I just read a book about housecleaning. Apparently, my Mopping Day issues are getting more pronounced... eh hem...
So. Housecleaning. According to the author, the most important thing a person can do to keep the energy of a home happy and healthy is to declare a kind of war upon clutter. This is so important, the first half of the book is, in one way or another, dedicated to it.
As she defines it, clutter is anything you don't absolutely love, absolutely use (often) or wouldn't pack and take with you were you to move. Using this as the guideline, go through the house and throw out or give away anything that doesn't fit in one of those three categories.
Interesting concept. I decided to start with the closet that has (among other things) all of our photos. Photo albums, photo boxes, plastic bins stuffed with those envelopes of prints. LOTS of pictures here. This also seemed to be the right time to go through and label who's who in each shot.
This was, for the most part, a very pleasant walk down my very own Memory Lane. However...
Unless you've lived a life free of any conflict, arguments, love, break ups, children or relationships...or if you did, but never photographed any of it...every once in a while, as you whip through piles, a picture will pop out and smack you.
Remember her? Remember him? God, it's been forever since we've spoken! I think that particular reaction is the old timer's version of "finding" unexpected people on Facebook. For me, over 90% of these pop ups were pleasant (at least). Every once in a while...
It hurts. Maybe because that person was an ass ("how the hell did that idiot end up in so many of my pictures?!?"). Maybe because the shot reminds you of a time you miss...a happier, simpler time. Maybe it represents mistakes you've made, or people you've hurt...people who've hurt you.
Mostly, for me, the ones that hurt were of The Goings.
I believe that people come into and go out of our lives for reasons. I used to call it the Towards Zero Effect. Towards Zero is a novel by Agatha Christie - its entire premise is how people dramatically affect reality every day, all the time - and only realize it occasionally. It may be something obvious, like stopping someone just as s/he was about to step out in front of a moving car (saving that person's life). Or, more often, it can be the kind of thing that you never even realize, like being in plain sight of someone who would have done something regrettable if thought unseen. That second one is tricky, since recognition of it relies on that person admitting to the act that would have been committed, but for your presence. However, I have no doubt it exists. The possibilities are endless, and I won't bore you with them.
Mostly, though, I think the Towards Zero Effect addresses The Comings and The Goings.
These are relationships and or situations that Come into your life and last only for as long as it takes them to complete their function - at which point they Go. A boyfriend that helps you realize that it's okay to be silly, or a girlfriend who introduces you to your future wife. Me, I once had a crazy, sadistic teacher who hated men (though went out of her way to get a job teaching at an all boys' school). She despised me for not hating them with her and tortured me every day for being, and I quote her words, "young and beautiful." It was a miserable time - but I learned some very important things from her. What's more, once the lessons were learned, she disappeared from my life - never to be seen or heard from again. As a Coming, she was insufferable. As a Going, I felt that pleasure that's not really pleasure - just the relief of the cessation of pain.
But there weren't any pictures of her.
I have moved around a lot in my life and have, as a result, a very scattered circle of friends. As computer savvy as I assure you I am not, Facebook, even in all of its Big Brother wonder, has been a God send for me. It has been a way of reclaiming (at least temporarily) many of the Goings that I actually miss.
Sometimes it's a genuine reboot of a friendship (yay!). More often, we exchange Life Summary Paragraphs...and that's it. How many of us have a bunch of those Facebook friends? Reconnect, swap summaries, go back to not speaking? Still, it's nice to have them there.
But then there are the other Goings. The ones whose departures were noted for the screaming, the crying, the insults, the unforgivable acts of back stabbing or just plain old asshole-y-ness. The ones that hurt.
And...since the reason it hurt was because the Relationship That Was was one based on actual affection, there are plenty of pictures.
The common sense way to deal with those pics is a simple heave-ho to the trashcan we go. Very cathartic, and I highly recommend it.
But what about the related pictures? Not of the Goings, but of their kids? The innocent bystanders who spent so much time with my children that the group's dynamic was less like friends and more like family? The ones that, despite mutual affection, I'll probably never see again, but in those pictures? There doesn't seem to be a common sense approach to that one.
But note that I said "probably". It is certainly possible that I could see them again. What about the last type of Goings? The ones who didn't leave by choice?
"Luminous beings are we. Not this crude matter." - Yoda
Obviously, I'm keeping the pictures of the loved ones who've passed. That's not the question. This one is about addressing the loss.
Death is, of course, just as natural a part of Life as Birth. Just how similar, though? We're all familiar with the description of near death experiences - going through a dark tunnel, into light, surrounded by loved ones... That does sound an awful lot like birth to me.
I read somewhere that when a baby is born, Heaven mourns for the loss of that soul. Not lost in the sense of being damned, or misguided...but lost to them. That soul has left their company to have a new existence in a new form. They know this; academically, they're happy for the soul. The separation still hurts.
On the other side, we're in the delivery room, waiting anxiously and excitedly for that soul to hurry up and arrive (having twice been the landlady of that dark tunnel, I'm here to tell you that "anxious" and "excited" don't even come CLOSE to how ready I was for that transition to be completed).
Buddhism teaches: a) all learning involves some degree of suffering and b) this is the only world where suffering exists. We come to this life to learn, to progress (and to repeat some grades if you want to throw in some reincarnation theory). When we're done learning, we're done suffering. When we've completed both, it's time to leave the world of suffering. And that's when we go.
This is all great in theory. It makes sense to me...academically, cognitively, I believe it, embrace it. But when it happens for someone you love, all of the cerebral logic falls way too short.
On April 9, 2011, Heaven got one of it's angels back. As sure as I am of the welcome party she received, as happy as I am for her that her suffering has ended...
The separation still hurts.
I can only assume that Faith is knowing that God appreciates who He's got there and that He had a damn good reason for calling her back so ridiculously early...
Because this is a Going that makes no sense to me.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Part 4: So I Became a Wingman and She Had My Back
I turned around, and yes indeed, there he was.
Oooookay. Not to worry, I'm not going to go into some gooey girly gab fest about how dreamy he looked...lalalala....you've seen the movie? Yeah, he's that good looking in person. His hair's a little lighter (which makes that whole tattooing scene in ASD even funnier) - but that's it.
Now, I'm not one to stare...but my logic went like this:
He's beautiful. He chose a career that involves people looking at him. He chose to attend a party where he was (clearly) going to be the center of attention. He signed up for this.
Still, staring is rude. I can honestly say that it felt more like watching someone who's on a stage. Sure, you're not looking away...but not staring. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Eventually, when he was pulled onto stage, he talked about how he feels uncomfortable/shy in crowds. This only impressed me more since, like the rest of the guys, he was very friendly, enthusiastic about signing autographs, posing for pictures, even joking and talking with fans who lingered past their turns. He, like the rest of them, is a class act.
I watched him work his way through the dozens of people pressing in on him. There were no velvet ropes, bouncers blocking for him or anything. The guy's just hanging in the middle of a crowd. A very, very excited crowd.
And then a strange thing happened. He looked up and his eyes swept the room. He saw me and stopped. Now, when I say "we locked eyes" I don't mean to imply there was anything romantic or sexy about this. There wasn't. It would have been more polite, I know, to look away...but see above (re: my logic). So I kept looking back at him. I know it should have felt awkward...but it didn't. Ten solid seconds of eye contact doesn't sound like a lot, but it is. Try it now. Look at something for ten seconds. That's a long time, huh?
Again, not romantic or sexy. If anything, I think it's because I wasn't jumping, screaming, waving - I think I may have just seemed to him to be the only quiet spot in the room (ironic, I know). It just felt friendly. So I gave a quirky little smile and half shrugged in reference to the craziness in the room. He broke into a wide grin...looked for a couple more seconds, then went back to signing, posing, talking, laughing.
There was a part of me that decided that that was worth more than an autograph...or a picture...
Yeah, but I still wanted them.
About a half an hour goes by...there is one person ahead of me...that person is all done...
And the producer comes up behind him, apologizes to the rest of us, and pulls him onstage.
I won't say he wasn't entertaining on stage. Or that I didn't enjoy Troy's speech. Or laugh with everyone when Bob Marley did his routine (in real life, Det. Greenly is stand up comic Bob Marley). Ty Stone is a hell of a performer (he and his band do several of the songs in ASD). It was all fantastic.
But I was more than a little frustrated. I'm sure it sounds petty, but at that point, I was disappointed enough that I was in danger of being sad over the whole situation - it's one thing never to meet someone...quite another to almost meet the person and have it snatched out from under you.
Well, nothing is going to come from standing in one spot. I start walking around, and I spot Elle. She's talking to none other than Rocco. What's even more interesting is watching these girls (aged about 21-22) come up to him, giggling, with shots. As Elle backed off (as she later told me "I figured he'd spent a lot of time with me, I should back off"), he turned, did the shot with the girls, thanked them, gave them back the glass...and turned back to continue his conversation with Elle.
Working under the assumption that she'd probably kill me if I interrupted them, I set off to find Norman.
Elle and I finally hook back up. She's on Cloud 9 and I'm busy trying not to feel ungrateful. Having scoped the main floor of the club quite thoroughly, we decided to go to the lobby. Daniel DeSanto is at the bar, surrounded by girls buying him drinks. It would have been nice to meet him (etc.), but he looked awfully occupied.
I asked a couple of the women at the bar if anyone had seen Norman.
"Yeah, he's right outside..." (Wile E. Coyote cloud of dust in place of Elle and me)
There he is. Smoking a cigarette and speaking with a few folks. No pushing, lines, nothing. We walk over, wait our turn to speak, and I ask him if he'd sign (the Christmas presents I'd bought). He couldn't have been nicer.
ME: Would you mind taking a picture with me?
NORMAN: Sure!!!
Elle's got the camera, he goes to put his arm around my shoulder...
AND THE SAME PRODUCER GRABS HIM BY THE ARM.
PRODUCER: Sorry, he has to go.
ME: (my head whipping in his direction) SERIOUSLY?
