've embedded a video, so let's see if it works.

It was early morning one school day, and I was pouring juice or milk (okay, soda) for David for breakfast, to drink with his eggs or cereal (okay, cookies) when I dropped the glass, shattering it on the ceramic tile kitchen floor, inches from C. He didn't move from his favorite spot next to the heating vent, but I noticed a lot of tiny shards of glass in his fur. So what was I supposed to do?

I got out the vacuum, and the rest is now, officially, history.

What's for Supper?

2010-06-03T00:05:00.002-04:00

If you know me, you know I know my way around a kitchen. So what the heck happened in my kitchen today?

I had some ears of corn on the counter unshucked from the holiday barbecue, and thought struck to make corn fritters for dinner. Yes, I know they're supposed to be a side dish, not a meal; but I get these urges sometimes, and corn fritters just seemed so right. That little voice inside my head made it sound like such a good idea. And why waste all that space with protein and dietary fiber and vitamins when I can fill it all up with fritters?

So I opened Joy, and checked the googles, and found a couple of recipes, which of course I couldn't follow to the letter because I am incapable of following a recipe to the letter. I had the bright idea to coat my fritters in seasoned panko. I still think that's a winner of an idea, but now I'll never know.

Let me explain, in my most unscientific voice, exactly how popcorn works. The water inside the kernel is heated to vapor, expands, and then, BOOM, explosion, and voila, you have popcorn.

Now, imagine that same scenario, batter-dipped and in 2 inches of 375° degree peanut oil.

Then imagine cereal for supper.

Serendipity

2010-05-25T15:24:00.000-04:00

Meet the newest Gentile, Momo. When one cat crosses the Rainbow Bridge on a Thursday, and the following Monday you heed a call about a kitten that’s about to be returned to the shelter because the new owner is hopelessly allergic, how can you call it anything but serendipity? How could we just up and adopt a new kitten so quickly? Let me tell you, it was easy. Mostly white with grayish markings at the top of her head, rump and tail, she is a dirty white snowball of boundless energy, enthusiastically trying to befriend her feline housemates, but sadly rebuffed at every turn. Not so with the humans. She takes turns sleeping with all of us: a few hours with Geoff, then on to David’s room, settling in with me by the time I turn out the lights. I try to keep her away from the other cats' favorite spots, but she has taken a liking to Pixel’s bed by the window and Ada’s towel on the couch. Heaven help her the first time she jumps up into the kitchen box window, the one with the shelf I specifically cleared off so the cats could view the backyard unimpeded by pottery and spices. Pix will go ballistic.

Ada, as expected, hisses at every encounter. Scruffy is more curious than the others, tentatively sniffing, and even allowing Momo to share the dinner plate with him. Pixel runs, terrified by the tornado-vortex-like nature of Momo’s friendly advances, but even he is slowly coming around. I walked into my bedroom today and they were both on the bed. In opposite corners, they could not have been further from each other and still both have been been on the bed, but there they were, on the bed “together”.

Everything's a toy when you're a kitten: anything tied to a doorknob, anything that makes noise ... any bit of paper or a hairband or a dust bunny or an ant on the floor is there for the entertainment - or nutrition - or friendship - of our little Momo. We thought about renaming her after a comet, but Momo suits her, so a momo she is, and a momo she shall stay.

I hope Momo's first human companion is feeling better, and that her allergies are subsiding. And I hope she knows how much we already love her little peach.

RIP, C

2010-05-14T18:14:00.001-04:00

If I’m in your Facebook newsfeed, you already know that we lost C recently. He’d been on the decline for many months, and while I didn’t want him to suffer (he didn’t), I mostly just didn’t want C to die before Tom did. They were great friends, Tom and C, and I didn’t want Tom to endure that loss. So we did what we could and we did what we had to: we brought C to the vet when he had the symptoms of his recurrent UTI (he always had a UTI, and you’re welcome for me not explaining in excruciating detail why he was so prone to them) … We brought him to the vet when we noticed ~~maggots falling out of~~ a small wound on his backside … We brought him most recently for an overgrown claw. Since he was slowing down, he simply wasn’t wearing down his claws, and it had grown full circle, impaling itself in the pad below it. It didn’t seem to cause any pain, and we wouldn’t even have realized anything was wrong except that David was playing with him on the bed and noticed it. Not even so much as a limp.

That vet appointment fixed the claw, but uncovered several other troubles: congestive heart failure and a pancreatic mass, for starters. We opted not to treat the mass, put him on Plavix ($50 for 7 pills, and that’s with the AAA discount – and no, C didn't have health insurance) and some other heart meds and antibiotics, and commenced with another round of “hurry up and wait”. Dr. Zanotti didn’t have to say it when we had our scheduled follow up visit: I knew we were looking at days, maybe weeks; certainly not months. We would keep C’s days as pleasant as possible, and that meant a lot of American cheese and chicken scraps. Just a few hours after that appointment we noticed he was unable to walk, and brought him back to the vet. He had thrown a clot, not unexpectedly, and his suffering would soon begin. So while the decision was hard to make, we really had no choice. C had lived a long and happy life. He had eaten his share of treats, pee’d his way into the cellar floor hall of fame, and barfed with the best of them. He’ll be cremated and added to my little “collection”. And when the time is right, and the ground is dry, and the air is warm, we’ll take Tom’s ashes, and C’s, and Mr. Gibb’s, and Yeti’s, and Neko's, and those good friends will share a very pretty spot high in the Fells behind the house, watching the planes and stalking the birds.

