tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57971314501220353522024-03-21T13:27:12.081-07:00Round Plump Appledaily non fictional events of my life.Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-57808677797387643312014-05-13T05:46:00.000-07:002015-03-16T12:06:27.922-07:00Be Seeing You<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It was a love based on glances, first electric impressions. She thought he would change for her. He presumed she would fix his problems. </span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Both were wrong. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Over bar food and whiskey, they discussed their flaws, best friends, fears, joys, loves, memories--how they wanted to change for the better. And that evening, he gave her heart back to her. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
He vowed to quit cigarettes when he drank. She warned him of her temper. He complimented her pearls. To him, they were adorable. She confessed she had a picture of him from years ago. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Both of them knew the underlying attraction was attributed to time. After all, it was fleeting: he would easily be moving on and she, she was moving...away. From him. They merrily toasted their flaws and let the brown liquor work its twisted magic. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
It was at Forget Me Not, a place he grew to call home, that they decided the night would be best finished running through the rain back to his apartment. Theirs was a gorgeously doomed pairing from the start and neither of them seemed to care. Kurt Vonnegut's apt description of being trapped in a moment with no explanation as to why could have been penned for this precise evening. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
May I ask a small favor of you? Try and remember a sliver of who I was while we were together. Me being one of many was never my concern--but it would be wonderful knowing that for the brief time we shared, your life became a little more colorful--more alive.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
You gave me so much and have made me a better version of the person I hope to be. Thank you for giving me tough love. For being a teacher. For being thunderous, desperate, angry and crass. For being compassionate, gentle, kind and caring.<br />
<br /></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">When we do run into each other again, my greeting will be warm and affectionate. It will be a joy to learn of your new adventures and current trysts.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Ours was an ephemeral romance, my Sleepless City--yet it was the kind of affair which will be remembered always--with a smirk and not a single regret. Thank you for giving me my heart back--while it was yours only for a short while, it was yours wholly and completely.</span>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-38034392072858321182014-02-09T09:38:00.000-08:002014-02-09T09:38:39.609-08:00Jamaican Joe<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
It started with a flat tire. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
About five years ago, I was heading to an interview. Before I even made it off my block realized I had a flat tire. Awesome. Ditched the car, nailed the interview and headed back to solve the tire situation. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Luckily for me, just three blocks down my street across Dot Ave was a service station. I walked over there, explained my tire problem and a sweet man named Joe offered to help bring my dud of a car in to the station. In the three blocks to my apartment, I learned that he along with his soft lulling accent was from Jamaica, he lives with two of his cousins with and had a sweet tooth. Joe was so kind through the whole process and I was so relieved to have the car back on the road in a mere day, I wanted to do something nice for him when I picked the car up. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
The following day, one of my best friends was visiting from New York. We'll call her May. I explained how sweet Joe had been and that I wanted to do something nice for him. She happily obliged and we headed over to the gas station after buying an apple pie from the local Irish bakery. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I walked in to the garage, May sort of trailing behind (this was my gift, after all) and I tentatively asked if Joe was around. One of the other guys called for him, and he rolled out from under a car he was fixing. I told him how grateful I was for his help, and since he liked sweets, here's an apple pie. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
See, in my head, he had already done a kindness for me, so I was trying to do the same. End scene. But no. Jamaican Joe wanted to thank ME for thanking HIM. Oy. The never ending cycle of thanks. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
As he was accepting the box of pie, exposing his 3 gold teeth with a huge grin, he asked: OOOOOOO MAH GOODNISSSS. DEES IS SO NIIICE! WOOOOD YOU LYKE SUM GOOOOOOD JAH-MAY-KHEN WEEEEED? </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Before I could even register what he was offering, the once silent May popped out from behind me and happily exclaimed: YUP!</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Seemingly out of no where, May now was only two inches behind me and had already introduced herself, where she lived--hell--probably what her astrological sign was. I turned my gaze at her with the kind of look that says: what the fuck situation did you just get us in to? May casually ignored my angered glare and proceeded to broker this exchange of...gifts. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
May's point of view was simply to be able to endure the upcoming weekend. She was visiting home, staying with her parents, visiting her 80 year old grandmother, (that still drove a Trans-Am and wore five inch stilettos) and would be dealing with questions like: when are you getting married-why aren't you doing this-you're doing this wrong-you need to help with the yard work. If a kind man from Jamaica was offering to give her a brief escape from her family, she was gonna take it. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Before I knew it, May was writing MY phone number down on the pie box for Jamaican Joe. IM GONNA CALL YOOOOO AFTAH MAI SHEEEEFT EEES OOOOOOVAH. DENNN YOU CAN DRAI-VE TOOOO MAI HOOOOME AND AYE'LL GEEEEVE YOOOOU SUMMMM GRAAAEETE JAH-MEE-KHEN HERB. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Awesome, May. Fucking awesome. We don't know this man, don't know where he lives, so sure! Let's willingly give him MY personal contact information, drive over to HIS house that he shares with two other men that we do not know and accept illegal (at the time) drugs that could very well be laced with motor oil and bleach. Sounds like a fun and safe endeavor to me. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Jamaican Joe calls us later that afternoon. May and I hop in the car and head over to the address Joe gives us. It should be noted that this was Memorial Day weekend, and the weather was gorgeous--the sky so blue and piercing it almost hurt to look at. Memorial Day weekend with 75 degree weather--a weekend full of outdoor grilling and bike riding, right? Then why dear Christ was Joe's neighborhood seemingly abandoned? Where were all the children playing? Where were the dishes of food in aluminum trays? Oh, that's right. The neighborhood we were in was probably the most crime ridden area in all of Boston. The week before a six year old boy was gunned down while riding his bike. In. Broad. Daylight. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
We get out of the car, ring Jamaican Joe's buzzer and wait on the porch. A man about 6'2'' wearing a grey tank top exposing his jacked arms and track pants answers the door. Clearly, this was one of Jamaican Joe's cousins. (I can only imagine what was going through his head when he opens his front door and sees me and May--two white chicks wearing pearl earrings.)</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I explained that Joe had given us his home address earlier. Jamaican Joe's cousin graciously welcomes us in to his home and we politely decline. (In hindsight, that may have been the wisest decision of both our young lives.) Jamaican Joe comes to the door and gives me a huge hug, a Jamaican Flag to hang in my car (which I did proudly until that car was sold) and the little gift from Jamaica he was so intent on offering us. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
What began with a flat tire ended with a lot of laughter and a new friend from Jamaica. Happy Memorial Day Weekend indeed. </div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-90025934100040092013-07-15T20:02:00.001-07:002013-07-15T20:21:53.108-07:00I Swear I Will<br />
I love swearing. It genuinely thrills me. It helps me emote aggression, joy, sadness, anger. It was not always so; my parents raised my sister and me to say please and thank you...and when I heard my older sister say: shut up, Margaret, I defiantly and experimentally used the phrase on my mother one Sunday morning before church. She was facing the sink, asked me something, and I told my very own mother to shut up. She deftly spun around on her heels and without me realizing what was happening, her hand was imprinted on my cheek for a good 2 hours. Which was (in my estimation and opinion) completely warranted.<br />
<div>
<br />
I swore occasionally throughout high school with friends...and when I was a legal adult (all of 18) my friend and I were practicing a dance we made up (I know. I can't. Even.) in my family's den, my mother reading in a chair. Mid way through said routine, I messed up a step, and exclaimed: FUCK!<br />
<div>
<br />
My mother looked up from her, book, eyes smoldering with anger and fury, slammed the book shut and STOOOORRRRMED off to the porch. About an hour later, I meekly entered her room of disdain and said Mom, I'm sorry...I...it just...came out. Her response? (And, as I'm writing this, I'm giggling in disbelief) I just didn't think I raised my daughters to speak like that. To which I sarcastically giggled and exclaimed: have YOU ever said that word? My mother then erupted, as if the depths of hell and heaven conspired together, and her voice managed to drop, like, 70 octaves to rumble out: THAT'S NOT THE POINT, MARGARET. As I recall, she didn't speak to me for about 2 days thereafter.<br />
<div>
<br />
From then on, various phrases crept into my everyday vernacular. Tripping up or down stairs: Shit! Stubbing my toe: Goddamn it! Math equations I didn't understand: What the shit? <br />
<br />
I do think because I was practically forbidden to swear growing up, it serves as a current form of release.<br />
<div>
<br />
I have been reprimanded, criticized and demeaned for my use of profanity. You know what I say to that?<br />
<div>
<br />
Fuck that. <br />
<br />
I am educated, creative, positive. If you asked me right now to recite Shakespeare, I could. If you asked me why I love Charles Dickens and John Irving so much, I would tell you. And you know what? It still doesn't change one fact: I can use whatever language I so choose. And whatever condescending bullshit I receive masked as kind advice to curb my language only propels me further. It only makes me feel a deeper commitment to use whatever language I feel I must to express my thoughts and emotions. You know why? Because I can. And I will. It's each person's prerogative (at least in non-3rd world countries) to voice their opinion in which ever way they deem most appropriate and not fear punishment. I exercise that right to the fullest extent.<br />
<div>
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to tell some kid to shut the fuck up if they're screaming next to me on the subway. (Though I do imagine doing it sometimes...but then the image of the mother mauling me appears in my head and I choose to just turn my music up louder.)<br />
<div>
<br />
I consider language a privilege, a shield, a weapon, a tool. I've earned my right to execute sentences (verbal and written) in whatever manner I choose. I'm glad I was taught to understand the value of words. <br />
<br />
