Round Plump Apple

Snap Crackle Pop

2012-01-30T15:03:00.001-08:00

When I was 11 or 12 I began my experience of going to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. In 6^th 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^th 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…)

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. 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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So I guess the bottom line is: don’t roller blade in a basement. That’s just dumb.

Guess Where I'm Tattooed?

2012-01-24T18:52:00.001-08:00

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.

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.

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.

How does that old adage go? Never say what??

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.

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.

Word to the wise: never divulge to your religious parents new tattoos, because your best friends will run and hide.

Thumbs Up? Nope. Thumbs down.

2012-01-03T20:18:00.001-08:00

A rite of passage in every teenage suburban life occurs when he or she gets their license. (well, for most—esme decided to take her time…) There were the after school driving classes that were mandatory 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’. There were the hours you had to spend driving with a teacher who had breaks on the passenger’s side as well and made you stop off to get coffee and doughnuts for himself while you drove all over kingdom come smelling Dunkin’ Donuts with while trying to obey stop signs. And of course, the actual driver’s license test.

Ah, the drivers test. the closest DMV to my home town was two towns away and there were state troopers that administered the actual driving test. it was rumored in high school that the Beverly DMV was the hardest to pass, but i had a scheduled an appointment with my mom as the back seat adult and a statie as the test giver.

No matter what anyone says, staties give everyone fucking heart attacks. Sure, they're there to serve and protect--blah blah blah; but they assume everyone's guilty of something, they just need to figure out what. From the moment we got in the car, my knees were shaking so bad 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...)

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 fell on the nazi's deaf ears.

My mother cried the whole way home while I just stared out the window, consoling her with empty sentiments: don't worry, mom. it's ok. no really, i'm fine. I was so fucking pissed i couldn't cry. I didn't know what to be more mad at: my mother trying to give me a stupid thumbs up or the fact that i told everyone at school i was getting my license, and i'd have to tell them ha ha! just kidding, i failed it because of my mother.

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.

fucking staties.

Forbidden Fruit: The Tale of the Stolen Mike and Ike

2011-11-23T14:44:00.000-08:00

I never went through a stealing phase in high school; I was too fucking scared of my mother.

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.

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.

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.

Three Strikes for Skiing

2011-11-14T16:58:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Skiing: that was strike three, you asshole.

1212

2011-11-06T18:42:00.000-08:00

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.

a few 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!

and off I went, knocking 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 more, so that's why I was going door to door introducing myself. My neighbors must have thought I had a mental disorder.

I did this throughout the whole neighborhood, and knocked on every door i possibly could. Content with the .26 cents I had made, impressed with my cunning business knowhow and strong negotiation skills, I trekked home.

I entered the house and screamed to my mom: I’m home! I met our neighbors! (silence...) Mom?? (more silence) MOOOOOMMM. silence. crickets. i started panicking, 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?!

Suddenly, the numbers 631-1212 magically appeared in my vision and I knew that I needed to call the cops, because I’d never been in my house alone, and my mom was probably dead somewhere.

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 and got out of the car seemingly before it was even in park. she started screaming and crying, and was wondering (i’m sure) what the fuck a cop was doing in front of her house with her kid.

Turns out my mother didn’t hear my little pipsqueak voice as I left the house, so she too was searching the house for me; when she couldn’t find me in the house, she went tearing around my neighborhood and beyond.

To this day I laugh that I actually had the balls to call the cops. On my mother. Hey, when in doubt, 631.1212.

Stick and a Country

2011-10-23T07:09:00.000-07:00

In September of 2005, the first September we were no longer in school, Ryan and I drove across the country, like 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 get to his new job/life in Arizona, and mine hadn’t seem to begin yet, so I said sure, I’ll go with you.

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 multi million dollar homes.

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 on the highways.

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.

Ah, the open road...so many mystical cities, so many wonders...like, DeBuque.

The first morning waking up in Indiana, we discovered that our friend that offered her place in Chicago for us to crash that night pulled out on her invite, as she had just moved there not a week before and things were crazy. Fine, 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.

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.

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.

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.

In the middle of Iowa (and corn) we drove past a huge boulder with spray paint on it that said: 9/11: We ain’t scared....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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Heart Attack Cat

2011-10-19T18:18:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Up at bat

2011-09-23T05:18:00.000-07:00

Bernie and Annie are dear friends of mine. Among many other things, they are avid environmentalists and lovers of organic food before organic was even a word that was trendy. When they are not at their home in Marblehead, they travel to the middle of Maine to be in their home away from home. aka: in the middle of nature with no humans.

On one such occasion, they asked me to go to their Marblehead home and water their plants. (for most, watering plants is not too big of a deal, as there are usually only 3 or 4 tops.) They have 3 floors, and on each floor there are about 6 different things to water. On the third floor, I was almost finished watering the plants when i heard a rattling of sorts within the house, but I attributed it to the wind rattling the windows outside.

As I was walking to the stairs to descend down to the second floor, I noticed a still yet breathing black leathery being on the third stair: a bat.

I froze in place, mid stride and slowly reached into my pocket to call bernie and annie. when bernie picked up, his voice was so cheery and happy to hear from me I almost wanted to punch him. In a very calm and monotonous tone I explained that there was a bat on the stairs and that I would not move from the place i was in until they figured out a way to remove the bat without my involvement. Bernie began mirthfully giggling and was explaining the situation to Annie, his more methodical and organized better half. (I say this with love; anytime he wants to show me something on the computer, he stares at it like a young boy at an aquarium then willfully resigns to the fact that Annie will be the one that gets him onto the right page and yells for her; she's normally at least a floor up: ANNNNNIIIEEEEEE).

Annie gets on the phone and speaks in her calming former doctor voice asking me where exactly it is. I tell her and also reiterate the fact that I'm not moving until they (up in Maine) find a way for someone to remove the bat. Bernie gets back on the phone and I can hear Annie explaining to Bernie that I was serious and to not laugh. I could still hear a faint glimmer of a chuckle in his voice when he began inquiring about the bat itself. I told him it wasn't moving to which he achingly responded: the poor bat! oh my god! I calmly and flatly replied: fuck the bat this isn't in my contract.

They hung up the phone, made a couple of phone calls and within 10 minutes Tracy came to save my life. She was my knight in shining armor. That was one of the longest 10 minutes of my life waiting for Tracy to come take the bat out of the house. What if it decided to fly around? What if it had rabies? Did the bat liked the way I smelled? (If so, I was a goner.)

To this day Bernie, Annie and I will remember with sarcastic fondness how serious I was that evening. I wonder sometimes how it is that we're actually friends. The pair of them have such a deep connection to the natural world around them, while I find comfort in hearing traffic patterns of the city and have been camping once when I was 6. It was in the back porch of my parents house.

I can't say for sure whether or not that particular bat is still living haunting other humans: but it did a great job that night scaring the shit out of me.

Hell Night

2011-09-21T18:25:00.000-07:00

Monday afternoon my friend Joe calls me and asks if I'd like to join him for Hell night at this satanic restaurant.

I have heard of Hell Night before; it's a Boston urban legend; only the strong survive and those that attend have to be a little bit touched in order to actively want to participate.

Sure I said. Why not. I'll go. WHY NOT? because it's INSANE to go to Hell Night. That's why. I should have said no right off the bat. But I didn't. I mean, who the hell willingly participates in dishes that are known around the GLOBE as the hottest dishes on the planet? I met Joe and Kris and they laid it out for me what would happen. Joe explained that the menu has different options much like a normal restaurant, but on the right hand side are small bombs that indicate the spiciness of the dish. 1 bomb is extremely mild, and even those that enjoy spicy foods only dare to go to a 7 bombed dish. 10 bombs is basically the hottest fucking thing that has ever existed and that no one in their sane mind would voluntarily eat. (in fact, they have a waiver that you sign before it gets delivered to your table.)

We entered the restaurant and I immediately noticed two things: The first being that the wait staff all had bandana scarves tied around their faces from the nose down and the second thing I noticed was that there was hard core punk music blaring from the speakers. If the literal interpretation of what hell was escaped me before, it didn’t now.

I was becoming educated on how we would order the meal and what to expect within my body the next day. (it was like a run through from the doctor at the gynecologist before the actual exam. *shudder*)

I put my faith into Joey's decision making for the menu and let my taste buds do the talking from there on out.

The first order was a Russian roulette; it’s exACTly what you think it is. There is a meat ball for each person at the table (4) and one of the meatballs has the Trinidad Scorpion pepper mixed in with the meat. Fortunately none of us got it.

Next was corn smothered in a chipotle mayo with peppers sliced on the corn; It doesn’t seem bad, then all of the sudden the pang of hotness spreads from the center of your lips back through your mouth down your throat and hollows out your stomach cavity. Imagine the explosion scene at the end of Blown Away. and that was just the corn.