I didn't yell it, I didn't even use what has been coined my Bitch Mommy Voice. Considering how I felt about the matter, I think he got off pretty easily. This time he and I made eye contact. Weighing his options, he said:
"Fine, you can walk in with us."
With Elle hot on my heels, camera at the ready, we were off.
I'm not a tall woman. However, my lack of height comes from my lack of torso, not legs. The producer did not count on this as he tried to lose me. Elle is not as tall as I am, and in heels. That woman has moves.
Now, if Norman had been trying to get away from me, I'd have backed off. In reality, Norman (whose left arm was in the producer's Death Grip) was being marched very quickly down the hall, the whole time trying to talk to me over his right shoulder.
The producer's first mistake was misjudging the length of my legs. His second one was thinking he'd be able to move the star of the movie quickly and unobtrusively through the Big. Crowded. Club.
They hit the throng and some girls latch onto Norman. I waited for them to finish, and there was my shot. We posed for the camera, shot taken...(finally)...
And the moment of truth.
Up to this point (from the moment I decided to attend the party to this second) I'd been worried, terrified that, if I did get to speak to him, I'd stick my foot in my mouth. Hard. I skipped over anything that could be construed as flirting (apparently, I'm a fairly good girl after all). Everything I'd come up with thus far had either been what every single other person has probably said to him, or stupid. But now?
What's that I'm under? Oh, it would be a gun. He could see that I was trying to say something, so he leaned in to listen.
So I said the first thing that came to mind. It was heartfelt, sure, but it didn't seem like much. He looked at me again...eye contact again... and with a really big smile said an earnest "Thank you!"
Then he was gone (this time his feet left the floor a bit when the producer yanked him away).
I turned to Elle, and said, "We can go - my night's not going to get any better than it is now." In order to get back to our car, we had to leave the party well before the trains stopped running. She said okay and then asked:
"What did you say to him?"
Crap. I thought it went pretty well. "Why?"
"Well, he was listening, then leaned in to listen closer, then he did this double take, then this huge smile..."
Okay, so I didn't screw it up.
We walked toward the door...and all of the sudden, I'm alone...I turn around...
Elle is about ten feet behind me, talking with Rocco. Who am I to rush her? Besides, I now had something other than my phone for him to sign. At a pause in the conversation, I ask him if he'd mind signing one more thing for me. Ever the gentleman, we walk over to the bar (so he'd have something to lean on). While he was doing this, I had an SBI (Scathingly Brilliant Idea).
I leaned toward him, and said "Excuse me?"
ROCCO: (turning) Yes?
ME: My girl over there, she has the most enormous crush on you. Buuuut, she's also wicked shy. Never in a million years would she ask, but she'd love it if you'd sign her chest. Do you mind?"
ROCCO: Sure! (glances over his shoulder) Which one?
(I specified)
ROCCO: (looks at me) She's pretty hot...
Elle maintains that, crush or no, she is also a good girl after all, since, when he walked over and moved her shirt, for that split second before she realized what, exactly, he was doing, she did freak out a little. But only for a second.
After that, she turned to me and said: "NOW we can leave!"
We kept a moderate amount of mature, level-headedness at the party. Once on the train, we became two teenage girls coming home from the Beatles playing Shea Stadium.
Oooookay. Not to worry, I'm not going to go into some gooey girly gab fest about how dreamy he looked...lalalala....you've seen the movie? Yeah, he's that good looking in person. His hair's a little lighter (which makes that whole tattooing scene in ASD even funnier) - but that's it.
Now, I'm not one to stare...but my logic went like this:
He's beautiful. He chose a career that involves people looking at him. He chose to attend a party where he was (clearly) going to be the center of attention. He signed up for this.
Still, staring is rude. I can honestly say that it felt more like watching someone who's on a stage. Sure, you're not looking away...but not staring. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Eventually, when he was pulled onto stage, he talked about how he feels uncomfortable/shy in crowds. This only impressed me more since, like the rest of the guys, he was very friendly, enthusiastic about signing autographs, posing for pictures, even joking and talking with fans who lingered past their turns. He, like the rest of them, is a class act.
I watched him work his way through the dozens of people pressing in on him. There were no velvet ropes, bouncers blocking for him or anything. The guy's just hanging in the middle of a crowd. A very, very excited crowd.
And then a strange thing happened. He looked up and his eyes swept the room. He saw me and stopped. Now, when I say "we locked eyes" I don't mean to imply there was anything romantic or sexy about this. There wasn't. It would have been more polite, I know, to look away...but see above (re: my logic). So I kept looking back at him. I know it should have felt awkward...but it didn't. Ten solid seconds of eye contact doesn't sound like a lot, but it is. Try it now. Look at something for ten seconds. That's a long time, huh?
Again, not romantic or sexy. If anything, I think it's because I wasn't jumping, screaming, waving - I think I may have just seemed to him to be the only quiet spot in the room (ironic, I know). It just felt friendly. So I gave a quirky little smile and half shrugged in reference to the craziness in the room. He broke into a wide grin...looked for a couple more seconds, then went back to signing, posing, talking, laughing.
There was a part of me that decided that that was worth more than an autograph...or a picture...
Yeah, but I still wanted them.
About a half an hour goes by...there is one person ahead of me...that person is all done...
And the producer comes up behind him, apologizes to the rest of us, and pulls him onstage.
I won't say he wasn't entertaining on stage. Or that I didn't enjoy Troy's speech. Or laugh with everyone when Bob Marley did his routine (in real life, Det. Greenly is stand up comic Bob Marley). Ty Stone is a hell of a performer (he and his band do several of the songs in ASD). It was all fantastic.
But I was more than a little frustrated. I'm sure it sounds petty, but at that point, I was disappointed enough that I was in danger of being sad over the whole situation - it's one thing never to meet someone...quite another to almost meet the person and have it snatched out from under you.
Well, nothing is going to come from standing in one spot. I start walking around, and I spot Elle. She's talking to none other than Rocco. What's even more interesting is watching these girls (aged about 21-22) come up to him, giggling, with shots. As Elle backed off (as she later told me "I figured he'd spent a lot of time with me, I should back off"), he turned, did the shot with the girls, thanked them, gave them back the glass...and turned back to continue his conversation with Elle.
Working under the assumption that she'd probably kill me if I interrupted them, I set off to find Norman.
Elle and I finally hook back up. She's on Cloud 9 and I'm busy trying not to feel ungrateful. Having scoped the main floor of the club quite thoroughly, we decided to go to the lobby. Daniel DeSanto is at the bar, surrounded by girls buying him drinks. It would have been nice to meet him (etc.), but he looked awfully occupied.
I asked a couple of the women at the bar if anyone had seen Norman.
"Yeah, he's right outside..." (Wile E. Coyote cloud of dust in place of Elle and me)
There he is. Smoking a cigarette and speaking with a few folks. No pushing, lines, nothing. We walk over, wait our turn to speak, and I ask him if he'd sign (the Christmas presents I'd bought). He couldn't have been nicer.
ME: Would you mind taking a picture with me?
NORMAN: Sure!!!
Elle's got the camera, he goes to put his arm around my shoulder...
AND THE SAME PRODUCER GRABS HIM BY THE ARM.
PRODUCER: Sorry, he has to go.
ME: (my head whipping in his direction) SERIOUSLY?
I didn't yell it, I didn't even use what has been coined my Bitch Mommy Voice. Considering how I felt about the matter, I think he got off pretty easily. This time he and I made eye contact. Weighing his options, he said:
"Fine, you can walk in with us."
With Elle hot on my heels, camera at the ready, we were off.
I'm not a tall woman. However, my lack of height comes from my lack of torso, not legs. The producer did not count on this as he tried to lose me. Elle is not as tall as I am, and in heels. That woman has moves.
Now, if Norman had been trying to get away from me, I'd have backed off. In reality, Norman (whose left arm was in the producer's Death Grip) was being marched very quickly down the hall, the whole time trying to talk to me over his right shoulder.
The producer's first mistake was misjudging the length of my legs. His second one was thinking he'd be able to move the star of the movie quickly and unobtrusively through the Big. Crowded. Club.
They hit the throng and some girls latch onto Norman. I waited for them to finish, and there was my shot. We posed for the camera, shot taken...(finally)...
And the moment of truth.
Up to this point (from the moment I decided to attend the party to this second) I'd been worried, terrified that, if I did get to speak to him, I'd stick my foot in my mouth. Hard. I skipped over anything that could be construed as flirting (apparently, I'm a fairly good girl after all). Everything I'd come up with thus far had either been what every single other person has probably said to him, or stupid. But now?
What's that I'm under? Oh, it would be a gun. He could see that I was trying to say something, so he leaned in to listen.
So I said the first thing that came to mind. It was heartfelt, sure, but it didn't seem like much. He looked at me again...eye contact again... and with a really big smile said an earnest "Thank you!"
Then he was gone (this time his feet left the floor a bit when the producer yanked him away).
I turned to Elle, and said, "We can go - my night's not going to get any better than it is now." In order to get back to our car, we had to leave the party well before the trains stopped running. She said okay and then asked:
"What did you say to him?"
Crap. I thought it went pretty well. "Why?"
"Well, he was listening, then leaned in to listen closer, then he did this double take, then this huge smile..."
Okay, so I didn't screw it up.
We walked toward the door...and all of the sudden, I'm alone...I turn around...
Elle is about ten feet behind me, talking with Rocco. Who am I to rush her? Besides, I now had something other than my phone for him to sign. At a pause in the conversation, I ask him if he'd mind signing one more thing for me. Ever the gentleman, we walk over to the bar (so he'd have something to lean on). While he was doing this, I had an SBI (Scathingly Brilliant Idea).
I leaned toward him, and said "Excuse me?"
ROCCO: (turning) Yes?
ME: My girl over there, she has the most enormous crush on you. Buuuut, she's also wicked shy. Never in a million years would she ask, but she'd love it if you'd sign her chest. Do you mind?"
ROCCO: Sure! (glances over his shoulder) Which one?
(I specified)
ROCCO: (looks at me) She's pretty hot...
Elle maintains that, crush or no, she is also a good girl after all, since, when he walked over and moved her shirt, for that split second before she realized what, exactly, he was doing, she did freak out a little. But only for a second.
