Martha Who?

You're Never Too Old to Take Your Middle Aged Daughter to the ER in the Middle of the Night...

2007-09-22T05:26:00.000-07:00

Back in May, Mr. M-Dub was traveling for work and was away for a week. BabySister developed some sort of nasty bug and wasn't keeping any milk down or in her little body. I could tell she was dehydrating so I called in the babysitting favors from friends and family so someone could watch MiniMe while I took BabySister to the ER. It was horrible -my baby wanted to EAT but they wouldn't let me feed her because she kept projectile vomiting all over the place. They wanted to run an IV -- about the worst thing I could imagine on a tiny little almost 5 month old body. I was a wreck. They made a deal with me -- they gave me a tiny 4 ounce bottle of pedialyte (the gatorade of the pediatric world) and said if I could get it into her, and she kept it down, then they'd let us go home with a gallon of the nasty stuff.

Long story short, it took 2 hours to get 4 ounces of liquid into, and then another hour to wait and see if she absorbed any of it... but it worked and everything ended up being fine a week or so later.

About the third hour into that five hour adventure BabySister stopped screaming (from sheer exhaustion methinks) and passed out in my arms (thereby making the bottle feeding go very slowly). It was an enormous relief to everyone in the ER because she had been RAGING against the machine for at least two hours straight. I'm pretty sure the ER staff thought there had been some sort of delayed post-partum (post-post-partum?) murder suicide thing going on because the noise stopped so suddenly, and people kept poking their heads in the room ..."just to make sure we were still there..."

Anyway... back to that delicious silence that we suddenly found ourselves in. In that coccoon of that tiny room in the ER, I listened -- for almost three hours -- to a man across the hallway with a migraine. A former migraine sufferer myself, I felt enormously sympathetic to this unseen, unknown man. His demeanor (his voice, anyhow) was professional and genteel. He seemed to be of above-average or quite intelligent on the brains front. Professorly even. Sounded like he was maybe in his fifties or so. I felt very guilty that BabySister had been screaming for so long -- even with both doors closed it must have exacerbated his migraine horribly.

So I listened -- as he told his pathetic and unenviable migraine history to the nurse and the doctor on duty. He told them of the full range of his migraine episodes in the past -- the different types of pain and the medications and treatments that had worked for him in the past. And the ER staff kept telling him to stay still, lay down, they would turn the light outs, give him some motrin, a cool compress... nobody was disputing this man's migraine complaint. But nobody was listening it seemed to what he was telling them about what works and what doesn't.

And he just kept telling them and telling them. Over the next several hours I listened to him repeat and repeat his migraine history to a bevy of nurses and doctors who were rotating through the department. And slowly I came to realize that as professional and academic and just as nice as this guy sounded from across the hall where I couldn't see him in his dark cool-compressed cave, he was suffering from some sort of addiction issue. His migraine history never changed when he told it... what sounded at the beginning of the evenng like a laundry list of drugs that worked for him began to sound more like a shopping list of the drugs he'd like to leave the ER with that night. He wasn't asking for one or two painkillers to get him through this episode. He was asking for one or two of each -- Vicodin, Oxy... the list was staggering actually.

And that's when I realized that the ER staff was listening to Mr. Migraine... and that they had spent an amazing amount of time with him given the nature of his calmly presented yet still desperate request. I surmised he was probably a repeat visitor to this ER. They seemed to know him. They gently explained to him over and over again what they could and couldn't do fo him. They could give him two Vicodin in the ER but not a prescription. They could write him a prescription for 1 dose of Oxy but no more than that. Something to do with his record, and some vague state of Maine law or something. I don't know...

We left the ER before Mr. Migraine did so I never found out if he got his fix. If he wore everyone down to the point where they just gave him a cocktail of everything he requested. But I did leave feeling like even though my own life had been so stinking horrible that day, his was definitely worse.

This week, Mr. M-Dub has been away for a whole week on business. And I have been sick all week. I have missed multiple days of work, and have caused or borne witness to at least half a dozen catastrophes during the week. That's for another post though. The point is that my health situation was getting increasingly worse and even though I almost made it through the week without reinforcements, I caved and called my mom and dad on Thursday night. Begged them to come down on Friday after they left their jobs to help me with the kids. Even though Mr. M-Dub was coming home on Saturday, I just needed a break.

So being the wonderful 'rents they are, they obliged. I tried all day to get an appt with my PCP to no avail, and by the time my parents arrived I was miserable. I went off to bed and woke up around 10PM with the worst pain of my life in my tonsils and felt like my throat was starting to close up. So my Daddy took me to the ER. Like I was still 10 years old and living in their house. Like it was his sacred duty to do so. He even dropped me off at the ER entrance while he parked the car. He waited in the waiting room (for 2.5 hrs) while I was seen. What a great Dad. I could write another post about that.

I had a rapid strep test which came back positive (lucky me!) and while I waited for the doctor on duty to write a scrip and send me on my way I was admitted into an ER room.

It was the same room I sat in with BabySister back in May.

And without a screaming dehydrated banshee in my arms, I sat in silence by myself for the whole time. And while I reflected on how annoying it was to be sick and just how sick I was of being sick, a door opened across the hallway.

NO, it wasn't Mr. Migraine. That would have just been WAY too weird.

It was three people -- a young man and woman, not married, but friendly, maybe in their late twenties? and and older woman who was obviously profoundly mentally retarded. I listened to them for a long while and couldn't figure out why they were in the ER at all -- they were all laughing happily. I couldn't figure out the connection between these two kids and this older disabled woman - but they were fawning over like best friends which was really lovely to witness (albeit through a door). They were making jokes and telling stories and really making this old woman laugh.

My best guess was that something had happened to the old woman and these two kids were either aides or caretakers of some sort who had brought her in and were keeping her company. They didn't talk as though they were relatives.

Then, as I was leaving my room I heard an ER doctor speaking with them about their "options" -- as it turned out, they had been evicted from their apartment and had no place to go. The doctor was laying out several potential scenarios, though it was clear that the motley trio was not interested in any of them. They seemed defiantly in denial of their homelessness. There was some talk of leaving the old woman at the hospital overnight, but they could not accommodate the younger pair (who were not really a pair methinks).

I happened to catch a glimpse of them as I left my room. I couldn't see the old woman, but the two young people were professional, neat, decently dressed, looked like any fine upstanding law abiding citizen you'd see any day on the street. They did not look to me like the "face" of homelessness. I never learned what happened to them last night either. Whether they were relatives. Friends. Neighbors. People just looking out for each other. But at the end of the night my little strep throat case didn't seem so bad.

And I walked out to the waiting room, with my super-phat insurance card in my vera bradley wallet in my LV handbag, toward my Daddy, feeling every bit like a child.

What Men Really Want.

2007-09-04T20:08:00.000-07:00

Actual CNN Headline today:

"men want hot women, study confirms"

I mean, seriously. Is this NEWS, CNN?

Jesus.

THE Biggest Threat To Homeland Security You Never Knew About

2007-02-26T15:35:00.000-08:00

SETTING:
Airport security line. Mr. and Mrs MARTHAWHO are on their way to NYC for the weekend. MR. MARTHAWHO has sailed through the security line. MARTHAWHO is pulled out for a bag check much to MR. MARTHAWHO'S chagrin. A voice on the loudspeaker indicates the NYC flight is boarding.

BAGGAGE SCREENER:
(pulling a black backpack off the belt)
This your bag, ma'am?

MARTHAWHO:
Yes.

BAGGAGE SCREENER:
Bag Check!

TSA AGENT:
(taking black backpack)
This your bag, ma'am?

MARTHAWHO:
Yes.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
(getting antsy)
I'm gonna run to the gate and tell them to hold the plane.

MARTHAWHO:
Don't be ridiculous. They're not going to leave without us. That would be ridiculous. It's not our fault the line was so long and now I'm getting pulled out.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Still.

TSA AGENT:
(carrying the bag to a separate table)
Is this a breastpump?

MARTHAWHO:
Yup.

TSA AGENT:
I'm going to have to go through the bag ma'am. Is that okay?

MARTHAWHO:
I don't suppose I could say no.

(TSA Agent silently unzips the backpack)

MARTHAWHO:
Yeah yeah, sure whatever. Go ahead.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Oh come on...

MARTHAWHO:
Would you relax? This is going to take 2 minutes. They're not going to leave without us.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
They're not going to hold the plane if they don't know we're here.

(TSA agent is removing all of the parts of the breast pump and spreading them out over the table)

MARTHAWHO:
They do know we're here because we checked in with them.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
So?

MARTHAWHO:
So they'll page us or something.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I doubt that.

TSA AGENT:
(unzipping the cooler for baby bottles and removing a frozen bottle divider)
This an ice pack?

MARTHAWHO:
A what? No, no... it's not a regular ice pack or anything. It's just a frozen divider to keep the milk cold.

TSA AGENT:
Do you really need it?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
No. Just throw it away.

MARTHAWHO:
(glaring at MR. MW)
Do NOT throw it away. I do need it because I'm planning on pumping milk in NYC and freezing it there, and bringing it back for my 3 month old baby.

TSA AGENT:
I don't see any milk in there right now, though.

MARTHAWHO:
Well, that's because I haven't used the pump yet, right?

TSA AGENT:
Well if the ice pack isn't keeping anything cold right now, then it doesn't seem to be essential to this cooler.

MARTHAWHO:
You're not serious.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Throw it away. Just throw it away.

MARTHAWHO:
Shut up, honey.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Seriously. We'll buy a new one when we get to New York.

MARTHAWHO:
As if! Like there is a Medela breastfeeding store on every corner in Manhattan? Jesus.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Oh you can find anything in New York.

MARTHAWHO:
(getting pissed)
You are so stupid!

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Then we'll just find something else. We're going to miss the flight.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh for Christ's sake just go to the gate.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
(Sprinting off)
Throw it away. Seriously. This is ridiculous.

TSA AGENT:
So....?

MARTHAWHO:
So.... you were telling me that because I didn't have any milk in here the ice pack was not, what was the word.... essential?

TSA AGENT:
That's correct.

MARTHAWHO:
So if I had one bottle of milk in there, it would be OK to bring the ice pack on the plane?

TSA AGENT:
Yes. I think we could allow it then.

MARTHAWHO:
Excuse me but that doesn't make any sense.

TSA AGENT:
I could ask my supervisor.

MARTHAWHO:
Yes. Please do that.

(The TSA Agent walks off. MARTHAWHO looks across the terminal to the NYC gate and sees MR. MARTHAWHO standing impatiently staring back at her).

TSA AGENT:
(returning)
Sorry. You can't bring this on the plane.

MARTHAWHO:
You are really classifying this as a liquid? It's completely frozen, and I think when it's melted it's like one ounce of water inside a sealed, un-openable divider. Seriously -- look at it -- it cannot be opened. It's solid. I couldn't even puncture it if I wanted to.

TSA AGENT:
(returning other items back into the backpack)
Sorry. There's nothing I can do.

MARTHAWHO:
You do understand that if I don't take this divider I will not be able to keep anything cold and I'll have to throw away all of the milk before I come back?

TSA AGENT:
Maybe you could add some ice cubes to the back before coming back?

MARTHAWHO:
Whatever. Just throw the fucking thing away.

TSA AGENT:
I'm really sorry about this.

MARTHAWHO:
Whatever. We're late.

TSA AGENT:
(separating out a ziploc bag)
And this too... this will have to go.

MARTHAWHO:
That? That is a pack of antibacterial wipes to clean the parts while I'm traveling. It's not a liquid!

TSA AGENT:
There is some moisture here in the ziploc bag.

MARTHAWHO:
It's like condensation or something -- seriously. This is ridiculous.

TSA AGENT:
Well the wipes are wet aren't they?

MARTHAWHO:
Are you serious??? I mean, you'd let me bring regular diaper wipes on the plane if I had a baby with me wouldn't you?

TSA AGENT:
I'd let you bring all of this stuff with you on the plane if you had your baby with you.

MARTHAWHO:
What?

TSA AGENT:
The TSA rules say that if you're traveling with your infant you can have all of these items with you. There are allowances for larger amounts of liquids and baby food and supplies, etcetera.

MARTHAWHO:
If I was traveling with my infant, I wouldn't need to bring a breast pump with me, now, would I?

TSA AGENT:
I don't make the rules, ma'am.

MARTHAWHO:
(pissed)
Let me get this straight then. Just so I'm clear the next time. It's OK for me to bring the actual pump on the airplane. With the motor, and moving parts, and plastic tubing, and 12 double A batteries and an AC Adapter and various metal pieces etcetera...?

TSA AGENT:
Well, yes ma'am. It's obviously just all parts of the pump itself. It would be like us saying you couldn't bring the adapters and spare batteries and chargers for cellphones and laptops. You could imagine the outcry we'd have then.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh yeah. We don't want to piss off any business travelers with all of the essential electronics that could also come in handy with bomb making. But I cannot bring a package of 12 antibacterial wipes, or a frozen non-liquid bottle divider with me.

TSA AGENT:
Not without the infant, ma'am.

MARTHAWHO:
(sarcastically)
Not without the infant then. Yes. Okay. I see. This all makes just perfect sense.

TSA AGENT:
It's out of my hands, ma'am. I'm sorry. Here's your bag.

MARTHAWHO:
Whatever.

TSA AGENT:
I hope you have a really great trip.

(MARTHAWHO looks at the gate where MR. MARTHAWHO is waving wildly like he's going to leave without her)

MARTHAWHO:
Yeah.

(MARTHAWHO walks off toward the gate, feeling largely like a second-class citizen in her own country).

###

Some Bloggin' Props...

2007-01-29T16:05:00.000-08:00

A break from our regularly scheduled "Every-day-is-a-screenplay" format to toss some props around the blogosphere for a bit...

**First of all -- my cousin is now, like, in the political super blogger land in DC. If you haven't checked out his link in my sidebar, the time is nigh! Scott has been putting some great material out in the last several months -- and garnering quite a bit of press and attention for himself and the publication he's affiliated with. I'm proud to be related to this guy. (...And glad he still speaks to me after my misguided "thought I was a republican" period many years ago... )You can find the Democratic Strategist himself, here.

**A new addition to the sidebar -- a community theatre buddy up here in Portland. Henrik is a great soul, and an extremely fine character actor. I've had the good fortune to see him perform twice recently -- once in the Little Shop of Horrors ensemble, and once just this past weekend in the title role of The Wizard of Oz. He was outstanding. The show was actually quite beautiful and I would be remiss if I didn't also toss the props over to the Belle Of the Bawl for her terrific turn as the sexiest crow this side of the Mississippi. :) Henrik also happened to post a photo of MiniMe's BabySister a few weeks back, and since I'm pathetically remiss in adding graphics to this site, you can visit baby chloe here. His posts are wistfully wonderfully written musings about all sorts of interesting things.

**And last but not least, indie music fans should visit Martha's brother's site, where you can find a link to his MySpace Music site for sound clips of his soon to be released and highly anticipated full-length CD. And for those of you lucky enough to live in New England, you can check out his schedule and catch a live performance.

Ok. MarthaWho Out.

How Do They Let these People Leave the Hospital With Babies?

2007-01-27T12:31:00.000-08:00

SETTING: Interior food court exit of shopping Mall, evening. Temperature outside is below freezing. MARTHAWHO is putting her scarf and gloves on. A nervous man with an infant carseat is standing next to her.

NERVOUS MAN WITH CARSEAT:
(in MW's general direction, but to nobody in particular)
It's fucking cold out there tonight.

MARTHAWHO:
You got that right.

NERVOUS MAN WITH CARSEAT:
My wife went to bring the car around. Too cold to drag the baby across the parking lot.

MARTHAWHO:
That was nice of her. How old is your baby?

NERVOUS MAN WITH CARSEAT:
Bout two months.

MARTHAWHO:
I have one about the same age at home.

NERVOUS MAN WITH CARSEAT:
Better place for her in this weather.

MARTHAWHO:
Well it looks like you've got her bundled up great. I'm sure she'll be fine.

NERVOUS MAN WITH CARSEAT:
I hope so. I hate the idea of her little lungs getting pneumonia.

A car pulls up outside. MARTHAWHO opens the door for the NERVOUS guy.

MARTHAWHO:
Well, good luck.

NERVOUS MAN WITH CARSEAT:
Thanks. Stay warm.

NERVOUS MAN runs out into the night toward the car. NERVOUS MAN'S wife gets out of the car, attentively opening the rear passenger door and helping to get the carseat snugged in just right. NERVOUS MAN'S wife turns around and MARTHAWHO sees she is smoking a cigarette.

MARTHAWHO:
(to nobody in particular)
Yeah. Like I said. Sure her little lungs will be just fine.

###

Murray & Sol Take the A Train

2007-01-21T17:42:00.000-08:00

SETTING: MARTHAWHO and BABY-ME are sitting in MINI-ME's room watching MR. MARTHAWHO and MINI-ME make up stories before MINI-ME goes to bed. (Side Note: the MARTHAWHO family members are descended from Catholic ancestors...)

MR. MARTHAWHO
OK pick another letter?

MINI-ME
Okay! Uhhhhhhhhhhh....... okay....... uhhhhhhhh..... how bee bout a "D" Daddy!

MR. MARTHAWHO
Good one. We haven't done that one yet. What begins with the letter D?

MINI-ME
Duhhhhhhh.... Duhhhhhhh..... Duhhhaaaadddeee! Daddy! Daddy begins with D.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Good. What else?

MINI-ME
Duhhhhhhh.... Duhhhhhh.....Duhhhohnut! Doughnut begins with D!

MR. MARTHAWHO
Good one! What else?

MARTHAWHO
Look at baby sister's jammies. What's on her jammies that starts with the letter D?

MINI-ME
Oh. Ducks! Ducks start with the letter D, Daddy.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Good. Should we make up a story about a duck then?

MINI-ME
Yup.

MR. MARTHAWHO
So once upon a time there was a duck and his name was....

MARTHAWHO
Donald!

MINI-ME
Shhhh, Mommy, that is NOT okay. It is NOT Donald.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Yeah Mommy, stay out of it. Go ahead then -- the duck's name is....?

MINI-ME
Uh...... the duck's name is Mmmmmmmurrrrrry.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Murray? Murray the Duck?

MINI-ME
Yup. Murray the Duck.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Okay. So Murray the Duck was walking down the street one day and he decided to ....?

MINI-ME
Take a bus!

MR. MARTHAWHO
Cool. So he takes a bus....? Where does he take the bus?

MINI-ME
Downtown! Downtown begins with D!

MR. MARTHAWHO
Great! So Murray the Duck is on the Downtown bus. And what does he do when he gets there?

MINI-ME
He sees his friend!

MR. MARTHAWHO
Another ducky friend?

MINI-ME
No -- it's a cat!

MR. MARTHAWHO
And what's the cat's name?

MINI-ME
It's..... it's... The Cat's name is Sollllllly.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Sally the cat?

MINI-ME
No Daddy. SOLLY the Cat.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Murray the Duck.

MINI-ME
Yep.

MR. MARTHAWHO
And Solly the Cat.

MINI-ME
Right, Daddy. That's right.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Got it. I think we know how this story ends. Something about a diner and some knishes yadda yadda yadda.

MINI-ME
Right Daddy. Yadda yadda. Good job.

###

Yo Ho Ho, Merry Christmas!

2006-12-25T18:55:00.000-08:00

SETTING: The family is watching Pirates of the Carribbean on Christmas night.

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW:
I wish I was a pirate. How cool would that be? Are there still even pirates out there?

But then again I'm the most seasick person I know.

If I were a pirate I'd be like the master pirate... like surfing the web and planning and telling the other pirates what to do. Like the marketing pirate. You know -- like pirate direct mail, maybe put together a pirate calendar, that kind of thing.

Sweet.

Merry Gin Day 2006 Edition: Jesus is the Reason for the Season

2006-12-25T18:44:00.000-08:00

Original Post Here.

Setting: In-laws' condo in Vermont. Late on Christmas night. Martha Who, Husband, In-laws are in living room. It is quiet. Brother-in-Law enters from kitchen with a fresh gin and tonic for himself and one for Mr. MarthaWho.

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW:
Here you go. (handing G&T to Mr. MW)

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Thanks, Man. What is this I'm drinking?

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW:
It's a gin and tonic.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Sweet. Thanks. Haven't had one of these since high school.

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW:
You know how to party, man. Merry Gin Day.

(he raises his glass and they both drink)

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW:
Ahhhh gin. Like Jesus' nectar.

(MarthaWho's Mother in Law looks up from her book)

MARTHA'S MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Huh? Who?

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW:
(sounding it out)
Jee-sus' nect-ar.

MARTHA'S MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Cheeses? Who is that?

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW:
Exactly, mom. Exactly.

###

Really I'm OK people. Really.

2006-10-31T16:03:00.000-08:00

OK I've received a few e-mails from folks worried about me after the Pringles post.

I just want to say I'm 100% Ok. Like way OK. As in way off the deep end OK.

You would be too if you were 10 months pregnant and on bedrest and waiting on your ever-expanding ass for the big c-section day. Which is Monday thank Baby Jeezus.

Thanks for your concern y'all.
:-)

M-Dub

The Craving: Ode On A Tall Red Can

2006-10-31T07:22:00.000-08:00

Oh Mr. Pringles
You big smiling potato head on a tall red can.
Not a big chip fan in my youth,
I looked upon your fair crispy countenance with skepticism,
My sweets-biased disdain apparent as I reached for other tasty treats along the path to adulthood.
You were patient.

But Mr. Pringles,
There you were on a miniature tall red can
Somewhere on the Amalfi Coast
From the back of a minibar your mustachioed potato head beckoned,
Pringles and Pelligrino - a suprisingly satifying honeymoon treat each afternoon with a revelation - Chips Taste Better In Italy.
(indeed everything tastes better in Italy)

Then Mr. Pringles,
Back in the States your tall red can
Ostracized, Lampooned, Maligned in the press!
You were only trying to do your part to stop the national obesity epidemic!
How were you to know that Olean caused anal leakage?
The Italians do not have Olean. What is this travesty? How could we possibly enjoy you now?
I wheeled my cart past you in the StarMarket, your potato head red with shame - as red as the untouched rows of tall cans that nobody wanted.
The butt of SNL jokes.

But Mr. Pringles,
Time heals all wounds and your tall red can
Was eventually given a fresh slate, wiped clean of Olean, and on a whim
Pelligrino and Pringles appear in the grocery cart - an attempt to recapture the
balcony moments of paradise lost... moments re-found on wedding anniversaries and other road trips of our twenties.

And now Mr. Pringles,
Here we are.
We're not getting any younger.
Your mysterious mustachioed potato head like a beacon
In the supermarket.
You are my one and only.
The one and only legitimate craving of my latest 9 month confinement.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and any time in between - I hear the siren song of the tall red can.
Free of preservatives, free of trans fatty oils, and free of Olean.
The crunch of dried potato goodness echoing as can after can disappears.
More than a snack - an escape!

For I can close my eyes and remember our first chance meeting
In the hotel mini bar.
When I reached past the Perroni and the biscuits
Somewhere between the Orange-ina and the Nutella
And saw you there waiting.
We ate the fruit and saw the light.
Joy! Joy! Joy!

Oh you,
Crispy, cute Mr. Pringles.

Stuck In the Middle

2006-10-04T07:54:00.000-07:00

SETTING:
The MarthaWho Household. MarthaWho is reading CNN online and Mr. MarthaWho is running around getting ready for a meeting.

MARTHAWHO:
Charles Carl Roberts.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Huh?

MARTHAWHO:
Charles Carl Roberts. The guy who killed those Amish schoolgirls this week.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
What about him? I'm listening but I have to get ready for this meeting.

MARTHAWHO:
Well I mean, yesterday he was just plain old Charles Roberts, but today he is Charles Carl Roberts!

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I don't get it.

MARTHAWHO:
You know -- like simply being born into a middle name like Carl made him into the psychopath he is today.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Talk louder. I'm listening but I have to go upstairs to change my shirt.

MARTHAWHO:
(yelling)
I mean, don't you think it's weird that when someone in this country commits an unspeakable crime, their middle name becomes so important? Like that fuck-up that confessed to JonBenet Ramsey's murder this summer? He went from being John Karr, garden-variety pedophile, to being John Michael Karr when he confessed to a crime.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

MARTHAWHO:
Except he didn't really commit that crime it turns out. It would be interesting to see how CNN and the other media refer to him now that he's only a regular ol' sex offender again. What a disappointment for them... But really when you think about it, it's peculiar isn't it?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Honestly honey I haven't given it much thought.

MARTHAWHO:
Well think about it! I mean, was John Wilkes Booth always called John Wilkes Booth? Or Lee Harvey Oswald? When did Harvey become so important. Was it always like that? As in prom night for example, "Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet my date, John Wilkes Booth!"

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I'll bet he didn't go to a prom.

MARTHAWHO:
But you see what I mean, right? It's peculiar. And very American in some way. The idea of needing to manufacture more drama by elevating one's middle name to such notoriety. I mean the only time I've ever heard my own middle name spoken aloud was during our wedding, and I guess maybe at my high school and college graduation ceremonies.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Hey - what time is it anyway?

MARTHAWHO:
It's ten-forty.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Fuck. I'm going to be late.

MARTHAWHO:
You know what else is funny -- the middle name thing seems to apply mostly to assasins who had single victims. There are some, but not too many serial killers you hear about with such elevated middle name status. What's Charles Manson's middle name? What about Jeffrey Dahmer?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
So is there a point honey? Cause I really am in a hurry up here.

MARTHAWHO:
I don't know why people don't care about these things like I do.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
You're bored with your job. You need to find something else to do.

MARTHAWHO:
I'm just sorry you don't appreciate my passion for the most nauseating of minor details.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
(rushing downstairs, collecting his BlackBerry and carkeys)
Oh I care, honey. I really do appreciate it. But I have to go.