On to the chicken wings, which was a 7 on the scale of hotness. the wings are a 3 alarm fire. the wings are the type of anger you have for your ex boyfriends. it begins softly, then engulfs you faster than the flames of Blown Away; it's more like being drenched in gasoline then having a match thrown inside your mouth and neck. Joey, Kris, Mike and I all did our fair share of eating ice cubes and licking corn bread.

Then the table behind us got up to leave. We noticed he ordered the Trinidad Scorpion Pepper sauce with out the pasta. He said he ordered it to see if any of his co-workers wanted to try it at the office. Next thing I know, he's opening the take out container and offering me a bite. Feeling brave, I took a pea sized bite and experienced the #10 bomb. The hottest dish served on the planet was snaking its way through my body. This experience can only truly be described as euphorically evil. Pain that level can only be described as a 60's cartoon drug sketch. I woke up at 5am the next morning to chug ginger ale and soy milk.

I can check that experience of my list, and i'm 2 pounds lighter because of it, but for the love of baby jesus, I would glue those couple of pounds back on me if I could. I fought the Trinidad Scorpion, and guess what, it kicked the shit out of me.

212

2011-09-11T09:55:00.000-07:00

i fell in love when i was 15. I fell hard. the kind of love where you don't know if you want to laugh or cry, sing or throw punches, create or destroy. this love was powerful and potent. the difference between my love and most was that i fell in love with 8 million people, not one. i fell in love with new york.

my first time visiting new york was with my parents; we did the cliche sight seeing activities, went to the popular delis. the last day of our stay, i knew, much like I can assume a heroin addict does, that i'd be back for more.

upon my acceptance to Fordham University, my mother urged for me to take self defense classes. i defiantly declined her wish; deep down i knew if there was someone/thing that wanted to kick the shit out of me, I'm 5'1'' for fuck's sake, it wouldn't be difficult even if I was taught how to properly throw a punch.

I arrived at the Rose Hill campus of Fordham University on August 26th, 2001. There were the orientations, the adjustment of living with a shit load of other 18 year olds all in one place, and showers in which you needed flip flops. Two days after being dropped off, some of us on the second floor of North headed into the city in search of fake id's. This is what is deemed a bonding experience. About 15 yards into our walk up Fordham Road (which is two say, like, two feet from campus) we noticed a man jerking off into a fence. In broad daylight. If I didn't realize I was in New York before, I can assure you, I knew at that moment I wasn't in quaint little Marblehead any longer. Like, he was just going at it, and an NYPD cruiser was parked not 20 feet from the dude. We laughed, blushed and continued on our trek in search of something that would make us seem older. Little did we know, 14 days from then we'd be more jaded than we could have ever hoped for.

The morning of September 11th, 2001, I was running late to my sociology class--so I didn't bother taking a shower, I'd take one later. I got dressed and darted down my dorm hall, only to realize that each room was open, and I could hear audible sobs. I heard a very loud boisterous jersey girl screaming WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE, FUCKING TOWEL HEADS! YOU CANT ATTACK THIS CITY! again, i was stunned and dazed, and realized upon entering a neighbors room, that the World Trade Center tower was attacked by a plane.

Still in disbelief, I rushed to my class, but realized people were walking around in a fog, as if they were headless chickens. Of course, classes were suspended, and students and professors alike huddled around televisions, and we could hear sirens all over.

Some ROTC kids walked down to Ground Zero (about 16 miles) while we all tried to contact our families. about 3 or 4 hours after the planes hit the towers, i was able to reach my house. my mother answered and heard my voice and instantly started wailing my baby my baby! that was the only time i got choked up that day. I couldn't really cry when there was so much devastation surrounding me; I felt I didn't have the right.

That day lasted forever. It was that day that cemented my true unfaltering love and faithfulness to New York City. The following 4 years i dedicated my life, attention and time to my love. I felt being in New York was my destiny.

The time I spent in the City became the most formative years of my life. I learned about the human spirit. I discovered true work ethic. I honed the fine skill of flirtation. I learned the difference between local and express. I (along with my friends) befriended happy hour. I embraced the city, with all it's color, desperation and luxury--I had internships with some amazing companies, met some wonderful people and not so wonderful people. I learned to take cat naps on the subway, to avoid patches of sidewalk with bird shit on them. I worked for one day in a deli. in heels. i heard different languages every day. i wrote papers. i slammed my hand on the hood of a taxi cab and yelled at the driver. i saw the dali lama in central park. i kissed strangers. i was a nanny. i witnessed complete sadness and complete beauty. i learned the difference between cheap wine and good wine. i fell asleep in a bed facing the empire state building. i saw the red sox beat the yankees. i saw priceless works of art for ten cents. i have stood in central park and felt summer breezes shift into autumn winds. i understood how to appreciate my hometown and the smell of the ocean. I split hummus sandwiches with Bonnie cause we were broke. I then stole bread to fill our stomachs, only to have the bread bounced out of my hand by Bonnie's excitement at seeing a purse. I snuck into Tompkins Square park with some TV guys I worked with to smoke a joint with beers and watch the sun rise. the thrill of getting ready for a night out was better than going out itself. i got bit in the ass by a pit bull. i walked home in the wee hours of the morning to smell the fresh bread being delivered in the Bronx. everything i experienced became part of my dna. i became part of new york, and it became part of me.

New York. The thrill of everything it represents doesn't even compare to the feeling you have when you're in the actual city. Stop. Go. Walk. Laugh. Breathe. Drink. Gasp. Listen. Yell. Silence. Light. Dark. Hope. Desperation. Wealth. Poverty.Fear. Hope. Hate. Love.

Who I am now is different from what I was ten years ago. The thing that will remain the same is the ache I have in my heart for New York; that's the thing about first loves; they never go away. They remain in your heart forever as an ember silently burning. Today, I'm a New Yorker. We all are.

what a joke.

2011-08-22T16:10:00.000-07:00

For a little under a year, I lived in East Boston. (land of the best pizza you'll ever eat) and Logan Airport. During that time, I became familiar with the route to and from work; so much so that sometimes a stop sign would just happen to get passed without fully stopping.

One grey snowy morning, I was doing my usual trek, when I (ahem) rolled through a stop sign. As luck would have it, a cop at the intersection saw me and dutifully pulled me over. The bitch of this whole thing was that I called a co-worker to tell leave her a voicemail explaining I was running a little bit behind because of whatever reason, when this happened. Ummm....Mary? I gotta go--i'm getting pulled over.

He walks to my car, I roll down the window and he asked me if I knew why I was being pulled over. No, I really don't officer. Well uh, yah just drove through this stawp sign, hun. Oh my god, I'm so sorry officer, I live in this neighborhood, I should know better. Alright hun, I'm just gonna run yawh registration and license, an' I'll be right back. Ok, officer I replied. I'm at this point shaking and saying Hail Marys.

He comes back to my window and says: Umm, it says in the system that I hafta take yah in, you got like, 4 wah-rents out faw yah arrest.

At this point, I see myself in orange. The sane part of my brain didn't take over, it just shut down. I didn't question this dude's authority, I just thought to myself, whelp, that's it for me. My whole body began convulsing and I immediately started sobbing.

The cops' eyes got huge and he bent closer to my window and said Oh my gawd hun! I was just jokin' around with yah! It's just a joke, I'm just jokin'!!!! Look! I'm only givin' you ah wahnin'!!!!

To which, I looked up at him, still sobbing and exclaimed that's (sob) the best (sniffle sob) joke (sniff) anyone's ever played on me ever (long wail of tears and snot ensued). He patted me on the shoulder, gave me my warning, and went back to his car, I think perhaps a bit shell shocked at my reaction.

The thing of it is, I know that there a lot of decent police officers out there; my grandfather was a Police Officer, and I am proud of that fact, as are some of my cousins. But they are the single agency that have the ability to take away a person's freedom, and when the mere mention of the fact that your whole life as you know it gets threatened, things get sensitive very quickly.

Best part of this whole thing is that i never hung up the voice mail I was leaving for my co-worker. I got into work and she couldn't stop laughing for a good half hour. shit.

Dumpster Diving.

2011-08-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

It's only fitting that the time in which we as humans feel the most awkward in life (what the shit? How do I have growing things on my chest?) we also must endure the time honored and humiliating mouth ware: braces. Gah.

Allow me to back up a bit. I first had a lip bumper in preparation of the braces. (Think Bubba in Forrest Gump). Then came the braces, which were put on me the day of a friends birthday party at a fancy restaurant, so I was the girl in the corner stuffing her face with the fried mozzarella and not speaking. I was in too much pain. Then came the piece de la resistance: head gear. Yup. I had head gear. Thank baby jesus i didn't have to wear it to school, but I was that chick who rocked it at slumber parties. I mean really--I almost think that these things were created so that as adults, we can say we survived.