After that, she turned to me and said: "NOW we can leave!"
We kept a moderate amount of mature, level-headedness at the party. Once on the train, we became two teenage girls coming home from the Beatles playing Shea Stadium.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Part 3: Rocco, T. Duffy and Bob, Oh My!!!
It's taken a while to get back to this (I site creepy neighbors and creepier writer's block. This has nothing, NOTHING I say, to do with procrastination).
I started this blog because I function well in a forum for monologuing (and because my sister and the OY department bullied me). I like to think that I can at least entertain (if not help) others by sharing amusing (and hopefully useful) observations and stories. One of the things that kept me away from finishing this little series was the concern that these entries would only be interesting to me...and a few others. Was I falling into the BBT? The Boring Blog Trap? Sigh.
Oral tradition is alive and well in my life. I come from a story telling family; over the years, I consistently make friends with story telling (or listening) people. However, unlike the other stories that get told (and retold, and retold) in my circles of friends, this one is only between Elle and me. While we never get tired of reliving this night, we seldom tell it anymore. Because it's something that happened to just us, it's the kind of story that's fun for everyone else to hear...once. Maaaaybe twice.
Since it doesn't get retold, it is in danger of losing details. Even as I prepared for this entry, as Elle and I got all excited about it, we discovered that she and I remembered (and forgot) different things about that night.
In conclusion: the reason I wanted to share this story is that I want a record of it.
So. After this (and it's conclusion) I promise not to make too many entries of this kind. That having been said...
As I mentioned before, we had no desire whatsoever to drive a car in Boston. Therefore, I GPSed our way to Alewife parking garage/train station while Elle watched All Saints Day on the shotgun side. It wasn't the best way to see it, but the sequel's villain would be at the party, and most (if not all) of the people attending will have seen it. Avoiding Spoiler Poisoning 101.
We parked, realized how suburbanite we've become (ticket purchasing has changed a LOT from the mid-90s, pre-everyone-using-plastic-for-everything days), amused an information desk person with our naivete, bought train tickets and got our happy asses on the train.
And this is the point where we started slipping down the slope. The slope of age. By the time we arrived at the club on Commonwealth Avenue, we were twitching and laughing and, literally, wide eyed as two teenagers. Folks who know me personally can attest I don't often go the the Giddy Place - but there I was.
"And to make a long story short (too late!) one by one (we) all arrived." - Tim Curry, as Wadsworth, Clue
Arrived, got inside, whatever.
Breezing through impromptu Christmas shopping at the concert kiosk-esque counter and making small talk with other fans...one woman (who apparently follows them around the country) casually mentioned that David Della Rocco's in the lobby. I'd like to pretend that we absorbed that information with cool detachment and politely found a way to saunter out to the lobby.
But we didn't. Again, teenage girls. To our credit, though we practically Harry Potter Apparated to the lobby, no squeally, squeaky, "omigodomigodomigod there he is!" nonsense came from us.
In the movies, Rocco is funny, loud and spends most of his time looking unkempt, unshowered and sweaty. In real life, he is still funny, but fairly soft spoken and quite clean. He graciously posed arm in arm for pictures, signed the back of my phone when I couldn't find a piece of paper (of ALL of the things not to bring???) and humored us with some friendly chit chat.
Well, humored me. I found out later that as I was getting my phone back from the person who took the picture, he had quietly asked Elle: "Would it be alright if we just stayed this way?"
Now, Elle may be a #3 - but that's only in her choice between Connor and Murph. Just as I had come primarily to meet Norman Reedus - she was there to meet David Della Rocco. She tells this part of the story with lots of happy, happy sound effects - but I was there, and can attest that, when I saw him discretely whispering to her, her response was pleased but dignified.
The next couple of hours went by in a bit of a blur, punctuated by moments of clarity. Specifically, when Troy's pen ran out of ink just as he was to give me an autograph, he put up his hands, said "WAIT HERE. I'LL BE RIGHT BACK", left, and actually DID work his way back through the (enormous) crowd to find me, and get back to taking pictures and signing things.
With Bob, my freaking camera wouldn't work - but he waited...and waited...and waited. Since there were so many people waiting to get their pictures/autographs, I felt badly and told him not to worry about it. He looked at me and said "Don't worry, sweethaaht" (love his Maine accent), "I'm not going anywhere, you just tell me when it stahts working." He turned, signed, posed, etc.,
Eventually, the camera got back in the game, but I figured it had been too long...he was busy...ah well...
(tap, tap, tap) "So is you're camera working yet?"
Which brings me to what is probably the most important thing I took from this evening.
When you read about celebrities, or see their pictures, or watch them in interviews - you, or at least I, wonder - "yeah, but are they nice in real life?" Troy Duffy, especially, has been painted with a very dirty brush as being an egomaniac, a jerk.
These men are honestly decent sorts. Bob didn't have to take the time to talk to me again, and if Troy is an egomaniac/jerk...I didn't see it.
Cynically, you could argue that Elle and I are women and, while not supermodels, still attractive. Maybe they were flirting. However. Those men took the time to sign and pose for everyone. They took just as much (obvious) enjoyment from hanging out with the men who were there to meet them as they did with the women (no matter how young, or scantily clad).
Yes, they're famous. Yes, they're adored. Yes, they have a fan base so rabid that, after 10 years a movie that went straight to video got a theater released sequel. But...
They genuinely know, understand and appreciate why they have all of that. You could see it in all of their faces - they really love their fans and were enjoying the opportunity to interact with us.
There I am, in the middle of a crowd, savoring this epiphany, when Elle gives me a tap, points over my shoulder and says, "There's your boy."
I started this blog because I function well in a forum for monologuing (and because my sister and the OY department bullied me). I like to think that I can at least entertain (if not help) others by sharing amusing (and hopefully useful) observations and stories. One of the things that kept me away from finishing this little series was the concern that these entries would only be interesting to me...and a few others. Was I falling into the BBT? The Boring Blog Trap? Sigh.
Oral tradition is alive and well in my life. I come from a story telling family; over the years, I consistently make friends with story telling (or listening) people. However, unlike the other stories that get told (and retold, and retold) in my circles of friends, this one is only between Elle and me. While we never get tired of reliving this night, we seldom tell it anymore. Because it's something that happened to just us, it's the kind of story that's fun for everyone else to hear...once. Maaaaybe twice.
Since it doesn't get retold, it is in danger of losing details. Even as I prepared for this entry, as Elle and I got all excited about it, we discovered that she and I remembered (and forgot) different things about that night.
In conclusion: the reason I wanted to share this story is that I want a record of it.
So. After this (and it's conclusion) I promise not to make too many entries of this kind. That having been said...
As I mentioned before, we had no desire whatsoever to drive a car in Boston. Therefore, I GPSed our way to Alewife parking garage/train station while Elle watched All Saints Day on the shotgun side. It wasn't the best way to see it, but the sequel's villain would be at the party, and most (if not all) of the people attending will have seen it. Avoiding Spoiler Poisoning 101.
We parked, realized how suburbanite we've become (ticket purchasing has changed a LOT from the mid-90s, pre-everyone-using-plastic-for-everything days), amused an information desk person with our naivete, bought train tickets and got our happy asses on the train.
And this is the point where we started slipping down the slope. The slope of age. By the time we arrived at the club on Commonwealth Avenue, we were twitching and laughing and, literally, wide eyed as two teenagers. Folks who know me personally can attest I don't often go the the Giddy Place - but there I was.
"And to make a long story short (too late!) one by one (we) all arrived." - Tim Curry, as Wadsworth, Clue
Arrived, got inside, whatever.
Breezing through impromptu Christmas shopping at the concert kiosk-esque counter and making small talk with other fans...one woman (who apparently follows them around the country) casually mentioned that David Della Rocco's in the lobby. I'd like to pretend that we absorbed that information with cool detachment and politely found a way to saunter out to the lobby.
But we didn't. Again, teenage girls. To our credit, though we practically Harry Potter Apparated to the lobby, no squeally, squeaky, "omigodomigodomigod there he is!" nonsense came from us.
In the movies, Rocco is funny, loud and spends most of his time looking unkempt, unshowered and sweaty. In real life, he is still funny, but fairly soft spoken and quite clean. He graciously posed arm in arm for pictures, signed the back of my phone when I couldn't find a piece of paper (of ALL of the things not to bring???) and humored us with some friendly chit chat.
Well, humored me. I found out later that as I was getting my phone back from the person who took the picture, he had quietly asked Elle: "Would it be alright if we just stayed this way?"
Now, Elle may be a #3 - but that's only in her choice between Connor and Murph. Just as I had come primarily to meet Norman Reedus - she was there to meet David Della Rocco. She tells this part of the story with lots of happy, happy sound effects - but I was there, and can attest that, when I saw him discretely whispering to her, her response was pleased but dignified.
The next couple of hours went by in a bit of a blur, punctuated by moments of clarity. Specifically, when Troy's pen ran out of ink just as he was to give me an autograph, he put up his hands, said "WAIT HERE. I'LL BE RIGHT BACK", left, and actually DID work his way back through the (enormous) crowd to find me, and get back to taking pictures and signing things.
With Bob, my freaking camera wouldn't work - but he waited...and waited...and waited. Since there were so many people waiting to get their pictures/autographs, I felt badly and told him not to worry about it. He looked at me and said "Don't worry, sweethaaht" (love his Maine accent), "I'm not going anywhere, you just tell me when it stahts working." He turned, signed, posed, etc.,
Eventually, the camera got back in the game, but I figured it had been too long...he was busy...ah well...
(tap, tap, tap) "So is you're camera working yet?"
Which brings me to what is probably the most important thing I took from this evening.
When you read about celebrities, or see their pictures, or watch them in interviews - you, or at least I, wonder - "yeah, but are they nice in real life?" Troy Duffy, especially, has been painted with a very dirty brush as being an egomaniac, a jerk.
These men are honestly decent sorts. Bob didn't have to take the time to talk to me again, and if Troy is an egomaniac/jerk...I didn't see it.