MARTHAWHO:
Particularly as we prepare to bestow a name upon our second child.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Oh gawwwd.....

MARTHAWHO:
What we choose as a name could predestine her for a life of violent crime. I mean, should she be known as Sally Elizabeth K_______? or Sally Carl K____________?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Are we naming this kid Sally? News to me.

MARTHAWHO:
I'm just saying...

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I gotta go. Why don't you go blog about this and get it out of your system.

MARTHAWHO:
Ok.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Then seriously. Find something else to do with your time today.

#####

Turn Right at the Big Jesus

2006-09-25T12:07:00.000-07:00

Just got back from taking a tour of the maternity ward of the hospital where we'll be delivering Baby Sister (6 weeks from today ay carumba). We had our choice of two hospitals a few months ago -- and, lured by glowing reviews from other parent friends, and the siren song promise of a private room with a view -- we chose the small downtown hospital over the biggest hospital in the state (which is only two blocks away from the first).

I sort of knew going into it that it was a Catholic-affiliated hospital. That was OK with me -- it is after all familiar and oft-blogged about territory. I've already made my peace with the fact that I will not be able to engage in spirited debate with my nurses about the promise of embryonic stem cell research, and I know I will not be getting any free samples of ortho tri-cyclen.

Which leaves me with only one misgiving - a trifling matter of giving directions. So to get it off my chest, here it is: If anyone wants to come visit me or BabySister at the birth center:

After parking, walk around the brick exterior of the hospital, until you come to the door with a big crucifix on it. Enter the hospital through this door, and then through the second door which is made up of a station of the cross immortalized in stained glass. Walk straight ahead toward the sign that says "Pastoral Care" and make a right at the giant Jesus statue. The Birthing Center is straight ahead.

If you get lost, don't worry -- one of the nuns will help you find you way.

###

You Can Be a Winner at the Game of Life!

2006-09-25T06:20:00.000-07:00

The Mr. and I just got back from signing (and paying for ugh) our first term life insurance policies. The following are my favorite highlights from this meeting.

10. "So you guys have a Standard policy. As you know we had hoped for Preferred Plus rates, but you guys didn't qualify for it. You didn't even qualify for regular Preferred. So that's, like TWO steps below where we wanted to be!" -- our insurance agent

9. "I just assumed since you guys were young and healthy that nothing would come up during your medical exams. But you guys both have some serious cholesterol issues. Unfortunate." -- our insurance agent.

8. "Mrs. _____________, you know, the cholesterol cut-off for even getting life insurance is 300. Thankfully we're giving you the benefit of the doubt that it will resolve itself after your baby is born." -- our insurance agent.

7. "And I'm eating lots of oatmeal now." -- Mr. MarthaWho
"Oh good! I've heard that really works!" -- the insurance agent

6. So, does this policy, cover, like -- everything? Even terrorist attacks and stuff?" -- Mr. MarthaWho.

5. "This policy covers anything except suicide. But even that is covered after 2 years!" -- the insurance agent.

4. "Great. So we'll look at your cholesterol levels in a year and I'm sure we can get you guys a better rate at that time. Usually we like to see a 12 month history of bloodwork. But of course, it has to be a good twelve months ..." -- the insurance agent

3. "Now, I know you both contribute to your employer sponsored retirement plans, but did you guys know that you make too much money to open Roth IRA's? Unfortunate! I'd like to talk to you about a way you could get around that by opening another Life Insurance policy." -- the agent.

2. "Everyone thinks we make a lot of money, but I don't feel like we have anything extra to be opening additional policies and retirement accounts right now. Are we missing something that other people our age know about in terms of being better prepared for the future? I guess we're on the path to adulthood now. That's what I've learned from this experience." -- Mr. MarthaWho upon leaving the agent's office.

1. "That's interesting. The only thing I've learned is that on the morning of your cholesterol test for term life insurance you really should follow their advice and not eat. Those two seventy five cent Dunkin Donuts I had that morning just cost me an extra $400 a year."

###

A Tale of Two Cities - Six (Pack) of One, Half Dozen of Another

2006-09-22T06:40:00.000-07:00

MR. MARTHAWHO (calling from Germany, where he has been for a week after being in Japan for the week prior):
Hi honey, how's it going?

MARTHAWHO:
Oh you know... it's going. Can't wait for you to get back tomorrow.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Yeah -- me either. Miss you guys. How was your morning?

MARTHAWHO:
Fine.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Did punchkins sleep for you?

MARTHAWHO:
Not really. She woke up every couple of hours screaming about giant bugs attacking her.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Oh no. I'm sorry.

MARTHAWHO:
Yep. I had to sleep with her from about 2:30 to 6:00. Then I went back to bed but she woke up at 6:15 screaming again.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Oh no.

MARTHAWHO:
Yeah. I tried to let her cry for a while but eventually I went in there and she had pissed the bed.

MR. MARTHAWHO laughs.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh yeah... it was really funny I tell ya. I haven't had a full nights sleep in two weeks so it was a joyous good time to have to change a bed at 6:30 in the morning.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Sorry.

MARTHAWHO:
Don't worry about it. Everything is fine. How was your speech today?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Oh it was fine.

MARTHAWHO:
God what are you doing? It's so freaking loud in the background. You sound like you're in a soccer stadium.

MR. MARTHAWHO (exuberantly):
Oh yeah -- I'm at Oktoberfest!!

MARTHAWHO:
What?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Oktoberfest -- you know --

MARTHAWHO:
I know what Oktoberfest is.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Yeah. I mean it's like the Oktoberfest. Oh. My. God. It's crazy. These people are crazy. All of this crazyness about BEER.

MARTHAWHO:
So let me get this straight. I've been home for two weeks, a hundred and fourteen months pregnant, taking care of our two year old, trying to put food on the table every night, working all day, cleaning up the dog's puke every night after the kid feeds him her dinner, washing your laundry from last weeks' trip and generally just trying to hold my shit together, and ... oh yeah, you're in a mosh pit at "The" Oktoberfest.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Yeah! I know! t's crazy isn't it?

MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh. Just checking.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
So I thought I'd call now in case I'll be too drunk to call you later.

MARTHAWHO:
If you miss your flight back tomorrow morning I will never forgive you.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I know.

MARTHAWHO:
Because if you miss it you may as well stay there.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I won't miss it. I promise.

MARTHAWHO:
Alrighty then. Have a GREAT time. See you tomorrow then.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Thanks honey. You're the best.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh believe me I know.

#####

This Phone Call Was Recorded for Quality Assurances

2006-09-21T10:18:00.000-07:00

OPERATOR:
Thank you for calling Fidelity Investments. This is Kristy, how can I help you today?

MARTHAWHO:
Yes, hi, Kristy. Thank you. I'll give you the quick run down. I called you all back in July about rolling over my retirement account. At that time you told me I couldn't roll over my account because I had the wrong address on my records.

KRISTY:
Yes. That is our policy.

MARTHAWHO:
I totally understand. I had moved over a year ago and I hadn't updated the address. My bad. Anyway, the person I spoke to took my new address information and updated it, and then told me that it would take about two weeks for it to be updated because a letter of confirmation needed to be sent to my old address and my new address informing me of that change.

KRISTY:
Yes that is correct.

MARTHAWHO:
And that I could not roll over my account, or many any changes, or access it in any way until the change took place in the system.

KRISTY:
Yes. I can see we froze your account for security purposes.

MARTHAWHO:
Right. So anyway, it's been 8 weeks and I'm calling you back now to get this account rolled over.

KRISTY:
OK no problem.

MARTHAWHO:
So my account is then, un-frozen, is it?

KRISTY:
Yes. We can roll over the balance now.

MARTHAWHO:
Perfect.

KRISTY:
So the next step, is that we will need to send you some paperwork for your husband to fill out.

MARTHAWHO:
Huh?

KRISTY:
Well in order to roll over your account we need to have your spouse's consent.

MARTHAWHO:
How do you even know if I'm married. You have my single/maiden name on the record and I list my brother as the beneficiary.

KRISTY:
How long have you had this account open with us?

MARTHAWHO:
It's been about ten years. I only worked in that job for about 9 months. There' s like nothing in the account. I just need to close it before my financial advisor drives me insane.

KRISTY:
Ha ha. I understand. So I'll send that spousal consent form out to you right away then.

MARTHAWHO:
What if I told you I wasn't married?

KRISTY:
If you're not married than I can close your account and send you a check today. But if you're married, I'm required to get spousal consent first.

MARTHAWHO:
No offense, but it's my money isn't it?

KRISTY:
Of course.

MARTHAWHO:
So why, if I was married (and I'm not saying that I am), would I need my domestic partner's consent to roll it over into a new account?

KRISTY:
It's a policy of our company and also of the state you live in.

MARTHAWHO:
Well that's shit, pardon my french, because I have rolled over three other accounts with three other companies this summer, and they just closed my account on the phone and sent checks out to my new 401(k) company.

KRISTY:
(sighing)
I cannot speak for the questionable practices of other companies, Ms. ________.

MARTHAWHO:
Questionable? What is questionable about someone giving me the money that I own?

KRISTY:
We simply need to verify that you are who you are so that we aren't closing someone's account under fraudulent circumstances.

MARTHAWHO:
So I'm sorry -- you weren't able to verify who I was at the beginning of this call by getting my social security number, address, former employer information, my mother's maiden name, my first pet's name, the town I was born in and my bra size?

KRISTY:
I'm sorry, Ms. _______________.

MARTHAWHO:
Not as sorry as I am. I just can't believe this is taking so freaking long. It's not like I have millions of dollars in this account. We're not even talking about $2,000 here. It doesn't even seem worth it.

KRISTY:
Your alternative is to keep your funds in our account, Ms. _________ where they will continue to mature over the rest of your career.

MARTHAWHO:
Why would I want to do that? I haven't worked at this company for a DECADE, and since it's an employer sponsored plan I am not permitted to make contributions to the account on my own. So you want me to watch my three nickels accumulate over time? No thanks.

KRISTY:
What would you like to do then?

MARTHAWHO:
Just cut me a check today and close the account.

KRISTY:
I'm sorry -- I cannot do that without the spousal consent form.

MARTHAWHO:
Kristy. Again I ask -- how do you know if I'm married or not?

KRISTY:
Are you married?

MARTHAWHO:
Yes.

KRISTY:
Well then I need that form.

MARTHAWHO:
Send me the damn form then.

KRISTY:
Ok Mrs. _____________, I will send you a form today then, that your husband will need to sign that says he is your legal spouse and that he consents for you to roll over your retirement account.

MARTHAWHO:
I don't have to sign this form?

KRISTY:
No. It's for your spouse.

MARTHAWHO:
So you are very worried about whether or not I am who I say I am even though I can answer all of your three dozen security questions, but you are sending a form to a man that you have NO relationship with whatsoever so he can confirm that he is who HE is, and give consent for you to do something with MY money??

KRISTY:
Well we will need him to verify his own identity as well of course.

MARTHAWHO:
What do you need? A copy of our marriage certificate?

KRISTY:
No. Your husband will simply need to sign the form in the presence of a notary public who will verify his identity for us.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh my god you guys suck.

KRISTY:
Anything else we can do for you, Mrs. _________?

MARTHAWHO:
What? I'm sorry ... because relagating me as a career woman to second class citizenship wasn't enough? Well let's see... let me think... why don't you send the cash directly to my husband and give him a blow job while you're at it?

KRISTY:
Thank you for calling Fidelity then. Have a nice day.

CLICK.

######

the roof

2006-09-11T19:14:00.000-07:00

september eleventh two thousand six
and we are getting a new roof installed this week.

three men on the roof
bang
bang
banging
interrupting the peace while I watch CNN's original nine eleven coverage on the pipeline -
the only thing I can think of to do to commemorate the morning.
(and i rationalize that i didn't really live through the original coverage the first time anyway
i was in the shower and then in the home office early that day, emailing my clients
-- mostly in new york can you imagine? i still shudder --
about things ridiculously mundane and insignificant).

the early news on that morning is also ridiculously mundane and insignificant
and amazing all at once.

there is max mayfield worrying about evacuation route chaos and speculating when the "big hurricane" might hit.
a now unknown CNN correspondent is covering fashion week, interviewing maternity wear designer Liz Lange as i sit at my desk feeling the unborn daughter inside kicking to make her presence known.
(an unborn child who, as with my first child, will never know life the
way it was before that day. does it matter)?
Nokia stock is trading strongly before the opening bell but eight forty eight approaches in the lower right corner of my laptop, the future of the history as unstoppable as the commercial jet on a horrible mission.

the CNN coverage appears almost quaint in the lens of history looking backwards.
how could there be so much confusion and misreporting during a day the timeline of which we all know every nauseating detail? (thank you nine eleven commission).

bang
bang
bang.
a piece of faded tar paper flutters lazily to earth outside my dining room window dancing in the september breeze against a sunny cloudless blue sky.
on the pipeline thousands of pieces of paper fall like quiet snow, blanketing lower manhattan in a shroud of paper
business cards.
credit card bills.
customer invoices.

personal effects.

even aaron brown has no words as the second tower falls.
bang
bang
bang
the roofers are laughing
sharing a joke I can't hear as
roof debris rains down outside my dining room window.
faded tar paper.
worn out shingles.
rotted out boards from 1820.
the roof of a house built before the civil war now witness to a war on terror.
two centuries of september elevenths.

The Night I Found Out the Ugly Truth about My Mother

2006-09-10T19:16:00.000-07:00

SETTING: 8PM. MARTHAWHO and MINIME are home alone while MR. MARTHAWHO is traveling on business. MW is bringing MM up to bed. They pause on the stair landing to look at a globe there.

MARTHAWHO:
Want to look at the globe, kiddo? I can show you where Daddy is.

MINIME:
It's NOT a globe. That's the world mama.

MARTHAWHO:
Right. The world. You're right.

MINIME:
(very earnestly)
Can you say, "Wooooorld"?

MARTHAWHO:
Wooooorld.

MINIME:
Very good, Mama.

MARTHAWHO:
(spinning the globe to North America and pointing to Maine)
See....? This is where you and me are right now -- Maine.

MINIME:
Yup.

MARTHAWHO:
(spinning the globe counter-clockwise until it stops in the Pacific)
And.... this.... is Japan.

MINIME:
Oh! Japan!

MARTHAWHO:
(spinning the globe back and forth)
Right. That's where Daddy is going tonight. See....Maine.... and.... Japan....Maine....and....Japan...

MINIME:
No Mama! Stop. It's my turn now.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh. Ok.

MINIME:
(grabbing MW's hand and looking her in the eye)
Just. Stop. Spinning. Please.

MARTHAWHO:
O-kay, camper. Why don't you spin the globe and point to a place with your finger and I will tell you the name of the country?

MINIME:
It's not a globe, Mama.

MARTHAWHO:
OK well whatever... look... I'll spin the world one more time really fast and you stop it when you're ready and just pick a place and I'll tell you what it is.

MINIME:
No-no, Mama! I will spin the world, and I will tell you what trees it is.

MARTHAWHO:
Country, not trees.

MINIME:
Can you say, "country"???

MARTHAWHO:
OK... just spin the world so we can go to bed, OK?

MINIME gives the globe a spin and stops it after a few rotations and points to Saudi Arabia.

MARTHAWHO:
Well of all the gin joints...

MINIME:
(earnestly, almost teacher-ly)
Mama. Do you know what tree this is?

MARTHAWHO:
Yes. It's called, "Saudi Arabia."

MINIME:
No no Mama. It's not.

MARTHAWHO:
It's not?

MINIME;
(Looking around, then whispering almost conspiratorily in MW's ear)
It's Mimi's House.

###

MW note: Mimi is my mother....

Friday Night At MarthaWho's Place

2006-09-01T20:41:00.000-07:00

authors note: Sorry I do not know how to spell all of my Rings words. Bear with me.

Mr. MARTHAWHO and MARTHAWHO are watching the third Lord of the Rings movie. MR. MW is fast forwarding through every scene that doesn't involve a battle.

MARTHAWHO:
Is this fun for you? skipping all of the non-violent scenes?

MR. MW:
Uh huh.

MARTHAWHO:
I'm glad you're skipping them actually. They suck.

MR. MW:
Uh huh.

MARTHAWHO:
Frodo is such a pussy.

MR. MW:
You've said so before. I sort of agree with you now.

MARTHAWHO:
I mean, he is SUCH a pussy though. If it weren't for Samwise his sorry Hobbit ass wouldn't have made it five freaking minutes.

MR. MW:
Uh huh.

MARTHAWHO:
I mean really. Sammie's boxers should be bronzed.

MR. MW:
I think that happens in the fourth installment.

MARTHAWHO:
Star Wars is kind of like this too.

MR. MW:
Huh?

MARTHAWHO:
I mean Luke Skywalker is kind of a pussy too.

MR. MW:
I guess.

MARTHAWHO:
Except do you think it was actually a Mark Hamill thing?

MR. MW:
What are you talking about?

MARTHAWHO:
Seriously -- I mean Mark Hamill is the worst actor ever and really really whiny especially in the early movies.

MR. MW:
And...?

MARTHAWHO:
So do you think it's an actor thing?

MR. MW:
I'm sorry. What was the question?

MARTHWHO:
I'm just saying -- maybe in Star Wars it's more that Mark Hamill is a pussy and not that Luke Skywalker is a pussy.

MR. MW:
Whatever you say honey.

MARTHAWHO:
You know -- he kind of gets dragged around by his friends... Han Solo etcetera.

MR. MW:
Can we just watch the movie?

MARTHAWHO:
Except by the last Star Wars movie, Luke Skywalker kind of grows some balls.

MR. MW:
Maybe that's the point.

MARTHAWHO:
What? That you need your friends to prop you up for a while? And then you learn to grow balls etc?

MR. MW:
Yeah.

MARTHAWHO:
Except Frodo. He never grows any balls at all. He's a pussy till the very end.

MR. MW:
Yep.

MARTHAWHO:
He should jump into that fire pit along with the ring.

MR. MW:
Uh huh. Sure honey.

MARTHAWHO:
Wow. This is the part where those Orcas are going to bite it, eh?

MR. MW:
Orcs.

MARTHAWHO:
What?

MR. MW:
It's Orcs honey, not Orcas.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh yeah. Orcas are whales, not hobbits.

MR. MW:
Orcs aren't hobbits either.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh.

MR. MW:
Technically, these aren't Orcs. They are Orecai.

MARTHAWHO:
What the hell does that mean?

MR. MW:
They're half Orc, half human.

MARTHAWHO:
Delicious.

MR. MW:
It makes them smarter.

MARTHAWHO:
Puhleeze.

MR. MW:
Are you going to be quiet now?

MARTHAWHO:
Isn't this the part where they dont have enough troops?

MR. MW:
Yep.

MARTHAWHO:
That's because the old guy kind of fucks them over right?

MR. MW:
What?

MARTHAWHO:
The old guy. Doesn't he tell the rest of the troops to turn back and not help fight the Orcas?

MR. MW:
That's Braveheart.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh. Well anyway. Frodo is still a pussy.

###

CreepShow

2006-08-11T13:36:00.000-07:00

SETTING:
Boston South Station. Yesterday. Waiting to board bus to Portland. MarthaWho is the last one in line.

GUY, SECOND TO LAST IN LINE (GSLL):
Hey. You taken this bus before.
Hey. Excuse me.

MARTHAWHO:
Yes?

GSLL:
Have you taken this bus before?

MARTHAWHO:
Maybe once or twice in my life.

GSLL:
So, what happens if they don't have enough room for all of us on the bus? Do they bring a new bus?

MARTHAWHO:
I have no idea. Sorry.

GSLL:
Thought you said you took this bus before?

MARTHAWHO:
I'm not usually the last one in line. I don't know what happens. Sorry.

MW looks back down at her magazine reading the same page for the 100th time, hoping to avoid future conversation with the dude.

GSLL:
You can have my spot.

MARTHAWHO:
What?

GSLL:
I mean if it bothers you being the last person in line, you can have my spot and I'll be the last person in line.

MARTHAWHO:
No, that's OK. Really.

GSLL:
(he thinks he's hilarious)
'Cause I don't want you to get a complex about being the last one in the line.

MARTHAWHO:
Really. I'm fine.

GSLL:
You were on the Acela coming up here weren't you?

MARTHAWHO:
Uh... yeah.

GSLL:
Me too. I saw you. We were both on the "Quiet Car".

MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

GSLL:
So did your trip originate in New York then?

MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

GSLL:
I started in Allentown.

MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

GSLL:
I couldn't find a flight that worked for me. This train to bus thing works out much better in terms of getting closest to where I need to get.

MARTHAWHO:
That's nice.

GSLL:
Do you live in New York?

MARTHAWHO:
Nope.

GSLL:
Maine?

MARTHAWHO:
Yep.

GSLL:
I live in Allentown.

MARTHAWHO:
Yes. You mentioned that.

GSLL:
No I didn't. I said I originated my trip in Allentown. I never said I lived there. You made that assumption.

MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

GSLL:
So were you working in New York?

MARTHAWHO:
Yep.

GSLL:
Did you stay in the city?

MARTHAWHO:
Yep.

GSLL:
Cool... you must have gotten to part-tay out all night then.

MARTHAWHO contemplates her obviously pregnant self and wonders silently how someone can be so daft.

GSLL:
So do you just love the bus?

MARTHAWHO:
Not really.

GSLL:
I bet your company would have paid for you to fly.

MARTHAWHO:
They did. I didn't want to deal with the Airports today. (suddenly wishing she had dealt with the airports today).

GSLL:
Oh yeah. All that. See? That's why I love the train. And the bus.

BUS COMPANY REP:
You folks all heading up to Portland? Another bus is coming in about 5 minutes. This one is all full. Sit tight.

GSLL:
Cool. I thought they'd do that.

MARTHAWHO:
Yep. That's nice of them.

GSLL:
So what kind of work were you doing in New York?

MARTHAWHO:
Marketing.

GSLL:
Oh my brother knows something about that. He's a marketing manager for World Wildlife.

MARTHAWHO:
Nice.

GSLL:
Yeah. He used to work for MCI. He was making something like a million dollars a year or something you know.

MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

GSLL:
But he hated his job. So he quite and now he's at World Wildlife.

MARTHAWHO:
Sounds good.

GSLL:
Yeah. He really likes it.

MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

GSLL:
I'm heading up to Belgrade Lakes. You know where that is?

MARTHAWHO:
Yep.

GSLL:
My kids are up there with my wife. I dropped them off about 2 weeks ago and left my car with them to use. Took the bus and train back to Allentown and now I'm heading back up to get them. And the car.

MARTHAWHO:
That's a lot of traveling.

GSLL:
It's just better. I like the train.

MARTHAWHO:
Yep.

GSLL:
What do you think of that "Quiet Car" on Amtrak anyway?

MARTHAWHO:
I love it.

GSLL:
I didn't even know I was on the Quiet car to be honest, until the conductor said something.

MARTHAWHO:
I love quiet.

GSLL:
I usually like to chat to someone on the train you know. Conversations with strangers can be really interesting.

MARTHAWHO:
You don't say.

GSLL:
I had a great conversation with a guy on my trip down to PA a few weeks back.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh look -- there's our bus.

GSLL:
Oh Cool.

MARTHAWHO puts her magazine back in her bag and heads for the door. GSLL shuffles a few things around in his bag and leaves a limp pair of boxers hanging out of the front pocket of his duffle.

GSLL:
(matter of factly like it's the most normal thing in the world)
My underwear aren't dry yet so I left them out to air dry.

MARTHAWHO:
Have a good trip.

MARTHAWHO runs onto the bus and grabs a seat and plugs in a pair of headphones. There are only 5 people on the whole bus. GSLL sits across from her in the opposite side of the bus.

GSLL:
You gonna watch the movie?

MARTHAWHO turns up the volume puts on her sunglasses and pretends not to hear. Ten minutes into the trip GSLL is asleep. In Portland, MARTHAWHO runs out of the bus ignoring GSLL's please for her to stop. All she can think about is getting into Mr. MARTHAWHO'S car and getting as far away from this dude as possible.

GSLL:
Wait! wait!

MARTHAWHO keeps running.

GSLL:
Hey wait.

GSLL catches up and grabs MW's shoulder. She turns around ready to rumble.

GSLL:
You dropped your sunglasses. God. What's wrong with you anyway.

GSLL walks off. MW is speechless.

###

Perfection.

2006-08-08T05:55:00.000-07:00

This morning I got a comment emailed to me from a month-old post. It is, like, my favorite comment EVER. For those of you who "get it" you'll "get it". If not, well then, enjoy the air up there.

So, it WASN'T the Milkman After All...

2006-08-02T19:08:00.000-07:00

Just a quick congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Bourgeois Deviant upon the birth of their strapping young son last week. The early photos were stunning and since the little bugger bears a striking resemblance to mom and more than a passing resemblance to Dad, I guess the Milkman (and Mrs. BD) are off the hook.

Looking forward to tales from BD's venture into Mr. Mom-dom when he comes up for air.

Many happy multi-denominational blessings to you all. Welcome to the club.

Love,
M-Dub

The Rise of Entrepreneurship -- A Short Play

2006-07-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

SETTING: The car. On the way back from Home Depot.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
So what did your boss tell you today about your job?

MARTHAWHO:
Dude.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
What's wrong?

MARTHAWHO:
Don't you think if I knew something I'd tell you?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Yes.

MARTHAWHO:
So why do you always ask such stupid questions?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
What?

MARTHAWHO:
I mean, we're only talking about my JOB here. Whether or not I'll be employed after next Friday. A portion of our family's livelihood.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Right. So what's the problem?

MARTHAWHO:
Soooo the problem is you keep asking me every day what my boss is telling me about the imminent layoffs, and don't you think I would just tell you if something was happening?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Sure.

MARTHAWHO:
So why do you keep asking me???? It's not like I'm going to get laid off and then tell you two weeks later.

silence.