The thing that really was the worst for me out of all of this, though, was the retainer. That fucking thing was the root of all evil. food would get caught in it, it was too easy to play with in your mouth, and you had to take it out when you sat down to eat lunch. On one such day, I made the ghastly mistake of throwing my retainer out, and didn't realize it until about an hour after lunch had ended. By the end of the day, I was a wreck trying to figure out how the hell I was going to tell my mother that I had thrown it out.

The final bell rang, I proceeded to my after school activities, then later that afternoon, I walked out to my mother's green station wagon to deliver the news. I told her what had happened, and she simply said, well...let's find it. Huh? What? Did you not hear me? I lost it! I threw it out in the trash! As she unbuckled her seat belt, I realized that this was actually going to happen. She was going to go hop in the dumpster of my middle school. As I sat there praying to god that I would either die or magically transmogrify into an insect the size of a gnat, she was calling from the dumpster: WHAT WERE PEOPLE EATING YOU WERE SITTING WITH? (brown bags and apple cores are at this point can be seen being thrown around).

At this precise moment, the vice principal of my school walked by, and the look on his face was so stunned, I can only imagine that was the kind of expression he had on when he found out he was going to be a father. My mom popped her cheery little midwestern face out from the dumpster and explained the situation. Oh! he said. I have a meeting to go to (yeah right, dude) other wise, I'd jump in there with you! While he was conversing with dumpster diver I mean my mother, the boys soccer team just happened to run past on there warm up lap around the school; their heads all turning left as they ran past. Yup. I would have chosen death over anything in that moment.

She did not find my retainer that day, so I had to order a new one. I have since learned what the cost is associated with all that oral mouth gear, and holy christ is it expensive. Truth be told, I can now understand her ferocious drive to find the thing, but at 12 years old? Hell. Sheer unadulterated hell.

Turns out, my bottom teeth are crooked again. And they're staying that way, dammit.

A Bricklayer of a Date.

2011-08-11T05:49:00.000-07:00

The summer going into my junior year of high school I had a huge crush on my next door neighbor’s bricklayer. As in to say, he was laying brick on their front walk without a shirt on in the early summer heat. Yum. Turns out, I was my neighbor’s babysitter for a week when they went on vacation, so the day I left with them, I called my sister up and convinced her to run over there and give him my number. (well, actually, my family’s home phone number, this is pre-cell phone). First of all: what the fuck was I thinking? And second: what the fuck was my sister thinking?? Hannah called me a mere two hours after we got to the summer house with the kids and told me he called. She was almost more excited than I was; He called you Margaret, and he left his number! I took the number and discovered for the first time what butterflies really were. As I called him from my neighbor’s vacation house, we made plans for the next weekend to see the new movie coming out: The Patriot, with Mel Gibson and Heath Ledger. (moment of silence).

My next door neighbor warned me: he’s a bricklayer for a reason Margaret…but of course, being the carefree and irreverent chick that I am paid no attention to her cautious remarks.

The next Saturday night, Frank came to pick me up in his wagoneer; I was wearing a cute orange top with some jeans. My father greeted him at the door with a smile on his face, and his eyes saying to him as he shook the bricklayer’s hand: my rifle is only two rooms away…

So we get in the car and we begin the whole small talk thing: so, what do you like to do, how old are you (he was 21 at the time…yikes, considering I was only 16) what are your hobbies? I told him I really liked traveling, plus it’s fun when you have friends in different places, you can stay with them. (I mentioned that I had gone to Berlin to stay with Anna recently.) Frank the bricklayer jovially responded: Oh yah! I love havin’ friends all ovah. As a mattah of fact, I drove up teh New Hampshaah just last weekend and went campin’ with my buddy Billy! Oh! I said. Deep breath Margaret, we’re almost at the theatre. At this point his words were just background noise to my brain berating me: why the FUCK are you on this date Margaret? He smells like cigarettes! He doesn’t get me at all!

So we go to the counter, and since it is the opening night of the Patriot, the 7pm tickets were all sold out, so we got tickets for 8:15. What do you want to do for an hour? Frank the bricklayer asks. Well, we could grab some food, perhaps go bowling or something? I suggested…well, let’s think about it, he says, but in the mean time let’s just walk around. The theatre we were at was (and still is) located in a mall, so we walked all around the mall. No no, like, the inside and the outside. We walked around the perimeter of the mall and then he wanted to walk around the Sports Authority. Each. Fucking. Aisle. I mean, seriously, there’s only so much small talk you can make about a fishing rod, am I right?

The movie came and went, he couldn’t stop chit chatting in the car, and all I could think was how do I get out of this car without him trying to kiss me?

The best solution I came up with was to open the door and jump out before the car actually stopped. Which is what I did.

Almost 13 years later and I’m still trying to figure out the opposite sex. Or rather, I think they’re still trying to figure out me. Whatever the case, it all started with a bricklayer named Frank.

Babies 'R' Us=Babies Aren't Me

2011-08-10T15:27:00.000-07:00

I went to go pick out a few gifts for a coworker for a surprise baby shower we threw for her at work. As soon as I entered this mega store filled with diapers, I knew I was going to need some sort of narcotic afterward to calm my nerves. I walked over to the gift registry with my eyes already glazed, and was greeted by a perky sales associate named Becky with a daisy tattoo on her forearm. I asked her to print out the list for my coworker, and off I went into the wilderness of noise machines, strollers and binkies.

As I wondered aimlessly amidst aisles of smiley baby boxes, I noticed that each row had a few expectant mothers rubbing their bellies while perusing cribs and blankets; I saw one woman look down at my stomach and I could see her trying to calculate how far along I was. I looked at her and then down at my stomach, I shook my head and literally began jogging out of that terrible aisle. I mean, my stomach has always been my source of pure insecurity, and I enter a place that assumes my huge gut has a kid in it. Fucking awesome. The next row I stumbled into had a single human in it: a dude holding a breast pump like it was a remote control for a massage chair at Brookstone.

I was on the verge of giving up when Britney (god bless her soul) sought me out and said in a sweet tone: you look like someone that could use some help. I almost hugged her. I shoved the gift registry list at her and I told her to pick three things out on this list. Britney looked at me with a shocked expression and questioned me about the mom to be: what kind of mother does she want to be? does she have sensitive skin? Britney: I don’t give a shit. Pick three items for me and let’s call it a day. So the three items were a mommy and me lotion set, a stuffed lamb animal that calms babies down with whale noises (what the fuck?) and finally: a diaper genie. As Britney and I were making our way to the register, I was just explaining to her that I’m in baby and wedding season with all of my friends. Oh, I know, I know! She said. I’m trying to tell one of my friends not to be so baby crazy, and marry her boyfriend before she has a baby, but you know that clock of ours ticks when it wants to! Nervous giggle from me before I ask: umm, Britney, how old are you? Oh me? I’m 22! I almost fainted. I don’t even know what happened after that, I think I blacked out. I paid and was actually relieved to walk (rather run) to my car in the pouring rain and escape the land of pregnant zombies and 22 year old ticking clocks. Mark my words: I will never ever go into a Babies R Us ever again.

The Fuck Word

2011-08-08T06:11:00.000-07:00

Growing up, my parents raised my sister and I with a strict policy: no saying shut up, no using the Lord’s name in vein, and no swearing. If we lived by those rules, we’d survive. I learned the hard way.

When I was 6, I said shut up to my mother right before we went to church on a Sunday morning; I must have heard it at school or from my sister, but will never say it again to her, because as the words came out of my little idiot mouth, she spun around and whacked me. I don’t know who was more stunned: my mother who couldn’t believe she just slapped me or me, disbelieving she actually would. Whatever the reaction, the bottom line is that I never said shut up to her ever again.

The summer before I went to college, I was hanging out with a friend at my house when a song we all loved came on. Being the geeks that we were, we’d created a dance to it. In the middle of the song, I messed up one of the moves and said quickly: Fuck! As soon as that one syllable slipped from my mouth, I knew that my mother (who was in the same room reading a book) would be none too pleased. She looked up at me over her glasses, slammed her book shut and stormed off. Yikes. I gave her a few hours, and I went to find her. I held my head low and said I’m sorry for swearing mom, it just came out. Her reply was: I just didn’t think I raised my daughters to say that word. Stunned, I retorted: well have you ever said that word? Oh Christ, I knew I’d gone too far. Deep from some unknown and very very scary place game a deep and low growl that erupted into: THAT’S NOT THE POINT MARGRET!!!! Yeah, I should have let her cool off a bit longer. It took her a few days to get over that one.

Flash forward to a few years later when I was home from college for a long weekend. Saving Private Ryan was playing on television; my father and I were watching it when I suddenly realized that they were swearing without bleeping any of the words. (It must have been around Veteran's Day) Shocked, I turned to my father, and said: they can say that? As I was asking this, my mother walked into the room, heard the question and asked: they can say what?

To which my father so graciously replied: they said the fuck word.