Cynically, you could argue that Elle and I are women and, while not supermodels, still attractive. Maybe they were flirting. However. Those men took the time to sign and pose for everyone. They took just as much (obvious) enjoyment from hanging out with the men who were there to meet them as they did with the women (no matter how young, or scantily clad).
Yes, they're famous. Yes, they're adored. Yes, they have a fan base so rabid that, after 10 years a movie that went straight to video got a theater released sequel. But...
They genuinely know, understand and appreciate why they have all of that. You could see it in all of their faces - they really love their fans and were enjoying the opportunity to interact with us.
There I am, in the middle of a crowd, savoring this epiphany, when Elle gives me a tap, points over my shoulder and says, "There's your boy."
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Part 2: How Stella Got Her Irish On...
So, back to our regularly scheduled programs. As a add on to Part 1 - I have been informed that I made a small error - there are, in fact, two more groups of women. Women who prefer Rocco (David Della Rocco) and those who prefer the character played by Billy Connelly (to be more specific would make a spoiler). I maintain that, despite ultimately loving say, Rocco or Billy, when asked, most women who've seen and loved the movie will be able to choose between the two brothers. This does not diminish their love for Rocco or Billy - it's just an illustration of how, upon meeting another woman who loves this flick, I've been able to ask "Connor or Murph?"...and get that quick response. R or B women will generally follow with a variation on "But I have to say, the one I really love is..." But it will always start with a brother preference.
In the two days between deciding to go and the actual event, Elle and I were on a high tilt warble of excitement.
We made all of the common sense preparations - outfits that were flattering but not slutty, packing the mini DVD player so Elle could watch All Saints Day on the way down, that kind of thing. I was trying to get as much done as I could, since Elle was working late to prevent work from piling up too much while she was gone. To fuel this mission, my house was in a constant marathon of the two movies.
Stella came for a visit the day before the party. To understand what comes next, we need a clear picture of Stella. She is, as I've described before, a Social Butterfly. She embodies the grace and charisma that makes hosting a party with innumerable guests look like child's play. She's one of the few people I know who can be in a room full of strangers - and not only be at home, but through her sparkling energy and tactful instincts, can make those strangers feel like they've known not only her, but each other, for years.
Stella is also a voracious athlete and sports fan. She watches TV, but really for live action, real time things. Sitting down to just enjoy a movie (let alone over and over) - SO not her thing (obviously, she's a Woman #1 - never seen The Boondock Saints)
Essentially, we're each other's photo negative - though that doesn't stop us from loving each other to bits.
Often, I find myself saying to her (say, during March Madness, or a football game of sorts) "well, I can't pretend that I "get" why you're excited, but I'm very, very happy for you." (or sad, depending) This has become a joke between us (though I do mean it, every time).
So. She and I are visiting and she watched as I bustled around the kitchen. Finally, it was her turn to say:
"Megan, I just want you to know that, while I don't understand why you're excited, I'm very happy for you that you have this opportunity." We both laughed. Then it hit me - there was a way to help her understand...just maybe...
There is a deleted scene from the first movie that is fantastically hilarious and aesthetically magnificent. Even the director himself has admitted that he regrets cutting it from the final product. It involves the boys getting a phone call from their mother in Ireland. For reasons logical to the script, but too long to repeat, they are naked through this scene (hence the aesthetics - sigh). Since the scene takes place just after the opening credits, one only has to watch up to the part where the main title is shown. As much of a movie fan as she is not - Stella agreed that she could sit through that much.
SCENE: The boys are at the meat packing plant (their livelihood, pre-killing spree). The first one we see is Connor.
Stella says, "Oh, he's pretty cute!" So, I'm thinking that, though she'll never watch the entire movie, she would be a #3 (those who love Connor).
As the plot thickens, Murphy shoots a look over his shoulder (pissed that Connor's getting picked on), and she grabs my arm and asks "Who the hell is THAT?!?!?"
Ahhh. She's a big, bad #4.
"That," says I, "is Murph."
STELLA: That's Norman Reedus?
ME: Yup.
STELLA: The guy you've been talking about?
ME: Yup. Keep watching.
I switched to the deleted scene. We watched it in reverent silence. Sigh.
It's over; I turned off the disk.
STELLA: You're going to get to meet him?
ME: YES.
STELLA: Megan, I UNDERSTAND NOW."
Kinda makes me feel like Riverdancin'.
In the two days between deciding to go and the actual event, Elle and I were on a high tilt warble of excitement.
We made all of the common sense preparations - outfits that were flattering but not slutty, packing the mini DVD player so Elle could watch All Saints Day on the way down, that kind of thing. I was trying to get as much done as I could, since Elle was working late to prevent work from piling up too much while she was gone. To fuel this mission, my house was in a constant marathon of the two movies.
Stella came for a visit the day before the party. To understand what comes next, we need a clear picture of Stella. She is, as I've described before, a Social Butterfly. She embodies the grace and charisma that makes hosting a party with innumerable guests look like child's play. She's one of the few people I know who can be in a room full of strangers - and not only be at home, but through her sparkling energy and tactful instincts, can make those strangers feel like they've known not only her, but each other, for years.
Stella is also a voracious athlete and sports fan. She watches TV, but really for live action, real time things. Sitting down to just enjoy a movie (let alone over and over) - SO not her thing (obviously, she's a Woman #1 - never seen The Boondock Saints)
Essentially, we're each other's photo negative - though that doesn't stop us from loving each other to bits.
Often, I find myself saying to her (say, during March Madness, or a football game of sorts) "well, I can't pretend that I "get" why you're excited, but I'm very, very happy for you." (or sad, depending) This has become a joke between us (though I do mean it, every time).
So. She and I are visiting and she watched as I bustled around the kitchen. Finally, it was her turn to say:
"Megan, I just want you to know that, while I don't understand why you're excited, I'm very happy for you that you have this opportunity." We both laughed. Then it hit me - there was a way to help her understand...just maybe...
There is a deleted scene from the first movie that is fantastically hilarious and aesthetically magnificent. Even the director himself has admitted that he regrets cutting it from the final product. It involves the boys getting a phone call from their mother in Ireland. For reasons logical to the script, but too long to repeat, they are naked through this scene (hence the aesthetics - sigh). Since the scene takes place just after the opening credits, one only has to watch up to the part where the main title is shown. As much of a movie fan as she is not - Stella agreed that she could sit through that much.
SCENE: The boys are at the meat packing plant (their livelihood, pre-killing spree). The first one we see is Connor.
Stella says, "Oh, he's pretty cute!" So, I'm thinking that, though she'll never watch the entire movie, she would be a #3 (those who love Connor).
As the plot thickens, Murphy shoots a look over his shoulder (pissed that Connor's getting picked on), and she grabs my arm and asks "Who the hell is THAT?!?!?"
Ahhh. She's a big, bad #4.
"That," says I, "is Murph."
STELLA: That's Norman Reedus?
ME: Yup.
STELLA: The guy you've been talking about?
ME: Yup. Keep watching.
I switched to the deleted scene. We watched it in reverent silence. Sigh.
It's over; I turned off the disk.
STELLA: You're going to get to meet him?
ME: YES.
STELLA: Megan, I UNDERSTAND NOW."
Kinda makes me feel like Riverdancin'.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Neighbor on (the Pain In) the Backside
I apologize for the length of this one. As it's purpose was to be informative as well as entertaining, I don't have the luxury of splitting it into smaller pieces.
I really did want to do my 3 part St Paddy's Day special all at once...but circumstances have distracted me.
Circumstances like sitting down after bringing Crikey home from school, planning out the making of the Irish Dinner (none of that corned beef and cabbage - we are authentic here)...relaxing for a bit...
"MOM. There's a man outside our fence taking pictures of our house!"
I get out there in time to see the fellow walking away. I call out:
"HEY. CAN I HELP YOU?" I admit, my tone of voice was not a welcoming one, true. However, I think I can be granted a little indulgence here.
This pillar of society just walks away, into the trees behind our house. Hmmm.
Now, my land line had been down for a few days, and I hardly get any cell reception at my house, so calling the police was a bit of a challenge. I texted Marshall and Elle, asking them to do so, and tried on my own. I finally got through; an officer came over.
He questioned Crikey, who, while I am very proud of how he came right in to tell me about the Creepy Old Guy, he did NOT give me all of the information. So, it is while he's giving his statement to the policeman that I learn:
CRIKEY: And then he asked me the dogs' names.
Wait a fucking minute. WHAT? I do that slow turn to the boy, and ask:
"He spoke to you???"
For the record, I did not lose my calm. I did not interrupt his narrative further. However, what has started as a mild case of berserker rage was slowly escalating to something a little more potent.
Let's speed up this part:
There was a man. He had a camera. He took pictures of our dogs, our house. He talked to my child (thinking he was unsupervised). He left when I came out. Officer found footprints adjacent to our fence, and a trail leading back to the condos 150 yards from our property.
At first, I thought it was our neighbor. Reasoning? He's a nutjob with a history of throwing dog feces at children walking their dogs, aiming for children when he's driving through the neighborhood, taunting dogs (and then calling animal control to complain about barking). He was IDed by our next door neighbors' babysitter as doing the photograph-then-turn-tail-when-confronted act in their yard (though, for all of his faults, it's nice that's he's been exonerated from this one - read on). He's also been suspected of killing a few of the neighborhood cats. Personally, until this incident, my encounters with him have been limited. He left a passive aggressive note on my car about Marshall's parking habits; he's been quite civil to me when I've approached him about our dogs' barking (though he gets quite apoplectic when complaining about our dogs to the neighbors). It seemed the logical place to start.
Now, if it was CNG (Crazy Neighbor Guy), I have to admit, I was not worried about Crikey's safety. He's an ass (with no tolerance for children) but he only lashes out at kids when they directly inconvenience him. My main concern was the possibility that he'd throw poisoned food over the fence, neutralizing the dogs that way.
However, never let it be said that I'm unfair. If it was CNG, I want him nailed to the wall. But if it wasn't...