MARTHAWHO:
It's just annoying that's all. I don't have anything to report. You know what I know.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Right. So what did he say?

silence.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
They fired Paulie today.

MARTHAWHO:
Paulie who? Paulie Walnuts? Who are you talking about? A little context would be helpful.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Paulie, you know. Three hundred pound scratch golfer. Sales.

MARTHAWHO:
That means nothing to me. I don't know your sales force.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I just think it was a bad call. I mean, he was a good guy. Just wasn't making his numbers.

MARTHAWHO:
Sorry to hear it then.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
That's OK. He's going to work for my buddy out on the West Coast.

MARTHAWHO:
He's going to relocate?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Geez no ... he's a salesguy. He'll just travel wherever.

MARTHAWHO:
Sounds glamorous. Your company lays off a lot of people. Can we just stop talking about layoffs PLEASE???

silence.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
So here's a funny story. This will mean nothing to you, so it probably won't be funny.

MARTHAWHO:
Then why bring it up?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Because it's hilarious.

MARTHAWHO:
I'm a captive audience.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
So I was talking to this guy at the sales training this week and he was telling me about this time in the really early days of the company. He was in charge of marketing for the product.

MARTHAWHO:
You've been there done that.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Yeah but this was the really early days. Like right after we were spun out of the parent company. Years before I started.

MARTHAWHO:
Anyways.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Anyways. Like I was saying. He was in charge of marketing and he wanted to put an ad in one of the trade magazines promoting the product. So he asked Wally.

MARTHAWWHO:
As in Wally the incompentent Wally that hired you and was your first boss Wally and who got fired after you started Wally?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
One and the same.

MARTHAWWHO:
Oh good. I love a good Wally story.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I thought you might. Anyway. The ad cost $100, and Wally wouldn't let him run the ad because there wasn't any money in the budget for magazine advertising.

MARTHAWHO:
That's ridiculous! They coudn't come up with $100 for an ad? Stupid stupid.

Mr. MARTHAWHO:
Right -- So listen to what my friend did.

MARTHAWHO:
OK what?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
He had a BAKE SALE.

MARTHAWHO:
What?

MR. MARTHWHO:
He had a bake sale!

MARTHAWHO:
As in, little cookies and whoopie pies and brownies all wrapped up in clingwrap and sold for twenty five cents a pop?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Yes!

MARTHAWHO:
Oh. My. God. You are shitting me.

MR. MARTHWHO:
I'm not even kidding. He made all the treats himself and sold them at work to raise money for the ad!

MARTHAWHO:
Did he tell people why he was selling them? I mean, he was like, buy my snickerdoodles so I can place an ad about the product we're all working on to promote it???

MR. MARTHWHO:
Yep! Right in the employee caf.

MARTHAWHO:
That is fricking brilliant.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
It's hilarious.

MARTHAWHO:
I love it.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I couldn't believe it when he told me.

MARTHAWHO:
So did it work? Did he raise the money?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
H e raised something like eighty two dollars.

MARTHAWHO:
Wow. That's a lot of snickerdoodles. You'd think someone at that point would have just said here's a $20 -- go place that ad, son.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Well someone did! Wally found out about it and made a visit to the bake sale. He was not impressed.

MARTHAWHO:
What? I mean -- that took a lot of guts and creativity for your friend to find a solution to that problem. He should have been rewarded.

MR. MARTHWHO:
Apparently Wally was like "We don't do this kind of thing around here," and gave him the rest of the money he needed to place the ad.

MARTHAWHO:
Oh that is just so rich. I love it.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
It's a great story isn't it?

MARTHAWHO:
Yeah....

silence.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Whatcha thinking about?

MARTHAWHO:
I was thinking about your friend's bake sale.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Like how to work it into your blog?

MARTHAWHO:
Ha.
Ha.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Seriously.

MARTHAWHO:
Seriously ... I was thinking about driving down to my company's HQ and having a bake sale on my own behalf. You know -- to pre-emptively save my job.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Aw come on...

MARTHAWHO:
No really -- there's a lot of peeps down at the HQ. It would take a lot o' snickerdoodles, but if I could come up with a few tens of thousands of dollars maybe I could make a case.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

MARTHAWHO:
It does seem like a lot of work ...

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

MARTHAWHO:
But I'd be a hero. An urban legend. A cross between Rocky and Office Space.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Dare to dream kiddo.

MARTHAWHO:
Food for thought.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Well let me know before you make any moves that might have you dragged out of your HQ in handcuffs.

MARTHAWHO:
You know I'll keep you posted!

MR. MARTHAWHO:
And seriously -- let me know when you talk to your boss.

MARTHAWHO:
AAAAAAAARGH!

###

THE Democratic Strategist.

2006-07-18T19:05:00.000-07:00

sending some props over to my cousin Scott -- who is now the voice of the blog on the Democratic Strategist site.

Dig it here and now, or any time on the sidebar.

About time you had a public forum for your views, Scott. Keep 'em coming.

Riffing on a Good Thing

2006-07-13T12:58:00.000-07:00

Trolling around on Yo Ambro I saw this funny post and it made me wonder what search words had recently directed people to MarthaWho. Here is a partial list.

1940's Linoleum
Parmesan Encrusted Tilapia
Jenn-Air Non Stop Sparking
Double Amputee Everest Dead
Westbrook ME
Where's Whoopi?
Martha and Don Together Again
Bloodiest Boxing Matches Video Clips

I don't know why, but this list really cracks me up, both in its randomness and at the same time, in its perfect summary of all things MarthaWho? I mean you don't even need to read any of my posts! This sorta sums it up nicely.

Thanks, Jenn!

-MW

Your Lips Move, But I Can't Hear What You're Sayin'

2006-07-13T11:55:00.000-07:00

It was with some degree of sadness -- nay, nostalgia more like it -- that I noted the death of Syd Barrett earlier this week. A very un-MarthaWho like topic to say the least, I know. But I believe buried deep in the collective memory of people of a certain age, there exists one or two moments in one's life than can be defined, or at least underscored, by a Pink Floyd refrain.

Mine:

When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.

1988. I was 14 and had just become the lead singer (ha!) of a garage hair band called Atrocity -- with all senior boys who had to pledge an oath to my parents that my innocence would be protected during the year I would be playing out with them. I was well taken care of that year, but it was a year of revelation regardless. Comfortably Numb makes me think of the first time I ever saw anyone smoke pot. I did not try it myself at the time, but I remember thinking it felt so illegal and dangerous and crazy to be with these crazy people listening to this whacked out crazy music.

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome with random precision, rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

1989. A really close friend moved away -- far away -- after sophomore year of high school. This was her favorite Pink Floyd song, and for reasons I did not understand, she would weep like a child every time she heard it. Sometimes we'd sit in my room or her room on a Friday night and just listen to it over and over again. In the last almost 20 years, I've only seen this friend once or twice, and have all but lost contact with her, but every time I hear this song it reminds me of her.

Good morning, Worm Your Honour!
The Crown will plainly show,
The prisoner who now stands before,
Was caught red-handed showing feelings.
Showing feelings of an almost human nature.
This will not do.

1992. Every bus trip for every field trip, school event, sporting event -- anything -- two of my friends in high school, self-nicknamed "Beak" and "Baba" would all but humiliate themselves and anyone within spitting proximity, as they would blast the Trial on a portable tape deck and sing themselves hoarse while acting out the entire thing. In a startlingly conformity-efficient manner, everyone in the class could recite the entire Trial, from to the Judds to the Mollys to the Anthony Michaels to the Emilios to the Allys. Anyway these guys were ruthlessly passionate in their recitation of the Trial, and after a while it left the confines of bus trips and could pop up Tourette's like in any setting from the cafeteria to spanish class. Senior year they sat me down and forced me to watch The Wall (and Tommy and a few other things of the ilk) to broaden my horizons I suppose. And for graduation they made me a "box set" (aptly titled "Beak and Baba's Greatest hits") which included The Wall and a few home made movies on VHS, and a 2 tape audio musical odyssey of Pink Floyd, The Who, and Jethro Tull, so that I would not forget my roots when I went off to college.

There are dozens of other great and memorable Pink Floyd songs (including many many that are not on the Wall albums of course) but these three are the ones that come to mind first for me. It was part of the musical soudtrack of my coming of age and will stay ingrained in my memory as such. Certain songs will always conjure up memories of black lights and lava lamps and dark bedrooms and tie die t-shirts with peace signs and the smell of marijuana and laying in fields under cold night skies and talking about the meaning of life and the endlessness of the universe and wanting to leave town and get away from the suffocation of well, being 14. Feelings of being utterly dangerous, yet somehow still knowing deep down, as I know now, that those were still times of great innocence. None of us really knew what hippies did or what it meant to be bohemian. And certainly we thought nothing of what the song lyrics were really about -- not too many people in my circle of friends at 14 thought much about mental illness and really being at the end of ones rope and not being able to take it anymore and believing that all of the crap in the world that we were getting from THE MAN was some part of a vast global conspiracy targetted at each and every one of us. None of us really shaved our eyebrows off or jumped off hotel balconies into swimming pools or nearly died from overdoses of hallucinagenic drugs. We all went off to college and got degrees and become lawyers and engineers and grossly overpaid consultants and got married and had kids and bought houses in the suburbs.

But I bet that everyone had at least one fleeting memory this week while Pink Floyd was momentarily in the news.

I believe that true true artistic creativity requires a certain amount of legitimate crazyness. That it is something coded deep in one's DNA that allows minds to think a certain way, to see light in a certain way, or understand the way paint moves on a canvas or how to articulate an earth-shattering feeling in two lines of musical verse. Maybe people like Syd Barrett just could not bear the burden of their artistic genius and had to shut down into seclusion for the rest of their lives. Topics for another time.

And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking.
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older.
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Re-Post: The People You Meet in Heaven: A Short Play About Karma

2006-07-07T09:29:00.000-07:00

Sorry ... I attempted to resurrect a dead post from June and it got filed out of order down below the July entries. For anyone who is interested, you can find it here.

The Name Game

2006-07-06T10:04:00.000-07:00

LittleMe has a list of baby names picked out for her sister to be born sometime around Halloween. The top five follow:

1. Maisy (her favorite cartoon character)
2. Mommy
3. LittleMe's own name
4. Baby Nummies (??)
5. Baby B.B.

With options like these, who needs naming dictionaries or advice from well-intentioned friends and family members???

Ten Minutes In the Grill

2006-07-06T07:50:00.000-07:00

On Sunday my Father in Law and I got into a huge argument. It was 100 degrees and I'm hormonal and he's, well, he's my FIL, and I don't even remember what the argument was about, something about the benefits of ceramic tile over vinyl or laminate bathroom flooring options (I wish it was something more dramatic than that). Anyway it resulted in a quiet but dramatic day of avoiding each other completely and I mean completely until we were all whisked away to enjoy a dinner in the new dining room of the recently-renovated country club in my in-laws' Vermont summer community.

Half way through dinner, LittleMe decided she had to (HAD TO!) go play with the elevator so Mr. Marthawho took off to chase her around the lobby. Mother in Law decided she couldn't bear to send her son off alone into the world to play with his own child so she left the rest of us at the table. The rest of us being me and FIL.

There is a long silence.

MW:
So this room is a lot brighter than it used to be.

FIL:
Yeah. They did a good job. Lots of windows.

MW:
I remember it being a lot darker before.

FIL:
It was nothing special. Now it's much better. And it was finished on time and under budget.

MW:
Well you can't say that about too many construction projects can you?

FIL:
Nope. There's really only two controversies to speak of, post-renovation. One is the moose. (FIL gestures to the gigantic moose head hanging above the stone fireplace at the end of the room).

MW:
It is a big moose. Was that here before?

FIL:
No. I don't know where it came from. My theory is that it's someone from the community who probably had it hanging on their wall and wanted to get rid of it and made the Club take it. But alot of people really hate it.

MW:
Because of animal cruelty or anti-hunting or something?

FIL:
No, no... nothing like that. It's just ugly. Who wants a big moose watching you eat dinner?

MW:
Huh.
So what's the other controversy?

FIL:
The name of this restaurant is called "The Grille"

MW:
So? That's what it was called before the renovation too.

FIL:
But look around... there's no grill up here. It's just a dining room. They could have called it the "Quechee Room" or something else related to the club or the town.

MW:
I guess.

FIL:
But here's the thing. The casual restaurant downstairs is called "The Deck"

MW:
There's a deck down there, right?

FIL (slapping the table):
Ah-ha! But there's also a GRILL! and...?

MW:
I don't know... and what?

FIL:
There's a DECK up here, too! I mean -- imagine the confusion if I asked someone to meet me at the Grill Deck for lunch? Would they go up here to the deck of the "Grille" restaurant? Or would they go down there to the "Deck" restaurant that also has a grill?

MW:
Ok that could be pretty confusing.

FIL:
But everything else turned out OK I guess.

MARHTAWHO:
I wonder what's taking them so long. She loves playing in that elevator. Glad you didn't get rid of that in the renovation!

FATHER-IN-LAW:
She just gets nervous you know.

MARTHAWHO:
About the elevator?

FATHER-IN-LAW:
You know. She needs to control everything related to the little tyke. It's impossible for her to sit here while they are running around in the lobby without her. It's just her thing. She could have sat here with us, but she would have been constantly staring at the door waiting for them to come back in, and worried as all get-out that something big was happening out in the lobby that she might be missing.

MARTHAWHO:
Uh-huh.

FIL:
She's always been like that for as long as I've known her.

MW:
Controllling?

FIL:
No. Just not wanting to miss anything. If she could split herself into two pieces right now she would. Because now that she's out there, I'm sure she's tortured wondering what is happening in here.

MW:
It doesn't bother me. I'm always happy to let someone else chase LittleMe around, especially in a restaurant.

FIL:
I'm just saying. She's always been that way and she always will be.

MW:
And I'm just saying it only seems to bother you. I was just wondering where they were. I didn't say anything about her leaving.

FIL:
Good. Because she's always going to leave and run after her kids. And now her grandkids. She panics when they're not in the room. What if they're having fun without her etcetera...

MW:
Alrighty.

FIL:
Because you just have to roll with it. I learned that a long time ago. You can't change her so you just have to accept it and move on. Let her do her thing.

MW:
That's all you can do with anyone.

FIL:
Right.

Mr. MW, MIL and LittleMe burst back into the restaruant.

MW:
There they are!

FIL:
It is brighter in here isn't it.
We could really use some sun shades for the windows. Especially at this time of year.

###

The People You Meet in Heaven: A Short Play About Karma

2006-06-21T07:24:00.000-07:00

NOTE: One of the many things I've been meaning to write about for the last month or so is the unfortunate story of the mountaineer David Sharp back in May. There are few natural wonders that transfix Mr. and Mrs. MW more than the stories of life and death on Mount Everest. We've read perhaps every book there is to read about the more-hyped expeditions and then some. And yet, well-versed and educated on the hubris of man on the great Sargamatha, things like what happened on May 23 still surprise me. Is the view from the top worth more than the price of one man's life?

SETTING:
Purgatory. Many years in the future. It looks surprisingly like the environs of Mount Everest. An old and craggy mountaineer with metal legs comes across David Sharp sitting in a snow cave. His boots are off and his feet are up on a full tank of supplemental oxygen. He is the picture of divinely radiant health.

DAVID SHARP:
Duuuude! What took you so long?

MARK INGLIS:
(startled)
I didn't think I'd see anyone else up here.

DAVID SHARP:
Yeah, man. Just been hanging out here. Been kind of stuck here for a while, just waiting.

MARK INGLIS:
Waiting for what?

DAVID SHARP:
You, man! I'm stoked you finally made it.

MARK INGLIS:
(nervously) You haven't been waiting long have you?

DAVID SHARP:
Wellll.... who's counting? You're here now, man! Have a seat (motioning to the snow next to him). Let's wait together.

MARK INGLIS:
No thanks. Looks cold. What are we waiting for, exactly?

DAVID SHARP:
Waiting for the big guy.

MARK INGLIS:
The big guy? You mean .... God?

DAVID SHARP:
The one and the same.

MARK INGLIS:
Maybe I will sit down. (he sits with some difficulty).

DAVID SHARP:
What's the deal with your legs anyway (rapping his goggles against one of Mark's titanium prosthetics)

MARK INGLIS:
Double amputee.

DAVID SHARP:
Whoa. What happened man? You a veteran or something?

MARK INGLIS:
Frostbite actually, heh heh. Funny -- it's not very cold up here today is it?

DAVID SHARP:
The sun is always out up here. It's pretty righteous. So Frostbite, huh? Hardcore.

MARK INGLIS:
Yep. It was a climbing accident. A long time ago. Spent the night on Mt. Cook. Didn't think I was going to make it ... but I did end up losing both legs.

DAVID SHARP:
You mean, somebody actually rescued you?

MARK INGLIS:
Yep yep.

DAVID SHARP:
Righteous.

MARK INGLIS:
I was lucky.

DAVID SHARP:
Pretty funny -- you know, I had a climbing accident too.

MARK INGLIS:
You don't say? What a coincidence.

DAVID SHARP:
Yeah. Everest. I made the summit and just kind of didn't make it back down. Must have been that altitude sickness that got me. I don't remember much of the details. Anyway, you were lucky that there were people that were able to rescue you.

MARK INGLIS:
Uh.... yeah. Sorry about that.

DAVID SHARP:
What? Oh no -- no need for apologies, brother! It's not like it's your fault I died on Everest! Just must not have been any people around to find me in my hour of need.

MARK INGLIS:
You have no idea do you...

DAVID SHARP:
It's not been so bad really... I mean, one minute I was on the top of the world, and the next minute I was sitting here -- with my feet up, the sun shining, and well, you have to admit, this is a pretty darn nice view.

MARK INGLIS:
Yes, yes... it's familiar. You've been sitting here for thirty five years?

DAVID SHARP:
Years, shmears, man. A year is like a nanosecond in the hourglass of eternity. Dust in the wind brother... dust in the wind.

MARK INGLIS:
I can't think of anything worse really. Sitting in one place for the rest of my life.

DAVID SHARP:
Dude, your life, is over -- well life as you know it anyway. Don't worry -- you'll get used to it. You literally have all the time in the universe now. I've been able to think about all of the things I never had time to think about when I was alive. Really got to search my soul and come to peace with the way I spent my time on earth. I've learned a lot.

MARK INGLIS:
Really? Such as...

DAVID SHARP:
Nothing is more important than a life well-lived -- even if it's a short life. Oh I know ... that sounds a bitHallmark and all. I know it sounds silly, but it's the little things that are the big things... family is the most important thing in the world... think of others before you think of yourself... try to stay on the straight and right path through the world. I had a pretty clean life all things considered. I mean, we all make mistakes -- but my departure from my earthly person was nothing but my own fault. It was a risky climb to make alone at the end. But I was a good person, and I know had anyone seen me falter, I would have been rescued too.

MARK INGLIS:
That is a tough break you got.

DAVID SHARP:
Nah.... I mean, it would have been nice to have all those things I wanted -- kids, etc ... but then I would not have ever had this opportunity to sit here for eternity and figure it all out.

MARK INGLIS:
You've figured it all out, then.

DAVID SHARP:
Oh yeah, man. It's a beautiful thing. You'll see.

MARK INGLIS:
So that is it then? You figuted out the meaning of life and you still have to sit here on the side of this god-forsaken mountain forever.

DAVID SHARP:
No, man! I was told to hang out here until an old man with metal legs came to take my place. No offense about the metal legs thing ... but I'm thinking it's probably you...

MARK INGLIS:
What? No -- no no! ... I can't sit here for 35 years.

DAVID SHARP:
Again with the years! You're a funny man. You'll soon learn that time has no meaning up here. It's all one beautiful endless day.

A bolt of lightening crackles across the heavenly sky and a stairway appears just above them on the mountain -- ending somewhere above the clouds. A glorious looking man with a full mane of white hair and sparkling white climbing gear descends to their level. The two men are speechless with wonderment.

DAVID SHARP:
Whoa.

MARK INGLIS:
(in awe)
What is this?

DAVID SHARP:
(whispering)
Duuude... I think it's the Stairway to Heaven.

THE GUIDE:
I prefer to think of it as the Hilary Steps. Heh heh (patting MARK on the had) That's a little Everest humor for you, sonny.

MARK INGLIS:
And you're Sir Edmund Hilary!

THE GUIDE:
I am but a humble guide for wayward travelers.

MARK INGLIS:
No ... no -- you're Sir Hilary. I am sure of it. And that's Sherpa Tenzing Norgay!!!

Another glorious looking man of Nepalese descent has appeared, with a white yak and a large rucksack.

THE GUIDE:
(ignoring MARK)
Grab your crampons, David and gather your gear - the time has come.

DAVID SHARP:
(to MARK)
Dude. That's my ride.
(he rises to his feet and begins gathering his gear into a backpack).

MARK INGLIS:
(grabbing DAVID's shirt)
Wait -- wait -- you can't leave me here.... I... I -- I'll die!

DAVID SHARP:
Heyyyyy -- That's a good one! You're so funny. Thanks for the laughs. I've enjoyed our time together.

MARK INGLIS:
(Struggles to rise to his feet and cannot)
Wait! At least help an old crippled man get up?

DAVID looks at MARK with genuine concern and walks back to him.

DAVID SHARP:
(dropping his backpack and extending his hand)
Of course, buddy.

Before MARK can take his hand, there is flash of light and glorious white fluffy wings appear on DAVID's back. He instantly rises four or five feet in the air as the SHERPA and GUIDE look on.

DAVID SHARP:
Righteous! Did you see that, buddy? I have wings!

THE GUIDE:
Okay David, we must go -- we have a long journey up the steps.

DAVID SHARP:
Oh I will miss this view.

THE GUIDE:
As to be expected. You did pay for it with your life.

MARK INGLIS:
What about me? Will anyone help me up?

DAVID SHARP:
(as he rises higher up the stairway)
This is amazing!

THE GUIDE:
You, down the mountain there -- use your wings -- hurry up before we leave without you.

There is a burst of awestruck laughter as a small group of ITALIAN mountaineers, with wings, begins to float past the spot where MARK is sitting.

ITALIAN MOUNTAINEER:
Mamma mia!

MARK INGLIS:
Hey -- you there -- please -- help me get up!

ITALIAN MOUNTAINEER:
(as he and the rest of his party drift up the stairway with DAVID and the SHERPA).
Sorry -- no speak-y English, Man! Wheeeeeeeeeee!

The party is almost out of sight, save for the GUIDE who lingers near the bottom step.

MARK INGLIS:
Won't anybody help me?

THE GUIDE:
I believe you once said, "It's hard enough to help yourself at 8500 meters, let alone save someone else."

MARK INGLIS:
What? Wait -- Oh come on -- that was a long time ago -- and well -- he doesn't even remember what happened!!!

DAVID SHARP:
(before he disappears from view)
Enjoy my view friend!! See you soooooooooooooooon.....

MARK INGLIS:
Fuck your view you selfish bastard! You paid for it with your life, remember!!!!!
(then, to THE GUIDE)
He was nearly a dead man when I saw him! There was nothing I could do. I was the first double amputee to climb Mt. Everest. I couldn't stop then.

THE GUIDE:
Well then, I guess you paid for the view with his life as well.

MARK INGLIS:
We both would have died!!!

THE GUIDE:
I should be going. You should have plenty to ruminate about for a while.

MARK INGLIS:
Don't leave me here!!!

THE GUIDE:
I'll come back and check on you from time to time.

MARK INGLIS:
Wait -- I can't get up. Please.

There is a bolt of lightning and the stairway and all of it's occupants are gone. MARK is left on the side of the mountain, paralyzed in the snow cave, with the summit just above, out of reach.

The sun is shining and view is spectacular.

####

There IS Such a Thing as Reading Too Much to Your Children.

2006-05-17T11:47:00.000-07:00

This is what happened when LittleMe decided to read to me last night before she went to bed:

LITTLEME:
I will read Little Boy Blue to Mama? OK.
Little Jack Horner,
Sat in a Corner,
Eating his Christmas Pie,
He Put in his Thumb,
And pulled out a Plum,
And frightened Miss Muffet Away.
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haystack fast asleep.
All except one, and her name's Ann,
And she crept under the frying pan.
Will you wake him?
No, not I!
And pretty maids in a row, row, row.

From the M-Dub Marquee

2006-05-17T11:37:00.000-07:00

The M-Dub humbly offers the 1 reader remaining, three reasons why I haven't posted in over a month:

NOW PLAYING:
Mr. MW and I have been dallying in a community theatre production of Ragtime. Our glamorous performance lives end when the show closes this Sunday night after a month-long run.

COMING SOON IN JUNE:
The first reading in three years, of our forgotten little musical. Revisions and casting feverishly underway.

COMING THIS FALL TO THEATRES EVERYWHERE:
Mr. and Mrs. MW are pleased to announce an impending Halloween-ish visit from the stork.

More details on all of these fabulous experiences as they become available.

Catholics Anonymous

2006-04-18T12:51:00.000-07:00

On Easter Sunday, Mr. MarthaWho and I made our annual trip to church -- something we do to please and appease our parents -- all four of whom were staying at our place this weekend for a visit I was certain that our daughter would not make it through a 1-plus hour Mass -- I mean she is two now after all. It's her God-given right to be the holiest of terrors.

But wouldn't you know the little pooper was absolutely riveted for the entire service. She loved the music and danced in the pews. She thought the word "Alleluia" was some magical and amazing word and kept singing it over and over long after it was appropriate to do so. When the priest said "Christ has Risen" during the eucharist liturgy, my daughter started wildly clapping and said loud enough for the risen Saviour himself to hear, "Hooray! Yay, Mommy!!!"

That morning, she carried one half of a plastic Easter egg, that had four miniature M&M's rattling around at the bottom of it. She could not be parted from this most prized possession when we were leaving the house, and the tribunal of grandparents made a unanimous decision that it was OK to bring M&M's into the house of the Lord. That little cup of M&M's stayed in her little hand for the entire Mass, and only spilled a few times.