Just whatever you do, for fuck's sake: don't say shut up to your mother.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-57619125449853901412013-06-30T09:51:00.001-07:002014-04-21T15:40:58.349-07:00Slow and Steady Wins the Race<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">I was brought up in a Catholic house hold and each night before bed I said the Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be with my father. My parents taught us to be respectful, work hard and always--above all--be kind to others. </span><br />
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
My small existence in my small town just outside of Boston was sheltered enough that I figured everyone outside my family, my town, my state was raised the same way. At 13 years old, while walking with my oldest friend to the movie theater--a jeep wrangler drove by filled with hormone infested teenage boys. The jeep slowed down and a glass bottle was hurled in our direction while one of the cowardly passengers yelled: FAGGOT!!!!</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
My friend and I looked at each other and awkwardly pretended that the past 30 seconds didn't happen. I was filled with a mixture of confusion and anger: wait, what? ....this is MY friend next to me. If I would never try to assault you, why would you do the same to me or my friend? I can only imagine what he felt as the insult and object was directly aimed towards him. It was the first real instance of prejudice I had encountered; soon, I realized, that my friend walking next to me in a heated silence probably had endured this for much of his young life. </div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
It's never crossed my mind to care about the sexuality of others. Even at a young age, I didn't see the big deal. Clearly sexuality is a highly sensitive topic-but-I've found that those that are most vocal about the abomination of two females or two males or transgender people openly caring for each other are those that are hiding behind the mask of religion and moral righteousness. </div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Kindness to others. I take that very seriously. Laws have been instituted (and some, thankfully, FINALLY repealed) telling my best friends that they are less. They are not equal. I have more rights than the friends I split Oreos with after school in 2nd grade. Nights spent giggling at sleep-overs as children. We laughed the same. We consumed the same oxygen. Yet because I am a woman, and I happen to have been born feeling a biological attraction to a man and not a woman, I can stay by my spouse's side in a hospital, and my friends cannot. What kind of fucked up bullshit is that? </div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I certainly respect people's opinions to disagree with me. It is something altogether different when people start voting for laws and political leaders that would instantly create two classes of humans in this country. Why is it such a big deal how people like to have sex? Why does such an intimate and loving act between people (and sometimes not intimate and not loving...but just straight up enjoyable) have any place to be discussed on a judicial level? What right does that piece of trash in pearls Michele Bachman have to do with anyone's sex life? Her DOMA Repeal reaction enraged me.</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">"This decision is one that is profound because the Supreme Court not only attacked our Constitution today, they not only attacked the equal protection rights of every citizen under our Constitution, they attacked something that they have no jurisdiction over whatsoever, the foundational unit of our society, which is marriage,"</span></span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Really? Wasn't less than 100 years ago that an amendment to our glorious and all binding Constitution gave YOU the right to have a say? Less than 100 years ago, you neanderthal, an amendment was created so that YOU could step up to a microphone and slander this country's ability to recognize the need for change. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We live in a country where opinions technically can be shared without fear of retribution...but it is still a country where openly gay mayoral candidates are murdered. Where teenagers jump off bridges for feeling shamed about their biological makeup. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Humans are animals, so what scares us often incites us to have carnal and visceral reactions. But we as a species are also able to have cognitive discourse. We don't just aim to survive on the base level of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. We have the ability to strive for more, for better. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At the end of the three prayers my father and I would recite each night, we would ask God to watch over our friends and family and make sure they were happy and healthy. Because really, that is all that matters. </div>
</div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-48563990390092421762013-06-09T10:53:00.003-07:002013-06-09T10:53:46.471-07:00Nature=Nope. <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I am not what people would describe as a nature lover. I love when it rains outside and I'm inside wrapped in my delicious down comforter. I love when it's sunny outside so I can wear cute shoes and not worry about looking like a sopping mess getting on and off the subway. I do not enjoy/appreciate laying out in the sun to tan. I don't tan, I'm Irish. White and red are my two skin tones. So it can be assumed that anything that is not a domesticated animal is a mortal enemy to me, and I treat them as such. </span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Elvis and I moved to New York almost exactly one year ago; two brassy and sarcastic Boston females that were ready to take on everything this city would throw at us. Hers would be more of an inside task, manning the apartment and making sure no unwelcome visitors would dare to enter. Mine was more of the Go Out And Conquer The Universe version of the plan. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Fast forward to this past April. Elvis was becoming increasingly more interested with staring at one particular part of the wall in the apartment--so much so that I mustered up the courage to get down on the floor and see if there were any cracks/holes in the wall in which (gulp) cockroaches could enter. Yup. There was a rather large opening between the baseboard and floor. Not being able to relax knowing there was an entrance for enemies to enter my fortress, I took a proactive move and decided to Raid the shit out of that little hole. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Elvis knows when shit's dangerous/toxic, and she refused to go near that spot afterwards. Still a little bit panic-y, I worked myself into a later about the potential possibility that I poisoned my cat with roach killer. Was she acting more lethargic than normal? Did I just see her try to puke? Sleep took over, and I forgot about it until the next morning, when she wasn't lacing in and out of my feet in the bathroom as I was brushing my teeth. Oh my god, I fucking killed my cat. I left the bathroom to go find her, and there she was, just sitting in the front hallway, in the dark, staring down. That's it, she's about to die. I walked over to her, said: Ellie, what's up? Why are you acting all weird and depressed? She looked up at me briefly then once again, resumed her Sylvia Plath-esqe attention to the ground. Fine, be that way--I have to get ready for work. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
The last thing I do when I leave is put food in the bowl for Elvis in my kitchen. This dreaded morning was no different. As I was about to exit the kitchen, I was switching the light off, which is directly outside of it, in the hall. I was looking down, about to take a right in to my hall to get my coat and leave--and there it was. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
The.Biggest.Fucking.Cockroach.<wbr></wbr>Ever. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
I slowly backed up into the kitchen, reached behind me on the counter where I had not yet put away the Raid from the night before, and slowly walked over to it and sprayed the ever loving piss from the can on to this fucking beast. It began squirming and shriveling, all the while I began shaking, tears welling in my eyes and becoming short of breath. I ran into my kitchen, wrapped my hands in more paper towels than I care to admit, THEN stuck said hand into 4 plastic bags I had saved from the grocery store. I bent down, full on crying now, picked up this dumb fucking line backer of a roach and threw it away. As soon as it was disposed of, I walked out of my kitchen, turned my head and projectile vomited down the hall. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
That night after work, (after I puked in the morning, I changed, cleaned the horror that had just spewed out of me and got the fuck outta dodge as soon as I could) I went to the KMart a block from the office. I bought every sort of disinfectant, insect killer and cleaning supply imaginable. And a can of Spaghetti-O's. I cleaned the entirety of my apartment, top to bottom, blocking any form of hole, even if seemed smaller that a pinhole I could find. No fucking roach was gonna attempt to step their creepy little disgusting arthropod self into my apartment ever again. I was even regretting the fact I disposed of the roach from the morning, 'cause I wanted to hang his dead, poisoned carcass somewhere his buddies could see: Mexican drug cartel style. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
So yeah. I don't do nature. Not even a little. And Elvis sucks as a guard cat. </div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-40506909492454009662012-11-20T11:37:00.002-08:002012-11-20T11:37:20.842-08:00Milkyway BarMy sister recently had a baby...his name is Felix Paul, and he is
fucking perfect. He smells amazing...the way that only babies can; its a
mixture of sweet milk and powdery rose petals-even his farts smell
amazing. No joke. It's a celebration each time this kid passes gas,
because it's his new body's way of figuring out how to remain
comfortable inside itself. In no way am I exaggerating. He makes cute
little noises that is one part kitten and one part pterodactyl. <br />
<br />
Anna
and Johannes are amazing parents. They love him beyond words and coo
sweet nothings into his ear, even when his screams break through noise
barriers only understood by deep sea mammals. They kiss him and love him
and take billions of photos.<br />
<br />
They have been preparing
for little Felix, and have prepared well. They have been reading books.
They have spoken with doctors. They were ready to have this child.<br />
<br />
I
should mention that between Anna and Johannes I think there are like, 4
degrees. They're not just average. They are brilliant, logical and
practical humans.<br />
<br />
Now they have a kid. And there is no
reasoning with screams that challenge solid glass not to break. The
most refreshing thing to see about this new little man in their life is
that everything is new to everyone: Johannes, Felix and Anna. Anna is a
goddamn trooper.<br />
<br />
Sitting down with Anna on the first
day in Berlin, she explained everything. How birth is not glamourous
(she was going to birth Felix naturally, but on the 26th hour of
labor...yes, 26th hour...the doctors said, well we're going to do a
c-section now...are you kidding me? That's like running a marathon and
at the 26th mile with only .2 to go, medics say: well, it looks like
you're getting a cramp in your calf. Better take you out of the race.)<br />
<br />
And
that her boobs were so sore that she had cool cabbage placed on them to
calm their pain. How does everyone say how connected to the earth, to
their babies they are when they breast feed? She asked me. It's like, I
have multiple degrees and can run construction sites single handedly,
but as soon as I hear my baby cry, my boobs start leaking. What the
fuck?!!<br />
<br />
Also, she is not used to her body changing and
morphing back to it's original shape post baby. How are you feeling
physcially? I asked. Ugh, Margaret, I'm serious...it's like NO ONE talks
about what happens to women's bodies after they have a baby. I smell
different, I constantly have my period and I sweat so much at night. My
body is ridding itself of the 9 months it took to grow my baby-- I only
just recently was able to shave again because my stomach got in the way.