My mother texted me the next morning, suggesting that I shouldn't let the kids go outside. While I understood her point - the sheer notion of hiding my children and my dogs inside Pissed. Me. Off. This is their home. Marshall's home. My home. Our yard. Our property. I absolutely refuse to be frightened while on it.
I think it's quite telling that, when I announced this situation as my Facebook status, the response from my friends was immediate, outraged and concerned (I really do have the best people EVER in my life) There was also a kind of anticipation of how I would deal with the situation - I have to say I feel very flattered by the absolute confidence everyone had in my ability to take care of the situation...one way or another. To sum it up:
He picked the wrong Bitch to piss off.
As usual, I sent Crikey outback with the dogs when he got home from school. I have a collapsible chair that I keep in my car trunk for the sporting events I attend. I set that up on he back deck. Along with my lapdesk, netbook, glass of seltzer. One last thing...
The expression on Crikey's face was one to remember when I brought out Marshall's 12 gauge rifle. With big eyes, a half smile and a nervous laugh, Crikey asked:
"Uh, mom, don't you think you takin' this a bit too far?" (nervous chuckle)
"NO."
(a little more heh, heh, hehs... and an expression of "are you for freaking real with me?"
There is a fine line between having your children live in terror of their world and instilling in them healthy caution. As intelligent as Crikey is (inconveniently so with matters such as these), a little information would quickly lead to understanding the whole, terrifying picture. So we have, perhaps, erred on the side of too much caution. Now that the situation has come to somewhat of a head...
"Crikey, do we know for a fact that he's not a kidnapper?" I hated pointing it out.
He blinked. He looked away. I saw the flicker of "oh shit, I didn't think of that." He looked back at me.
My son was on the teetering edge of Fear. I was on that same edge with Hate. And then:
He looked at the shotgun. His eyes widened with the understanding that Mom had a gun, she knew how to use it, and she'd kill the shit out of anyone before she let that person take/hurt/kill him or his brother.
He looked back at me, and the biggest grin spread across his face. Fear was gone. Caution was there.
And I had become Han Solo.
Before it seems to the world that I had lost my mind, Ted Nugent style - allow me to point out a couple things.
1 - I had (and have) no intention of harming another human being unless that individual poses and clear and present threat to the safety of my children, Marshall or myself (or other people - you get the point).
2 - The reason I had the 12 gauge out is because it was not only big enough to see from behind our property - it was not loaded. Granted, the .45 in my lap was - but I was working under the concept of the big visible gun working as a prophylactic measure.
3 - Nothing would please me more than to know that it is unnecessary for me to prepare myself for the trauma it would cause me (to say nothing of my kids) if I did have to take the life of another human being. It's easy to act all badass "oh, I'm gonna do (this or that - insert violent act of choice)" - but actually Killing A Person - that is huge. More enormous than the crime statistics would have us believe, far more painful (to the person pulling the trigger) than anyone (who hasn't had to do that) can imagine. For all of my badassery, for all of my willingness to do whatever it takes to protect my children, for all of the humor I used to carry myself through this experience, I dreaded the idea of actually having to do it.
That's right, I said humor. This post hasn't been funny so far...as an apology for that, I shall share the other options that came up through the brainstorming with Marshall and my awesome friends.
The first thing I did was change my profile picture to a cartoon drawing from Brilliant Blogger Extraordinaire Allie Brosh (of Hyperbole and a Half - if you haven't read it, you must start. She is possibly one of the most hilariously brilliant human beings who ever lived). (yeah, I used "brilliant" twice - she deserves both):
Also, the lines from 99 Biker Friends, by Bowling for Soup, also seem helpful:
"Let's get the A-Team, 50 Cent with his bling-bling and a couple of prison guards...and I have 99 Biker Friends, who wanna kick your ass!"
Speaking of the A-Team, the brainstorming went with the theme of "WWMD" - What Would Murdock Do?
Install a nanny cam on the culprit's property with a Internet live feed so we can all tune in and watch HIM. "creepyoldguy.com" maybe?
Install motion detectors that play Hank Williams Jr.'s "A Country Boy Can Survive" as an alarm (specifically the line that goes "I got a shotgun rifle and a four wheel drive and a country boy can survive")
Electrify the fence
Barbed wire
Electric barbed wire
(and since he was CLEARLY banking on our being New England Liberals (which is a realistic assumption for our area) and therefore unarmed:
Hanging a sign on the outside of the fence (where his footprints were found) that reads:
HEY BITCH. YEAH, YOU. TURN AROUND. SEE THAT TREE? (said tree will have a sign that says "YEAH, THIS ONE") THAT TREE IS WITHIN THE RANGE OF MY SHOTGUN. I GREW UP IN THE SOUTH AND "HE NEEDED KILLIN'" IS A VALID DEFENSE THERE :)
It turns out that CNG wasn't home at all that day.
In seemingly unrelated news: over the past year or so, there's been a car slowly driving up and down our street. Not every day - or even every week. Just often enough that even I noticed it. I figured it was city related (many folks around here use personal vehicles even when doing city work).
Yesterday, we took the boys to see the Harlem Globetrotters. On the drive back, Marshall got a call from the police, letting us know that they'd been called about a car driving slowly on our road.
Turns out our next door neighbor, Ava, had seen a man walking around outside her yard and toward mine. She called to him, he slunk behind a tree, and then, as her husband went to follow him, he left...back to the condos. They called the police.
Shortly after that, the car was back, cruising our street. Ava walked into the road and stopped him. Same jacket, same hat as the man she had just seen minutes before.
She asked him if he was lost, if he needed help - that kind of thing. His response was civil, though not pleasant. However, when Ava pointed out that she recognized him, he smirked and said that he didn't know what she was talking about, and that she couldn't prove anything anyway.
AVA: (I'm paraphrasing) Actually, I recognize you. There are at least two children who will recognize you. Also, my babysitter not only can identify you, but would be happy to testify against you.
That did make him pause...for a bit. Then he identified himself as the President of the Condo Association and started going on about the evil of my dogs (why he needs pictures of their yard because of my dogs is still unclear to me). Since she knew it was only a matter of minutes before the police showed up, she kept him talking. When he got to the part where he was going to go to the police and complain to the mayor, the patrol car pulled up. Very nice timing, I have to say.
Over the course of that conversation, he learned two things:
1 - He had underestimated the opposition: this neighborhood is full of law enforcement, fire department, to say nothing of the ex-Marines and Airborne Rangers.
2 - He would be arrested if he came on our property again
That is where the situation stands as of this writing. Ava's put up her no trespassing sign. I'm going to make one or two. I'm going to clean up the language a bit, since there are kids back there, but my signs are going to be pretty creative.
I really did want to do my 3 part St Paddy's Day special all at once...but circumstances have distracted me.
Circumstances like sitting down after bringing Crikey home from school, planning out the making of the Irish Dinner (none of that corned beef and cabbage - we are authentic here)...relaxing for a bit...
"MOM. There's a man outside our fence taking pictures of our house!"
I get out there in time to see the fellow walking away. I call out:
"HEY. CAN I HELP YOU?" I admit, my tone of voice was not a welcoming one, true. However, I think I can be granted a little indulgence here.
This pillar of society just walks away, into the trees behind our house. Hmmm.
Now, my land line had been down for a few days, and I hardly get any cell reception at my house, so calling the police was a bit of a challenge. I texted Marshall and Elle, asking them to do so, and tried on my own. I finally got through; an officer came over.
He questioned Crikey, who, while I am very proud of how he came right in to tell me about the Creepy Old Guy, he did NOT give me all of the information. So, it is while he's giving his statement to the policeman that I learn:
CRIKEY: And then he asked me the dogs' names.
Wait a fucking minute. WHAT? I do that slow turn to the boy, and ask:
"He spoke to you???"
For the record, I did not lose my calm. I did not interrupt his narrative further. However, what has started as a mild case of berserker rage was slowly escalating to something a little more potent.
Let's speed up this part:
There was a man. He had a camera. He took pictures of our dogs, our house. He talked to my child (thinking he was unsupervised). He left when I came out. Officer found footprints adjacent to our fence, and a trail leading back to the condos 150 yards from our property.
At first, I thought it was our neighbor. Reasoning? He's a nutjob with a history of throwing dog feces at children walking their dogs, aiming for children when he's driving through the neighborhood, taunting dogs (and then calling animal control to complain about barking). He was IDed by our next door neighbors' babysitter as doing the photograph-then-turn-tail-when-confronted act in their yard (though, for all of his faults, it's nice that's he's been exonerated from this one - read on). He's also been suspected of killing a few of the neighborhood cats. Personally, until this incident, my encounters with him have been limited. He left a passive aggressive note on my car about Marshall's parking habits; he's been quite civil to me when I've approached him about our dogs' barking (though he gets quite apoplectic when complaining about our dogs to the neighbors). It seemed the logical place to start.
Now, if it was CNG (Crazy Neighbor Guy), I have to admit, I was not worried about Crikey's safety. He's an ass (with no tolerance for children) but he only lashes out at kids when they directly inconvenience him. My main concern was the possibility that he'd throw poisoned food over the fence, neutralizing the dogs that way.
However, never let it be said that I'm unfair. If it was CNG, I want him nailed to the wall. But if it wasn't...
My mother texted me the next morning, suggesting that I shouldn't let the kids go outside. While I understood her point - the sheer notion of hiding my children and my dogs inside Pissed. Me. Off. This is their home. Marshall's home. My home. Our yard. Our property. I absolutely refuse to be frightened while on it.
I think it's quite telling that, when I announced this situation as my Facebook status, the response from my friends was immediate, outraged and concerned (I really do have the best people EVER in my life) There was also a kind of anticipation of how I would deal with the situation - I have to say I feel very flattered by the absolute confidence everyone had in my ability to take care of the situation...one way or another. To sum it up:
He picked the wrong Bitch to piss off.
As usual, I sent Crikey outback with the dogs when he got home from school. I have a collapsible chair that I keep in my car trunk for the sporting events I attend. I set that up on he back deck. Along with my lapdesk, netbook, glass of seltzer. One last thing...