There's nothing like witnessing the complete joy of a young child. It's hard to imagine a time when I could sit in a church pew and be so taken in by the whole thing. Or when half of a plastic Easter egg and four dusty M&M's were worth guarding with my life. When was anything so important that I would hold onto it with two hands for over an hour?

But remember I do -- those early Catholic years are just a warm and incense-soaked whirlwind of candles and stained glass and pretty songs and lilies all seen from under the gauze of a white communion veil. It's hard to determine the exact moment when that innocence was lost -- but it feels like it may never be retrieved again.

Mr. MarthaWho remembers , too. And has the same struggle (guilt-laced?). Without having to ask him anything or discuss it at all, he summed it up as we walked the little tyke back to the car after church.

"Honey - it's not that it's the church, you know.... it's just that it's the church."

Sounds like Greek, but it made perfect sense to me.

ANYWAY, the heathens known as Mr. and Mrs. MarthaWho somehow managed to get through the whole service without spontaneously combusting, and I think we might have been baptized again in the process. I don't know for sure as I was under a pew trying to retrieve the little pink candies that had fallen on the floor.

An Easter Haiku

2006-04-14T07:08:00.000-07:00

Gosh darn, that Target!
With racist cards on their shelves.
Can't we get along?

Hoppy Easter.

Addiction

2006-03-28T10:18:00.000-08:00

Mr. MarthaWho got hisself a Crackberry last week. Because, you know, even with our two land lines, one VOIP line, two cellphones, four computers and the fully wireless internet enabled home, he just wasn't reachable enough. Now, with the Crackberry permanently cemented in a John Wayne like holster at his side, his boss can call to discuss TPS reports during the handful of instances during which this was not previously possible. How did he live before he could communicate with the other Crackberry Cowboys while driving our daughter to school, taking a dump, or sleeping? Praise the baby jeezus for wonders of technology!

We are just making ourselves entirely too findable it seems.

I was traveling last week for work, and on my flight home sat next to one of those cellphone user-abusers. Oh you know who I'm talking about. Here's a random sampling of the six (yes, SIX) phone calls he made while we were on the plane:

Call #1
Time: 5:30PM, 25 minutes to departure.
CELL PHONE ABUSER:
Hi Honey, it's me. Sorry I missed you. It's 5:30 and I just wanted to let you know we boarded the plane. 'Kay.... bye.
MARTHAWHO's commentary:
OK -- so that's cute. Mr. Power Suite guy is checking in with his wife just to let her know he is on his way home. We've all done that.

Call #2
Time: 5:55PM, pilot has informed us we'll be 5 minutes late for take off.
CELL PHONE ABUSER:
Hi Honey, it's me again. It's about 5:55 and we're supposed to be leaving now, but the pilot said we'll be another 5 minutes on the ground here. Will keep you posted.
MW's commentary:
Is your wife a schedule nazi or an air traffic controller? Does she care you're running 5 minutes late?

Call #3
Time: 6:07PM
CELL PHONE ABUSER:
Hey. Just wanted to let you know we're about to take off. So I guess I'll be landing a few minutes late. I'll call you when I land.
MW's commentary:
Dude. She gets it. Five minutes late. You already told her that. She doesn't care. Now turn off your cell phone before you get kicked off this plane.

Call #4
Time: 7:38 PM
CELL PHONE ABUSER:
Hi -- did you get my messages? Where were you? Good. Well we just landed. No, I'm not in the car yet. We JUST landed... as in we are taxiing to the gate now. OK. I'll see you in a bit.
MW's commentary:
Words cannot describe how annoying it was to watch you sit with your cellphone in hand for the last minutes of this flight, with your finger poised over the power button, waiting for the flight attendant to clear cell phone usage again.

Call #5
Time: 7:40PM
Hi hon. Me again. There's a plan waiting to depart from our gate. Should be taking off soon so hopefully we'll pull up to the jetbridge in a few minutes.
MW's commentary:
Well, you did set up an expectation when you called her right when we landed. Probably a good thing to call her and adjust that expectation by 3 minutes.

Call #6
Time 7:45PM
Finally off the plan -- walking to get my bag now. Anything you want me to pick up on the way home?
MW's commentary:
Hey asshat, two questions: 1. How many more times you are going to call her before you walk in the door? and 2. What cellphone plan are you on? I need to switch to the one that has as many everytime meaningless minutes as you're burning through.

Seriously folks. How about a "power down" holiday -- one day where all the crackberries, cellphones, pagers and computers are shut down for 24 hours...?

Un-Conditioner Love

2006-03-16T07:18:00.000-08:00

SETTING:
MARTHAWHO's home, 6AM. MARTHAWHO has taken a shower but has no time to dry her hair because DAUGHTER is awake and crying in her crib to get out. (MR. MARTHAWHO is traveling for work). MARTHAWHO walks into DAUGHTER'S room half dressed with her hair dripping all over her clothes.

MARTHAWHO:
Good morning, monkey.

DAUGHTER:
Mama!

MARTHAWHO picks up DAUGHTER who looks at MARTHAWHO's ridiculous hair curiously.

MARTHAWHO:
I know I look funny. We're just running a little late and Mommy didn't have time to dry her hair.

DAUGHTER:
(patting MW's head encouragingly)
That's OK Mommy. Mommy's hair is sooooooo pretty.

CURTAIN.

Where's Whoopi Goldberg When You Need Her?

2006-03-15T06:12:00.000-08:00

About three weeks ago I was walking my dog in the historic cemetery in our 'hood. We usually stick to the main path which has the most recent graves, bearing dates in the 1900-1970 range or so. (We stick to this path because it is wide and I know he won't pee on any headstones). For no particular reason, on this particular day, Mercury was hell-bent on running up this one particular hill to sniff at one particular grave in the not so recent section of the cemetery (graves bearing the dates in the 1700's and 1800's). I could not pull him away, so I followed him thinking we'd find a squirrel or something edible that he was tracking on. Instead he led me directly to the gravestone of the woman who built the house I live in. I did not even know she had been buried in this cemetery.

We live in an historic home in an historic district. The previous owners of our house did an enormous amount of research on the history and fought a successful battle to be recognized by the landmarks organization in our area. As a result of their efforts, we have a little plaque on our house that bears the name of the spinster who built and lived in our home nearly 2 centuries ago. Among the various papers and items the previous owners bestowed upon us when we moved in, was a small photo of the way the house looked 100 years ago or so. It's a tiny photograph, and it was nailed to a wall in the entryway of the house. We left it there upon moving in.

A few days after Mercury found Polly Porterfield's grave, I was standing in the kitchen and I heard a pop. I turned around and the photograph of the house had flown -- not dropped -- across the entry way and was laying near the front door -- a full 5 feet or so away from where it had been hanging for who knows how many years.

Last night when I came back from rehearsal, my babysitter said had been hearing knocking noises and asked jokingly if we had a ghost she should know about. I sat down and was about to tell her the stories of the grave and the photograph falling down... and the second I said "Actually, I think we DO have a ghost!" the television suddenly snapped off. Neither of us were near the television or the remote control. And nothing else shut off with it... lights were still on, the DVR and other electronic items in the TV cabinet were still on.

We both kind of laughed it off nervously.

This morning the babysitter called to tell me she's sick and can't come tonight. Taking bets as to whether or not she'll ever come back. Until I know for sure, I need to find a last minute babysitter for tonight.

Maybe Polly Porterfield has no plans?

Two, Going on Fifteen: A Friday Morning Short Scene

2006-03-03T06:30:00.000-08:00

SETTING:
8AM, The entryway of MARTHAWHO'S home. The day of MW's DAUGHTER's birthday party at school (her real birthday is not until Sunday). MR. MARTHAWHO is outside putting the Care Bear Cake and plates and napkins in the back of the car, and MARTHAWHO is getting DAUGHTER ready to go.

MARTHAWHO:
Okay, there.... first one arm... and then the other. Now turn around so I can zip you up.

DAUGHTER turns around and gives a cheezy smile.

MARTHAWHO:
You're going to be TWO this weekend!

DAUGHTER:
(clapping)
Yaaaaaaaay

MARTHAWHO:
And today you're going to have a party to school, and everyone is going to sing Happy Birthday to you!

DAUGHTER:
Yaaaaaay! Happy Birthday to Meeeeeeee!

MARTHAWHO:
Hey... look at Mommy, I want to tell you something.

DAUGHTER looks at MARTHAWHO.

MARTHAWHO:
Can I tell you something?

DAUGHTER:
(earnestly)
Okay.

MARTHAWHO:
I'm so proud of you -- you're going to be two years old and you're so much fun. I love you so much!

DAUGHTER:
NO!!!!!!!!!

DAUGHTER lunges at MARTHAWHO and tries to scratch her face.

DAUGHTER:
No!
No, no, no, no, no, NO!

MR. MARTHAWHO enters from outside, oblivious to the conversation that has just taken place.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Okay, little tyke, let's go.

DAUGHTER:
Daaaaaaddddy!

MR. MARTHAWHO picks up DAUGHTER and heads for the car.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
(to DAUGHTER)
Say, "bye bye, Mommy... I love you!"

DAUGHTER, from MR.MARTHAWHO's arms, turns around, bats her eyelashes at MARTHAWHO.

DAUGHTER
(as the door is closing, waves at MARTHAWHO)
See ya, Mama.

CURTAIN

###

If She Wears Her Hair in Curls, Then Every Woman in America Wears Her Hair in Curls

2006-02-28T19:03:00.000-08:00

How fellow blograts pop up when you least expect it: tonight at Ragtime rehearsal I found out that the our dance coach gal playing Evelyn Nesbitt just started a blog herself. We are keeping the peace in the alto ensemble, and I will be playing one of her back up dancers. And to top it off, she is a writing student, and to REALLY top it off, she was actually reading a copy of The Scarlet Letter for a comp class.

Just wanted to send over my cyber support to this gifted young lady -- and to offer three pieces of advice:

1. Keep on writing -- write every day even if you think you have nothing to write about. Keeps the creative juices flowing. The blog can be a helpful outlet.

2. Keep on reading -- The Scarlet Letter is a beautiful American novel, that often gets the shaft because of the Custom House intro. While it's rich in historical context, that chapter is somewhat disconnected from the rest of the book and it's a real dog to get through. But once you get past that, oh what treasures! (I mean, Puritan Sex -- what's better than that?)

and MOST IMPORTANTLY:

3. Go easy on me in dance rehearsal next Wednesday. The last time I danced on stage was about 12 years, 15 pounds and one baby ago.

Hugs,
MW

Desperate Times: A Short (I promise) Play

2006-02-27T08:13:00.000-08:00

SETTING:
Dinner. MARTHAWHO's household. Last night.

MARTHAWHO:
So I've been thinking...

MR. MARTHAWHO:
That's usually a sign of trouble.

MARTHAWHO:
No seriously. You'll be proud of me.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
OK. Shoot.

MARTHAWHO:
I've decided, after much consideration...

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Yes...?

MARTHAWHO:
... I've decided to give up watching Desperate Housewives on Sundays.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Hey -- that's great, actually. You know me -- I'm all about watching less TV. That is outstanding, honey. It's one less hour of brain atrophy, and one more hour we could spend doing something more productive. How did you come to this epiphany? Do you think the show sucks, or do you just want to own more of your free time?

MARTHAWHO:
I'm actually just trying to plan ahead. Sopranos starts up again in two weekends, and there's a new HBO show starting that night -- about polygamous Mormons starring Bill Paxon that I know I will get so sucked into. I just can't Tivo that many shoes in one night. I'll already be up until midnight on Sundays catching up.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
(deflated)
Oh.

MARTHAWHO:
Sorry honey. Can you pass me a napkin?

Silence.

CURTAIN

###

Decongestants: The Way Mother Nature Intended

2006-02-27T07:35:00.000-08:00

After spending the latter part of last week with a horrendous head cold, and stuffing myself with over the counter liver-killing remedies, I finally found relief on Sunday afternoon. Nothing clears your sinuses faster than watching the last 45 minutes of an epic tear jerker.

I love pre-Oscar week TV schedule.

The Supremes

2006-02-24T12:56:00.000-08:00

SETTING: CNN evening anchor desk.

AARON:
Good evening, America. Well, here we are together, you and me, about to witness another one of those bowel-wrenching, spine-realigning, quintessentially surreal moments in American History. My shirt is clean and my heart is pure and I'm here to report on something news-worthy that I know nothing about. What that is remains to be revealed. Anderson?

ANDERSON:
(after a pause)
OK. Thank you Aaron. This truly is, as I think you indicated, an historic moment in our nation's history.

AARON:
Absolutely!

ANDERSON:
Let's have a recap of how today's events unfolded.

AARON:
Yes! That would be an appreciated and perhaps even an expected gesture, given our place in the miasma of news reporting. Thank you for suggesting it.

ANDERSON:
(another incredulous pause)
We're going to go live now to the hidden chambers of the U.S. Supreme Court where our new CNN correspondent, Ryan Seacrest, has the latest. Ryan?

VOICE OVER AARON:
(voice over as the cameras switch to Ryan Seacrest)
Say.... I know this guy from somewhere...

RYAN SEACREST:
Thank you Anderson, Aaron. I'm Ryan Seacrest and THIS..... is CNN Courtwatch.

VOICE OVER AARON:
Yeah… he looks like that guy from New Years Rockin' Eve. I love that guy....

VOICE OVER ANDERSON:
What can you tell us about what's been going on this evening?

RYAN:
Well, Anderson, it's been an unbelievable day as you can well imagine. It all started last week with the bizarre tragedy on the high court.

RYAN's voice continues to narrate as an American-Idol-esque video rolls showing the events of the previous week.

V.O. RYAN:
It was supposed to be his first day of work, but little did newly-appointed Justice Samuel Alito know that it would be his last. The morning began as usual, but then came the news that Justice John Paul Stevens would be retiring at the end of this term, and things quickly took a turn for the worse. Apparently unable to bear the thought of a third dramatic change in the Court’s make-up in one term, the entire court spontaneously combusted. In the White House press conference later that day, a shell-shocked Scott McClellan stated that (quote) the thoughts and prayers of the President and Mrs. Bush are with the families of the late Supreme Court Justices (end quote) and that (quoting again) the President’s first and foremost concern is that the Court return as soon as possible to hearing the cases on the spring docket (end quote). In a special televised address to the nation on Thursday evening, President Bush had this to add.

V.O. [RECORDED] GEORGE W. BUSH
…Right along with you I’m stunned by this rare and terrifying natural combustion phenomenon thing-y. Shows the Lord can giveth generously and he also is a pretty bad mother when it comes right down to it… anyways, we cannot let this setback – this bump on the ol’ trail – keep us from keeping the judicial flames…flaming. Tonight I am pledging two things to the American People – one, that all scheduled executions in the Lone Star state will continue as planned. I will personally deny any clemency requests that come in until the Court is re-sitchiated. And maybe after, too. And two, I will be invoking an emergency clause that allows me to appoint an interim Court that can begin hearing cases right away while they are moving through the official-ease of the confirmation hearings. God Bless the families of the Supremes and God Bless me and you…

Video clip ends, and we're back to live RYAN, ANDERSON, and AARON on a split screen.

ANDERSON:
Ryan, is it fair to say that not many Americans had ever heard of the “interim Court” clause the President referred to in his address last week?

AARON:
I’ll confess it was quite a revelation for this truth-seeking stallion.

RYAN:
Anderson, that is definitely a fair statement. Apparently the “Interim Court Clause” had been passed in the 2003 Congressional term. It was attached in very fine print to some version of the Patriot Act.

ANDERSON:
Surprising.

RYAN:
In a nutshell, Anderson and Aaron, the “Interim Court Clause” states that the in the event that the entire Court is lost in an act of war or other tragic accident, the President can appoint an interim court comprised of no less than three members, to begin hearing cases immediately – to return to normalcy as soon as possible. While there isn’t any stipulation on who these interim justices should be, it was widely speculated last week that President Bush was going to simply start at the top of his nominee list and make calls to the first three folks listed there.

AARON:
As a good a strategy as any, I’d venture. I mean, when you’re in the middle of a swirling whirlpool of black holes, you have to have something sharp to cling to.

ANDERSON:
(another pause)
Which brings us to today’s events.

RYAN:
Yes, Anderson. This morning when America woke up, there was a new Supreme Court – the three new justices were sworn in early this morning and have spent the day preparing for hearing their first cases tomorrow morning.

ANDERSON:
And now we go live to the Secret Chambers of the U.S. Supreme Court for a never-before-seen peek at the inner “deliberation room” – and the new justices at work. Ryan Seacrest with this exclusive story tonight.

Cameras are now on RYAN inside the Supreme Court inner chambers.

RYAN:
(whispering)
This is it. The moment you’ve all been waiting for. I’m standing here in the deliberation room of the U.S. Supreme Court where our new Justices have been spending the day getting settled into their new roles. (to the bench) Justices, I first want to thank you for taking a few moments to speak with America about this dramatic day.

Image widens to include the Bench behind RYAN. The three robed characters are revealed to be PAULA ABDUL, SIMON COWELL, and RANDY JACKSON.

PAULA ABDUL:
Thank you, Ryan. It’s so cool to see you here sweetie.

RANDY JACKSON:
Yeah hear hear. Props bro, for the new job. CNN. Very niiiice.

RYAN:
Just think – last week at this time the three of you and I were on the soundstage at the Kodak Theatre in LA, and this week – well – I don’t think any of us could have predicted this turn of events.

PAULA:
That’s for sure.

RYAN:
Tell me what it was like when you got the call. Let’s start with you, Randy …

RANDY:
It’s Justice Jackson, dawg.

PAULA giggles and punches RANDY in the arm.

RANDY:
Honestly, bro, it was like, for me – it was an incredible honor when the President woke me up last evening to let me know I was at the top of his list of potential nominees. I was like, whoa – I’m not worthy, you know? But dude, he’s a huge fan of the show, and he was like, I’m really digging how you are so impartial and un-biased every week on Idol, and I think you’d be really great at this gig. I mean, who was I to say no… especially to the President, dawg – touch THIS.

RYAN:
Justice Abdul, you got the next call if I’m not mistaken.

PAULA:
Yes. That’s correct. I was actually with my stylist picking out an outfit for this week’s Idol showdown when the phone rang. Needless to say I was shocked. What a thrill though, Ryan. I mean – what an honor. You know, as a performer you’re really always a public servant. So this was just a natural next step.

RYAN:
Justice Cowell, perhaps the most controversial of the picks given your citizenship status.

SIMON:
(miserable)
That’s right. My stay-tus has been of considerable concern.

RYAN:
Let’s take a quick look at this evening’s White House press conference where the President himself made a few remarks.

Video footage of the press conference begins.

SCOTT MCLELLAN:
Okay, okay – we’ve got time for one more question…. Let’s see… Judy?

REPORTER:
(off camera)
Thank you Scott and thank you Mr. President. Mr. President, Simon Cowell is not a U.S. Citizen. This is obviously a point of concern for many Americans – that he is not familiar with the laws of our land, and that he will not be able to mete out justice fairly. Can you speak to this concern?

GEORGE W. BUSH
Thank you, Judy, and first I want to thank you for asking that tough question. This whole week has been about tough questions. Believe me I ask myself the same tough questions all the time. And you know what I get in return? Nothing. So you’re not alone there. On the issue of Justice Cowell…well, look, Judy – I have three things to say about that concern, because it’s a valid concern for some people, even if I think it’s unvalid and stupid. The first thing I’ll say is that Simon Cowell is a citizen of America’s greatest friend: Great Britain. As you know, America and Great Britain have always been chummy, since time began, and they are our closest ally in the War On Terror. So I think it’s an honor to have Simon on our Court. Letter B, I want to say that most American citizens don’t have the first flying clue about most of the rules and regulations in this country – I know I sure don’t! – so I’d say Justice Cowell will have a running start. Think of it as on the job training. And Fourthly, I says to Vice President this afternoon, Dickie, if they can elect an Austrian celebrity to be the governor of California, I can appoint a British celebrity to the Supreme Court. Just so as none of these guys come after my job, you understand, heh heh heh.

The Camera is back in the Court Chambers.

RYAN:
That was a hearty endorsement of your appointment, Justice Cowell.

SIMON:
Look, Ryan, I’m going to tell you something. And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for this rewarding peek into the circus of the American political arena, but really there is nothing I’d rather do less than sit on this Court. I have to spend enough time with Dumb and Dumber here as it is, and this is going to be an excruciating experience.

RANDY:
That’s enough Anti-American sentiment from you, Cowell. (Randy melodramtically bangs a gavel and then in a horrible imitation of a British accent) I’ll have you thrown in the brig for treason!

PAULA:
(smiling)
Yeah, Simon! You’re just bitter you weren’t tapped for judicial greatness in your own country.

RANDY:
He’d get to wear a phat wig if that happened though.

PAULA giggles and punches RANDY.

RYAN:
Let’s move on. Tell us a little bit about how you’ve spent your day.

SIMON:
We were supposed to spend the day familiarizing ourselves with the lower court briefs for tomorrow’s oral arguments.

RANDY:
(puffing up his robe)
The only briefs I’ve been thinking about is whether or not I’ll be wearing briefs – or anything else – under this tent tomorrow. Is this dawg HOT or what?

SIMON:
(throwing a pencil at Randy)Look, Ryan. I’ll tell you what we’ve done today. Absolutely nothing. It’s been an enormous waste of time.

PAULA:
(whining)
Simon! That’s not fair. You’re the one bogging us down!

RANDY:
Right on, Justice. (RANDY and PAULA share a high-five). She does have a point there, Cowell.

RYAN:
How so, Justice Jackson?

RANDY:
So so so so check this, check this out. George –

RYAN:
The President, you mean?

RANDY:
Yeah, bro why you like that correcting me? We’re tight – George is my dawg now you know? Anyway, check this out – he pretty much left us to do our thing today, but the only thing we were required to do was pick a Chief Justice before tomorrow’s session. And Cowell, here…

SIMON:
(throwing his hands in the air)
Oh here we go.

RANDY:
Cowell here fancies that it should be him.

SIMON:
I was merely pointing out that since I am clearly the only appointee who feels an enormous amount of pain and suffering by being here, it would be a nice gesture to give me the title. That and I’m by far the smartest.

RANDY:
Clearly the Chief Justice should be this dawg, though. George wants a brother to be steering this dinghy. Why do you think he called me first?

PAULA:
So we’ve been fighting all day about that, Ryan. If we had just gone with my plan this morning, we could have had more time to spend picking out our Dockers for tomorrow.

SIMON bangs his head on the table.

RYAN:
What was your plan, Justice Abdul?

RANDY:
Yo yo yo so check this out, yo. Paula here thinks that we should rotate the Chief Justice hat so to speak. Someone different gets the hat every day.

PAULA:
And we could start in alphabetical order by last name.

SIMON:
The problem with that non-plan, is that it does not solve the problem. You can’t have three chiefs. It does not make sense at all.

PAULA:
I’m feeling like we can make whatever rules we want now, you know? Stop being such a downer, Simon.

RANDY:
Paula you know I love you, but Cowell has a point. It’s not the Supreme Court Chief Justic-EZ – there’s only one big daddy in this dog pound you know?

SIMON:
Furthermore, do you really think America wants to wake up tomorrow and hear that a former Laker Girl is their Supreme Court Chief Justice.

PAULA:
(tearing up)
That was mean, Simon!

SIMON:
I should be the Chief. My ratings are high in the heartland. And fat TV-watching Americans fall over themselves around anyone with a British accent. Case closed.

RYAN:
Well look, guys. We know you’ve been struggling to come to consensus on this issue, so the good folks at CNN have decided to help you out. We’ve set up a toll-free hotline which will open at the end of this program, with a unique number for each of you. This is where you come in, America – tonight you will have two hours to place your vote for who should be the next Supreme Court Chief Justice of the United States? Should it be Justice Paula Abdul, Justice Simon Cowell, or Justice Randy Jackson. You decide. The results will be revealed tomorrow morning when Larry King and I host a special “breakfast results show” – we’ll reveal the new Chief and take your questions.

For now you guys should read those briefs and get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day. Anderson, Aaron – this is Seacrest, Out.

Back in the CNN newsroom.

ANDERSON:
That was Ryan Seacrest, reporting live from the U.S. Supreme Court building in Washington DC. Please stay tuned to CNN for the hotline numbers so you can place your vote for who you think should be the U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice. Ryan Seacrest will be back tomorrow morning with Larry King. Then after he hosts his afternoon talk show and the American Idol “Country Ballads” edition on FOX, he will be back here tomorrow night on CNN with Aaron and I for our continuing CourtWatch coverage. Until then, I’m Anderson Cooper.

AARON:
And I’m -- say, Anderson, he really IS that guy from New Years Rockin Eve, isn’t he?

###

Why the Baby Jesus Created the Mute Button

2006-02-22T07:29:00.000-08:00

The following is an only slightly embellished dramatization of the commentator narration during the women's figure skating short program:

SETTING: The Palavela ice rink, Torino, Italy. Tuesday February 21, 2006. The evening of the women's figure skating short program. The NBC commentators on the Voice Over are Scott, Dick, Sandra and Tom. There are 5 skaters. The first skater takes the ice.

V.O. TOM
This is Tom here with Scott, Sandra and Dick, and well here we are again at Palavela... this time to watch the women skate. Will Russia continue the domination of the figure skating events or will the American women step up? Will the young skaters outshine or be overshadowed by those with more competition experience? Will the new scoring system hurt or hinder the quality of these short programs? Will Dick live up to his name as we comment on the programs? We're about to find out.

V.O. SCOTT (exuberant)
I don't know about you guys but I'm giddy -- just giddy I tell you! I've been waiting for this night for four years. Oh, I can barely breathe I'm so excited. Aren't you excited, Sandra?