39

2011-08-05T06:12:00.000-07:00

Today marks my parents’ 39^th anniversary. They have been together for nearly forty years. As in a life time. I can’t fathom being with anyone that long; (yeah yeah, I haven’t found the right dude etc…which is all valid and true). What makes people be able to not just love, but tolerate the other person?

About 2 or 3 weeks after my father officially retired a few years back, he and my mother went to the grocery store together. I remember seeing them come back from Stop & Shop and I thought they were going to get a divorce. Apparently, my father likes to do the self check out. Each time he was weighing produce or something, he squinted at the screen, looked back down on the scale at the produce he was weighing, then remembered that his glasses are in his shirt pocket, and puts them on to do the whole thing over again, but clearly. I think that put my mother over the edge, so she said she’d wait in the car. I probably would have done the same thing also; but I was really scared their marriage was donzo. Nope, they kept on truckin’, and the best part about it is that they laugh about it now, and don’t go food shopping together any more.

They also are very do-it-yourselfers. They needed the trim of the house painted, so instead of hiring a company to do it, they did it together. They don’t have landscapers come over their house every 6 weeks, they weed, garden and mow the lawn together. Today, it seems that there is a specialist for every minute thing in and around the house; interior decorator, light specialist, house cleaner, personal assistant. My parents are all of those things, and take pride in the fact that they manage their life and home on their own. Please do not misunderstand me; I am not judging those that have any of the above mentioned specialists; I just am thankful I have had two role models instill in me a very simple yet strong message: I am capable enough to do anything.

My mother gave me great advice about love when I was about 14. It was midwinter, snow was on the ground, and if you had the choice to stay inside, you would. It was around 8pm at night, dinner was over, and I was watching tv in the den which opens up to the kitchen. My mom opened the garbage door, and cooed: aww, Col took out the trash. She said it in a way that sounded like awww, my husband gave me a dozen red roses, how romantic. Me being the snarky daughter that I am, snickered under my breath, unaware she had heard me. She stood straight up, looked me dead in the eye and said: You know Margaret? Love isn’t about who will bring you flowers and there aren’t fireworks in the night sky every night. Love is when the person you’re with knows you don’t want to take the trash out on a cold winter’s night so he does it for you.

I never forgot that.

Amazing. Theirs is a story of compassion, patience and love. 39 years. Keep it up. (xo)

Tick...tick...tick...scare

2011-08-04T07:02:00.001-07:00

Scaring people gives me a thrill. I genuinely love the reactions of faces when they are scared to death. Anyone that is truly close to me has been scared to the point of tears, almost peeing or just complete mortification. I once scared Esme so bad she twisted in a circle as she crumbled to the ground as I watched with utter glee and happiness. Or the time when my mom started choking on cous cous –with each breath she drew in, another particle would lodge itself in her throat and begin another coughing attack; I was laughing so hard that she managed to (mid cough/choke) to send me up to my room.

I have a sneaking suspicion my love for frightening people emerged at a young age, when my father would do the same thing to me. Except instead of crying or being upset, I would genuinely love being scared. Sort of a wake up call saying: Hey guess what! You’re still alive! Isn’t that GREAT??

My sister and I were going up stairs together to go to bed one night when we knew the game was on because as we climbed up the stairs, there were no lights on. None in the hall, no bathroom light-nothing. We started nervously giggling and going from room to room to try and find our father, all the while hearing this weird ticking, almost like an old fashioned bomb tick noise. We didn’t dare turn the lights on because we knew some how that this funny experience would be multiplied if enveloped in darkness. As each room turned up empty, we only had one more room to inspect, and that was Hannah’s room. Curiously, the ticking noise got louder as we crept into her room, barely speaking, arm in arm. This was the clock noise straight outta Peter Pan; you know, where the alligator is taunting Captain Hook? All of the sudden, my father bursts forth from her closet, armed with an old fashioned alarm clock with bells on the top of it and it’s going off like Armageddon is upon us . I can’t even imagine what Hannah and I looked like at that exact moment, because I can only remember screaming at the top of my lungs and collapsing to the floor. After the fear subsided, I remember looking up at my father who was doubled over laughing like I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh before.

That moment was a game changer for me; anyone I know in my life that I love dearly I try to scare the shit out of, or at least gross them out somehow. I mean how the hell did he get an old fashioned alarm clock? I’ll never know the answer to that, and I don’t think I would want to know. It’s just better that way.

The Green

2011-08-03T06:21:00.001-07:00

Do kids have fun any more?? No no, I am genuinely asking that seriously. I remember being a nanny in college for a family in Scarsdale. After I passed the initial screening process, she then gave me a four page instruction sheet on what I couldn’t say or how not to act in front of Michael. Never use the word ‘no’. Don’t say anything negative about him going to the bathroom in his diaper; (we don’t want to discourage him from doing something natural). Use positive tones when speaking to him. Keep in mind this little dude was only a mere 10 months old when I was watching him. I’m sorry, but if he poops himself, I’m gonna tell homeboy he stinks. I can’t imagine how kids use their brains these days; with the onslaught of social media and indoor video games that profess health, do they even know what it’s like to get dirt on their pants?

Growing up, my childhood friends and I would spend hours upon hours at a place called The Green. We would just shout to whatever parent was closest that that’s where we were headed and off we went. It was heaven. The Green was a mini sort of forest with a large willow tree that seemed taller than any skyscraper and on one of the tallest branches, there was thick boating rope attached to it, with a wooden paddle as the seat for a swing. We would grab the swing and walk it up the dirt hill, get a running start downwards, and hang on for dear life; or if we felt lazy we’d just sit atop the rustic wooden paddle and hang in mid-air. Enveloped by The Green, we were accountable to no one; we would play there for hours, swinging and laughing and imagining the day away. It was as if time held its breath for us, and we were allowed be completely free protected by the emerald foliage.

Esme’s childhood home was right around the corner from our beloved Green, so chances were if we were at Esme’s house and it was a nice day out, that’s where anyone could find us. It was on one of these idyllic spring days we were swinging and laughing, when Ryan decided to run down the hill, grasping the seat of the swing, gung ho. (I should mention that all around the base of the willow tree were pricker bushes, making the notion of our swing that much more dangerous and exciting. ) Just as the swing was at the peak of it’s height above the ground, Ryan just let go of the swing—not on purpose, but it’s as if his hands decided to betray him. Esme stood there wide eyed, disbelieving what just happened. Me, being the Satan child that I was, began rolling around on the dirt hill hysterically laughing. The pricker bushes were moving, and you could hear Ryan pant and yelp as he emerged from the terrorizing shrubs. He finally made it out of his spikey hell, stunned and dazed yet all of his confusion subsided when he saw me in fits of giggles. No longer was he a victim to the razor like thorns, but an angry survivor pissed I was mocking his struggle. He started screaming at me as if I was the reason he was hurt to begin with. The louder he screamed, the more I couldn’t help but laugh. I still don’t think he’s recovered.

Escaping to lush wonderlands with friends and using nature as our entertainment was what made my childhood perfect. Every kid should be able to experience that, and if they’re really lucky, the swing will be included.

Mahhkit Baskit

2011-08-02T06:44:00.000-07:00

For all of you Massachusetts folk, you know that there are several religions in our great Commonwealth. Up there with Christianity and Judaism, there is also another god many worship. That god is Market Basket.

Market Basket provides wicked cheap groceries to the masses. For all us Yankee blooded penny pinching miserly beasts, being thrifty is literally in our DNA, so this grocery store is Mecca.

I know when my dad is in Market Basket; he’ll have a distant far away glazed over response for everything. I called him once, began speaking, and disregarding that his daughter was on the phone, made sure the butcher knew he meant business: No no, I said a pound and a kaw-tah of the had-dick! Sorry Mah-grett; gettin’ fish fo-wah dinnah t’nite fo-wah yah mothah and myself. Had to straighten that out, yah know??Sure dad. Ok.

Another time I called, and he answered all happy like a kid on Christmas morning that just unwrapped a Red Rider bb gun. Mah-grett! I’m at Mah-ket Baskit an’ they got green beans fo-wah 89 cents a pound! Can yah believe it??

After hearing so much of this famed grocer, I decided to try my luck last winter. As luck (or the devil) would have it, I chose to go on a Saturday, to the largest Market Basket in New England. I should have known it was going to be a cluster fuck after it took me 25 solid minutes to find a parking spot in a blizzard.

I entered the mega store and suddenly I realized my chest was becoming tight and I could only see directly in front of me; people were literally swarming this place as if bees in a hive. I walked down one isle dazed and looked to the person behind me who had TWO carts, completely full with such unhealthy SHIT, I only remember seeing orange Fanta. The people in this store weren’t shopping, they were hunting, and trying to best their fellow man at getting the cheapest Styrofoam wrapped beef they could get their hands on.