How do people that don't know each other have babies together? I am so
thankful I have been with Johannes for 4 years because I know I can
share this with him...but what happens when people have kids by
accident? It must be so awkward! <br />
<br />
Frankly, she's
right. There are so many blogs and articles about the joy of motherhood,
and how great it is etc etc...but the real truth is hushed up behind
pacifiers and contained in soiled diapers. It's loud and it stinks.<br />
<br />
I'm
not referring to (nor is Anna) postpartum depression, which is a very
real thing. It's just that there is this grand arching joyous dialogue
about how centered you suddenly become once you birth a child. Like you
are a woman. You can conquer. You are now complete. There is another
human on this earth: because of you. (Cue wind blowing through hair with
a soft glow of light on cheekbones with a crimson hued tint on lips
with wild flowers floating all around.)<br />
<br />
Last night I was
sitting in the office and turned around, looked at Anna while she was
breast feeding and she proclaimed to me: I mean, this is so boring! I'm
just supposed to sit here and take him to the Milkyway Bar, feed him liquorless
White Russians and watch him fall asleep afterwards! <br />
<br />
Life
with a new child suddenly becomes broken up into 3 hour intervals: feed
him, hold him, wipe his ass, let him sleep, rinse, wash, repeat. It is a
drastic lifestyle change from what was before--as an architect who
traveled all over Europe and Russia designing high end retail stores and
now she sits and watches her son drink her breast milk, burp him over
her shoulder, congratulates him when he spits up and puts him down for a
nap. <br />
<br />
Anna is a loving and doting mother. She has
definitely sofented with the arrival of little Felix, but she is not a
different person; she is still pragmatic and opinionated. It's refreshing. <br />
<br />
Little man Felix is a champ. And so is his papa and proud mama. I'm just glad I can still shave whenever I want to. <br clear="all" /><span class="HOEnZb"><span style="color: #888888;">
</span></span>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-86645383812649259212012-11-18T10:32:00.000-08:002012-11-18T10:32:25.758-08:00Travel Mode.<div>
Travel. Specifically through the air. The concept was once glamorous. Full of mink coats, stewardesses (not flight attendants) and those National Geographic ads that proclaim: Alaska! Come here to experience all of America's vast wilderness! Or: Choose Pan Am, a classy way to travel! I always envision red lipsticked women traveling to Paris to choose their next season's wardrobe and men with straight ties and slicked hair drinking bourbon reading the newspaper. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now it's lines and ropes that I'm convinced are designed to make us all look like idiots: zig-zagging through like rodents in a plastic tubed maze. People double, triple check their inside pocket for the ticket they just felt in the same spot 23 seconds earlier. Airports these days create a sense of worry and urgency so tangible--it's a potent elixir for explosive behavior that often times becomes activated and expressed at the wrong people.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am not claiming to be an easy going or calm individual. Somehow though, when I enter an airport I become a more zenned out version of myself. It has been said that my actions can sometime mimic my father's when I'm walking somewhere; (talk about Travel Mode...Colin will find his gate before he realizes that his family is not with him anymore...he just fucking goes, man. I once told him a story about how a man followed me into the woman's bathroom when I was connecting flights in London-I was all of 16 and had short hair. I was so frightened that I had no other choice to just turn around and say to the guy: get out of here, you don't belong here. And he left! Expecting a paternal smirk of pride or something, I was astounded when he said: well look atcha, Mahgrett. He prolly thawt you wir ah boy! Thanks dad. Glad you're pumped I'm not hacked up somewhere in England.) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In my mind, traveling is like adding salt to food: it enhances who that particular person is and draws out the water, the outer layers of social politeness and strips that person down to the core of their true flavor. Travel mode has two flavors: Asshole and Kind. More often than not, the Asshole flavor rises to the top more so than the Kind...but when the Kind does manage to be spotted, it's that much more satisfying. Like the random dude that carried two large pieces of luggage all the way to a gate for a single mother with two kids, all the while carrying his own shit. Kind does exist. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yesterday while checking my luggage I noticed a man that was trying to force his clearly too-big-for the-carry-on-size bag into the example of: if you can't fit your carry on suitcase in here, it ain't being no carry on. He was trying to re-arrange shit in his suitcase and his wife, waiting at the counter watching him along with the desk clerk said: Baby, maybe it's just time to accept it--it's not joining us, and there are people behind us. It was almost as if she said: bBaby, I know you wanted your son to be a pro athlete, but he has scoliosis--it's not going to happen. It was a mixture of Kind and Asshole, because the wife was being calm and patient while the husband was just too stubborn and blind. It should also be mentioned that the suitcase in question had written (in masking tape) on the front: Jesus Saves. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are many more stories from yesterday's journey to Berlin (one involves a Brooklyn based band called Karizma-5 guys wearing sunglasses on an over night flight sitting around me, as well as a tale of a passive aggressive bitch that got put into her place...) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
...but then I'd write for hours...and there is a new nephew to dote over and really really good cheese to eat. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So. Travel Mode. It exists. Hopefully you're the Kind flavor. </div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-86396842084186990882012-09-11T06:22:00.001-07:002013-07-15T21:42:43.579-07:00Four Letter Word<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The biggest distinction between humans and other mammals is
our ability to convey emotions to other humans of all kinds. We can communicate
and articulate what exactly is on our minds. Do we always do that? Fuck no. If
we did, then there would be no war, no anger, no grudges held. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not a secret my relationship with my mother has been
one of hurt, anger, resentment, miscommunication and mistrust. I am not saying
this has all been on her shoulders; it’s been my responsibility as well. There
has also been times of happiness, pride, laughter and love—and at times,
sometimes I really doubted her true maternal care or instinct for me. While frank, that is not meant to be cutting. It was a genuine question in my life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11 years ago today was the 14<sup>th</sup> day of my college
career. I was in the Bronx at Fordham
University, rushing to
get to my sociology class and realizing humans were walking around in a daze,
as if they were headless chickens. Students, adults, crying, hunched down in
abject anguish. I soon discovered the cause and my life (and the rest of the
world) was never the same again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cell reception was terrible. The only thing I wanted to do
was hear the voices of my family. I couldn’t even try to cry—how could I? My
friend’s father was missing. So was another’s uncle, brother, sister, mother.
What right did I have to cry, when I knew the ones I cared about were safe? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, around 11:30, I was able to get through to my
house. If I ever had any doubts about my mother’s love and care for me, the two
words she repeated over and over on that phone call answered any lingering
doubt. The phone barely rang and she answered it and I said: Mom? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My baby! My baby! My baby! She cried over and over. As I
type this I regret any questions I had regarding her love. On that day, hearing her voice was the only moment I almost cried. Her voice was
fraught with pain, with anguish, torture and relief. And love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No relationship is perfect, and there will never be a
perfect relationship. I am actively trying to be a better daughter to my
mother, and I believe she is striving to be better as well. Especially on this
day, I always thank God that I have two parents, two sisters and friends I am
able to love and I try each day to let them know my feelings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d like to think that those passengers on the planes 11
years ago were feeling love and not pain or fear. I hope (and always have) those
firefighters, police officers and civilians whose lives were taken were, on
their last breath, thinking of their families feeling love and knowing they
have loved. What an experience. Love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-16625691818429486422012-08-16T15:56:00.001-07:002012-08-16T15:56:19.954-07:00Have You Ever...<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s no secret that I’ve never been shy. I genuinely dig
meeting all different types of people and it’s always been that way. We’re an
interesting breed and the more we can learn from each other, the better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within me lies a need to always reach out and communicate
with others (I think I get that from my mother—her Midwestern roots give her
the brazenness to say whatever is in that head of hers, and for the most part,
she does.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it’s no surprise that when we moved from one house to
another in the same town, it was my mission to get to know the neighbors. And I
did. One sunny afternoon I toiled away with my crayons and construction paper
creating what I deemed art work. Upon completion, I took my wares on the road.
Literally. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my masterpieces under my arm I was ready to conquer the
world. I left the house shouting after me: Bye mom, off to sell my art! And that
was that. I was gonna meet the neighbors and make some money. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went door to door, rang the bell, and each time someone
answered the door they looked out and then realized I was…down. Probably
wondering if they should call the cops, they listened to my shpeel: Hi! I’m
Margaret Kelliher. I just moved to 12
Tack Street. My parents are Colin and Adrienne,
and my sister is named Hannah. Nice to meet you! Would you like to buy some
artwork? (Kill ‘em with cuteness, I figured. Who’s not gonna buy shit from a 2
foot tall blonde kid?) This lasted about 1 ½ - 2 hours; with an extra .26 to my
name I was ready for some r&r and hard earned cookies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I should let you know that the day before in my kindergarten
class we learned how to call the cops in case of emergency. It was 631.1212.
Pre 911 shit, yo. I have an uncanny ability to remember phone numbers, and I think
this was the start to it. Ok. Got that? Good. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I strut back to my new house with some brass in my pocket,
art work sold. I get back and yelled out to my mother: Mom! I’m home! I sold
all my art! No response. I didn’t hear her voice or her foot steps…Mom? MOM?? I
began to panic running from room to room, and realized that I was alone. In a
new house. My mom had left me. Flipping my shit, I ran to the phone and of
course dialed the only number I knew: the cops. I fucking called the cops on my
mom, citing that I’d been abandoned and I’ve never been home alone before. I
was told to wait outside for the police to show up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ran outside, waiting in front of my house. A cop showed up
on a motorcycle and was asking me questions when all of a sudden my mother’s
gold Mercury Sable wagon comes screeching down the street. She throws the door
open freaking out screaming: MY BABY! MY BABY! flkJ OFIWEJFOH WEIOfh. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turns out, she didn’t hear me shout that I was going to sell
my artwork. So she tries to find me and realizes that I’ve either a)flown the
coop (which could have been a reality--I did do it once before at an even
younger age; she was gardening and had me next to her in our yard, when I
decided to make a break for it and wound up in the middle of an intersection
being held by a woman who stopped her car for me. I was then tied to the tree
from then on out.) or b) I got snatched. She did the only reasonable thing she
could think of to do which was tear around the surrounding areas: the beach,
the main streets….which is when I decided to return home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the end of the day, the cop left, my mom returned and I
made some money. Win win all around. </div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-58148115155710299222012-08-02T06:06:00.002-07:002012-08-02T06:06:48.086-07:00A Species Study. Part One.<div class="MsoNormal">
The term hipster has become
relatively mainstream, but it should be noted that its primary origin (I believe) to be in the borough of Brooklyn.
Its numbers<span> </span>have multiplied so much so
that there is a <a href="http://www.diehipster.com/">site</a> devoted to the absurdity of this group<span>. It is hysterical, and a tad spiteful...but but so spot on. </span>I didn’t realize it was more than a fashion
statement until I moved back here and witnessed it first hand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon initially moving back to the city, I was afforded a
very unique experience: I was a wall flower, a voyeur. I went to different
neighborhoods, walked around, ordered food at the bar and enjoyed truly amazing
experiences unfolding before my eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One such night I stopped into a lovely local boite
(I.couldn’t.help.myself.) to enjoy a crisp beer with a childhood favorite:
grilled cheese. Happily immersed in my caloric binge, a dude sat himself down
beside me and ordered 3 neat whiskeys and a rolling rock. Seriously? All at
once, dude? Sure, whatever. As soon as his neat-shmeat bullshit was delivered,
the can of rolling rock cracked open, he drew from his <a href="http://www.freitag.ch/Fundamentals/Handbags/SURFSIDE-6/pa/ZH_33189">Freitag messenger bag</a> a book about 3 inches thick with a title on the spine boldly claiming its name:
Existence. What the fuck? I looked around me, seeing if anyone else was
laughing, or paying attention. I was silently shaking, and the people around me
just kept on living their lives—but all I got was crickets! What the fuck! I
promptly texted a friend in Boston
who was quick to respond: Strike up a conversation. Tell him you train iguanas.