V.O. SANDRA
Oh yes, Scotty, I love this night, too. For me it's all about the beautiful choreography. After watching the practice runs this week I think it's safe to say we're going to see some beautiful choreography tonight.

V.O. DICK
And we'll probably see some sh*tty programs, too. That's the beauty of the Olympic games. We can't all be winners.

V.O. TOM
And here comes our first skater now ...

V.O. SCOTT
Oh god I'm so excited!

V.O. TOM
Now speaking of Olympic spirit, Dick, this is a really great story. Skater #1 grew up in East Jabip Turkey where there are only two ice rinks in the entire country. Once they saw her aptitude for the sport, her parents sold everything they owned and moved to Canada so she could train.

V.O. DICK
Sort of makes it seem like she should be Canadian then, don't you think? Right out of the gate and she's already bending the rules.

V.O. SANDRA
I watched Skater #1 in practice earlier today and I have to tell you she has some really beautiful choreography.

V.O. SCOTT
And she's just so cute! I mean, look at her. You just want her to do well.

SKATER #1 takes to the ice and begins her program.

V.O. TOM
And here's the opening combination... and.... she lands it.

V.O. SCOTT
Oh good job, honey.

V.O. DICK
But she lands it without any passion. It's robotic. Straightforward. Not interesting at all. I'm bored outta my gourd.

V.O. SANDRA
Dick, we're only 30 seconds into the evening.

V.O. DICK
Well I'm sorry. She lost me at "hola."

V.O. TOM
(shuffling papers can be heard)
Uhhh... check that .... you mean to say she lost you at "merhaba," Dick. SKATER #1 is from Turkey, not Mexico.

V.O. DICK
Yeah what's the difference?

V.O. SCOTT
There's only one ice rink in Mexico.

V.O. DICK
There's only one ice cube in Mexico, Scotty.

V.O. TOM
And here comes SKATER #1's final combination -- a triple flip followed by a double toe loop. And..... there's the Triple Flip...

V.O. SCOTT (shrieking)
... and... the Double! GOD! I LOVE this!

V.O. DICK
She'd get another point if she made it a triple.

V.O. SANDRA
A really nice short program for this young Turkish-Canadian teen. An inspiration for teens in both countries.

V.O. DICK
Yeah yeah. Tell her to come back in four years when she's out of puberty and grows into that face.

V.O. TOM
And while we wait for SKATER #1's marks, SKATER #2 is warming up.

V.O. SANDRA
That's right, Tom. SKATER #2 is from the great country of Canada...

V.O. DICK
Jeezus, another Canadian? C'mon people. Let's mix it up a bit, eh?

V.O. SANDRA
... and she has been skating for 15 years. This is her second Olympic Games ... we last saw her in Salt Lake...

V.O. DICK
Oh yeah, I remember her now. We last saw her on her ass in Salt Lake.

V.O. SCOTT
SKATER #2 has some confidence issues to work through. We shared a locker room at worlds a few years back. She's a little shaky with her emotions this week too. Who can blame her though -- I mean it's hard when you're juggling a professional skating career, and trying to cope with the loss of both your great grandmother and your chinchilla in the same month.

V.O. SANDRA
She does have some beautiful choregraphy though. Did you see her in practice?

V.O. TOM
Here are SKATER #1's marks ... and the total is 53.5pts.

V.O. DICK
Ha!

V.O. SCOTT
That pretty much knocks her out of medal contention.

V.O. DICK
I LOVE this new scoring system!

V.O. TOM
Well SKATER #2 knows the score she needs to beat to move into first place, and here she goes...

SKATER #2 begins her program.

V.O. DICK
Let's get this over with.

V.O. SANDRA
SKATER #2 is an elegant and mature skater at 29 years old.

V.O. DICK
That's Jurassic in skater years.

V.O. TOM
She appears to be skating a safe program tonight, putting her hardest combination at the beginning... and here it comes... the triple salchow, double toe loop combination.. here it is...

V.O. SCOTT (shouting)
Oh no! It's a double salchow! She made it a double-double instead of a triple-double!!

V.O. SANDRA
That will cost her a few points. And under the new scoring system, she will not get extra points for this beautiful choreography. Don't you think her choreography is beautiful, Scotty?

V.O. SCOTT
Oh yes. Top notch. What a shame about the fall.

SKATER #2 continues her program.

V.O. TOM
She has recovered nicely, I will say. It's a real strength.

V.O. DICK
(snorting)
Of course it's a strength. She's had a lot of practice recovering over the years.

V.O. TOM
SKATER #2 is leaving the ice. She's got to be disappointed with that one, but overall I'd say her total performance was more elegant than SKATER #1.

V.O. SCOTTY
I agree, Tom. The judges will reward her showmanship in the other elements that she nailed. It was a nice spin sequence.

SKATER #3 takes the ice.

V.O. TOM
And here come the marks for SKATER #2.

V.O. SCOTTY
57.5... not enough for a medal, surely, but for now she moves into first place.

V.O. TOM
Another interesting story for the Olympic books ... here is SKATER #3 -- from Japan. She is the youngest competitor of the whole Olympic figure skating event this year. She actually qualified for Worlds last year, but wasn't old enough to compete.

V.O. SCOTTY
(gleefully)
I love this girl... I've watched her all week at practice and she's great...

V.O. SANDRA
(murmuring her agreement)
Mmmmm. She has beautiful choreography...

V.O. SCOTTY
.. she's so young, but she has all of the elements of a great skater. This is the future of the sport of figure skating right here. She's good, not a gold medalist probably, but good She's just a bit green, but we'll see her do great things in a few years.

V.O. DICK
I'm green just looking at her.

V.O. TOM
(nervously)
Heh, heh, Dick... sounds like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the rink today!

V.O. DICK
What are you talking about, oh high and mighty chief anchor correspondent?

V.O. TOM
Well, some of your comments have been... unkind.

V.O. DICK
Puh-leeze.

V.O. TOM
Moving on to SKATER #3... she is getting ready to move into her first difficult combination... it's a triple flip followed by a double toe... and....

V.O. SCOTTY
Holy Hot Diggety with Sugar on Top! She NAILED it! You go, sweetie!

V.O. TOM
Spectacular!

V.O. DICK
Whoop. Dee. Do.

V.O. SCOTTY
Such height on that flip! I can't wait to watch it on replay over and over again! I am so pumped!! Here she goes into her next required element ... the spiral sequence.

V.O. DICK
We've seen some ugly positions on the spirals so far tonight, but this one takes the cake.

V.O. SANDRA
Oh I disagree... I think it's lovely. The choreography...

V.O. DICK
Ugh. Wake me up when the Cold War starts.

V.O. TOM
(under his breath)
Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning, champ?

V.O. DICK
I'm serious. If your name isn't Irina or Sasha, this is a waste of my time.

SKATER #3 nails a triple toe loop. The audience goes wild.

V.O. DICK
Blah blah blah. It's the kind of skating we all like to do on a Sunday afternoon at the neighborhood ice rink. Been there.

V.O. TOM
Well that was SKATER #3 from Japan, skating a nearly flawless program tonight. What a rush.

V.O. DICK
But would it kill her to crack a smile? These Japanese skaters take themselves too seriously. It ruins it for me. Blah blah blah.

V.O. SCOTTY
SKATER #3 should be very very proud of herself tonight. What an accomplishment. She is definitely in line for a medal if she can maintain that level of quality in the long program on Thursday.

V.O. SANDRA
I saw her long program in practice. It's really really good.

V.O. TOM
Up next is SKATER #4 from Russia.

V.O. DICK
Finally. Some talent.

V.O. TOM
She is the favorite for the Gold at this Olympics and has come in with the national title, the World title, and she was also the Silver medalist at Salt Lake. This could be her year for Gold and if she wins it, Russia will dominate the sport here in Torino. Unprecedented.

V.O. SCOTTY
Tom, really the only wild card here is SKATER #5 from the USA -- she could be the only real obstacle standing between SKATER#4 and the Gold Medal.

V.O. DICK
That's what I'm talking about. Bring it.

SKATER #4 takes the ice.

V.O. DICK
What the hell is she wearing.

V.O. SANDRA
Pants. This is the first year that women are allowed to do that. Wear pants I mean.

V.O. SCOTTY
Good for her. It totally works for her body type and personality. It's a good look.

V.O. DICK
Sure. It's a great look if you're trying to look like a 13 year old sexually confused boy.

V.O. TOM
This should be a very exciting program. There is an extremely high level of difficulty to this program and SKATER #4 always puts on a good show.

V.O. SANDRA
And Russian Skaters like SKATER #4 are usually trained in classical ballet backgrounds. So you know her choreography will be spot on.

V.O. TOM
Here comes the first combination.... and

V.O. SCOTTY
TERRIFIC!

The audience is cheering.

V.O. SCOTTY
WOW! Did you see the power and height on that salchow?

V.O. DICK
I'm sure it was great. I'm still a bit distracted by the leisure suit she's wearing.

V.O. SANDRA
What a beautiful performance she is giving. She is really showing us her all with this program and the audience loves it. Will be hard to beat.

V.O. TOM
Her final footwork sequence is looking great... and she is saving the spin for last. Right after this planned double toe loop...

V.O. SCOTT
Oooo.. just the teeniest wobble on the landing, but almost unnoticeable. Still really great.

V.O. SANDRA
That's right Scotty. Still really great. She may lose half a point but no more than that.

V.O. DICK
Under the new scoring system, will she lose any points for wearing these stupid pants?

V.O. TOM
Dick.

V.O. DICK
Oh, I'm sorry... was that .... unkind?

V.O. SCOTTY
WOW! What a performance! It's a great night to be SKATER #4. This is where I get REALLY excited!

V.O. DICK
God help us.

V.O. SCOTT
(snapping his fingers)
SKATER #5 better get her game face on, because this is going to be a great showdown!!

V.O. DICK
I think he's about to blow. Stand back.

V.O. TOM
The marks for SKATER #4 are in.... and it looks like.... 66.5!!!

V.O. SANDRA
First place in a commanding lead!

V.O. SCOTT
Amazing! If I were SKATER #5 I'd be a bit nervous after that performance.

V.O. TOM
And speaking of SKATER #5, here she is now...

SKATER #5 arrives on the ice.

V.O. TOM
Another interesting story. You know we saw SKATER #5 at Salt Lake and she came in 10th pace. She changed coaches about 6 times in the last 4 years.

V.O. DICK
The John Kerry of the ice rink. Great drama.

V.O. TOM
The last four years have been all about getting ready for this Olympic Games... for this precise moment. It all comes down to this.

V.O. SANDRA
Oh I love this song choice. I watched her skate this program this week and it's strong.

V.O. SCOTT
I can barely breathe ...

V.O. SANDRA
She is off to a great start. Such strong choreography.

V.O. SCOTT
I'm serious. My heart feels like it's about to stop I'm so excited.

V.O. TOM
And the big combo here is supposed to be a triple salchow double flip -- very difficult -- if she makes this one she will get extra points from the judges. Let's see how she dos... here it comes.... and....

SKATER #5 nails the triple salchow and adds a triple flip. The audience is wild and on their feet in feverish and thunderous applause.

V.O. DICK
OK, that was kind of cool.

V.O. TOM
Amazing!

There is a thud on the microphone.

V.O. SANDRA
Uh.... guys.... I think Scotty passed out.

V.O. DICK
Pansy!

V.O. TOM
Un- KIND, Dick!!!
Somebody get some smelling salts over here, stat!

V.O. DICK
It's what I keep telling you guys. Ice skating has moved into the new millennium. It's not for sissies anymore.

V.O. TOM
Oh for shits sake, Dick. Take off your earpiece and help me move Scotty into the green room will you. Sandra -- hold down the fort -- we'll be back for final results.

There is silence on the air as SKATER #5 heads into her final combination.

V.O. SANDRA
(timidly)
Uh.... yeah.... it looks really good from here.

SKATER #5 ends her program on a very triumphant and strong spin. Thunderous applause.

V.O. SANDRA
That was beautiful choreography.

###

That's What Friends Are For: A Very Short Play

2006-02-20T19:10:00.000-08:00

SETTING:
A Japanese hibachi-style restaurant in southwest Florida. MARTHAWHO, MR. MARTHAWHO, MARTHAWHO's BROTHER IN LAW, MARTHAWHO's BEST FRIEND, BEST FRIEND'S HUSBAND and BEST FRIEND'S BROTHER IN LAW are seated at 6 of 24 filled seats around 2 center grills. The restaurant is noisy and it is hard to hear normal conversation.

MARTHAWHO is busy telling BEST FRIEND's BROTHER IN LAW about the latest antics of her two year old daughter.

MARTHAWHO:
... so she has been really feisty that week let me tell you. I mean, major meltdowns -- no, make that multiple major meltdowns every day. She's such a drama queen. She's cute and we love her, but let's just say she's definitely acting her age.

BEST FRIEND (knowingly):
Oh... you must be talking about your mother in law...

CURTAIN.

ps: S, I told you I'd get you into my blog...

The Lunch: Another Short Play

2006-02-17T12:21:00.000-08:00

SETTING: The scene is the lanai of MarthaWho's inlaws' condo in southwest Florida. It is midafternoon. We have just arrived back from the beach. It is a beautiful sunny day. The Lanai overlooks the 10th hole of the golf course. The breezy calm is shattered only by the occasional roar of a construction vehicle headed toward the tower being built next door. The family is tearing into a bag of Subway sandwiches as MarthaWho enters, a bit late, from putting LittleMe down for a nap.

MR. MARTHAWHO
Pass me that footlong veggie.

MARTHAWHO
Do you really need a footlong?

MR. MARTHAWHO
Yes.

MARTHAWHO
How do you know? I mean how do you know if you're hungry enough for a footlong, or if you'll just end up eating it because it's there in front of you?

MR. MARTHAWHO looks unconvinced.

MARTHAWHO
Here. Start with half, and I'll have the other half, and if you need the other six inches you can open the other one.

There is a break in the conversation as munching and crunching and drinking ensues.

MARTHAWHO's MOTHER IN LAW:
Mmmmm. We was hungry.

MARTHAWHO's FATHER IN LAW:
It's the beach. Everything tastes better after the beach.

Another pause.

FATHER IN LAW:
Yep... Nothing to do at the beach except sleep and eat.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Sleeeeep. I see another nap in my future at the pool after lunch.

MARTHAWHO's BROTHER IN LAW:
The pool. That's a good idea.

A truck with a pneumatic holedigger starts up outside the window. It is digging holes for palm trees to be planted around the new building. MIL is furious.

MOTHER IN LAW:
I hate these trucks. I just hate it.

FATHER IN LAW:
It is remarkable -- its like they wait until we are sitting down to eat --

MOTHER IN LAW:
-- or read --

FATHER IN LAW:
--or read -- and then they pull up and start in with the noise.

MOTHER IN LAW:
It's terrible. It's the only thing I hate about living here.

MARTHAWHO:
But it won't last forever... I mean, the buildings are almost done, right?

MOTHER IN LAW:
They're two years behind on this building. We thought the people would be all moved in by now.

MARTHAWHO:
It's the last building in the whole community, though, right? So it will all be over soon and you'll never have to deal with the large-scale construction again.

MOTHER IN LAW:
But I hate it. I just hate it.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Well that's what you get for buying a condo in a community that hadn't even been half developed yet. What did you expect?

MARTHAWHO:
This place sure looks alot different.

BROTHER IN LAW:
All you could see was the golf course.

MARTHAWHO:
And there was all that undeveloped land all around this building with a random little pond in the middle of it.

FATHER IN LAW:
The pond is still there.

MOTHER IN LAW:
It's still there. Over by the island, right honey?

FATHER IN LAW:
Yeah. They built the pond before they built the island. That's right.
I'll have the mango salsa.

MARTHAWHO pases the mango salsa to him.

MOTHER IN LAW:
Isn't that mango salsa delicious? It's from Costco. It's quite tasty isn't it? You know what it's good on?

MARTHAWHO:
Fish...?

MOTHER IN LAW:
Fish! But really it's good on everything.

More munching and crunching.

MARTHAWHO:
So, whatever happened to that lawsuit between the community and the developers?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Huh?

MOTHER IN LAW:
Oh that one was settled...

MR. MARTHAWHO:
What lawsuit...?

MARTHAWHO:
You know which lawsuit -- don't act like you don't remember.

FATHER IN LAW:
They settled for $1 million.

MOTHER IN LAW:
Basically the judge up in Sarasota -- you know, we had to get a judge up north because the developer has all of the local lawyers under contract if you can believe that -- the judge took one look at the complaint and told them they either had to settle or they would lose big in trial.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Wait -- what lawsuit?

MARTHAWHO:
I swear I'm going to sign you up for the "listening for comprehension" correspondence course.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Mmmmm. I think I'm going to have a mudslide.

MARTHAWHO:
You remember the lawsuit about the buildings not being up to code before they were turned over to the association?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Nope. I totally don' t remember that.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Mudsliiiiiiide....

MOTHER IN LAW:
Anyway, that's over and settled and there's still so many problems here. I want to take them all public and go on TV and get on Squawk Box and tell the world about this crappy developer. Honey, I think we're all out of Mudslide mix.... I'm sorry.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Bummer.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Why? What else is going on ?

FATHER IN LAW:
Well basically you know they didn't do the lakes right. They built them too deep.

MOTHER IN LAW:
Too steep.

FATHER IN LAW:
Right. Too deep and too steep. So they are essentially falling in on themselves. You walk around the golf course and you really notice it. Some people have lost up to 10 feet off their back yards.

MARTHAWHO:
Whoa. That's a lot.

FATHER IN LAW:
Yeah. So that's a problem.

MOTHER IN LAW:
And the fish are dying.

MARTHAWHO:
Huh?

FATHER IN LAW:
The fish in the ponds -- they are dying. See, the ponds are too deep and too steep and they are not getting enough oxygen in them so the fish are dying. That's a real problem.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Do people fish in the ponds?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Yeah -- I didn't know anyone fished here.

FATHER IN LAW:
No of course not -- nobody fishes here. It's a golf course.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Then why is no fish a problem?

FATHER IN LAW:
Well, you know -- because they jump up and down in the water and it's really neat.

MARTHAWHO:
Neat.

MOTHER IN LAW:
Everybody likes to see the fish jumping in the ponds while we play golf. It's really neat.

FATHER IN LAW:
Anyway, that's not the only problem. The people over in the far part of the community -- there are also some sewer problems. Some sewers are backing up and the developer will not take responsibility for that either. So we're trying to address that as well.

MOTHER IN LAW:
The crappy developer will not take responsibility because they said they bought the land, but not the sewer system. Which is ridiculous because there wasn't a sewer system here when they bought the land.

BROTHER IN LAW:
There wasn't anything here when they bought the land.

MOTHER IN LAW:
Right. Well anyways, the developer won't fix it, and the town won't fix it, so everyone is up in arms about this as well. It's quite costly to make these huge repairs to your sewer systems and it's just terrible that the developer won't fix this. It makes me so mad.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Hey I have an idea.

MARTHAWHO:
Yeah... sewer repairs are expensive.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Hey -- hey. I have an idea.

MOTHER IN LAW:
You know it just makes me mad beause you pay good money for your home here, and then you pay all this money to be a member of the golf club, and then there are monthly association fees and other assessments. Well... you just expect things to be a certain way, and it really is the developer's fault that so many problems haven' t been fixed.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Doesn't anyone want to hear my idea?

MOTHER IN LAW:
Of course, honey. What's your idea?

MR. MARTHAWHO:
So I was thinking someone should make a solar-powered, robotic fish to put in all of your ponds. Then you can still have the jumping fish.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Wouldn't need to worry about oxygen then would you.

MOTHER IN LAW:
Oh! That's not funny.

MARTHAWHO:
Well, it's kind of funny.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
C'mon, Mom -- it's just funny that you think that not having jumping fish is a "real problem" in the community!

MOTHER IN LAW:
I didn't say it was the only problem! There are other more bigger problems.

FATHER IN LAW:
That's true.

MOTHER IN LAW:
There's a really big problem at the club house right now. You know that room we ate dinner in last night? Well, there's that wall between the big room and the smaller room with the fireplace. That wall needs to come down.

Silence.

MOTHER IN LAW:
I'm serious -- it's a very serious problem. We cannot have big events at the club house because the main room is not big enough. Some people always have to sit in that smaller back room.

FATHER IN LAW:
It's terrible -- the plan was flawed from the beginning.

MOTHER IN LAW:
And the ladies locker room? There is this big wall that faces the marina -- it could be a gorgeous view. But it's covered with lockers. An entire wall full of expensive cherry wood lockers. Nobody here uses a locker. We all live within walking distance of the clubhouse -- why would we need a locker? What a waste.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
Mom! That is not a "real problem"...!

MARTHAWHO:
Maybe we could take all of the lockers and throw them into the ponds....

BROTHER IN LAW:
.... and build retaining walls in the ponds...

MR. MARTHAWHO:
And make little houses for my robotic fish to live in.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Eventually the cherry wood would break down and create nutrients and maybe real fish could come back.

MARTHAWHO:
Beautiful.

MOTHER IN LAW:
You guys. Stop. Listen. I know it sounds petty but it's not...

MR. MARTHAWHO:
I didn't say it sounded petty --- I just question your priorities.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Yeah... like should I repair the broken sewers, or should I take down a wall in the locker room?

MOTHER IN LAW:
Listen! You get to be a certain... well listen. We're retired now. We pay a lot of money to live here, and now we're accustomed to things being a certain way. It's very frustrating when they are not.

A cement truck pulls up under the lanai and the mixer roars to life. MARTHAWHO's MOTHER IN LAW gets up and leaves the room.

FATHER IN LAW:
It is remarkable. It's like that truck knew we were out here having lunch and some guy said "hey, drive over to the last condo on the let and start up the mixer..."

The cement truck starts honking it's horn. Everyone quietly chuckles.

MOTHER IN LAW (from the kitchen):
Anyone want ice cream?

MARTHAWHO:
Hell yeah.

FATHER IN LAW:
I don't want you to eat alone.

MR. MARTHAWHO:
What kind of ice cream?

MARTHAWHO:
I think there is some light flavor. And maybe some ice cream on a stick.

BROTHER IN LAW:
Oooo. Ice cream on a stick. I like it. I might have some ice cream on a stick.

MARTHAWHO's MOTHER IN LAW leaves to make a phone call. MARTHAWHO clears the table, and goes to get the ice cream for everyone. BROTHER IN LAW comes into the kitchen to help.

MARTHAWHO (from inside the freezer door):
What do you think, Bro... want me to grab you a frosty treat?

BROTHER IN LAW:
Yes, if by "frosty treat" you mean "Mudslide"

MARTHAWHO and BROTHER IN LAW bring the ice cream back to the lanai. As MARTHAWHO leans over to give an ice cream bar to MR. MARTHAWHO she notices the extra unopened footlong veggie sub.

MARTHAWHO (picking up the sandwich to put in the fridge):
Did you have enough to eat?

MR. MARTHAWHO nods at MARTHAWHO and smiles as the cement truck starts up again and rumbles away toward the other side of the development.

What Not to Wear

2006-02-15T18:43:00.000-08:00

On Monday we bought Mr. MarthaWho a really delicious Brooks Brother suit. Black, three button, straight leg flat front trousers. Why the heck, you might wonder, why we were buying a dark suit in the middle of Southwest Florida while on vacation?

Mr. MarthaWho had been invited to speak at a conference in Vegas on Wednesday which he had accepted even though it would interrupt our vacation. It wasn't until we arrived in Florida that Mr. MarthaWho revealed that he did not pack a suit or accessories for this little side trip to Vegas. You read that right -- not that he FORGOT to pack the business attire, but that he CHOSE NOT TO.

Mr. MarthaWho is not what you'd call a metrosexual... he could use a little queer eye -- just a smidge -- to help smooth the rough edges. His sometimes obtuse style choices aside, the bigger issue is that he just doesn't care enough about fashion to be bothered. He had planned to borrow everything -- shoes, socks, belt, suit, everything -- by cobbling together an outfit from his Dad in Florida and his brother in Vegas, who have 20 pounds and 6 inches on Mr. MW, respectively.

I mean, really. Can you imagine?

Mr. MW and I used to work at the same performing arts center in our nations capital a thousand years ago. I remember one day at lunch I spilled a huge spoonful of chili on my white blouse. Which would have been annoying on any good day, but was particularly catastrophic this day because I had a huge event with big donors that evening. Needless to say I was freakin out. I was running through the possibilities in my mind -- trying to rinse it out (probably wouldn't work -- this was a huge stain), trying to run out and buy a new shirt (no time -- a million things to do before the event began).

Mr. MW did not think this was a big deal at all and as he calmly kept eating his lunch, he rattled off what he considered to be the best and only options.

The first was that I would turn the shirt inside out.

The second was that I ask to swap my blouse with one of my coworkers who was not working the event.

This conversation escalated into one of the first and most memorable arguments in our relationship. I was frustrated by his apparent lack of sensitivity or compassion to what was an obviously horrific disaster. He was frustrated that I wouldn't lighten up enough to accept that which I could not change and take one of his two perfect solutions. It became the argument against which all subsequent arguments were measured. A decade or more later now, the "Chili Stain Incident" is still part of our familial folklore.

Of course over time relationships evolve. Before you know it, you have accepted things about your partner that once seemed like true deal breakers. And in the process you also learn to change things about yourself, to meet half way, to compromise, to give and take. I guess that's what love is about. I have tried to be less incensed by Mr. MW's crazy suggestions and his lack of fashion consciousness. Mr. MW knows now that, unless you carry an extra clean shirt around with you, sometimes you can't solve a problem and it's better to offer a sympathetic ear instead.

And somehow it all works out.