The expression on Crikey's face was one to remember when I brought out Marshall's 12 gauge rifle. With big eyes, a half smile and a nervous laugh, Crikey asked:
"Uh, mom, don't you think you takin' this a bit too far?" (nervous chuckle)
"NO."
(a little more heh, heh, hehs... and an expression of "are you for freaking real with me?"
There is a fine line between having your children live in terror of their world and instilling in them healthy caution. As intelligent as Crikey is (inconveniently so with matters such as these), a little information would quickly lead to understanding the whole, terrifying picture. So we have, perhaps, erred on the side of too much caution. Now that the situation has come to somewhat of a head...
"Crikey, do we know for a fact that he's not a kidnapper?" I hated pointing it out.
He blinked. He looked away. I saw the flicker of "oh shit, I didn't think of that." He looked back at me.
My son was on the teetering edge of Fear. I was on that same edge with Hate. And then:
He looked at the shotgun. His eyes widened with the understanding that Mom had a gun, she knew how to use it, and she'd kill the shit out of anyone before she let that person take/hurt/kill him or his brother.
He looked back at me, and the biggest grin spread across his face. Fear was gone. Caution was there.
And I had become Han Solo.
Before it seems to the world that I had lost my mind, Ted Nugent style - allow me to point out a couple things.
1 - I had (and have) no intention of harming another human being unless that individual poses and clear and present threat to the safety of my children, Marshall or myself (or other people - you get the point).
2 - The reason I had the 12 gauge out is because it was not only big enough to see from behind our property - it was not loaded. Granted, the .45 in my lap was - but I was working under the concept of the big visible gun working as a prophylactic measure.
3 - Nothing would please me more than to know that it is unnecessary for me to prepare myself for the trauma it would cause me (to say nothing of my kids) if I did have to take the life of another human being. It's easy to act all badass "oh, I'm gonna do (this or that - insert violent act of choice)" - but actually Killing A Person - that is huge. More enormous than the crime statistics would have us believe, far more painful (to the person pulling the trigger) than anyone (who hasn't had to do that) can imagine. For all of my badassery, for all of my willingness to do whatever it takes to protect my children, for all of the humor I used to carry myself through this experience, I dreaded the idea of actually having to do it.
That's right, I said humor. This post hasn't been funny so far...as an apology for that, I shall share the other options that came up through the brainstorming with Marshall and my awesome friends.
The first thing I did was change my profile picture to a cartoon drawing from Brilliant Blogger Extraordinaire Allie Brosh (of Hyperbole and a Half - if you haven't read it, you must start. She is possibly one of the most hilariously brilliant human beings who ever lived). (yeah, I used "brilliant" twice - she deserves both):
Also, the lines from 99 Biker Friends, by Bowling for Soup, also seem helpful:
"Let's get the A-Team, 50 Cent with his bling-bling and a couple of prison guards...and I have 99 Biker Friends, who wanna kick your ass!"
Speaking of the A-Team, the brainstorming went with the theme of "WWMD" - What Would Murdock Do?
Install a nanny cam on the culprit's property with a Internet live feed so we can all tune in and watch HIM. "creepyoldguy.com" maybe?
Install motion detectors that play Hank Williams Jr.'s "A Country Boy Can Survive" as an alarm (specifically the line that goes "I got a shotgun rifle and a four wheel drive and a country boy can survive")
Electrify the fence
Barbed wire
Electric barbed wire
(and since he was CLEARLY banking on our being New England Liberals (which is a realistic assumption for our area) and therefore unarmed:
Hanging a sign on the outside of the fence (where his footprints were found) that reads:
HEY BITCH. YEAH, YOU. TURN AROUND. SEE THAT TREE? (said tree will have a sign that says "YEAH, THIS ONE") THAT TREE IS WITHIN THE RANGE OF MY SHOTGUN. I GREW UP IN THE SOUTH AND "HE NEEDED KILLIN'" IS A VALID DEFENSE THERE :)
It turns out that CNG wasn't home at all that day.
In seemingly unrelated news: over the past year or so, there's been a car slowly driving up and down our street. Not every day - or even every week. Just often enough that even I noticed it. I figured it was city related (many folks around here use personal vehicles even when doing city work).
Yesterday, we took the boys to see the Harlem Globetrotters. On the drive back, Marshall got a call from the police, letting us know that they'd been called about a car driving slowly on our road.
Turns out our next door neighbor, Ava, had seen a man walking around outside her yard and toward mine. She called to him, he slunk behind a tree, and then, as her husband went to follow him, he left...back to the condos. They called the police.
Shortly after that, the car was back, cruising our street. Ava walked into the road and stopped him. Same jacket, same hat as the man she had just seen minutes before.
She asked him if he was lost, if he needed help - that kind of thing. His response was civil, though not pleasant. However, when Ava pointed out that she recognized him, he smirked and said that he didn't know what she was talking about, and that she couldn't prove anything anyway.
AVA: (I'm paraphrasing) Actually, I recognize you. There are at least two children who will recognize you. Also, my babysitter not only can identify you, but would be happy to testify against you.
That did make him pause...for a bit. Then he identified himself as the President of the Condo Association and started going on about the evil of my dogs (why he needs pictures of their yard because of my dogs is still unclear to me). Since she knew it was only a matter of minutes before the police showed up, she kept him talking. When he got to the part where he was going to go to the police and complain to the mayor, the patrol car pulled up. Very nice timing, I have to say.
Over the course of that conversation, he learned two things:
1 - He had underestimated the opposition: this neighborhood is full of law enforcement, fire department, to say nothing of the ex-Marines and Airborne Rangers.
2 - He would be arrested if he came on our property again
That is where the situation stands as of this writing. Ava's put up her no trespassing sign. I'm going to make one or two. I'm going to clean up the language a bit, since there are kids back there, but my signs are going to be pretty creative.
And I want him to know about the shotgun.
The link for Hyperbole and a Half is:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/
my favorite intro to Hyperbole and a Half is this one, though:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/02/boyfriend-doesnt-have-ebola-probably.html
my favorite intro to Hyperbole and a Half is this one, though:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/02/boyfriend-doesnt-have-ebola-probably.html
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Norman Reedus and the Holy Grail, Part 1
I really wanted this to be a St. Patrick's Day post, since the events described took place one year ago today (and for other, soon to be obvious, reasons). However, to do the story justice, I had to choose either to inundate you all with the LONGEST POST YET...or divide it up. Alas, division it is. Hey, this just means that we have EXTRA March 17ths, right?
There are four types of women in the world:
1 - women who've not seen the Boondock Saints movies
2 - women who didn't love the Boondock Saints movies
3 - women who love Connor (played by Sean Patrick Flanery)
4 - women who love Murphy (played by Norman Reedus)
I used to belong to that first group. I completely lack anything that approaches understanding for the second group (admittedly, it's quite small). As for #s 3 and 4?
As usual, when faced with the opportunity to do/watch something new, I balked. Also as usual, I was given several gentle nudge opportunities to watch it. While I don't dislike action movies, this one looked like some overly violent what-the-hell-ever movie. It didn't help that people kept comparing it to Pulp Fiction (another movie that, once I finally saw it, merely confirmed my suspicion that the one scene worth watching was VERY early). No thank you.
Finally, Ms. J got fed up. She sent me the DVD, with a note on it:
"Don't fucking call me again until you've watched it. Love, Ms. J"
Fine. I'll put it on. Marshall wanted to watch it anyway. But I won't like it. Picked up my cross stitching.
And then - two exceptionally attractive men (with rakish Irish brogues) go on the most engagingly awesome vigilante killing spree ever. They're not even trying to be sexy - the movie really is a guy's guy blow'em up flick...with, um, benefits.
For the record, I'm a big, loyal #4. I am almost silly over Norman Reedus, aka Murphy MacManus.
One of the first things a newcomer to my family will notice - we are a movie watching people. Some people have comfort foods, some turn to the drink - and while I thoroughly enjoy both of those activities - the most consistent reassurance offered to me from the shallow end of the Pool of Life is the Favorite Movie.
I don't think that it's unique to me to be caught up in a wonderful film - to allow myself to forget who and where I am in exchange for a couple hours of escape. Especially during that first viewing, I allow myself complete absorption into the experience.
When watching the Boondock Saints - something very rare happened. There came a scene that hit home SO powerfully, I was jolted from my experience. Feet that were propped up dropped to the floor. Jaw fell open. Arms started flailing in a bizarre mix of waving and pointing as I said:
"OH MY GOD, THAT'S ME AND MS. J... WE WOULD BE NUTS ENOUGH TO DO THAT."
(followed closely by a slight disquiet that, of all of the buddy flicks that remind me of my best friend...it was one about vigilante killers...surely just a coincidence...)
The scene? Connor and Murph are crawling through a ventilation system, on their way to "drop in" on the crime lords they've come to kill. For most people, this would be a time for nerves, or for an extra effort to cooperate with each other. For them, well, they're brothers and they're irritated with each other. So when Connor finally gets annoyed enough with Murph, he punctuates his sentence with a quick pop on Murph's head with a flashlight. Murph expresses his displeasure by punching his brother, and they start wrestling in the air shaft.
We would do this. We have the (possibly justified) confidence in ourselves to act with complete disregard for the danger inherent in any situation if we have to bang something out between us first.
Which means - not only is this movie funny. Not only are they sexy. But ho.ly. crap...it's a flick about Ms. J and myself.
Marshall joked that it must suck that I don't get to "be" (identify with) the character I love...for while I dearly love Murphy, I most certainly am Connor.
Undaunted, I quickly retorted:
"Oh, no. It just means that these are qualities I love so much, gender doesn't matter."
Onward go the next 7 years. I've bought this movie many times (since I keep giving it away). I've converted many people to the Flock, as it's called (Trekkies, Mysties, Brown Coats...the Flock). We lived in a constant (if low intensity) state of hope for a sequel.
Then. In 2009, All Saints Day is released. Since the first movie never made it to theaters (they wore Navy peacoats and it was due to release right after the Columbine tragedy), the sequel was only a partial release. We did not get to see it in the theaters (I. Hang. My. Head. And. Cry.).