Seriously: it’s as if the radio, tv and online media outlets all proclaimed: BOSTON: DDAY IS UPON US. ALIENS ARE SET TO INVADE THE ATMOSPHERE IN 60 MINUTES. THERE ARE MASSIVE TORNADOES HEADING TOWARDS THIS GREAT CITY AT ANY MOMENT. MT. FUJI HAS ERRUPTED AND WILL DEVESTATE OUR GREAT LAND all on that one Saturday. Sure sure, I know it’s a great priced market—but there is something to be said about leisurely taking your time up and down aisles pondering what you will be making later that day on the stove. There is something to be said for being mindful of where the produce is coming from, and how the packaging affects us and the earth. (Keep in mind, I have on more than one occasion spit out gum from a moving vehicle, I’m no saint, nor to I claim to be as good to this earth as I should.) But this mayhem was just too much for me and my nerves. I actually made it down one whole aisle before I internally cried mea culpa. I mean, what was I thinking? I can’t even go into Marshalls without being overwhelmed.

I will never, EVER make the mistake of going to a Market Basket again. I’ll pay extra to keep my sanity and not have fucking panic attacks. Even if the green beans ahh only 89 cents a pound.

Happy Easter: I'm becoming a Jew.

2011-07-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

A while back I dated and fell in love with a friend’s roommate. The first time I saw him, I literally couldn’t feel my limbs, didn’t remember how to put one foot in front of the other. It’s the crazy stupid all encompassing love you see in movies, the kind you read about, blah blah blah. As our relationship progressed, I soon realized that his being Jewish was a big deal. Like, his dad’s a rabbi big deal. Like, I can’t even think about being with you if you’re not a Jew big deal. So, like the love sick idiot I was, I began reading books with titles like: To Be a Jew, Welcome to the Family and the best: Judaism for Dummies. I even went to his temple, listened, observed, saw his father be a rabbi to his congregation, signed up for conversion classes.

My family is Catholic. Not the kind of Catholic that just goes to Christmas Eve mass. My father goes to church 6 days a week, and my mother at least 5 days a week. They still cringe when I say jesus christ when I’m chopping onions. Growing up, my father would come into my bedroom and kneel beside me at night and we would say our prayers together. That kind of Catholic.

On Easter Sunday of 2007, my family is sitting around the dining room table eating lamb and roasted asparagus when my father starts asking me about my relationship, why I’m reading Judaism for Dummies, don’t I believe in Jesus Christ rising from the dead to join his Heavenly Father? I responded, as any know it all 24 year old would: because I don’t mind one religion or the other, I would convert to Judaism for him, and I’m going to. Seriously Margaret? I think if I had said: Hey, Dad, I’ve decided to be a dominatrix and I’m moving to a basement apartment in Bayonne—that would have gone better than me saying: I’m gonna be a Jew, because it just doesn’t matter to me that much.

Fast forward to a month later, I’m in the car with a friend when I receive a call from him: hey…um…we need to talk. For the record, get a better fucking line. I just don’t know where this can go…with you being catholic…and, my family doesn’t want…and then things just went black. I experienced my first true heart ache that night from the man I thought was going to be the man of my life.

To others, heart break is eating chocolates out of a box and watching bad TV, or going out and surrounding yourself with tons of people so you forget your pain. I chose silence and nothingness. I called Anna in Germany, and it must have been 3 am her time, but she picked up, and listened to me wail and sob. (come to think of it, I am pretty sure that only whales would have been able to understand me, but somehow, she understood my language.) Anna called me the next day and asked what I was doing, and I plainly told her I was staring at my toes. She said, ok, but pick me up from the airport first. She fucking flew across the globe to be by my pathetic side while I stared at my toes.

Other dear friends left words of encouragement on my doorstep, along with food. If someone walked by my front door, they would have thought someone had died. Loss of love is like a death; and the mourning process is unique in the fact that everyone that cares about you and you them are still in your life.

So the moral of the story is this: don’t fucking change yourself for shit, ‘cause they’ll come and go, but you? You remain. And you have to live with you. And don’t tell your Catholic Dad you’re converting to Judaism on Easter Sunday. Bad move.

Air Conditioning Codes

2011-07-26T07:23:00.003-07:00

So you’ve gotten a peak into all that is my Uncle John. He is so much more that can be put into words…you can tell he has a little bit of wise guy in him, but at the end of the day, he’s a big ‘ol softy. (but don’t tell him I said that.) A few years ago, my sister and I were over at his house to say a quick hello. HI! HOWAH YAH GUYS! GOOD SEEIN’ YAH! We were catching up on family and how their latest trip to the British Virgin Islands was. Oh my gawd, I’ll tell yah somethin’…it was fantastic. Clee-yah blue oceans-ow-wah own private captain. Yah. (Let me just interject right now, if I may—the use of the word ‘yah’ encompasses everything in a conversation. How are yowah parents? Good! They’re good! Response: Yah. Good. Yah. I heard that (insert name here) got a great job promotion. YAH?! Oh yah! I heard that (insert name here) is battling cancer. In lower voice: Yah…yah. ) ‘Yah’ is the perfect response for everything.)

So we’re chatting with Uncle John about his vacation, and he wanted to show us some photos he took of the trip, and of course they were on his computer upstairs in the guest room/office. The three of us trek upstairs and go to the room where the computer is. He’s finding the pictures in a file when I notice that there is Bic Pen numbers and letters written all over the wall behind the computer. We’re talking A Beautiful Mind here. Uncle John? I ask cautiously. Why is there um, numbers and letters written on the wall?

Oh! Those ahh my passwords and codes. Yah. Yah nevah know what wee-doh is gonna go dumpstah divin’ fo-wah my passwords, that’s why yah can’t trust a notebook. Even if I shred the pay-pah, you don’t know who’s gonna go through and tape it tugethah! Hannah and I exchange glances at each other and continue to look at pictures of the vacation. At the end of the slide show, I can’t help it. I just can’t. I go back to the codes written on the walls. So…why do you write them on the wall? And why are there so many? Oh, I change the codes every two weeks, and you know, aftah a while I fo-wah get them, so I write them down! At this point, Aunt Joyce walks by the room on her way down stairs, hearing our conversation and chimes in: I took a week off of work to re-paint and wall pay-puh this room, and what does he do? He writes all ovah my wall pay-pah. Uncle John continues: I don’t put ANYTHING on the intah-net. ‘Cause it’s all out theh-yah fo-wah people to steal all yo-wah identity. I’m not gonna let that happen! At this point I can hardly contain my giggles when I notice that there are even codes written on the uninstalled air conditioning unit. Um, Uncle John, why do you have passwords on the air conditioner? Oh yah! Look at the wall Mah-grett, I ran outta room, (hello? I should have already deduced that fact) I need a place to write down the codes! He thinks this is normal. Like, he’s looking at me like I have 8 heads. Hey, whatever works. This is a man that brings ritz crackers and cheeze whiz to a bar when he’s betting, and does pretty well for himself. When all’s said and done, my money’s on Uncle John.

Definition of Masshole

2011-07-21T07:32:00.000-07:00

Recently, Boston was voted 50 out of 50 for being the meanest city . Even though this article is extremely short, I’d like to give a more in depth and personal opinion on the matter. Mean (or in other words: Masshole) can encompass so many different qualities, so many different attitudes, that it’s not fair to just peg the word ‘mean’ on us, is it? There certain principles one must understand in order to exist in this great state (and more importantly, city) if one wishes to thrive, or even, survive.

Driving. People that say Massachusetts drivers are the worst drivers don’t know shit. Believe me, when you get cut off in the middle of an intersection by a man driving a crown vic smoking a cigarette with an oxygen tank seat belted in shot gun attached to his nostrils, you’ve gotta grow some balls. Fast. We Bostonian drivers know our roads well, and are not afraid to let you know it. Why should we be bashful? After 20+ years of the hell that will forever live in infamy as The Big Dig, we’ve earned it. The Buick La Sabre in front of you doesn’t need to put his left turn signal on, he already knows where he’s going, so fuck you for not figuring it out. The problem with tourists and travelers is that they think they’re driving a vehicle on a road. As soon as you realize that Bostonians are all in one big game of Super Mario Kart, the roads will seem a lot friendlier. I’d like to think of myself as Yoshi.

The Sarcasm. Just because someone says something with a straight face does not make it acceptable to believe them right off the bat. Hey hun, I could really use anothah Mastah cahd bill that’s ovah a thousand bucks this month. Shocked (and new to the area) bartender: Really? No, but I’ll take anothah bud heavy. In many cultures, it’s custom to refuse to eat a platter of food if it’s past in front of you once, even twice, but on the third go around, you indulge in the gorgeous stuffed grape leave offered. Upon seeing an old friend, you might hear: What the fuck! Who the fuck does this kid think he/she is? What a fuckin’ knuckle head, ohmygawd jesus christ!!! (large bear embrace ensues.) Midwestern or West Coast Translation: My goodness! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, my long lost childhood friend! How are you doing? My heart is swelling with happiness! Some might cringe at the gruffness of it; that’s ok. If you’re not interested in what’s underneath the sandpaper exterior, we’re not interested in showing you.