Hipsters love that shit. I openly howled at this bar, by myself unable to
contain my laughter. She was spot on, but due to such incredible comedic
timing, I made an ass of myself. Eh, I didn’t care that much, as I ordered one
last beer to continue observing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another evening, I ventured to another spot by my apartment.
The bartenders were friendly and welcoming, and I felt like I’d found my spot,
you know, like, the Cheers cliché. Next thing I know I’m witnessing what I
think may be a first date. Guy: So, what exactly do you do? Girl: I’m a poet.
(She said this dead serious.) Guy (a little bewildered): like, for a job?
That’s how you make money? Girl: Yes. Guy: Uh, ok, like what’s one of your
poems? Girl: Life. Grey. Your eyes: Grey. Your shirt: Grey. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think the reason I find these exchanges so fascinating and
truly comedic is that this new strain of speices take themselves so
goddamn seriously. They are the equivalent of Boston Yuppies, but with a disdain for polo shirts and a love for plaid. It’s as if they never stayed in on New Year’s Eve watching
the Three Stooges. They seemingly were out creating woven quilts with frozen
blades of grass only to watch it melt away with the dawn of the new day,
sun—whatever the fuck it is they did as kids on New Year’s Eve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m enjoying my meal, chatting with the bartenders and
the poet up and leaves her conversation only to come back gleefully 35 minutes
later with a tattoo on her wrist in American Typewriter font with the German
words: Seig Nein. Which I don’t even think is grammatically correct. She left
the date to get a tattoo. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These instances happen all over the place, everywhere you
turn when you live and hang out in Brooklyn.
It’s rich with metallic hued Doc Martens, men sporting loose striped tank tops (which is a
fad that men should NEVER under any circumstances participate in, yet all too
frequently they do) and everything is local. I got an overwhelming urge to
shove a snickers bar into the porcelain face of a 20 something as she was
eating a bag of kale chips while riding the F the other day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hipsters (or almost neo-hipsters, actually) even compete
differently. At a dive bar in Williamsburg with the words Country Club in the
title, a group of intellectuals were circled together drinking PBR’s on a grimy
run down mini-golf course in the back (it’s too much, I know) singing happy
birthday to their friend. Not to be out done, another cluster NOT sitting on
the fake grass closer to the bar entrance in plastic lawn chairs started
singing happy birthday seconds after the first group, only louder and with a
trace of snarky elitism gleaming in their eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a new age Jets and Sharks rivalry, but with thick rimmed glasses and opinions regarding the latest documentaries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Make no mistake, I am part of this weird mix of people, but
have enough sense to realize I’m a fucking moron. Hopefully they’ll catch on as
well, but in the mean time, I’ll continue watching this interesting breed and
be sure not to laugh too loud. </div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-72321268489687556182012-07-14T07:12:00.000-07:002012-07-14T07:56:42.139-07:00Mystically Rushed.<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">One of my favorite humans on this planet decided to pick up and move to San Francisco. Needless to say, anytime she makes it back to the East Coast, I do my best to get to where ever she is, if only for a brief time. Since moving to New York, all real conversations with friends have been subject to forgetfulness. So it’s no wonder that Friday, June 29th, Lindsey calls me in the morning to say hey! Just letting you know I get in tomorrow! Me, all baffled (see forgetful comment above) is like: Oh! shit! I forgot! Since I’m single and have a cat, my schedule is pretty flexible. I reach out to Linds’ brother and his girlfriend who are also going up for the weekend (and live in New York), call their sweet mother and basically invite myself up that night, with 2 1/2 weeks worth of laundry. (It was bad. I was on the reserve underwear. I hope you all know that i would not have lugged nearly 60lbs worth of laundry to another state had it not been that dire of a situation).</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As I’m wrapping my Friday up, exiting a great meeting with a client, I check my phone and there are 9 texts from Jesse, Lindsey’s older brother. One says: You’ll earn immunity from my teasing for a month and the last one says: Answer me. At this point, it’s 5:15, my train is at 7:45 in Manhattan and I still need to pack my shit at my apartment in Brooklyn then get back in to the city, as I didn’t realize I would be away for the weekend. Call Jesse (who’s all: Hey! How are you? How are things?! So...I need a favor...I forgot my backpack at the office...if I messenger it over to your apartment in Brooklyn, could you bring it with you tonight??) I of course say yes. Jesse: really? I mean, you’ll take my backpack?? Me: sure! it’s just a backpack, dude. Don’t worry about it. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Turns out Jesse the wonder-kid didn’t messenger it over to Brooklyn, he had a loyal co-worker hop in a cab and deliver it to me. On a Friday night. During rush hour. In New York fucking City. The time is getting closer to 7 than I’d like I’m still waiting and I get anxious so I call his friend who STILL hadn’t made it over the bridge yet. Panic beginning to set in, I said: I’ll hop on the subway and meet you at Atlantic Avenue. I myself have: my work messenger bag, my bag full of weekend stuff, and let’s not forget my 890 lb bag full of dirty clothes. (And I’m in a dress. In literally 99 degree heat.) I get out of the subway stop, see the cab, and what happens next in my mind is a montage of torture rooms, psychological warfare and a very dark vivid red color, because Jesse’s backpack? The one he so innocently asked me to carry? It’s not a backpack like I was envisioning. This wasn’t a Jansport that you carry around campus with, oh no. This was a: I’m going off to discover who I am for 7 months as I trek across the outer mountain chains of Northern Mongolia backpack. Laura, Jesse's co-worker, handed it off to me like a kid she was glad she was done babysitting, and I pointed my finger in her face and said: I am going to fucking murder Jesse MacDougall. Laura (the chick) giggled nervously then hopped back in the cab. So I strapped the fucking beast of a backpack to my back, slinging my other bags around me and went back into the subway. It’s 7:25, and I’m still in Brooklyn. I have to be at Penn Station in the next 15 minutes, other wise my 7:45 train is a joke. As I get on to the subway, I sit down, taking up approximately 4.6 seats and realize that when I put Jesse’s backpack on, the hem of my dress went with it, and I’d been walking through the subway station with my ass exposed. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">And ps: who the fuck forgets something as important as the bag they carry away for the weekend?</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Long story longer, I had resigned myself to missing the train, but thank christ it was delayed. I hopped on and began to relax. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Get off the train, Jesse picks me up and is like: awww, thank you! here, let me help you. fuck that, dude. don’t you touch a thing. if I made it this far, i’m gonna carry it all the way to the fucking house, you slick mother fucker. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The weekend was amazing. I was able to spend time with Lindsey, catch up, laugh, sleep, and laugh some more. Summer at its best: egg tosses, volley ball, beer, family and happiness. Paula and Kevin (Lindsey and Jesse’s parents) are so lovely, kind and welcoming. I love the way the MacDougall’s only have one speed: go. Whispering to them means not using a megaphone. Relaxing to Paula means wearing a bathing suit and shorts while she vacuums the whole first floor at 8am. While most consider yard work to involve a rake and a bucket, Kev gets one of those electric company buckets to hoist himself in to cut down a branch. Lindsey wakes up, wants to go for a 10 mile run then plans her day. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The first time I ever visited the MacDougall compound I noticed a few signs around the house: DON’T LET SHAINA IN. After having no luck figuring this mystery out on my own, I asked Lindsey: Who’s Shaina? (I’m thinking it’s like, the town nut who stumbles into people’s homes to sleep on their hallway floor) and in an ever so nonchalant response: oh, Shaina’s our cat. She’s so lazy, doesn’t kill enough mice, so we try and have her stay out as much as possible in the summer. WHAT?? A synonym for a house cat is lazy. Not on the MacDougall watch, no sir-ee. Shaina needed to pull her own weight. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I get home from the weekend, make my bed with clean sheets, sleep soundly. Wake up the next morning covered in hives. I have never used fabric softener before that weekend, and now I know why. Head to toe hives. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I guess my father called my godfather (his brother John) and told him the story. Uncle John calls me on Tuesday night and says: MAH-GRETT! YAH FAH-THAH TOLD ME WHAT HAPPENED! JEEZE! WHO YA BEEN DATIN’??</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">All in all, it was a successful weekend; I got to see a best friend, hang out with her awesome family, and do laundry get hives and get made fun of by my godfather. </span></div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-79753568415636418422012-06-25T20:16:00.000-07:002012-06-25T20:16:24.994-07:00A Week In...<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This is my first full week in New York--and so far I can say the feeling I have is that of a foreign exchange student. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I arrived around 9pm last Saturday night with a dear friend who helped cart my shit into my apartment, woke up the next morning at 645 am due to my new upstairs neighbor b-l-a-s-t-i-n-g Otis Redding. Don’t get me wrong, I love Otis Redding just as much as the next girl, but when you’re camping out on the living room floor with a pillow and nearly dead from stress cat and a house guest you cant give clean towels just yet, you’re gonna want to sleep for as long as you can. I promptly went up stairs to the offending neighbor who opened his door in boxers holding a blue solo cup wearing a grin bigger than the cheshire cat. I politely said to him: dude, you gotta turn that shit down, people are trying to sleep. That was my first morning in new york. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The next day, the movers (Rudy and Dmitri, god bless them both) delivered my furniture and it was time for me to set my life up. What is the biggest difference right away between Boston and New York? Your main transportation becomes your legs versus a car. That first Sunday, I got to work organizing and reassembling my life; I quickly realized that the 12 or 13 foot ceilings plus my 5 foot frame and a 2 foot stool wasn’t really a super equation to hang curtains. I recalled passing a Home Depot on the first trip down to Brooklyn...it couldn’t be that far away....right? 40 minutes later I was there--bought a huge ladder, screws and a tension rod. I looked awesome carting all that shit back home, and thankfully a cab pulled over and i happily threw my shit in the back and rode shot gun. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Being an outsider has afforded me the ability to be a keen observer, a wall flower. Each day after work last week I walked through different neighborhoods, seeing the men sitting in their folding chairs outside bodegas listening to salsa music, monks commuting next to Wall Street execs with their earbuds in, mothers teaching their toddlers manners while protecting them from the other humans on the subway. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Upon my way home last Wednesday, I stopped into a local pub to grab a drink and food (I forgot to call National Grid before I got to New York to have my gas stove turned on, so it just got turned on this weekend...yikes) and ate at the bar. I happened to be sitting next to a dude that ordered three ‘neat’ whiskeys and a rolling rock, and was reading a book titled Existence. What!! I looked around, looking to see if anyone else thought that this was hysterical. No one batted a mascaraed covered eyelash! The thing is, these fucking hipsters nestle in to New York because no one stands out--everyone’s a weirdo. So they can be heard, understood even. I texted a friend of mine that I knew would understand the humor right away and her response? Tell him you train iguanas. Hipsters love that shit. Well that made me howl enough to cause a scene and have people stare over at me...but oh no, no one gives a shit about the Existence guy. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On Saturday I was wondering around aimlessly in nolita when I was passing a man wearing a python (a live one) wrapped around his arm and neck. I didn’t even register that the thing was real until I saw the glimmer of sun reflecting off part of its swamp colored scales. I’m pretty sure my reaction was exactly what this snake wearing asshole wanted (I jumped about 4 feet in the air and quickly made a left in a 45 degree angle into the street, not caring about traffic) and he smiled and chuckled. I relayed this experience to a friend in Boston, and his response: The same thing happened to me in Boston, except it was a kitten. Again, I cackled so loud I am fairly certain a mother shielded her child from the crazy woman (me) on the street cracking herself up. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">New Yorkers carry snakes, Bostonians: kittens. Little different. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Like all new endeavors, it takes time to feel steady and confident in your role....it’s thrilling to know that I will soon be fluid enough to speak New York without pause in the (hopefully) near future; and that is fuel enough for me to strive to be better and to appreciate all the daily stories that play out in front of me.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-12746510922128505772012-06-08T05:48:00.000-07:002012-06-08T05:48:47.626-07:00Magic TrickI like to think of my self as reasonably organized. You, know average. What? You don't organize your purse with pouches for things? No pen case? No lipstick case? No little first aid kit with bandaids and cure-all ointments? What's that? Don't you have all matching closed lid bins in your pantry so you don't display clutter? Oh. Well I do.<br />
<br />
About a month ago I was down in New York for some meetings and also met up with Darcy and Bonnie; two of my best friends. (To be fair, I was staying with Bonnie. She's been a saint to me.) Darcy had just finished an amazing play and we went out to celebrate her success and also catch up. We laughed, we reminisced, we got to spend time together. I should let you know: when it comes to who Darcy and I are as humans, on paper it looks like we shouldn't be close. In fact, opposite ends of a magnet. She exists in a world with no pouches, no storage bins. Her career is one that forces her to live a nomadic existence, so constantly being in 5 places at once is not only accepted, but the norm.<br />
<br />
The time had come to head home, Bonnie and I to Jackson Heights and Darcy and her lovely boyfriend to Brooklyn. The bill came, we argued about who would be treating who(m) and reached a conclusion. We laughed some more, the bar became more vacant and the lights were beginning to be turned off. Then it happened: Darcy came out with the worst sentence anyone could hear at 2:30am: Wait, guys. Guys, wait. I can't find my credit card. Cue me: steam emitting from not only my ears, but eyeballs, nostrils and mouth. (Apparently, I am not someone to mask emotions.)<br />
<br />
She was pretty calm about it, saying: Oh whatever, it's fine. I'll find it eventually. No, Darse, let's do this now, so you know you have it. We scoured the floors. She went back to the bathroom. We looked. In. Her. Purse. Her purse is the equivalent to Mary Poppins' bag on acid. She emptied out on the bar two plastic wine goblets (props from her play, obvi) a wallet that didn't really contain money or her credit card (shocker) some socks, and a plethora of other things like floating receipts, gum wrappers, half empty bottles of healthy organic bullshit to keep her hydrated all day--you name it. I did, it was called: My Hell.<br />
<br />
Finally, she asked the bartender if he had her credit card. He was this very thin man (boy? he looked all of 20) wearing a bowler hat and had a lovely spanish accent. His outfit reminded me of Clockwork Orange with flair. He went through all the forgotten credit cards, and said: no, I'm sorry. Darse was kind and said, well thank you anyways. As a last resort, bartender extrodinaire suggested: did you check your underwear? Darcy's eyes widened like those cartoons who finally fall in love with the birds and hearts circling their heads, as she took her hand, reached into the sweetheart neckline of her dress, and pulled out her credit card. It was in her boob this whole time. I turned to the wall and hid my face. Bonnie flung her self over a barstool, Lucas impaled himself on the bar. We were all so fucking shocked. Darcy? Nope, just a normal day.<br />
<br />
As we were laughing and leaving, Darcy asked the bartender: How did you know? His response: My father was a magician.<br />
<br />
<br />Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-8025881920441664042012-05-30T18:48:00.001-07:002012-05-30T18:48:45.283-07:00New Season<br />
These next two weeks will be the last time I call Boston home...at least, for a while.<br />
<br />
This is my last week at a job with a company that has been my second home for most of my 20's. It has seen me triumph, falter, laugh and love.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's necessary to shake things up, get out of a comfort zone and try something new; so that's exactly what I'm doing. (Don't get me wrong, I'm scared shitless.)<br />
<br />
In late March I was visiting friends in New York and on the last full day I was there it struck me: I need to give New York another go. I have been in Boston for the majority of my 20's, and as of late, I've felt this longing for something else, something more. As many of you know, I fell in love with a city at 15 years old, and it never has left me. I left my sweet and safe home of Marblehead to explore New York as a college student, and now almost 30, feel like it's my time to be there as an adult.<br />
<br />
I made a large goal to find a job; I did. Next on the list was find a place to live that hopefully didn't consist of me in a cardboard box under a bridge using Elvis as a guard dog. That in and of itself was completely a stress beyond no other. I went down to New York a few weekends ago and stayed with one of my best friends (Bonnie), and she graciously went along with me to scout out my future apartment.<br />
<br />
We saw a grand total of 3 apartments, and the last one I visited made me believe in the old beautiful New York apartments no one sees anymore. As Bonnie and I were looking around the space, all I needed was Bonnie's affirming and curt little nod; she was saying: yup. This is a keeper. This is good. This is where we can have dinner parties every Sunday night.<br />
<br />
So. The neighborhood in Brooklyn I will be calling home is Crown Heights--(I always knew in someway I was destined for royalty, now it's part of my residence.) I have met my landlord, he seems lovely and kind, and when I extended my hand for him to shake, he politely refused explaining that out of respect for his wife, he is forbidden to touch another woman. I smiled and thought to myself: he should have taught my ex-boyfriends a thing or two.<br />
<br />
The moving situation? I mean, sure. It's going to happen. Just not sure exactly...how...ugh.<br />
<br />
While this transition is bittersweet, I know Boston will always be here, with open arms and its wonderful accents to embrace me when I return; it holds my heart. I have bonds here that will last my lifetime. New York now holds my future, and as my story unfolds, I hope I am able to share it with you. xo.Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-75569196466650693202012-03-18T19:23:00.000-07:002012-03-18T19:23:16.296-07:00Best Meal of My Life.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXTjL0aDbEzC1ytTDML1SfmfVUIyNgvPFBUzdI6BU_QsWqc5noMmrkU3UVscZnUKd__qytHH_ORH0h8z7SRPV0r8nJMidrEBfbIpw3HQ0q63XfpB1hEGxNB8Xju9uBtsfBql8u1vSD7I/s1600/IMG_1846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXTjL0aDbEzC1ytTDML1SfmfVUIyNgvPFBUzdI6BU_QsWqc5noMmrkU3UVscZnUKd__qytHH_ORH0h8z7SRPV0r8nJMidrEBfbIpw3HQ0q63XfpB1hEGxNB8Xju9uBtsfBql8u1vSD7I/s320/IMG_1846.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The image above is the pre-cursor to the best meal I eat all year long. You see, we Irish are sturdy folk; we don't need fancy spices; nope. give us vegetables from the ground, a dead cow, some hot water, salt...and we're good to go. The simplest ingredients put in a pot and served hours later. Why oh why are the blandest ingredients the ones I yearn for all year long? I'll tell you why: tradition. My mother of german descent becomes irish once every year to feed her mutt children and irish husband a meal where we don't speak. we eat. this post is not long, but it is chock full of love. i over eat every year on St. Patrick's day, and i hope i get to do so for many years to come. xo.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-1868824708242591492012-03-07T19:37:00.000-08:002012-03-07T19:37:02.682-08:00Brave New World.I've been doing a lot of self reflection as of late; (not to worry: i'm sure it's a passing fad, much like the short lived phase of my life when I wore turbans), but to become introspective once in a while I think is healthy for everyone. Why am I here? Will I be successful? Is my family proud of me? Am I being kind, honest and respectful to myself and those around me? I hope to always give myself those checks and balances, and that when I do answer that question, it will always be a resounding yes.<br />
<br />
This blog has been a space for me to write about moments of my life (good and shitty). Since most of what I share has a light hearted nature, i have pressured myself to continue on that trajectory, yet there has been brewing within me a passion to share a little deeper, a little below the mascara, into what awakens me, striving me to be the best version of myself.<br />
<br />
I woke up this morning dreading going to work for various reasons, called my poor father at 715 in the morning to bitch, and scooted my butt to work. (For the record, I do not make a habit of calling my parents at such early hours, but knowing that my dad wakes up at the ass crack of dawn, I figured it'd be a safe bet he'd answer without the slightest bit of sleep in his voice.) I have spent most of my day in Debbie Downer mode, mentally pouting and lamenting my life while others are out pursuing their true goals and dreams. Sniff Sniff, boo fucking hoo. I got home, opened up my <a href="http://www.pacingthepanicroom.blogspot.com/">absolute favorite blog</a> and immediately got the kick in the ass I needed after he suggested to view <a href="http://openroadmovies.com/">this</a>. Everything I wince about can be summed up in three snotty words: first world pains. Watch it: be moved. It certainly stirred something enough in me to compose a new thought here.<br />
<br />