However, both Ms. J and I are Facebook "friends" (so to speak) with Troy Duffy. It's March 2010 and I get a call from her.
MS. J: So you're going, right? (you lucky bitch)
ME: To what?
MS. J: What do you think? The Boondock Saints Party in Boston? He's going to be there, you know.
ME: Weeeeellll, Boston's a couple hours away...I'd have to get a babysitter...
MS. J: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??? GET A DAMN SITTER. ARE YOU SERIOUSLY NOT GOING TO GO? NO. YOU'RE GOING. GODDAMN STRAIGHT YOU ARE.
ME: Okay, fine. I'll look into it. I'll call Elle, and see if she wants to go too.
MS. J: (growling) You do that.
To celebrate the 10 year anniversary of the Boondock Saints (whose action starts on St. Patrick's Day, in Boston) and the DVD release of All Saints Day, they threw the party at the Paradise Club on Commenwealth Ave. in Boston. In attendance were the bands whose songs were featured on the soundtrack, Troy Duffy, Bob Marley (Det. Greenly), Daniel DeSanto (Ottilio Panza), David Della Rocco (who pretty much plays himself)...and...(deep breath)...Norman Reedus. Sean Patrick Flanery was not there (the one thing keeping Ms. J from having a complete meltdown over her inability to attend).
But Murphy was going to be there. It took Ms. J delicately making that point for me to digest it.
Now I am well aware that Murphy is not real. He's a fictional character and it's actually a fellow named Norman Reedus that I could possibly meet. However, I also know (astrology geek that I am) that Reedus is a Capricorn...and I love Capricorns. A lot. While this has no real meaning for most of my life, it's nice to know that, when I meet the man, I'll be a little star struck, but I'll like him just fine (none of that, "aw man, he's actually an asshole" business). I let myself get invested in going.
To fast forward: Elle is HELL YEAH on board, Stella has Crikey, Johnny's with Kermit and Marshall agreed to come home early so I could stay out late. We are ON. OUR. WAY.
There are four types of women in the world:
1 - women who've not seen the Boondock Saints movies
2 - women who didn't love the Boondock Saints movies
3 - women who love Connor (played by Sean Patrick Flanery)
4 - women who love Murphy (played by Norman Reedus)
I used to belong to that first group. I completely lack anything that approaches understanding for the second group (admittedly, it's quite small). As for #s 3 and 4?
As usual, when faced with the opportunity to do/watch something new, I balked. Also as usual, I was given several gentle nudge opportunities to watch it. While I don't dislike action movies, this one looked like some overly violent what-the-hell-ever movie. It didn't help that people kept comparing it to Pulp Fiction (another movie that, once I finally saw it, merely confirmed my suspicion that the one scene worth watching was VERY early). No thank you.
Finally, Ms. J got fed up. She sent me the DVD, with a note on it:
"Don't fucking call me again until you've watched it. Love, Ms. J"
Fine. I'll put it on. Marshall wanted to watch it anyway. But I won't like it. Picked up my cross stitching.
And then - two exceptionally attractive men (with rakish Irish brogues) go on the most engagingly awesome vigilante killing spree ever. They're not even trying to be sexy - the movie really is a guy's guy blow'em up flick...with, um, benefits.
For the record, I'm a big, loyal #4. I am almost silly over Norman Reedus, aka Murphy MacManus.
One of the first things a newcomer to my family will notice - we are a movie watching people. Some people have comfort foods, some turn to the drink - and while I thoroughly enjoy both of those activities - the most consistent reassurance offered to me from the shallow end of the Pool of Life is the Favorite Movie.
I don't think that it's unique to me to be caught up in a wonderful film - to allow myself to forget who and where I am in exchange for a couple hours of escape. Especially during that first viewing, I allow myself complete absorption into the experience.
When watching the Boondock Saints - something very rare happened. There came a scene that hit home SO powerfully, I was jolted from my experience. Feet that were propped up dropped to the floor. Jaw fell open. Arms started flailing in a bizarre mix of waving and pointing as I said:
"OH MY GOD, THAT'S ME AND MS. J... WE WOULD BE NUTS ENOUGH TO DO THAT."
(followed closely by a slight disquiet that, of all of the buddy flicks that remind me of my best friend...it was one about vigilante killers...surely just a coincidence...)
The scene? Connor and Murph are crawling through a ventilation system, on their way to "drop in" on the crime lords they've come to kill. For most people, this would be a time for nerves, or for an extra effort to cooperate with each other. For them, well, they're brothers and they're irritated with each other. So when Connor finally gets annoyed enough with Murph, he punctuates his sentence with a quick pop on Murph's head with a flashlight. Murph expresses his displeasure by punching his brother, and they start wrestling in the air shaft.
We would do this. We have the (possibly justified) confidence in ourselves to act with complete disregard for the danger inherent in any situation if we have to bang something out between us first.
Which means - not only is this movie funny. Not only are they sexy. But ho.ly. crap...it's a flick about Ms. J and myself.
Marshall joked that it must suck that I don't get to "be" (identify with) the character I love...for while I dearly love Murphy, I most certainly am Connor.
Undaunted, I quickly retorted:
"Oh, no. It just means that these are qualities I love so much, gender doesn't matter."
Onward go the next 7 years. I've bought this movie many times (since I keep giving it away). I've converted many people to the Flock, as it's called (Trekkies, Mysties, Brown Coats...the Flock). We lived in a constant (if low intensity) state of hope for a sequel.
Then. In 2009, All Saints Day is released. Since the first movie never made it to theaters (they wore Navy peacoats and it was due to release right after the Columbine tragedy), the sequel was only a partial release. We did not get to see it in the theaters (I. Hang. My. Head. And. Cry.).
However, both Ms. J and I are Facebook "friends" (so to speak) with Troy Duffy. It's March 2010 and I get a call from her.
MS. J: So you're going, right? (you lucky bitch)
ME: To what?
MS. J: What do you think? The Boondock Saints Party in Boston? He's going to be there, you know.
ME: Weeeeellll, Boston's a couple hours away...I'd have to get a babysitter...
MS. J: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??? GET A DAMN SITTER. ARE YOU SERIOUSLY NOT GOING TO GO? NO. YOU'RE GOING. GODDAMN STRAIGHT YOU ARE.
ME: Okay, fine. I'll look into it. I'll call Elle, and see if she wants to go too.
MS. J: (growling) You do that.
To celebrate the 10 year anniversary of the Boondock Saints (whose action starts on St. Patrick's Day, in Boston) and the DVD release of All Saints Day, they threw the party at the Paradise Club on Commenwealth Ave. in Boston. In attendance were the bands whose songs were featured on the soundtrack, Troy Duffy, Bob Marley (Det. Greenly), Daniel DeSanto (Ottilio Panza), David Della Rocco (who pretty much plays himself)...and...(deep breath)...Norman Reedus. Sean Patrick Flanery was not there (the one thing keeping Ms. J from having a complete meltdown over her inability to attend).
But Murphy was going to be there. It took Ms. J delicately making that point for me to digest it.
Now I am well aware that Murphy is not real. He's a fictional character and it's actually a fellow named Norman Reedus that I could possibly meet. However, I also know (astrology geek that I am) that Reedus is a Capricorn...and I love Capricorns. A lot. While this has no real meaning for most of my life, it's nice to know that, when I meet the man, I'll be a little star struck, but I'll like him just fine (none of that, "aw man, he's actually an asshole" business). I let myself get invested in going.
To fast forward: Elle is HELL YEAH on board, Stella has Crikey, Johnny's with Kermit and Marshall agreed to come home early so I could stay out late. We are ON. OUR. WAY.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Youth Soccer Lockout
Crikey is an avid soccer player. He and his peers are now far enough along in their training (development) that the games are less like those throbbing bands that marched across the Bugs Bunny cartoons, clumped together with instruments bouncing everywhere and more like... soccer games. Finally, attending his sporting events has transformed from maternal obligation (I love watching him play) to an experience I enjoy in its own right. I even like going to practices, though I rarely do, since Kermit really can't swing them (it ain't pretty).
However, I'm still ADD, still not a "HUA" sporty mom and therefore remembered to register the boy for the first practice of the spring season...2 hours before said practice. Scramble for keys. Put dinner on hold...crap, crap, crap...
To set the stage further, practice was held at the Middle School since the soccer fields are currently under 2 feet of snow and it's about 15 degrees out.
I called Johnny, our next door neighbor, and asked him if he could hang with Kermit for the 20 minutes it would take me to drop off Crikey, pay the fee and come home. Understanding gentleman that he is, he agreed.
Between the boys' winter breaks (which did NOT overlap), their independent cases of food poisoning, Mopping Days and errands - I was running ragged. When this worn down, my speech patterns become something like Yoda meets Hammy (Over the Hedge) meets a talkative Minion (Despicable Me).
It did not help that Crikey decided to go with sports pants and a t-shirt - no coat. Eh hem. 15 DEGREES.
"YOU. WITH THE ARMS. CLOTHES ON THEM. WEAR. NOW. IT'S COLDNESS. WEARING CLOTHES. NOW." This witty repartee was punctuated by my spastic movements: grab purse, grab phone, where's my iPod? etc., etc..
Now Johnny's mother, Elle, is one of my very best friends; she and I are also each others' favorite drinking buddies (a post of its own). Therefore, this young man has a fairly decent idea of my drinking habits (which could be worse). In this frenzy, the absurdity of how my behavior must look hit me. I stopped, started laughing, looked at Johnny and joked:
"I swear I've not been drinking." (never mind the laughter that's now bringing tears to my eyes) "Honestly." And then I walked into the door. Thud. Sigh. "REALLY."
When we moved in, Johnny was about 6 years old. I've seen him grow from a sweet little kid to a level headed teenager (apparently, they DO exist). He is also the King of Last Minute Babysitting. We would be lost without him.
Naturally, he chose this moment to go all Smart Ass Teenager. In reply to my "honestlys" and "reallys"...big grin, through chuckles:
"YEAH. OKAY." (snarkle, chuckle) Humph.