Sports.

Whether you are black, white, purple, green or magenta, Boston is and will always be a sports town. It’s literally in the water, air and food we consume. You can’t exist one season in Massachusetts without a game being on of some sort. My father gets so excited watching a Sox game, he’ll forget to sit down in his chair in the den. He’ll just stand 2 feet in front of the tv for the better part of 45 minutes. Only after three or four attempts of shouting at him will his ear canals clear of sports jargon and register that his family is yelling at him to get out of the way. People plan their weddings, christenings, engagements and various other life milestones around sports. Sure, I’ll drive down to the cape, but if the Bruins make it to the Stanley Cup Finals, I can’t. I need to be at my bar wearing my lucky socks. Sports events create long lasting friendships, relationships and babies. Plus, everyone in Boston knows that beer just tastes better inside the park.

So that’s that. If you get it, great. If you don’t, who gives a shit.

Santa: A Boston Accented Tranny.

2011-07-20T15:31:00.001-07:00

As a child, Christmas was my absolute FAVORITE holiday. Seriously, everything about it made me happy: my father making Aunt Mil’s famous fruit cake (it’s literally a brick of flour), watching my mother wrap elaborate gifts to send to her mother land of Wisconsin, wearing puffy holiday dresses that would incite static electricity in me and shock the shit out of me when I touched anything; decorating the house with Christmas paraphernalia…the list goes on and on. The most distinct memory I have for Christmas growing up was calling Santa at the North Pole on Christmas Eve and the wake up kiss mark I’d get every Christmas morning.

Every Christmas Eve, my father would pull out the yellow pages and theatrically look up Santa’s number. I’d beg and plead with him to let ME look him up; after all, I knew the alphabet, and I knew that his last name started with a C. This wasn’t exactly heavy lifting. But each time he’d say nope, Mah-grett, only paya-rhentts can look the num-bah up. I would squirm as he dialed the numbers and called Santa’s home at the North Pole, ask to speak to Santa, and finally, he’d hand the phone to me. SANTA?!!! I would exclaim. Hi Santa! It’s Margaret! Santa would lovingly proclaim: MAAH-GRETT! How ahh yah! Have yah been a good girl this yee-yah? Have yah been nice teh yah pah-rents? Yes, Santa, I have. I HAVE! Well, ok, Mah-grett, I’m gittin’ pretty busy up he-yah at the Nawth Pole, so what is it you REALLY want this yee-yah? I would smile and giggle and tell him what I wanted, he told me that my house was the first house he’d deliver gifts to; and of course I believed him. One year, my father dialed the number, handed it to me, I salivated while listening to each ring, and someone picked up. HELLO? The brusk voice answered. SANTA!!! I exclaimed. Oh!!! This must be Mah-grett! This is one’ve Santa’s elves…yah…he’s really busy Mah-grett, but he was expectin’ yo-wah call! (Some shuffling of hands and muffled voices ensued and soon, Santa was on the phone.) SANTA! I squealed.

This tradition lasted until 3^rd grade, until Esme and another guilty party whom shall remain nameless literally cornered me in Mr. Pisani’s class at our lunch break to tell me Santa didn’t exist. Children have such a blind faith, such a trust that is felt with their hearts and not the physical realm that surrounds us; why wouldn’t I believe in Santa? I loved and trusted my parents, and if they told me he was real, then he must have been. Not just the blind unadulterated faith, but he left physical evidence of being in my house as well: trails of candy canes from my room down the stairs arriving at a bountiful stocking with gifts pouring out of it; half eaten cookies were strewn in the fire place, and even carrots were nibbled on and found in our front yard. Let’s not forget about the orange kiss mark found on my cheek on Christmas morning. Santa totally existed. But alas, he was a mere fiction, a fable. I had a lot of questions I needed answered.

Who was Santa? How did I talk to him? How did he leave a kiss mark on my face? Turns out, the orange kiss mark was my mother (I always thought it odd he had the same Estee Lauder Florida Orange as my mom). One mystery down and one to go. Who did I speak to all those years? How did he know me so well, and where I lived? What my sister’s name was? Turns out, Santa was Uncle Kevin in Melrose. Jimmy (my cousin) was the elf.

Years later I was watching a holiday movie when it dawned on me: in my mind, Santa always had a Boston accent. He still does, come to think of it.

Yoga?!

2011-07-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

I never really have ever felt thin. Even at my thinnest (the end of my freshman year of college I was 98 lbs…and when the scale hit 100 I cried). Body image and perception of the way I feel has always been negative. Granted, there are days when I feel gorgeous, but it’s usually due to a new pair of shoes or some external material thing. Well, at 28 years old, I’m fed up. It’s bullshit.

I’ve taken up a couple activities to try and untangle my mind into more of a cohesive supportive organ helping my body become healthier and happier rather than the roadblock it has become. First, I’m seeing a therapist. It’s the best fucking thing in the world. Think of your head as this messy cluttered mason jar: you go to therapy, dump all the shit out of the mason jar and at the end of the session, you don’t have to clean it up; you get to leave your mess in that space and have a clean jar for the rest of the day/week. Amazing. I just want to say to all skeptics out there, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. If you break a bone, you go to the doctor. If your head is a mess, go to a doctor. It’s that simple.

Another exercise I’ve begun is yoga. I know. I know. I’m probably the most sarcastic beast on this planet, and I’m the one attempting to focus on my breathing. Life is funny. Liv (my instructor/teacher thing) is my best friend’s girlfriend and is new to Boston. You could say that I’m being the nice one (what with me helping her get her practice off the ground in Boston and all…) but in reality she’s saving me. I’ve become uncomfortable in my own skin and want to take control of my health and body image. I figure yoga could be a good way to do that. When people roll their eyes at the notion of yoga, my response will be a challenge: you try the warrior pose or plank pose and I DARE your muscles not to quiver with pain. Yoga is all about breath, and the focus of it. When you can breathe and focus solely on your breath in a sitting position, different poses help you feel other parts of your body. Well, the morning after my first class, I felt everything. I woke up feeling like Roger Rabbit after being steam rolled. Yoga is a practice that is meant to be calming, (I suppose it will get that way in time) but let me tell you one thing: it is a work out. After 30 minutes, my heart rate is jacked and I’m sweating more than what can be called glistening. It is not pretty, but I’m with a teacher I trust and believe in, and I know I will get to the better version of myself I want with her guidance.

So slowly but surely I’m building my confidence and health. Let me tell you one thing: it’s a bitch, but at the end of the day, if you can say you treated yourself well, it’s all worth it, one breath at a time.

Butter Knife

2011-07-15T06:48:00.000-07:00

This is going to be one of those make or break things. Like, I’m putting this out there and maybe no one will want to know me after this. I’d like to point out that I am a lady. I wear mascara and high heels, and use curse words appropriately. Hear me out: we all have extremely mortifying instances that happen in our lives, I’m just dumb enough to tell you. That’s it. That’s my disclaimer.

The last week of June Anna came to stay with me. (She is basically my sister. Not biologically, but pretty much). Anna lives in Berlin, Germany, and pretty knows everything about me. Like, everything. First heartbreak, insecurities, what makes me laugh or get me really pissed off. We have the same sense of humor and even kind of look alike. At any rate, I’m telling you this because there is literally nothing I would hide from her. Almost.

Anna’s last morning I woke up before her and had to go to the bathroom. Like, goooo to the bathroom. So I wake up, tip toe to the bathroom and go. Fine, perfect, whatever. We all do it. Problem is the toilet wouldn’t flush it down. I tried four or five times, but nothing was moving this thing. And no, I didn’t have a fucking plunger at the time. I could hear Anna stirring in the other room, and I panicked. I could literally feel my pupils dilate with fear. This is the type of fear that happens when you’re 5 and get nervous you’re going to get caught taking another cookie after you were specifically told only two. This type of fear is instilled in you and comes out at moments like these. It waits until you’re at the brink of despair and motivates you to do the worst possible things, and you agree to it. The rational part of my brain quite simply shut down.

I had to get this thing gone, because I didn’t want her waking up, going into the bathroom and be greeted by a poop that wouldn’t go away. In the most remote and frazzled part of my brain, a voice shouted at me like a drill sergeant: GET A BUTTER KNIFE. So I ran to the kitchen, pulled out my worst looking butter knife, rushed back to the bathroom, out loud said “what the fuck” and sliced the poop as if it were banana bread. It flushed, and the crisis was averted. Don’t worry, I threw away the butter knife (first I doused it with Clorox, shoved it in a plastic bag and then wrapped it with paper towels. )

Three minutes later, Anna woke up. She didn’t have a clue. Until I told her an hour later.

When in doubt, butter knives do the trick. Trust me on that.