So. I will strive to be braver; when I do mental checks and balances moving forward, I will make sure to be kind, respectful and honest. To others, and myself.Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-56676234285671667362012-02-29T17:14:00.000-08:002012-02-29T17:14:22.637-08:00Mr. Ed<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 48.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s a known thing that I am not a nature lover. I genuinely get nervous walking in a field versus a sidewalk. (I mean hello? Snakes love fields. Everyone knows that.) It has been this way for as long as I can remember; as a child I would become quiet and nervous on boats and during my teenage years never wanted to learn how to sail. Or camp. In fact, I have been camping once in my life. I was 6 years old, and it was on my parents back porch. Hey, three walls of windows to a back yard that was full of nocturnal creatures was enough for me.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 48.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 48.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When my sister was deciding which colleges she’d appy to,, I was the inevitable extra baggage that got taken along for the ride. On one such visit up in Vermont, my parents suggested we try horseback riding. Never have been horseback riding, I was at once nervous and thrilled. Hannah always had a love for equine culture, but I was more skeptical and let’s face it, short. They brought us to the horses, and the instructor showed me the noble stag to which I’d been assigned. His name was Love Bug. Love Bug and I squared off and had a good solid 10 seconds worth of evaluation and it should be noted that he was the biggest horse on the farm. (I think the trainer and my parents conspired to boost my pint sized ego.) No sooner was I on the horse with a helmet when another group just finishing their trot through the woods was rounding the corner. One of them made the noise you make to speed the horse up—you know, the little noise emitted from the side of your mouth to giddyup (or whatever). Well Love Bug was having none of it. He heard that noise and took off full steam ahead in a full run or whatever the shit it’s called straight for the barn. Not knowing how to properly ride, (it being my first time on a horse and all) I was bobbing all over the place on my saddle, literally feeling my ribs detach themselves from their connective tissue inside me. Love Bug was running straight for the barn, and what was worse was how tall he was. Even at my short stature, there wasn’t room for me to clear the entrance way of the barn on top of this Godzilla like creature. It’s in moments of sheer terror and panic that perfect clarity of your existence flashes in front of you. I was in one such moment on the verge of certain decapitation when I realized that this whole nature thing wasn’t for me. Nope, not for me at all. By the grace of god I bent forward onto Love Bug hugging his neck, barley clearing the entry way of the stalls when he took an abrupt right and parked in his little apartment. He was at his destination. And I was fucking done. My sister was literally crying she was laughing so hard. in all fairness, I don't blame her. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 48.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Years later I had the incredible experience of spending time in the coastal village of Deauville with a friend and her family; being in Normandy during the summer has been one of the most sublime memories of my life. On a lazy afternoon, Marion suggested we go to the stables and spend some time riding horses. Not wanting to seem snobby or rude, I obliged. Keep in mind, this is in France. These horses respond to French commands, not English ones. We're riding along, and all of a sudden, my horse (whose name I forget) decides to literally run for his life down the beach with me on his back. I cannot imagine a more horrific scenario: the American tourist screaming for her life down a beach at sunset in France on the back of a horse: AH-REEETE! AH-REEEETE! It is exactly what French people think Americans do: over react with a graceless idiocy, butchering their gorgeous language while employing the grammatical wit of a four year old. I honestly think the horse was in on it, too. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 13.0px 48.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There are many things I’m good at. Nature and the animals in it, not so much. </span></div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-66470074388307132912012-01-30T15:03:00.001-08:002012-08-16T15:55:10.223-07:00Snap Crackle Pop<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I was 11 or 12 I began my experience of going to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. In 6<sup>th</sup> grade, I was asked to go to a Bar Mitzvah of a girl who was a year above me. I felt not only honored, but super cool, as I was the only 6<sup>th</sup> grader going. The service was in the morning, and the party was later that evening, so the time in between needed to be filled. My mother arranged for me to go over to one of my friends houses that was also invited so she could do errands and stuff. (I mean, I guess, I have no clue…) </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My friend (we’ll call her Zoe for the sake of anonymity) just moved into a monster house in a fancy part of my childhood town, so the house was pretty empty. Especially the basement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So here’s the math: an empty Saturday afternoon, an empty house, an even sparser basement, and two friends. Add two pairs of roller blades and you’ve got the equation for a brilliant 4 or 5 hours. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Zoe and I strapped our roller blades and began zooming around the concrete cellar. No longer was our Saturday mundane, it was filled with purpose zig-zagging in between the metal poles keeping the house up, kicking a soccer ball to one another and laughing about nothing in particular. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Zoe and I were gliding all through our grey concrete kingdom when she kicked the soccer ball to me as I was going backwards. I dribbled the ball in between my feet for 2-3 seconds when I literally rolled into a metal poll, frantically grasped at the air and fell back, my right wrist and arm falling underneath the weight of my body and hitting the ground first. The first thing I felt after I fell was warmness all over my body. Then a searing pain set in and I just lay there screaming at the top of my lungs for a good 20 seconds. (Side note: my scream is one of the most heinous, banshee like shrills that no one really needs to hear. It awakens the dead, causes blood pressures to rise and can communicate with whales off the coast of Nova Scotia.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Zoe’s mom appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down at me crying my fucking eyes out on the floor. I think I recognized the look in her eyes as terror. Not in the sense of: oh this poor kid, but more like: oh my god how do I get this kid to quit screaming/her parents are going to kill me. After I had given my vocal cords a sufficient exercise, Zoe and her mom helped me up and we made our way to the kitchen to put some ice on it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mother was called, and I sniffed and moaned until she got to Zoe’s house. Since Zoe’s mom and my mom were friends, they chit chatted and laughed for a bit before having to deal with the invalid: me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mom looked at me, and asked me if I could turn my wrist; it was her way to prove to herself and me that I was fine. I got half way through the wrist twist I yelped the way I imagine Old Yeller did when he got shot. My mom sorta got impatient, and then she was like: you’ll be ok Margaret. Just stay here a while longer because I need to run some more errands and catch the 4 o’clock mass. Catch the 4 o’clock mass? What the fuck? I sniffled and felt betrayed and also understood, because after all, we were catholic and to put up a fuss about my Mom going to church would be like saying I thought I was greater than God, in which case I would get struck down by lightning, die and get dragged down to hell. I certainly didn’t want to go anywhere besides home, so I sucked it up and tried to play video games with a pillow and ice packs under my right hand. (that went over really well, obviously.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I did get picked up later in the afternoon, my parents wisely decided to not let me go to the Bar Mitzvah. Instead, my father convinced my mom that we go to the hospital. We sat in the waiting room for what seemed like forever. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally my name was called and the doctor walked my mother and I down an empty corridor with sterile lighting. We got to the end of the hall and we were brought into a huge room with one single table in the center of it. The doctor asked I sit up on the table and began speaking to me in a saccharine tone trying to loosen me up. If there is one thing I can’t stand (even as a child) is when people talk down to others, no matter what the age. I was already in a pissy mood and this douche bag is trying to pretend like the world is all sunshine and lollipops. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The evil doctor then proceeded to try and tickle me to see if that would distract me from the matter and hand. I curtly said: don’t touch me. That made my mom uncomfortable and she said briskly: Margaret. Like: Margaret, mind your manners. This asshole is trying to tickle me and be weird and you’re concerned me being snippy to him reflects on your parenting skills? Bullshit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So seeing I wasn’t taking to any of his tactics he read and studied in school like 50 years before, the pig doctor said ok, Margaret. On the count of three I’m going to readjust your wrist, ok? Me: ok. fine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So he was holding my wrist with both his hands and went: one…*CRACK* and re-set my wrist. That mother fucker didn’t even wait til 3! If I thought I was in pain when I actually broke my wrist…this was about 20x worse. I didn’t even do the shrill banshee scream, more like a deeper yelp. All set! The doctor exclaimed cheerfully. If I had the power, I’d have snapped his stupid neck right then and there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I guess the bottom line is: don’t roller blade in a basement. That’s just dumb. </span></div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-53001535274786682582012-01-24T18:52:00.001-08:002012-01-24T18:52:45.054-08:00Guess Where I'm Tattooed?<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I was newly 19 I got my first tattoo. I was so scared before hand I puked. Not because of the pain, but the ramifications of it: would I be disowned? I’m fairly certain my father would either disown me or at least saw off a limb. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I went with a good friend and we got--wait for it--matching tattoos. Yup. On our lower backs. Little did I know that in about 3 years Wedding Crashers would make the term ‘tramp stamp’ and ‘bulls eye’ pop culture references and every chick with one was thereby cheaper than those without. Well, after the first one I was hooked. Each year of college I would go to the same shitty tattoo place in the village (how cliche) and get a new little doodle, because that’s what they were: doodles. By my senior year in college I was getting discounts. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The last one I got in college was on my ribs...it was an oval shape with lots of swirls--kind of like an ornate easter egg. I vowed to my friends my parents would never know about this, because it would just be too much. never ever. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">How does that old adage go? Never say what??</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After I graduated there was a little bit of a party we held at my parents home...good friends, their parents, uncles, aunts--and lots of champagne. Like, maybe--too much champagne. At one point I recall walking through the kitchen to and my oldest friend was teaching my father how to take a tequila shot, and my one of my uncles (who shall remain nameless...) was taking flaming shots. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The party was in full swing and somehow I found myself in a private little circle with Ryan and Esme, my two oldest friends, and my parents. I was giddy with champagne, and each of us were laughing and happy; i was so filled with love and laughter that I figured now was as good a time as any to reveal my latest piece of art work. I prefaced it by saying: Mom, Dad: in front of my two oldest friends who I know you love and that love you, I want to show you this: and preceded to lift my shirt up and show them. I thought Ese and Ry would have my back, but, as they were on either side of me, and my parents were directly in front of me, Ry and Es, looked at each other and as if they were opposing magnets, sprung off in different directions, leaving me with my two catholic parents. My mom looked at me in disgust and my dad just smirked and shook his head and walked away. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Word to the wise: never divulge to your religious parents new tattoos, because your best friends will run and hide. </span></div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-24785744051617446152012-01-03T20:18:00.001-08:002014-04-21T15:58:14.328-07:00Thumbs Up? Nope. Thumbs down.