Unbelievably, we arrived at the Middle School in plenty of time.
A couple words about this train wreck of architectural schizophrenia, from the mouth of Dr. Egon Spengler:
"This building should be condemned. There's serious metal fatigue in all the load-bearing members. The wiring is substandard; it's completely inadequate for our power needs, and the neighborhood is like a demilitarized zone."
It's also a multi-leveled maze with at least 100 exits.
I once worked in this creepy old ramshackle as a tutor. Tutors were expected to park in the rear lot, far from the main entrance/parking lot. Without thinking, I parked in my usual spot. Door number 1? Locked. 2? Locked. 3? Locked. Aaaand so on.
15 degrees, and in my rush, I'm in jeans, a sweatshirt and Crocs. Irony and all.
The last door before the hall that connects the school to the YMCA is unlocked. With plenty of parking - but no matter. It's warm inside and I see my friends Stella and Traicy.
Like my first meeting with Elle, the description of my friendship with Stella is a post of its own. For now, suffice to say that she is a charming blend of quintessential Social Butterfly (in the very best sense of the word) and Sports Enthusiast (there's more, of course, but I want to do her justice...)
As for Traicy, she has the kind of positive energy about her that makes any room she enters a cheerful, happy place. I met her at one of Crikey's soccer tournaments and she was very amused by the bag of tricks I had brought to battle boredom. We hit it off so well that it didn't take long for me to forget the bag in the midst of the continual laughter. From obligation to enjoyment, to looking forward to soccer...? I have decided that I will only consent to assume the label of "Soccer Mom" if our sons are on the same team. Forever.
Now, I thought the adventure of getting there was good enough for a story, so I told it. I told it with the genuine (if naive) belief that, upon leaving, I'd go straight home, make dinner and be done for the night (Marshall said he'd do pick up).
Little did I know.
Conscious that I've left Johnny longer than I intended, and feeling very smug about the brainstorm of leaving via a door closer to my car, I take my leave, cleverly following the exit signs to a more logical choice.
Aha. Exit C6. I open the door, glance out. I can see my car - sweet! And just as I realize that I'm looking at my car through a 20 foot high, padlocked cyclone fence, I hear:
CLICK.
I'm locked out, ironically enough, on the fucking soccer field. With 2 feet of snow, 15 degrees, complete nightfall and no one to hear my screams.
I tried squeezing though the padlocked gate...which would have worked, if I weighed 80 lbs. Which I do not. While I have a bottom that only shows up in photo negatives, the upper half of my person is less Twiggy and more Dolly. I walked back to the door and called Stella. Since the practice was down in the bowels of the building, the lack of answer was no surprise. Where call signal fails, text often works. I texted both her and Traicy.
Still running late, I call my house to explain. The machine picked up.
ME: Hey Johnny, it's me. I'm sorry I'm running late, but I've locked myself outside of the school. I'm in the soccer field. I can see my car...
(at this point, the hilarity hits me and I start laughing)
ME: (choking out words) I can't fit through the padlock! I'll try climbing the fence, I guess! (gasp, wheeze)...
Behind me, the door opens. I see Traicy, eyes watering, bent at the waist, holding onto the knob to keep herself standing...and I lose it.
We are both laughing so hard, it took me a good 15 seconds to realize I was still on the phone.
When I pulled into the driveway, I saw Marshall's truck. Apparently, I called during the changing of the guard, and neither of them heard the message.
I walked in and reached for my apron. Pour a glass of wine; finish making dinner - a good plan...that never happened.
In his defense, my husband did hand me a half pound of penuche fudge before he said:
"You know, you worked at the Middle School, and I've never even been there. It would make more sense if you went to pick up Crikey. Do you mind?"
Three nights later, Elle came over for dinner. As I finished the story, she laughed and said, "so that's what he meant!"
"What "who" meant?"
"When Johnny came home the other night, he turned to me and said: 'Just so you know, Megan wasn't drinking.'"
POST SCRIPT: for the record, the neighborhood around the Middle School isn't quite a demilitarized zone - just not my first choice for a nighttime solitary hang out.
However, I'm still ADD, still not a "HUA" sporty mom and therefore remembered to register the boy for the first practice of the spring season...2 hours before said practice. Scramble for keys. Put dinner on hold...crap, crap, crap...
To set the stage further, practice was held at the Middle School since the soccer fields are currently under 2 feet of snow and it's about 15 degrees out.
I called Johnny, our next door neighbor, and asked him if he could hang with Kermit for the 20 minutes it would take me to drop off Crikey, pay the fee and come home. Understanding gentleman that he is, he agreed.
Between the boys' winter breaks (which did NOT overlap), their independent cases of food poisoning, Mopping Days and errands - I was running ragged. When this worn down, my speech patterns become something like Yoda meets Hammy (Over the Hedge) meets a talkative Minion (Despicable Me).
It did not help that Crikey decided to go with sports pants and a t-shirt - no coat. Eh hem. 15 DEGREES.
"YOU. WITH THE ARMS. CLOTHES ON THEM. WEAR. NOW. IT'S COLDNESS. WEARING CLOTHES. NOW." This witty repartee was punctuated by my spastic movements: grab purse, grab phone, where's my iPod? etc., etc..
Now Johnny's mother, Elle, is one of my very best friends; she and I are also each others' favorite drinking buddies (a post of its own). Therefore, this young man has a fairly decent idea of my drinking habits (which could be worse). In this frenzy, the absurdity of how my behavior must look hit me. I stopped, started laughing, looked at Johnny and joked:
"I swear I've not been drinking." (never mind the laughter that's now bringing tears to my eyes) "Honestly." And then I walked into the door. Thud. Sigh. "REALLY."
When we moved in, Johnny was about 6 years old. I've seen him grow from a sweet little kid to a level headed teenager (apparently, they DO exist). He is also the King of Last Minute Babysitting. We would be lost without him.
Naturally, he chose this moment to go all Smart Ass Teenager. In reply to my "honestlys" and "reallys"...big grin, through chuckles:
"YEAH. OKAY." (snarkle, chuckle) Humph.
Unbelievably, we arrived at the Middle School in plenty of time.
A couple words about this train wreck of architectural schizophrenia, from the mouth of Dr. Egon Spengler:
"This building should be condemned. There's serious metal fatigue in all the load-bearing members. The wiring is substandard; it's completely inadequate for our power needs, and the neighborhood is like a demilitarized zone."
It's also a multi-leveled maze with at least 100 exits.
I once worked in this creepy old ramshackle as a tutor. Tutors were expected to park in the rear lot, far from the main entrance/parking lot. Without thinking, I parked in my usual spot. Door number 1? Locked. 2? Locked. 3? Locked. Aaaand so on.
15 degrees, and in my rush, I'm in jeans, a sweatshirt and Crocs. Irony and all.
The last door before the hall that connects the school to the YMCA is unlocked. With plenty of parking - but no matter. It's warm inside and I see my friends Stella and Traicy.
Like my first meeting with Elle, the description of my friendship with Stella is a post of its own. For now, suffice to say that she is a charming blend of quintessential Social Butterfly (in the very best sense of the word) and Sports Enthusiast (there's more, of course, but I want to do her justice...)
As for Traicy, she has the kind of positive energy about her that makes any room she enters a cheerful, happy place. I met her at one of Crikey's soccer tournaments and she was very amused by the bag of tricks I had brought to battle boredom. We hit it off so well that it didn't take long for me to forget the bag in the midst of the continual laughter. From obligation to enjoyment, to looking forward to soccer...? I have decided that I will only consent to assume the label of "Soccer Mom" if our sons are on the same team. Forever.
Now, I thought the adventure of getting there was good enough for a story, so I told it. I told it with the genuine (if naive) belief that, upon leaving, I'd go straight home, make dinner and be done for the night (Marshall said he'd do pick up).
Little did I know.
Conscious that I've left Johnny longer than I intended, and feeling very smug about the brainstorm of leaving via a door closer to my car, I take my leave, cleverly following the exit signs to a more logical choice.
Aha. Exit C6. I open the door, glance out. I can see my car - sweet! And just as I realize that I'm looking at my car through a 20 foot high, padlocked cyclone fence, I hear:
CLICK.
I'm locked out, ironically enough, on the fucking soccer field. With 2 feet of snow, 15 degrees, complete nightfall and no one to hear my screams.
I tried squeezing though the padlocked gate...which would have worked, if I weighed 80 lbs. Which I do not. While I have a bottom that only shows up in photo negatives, the upper half of my person is less Twiggy and more Dolly. I walked back to the door and called Stella. Since the practice was down in the bowels of the building, the lack of answer was no surprise. Where call signal fails, text often works. I texted both her and Traicy.
Still running late, I call my house to explain. The machine picked up.
ME: Hey Johnny, it's me. I'm sorry I'm running late, but I've locked myself outside of the school. I'm in the soccer field. I can see my car...
(at this point, the hilarity hits me and I start laughing)
ME: (choking out words) I can't fit through the padlock! I'll try climbing the fence, I guess! (gasp, wheeze)...
Behind me, the door opens. I see Traicy, eyes watering, bent at the waist, holding onto the knob to keep herself standing...and I lose it.
We are both laughing so hard, it took me a good 15 seconds to realize I was still on the phone.
When I pulled into the driveway, I saw Marshall's truck. Apparently, I called during the changing of the guard, and neither of them heard the message.
I walked in and reached for my apron. Pour a glass of wine; finish making dinner - a good plan...that never happened.
In his defense, my husband did hand me a half pound of penuche fudge before he said:
"You know, you worked at the Middle School, and I've never even been there. It would make more sense if you went to pick up Crikey. Do you mind?"
Three nights later, Elle came over for dinner. As I finished the story, she laughed and said, "so that's what he meant!"
"What "who" meant?"
"When Johnny came home the other night, he turned to me and said: 'Just so you know, Megan wasn't drinking.'"
POST SCRIPT: for the record, the neighborhood around the Middle School isn't quite a demilitarized zone - just not my first choice for a nighttime solitary hang out.
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