Three's No Crowd

2011-07-13T15:30:00.000-07:00

You read correctly. I am one of the many that have given a shot to online dating. I've tried match.com, but the one and only date from that site I had was of the crash and burn genre. (True story. He took me to a liquor store and bought a 6 pack of pabst and we sat first on a park bench drank a beer, then we walked back to his apartment, I sat at one side of the couch and he at the other while watching the end of Training Day and drank another beer. Awful.)

So, after match.com I dated someone for a bit (not from a dating site) and suffice to say, I'm no longer with said someone. (praise be to jesus.) I recently decided to give online dating another shot. Well, that's not quite true. Bonnie convinced me to sign up one night because she had recently met someone that was cute and funny. And we both had some Syrah coursing through our veins. Ok Bonnie. Sure. I'll sign up.

I can't tell you the types of people that have emailed me. One gentleman emailed me and offered to clean my whole apartment top to bottom. There was a catch, however. I had to watch him clean. In my underwear. I actually gave it like, 3 seconds worth of consideration. There have been many South American dudes writing to me and saying: You pretty girl. We meet? Uh, sure! No problem, Carlos! (for the record, one of their name's was Carlos, and I'm not being grossly politically incorrect.)

Then there was Jonah. Oh Jonah. We met at the Trident Book Store, and as soon as I sat down he immediately began hysterically coughing, and was complaining the heat was up too high. It was the end of April, and the heat wasn't even on. So Jonah urged me to move outside, to the patio which was so uneven i had to hold my teapot in place. The thing about Jonah was a)he didn't blink. Like, not even a little. b) he didn't talk, so I had to literally down shift to "So...(throat clear) what kind of music do you like?" (I'm referring to genre, as I'm assuming you are as well...)Jonah's response: Oh, primarily the fiddle. THE FIDDLE? ok. I would judge you if you said the Dixie Chicks, or even Van Halen, but I didn't ask what type of instrument you like, and who says fiddle? Are we in King Arthur's Court or some shit? I realized this date was not to be repeated, so I said in a saccharine and horrified tone: Oh my god! I can't believe it! I left my black berry at work! I have to go! so i escaped the crime scene back to my lovely little apartment. Crisis averted.

The absolute best though, was an email I received about 3 weeks ago. The participant(s) screen name? Threesnocrowd. The message went somewhat along these lines:
Hi! We are a married couple who recently moved to Boston. Your profile interested us, and if you're up for an adventure, write us back...;-).

Ok. first of all, the smiley winkey face is a no no. It's as if to say Hey! Maybe you're leaning towards our offer, so how about we add an extra wink to really convince you. Next, I don't know where Threesnocrowd got the impression that I was up for their antics. I specifically state in my profile: If you still do keg stands, I'm not the girl from you. NOT: I dig married couples with kinky appetites.

I suppose if worse comes to worse I could always email Carlos. And for the record, the guy Bonnie was dating up and moved to Argentina without telling her.

Fit to be Jacked

2011-07-12T12:32:00.000-07:00

Last night was wonderful. Had a great meal under the stars with a wonderful friend. Got home, said hello to Elvis, who hid out in the tub due to the extreme heat. Poured myself a gorgeous glass of oj with ice cubes in it, watched some trashy tv, read this book and turned on my brand new used air conditioner, for the first time, ever, and then fell asleep.

Woke up this morning, fed Elvis, took a shower. Got out of shower, was brushing my teeth, when I heard my doorbell ring. I went downstairs , opened the door (in a beige towel, with mascara running down my face and messy wet mousse hair) to be greeted by Walter, my next door neighbor. He’s a sweet Irish man with a brogue that could lull anyone out of anger or homicidal tendencies. Marrgrhett, I have sum not soo good news fer yah. I saw yer car this mornin’ and, well….and Walter steps aside. I look across the street at my 11 day old Honda Fit, whom I have named Atticus. All four wheels are stripped off , and poor little Atticus is resting on bricks. He looks as though someone pantsed him in the middle of the night. As I’m standing there, in a towel, mouth open, mascara running down my face, Walter graciously offers to give me a ride to work, after I actually look acceptable.

We’re in the car and I’m on the phone with the police, and they suggest to wait for them to stop by, so we swing back to my street. Walter, I say, I can’t thank you enough for all your help. Oooh, nottt a problehm, nune whahtsooo eveherr. But, em, my name is Martin.

Well ok. I’m in shock about my car, but the mortification that sets in about calling Martin Walter is almost worse than the feeling that I’m going to pay a $500 deductible. For 2 solid months I’ve been calling this sweet lovely man the wrong name, and I truly don’t think he had the heart to tell me until finally he’s driving me to work.

The ironic thing about this situation was that I was perfectly calm. I didn’t freak out, I didn’t start swearing up a storm, I think I just sort of glazed myself over. I went through all the proper channels, got myself a rental car, had pants less Atticus picked up, and carried on with my day. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a car, not one of my two lungs being ripped out of my body, you know? I did get pissed that my car, MY personal property was fucked with. How dare they!

As I was photographing the damage, (picture below) I noticed that the men walking by were more intrigued than I was. It’s as if some primal urge in them is curious about the mechanics of it all: how did it happen? In this neighborhood? Are the axels banged up? I’m like, dudes. I don’t give a shit about any axels, much less know what they are, and I sure as hell don’t care about how it’s held up. (it was on tiny bricks). I will be late for work and now have to file a police report. Great.

At any rate, I had a whole different story to tell you, but this took precedence. Atticus Fit got jacked, and that’s that.And Walter's name is really Martin.

She Didn't Die on Time

2011-07-11T06:46:00.000-07:00

How to explain this. My mother is from Wisconsin, and the only one of 5 to pick up and move outside her home state. (True story: after graduating college, she flipped a coin; heads New York or tales Boston. You could say my life is based upon twenty five cents.) Whenever my family flew out to visit my mother’s side of the family, Grammy and Grampy always said that this would be the last time we’d see them. This started around the time I was 10, and suffice to say, my grandparents were around well into my 20’s.

One Thanksgiving we flew out to spend the holiday with our Midwestern family. The day after, all the cousins decided to go to this indoor pool with a high diving board. (As a 10 or 11 year old, that shit is super cool.) Since my sister was the oldest one, and the only one with her license, she sweetly volunteered to drive all us younger ones to the pool. Grampy said, Oh, I’ll drive in front of you so you know where you’re going. Hannah very kindly said, Thanks Grampy, but I know where to go. He insisted, so she agreed. So there we were: Hannah, me, and like, four other of our cousins in the van, following my grandfather’s Cadillac…when it dawned on all of us that he took a different turn…into the cemetery. We drove for a little bit in the grave yard when his car stopped, and he got out, walked to our car, asked us to pull down the window. He said “The next time you all are out here, this is probably where I’ll be, so now you’ll know where to go to say hi.” Crickets.

Flash forward to August of 2007, and my grandmother became increasingly frail. She had a stroke in the later part of August, and the doctors said that she would never recover. My mother and her 4 siblings decided to let her go peacefully. I’m sure this decision must have been painful and surreal, and the five of them were told that she’d only survive another x amount of days. So, the Tack children (that is my mom’s maiden name) started planning for the inevitable. Where the wake was going to be, who was to be doing the floral arrangements, what photos were to be displayed, what kind of casket…even the date and time of her funeral. Thing was, though, she wasn’t dead yet. So as the doctor’s ‘due date’ came and went, and Grammy was still alive, my mom became increasingly stressed. I couldn’t believe it, she and her siblings were getting pissed that their mother wasn’t dying on time. I actually told my mother that I thought it was the weirdest thing that they even planned the date of her funeral; and she said it was perfectly normal, and that people were flying in for the ceremony, and now they’ll have to rearrange everything. Well, no fucking shit, Grammy still has a pulse.

September 7, 2007 Grammy passed away. It was only 3 or so days past the predicted death day, but I remember being in the church at her funeral smirking to myself and thinking: way to go, Grammy. You did it on your time, on your schedule, no one else's.