<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">A rite of passage in every teenage suburban life occurs when they take receive their drivers license. Mandatory classes after school with a science teacher that had difficulty pronouncing his r’s, so when he’d say ‘rules of the road’ it would come out ‘wools of the woad’. Hours spent driving with an instructor with a penchant for Dunkin' Donuts, and would make you, the student, drive to Dunks and wait while he'd buy two (TWO!) crullers and coffee. The smell of a Medium Regular and the cruller were enough to drive off the road. Let's not forget the actual driving test. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Ah, the drivers test. The closest DMV to my hometown was about 25 minutes away. Staties (Masshole speak for state troopers) administered the vehicular exam. Joy. As if having a burly and probably miserable Statie next to me wasn't enough stress, let's add Adrienne in the back seat. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">No matter what anyone says, staties give everyone fucking heart attacks. Sure, they're there to serve and protect--blah blah blah; yet there is a distinct odor of condescension surrounding their being. From the moment we got in the car, my knees were shaking so terribly I could hardly feel the pedals. Everything was going fine, (well, as fine as can be expected considering a man that seemed to think dressing up like an SS officer 365 days of the year was sitting to my right and my mother was in the back seat trying her best to not say anything...which for Adrienne is like, the biggest challenge of all time...) </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">I was passing the test when the statie asked me to complete one more task of backing up in a straight line. I was focusing on accomplishing the task at hand, when the nazi exclaimed: stop the car, miss. What? What did I do? Nothing. Ma'am: (to my mother in back) you were coaching your daughter. This test is ended, you have failed. What?! I cried---I didn't even see her! I was only giving her a thumbs up! my midwestern mother whimpered. No matter. All her pleading made the evil man's resolve strengthen. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">My mother cried the whole way home while I just stared out the window. I was consoling her! Don't worry, mom. It's ok. No really, I'm fine. Know when you're so angry you can't cry? Yeah. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Who should I be angrier with? My mother trying to give me a stupid thumbs up or the fact that I exclaimed to everyone at school why I was going to be late. Just kidding! I failed because of Midwestern enthusiasm!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">3 weeks later I got my license. In Lynn. The cop asked me to take a drive around the block. And that time, my father went with me. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Listen up, kiddos: going in for a driver's license? Superglue your parents' hands to their goddamn pants.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-34162191848768605222011-11-23T14:44:00.000-08:002011-11-23T14:44:37.351-08:00Forbidden Fruit: The Tale of the Stolen Mike and Ike<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I never went through a stealing phase in high school; I was too fucking scared of my mother. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> When I was 6 years old, I was at the mall with my mom and we were at a candy cart manned by someone; not like now, where you stick a quarter or however much money in and the candy comes out, but someone who was paid to man the cart and dole out the scoops of candy by weight. My mother was speaking to the candy cart woman person and I was...oh, you know, just eyeing the goods, surveying the inventory, when I spotted something I couldn’t take my eyes off: Mike and Ikes. Weighing the pros and cons to how badly I needed the red one, I decided to take my chances and go for it. I stuck my little midget hand in to the plastic case, and grabbed my red Mike an Ike: the forbidden fruit. As soon as my hand left the case, however, I knew I was donzo because it made a plastic clanking noise and my mother craned her neck from the other side of the cart where she was talking to the vender and said: MARGARET. COME HERE. I obediently did as I was told and stood next to my mother. OPEN YOUR MOUTH she instructed. What was I to do? If I opened my mouth I was caught, if I didn’t, I was caught. So I just shook my head no, I wasn’t gonna open my mouth. Look fear in the face, I say. Well my mom wasn’t having anything to do with my nonsense, so she forced my mouth open as you would a creaky old bulkhead door after being sealed shut from a long winter and hooked out the half chewed candy I had illegally taken and growled to the vender: HOW MUCH DO I OWE YOU FOR THIS. I could see fear in the candy cart lady’s eyes, too...and she said oh, don’t worry about it. My mother persisted and they settled on a coin amount of some kind. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On the way home I felt so much shame I sat in the way back of the car and hung my head. I knew I was done for because my mom was going to tell my father, then the whole family would know of my illicit behavior, and a pox would be put on my head for life: THEIF. I saw it all play out, even with the tacky black and white striped jail outfits with those awful pill box hats I saw in the cartoons. That night, I avoided my family entirely, too fearful of their judgement. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">From that point on, I did not steal a single thing, even as peers around me began to have sticky fingers with Wet ‘n’ Wild because I knew Adrienne would find out and have more steam emit from her head than a Turkish bath house. My lessoned was definitely learned early on in life. Just goes to show you what a Catholic mom and some amazing guilt can do to the psyche of a young girl. </span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br />
</span></div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-86922869968542590262011-11-14T16:58:00.000-08:002011-11-14T16:58:51.319-08:00Three Strikes for Skiing<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Growing up in the North East region of this country it’s practically mandatory that at one time in your life you learn to ski and participate in ski trips up north. I was part of this statistic, and have more or less been scarred in doing so. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Skiing is one of New England’s joys--a rite of passage for all in the region. I was not immune to this hazing; I learned how to make a pizza pie down the bunny slope just like every other white person in the region. (I mean, it’s true.) On three separate occasions I have loathed this downward trending sport due to injury and worry. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I was 9, my family went up to Mt. Cranmore with friends of ours for a weekend; Yay! Group activities! The first full day of skiing, I was going down a slope with my father and his friend, who happened to be over 6 feet tall and about 220-250 lbs. Half way down the slope, I didn’t know where my father was, so I did a nice neat little stop to look back at the trail to know his whereabouts. As I was curtly slicing the snow to a halt, my father’s friend Ed came barreling into me and literally skied over me. I didn’t know what the fuck had happened, all I kept on asking myself once I was embedded into the snow like an M&M in a cookie is if I could feel my heart beating; my rationale was simple: if I could feel my heart beating than I must still be alive. I stayed on the ground skies already strewn down the slope, spread eagle with my head facing down hill, wide eyed looking at the sky. Ed came running back up to me asking if I was alright--could I move? Margaret--can you hear me? Ye-yes. I can hear you. I’m fine...I’m fine! And up I popped on to the hill. I didn’t want to embarrass my father and cause a scene (too fucking late there, Margaret). My father asked me simple questions: can yah move yah neck? yes. can yah move yah legs and ahms? yes. Yo-wah fine. Let’s get goin’! And on we went with our day. Skiing got its first strike against me that day. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The next day, my father and I were gliding down a sweet little trail hugging the outside of the mountain; on the right hand side were rocks and trees, on the left a drop off descending I’d guess about 10-15 feet. So there we were skiing along, and my father, being the kind man he is, was always checking on me, looking back to see that I was alright. (I had, after all been skied over the day before). One such time, I was looking back at me and skied off the trail. As in, one instant I saw him, the next, *poof* he was gone. Just like that, I witness my father plummet to his death. DAAAAD! DAAAAAD! I yell. Mah-grett? Can yah he-yah me? YES DAD! I CAN HEAR YOU! A Boston accent had never sounded so wonderful. Mah-grett, I’m ah-rite...and just like that, a man that was behind us saw the whole thing and extended his pole and he scaled the monstrous cliff back to safety. I was so shaken up I began to cry--holy shit my father almost just was killed because he was trying to make sure I was ok. If that’s not guilt, I don’t know what is. Skiing now had two strikes against in my book. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A few years later (I must have been 14 or 15 at this point) my father and I decided to spend a Saturday up at Gunstock in New Hampshire. Being a seasoned veteran of skiing my this point, I was confident, loved going through little forest trails and going over small jumps. As far as I was concerned, I was practically ready for the Winter Olympics. Everything was going swimmingly--my dad and I were laughing, enjoying the day, skiing, you know, the idyllic winter scene. On a perfect trail, I decided to veer off on to a small forest glade trail for a few moments; there was always a way to get back on to the original trail. So I ducked into the trees, gliding along, listening to nature--all that bullshit when I decided it was time to hop back on the trail. as I was about to take a left back on the trail, when right in front of me was a tree that wasn’t going to let me go. This was the kind of moment that you see in cartoons, when the nemesis realizes, eyes bugged out of their skull, that the plans they had will not really be working out, since pretty soon, they’re gonna be dead. (Think Wyle E. Coyte). A moment later, I was hanging upside down in that tree wondering what the fuck had just happened. It’s not a coincidence that I have had that thought more than once whilst skiing. Fortunately, there was someone behind me that witnessed me impaling myself into the low branches of the tree, because I remember having someone shout at me: CAN YOU OPEN YOUR EYES! CAN YOU HEAR ME! HOW MANY FINGERS AM I HOLDING UP!! CAN YOU MOVE YOUR NECK! The kind stranger helped disentangle me, asked me a couple of more questions, when I heard my dad farther down the trail yell MAH-GRETT! WHAT’S TAKIN’ YAH SO LONG! Oh, no big deal, dad, almost just died while you’re crying out impatiently for me to get down the fucking hill. Totally fine, my neck was almost snapped, but don’t worry, we’ll go get lunch. Jesus. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Skiing: that was strike three, you asshole. </span></div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-52731320249528637602011-11-06T18:42:00.000-08:002014-04-21T16:08:44.115-07:001212<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve always had a knack for remembering phone numbers...I suppose it began in kindergarten when Mrs. Geany taught us to memorize the local police phone number: 631.1212. (pre 911). I filed it away in my brain in the ‘important things I should probably remember’ folder, knowing it could come in handy. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A couple days later having just moved into a new house, I wanted to a) meet my neighbors and b) make a few bucks. I went straight to work creating works of art (crayon on construction paper, naturally) and as I was headed out the door, I shouted to my mother: MOM! I’ll be back...gonna go meet neighbors! </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Off I went knocking on doors and ringing bells. I can’t imagine what people were thinking when they opened their door, looked out, saw nothing, then looked down to find me. Hi! I said. I’m Margaret. I just moved to 12 Locust Street with my mom Adrienne, my father Colin and my sister Hannah. Wanna buy a work of art? Despite their confused expressions, I pushed forward, explaining my desire to know the neighborhood hence why I was going door to door introducing myself. My neighbors must have thought I had a mental disorder. That, or wondering if they should call DSS on my parents. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">No house went unsolicited--I got 'em all. Content with the .26 cents I had made and impressed with my keen business acumen, I trekked home. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Upon entering our new house, I shrieked to my mom: I’m home! I met our neighbors! (silence...) Mom?? (more silence) MOOOOOMMM. Silence. Crickets. Beginning to panic, I began checking closets, running up and down the stairs but she was no where to be found. I felt trapped, abandoned, scared. What was I going to do without my mother?! </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Suddenly, the numbers 631-1212 magically appeared in my vision and knew what had to be done. Call the cops. Yup. How could I not? I'd never been home alone before, and for all anyone knew, my mother was dead. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hello, Marblehead Police, how can I help you? Hi...um, I’m home alone--I don’t know where my mom is...I think she left. Ok. We’ll send someone right over--where do you live? I told the operator everything and waited out in the drive way, nervously pacing when I saw the police officer come around the corner. He started asking me questions when, not 60 seconds later, my mom’s gold Ford Sable came screaming around the corner. Almost levitating out of the car before it was parked, she started screaming and crying probably wondering what the fuck a cop was doing in front of her house with her kid.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Turns out my mother didn’t hear my little pipsqueak voice as I left the house. After calling for me, threatening time-outs she frantically got in her car to try and find me. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