But sometimes there is an easy solution to a problem. Which brings us back to the Brooks Brother Suit Incident. By the time Mr. MW was speaking in Vegas the only borrowed items were a shirt from Dad and some black shoes from his Bro. And as much as he grumped about spending the money on a suit, he kind of felt like the man in it and talked about it all day.

Sometimes you have to step in and save someone from themselves.

Thankfully, Mr. MW does that for me every day.

ps: I wore a black blazer over my white blouse -- all the way buttoned up. It was July and I looked like an idiot. But nobody ever knew about the Chili.

Now THAT'S What I call Intelligent Design!

2006-02-09T13:29:00.000-08:00

I just have been having a huge chuckle over these creation cartoons anaglyph is working up over at the tetherd cow, and thought I'd send some props on over.

Enjoy, y'all.

-M-Dub

Dances with Wolves

2006-02-09T10:54:00.000-08:00

This morning, while having some Cheerio's with Mr. MarthaWho and LittleMe, I glanced over my right shoulder and saw something shiny passing through the back yard. Once my pre-caffeinated synapses caught up with my eyes I realized that I had just seen a CAR sailing past my dining room window. And though it was but a second, I also saw enough to know there was a little girl in the passenger seat. Holy shit.

There was no sound -- nothing out of the ordinary. No horns, no screeching tires, nothing to alert us that a motor vehicle was about to careen off of the main road, bypass our driveway, crash through our fence and start flying through the play yard heading straight for the icy river. With LittleMe safely ensconced in her booster seat chewing on a bagel, I screamed for Mr. MW to put his parka on and go out to help, while I called 911. Now, in October we switched from Verizon to a local VoIP carrier and there is no 911 service on VoIP. I remember thinking at the time that this was OK, but man it's SO not. Thankfully we have 2 other land lines in the house for work. By the time I got to 911, I was told a police cruiser was already on the way. Didn't think much of it at the time.

While I was on the phone with police dispatch, I ran to the back of the house and looked out the window. Thankfully the driver and his daughter were out of the car, and I was relieved to note that they had not made it all the way to the river. In fact there were enough objects in the yard that the car was able to be stopped. The only casualties other than his 1984 T-bird were the fence screening in our play area, LittleMe's swingset, and Mr. MarthaWho's new snowblower. It was rush hour, and we happen to live at the exact intersection of two of the main thoroughfares in Portland. The car had apparently lost complete brake function at the top of the hill near our house and he only had a moment to decide what he was going to do. He threw the car in park and pulled the emergency brake, and aimed for our front yard... it was the right thing to do. Had he gone straight into the intersection, he certainly would have been broadsided by an unsuspecting stiff heading to work. That little girl would be in a serious world of hurt if she had survived at all.

As it turned out, they had been to our house before -- the little girl was friends with the little girl that had lived here before we moved here last July. I assume then that maybe they knew there was the fenced in side yard they could use to buffer themselves from the river. Either way they are very very lucky.

The police came, the car was towed, the guys wife came to pick them up and we all made our goodbyes. At that point LittleMe was 1/2 hour late for school so I quickly showered and while I was bundling her up to get into the car I remarked to my husband how odd it was that nobody else pulled over to help. What if we hadn't been home after all? What if the car had made it all the way to the river? Didn't anyone see this happen? It was at the height of rush hour.

When I walked into the school, the director looked at me and said "hey -- you've had an exciting morning haven't you?" I assumed Mr. MW had called in to let them know we were on the way but when I indicated as much, she let me know that Hunter's mommy, the mother of one of my daughter's classmates had been the car directly behind the 1984 T-Bird and had seen the whole thing on the way to bring Hunter to school. She, in fact, had been the one who called 911, thinking there was nothing else she could do with her own toddler in the back seat, as she headed in to school.

Ten years ago, my first boss recommended a book to me. I wish I could remember the title but I cannot -- it was a compilation of stories related by people who had had near-death experiences. Mostly stories of people drifting between life and death after injuries, while recovering from a serious illness, or during life-threatening surgical procedures -- people who saw dead relatives, or other "ghosts" who then came back to life with these tales from some "other side"... the upshot of this book was that the authors believe that all living beings are just fields of energy without beginning or end -- that although the mortal body may eventually die, the energy continues on until the next incarnation. The book takes this reincarnation stuff to the next level by asserting that these energy masses, or souls, are connected permanently to other souls in the larger universe. Like all souls are grouped together and travel through time and the universe in packs, like wolves. And that the purpose of our mortal time on earth is to find and connect with the other souls from our pack. Every time one is reincarnated then, from the moment of "birth" one is searching for the rest of the souls from the pack.

There are degrees of relational intensity - some souls are so closely tied together that the contact in the mortal world must be very very significant. In one "life" it may be that two of these connected souls are a married couple. In another "life" it may be that they are parent and child. In yet another life it may be a man and his dog. Or a bee and a honeysuckle bush.

And on the same line of reasoning, there are souls that are from the same pack, but not necessarily meant to be deeply connected forever and ever. I remember one example from the book being when you are at a party or a soccer game or a rock concert and your eyes lock with someone "familiar" - there is an instant attraction - not on a physical/sexual plane but just on a plane that says you recognize each other from some other place or time. More often than not you do not approach this stranger or engage him in conversation. It's just a fleeting glance, a shared moment of enlightenment, and usually quickly catalogued and forgotten. The authors of this book would contend that these two strangers are in the same "pack" -- and that this one brief look at one another is enough for the soul to reconnect.

And so life would then become just one long (or short depending on the circumstances) quest to reconnect with everyone from the pack. Once everyone has been accounted for you can "die" and start over.

Anyway, it's a weird book, and at the time I largely chalked it up to new agey hooey and never quite looked at my boss the same way again.

But I do think about it from time to time, even ten years later. Especially on days like today -- maybe this morning was a little reunions of some of the souls in my pack. One car accident connected a scared dad and his daughter, the former owners of my house, Hunter's mommy, and my family in a brief but dramatic experience. There are even the supporting players -- the person who sold us the snowblower last month -- the snowblower that stopped the car from going in to the river.

The same people keep popping up over and over again in random ways. It may just be a series of small-world coincidences but it does seem like there are occasional glimpses of order in the universe.

The First Rule of Fight Club is: You Do Not Talk about Fight Club...

2006-02-05T16:26:00.000-08:00

Last night I got my first taste of the madness known as Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC). Let me back up...

Mr. MarthaWho and I just returned from a lovely getaway to a ski haus up North. The cozy A-Frame is owned by my high school best friends' husband's boss and he graciously lets them use it every year for a ski weekend. This year there were a dozen people including us. A dozen people from a dizzying array of occupations and ages and personalities. A dozen people of all ski-proficiency levels. A dozen people sharing one bathroom. Somehow it all worked out -- it's a beautiful thing when a group of strangers can get together and find common ground for a moment in time, and have a great time in the process.

The secret of course to keeping a dozen people in harmony for 48 hours is to let everyone go where the wind blows them. Saturday was one of those days -- one couple went to scout real estate in the area, one lone snowboarder headed up to the mountain, four people decided to stretch their quads on a cross country trail, the couple with the adorable three month old baby took a drive and ran to the grocery store, and my friend and I spent the day at the haus working on our scrapbooks and making dinner for the evening. We shared all of our respective tales from our adventures when we all reconvened for dinner -- even our beverages showed our different personal preferences as the beer, wine, whiskey, coconut rum, and smirnoff ice was a-flowing, and the apres ski scene was off to a kicking start.

I had known for a while that Saturday evening's itinerary was to include watching a fight on TV. There had been some drama and excitement about bringing satellite receivers and Tivo boxes from home and not knowing if they would work at someone else's house, much less on a TV that looked to be circa 1960. (for the record, it does work).

MarthaWho as it turns out, has a checkered history as a boxing fan. I'll spare the details since they are largely irrelevant to this story, and because I'm sure it is shockingly incongruous to the scrapbooking diva chef rep I've worked to attain in the last decade of my life. But suffice it to say, there was a time I felt the blood and sweat and heat of a match or two from a really good set of golden ringside seats. I had assumed this would be an HBO-style old school Boxing match. I was up for it.

As the pre-game festivites kicked off, I learned how wrong I was. This was not boxing - this was UFC fighting. The best consensus description of UFC was that it was a combination of wrestling, boxing, and street fighting, with a heavy emphasis on martial arts. I should pause here and say that my friend's husband is a smart, gentle guy with a recent black belt in (I think) Kempo, now tearing up the ranks in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu as well. A few of the other guys at the haus were also at various levels of training in one, both, or other martial arts disciplines. I have to say it's an impressive group, and I have a high regard for martial arts training in general. So back to our indoor tailgate party.... it was centered around a years' worth of Tivo'd matches which our gracious host sped through and recapped in fast motion, stopping to re-play highlight matches from 2004 and 2005 to set the stage for the big event.

With the glaring exception of one match which even the guys in the room admitted was the "best ground fight of 2005" (it was a marvelous pas de deux between two very skilled martial arts warriors), the rest of the matches left me with my jaw on the floor. Shattering my context of the comfortably American boxing rules and setting, UFC is played out in "THE OCTAGON" which is a 8-sided ring surround on all sides not by forgiving rope, but by solid chain link fence. There are not very many rules and the ones that do exist are ambiguous-- you can't kick a guy when he's down (although, if you're the guy who's down, you are allowed to kick up at the other guy), you can't use your hands/fingers to grip the chain link for leverage (but you are allowed to use your feet/toes), and you can't kick the opponent in the groin (although apparently this is a recent development, as everyone in the room could remember a time when UFC was full of groin-kickin escapades).

As the evening wore on, and the live event began (which was FORTY DOLLARS on Pay Per View by the way... I could PPV Cinderella Man 11 times for that price to whet my mano a mano appetite. Jesus) I witnessed what a UFC fighter is allowed to do. Here are some highlights:

The UFC fighter can sauna, take a laxative, puke, fast, whatever, to drop weight before the weigh in, and then take extraordinary measures to gain all of the weight back before the match. There was a fighter last night that gained 30 freakin' pounds between the weigh in and the match.WTF??? That's like another weight class entirely.
The UFC fighter can (and in fact is encouraged) to repeatedly punch the opponent in the head. There was more cauliflower in the OCTAGON than in the produce section at the supermarket.
When a wound is opened and blood is gushing, the UFC fighter is encouraged to continue punching the opponent -- preferably on the open wound itself, to make the bleeding worse.
The UFC fighter can strangle the opponent until the opponent blacks out.
The UFC fighter can lift the opponent and drop him on his head.
The UFC fighter can straddle his opponent and use any part of him as a punching bag (except the groin of course). I think this is called the "Pound and Ground"...
The UFC victor is apparently encouraged to perform his own special "touchdown-esque" victory dance mocking his opponent.

Where was the beautiful, centered, wax-on wax-off Martial Arts influence?? Where was the sportsmanlike conduct?? Where were the gentleman-ly rules?? Where was the referee or physician, or corner jockey who would stop a fight to close a wound or perform CPR?? The UFC fighters are nearly naked (just trunks and short thin fingerless gloves to protect their knuckles - no shoes, no headgear). This clothing-less status creates a very... slippery environment once the blood and sweat starts flowing, which is usually in the first 60 seconds. I watched in horror as Fighters in mid-card matches were forced to roll around in the blood of the previous fights. The guys in the room said that's because all the fighters are tested for HIV and other blood-bourne diseases, but I saw the two layers of gloves on every referee.

The near-nudity and sold-out Vegas spotlight location are about the only two things separating UFC fighting from your run of the mill street fighting. Most of the undercard fighters looked like frat boy thugs. There was nothing elegant or appealing about the spectacle whatsoever. I couldn't even look at the TV during a few of the matches when catastrophic injuries were ignored (my favorite was one guy who said to his trainer -- I can't see out of my left eye -- but the fight continued anyway until his head was an bloody stump and the winner was squawking his chicken dance above him...)

Even in the bloodiest of the boxing matches (reputable non Mike Tyson boxing matches), cuts are cleaned up, referees stop fights for mortal injuries, and victors are usually respectful of the loser. I was stunned that the articulate, bright, gregarious, and accomplished serious martial arts students in the room were so into this carnage. Their answers were surprising -- there was a prevailing sense in the room that most of these fighters are from humble backgrounds, lacking money and education, and do not have any other options in their lives than to fight in these matches... that this rise above meager surroundings was inspirational. I'm not sure I agree, and while I think this sentiment was perpetuated by a Spike TV reality series on the UFC, I can certainly respect the sentiment -- though I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me feel a bit sorry for the young thugs in the undercard matches -- they are literally risking their lives for 15 seconds of Spike TV fame. And what future? The guys indicated that UFC fighting is only recognized by the athletic commissions of a handful of states. It's apparently quite huge over in Japan (where there are even fewer rules).

It also could be the fact that it was a PPV event -- to be fair, perhaps the non-PPV, or the non-televised events are more sophisticated. There must be a producer who pulls the strings to make sure there is blood and gore and mutilation to appease us working stiffs who are paying $40 to watch. Gotta give us our money's worth. It's sad to imagine that this is what America is craving right now.

It's funny, because I can kind of see the potential of what this UFC stuff could be -- if it were truly as the guys describe it -- like the one really good 2005 match they showed us. Something very heavy on the martial arts front, between two mature fighters who show a sportsmanly concern for each other's well being after they deliver a righteous rocking.

I would offer the following suggestions to the UFC commison, Spike TV and any other person or party involved in bringing this unneeded violence to America's youth (and the thirtysomething scene as well):

More martial arts artistry and less thug fighting.
More referee intervention when medical attention is obviously needed.
A modified Zamboni with a 100 degree Lysol power spray between matches.

Maybe then I'll reconsider my fan-hood.

For now I'll stick with scrapbooking.

*it was a great weekend! thanks, Mr. and Mrs. B (and Mr. B's boss)!

Haiku, take 2

2006-02-02T13:14:00.000-08:00

behold! what treasure -
my Lucky Spinster decal
arrived in the mail.

I didn't think I was really going to get a prize! Thanks, Callie!

Warning! Contents under pressure.

2006-02-02T12:33:00.000-08:00

Mr. MarthaWho has been whoring for the man on the left coast this week and I've been flying solo with the rugrat for 5 days.

Most Valuable Lessons Learned:

1. On a day when you're struggling to put a well-balanced kid-friendly meal quickly on the table, ketchup counts as a vegetable.

2. M&M's candies are a a highly sucessful potty-training bribe. As long as she has an M&M in each hand, LittleMe will sit on the potty singing for 20 minutes and actually pee while she's at it. I know food+potty=gross, but don't judge until you've been there. 'Sall I'm sayin.

3. If you accidentally forget to buckle your child into the car seat, it is possible that she'll survive all the way to school without climbing out or spontaneously combusting. (It will however terrify you when you open the door and realize what you've done...)

4. Just when you think your ears are going to bleed from listening to "You Are My Sunshine" for the 1000th time in the car, your child may surprise you by requesting a Santana CD instead. (as in... "more Carlos Sampama. Please.")

5. 23-month old children don't give a damn about watching the State of the Union address.

23-month old children are smart.

He Didn't Go to Business School for Nothin.

2006-01-28T12:03:00.000-08:00

Today was a day of much celebrating in the MarthaWho household. Today, we dined at the Olive Garden.

Why the jubilation? you might ask. Why would a family of serious foodies celebrate a totally blandified, pseudo Italian, tackily decorated, mass-marketed pop-up dining establishment like the Olive Garden? To which I would respond, GOOD QUESTION.

I could whip up a long answer about the constraints of dining with a feisty two year old, or the pre-menstrual siren-like lure of all-you-can-eat breadsticks. But the real reason we are celebrating our visit to the OG is simply because we actually got in.

In city with a freakishly high ratio of phenomenal restaurants to year-round residents, the wild success of the Olive Garden has been somewhat of a mystery to us. The parking lot is always filled to overflowing, and the line outside the door, in any iteration of Maine weather, resembles an LA red carpet premiere. Certainly the masses knew something we did not about the treasures awaiting beyond the grapevine-encrusted threshhold. Having never been to an Olive Garden, our interest was piqued. We knew we needed to see for ourselves.

Alas, our repeated attempts to dine at the OG were denied. Snotty teenage hostesses with delusions of Sardi's grandeur offered us hour-plus waits or a takeout menu and reminded us of the merits of "call-ahead seating" as they shooed us past the throngs of patiently waiting pasta-lovers on our way to the parking lot. Our disastrous failure to dine at the Olive Garden during our first 6 months as Maine residents breeded a near-obsession with actually accomplishing this dubious goal. Nonetheless, we never made it past the hostess. Until today.

I wish I could say that our entrees were surprisingly innovative or delectable, but I'm afraid I can only say what I'm sure you already know to be true -- that they were just... fine. The service, while not smashing, was certainly... adequate. The entire experience was pleasant enough, but nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing we'd ever wait sixty, or even sixteen, minutes for under any circumstance. Our insatiable curiousity had been quelled. The beast was at rest.

But why the wild success?

Mr. MarthaWho, over his parmesan encrusted tilapia, made a compelling case that the Olive Garden is a business that simply knows its constituency. That they've done a damn fine job of researching and understanding their market. He pointed out, among other things, the double size portions, the "bottomless" salad and breadsticks, and -- perhaps most appallingly -- the fact that our well-padded, indestructible wooden rolling chairs were about 1.5 times the size of a normal restaurant chair. In a time where 60% of Americans are battling obesity, the Olive Garden has made it OK to come out and eat an oversize (bottomless, even!) portion, in an oversize chair built to withstand the weight of the Eiffel Tower, while teenage servers gleefully shred cheese on anything not nailed down. The fact that the OG succeeds as a PASTA joint in this carb-wary Atkins-obsessed era is also seemingly worthy of admiration.

Mr. MarthaWho makes a good point. Perhaps the marketing strategy behind this gluttonous fantasyworld is the Olive Garden's biggest success story of them all.

Now, can anyone explan WTF "call-ahead seating" is???

Blessed Art Thou Among Women!

2006-01-25T11:33:00.000-08:00

Three cheers to Jenn over at Yo Ambro! for answering the Meme call. Y'all are good sports.

Something on Jenn's list really hit home...

From Jenn's list:

"...6. I'm not a religious person, but when I'm feeling nervous about something, I will often say the Our Father and/or the Hail Mary over and over to myself to calm myself down.
..."

I do the SAME THING. And I end up having to bust my own repressed Catholic chops every time. For me it's all about the Hail Mary. EVERY TIME I am on a plane (which is often for work) I have to say three Hail Marys in a row as the plane is leaving the ground. I do it almost against my own will and then immediately psychoanalyze the act for ten minutes. Or at least until the drink cart rolls my way.

Why the Hail Mary? I have no idea. But it does make me feel better every time.

While I feel like a dork for participating in and sharing the Meme love, I have to say I have learned a lot about people, and I've been reassured as well that we all share many of the same idiosyncratic tendencies. Makes me feel a bit more human.

Mercury and Me

2006-01-25T06:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, in the USAirways terminal at LaGuardia, on an interminably long delay between legs of a business trip flight, I purchased a book called "Marley and Me" and sat down to kill some time. I had seen the author, Josh Grogan, in a quick TV interview last week, and although I was only half listening, the subject matter (pet dog) was interesting, and I gathered that the book was becoming somewhat of a cultural phenomenon, as it rapidly tore up the bestseller lists, unseating the Joan Didions and Sue Graftons and Clive Cusslers along the way. ( a quick check shows that Marley is now second only to some memoir written by Laci Peterson's mother -- a quick pulse-check on issues that are most sacred to literate Americans -- grisly homicides and treasured pets).

Anyone, anywhere who has loved and lost a pet, should read this gem. It's no spoiler to know what the press already announces -- that the book is a memoir of a dog's life. The author recounts the 14 years of Marley's life, from the moment he leaps into their lives, until he quietly crosses the rainbow bridge to that big doggie park in the sky, and of course everything in between... managing to both entertain and touch an enormous heartstring, while capturing the essence of life with a Labrador Retriever.

Back at LaGuardia, perhaps the only person in a business suit sobbing like a red-headed stepchild for two hours, I devoured Marley's adventures, and reflected on the impact that pets have had in my own life.

I came home to my cozy snow-covered house late last evening, and as Mr. MarthaWho was busy putting our daughter to bed, my Lab Mercury was my welcome wagon. I sobbed all over again, as I let him jump all over my suit, my laptop, and tear apart my purse... Mercury is a youngster... barring any unforeseen tragedies or illnesses, I have at least 5 or even up to 10 more slobber-ful years with my loyal companion, but last night after reading this book, I was somehow already mourning the death of my bestest boy.

Surely by the weekend he'll be back to his second-class citizenship status, but last night he slept at the foot of our bed and there were a few extra cookies in his bowl when he woke up.

Mr. Grogan, Mercury and Me thank you.

Somewhere in Samoa, A Native Rejoices.

2006-01-23T10:51:00.000-08:00

I could always tell it was March when we lived in Boston. Fresh mangos returned to the Haymarket. The chess players returned to Au Bon Pain. The EuroWannabeHipsterFreshmen took their lattes onto the Harvard greens.

And, perhaps most importantly, the return of the Girl Scout Cookies. For the last 5 years I have purchased Girl Scout Cookies in the bowels of the MBTA transit system. Dark transactions in seedy corners, handing crumpled bills to middle aged women surrounded by boxes. Usually nary an actual Scout in sight. I marveled at how far the Girl Scouts had come... building a vast cookie empire without the involvment of any Girl Scouts whatsoever. It now appeared as though the Girl Scouts had successfully abandoned the door to door cookie canvassing in favor of around the clock subway station kiosks, staffed by moms and troop leaders. A brilliant strategy, perhaps conceived by the little brownies themselves... I liked to imagine that somewhere in Brookline, a 9 year old was on her cell phone at Starbucks, earning a scout Badge while her mom hawked TagAlongs in the Big Dig. Now that's progress!

In Maine, confidence in humanity was briefly restored this weekend when an actual, bonafide, sash-wearing, beanie-sporting, REAL LIVE Girl Scout knocked on my door with a cookie order form.

Brilliant!

Not only could I be motivated by seeing what my neighbors had already signed up for ("oh.... Mrs. Henderson ordered 4 boxes? Well, Mr. MarthaWho and I will take 7!"), but I could pore over the full color photographs of the delectable treats. The instant gratification of the dank subway impulse buy pales in comparison to the simple art of the traveling salesman. And what better marketing gimmick is there than an adorable 9 year old kid with a toothy smile and a long order form?

Another note about progress... Of course Mr. MarthaWho and I ordered up on our favorites -- we really love Thin Mints. But everyone who's everyone knows that The Cookie Formerly Known as Samoa is the best.

Thankfully someone at Scouting Central realized how culturally insensitive this cookie was and changed the name to Caramel Delites a few years back. Now if someone could just DO something about the pricks behind Hawaiian Punch and Brazilian bikini waxes, I think we all agree the world would be a better place.

Holly GoDarkly

2006-01-20T17:31:00.000-08:00

I just finished Truman Capote's recently discovered last (first!) novel, Summer Crossing, and thought it was heartbreakingly wonderful in that Breakfast at at Tiffany's kind of way, except darker and more hopeless. I had to read the last page 5 times to make sure I understood what happened, and that I understood it was the end of the story and that there wouldn' t be any more pages coming after it.

I definitely hopped on the bandwagon in 2005 and had a Capote-assaince of my own. There are worse things to admit to, I suppose.

I'm now finally making my way through this David Sedaris book and thoroughly enjoying it as I have every other time I've tried to pick it up. I 'm not sure why I can't even just read it cover to cover...?

Next on my reading list is The March by E.L. Doctorow. My other half is 50 pages from the end. I'm literally starting at him waiting for him to finish. Ahh such is the excitement on a winter Friday night in the burbs. Glad I have a laptop and a new remote-control operated fireplace to kick back in front of. Nothing like the click of a button and the roar of a propane generated flame to get the party started.

The Baby Gourmet: An Extremely Short Play

2006-01-20T16:52:00.000-08:00

SETTING: The pre-dawn darkness of MarthaWho's home. MarthaWho is sleeping in the Master Bedroom. Marthawho's 21 month old daughter is sleeping in her own room in her crib. The time is roughly 4:30AM.

DAUGHTER

(breaking the stillness via the baby monitor in MarthaWho's room):

Ma-ma!

Maaa-ma!

Polenta.

I want Polenta!

PLEASE!

Please.

CURTAIN.

p.s. I think my daughter has had polenta once. Months ago.

Martha Who? Me! Me! Meme, that's Who!

2006-01-20T15:20:00.000-08:00

What the hell is a meme? I had no idea until Kristen over at Cookie Crumbles gave me the tag. I don't recall ever responding to one of these via e-mail but it is a new year after all. Though I'm totally challenged to find ten things that nobody knows about me... here is the college try:

Ten Things You Never Knew About Me

1. I saw the New Kids on the Block live in concert. Twice. When I was old enough to know better.

2. In 6th grade I deliberately misspelled a word in a county spelling bee in jr high school so that I could avoid the pressures of advancing the State spelling bee. It had been 60 minutes in gridlocked final spell off with an intimidating 8th grader from another district (oh where are ye now Scott Chelidona?), and I couldn't take it anymore. The word I took the fall on? "Trove" (which I spelled as "Trough" which caused a brief controversy when the judges thought I had misheard the bee-master and wanted to give me another word. I had to remind them I asked for a sentence and a definition. It nearly blew up in my face). I felt a bit idiotic. But that sense of relief in the car on the way home... well it's a euphoria I will remember forever. I misspelled words on purpose in the 7th ("Proponent") and 8th grade ("Parallel") school spelling bees so that I'd never have to advance beyond school, district, or county again.

3. I had never eaten (or heard of) tortilla chips and salsa until I went to college. I grew up in rural Maine in the 80's. Dorito's were ethnic food.

4. I once interviewed the band, Collective Soul, when I was a DJ on my college radio station. I found out about the interview 15 minutes before they showed up. I had never heard of Collective Soul. I was DJ-ing a jazz program.