Friends

2011-07-08T15:19:00.000-07:00

So here you have it, the 3 loves of my life. From Left: Darcy, Esme, Bonnie and me.
I cannot tell you how happy I was that we were all in the same state for a full TWO DAYS together. For some unknown and wondrous reason, I have had the fortune of growing up with the most amazing people. We have literally been witness to each others lives; loves, losses, jobs, apartments, heartbreak and utter humor. Take Darcy, for example. Darcy's sense of navigation is that of a blind mole sniffing around above ground in search of something tasty to eat but blithely unaware of anything else. She once asked how to get from my living room to the den. True story. The thing about Darcy is that she is so fucking loving and supportive and creative, Bonnie last week made a good point: "I judge people that don't like Darcy. People that don't like her aren't good people." It's totally true. She is the complete opposite of me; I like to have things in their respective place at all times, it helps keep order, especially in my huge purses I lug around. Darcy? The inside contents of her purse look like the United Nations puked up artifacts from different countries and landed inside her bag. She has a wallet, but doesn't put her money in it. She has a debit card, but instead of putting it somewhere in her satchel, she stuffs it in her sock, as in to say, her feet. Darcy is this incredible genius; she writes so well it puts everyone else to shame. She is this whirling swirling force that makes me laugh and constantly is able to lift me up out of dark places in my life and see brightness.
Bonnie is this seemingly quiet polite girl who has a wonderful giggle that makes men weak in the knees. Get a drink in her, and the next thing you know she'll wrestle anyone to the ground (ahem, me). I picked her up from the bus station, and immediately she put on this song and jammed out to it like it was 1984. Bon is an actor, and was recently Christine in the Phantom of the Opera in Las Vegas. (she's a big fucking deal. i'm not joking). She walked onstage without uttering one note and I turned into a blubbering mess. I sometimes think she is more mature and wise than any of us because not only does she own property, but she knows about like, tax write offs and shit. I'm lucky I know that I'm supposed to file them.
Then there's Esme. I first laid eyes on Ese when I was 5 years old, and she was swinging around the flag pole with a navy blue hat and red horns coming out of it. She was a grade above me, and from what I could tell, would be able to kick the shit out of me. Thank god that she had to stay back a year, because it was in Mrs. Mansfield's first grade class I initially met her. She was this quiet, observant person that had a mischievous grin whenever she was about to persuade me to do something. I have more than once (twice, hundreds of times) leaned on her for support; it is through her grace and patience I am a better person. She's also the one that told me there was no Santa. I'm still recovering.

So years later we're all the grown up versions of the children we were, and thank god these three women are in my life; they are some of the best humans on the planet, and are the rocks that make me stronger than I could have ever been on my own. xo.

Larry

2011-07-08T07:15:00.001-07:00

I work in advertising for a well known automotive site that independent car dealers use in order to sell cars off of their lots. The ratio of men to women is something like 98 to 2. And the age gap is a joke. If I work with any guy under 50, I’m shocked. Suffice to say, I’m as noticeable when I walk into a dealership as I’m sure a Hassidic Jew would be if they walked into a Catholic mass.

A couple of weeks ago on an average Wednesday, I was making my rounds in the town of Whitman. (I know, I didn’t know it existed, either…)Visiting clients is my main daily routine, so when I see a dealer that isn’t advertising with me, I pop in, say hello and leave my card. I went in to the office and met Tony, the owner, and his comrade Larry. I schmoozed a bit with Tony, who was nice enough and is just trying to scrape by. Fine, sure, no problem Tony, I get it. Should your business pick up, give me a call and we’ll have another conversation. (Cue me leaving my card on his desk.)

But I didn’t get out fast enough. Larry, the man dressed in a leather button up vest and leather cap, not in the cool hipster circa a year ago way, starts asking questions. Whats yah name, hun? Margaret, I say politely and curtly. Mah-grett, huh? Ahh you Irish? I stare coldly at him and say yes.

Larry then crosses himself and says awww jesus! I love irish girls! It didn’t go unnoticed, by the way, that Larry was smoking a cigarette this whole time, indoors, as if the place was his. Larry starts chatting, (unaware that one of my high heeled feet was literally out the door,) about how he used to be a body guard for Ted Kennedy in the good ‘ole days. Boy oh boy, I can’t believe I’m 76—time flies! I nervously giggle and say, ah, heh heh, yeah, I bet Martha’s Vineyard was a trip…

I exit the “office” with as much grace and politeness that I can muster and almost run to the car. I stop off at a few more dealerships, chat with the owners, and head on back to the office. I look down and notice that my black berry has a missed call and voicemail on it. I listen to it, and lo and behold, it’s Larry. He calls me, and leaves a voicemail saying Ah, yah, hi Mah-grett. It’s Larry, the one at Tony’s place. I used tah bawdy gahhd fo-wah Ted Kennedy. I wanted to call yah up and see if you’d be free tuh-nite fo-wah some drinks. Gimme a call back as soon as yah get this. Thanks hun.

Ok. Let’s assess. God knows I’m not Isabella Rossellini or Scarlett Johansson, but jesus christ, I’d like to think that I’m an ok looking dame. How do dudes (76 year old ones at that) think that a 28 year old with nice legs and a good education would even CONSIDER having a drink with him? And what’s with the Ted Kennedy thing? Is that like, impressive? Great, you stood outside his house/door/whatever and gave a little knock when the Mrs. was coming back. Good for you, Larry! You’ve earned a gold star for the day!

Larry’s sure got some balls. I still have the message saved, so that if I do ever get desperate enough, I know there’s a free drink waiting for me somewhere…sigh. Fucking Larry.

Where did the title Round Plump Apple Originate?

2011-07-07T06:28:00.000-07:00

While I am assuming the only people reading this blog are those closest to me and therefore know this title/story well, there should be an explanation.

My whole life I've been the shortest of all my classmates, friends, you name it, I was the runt of the litter. And a late bloomer. (basically, until I was about 19, I looked like a 12 year old boy.)

Suffice to say, going to the local pediatrician's office in my early teens was quite a treat. I think I was 14 or 15 and it was the last time my mother was in the room with me. Going through puberty is a mortifying experience enough, so laying on a sterile table while a sinister woman claiming to be a doctor prods around in the places my breasts are supposed to be was just the icing on the cake.

After being weighed, poked and prodded, the agony (ahem) exam was finished. I was sitting on the crinkly table while my Dr. (will exclude the name to protect the politically and psychologically incorrect person) attempted to explain my body.

"Margaret...how shall I say this: Girls your age have started to develop or have already developed pear shaped bodies. (she makes a pear outline with her hands.) You on the other hand? You have nice long skinny legs for your height, that can be the stem. But from there on up (and motions this in the figure of a circle) you're a round plump apple."

Way to induce anorexia, Doc. Awesome. And hence the name of this blog was created. Oh, and I have boobs now, too.

Breezes

2011-07-06T15:20:00.000-07:00

My uncle John is my god father, among many other things. He is a father of three, a grandfather of three, a loving husband and a gambling enthusiast.

January of 2009 I went to Las Vegas to see one of my best friends Bonnie perform in Phantom of the Opera. (yeah, she’s a big deal.) On our last day, we were touring the strip in her car, and at a red light, my phone rings with an out of country phone number. Not being in debt at the time, and me being curious as to this foreign number, I picked up.

Me, tentatively: Hello?

Mystery Number: MAHH-GRETT?!!

Me: Dad?!!

MN: No no! It’s yo-wah Uncle John! I was tawlkin’ to yah fathah and he said you weh in Las Vegas!

Me: Yeah, I am!

UJ: Whe-yah ah yah now?

Me: I’m at a stop light in front of Treasure Island on the strip

UJ: You gotta be kiddin’ me! I’m AT Tresh-ahh Island RIGHT NOW! Wannah meet up?

(after conferring with bonnie and katie, my other friend who came out with me)

Me: Sure! Where are you?

UJ: Hang on one sec, Mahh-grett. (the phone is muffled, and I can hear my Uncle yell to the bar tender: Bobby! Bobby! What’s the name of this bahh?)

UJ: (to me) Mahh-grett?? I’m at the bahh called BREEZES. B AAHH, E, E, Z, E, S. BREEZES. Don’t worry about pahhkin’, I’ll take ca-yah of it all. See yah soon. Isn’t this amazin’??!

*click*

So in a five minute span I try to prepare Bonnie and Katie for the entity that is my uncle John. We get to Breezes, and nothing could have prepared any of us for the sight we saw.

My Uncle John is at the last stool of the bar, watching some sort of college football on tv with the same enthusiasm as a lion has right before he attacks his prey in the Serengeti. Spread out in front of him at the bar includes his martini, a can of Cheese Whiz, Ritz Crackers, and a Mounds Bar.

Bonnie, Katie and I go up to him, say hello, he says good bye to Bobby and we head over to a table. I ask my uncle John what’s with the Cheeze Whiz and he responds “I’m hungry, and it’s easy!” Fair enough, the man has a point. So we’re chit chatting and then the subject changes to one of his three children that just got married, John. (Affectionately known as John L, for Little John)

Uncle John: And I’ll tell yah somethin’ else…John and Kristen ahh expectin’! I’m serious! Us Kellihah’s, we-yah swimmahs! Oh yah!

At this point, Katie, Bonnie and my jaws are on the ground. My godfather just used the term ‘swimmers’ in reference to sperm.

We all decide that at this point, we’re hungry, so Uncle John suggests the buffet, and as we walk over, he drops $300 on a craps table and explains to us “If yah don’t play, you’ll nevah win…” and within 30 seconds, the $300 was gone. “What can yah do?!” he rhetorically asks…

On to the buffet, we eat, we talk, and laugh…as we’re disbanding, Uncle John exclaims: I foh-ya-gott my Mounds Bahh!!”

The man is a true gem and there will be more stories of his to follow. Thanks for going along for the ride with me!