What did I do when I was a kid? Not much. Just called the cops on my mom. </div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-83053909780780010612011-10-23T07:09:00.000-07:002014-04-21T16:13:36.067-07:00Stick and a Country<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
In September of 2005, the first September we were no longer in school, Ryan and I drove across the country, only about two days after Hurricane Katrina. We were skeptical to even drive (what with gas prices threatening to tip over $3 a gallon...) but alas, Ry needed to begin his new job/life in Arizona, and my life was in a holding pattern. So we went. </div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Ry’s car was a Honda civic, and a stick at that. I feigned confidence, saying sure, I felt confident driving; in reality, I was scared shitless and had only driven a stick on the Neck: a place in my hometown with no stop signs or lights, just a continuous track. Think Mario Kart. But with mansions. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> We departed mid-September on a Monday morning at 5am; at 10am driving through Bristol, CT, our conversation became as mundane as this: Ry: a friend of mine on my floor lived in Bristol. Me: Oh. Our topics were losing steam. By 1pm we had just finished our first third of Pennsylvania; have you ever driven through that fucking state? It lasts forever, and has the worst road kill of any highway anywhere. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ryan was fried and we pulled into a BBQ place and he resolutely said I’m not driving anymore. I’ve never gone past second in a stick shift, and now this prick expects me to reverse, then MERGE on to the I-80? I managed to get us on the highway, thank jesus, each moment almost needing to breathe into a paper bag. The poor kid was trying to take a nap in shotgun all the while my face and neck are breaking out into hives and I’d proclaim at the top of my lungs: I’M GOING INTO FIFTH! ok, fine Margaret he’d say, clearly annoyed at the fact that the thought of napping was now a distant memory. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Ah, the open road...so many mystical cities, so many wonders...like, DeBuque. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> The first morning waking up in Indiana, we discovered that our free spot to sleep in Chicago was no longer an option. Fine. It's cool! Whatever...but like, where the eff were we going to stay that night?? At a rest stop on the border of Illinois, we pulled out a map, trying to figure out our next move, when Ryan exclaimed as he looked at the state of Wisconsin: Adrienne Tack from Fond Du Lac! And there was Wisconsin all bright and shiny, a beacon of hope shaped like a mitten, inviting us up for the evening. It should be noted that my mother was born and raised in Fond Du Lac Wisconsin and her maiden name was Tack, hence the crazy ass nick name. A few phone calls later, we were headed to my Aunt Jen and Uncle Jeff’s house in Milwaukee for the night. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> They warmly welcomed us and we spent a wonderful evening laughing and chatting with my Fargo accented relatives. I slept in my cousin Laura’s room whom we would be driving to the next night at Drake in Iowa. Oh Laura. She still had a Britney Spears poster on the wall circa Hit Me Baby One More Time. Ry slept in my cousin Phil’s room with the primary colors as wall paper with a crucifix staring him down as he closed his eyes. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> The next morning I woke up and spent some time with my Uncle Jeff in the kitchen--uncle/niece time, if you will. He was asking me about New York City and my time there; I said I think everyone should live there at least once to experience it, and toughen up a bit. Uncle Jeff raised that midwestern forehead of his and said, You Knoo? I think Sex and the City really liberalized our Laura. I just about snarfed my coffee. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> When it was time for us to depart, we were learning the easiest way to Drake, where we were to be staying that evening with Phil and Laura. Uncle Jeff was giving us land marks to guide our way there when he said, And aftrrr that, it’s a straaet shat frum DaBuque. Ry and I looked at each other, then back at him; Uncle Jeff said: Yah knoo, DaBuque! He said it as if it contained the Empire State Building, the Eiffel Tower and the Rocky Mountains all in one city. Uncle Jeff: I love you. Those words will be sound bites I’ll use until I die. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> In the middle of Iowa (and corn) we drove past a huge boulder with spray paint on it that said: </span><span style="font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Light'; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>9/11: We ain’t scared</i></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">....seconds later Ryan shouted OF WHAT. I had to laugh. The person who wrote it probably hadn’t even been to New York; but hopefully by now they have. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When we were at Drake, my cousin Phil was bar tending at the local watering hole for students; I met all of his friends while Ryan was sitting alone at the end of the bar enjoying the free popcorn the bar doled out. He was happier than a pig in shit; his two favorite food groups are bacon and popcorn, so he sat there with a beer and popcorn all night. The next morning we were getting directions to the one Starbucks in the area, and when we missed the exit, neither of us spoke to each other for the next 4 hours.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We lasted all the way through the Salt Flats in Utah (in the dark, I might add...no one would have noticed us crash and die) and at times, 110 mph seemed like only 20. I met a woman named Wanda who was a cashier at a Nebraska rest stop that had a lifetime of memories on her face; her skin was like worn leather with blue eyeliner. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This country is full of ironies; liberalism and fear, beauty and ugliness, accents and corn...lots of corn. The magnificence of the Rockies is the same to me as the beauty of China Town in San Francisco; all a part of this huge vast collective country. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m lucky to have had that experience; I managed to survive with Ry in one car across thousands of miles, and I gained a deeper more profound appreciation for the space America. And I can drive stick now. </span></div>
Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5797131450122035352.post-16114383034768110882011-10-19T18:18:00.000-07:002011-10-19T18:18:31.276-07:00Heart Attack Cat<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My father is known amongst family and friends as a cat whisperer. Growing up we had a cat named Sammy, and it’s safe to say this feline worshiped the ground my father walked on. In the early mornings before I’d get up for school, or even on weekends, I’d hear my father talking to someone about his plans for the day: So I think I’m gonna go run some errahnds; go to the dump and drop ah couple ah barrels ah leaves off then swing by the bank and the hahhd way-yah sto-wah. Brow furrowed, I’d think to myself: who the fuck is he talking to? I know my mother is still asleep, my sister’s not home...then who? Oh my god, he’s talking to the cat. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I would sneak down stairs to see it first hand: My father would be looking down at Sammy and she’d be looking up at him, purring, almost nodding along. Sammy was in love with my father; he was her man. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As the years wore on, Sammy became increasingly frail and was not able to jump on to the couch should she want to cozy up; she even lost a fang. Her health became so poor my father finally took her to the vet and was informed she potentially has a heart murmur. Would you like to give Sammy an MRI to be certain? </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In the privacy of his own home, only 20 minutes later, my father exclaimed: AN M-AHHH-I? Fo-wah a CAT?! You gottah be pullin’ my leg. M-ahh-i fowah a cat. Can you believe it? But Dad! My sister and I would plead: You love her, and she loves you! She's at risk of having a heart attack! My father, still in shock, mumbling under his breath about the cost of an m-ahh-i. It was almost as if he was channeling Joe Pesci in Home Alone. Sam then got the nick name Heart attack cat.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In a last ditch effort to make Sam the cat feel more at ease about seeing the after life soon, my father decided to give her Fancy Feast; his version of Make A Wish for felines. A day turned into a week which turned into a month, and before everyone’s eyes, Sammy had all but made a full recovery. She was jumping on the couch again, going in and out of the house--hell: she even had a little wiggle in her hips again. This fierce feline was in it to win it again and she wanted everyone to know. Wouldjah believe it Mah-grett?! All because ah Fancy Feast! my father would exclaim. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Eventually time won the battle, and Sam the cat passed on. In front of the dryer. Due to my father’s early morning routine, he was the first one up and found her. I was sleeping at home that night, and he figured he’d better get rid of the body so I wouldn’t see her and freak out. He was protecting me from being sad. What does he do? He decides to stick her in a trash bag and stuff her in the barrel outside. The cat that worshiped the ground he walked on. He woke my mother up to tell her to tell me, and just like that, he was off to work. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Later that afternoon, my mom broke the news to me: Sammy had died. I don’t think she was prepared for my reaction, as we had a very tumultuous relationship, Sam and I. I hated her and she hated me and that was all there was to it. As soon as I heard the words Sammy and died, I began sobbing. The two of us figured out what to do with her remains, and went to the barrel to take her out. I was wailing so loudly my mother told me to be quiet, because she was nervous about the neighbors hearing my sobs. After a conversation with my dad: Should we cremate her? CREE-MATE A CAT?! YOU GOTTAH BE KIDDIN ME! my father said over the phone. So, my mother and I began the task of figuring out what do with poor Sammy. We took turns laughing and sobbing, and at the end of the day realized her remains were perfectly suited to lie under a bird bath. Rest In Peace Sammy, and know that Dad still loves you. </span></div>Margarethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17635956442186351527noreply@blogger.com0