5. A roommate and I used to house-sit for a DC family with an enormous and lovely house in NorthWest and a menagerie of pets. On separate occasions, the following happened: all of the fish in their tank died. Their Golden Retriever had a stroke. We got locked out of the house and had to call a locksmith. The hamster died. The dog broke his front leg while on a very gentle walk in the park. We started a small fire in the kitchen. There was an intruder on the lawn and we had to call the police. And on the last time I house sat alone while mom and the kids were visiting family in France, dad came home from his "business trip" and slept in the basement while I was upstairs living in his house. I think there was a "le divorce" soon after that. We never saw them again.

6. I am about to embark on a massive re-write of a musical version of The Scarlet Letter (stay tuned...)

7. In 2002 I lost 30+ pounds after visiting a vegetarian health spa that literally changed my life. The following year, when I was 9+ months pregnant with my daughter, I never hit that 2002 pre-spa weight.

8. I have a chronic and legendary problem with losing my house keys. This condition peaked in the 90's when I was living with my best roommate in Washington DC. Perhaps the subject of another post entirely, those madcap years were full of broken doorknobs, angry landlords, midnight scalings of three story buildings to reach unlocked windows... My roommate bought, as a joke, an incredibly cool key holder made out of an old door, with an antique doorknob in the middle of it. Ten years later it is still in my life, the only thing separating me from a long term contract with a locksmith.

9. I will do nearly anything, and at almost any physiological cost, to keep from vomiting. I will suffer for hours, days, "willing" the nausea away rather than take the instant (and probably better) relief of actually expelling the badness. I also almost never take any medications, and have a pain threshhold higher than most people I know.

10. Even in the age of Tivo, I still don't answer the phone on Thursday evenings when Survivor is on. Sad, but true.

OK. So I think the deal is I'm supposed to "tag" 5 new people. I'm not sure I have deep personal relationships with very many other bloggers ... so there will be some familiar faces and some long shots. Pony up friends -- be a team player!

1. My favorite Bourgeois Deviant (do it for bananas)
2. Mr. CheckyPantz (love your show, babe)
3. Yo Ambro! (it's about time I start linking to your blog anyway! :-)
4. LuckySpinster (maybe I'll send YOU a bumper sticker...)
5. El Guapo (Dios mio! if you haven't read this guys' blog, you must start...)

Let the wild rumpus begin.

Haiku, por vous

2006-01-19T11:39:00.000-08:00

Oh my stars...

I didn't win, but it truly was an honor for my Best Buy Hate Haiku to be honorably mentioned by the great Spinster.

Thanks for the bumper sticker and the creative outlet.

I mean like, you know
Serious Haiku Poets
Crave outlets like these.

Art Imitating Life?

2006-01-10T10:47:00.000-08:00

I rather spontaneously auditioned to be in the ensemble for a local production of Ragtime last week and have just been invited to a callback this weekend for this part.

I sincerely hope that anyone who knew me prior to 1996 will see the irony, ...or at least smile.

Letter from my Daughter to: Home Depot

2006-01-10T10:00:00.000-08:00

the third in a random series...

Dear Home Depot,

For as long as I can remember -- and I'm almost two, so that's a loooong time -- I have loved shopping at your store. Thank golly god that we have always lived within a 5 minutes drive of one of your mega home supply stores. At least once a week I beg my parents to take me to your store, crying, "Home Depot? Deeeeee-Poh? Deeeeeeeeee-Poh? Pleeeeeeze?" until they drive me there -- there, where I can run freely up and down your wide aisles, hiding my face in the big hanging rag rugs, staring in wonder at the forest of lumber, ten times higher than my self.

I can wistfully recall times spent with Mommy browsing paint chips for the 300 times she re-decorated my room. And Daddy and I, well we enjoy looking at the big guns - lawnmowers, snowblowers, and riding John Deere's we'll never have use for (but a girl can dream, can't she?). And then there were all the hundreds of times we popped in for a lightbulb, or an ant trap, or a battery, or a roll of packing tape.

Anyway, the point is, every time I've needed you, you've been there. Until now.

After the many years of our satisfying retail arrangement, the thousands of dollars spent, and the projects we've completed around the house, we decided to take the next step in our relationship -- hiring the Home Depot to install a new floor in our kitchen.

It took Mommy 5 months to convince Daddy that we could afford to replace the disgusting circa 1940 linoleum floor in our kitchen. And when we finally sold our old house, and were back to one mortgage again, Daddy gave his consent. Together and triumphant we made a family field trip to Home Depot and spent hours picking out the coolest slate-looking laminate. For $50, a nice man came out to our house a few days later and measured the kitchen. He also checked the floor to take a moisture reading -- because, as we learned, moisture is the enemy of laminate flooring. After a quick check, we had the all clear to order our floor. We did have to listen to that guy Pete talk for 2 hours about the installation process, but he did give us a 20% discount on the special order. We were feeling great, paid for everything and scheduled our installation for after the new year.

Last week your flooring subcontractor came out to install the floor. As he was starting to tear up the linoleum he remarked that he should have the whole room done in one day instead of two. We were wicked psych-ed. But an hour later, as more of the linoleum came up, he discovered a huge moisture problem under the floor. Unable to install the laminate, we had him rip up the rest of the hold floor (he was almost done anyway).

Now we're left with a room that looks more like an archaeological dig than a kitchen. All this because your measuring man did not report a moisture problem when he came out. And of course you have agreed to refund the installation labor, and some of the other ten hundred nickel and dime line items on the invoice (I mean, does it really cost $150 to slide the refrigerator out of the way as you work?), you will not allow us to return the floor unless we pay a 15% restocking fee. Of course the cost of the floor is where you were making your money anyway, so why would you let us out of that easily? Even if it was your mistake, and your fault now that I can no longer walk in our kitchen for a juice box and some goldfish unless I wear shoes to prevent splinters and nailheads from piercing my tender toddling tootsies.

On the upside, Mommy and Daddy really do like the floor we purchased. And we are planning on fixing our subfloor this month and hopefully we can still use the tiles. But you can rest assured we will not be coming back to you for the installation, nor will we be coming to you for our next few projects. And since Daddy says we live in a Money Pit, I think you're going to be the big loser here.

I'm sure we'll continue to stop in for batteries and paintbrushes, but it will take a long time before my confidence is restored. In the meantime, I suggest you take a step out of your big box retailer mentality and put some service back in customer service. You may also consider at least temporarily changing your slogan to:

Home Depot: You can't do it on your own, and We're going to leave you hanging.

My regards,
MRK

New Vision

2006-01-10T06:15:00.000-08:00

For anyone still lurking on this blog... a shameless plug for a policy think tank started by my cousin Scott -- you can read their mission statement here.

I also received this message from Scott/NV this morning with some exciting news -- please vote if you have a moment!

From Scott:

"...I have two exciting bits of news to report. The first is actually a request for your help. The service employees' union has been sponsoring a nationwide contest to come up with ideas from beyond the beltway, from people other than the usual suspects, etc. We submitted a handful of ideas last month, and my friend Chris's idea was among 21 chosen out of over 22,000! Now we need your help. Until 11:59 EST on Sunday, January 15, anyone in the US can vote for their top 3 choices out of the 21 remaining. We need you to vote for our idea! It's really easy to do so. Just go to www.sinceslicedbread.com. You'll have to create a username and password, then you can vote for 3 ideas (in fact, you have to vote for exactly 3). Chris's idea is "Retool the EITC to Promote Savings". It proposes that the tax code be changed so that recipients of the Earned Income Tax Credit -- a tax credit that goes to working families in low-wage jobs to encourage work rather than welfare dependency -- can direct some of the credit toward interest-bearing savings accounts. The federal government would match a fraction of the amount redirected. The policy would not only reward work through the EITC, making sure that "people who play by the rules" benefit, it would encourage savings among the poor, who are often unable to save even minimal amounts.

"...The second bit of news is that the policy brief on scholarships for summer programs for young disadvantaged children that I wrote with four of my classmates and that the Center for American Progress sponsored has met with a good measure of success so far. Last month, Senator Barack Obama (D-IL) submitted a bill in Congress funding a demonstration project based on our proposal. The STEP UP Act is officially Senate bill 2149 and is available at http://frwebgate.access.gpo.gov/cgi-bin/getdoc.cgi?dbname=109_cong_bills&docid=f:s2149is.txt.pdf. Senator Obama's floor statement may be read at http://thomas.loc.gov/cgi-bin/query/R?r109:FLD001:S14189 (click on the S14187 link). We are excited that the first product that New Vision undertook has reached this level of success, and we hope to see Senator Obama's bill incorporated into the reauthorization of No Child Left Behind later this year. For more on New Vision, including recent housing briefs produced in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, see www.newvisioninstitute.org..."

More of my regularly scheduled ramblings soon...

Peace out.

RE: Blogging as Communication

2005-12-31T07:18:00.000-08:00

I've really enjoyed reading my far-and-away friends' blogs this year. You know who you are -- college and post-college friends, old theatre buddies, and the like... in reading them I've been able to learn and understand what each are going through to some extent... things I would not have known if I had not been a lurker on their sites.

While I comment occasionally on other people's sites, it does occur to me that I can't even think of one time that I actually e-mailed or called any of them during the second half of this year.

Is it an upside or a downside of blogging that it makes me feel like we're in better touch? I err on the side of calling it an upside -- because although I'm not writing to everyone all of the time, I feel like I am because I know more about everyone than I have in years -- simply from tuning in to your sites. The downside is that I suppose this could easily qualify as stalking.

I resolve to be a better communicator in 2006. Hold me to it.

And for 2005, if you read this, please know that I have thought of, worried about, commiserated with, and celebrated each of you and feel now, as always, you are close to my heart.

Like Ripping a Band-Aid off of the Memory

2005-12-29T17:08:00.000-08:00

Our family received a lot of really nice Christmas gifts this year. My favorite one was actually not intended for me -- it was a gift from my husband's great-aunt to my 21-month old daughter.

While cleaning her basement earlier this year she found a trunk that belonged to her long-passed sister, and inside was a real Raggedy Ann doll... as in a real, vintage, original Raggedy Ann. It was in so-so condition as she describes it and she lovingly restored it to it's near-perfect original condition and put it under the tree with my kid's name on it.

When my daughter opened it she could not have cared less -- she was buried in a pop-up fairy book that was also in the box -- but I immediately recognized this doll as the real McCoy -- I had received one from my parents on my own second Christmas three decades ago... I loved it till it was in shreds. It's still in my parents' house -- just a thread with a few red hairs left but so much history. I was transported immediately and without warning to my childhood in this pinafore-wearing, glass-eyed time machine. I think I cried for an hour and I know my husband and his family thought I was nuts.

Everyone except Auntie Phyl, I'm sure -- it had to have been as emotional for her as it was for me. To give such a deeply personal gift -- a gift of her sister's doll, the gift of her hours of care and restoration, the gift of part of her own family history -- well, that made me realize the greatest gift -- of family -- that I was given from the first time I met my husband's relatives. Auntie Phyl could not have known of my own Raggedy Ann doll, and yet she has restored a memory from her past, and recreated an exact moment from my past for my baby girl, who probably won't feel the real impact for another 30 years.

So yeah ... it was a gift for my daughter, but I think I'll just keep it on my bedside table for a few years... just for safekeeping...

Whiiiiiiiiiine

2005-12-29T12:58:00.000-08:00

And while we're on the subject of people who know nothing about wine, here is a really great post from the Waiter.

Ringing Out the Old...

2005-12-29T06:22:00.000-08:00

I'm not a big champagne person, but I do like a wee bit at weddings and on New Year's Eve just for tradition's sake more than anything else. I'm far from an expert. While I can tell the difference between a really crappy bottle of Freixenet (Sorority Bid day, 1993) and a really great Dom P (wedding day 2000), everything else in between is a big bubbly blur.

Last Christmas my boss sent me a lovely bottle of a really nice looking bottle of Charles Lafitte. I brought it to our New Year's Eve celebration with our best friends, but alas, in our first year as new parents, none of us made it to midnight. So the bottle was put on a shelf, to be saved for this New Year's Eve celebration.

The thing is -- in January of last year my boss decided to retire and gave us all 30 days to find a new job. It was a small family like company (12 people), the shortest timer among us 3 years in the office. I myself had been there for nearly 8 years -- a quarter of my life, and nearly all of my professional life. Anyway, I'll not rehash the details, as I'm not one to blog about work, but let's just say it was a sudden, un-anticipated, and very very cold closing up of shop.

I was extremely loyal to this company and to this boss. I felt mentored, taken care of, respected, and needed for all of my 8 years there. So the end of this job took a huge emotional toll.

Now all of us found great jobs elsewhere and a few of us are still working together in different places, so all's well that ends well. But even in our newfound successes everyone still feels so burned by our mass lay-off of 2005. This was compounded by the lack of any ceremony. No parting words, gifts, no goodbye parties, severence packages, or thanks were given by our boss. Not even to her VP. Instead we received unsolicited pessimism about our new jobs, and invoices for unpaid office expenses and travel receipts.

Yesterday while preparing for our New Year's celebration I found that dusty bottle of champagne and the only things that bubbled up in me were the old feelings of resentment and betrayal. I gave my in-laws permission to re-gift the bottle to their dinner companions last night, but they left it on the counter and there it was this morning staring me down again as I poured milk on my cereal. It's the saga of the champagne -- and the ill spirits -- that will not die.

Well, I'm going to drink that bottle at a party on Saturday night and I will try to raise my glass to remember the 7 and 3/4 good years I had at that company, and the things I can still appreciate about the BOSS:

*the on the job training in a field I knew nothing about.

*the ability to continue re-inventing myself as I moved up in the company.

*the extraordinary show of trust she gave when she allowed me to telecommute when we left the area so my husband could go to grad school.

*the amazing friends and co-workers I met because of her.

*the incredible professional network my job enabled me to develop.

*the phenomenal reputation of our company, which enabled all of us to find fantastic jobs in other companies without so much as an application.

Then I will use the rest to drown the resentment I'm still holding and christen 2006 and the new challenges it will bring.

Cheers, SB. Thanks for the ride.

Verbatim

2005-12-28T19:26:00.000-08:00

My mother in law is far from a prude and a very accomplished and cosmopolitan woman -- and she is very outspoken, not shy, and talks animatedly to anyone about anything.

But there are certain words that she will NOT say. It's really starting to crack me up. Most of them seem to be related to body parts or bodily functions... and after spending the last week with them, I've started to compile a list. Here's a taste -- 2 of my favorites:

1. Poop, Poopie, Pooped, etc ...
Suitable alternatives (in true-to-life representations) appear below:

"On the way back from our walk, the dog CRAPPED all over Mrs. Henderson's yard and I didn't have a plastic bag so I just left it there."

"The baby did not eat much for lunch today, but she had a BOWEL MOVEMENT before her nap and I think that's what it was. She just needed to MOVE HER BOWELS."

"Granddaughter, do you have a STINKY in your pants?"

2. Constipation, constipated
Suitable alternatives appear to be:

"Auntie is recovering nicely from her hernia operation -- she had been BACKED UP for a week and that's what had tipped her off that something was wrong..."

"I don't think the baby should eat so much cheese -- it will STOP HER UP."

There are more along the lines of these two... but those are my favorites. And anyone with a dog or a baby knows that "Poop" becomes the most-used word in the English language, so trust me my MIL has the opportunity to enrich her Word Power often.

Funny enough, I've never met anyone who uses the word "vagina" more liberally than my MIL. I'm a sensitive new age gal, but that kind of skeeves me out.

Merry Gin Day: A Christmas Monologue

2005-12-25T19:11:00.000-08:00

Setting: In-laws' condo in Vermont. Late on Christmas night. Martha Who, Husband, In-laws are in living room. Post-West Wing. It is quiet. Brother-in-Law enters from kitchen with a fresh gin and tonic.

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW (holding glass up to Christmas Tree)
Anyone else want a gin and tonic?

Silence. This is B-I-L's third gin and tonic.

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW (continuing...)
Anyone else deserve a gin and tonic?
Ahhhhhhh....gin.
Gin, gin, gin, gin gin!

Martha looks up from her crossword puzzle. B-I-L approaches the tree, and the Nativity scene beneath it. He raises his glass to the Tree again.

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW (in Martha's general direction, but not really to Martha or anyone specifically)
Gin is....
Gin is....
Well, Gin is like the nectar...
Like the...

A pause as B-I-L falls into reverie. He finds his muse and continues with passion.

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW
Gin is like the nectar... of Baby Jesus Christ, Himself! Seriously... the baby Jesus. As in Jesus Christ. If Jesus were to stand up here right now, and urinate down on us, it would be gin. Beautiful, crystal-clear, wonderful, perfect gin. Jesus Beefeater Christ...

MARTHA'S BROTHER-IN-LAW (sitting down next to his mother and looking longingly into his glass)
Gin, gin, gin...we've been through a lot together. Some good times, some bad times. But mostly good. And always interesting. And always ... together. This day is really a celebration of gin. Of Jesus's pee. Thank you, Jesus.

Merry Gin Day!

Merry Gin Day...

I'm done.

CURTAIN

postscript from MarthaWho:

Merry Gin Day to all, and to all a good night!

Diff'rent Strokes...

2005-12-23T18:41:00.000-08:00

A short one-scene play.

Setting: The kitchen of Martha Who's childhood home. It is afternoon on the day of the family Christmas dinner. Martha's husband and 2 year old daughter are in close proximity.

It is quiet, before the guests arrive. The calm before the storm. Martha's mom enters from hallway right.

MARTHA'S MOM:

(exuberantly, almost maniacally)

Oh my WORD! I just thought of something fantastic we could do!
Let's put on a Michael Bolton CD!!!

Silence.

CURTAIN.

Dance Break

2005-12-19T11:20:00.000-08:00

Any Twin Peaks fans in da HOUSE?

A bit redundant, but still funny. Not sure what my favorite part is -- I think it might be Johnny Horne's cameo at the end. I forgot about poor ol' Johnny Horne.

:)

Salvation.

2005-12-19T09:40:00.000-08:00

Will somebody please save me from the Salvation Army?

I love the Salvation Army. Really, I do.
I love the blue pea coats and the red buckets and the bell ringers and the Christmas Cheer.
I love what they do for communities and the poor.

But I HATE the guilt!!! There is a Salvation Army bell ringer at every single store in the city. I don't want any of them to think I don't support their cause -- but do I give my change to the bell ringer at the bank? the bell ringer at the mall? the bell ringer at the salon? the bell ringer at the craft fair? the bell ringer at the public market? Do I portion out little bundles of loose change and small bills and just keep them with me during the holiday season so I can look generous and always have something to drop in? I mean, I swear, if I say "Oh, I just gave at the bank" to the bell ringer at the supermarket, I get the knowing glace that says "Whatever, you cheap a$$hole." I can't handle The Look.

Next year I'm going to put a $20 bill in one red bucket at Shaw's, and in return make a little sticker to put on my coat that says "I GAVE AT THE SUPERMARKET" -- kind of like the "I Voted" sticker they give you at the polls on Election Day.

I bet other people would be into this idea and would buy my stickers ... I'd donate the proceeds to Salvation Army. Could end up being the best fundraising idea of next year's holiday season.

Martha Who's Itinerary For an Eventful Week before Christmas

2005-12-19T08:25:00.000-08:00

THURSDAY AFTERNOON: In-laws arrive early for a visit with their grand-daughter. Arrived early because ice storm is expected for Friday (the originally scheduled start to their visit). Outwardly, make feeble apologies about the cleanliness of the house and the lack of anything in the refrigerator. Inwardly, beat yourself like a red-headed stepchild for not keeping up with the family "daily chores" task list, and not having a secret bunker of artisinal cheese and Napa Pinot for those unexpected guests.

THURSDAY EVENING: Behold joyous Christmas Miracles! Mother in Law has made dinner for everyone, and has started a load of granddaughter's laundry.

LATER THURSDAY EVENING: Father in Law interrupts the Apprentice Live Finale to report a small pool of water on the basement floor near the washing machine. Pause live television (thank you, TiVo) and gather around said pool. If not seeing any drips, agree to re-assess the situation and call a plumber if needed in the AM. Toss the dice in the "Maybe it will Just Go Away" gamble.

FRIDAY EARLY MORNING: Lose the gamble. Small pool of water has not only NOT gone away, but appears to be increasing slowly after the round of morning showers. Still no dripping can be seen. Spend the morning searching for a plumber from the yellow pages who can make a last minute emergency call in the middle of a wicked snow storm. Find one and agree to sell second-born child in exchange for a guaranteed appointment time.

FRIDAY LATE MORNING: Watch the wicked snow storm turn into a wicked ice storm before your very eyes. Make the game time decision not to send toddler to daycare. Grandparents offer to babysit anyway.

FRIDAY MID-DAY: Watch in horror as the plumber tells you that the water on the floor is not dripping from a leaky pipe, but, in fact, rising up from below the house from the master sewer drain. For $400 he can search out the problem, fix it and all will be well. Outwardly, nod your approval. Inwardly, seeth at being raped by The Man for an emergency plumbing fee.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON: Eagerly write a check to the man who just cleared 10 years of backed up excrement from out of the master drain. Thank Baby Jesus for plumbers! Are they getting by? Is $400 really enough?

FRIDAY AFTER THE PUMBER LEAVES: Stand on the edge of a pool of 10 years of excrement sitting on the floor of your laundry room. Apparently Plumbers don't do clean up -- such a crime!!! Remember the scene from Pulp Fiction when Harvey Keitel helps Mace Windu and Vinnie Barbarino "clean up" a similar crime scene. There are no Keitel's in the yellow pages under "Cleaners" but there is a husband and a father in law and a shop vac.

FRIDAY (STILL AFTERNOON): Like a million ice cubes shattering in a vat of hot oil. This is what it sounds like when the shop vac turns on in the basement and somehow causes a light fixture in the kitchen (where Mother in Law is feeding her granddaughter) to explode. There are no words to describe what the crime scene smells like. Sweep the shards of glass from the floor and out of your toddler's macaroni and cheese.

FRIDAY EVENING: Spend the evening bleaching everything in the basement. Assess the casualties of war. Tear husband a new one for using the new bathmat, hand cloths, and the dog's personalized doggie towel to aid in the clean up. Put everything in a contractor bag and drop it outside in the snow. In exhaustion decide to put off snowblowing the driveway until Saturday.

SATURDAY AM: Sun is shining. Snow has turned to hardpacked ice. Snowblower blades will not cut through it. Chisel a small path out with your scraper and a forgotten Lego so that you can get to your Saturday morning cooking class. Renounce your vegetarianism for the tenth time this year so you can taste the "Versatile Chicken Dishes" on the menu. Recall "Chicken Run" and Feel the Guilt Burn.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON: Take advantage of your In Laws' continued good babysitting graces and finish holiday shopping. Get in the car and notice the Engine Malfunction light is on. Take husband's car and go to The Mall. Sputter and mutter your way on the 3/4 mile trek to the door from your parking space. Climb over the triple parked hot rods in the handicapped spots, pick your way through the photos with Santa crowd, and spend the next 2 hours lost in one store. Accomplish nothing. Realize it's probably Karma biting you in the ass about the Versatile Chicken this morning.

SATURDAY NIGHT: Wrap the presents you do have. Listen to the In-Laws, the dog, the husband and the baby snore in front of It's a Wonderful Life while you tie little bows and name tags onto the gifts for your daughter's 10 preschool classmates, 5 teachers, 2 babysitters and 9 lords a-leaping. Two hours and 14 papercuts later, head up to bed.

SUNDAY: Daughter's sweet child disposition suddenly sours after a charming weekend and she bites Mother In Law repeatedly in a pit bull like attack. Meltdown ensues. In-Laws see the arrival of demon child and decide to leave. Goodbyes are made and the rest of the afternoon is spent trying to finish holiday shopping online while keeping daughter from eating the lights on the Christmas Tree.

SUNDAY 8PM: Desperate Housewives is a repeat. Resolve to go to bed early because of an early morning business trip.

SUNDAY 9PM: Listen to the POTUS ratings-boost broadcast. Decide to write a few Christmas cards before bed.

MONDAY 1AM: Go to Bed.

MONDAY 4AM: Get out of Bed.

MONDAY 4:45 AM: Get to Airport and find out flights have been cancelled. In a mystical coincidence, the three pilots for the 6AM USAirways, United, and Independence Air flights are "sick".

And the week has only begun.

Happy Holidays everyone!

Topless Doughnuts and Fairy Houses: More Reasons Why Portland is Cool

2005-12-13T07:49:00.000-08:00

More shameless plugs for my new home state and city -- since some of you are still not convinced... this well-timed Boston Globe piece from this past weekend sums it up quite nicely. I mean, one restaurant for every 300 people? Suh-weet.
****

Where the square is a triangle:
Oddities are everywhere in this hip, diverse city, so different from its neighbors
By Judith Gaines, Globe Correspondent December 11, 2005

This quirky city was once known, fittingly enough, as ''Quack." Examples of its pleasure in things odd are everywhere. Monument Square, in the heart of downtown, is actually a triangle. The famous Casco Bay Bridge doesn't span any part of Casco Bay. (It crosses the Fore River.) The area near the local sewage treatment plant provides some of the best bird-watching in the state. And the city is home to what must be the only topless doughnut shop in the country.

With a population of 64,249, Maine's largest city is concentrated in a small geographic area, and it has always had a spunky, creative, somewhat wacko charm that endears it to other Mainiacs, while also setting it apart. Its population is younger, hipper, and more liberal than elsewhere in the state. Public buses here have bicycle racks. It's also more diverse. According to the last census, almost 9 percent of Portland's population is nonwhite, compared with 3 percent in the state. Officials say 51 languages are spoken at Portland High School. Mayor Jill Duson (whose term ends this month) isn't just the first black female mayor in the state but also only the second black woman ever elected to any office in Maine, she says.