We owe a sincere thanks to Stephen Zanotti, VMD, and all the vets, techs, medical and support staff at Winchester Veterinary Group for everything they’ve done over the years to help us care for the pets we so dearly love, as well as all the animals that are lucky enough to cross their threshold.

In the beginning, there were frogs. Lots and lots of frogs.

2010-05-10T13:43:00.000-04:00

Today would be our 16th daywemet-iversary. I like that word, and if it didn’t cost $325 to trademark it, I’d be totally there. Since I’m too cheap to spend the money – who knows what product or service I might invent that would need the trademark-protected "daywemetiversary" – I’ll just have to stick with a “first use” protection. And this post is the second time I’ve used the word, so there.

Of course, I neglect to mention that if I’d had my way, Tom and I would never have met. I had heard from so many frogs with the personal ad my cat Neko had placed in Boston Magazine that I had officially thrown up my hands and was not going to follow up with any more responses. Tom’s letter was in the pile labeled “I Give Up!”

I don’t recall the exact moment I gave up on Neko’s ad. It might have been these beefcake shots. If you responded to my ad with your application form to some random dating service I didn't follow up. Ditto if you couldn’t be bothered replying and simply sent me a copy of your own personal ad. If you had your own phone number that spelled something, and that something was creepy, I didn't respond. And if you invited me for coffie, I didn’t go.

If this was you, then I bet you can guess in what direction I swiftly walked. (But the guy did give me a run for my money in the category of "overuse of parentheses").

Some prisons did me the favor of telling me your letter was mailed from an incarceration facility, even if you forgot to mention it. If you were on an extended vacation in the Adirondacks and your postmark was Ray Brook, NY, you were in prison, and I wasn't interested. Even if you were not incarcerated for long, you were actually incarcerated, and I actually wasn't interested. And yes, you might have been one of those wrongly convicted, but that little infraction was indeed a deterrent, and I didn't respond to you, either. And the creepy quotation marks in your post script only made me run a little faster. And even if your non-traditional incident wasn't wanton, I still wasn't going to date you. And ~~when~~ if your parole is granted, don’t hold your breath.

If your first question was about my weight, I wouldn't have gone out with you. And that was when I was 40 pounds lighter than I am today. Sometimes people don’t mention their build in their personal ads because, well, at $3.95 per word, maybe we think other things matter more?

So I gave up on the ad, and decided not to respond to any more responses. My friend Laura had other plans, though, and thought Tom’s letter sounded perfect. So perfect, in fact, that she nagged me daily: “Have you called him yet, Linda?” “When are you going to call him?” “Why won’t you call him? He sounds perfect for you, Linda.” She was getting so fed up with me she finally threatened to call him herself, posing as me. She really wanted me to meet this guy. And I was getting pretty fed up with her, too.

I truly only called Tom to shut Laura up. So I called during the day, when I knew he’d be at work, and left my name and number. He called and we met at the Bertucci’s in Central Square for pizza. How very fitting that just under two years later, Laura was my matron of honor.

To Catch a Bird ... or a Snake ... or a Vole ... Doesn't Matter, Really: Where's the Food?

2010-05-01T09:00:00.000-04:00

C came home recently from a nearly weeklong hospital stay, and he's not doing very well. With seventeen years under his belt (Tom and I met when C and Ada were about a year old) I have taken a stroll down memory lane with him this week. What a lovely stroll it was.

I learned early in my relationship with Tom that the way to Tom's heart was through C's stomach. At nearly 20 pounds when I met him, C rarely met a treat he didn't like. On my way to Tom's I'd stop at the deli counter at the Purity Supreme and buy C one slice from the cold cuts section ... bologna one day, roast beef the next. The deli guy knew it was for my new boyfriend's cat, and never begrudged me his time, even though we both knew it was his smallest sale of the day. C, whom we considered a dog trapped in a cat's body, greeted me with enthusiam. Evil grin ... my plan is working! The only time he turned up his nose at my Friday night special was the one time I brought him a single jumbo shrimp. He wouldn't have anything to do with it. Neither would Ada, for that matter, or Mr. Gibbs. Tom had trained his minions well: Don't. Eat. The Fish.

C also liked to supervise household projects. Tom installed the box windows in the sunroom, and they were - are - lovely. Don't look too closely at the window seat, however, lest you notice the pawprints left in the wet polyurethane. They're still there, still visible, and not going anywhere anytime soon. Also in the house repair department was the time that C was so interested in house trim painting (we had a black-and-white cat for a while after that). Not satisfied with climbing the ladder to join Tom, he proceeded to climb up and over Tom on the ladder, positioning himself in the gutter - where he didn't quite fit but thought he had found the best seat in the house. It took an hour to get him down.

Even on his best days now, he never brings home a snake anymore: Ada was into chipmunk and bird inventory control, but C could never resist a garter snake; and I can't say I miss that particular aspect of sharing a house with a pet, or two, or six, but I hope that C continues to enjoy his daily constitutional, a few minutes of sunshine and fresh air, for a long time to come. Then, at the end of the day, that he'll climb the stairs to the second floor, and then climb the stairs up into the bed, so his still-bellowing purr can keep me awake. Enough with the peeing on the cellar floor, though, 'kay?