Portland is so different from its neighboring communities that less than a year ago an issue of Down East magazine asked: Is it really part of Maine? Editors noted that all five Green Party candidates in 2004 elections came from districts in Portland, and one of them won. On issues like gun control, gay rights, hunting, and environmental politics, the magazine observed, Portlanders hold significantly different views from voters in the rest of the state.

Portland is home to the state's biggest symphony, top art museum, its only professional sports teams, and its largest concentration of restaurants. In a state almost without skyscrapers, the few high-rise buildings clustered along Congress Street, Portland's main thoroughfare, are as close as Maine gets to a downtown financial district. Although Augusta is the capital and legislative center, the state Supreme Court and the largest concentration of lawyers are here.

According to Guinness World Records, Portland is the only city in the country with one street on which a person could satisfy all his or her educational needs. A preschool, two elementary schools, a middle school, two high schools, and a branch of the University of New England are on 2-mile-long Stevens Avenue.

Some people have both their winter and summer homes in Portland. They spend winter on the mainland and summer on one of several Casco Bay islands technically inside the city limits: Peaks Island, Great Diamond, Little Diamond, Cushing's and Cliff islands among them. (For a quirky island tour, you can ride the mail boat as it delivers letters, freight, and passengers to the islands.)

The city houses at least two oddball, one-of-a-kind museums: The Umbrella Cover Museum (on Peaks Island), displaying all sorts of umbrella covers, humble and exotic, from around the world; and The Museum of Cryptozoology, dedicated to animals whose existence has not yet been confirmed, such as Big Foot, assorted sea monsters, and the like.

Especially in the historic Old Port, the city boasts a large assortment of one-of-a-kind shops and many distinctive galleries. Among them is SPACE, which sponsored an event in September that included rolling a huge swath of sod down Congress Street, making it an impromptu park, and turning dumpsters into theaters for puppet shows, dance, and other performances. Other art openings take place in similarly unconventional settings. Just a few weeks ago, a hair salon called Head Games hosted the opening of an exhibit by photographer Arthur Fink.

Fink said he was drawn to the salon as a place to show his work because of its light and space, and he likes the idea of new art constantly appearing throughout the city in surprising places.For Portlanders, Fink said, being quirky ''is a way of staying fresh and alive, and making new connections."

Now through mid-February, visitors also can see the arresting sculptures of Pandora LaCasse, which she describes as ''little oases of light and cheer to warm the dead of winter." An abstract sculptor, LaCasse wraps trees, poles, and homemade forms in strings of colored lights all over the city. In a park at Middle and Exchange streets, turquoise ovals hang from pink trees. On Congress Street, fanciful orange and red megaphones cluster in front of the Time and Temperature Building. On Commercial Street by the harbor, blue and green spheres protrude from some shops, as if they were big water bubbles.

Portland's quirkiness is long-standing. Right from the start, it developed a reputation as a liberal, free-thinking place.Maine was settled in part by people who objected to what they considered the Puritanical, restrictive ways common in Massachusetts, and they seem to have gravitated particularly to Portland, established in 1786. When Maine became the nation's 23d state in 1820, Portland was its first capital.

One guidebook describes Portlanders in the 1800s as ''boozehounds" and says waterfront laborers routinely took ''grog breaks" in the mornings and afternoons. Munjoy Hill, in the east end of town, was known as ''Mount Joy Hill," in honor of the prostitutes who frequented the area.

One of the city's towering oddities is the Portland Observatory, which looks like a lighthouse in a distinctly urban setting on Congress Street. Sandwiched between the Portland Free Methodist Church and the Fire Department and across from Colucci's Hilltop Superette, it is actually an old signal tower, erected in 1807 as a communication aid for ships heading to port.

Over the years, several well-known distilleries have had headquarters here, including McGlinchy's and the John Morgan Brewing Co., and the city remains famous for its microbrews such as Shipyard, Allagash, Geary's, and Gritty McDuff's. It has a flourishing nightlife, with several nightclubs and saloons where you can hear local bands. So many bars are crowded into the Old Port that a person can bar crawl without having to drive.

Most of Portland's attractions are concentrated on its peninsula, a compact area about three miles long and less than a mile wide. Still, outlying areas bear exploration as well. Within the city limits are at least two waterfalls and a network of about 30 miles of trails that meander around the Back Cove, along the Fore River, around the harbor, and through the Maine Audubon Sanctuary, which has two important sites in the metro area. Bird-watchers especially enjoy a trail that passes the city's sewage treatment plant, where ospreys have erected a huge nest on an abandoned railway trestle, and where you can sometimes see a bald eagle or exotic sea gulls.

Just north of the city limits but well within Metro Portland is Mackworth Island, a good place to witness the local pleasure in fun and fantasy. Given to the state by Percival Proctor Baxter as ''a sanctuary for wild beasts and birds," the island now is home to the Governor Baxter School for the Deaf, but a 1 1/4-mile trail around the perimeter is open to the public. The path passes a pet cemetery (the final resting place of 13 Irish setters and one horse); a ''listening tree" said to be able to understand the sign language of the hearing impaired as well as entreaties from more conventionally speaking people; and an extensive ''community village for fairies," where children are invited to build fairy homes out of natural materials.

On a recent day, Delaney Derrig, 7, a second-grader in nearby Westbrook, was beginning construction of one of these little twig dwellings under the watchful eye of her grandmother. She said fairies are drawn to the area ''because there are homes for them. They need somewhere to live."

Portland also is a restaurant town. Many locals proudly claim it has more restaurants per capita than anywhere in the country except San Francisco. One list shows 187 restaurants in Portland, or one for every 343 people.

City regulations do not allow food chains downtown, and the restaurants can be as quirky as the city itself. You will never pay more for less food than at Bandol's, where the portions are so tiny as to be laughable. (A recent entree of braised veal on a potato pancake with chanterelle mushrooms measured no more than two inches in diameter, including the sauce.) Hugo's, the trendiest spot in town, with somewhat bigger portions and considerably better food, offers cod tongue tempura.

Street & Company, the favorite of many locals, may be one of the few restaurants in the country that serves no meat; it's strictly about seafood. Silly's, a popular cheap eats joint near Munjoy Hill, sells an avocado milkshake, which is better than it sounds. Joe's Boathouse boasts a local favorite known as ''The Zook," a wrap with fresh chicken, tomato, onion, and homemade caper mayonnaise.

Sitting at Joe's, you can watch the comings and goings in the outer harbor and gaze upon another local oddity: Fort Gorges. This looks like a huge granite square floating in the bay with some grass on top. In fact, it's an old fort built on Hog Island in 1858 to defend Portland Harbor. However, no shot ever was fired from it.

The topless doughnut shop, part of an adult center called Platinum Plus, looks more like a plush nightclub lounge than a morning breakfast spot. But it's open Monday through Saturday, 6-11 a.m., and it does sell doughnuts, $1.50 apiece. They don't make their own, though, a young blonde woman called ''La Bomba" told me when I finally mustered the nerve to go in. When I asked who does, she giggled and said, ''It's a secret."

The 101th reason to be thankful this holiday season...

2005-12-06T12:28:00.000-08:00

http://marthamusical.com/
Huzzah!

Who are the People in Your Neighborhood?

2005-12-06T10:40:00.000-08:00

One of the biggest adjustments in moving to Maine 6 months ago has been an unexpected one. It's been a loooong time since I've lived in a neighborhood where the neighbors were, well.... neighborly.

Over the last ten or so years of post-college life, my neighbors have been known to me as stock characters on the periphery of my existence.

In my early DC years with my fantastic roommate, there was the Group House with Three Hot Guys across the street. We'd go to their parties, they'd come to ours. Sometimes we'd run into each other at the Metro station. Then there was the Bitchy Downstairs Couple in our next building -- the people who we rarely saw (we used separate entrances), but who left emotional letters tacked to the inside of the common area doors, usually pleas for more help with taking the trash out, or not leaving bras hanging to dry in the laundry room. In Harvard Square my husband and I knew our upstairs neighbors, Our Landlords, because they were related to our best friends. There was The Cambridge Cop with a Rotweiller to our left -- only knew him as "Kevin" and only conversed with him when "P.D." (I always thought it was "Petey" until he corrected us) was "P-ing" on our trashbins. In Belmont, there was Irate Shared Driveway guy to the right, and Excercise-Obsessed Blond Girl on the right. Our back yard was bordered by The People who had a Daughter named Kristen. Regardless of our location, the neighbors were people who only existed in street vignettes, etc, and who never trespassed into my personal life or space unless invited to do so. In ten years I cannot remember even one time when someone knocked on the door to visit, unannounced.

Since moving to Maine my whole understanding of "neighbor" has changed. A few weeks before we moved in, we came up to paint some of the interior rooms, and left my car in the driveway. It sat there until we officially moved in 10 days later... and in those two weeks, my car became a proxy for my self... it inadvertently became my "advance team", telling my neighbors everything they needed to know about me. (Well-loved, more-than-gently used Toyota RAV4, carseat and dog crate in the back, ski rack on top, Kerry-Edwards bumper sticker, couple of college decals...) It created a "buzz" about their soon-to-be-new neighbors.

Since we moved in, knocks on the door have become a near-daily occurence. People looking for lost dogs, people taking signatures for a neighborhood traffic protest, people bringing cookies and holiday gifts. People have stopped by to welcome us, to tell us the history of the house, to invite us to neighborhood association events. People come to tell us joyous news of new babies, and to cry about husbands having heart attacks, and sometimes they just stop by to say hello.

More surreal, yet, they expect us to return this behavior at will by dropping in on them when we are free. People who casually say -- "we should get together Saturday afternoon" --- really mean "we should get together Saturday afternoon" (When we lived in the city, people who casually said -- "we should get together Saturday afternoon" -- really meant "it's the polite thing to say I'd like to hang out with you again, but really we both know that weekends are sacred and there's slim to no chance that either of us will call each other to make a plan, so see you whenever, ok?")

In DC and Boston environs, we had an active and wonderful social life. But every event was planned to the minute. Dinner with friends was booked days, sometimes, weeks in advance. Most communication regarding social activity took place in Evite cyber sessions. Plans were check and double checked with spouses, babysitters, anyone who cared to chime in.

If someone knocked at my door unannounced in Belmont, chances are I would have not answered it. I would have assumed it was UPS or Fed Ex (and even these interactions have been largely reduced to not even requiring a live person or a signature) I mean -- who drops by without calling first? So at first I was annoyed at this intrusion into my Maine private life. On more than one occasion a neighbor has dropped by, car running, inviting me to join them on some fantastically mundane errand. Of course I need to go the mohair yarn shoppe! Why wouldn't I want to go with you to the LL Bean factory store? Thank you SO much for thinking of me! And away we go.

It never fails that when these "drop-ins"occur I am either un-showered or un-dressed, or covered in paint or baby food, or napping or very involved in some home project or work related report. But over time these rugged Mainers and their neighborly "take care of our own" ways have started to win me over. They don't care if I'm wearing a baseball cap while we have coffee, if my house is a mess when they drop by to chat, or if I have white paint on my shoes while we go out to select worsted wool. In return they share their own insecurities, messy houses and personality quirks, and along the way some wonderful insights, anecdotes, and comradery.

It's a small point, but one I put out there as one of the many wonderful reasons to live in this great state. And one I've been thinking about a lot this week now that our resident ties to MA have been cut. Many of you have been wondering why we decided to leave urban life and move here. I know a lot of our friends have this image of Maine -- particularly in the winter -- as a harsh, barren, frozen arctic landscape, with people holed up like hermits in snow caves. We've realized WE have been the hermits!! While the weather may be less hospitable than points south, we have learned that this brings even more resiliency to the fabulously warm people that live here... people who can read volumes in bumper stickers, are generous with their hospitality, and aren't afraid to reach out and pull city hermits out of their shells.

I think this will be the best move we've ever made.
Come visit soon!

Thank you, Baby Jesus.

2005-12-02T09:07:00.001-08:00

hallelujah and amen.
the #$%-ing condo has sold and elvis has left the building.

muy interesante!

2005-12-02T08:58:00.000-08:00

A fascinating article about internet addiction in the NY Times yesterday.

And some companion material for y'all:

FIFTEEN signs of an addiction to using the Internet and computers, according to Internet/Computer Addiction Services in Redmond, Wash., follow:

1. Inability to predict the amount of time spent on computer.
2. Failed attempts to control personal use for an extended period of time.
3. Having a sense of euphoria while on the computer.
4. Craving more computer time.
5. Neglecting family and friends.
6. Feeling restless, irritable and discontent when not on the computer.
7. Lying to employers and family about computer activity.
8. Problems with school or job performance as a result of time spent on the computer.
9. Feelings of guilt, shame, anxiety or depression as a result of time spent on the computer.
10. Changes in sleep patterns.
11. Health problems like carpal tunnel syndrome, eye strain, weight changes, backaches and chronic sleep deprivation.
12. Denying, rationalizing and minimizing adverse consequences stemming from computer use.
13. Withdrawal from real-life hobbies and social interactions.
14. Obsessing about sexual acting out through the use of the Internet.
15. Creation of enhanced personae to find cyberlove or cybersex.

I should point out that I noticed the article because I religiously read 7 online news sources every single day.

Twice, sometimes.

PCC

2005-11-29T12:17:00.000-08:00

It has been an interesting few months to say the least. I had to take a break -- not just from blogging, but from many other parts of normal everyday life. I focused down onto the little micro tasks of routine-ness... the job, chores, walking the dog, taking care of family. I filled my "free" time with new mindless (but entirely satisfying) pursuits -- I enrolled in a cooking class, joined a local parents group, painted some stuff around the house, reveled in the last 4-5 episodes of Rome's freshman season on HBO, planned and hosted a big Thanksgiving dinner at our new house.

But I could not bring myself to care about much of anything else outside of my little private universe. There just seemed too much to care about at once. How many natural, social, political and economic disasters can one person's sanity withstand without shutting down entirely? Before we could mourn Katrina's wake, Rita was on top of us, followed by scores of Earthquakes, floods and fires the likes of which I cannot remember in my lifetime ravaged all four corners of the globe. Before we could celebrate Harriet Miers' withdrawal from Supreme Court consideration, a scarier, even more abominable choice was presented in Scalito. Consumer confidence dropped to an all time low in October and the fourth quarter economic outlook for the big retailers was looking bleak. Gas prices hovered between $2.50 and $3.00/gallon while the 2000th US soldier was killed in Iraq. Rosa Parks died, Tom DeLay was indicted, and the Red Sox lost the pennant. I woke up every morning thinking, "what next?" and expecting some enterprising young pop star to update/remake an old Billy Joel song ("We didn't start the fire, but it is suddenly raging out of control and it's all our fault")

I wasn't depressed -- I was still functioning just fine. It was just a case of disaster overload or something I couldn't put my finger on. But after a lovely Thanksgiving Day celebration at our place, things seemed a little ... lighter. I accompanied my mom to a "day after" 7AM sale at the big mall, spent lots of quality time with the fam and the dog outside enjoying the first snow. Even bought an abundance of holiday wreathes and decorated all the windows of the house. Made cookies for the neighbors and caught up on overdue correspondence. Got ahead on work presentations and went to see a movie. Responded to some holiday invitations. Read the newspapers for the first time in weeks. Started to tune back into world events. Life seemed better, OK, somehow, like I could check back into current events and the reality that existed beyond my doorstep. For the past two days I have been feeling great, and attributing my change in attitude to a pleasant thanksgiving holiday spent with my lovely family and friends.

Then today I read in the paper that Consumer Confidence is now at a high we haven't seen in months because the gas prices are back down below $2/gallon in most parts of the country. In my thirst for self-awareness I shine the magnifying glass back on myself -- is MY personal consumer confidence (PCC) better because gas prices went down? I mean, we are pretty fuel-conscious as a rule anyway -- we don't drive gas guzzlers, we switched to a more energy efficient cooking range that relies on less energy, we chose a new bio-fuel to heat our home this winter, and we try to keep from wasting excess energy. We're also far from penny pinchers (though, arguably we should do more of this...) and rarely look at what it costs to fill the tank (although we certainly noticed when it was above $3 back in September! Who didn't?)

So how and why then, would my own PCC be buoyed by something like gas prices???

And yet there it is out there -- the best and most rational excuse.

There's still the same amount of disasters and havoc out in the world that there ever has been. But people are so happy lately. The restaurants and movie theaters in our neighborhood are packed. Big retailers are rejoicing in a better than expected Thanksgiving sale weekend. While it would be nice to think we have a better outlook going into December because of holiday cheer, it's probably because people aren't feeling as restricted by the cash they were losing at the gas pumps. We don't have to think about the high "behind the scenes" cost of the cheap gas we love so much. Our PCC is AOK.

And so we return to where we left off earlier this fall. Fat, dumb, and happy.

And very very sad.

This is not your Grandfather's Retirement...

2005-10-25T04:34:00.000-07:00

My grandfather served his country in WWII in the South Pacific, and at home in the Civilian Conservation Corps (he claims he built the Appalachian Trail but I suspect he had some help with that). He married my grandmother, settled in a house on the same street as many of his relatives, raised four kids and enjoyed nine grandchildren. He spent the rest of his work years at a big paper mill company in a small New England Town.

I have a very fuzzy memory of his retirement. There was a party at my aunt and uncle's house. My uncle served up barbecued chicken and dished potato salad. We swam in the pool. There was a big sheet cake with my grandfather's name on it. I think someone from the mill was there. It was a summer day. I remember not having any clue what retirement meant, but it seemed very very cool.

Then my grandparents began their retirement years together. They traveled around New England. Sometimes they made a "big trip" to Canada. But mostly they stayed close to home and family. They went to church and were active in the community. My grandfather was popular and well liked and was a literate and accomplished public speaker on various political topics for various civic groups. On the weekends they hosted all of their children and grandchildren for big lunches. They bought us nice presents, baked us wonderful cookies and treats, and picked us up from school when were sick until our parents could get home from work. They attended our every baseball game, every dance recital, every play, and then attended our graduations, our weddings, and welcomed several great-grandchildren. When they became too infirm to look after themselves they moved together into an assisted-living apartment. My grandmother passed away 2 years ago, and my grandfather, in advanced stages of Alzheimer's still lives there, just 5 miles from his home of almost 90 years, and within a short drive of all four of his children and many of his siblings and cousins, all of whom continue to visit him weekly. It was a life well-lived, and if he could remember any of it, I'm sure he would not have any regrets about how he spent his retirement.

As this generation -- Brokaw's Greatest Generation -- like my grandfather, passes through the twilight of their lives, their children -- the Baby Boomers -- are now poised to enter the beginning of their retirement years.

Baby Boomers revolutionized American Culture during their young years. These are the same people who listened to the Beatles and smoked weed at Woodstock. Who burned their bras and served in Vietnam. Who marched on Washington for Civil Rights, reproductive rights, gun control, AIDS awareness and any other cause worthy of attention. Who went to college and raised their MTV-addicted Generation X over-achievers in a household where dad and mom worked full time jobs. They were hippies and activists and CEOs and professors and doctors and golfers and grandparents, and now they control an enormous amount of wealth.

What is going to happen when these people really retire en masse?

My in-laws retired a few years ago and now live most of the year down in Florida. They live in a very nice gated community, with homes and condos and luxury apartments surrounding a boat marina and a golf course. Last night we spoke with them to see how they survived Hurricane Wilma. They had decided -- against our pleas -- to ride out the storm inside their condo. Their development overall suffered minimal cosmetic damage -- people's "golf cages" around their pools tore off, and some small issues like screens and roof tiles were reported. The golf course was under an inch or two of water, and the tarps had been ripped from some of the boats in the marina. Seemed like everyone escaped a serious disaster. The worst problem, aside from the lack of electric power, were the were several dozen giant palm trees that fell down, making all of the roads in and out of the community virtually impassable.

A few hours after the storm passed over them, they said people were back outside -- jogging, biking, walking their dogs. My in-laws made a very nice dinner for themselves on their grill outside, and everyone outside was thanking their lucky stars that they didn't have to move their BMWs to higher ground. By the end of the day, the golf course had been drained, and tee times had been booked for the next day (weather permitting, of course).

Probably two miles from this development there were people with less fortified homes that lost more than their power. People sitting in shelters who had yet to return to their demolished mobile homes or beachfront bungalows. People who were still living in temporary houses set up during last year's visit from Charley. And across the Gulf, people still trying to make sense of another hurricane -- entire neighborhoods and cultural riches forever lost to Katrina's floodwaters.

But across the street, the people in my in-laws neighborhood were grilling shrimp and trading hurricane stories over margaritas, getting ready for eighteen holes.

My best friend (who's in-laws also winter in southern FLA) assured me on the phone last week (when I was telling her how worried I was that my in-laws were not evacuating) that it was not that our collective parental units were suddenly un-caring, short-sighted, selfish elitists. It is simply that they are retired. And being retired means that they actually do live in some sort of suspended reality to some extent.

It's not at all that today's affluent Boomer retirees turn their backs on the plights of the less fortunate. I know that our parents, and the many many fortunate others like them, will open their hearts and their wallets to help less fortunate folks, when asked. Indeed my best friend's and my own families are exceedingly generous with charities and with their children and grandchildren. It's just in creating a new sense of "community" for themselves, they seem to sometimes not notice what's going on around them... unless someone or something --like a large scale catastrophe or natural disaster -- brings them back down to earth for a time.

The reality is that we live in a country where it is possible for fortunate people to not live in reality. We live in a country where the first post-hurricane priorities are to drain the golf course and line up the yachts, before righting the trees and providing access for emergency vehicles and repair trucks.

This perma-vacation mentality can create more than a little resentment from the outside world (myself included at times!) but I have to believe that these folks still carry some of the revolutionary flame they had in their 20's and 30's. As the number of officially retired Boomers reaches critical mass, they will wield an enormous amount of power. That huge mass of wealth will shift dramatically -- investments will be cashed in on, properties will be sold, and the Social Security system as we know it (and fear it!) will change. Far from just micro-social impact, the Boomers will also make up a great percentage of the US Congress, and nearly all of the Supreme Court. This retired critical mass will have a powerful voice and will dictate how and when and where and what exactly their end-of-life situations will entail in terms of health plans, assisted living, nursing care, etc. And then, as these retired Boomers age, Gen X will need to provide the backbone of the workforce and support network as the Boomers reach the end of their lives.

On the other end of that equation will be the "Millennial Generation" and "Generation Z" -- or, my children and grandchildren -- who will inherit the wealth and the legacy of the Boomer generation. Children who are (so far) growing up with very few worries in the world. Growing up with Baby Gap and Pottery Barn Teen, with IM monikers and X boxes, with little or no memory of 9/11/2001 and only a very very distant hum of the "War on Terrorism" as background music in their comfortable lives. Unknowingly taking for granted that the rights they take for granted can be just as easily taken away if they do not find -- and use! -- their voice. Where are the revolutionaries? Where are the activists? Where are the bra-burners? I have fear, but great hope, that something will spur the Millennials into action, to effect change and bring peace to this great country.

Make no mistake that the affluent Boomers will re-define retirement. But just how, I guess, remains to be seen.

On another note, what happens when "Generation Z" has children. We're out of letters. Should we start the hurricane naming system (i.e. "Generation Alfredo" "Generation Bettina".... )? Or should we skip straight to Greek letters?

Letter from my Daughter to: Harriet Miers

2005-10-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

Dear Ms. Miers,

Your Senate confirmation hearings are set to begin in, like, two weeks, and I am so nervous for you! And I don't mean in the way that I would be if it was my friend up on the stand and I want her to do well... I mean that I am nervous in the way I was when I watched the American Idol auditions at the start of last season. As interesting as it is to watch, my stomach hurts just imagining the humiliation you will put yourself through. As a fellow human being, I already feel sick thinking about it.

As a fellow woman, I am sick as well. Now should be the time to rejoice that a woman is nominated to fill the Court seat being vacated by a woman, and instead I am confused and annoyed at how someone with your credentials came to be in this position.

I was similarly skeptical when John Roberts was nominated for the first vacancy, and then, the Chief Justice seat. I really wanted to hate his guts just on the grounds that he was a young white republican man judge. But gosh darn it if he didn't impress us with his brains, his experience and his ability to make me believe that he is going to be a very clear thinker, and use his vast knowledge of the law, the Constitution, and the annals of legal precedent in his new post, rather than being guided by a personal agenda or a political ideology.

But your nomination keeps me awake at night. The fact that you lack any meaningful experience with Constitutional Law, or as a judge makes me feel that you will have to rely upon other existing biases, opinions, and sympathies you already have formed.

All anyone knows about you is that our President thinks you're a really nice lady, and that you have Jesus Christ in your heart. While those are good folks to have on your side (The leader of the free world, and The Lord Almighty I mean), I'm not sure they are two people that I want on the bench right next to you while you weighing in on everything from interstate commerce to capital punishment.

I want to know that you will decide cases with an open mind and with our Constitution always at hand. I want to know that you will consider the health and safety of women (and men) first, before you attempt to rule against or overturn existing laws designed to protect our health and safety. I want to know that you are not just a trained monkey who will live out her Court tenure in a manner that is tribute or repayment to the trained monkey that nominated you for the seat.

I will be waiting on the edge of my seat in the meantime, with my stomach in it's American Idol knots feeling your pain, while hoping that the Senate does not confirm you. I'll be my mom's age -- or older!! -- before you die or retire from the bench. And unlike an Idol reject who fades into obscurity after their 30 seconds of fame, the decisions and tenor you bring to the US Supreme Court will impact my life for the next 30 years and beyond.

I hope you will consider withdrawing from consideration.

Barring that, here's hoping you'll be Bork-ed.
MRK

ISO: A Flux Capacitor

2005-10-20T19:41:00.000-07:00

Tweakin' to pimp my RAV4 and searching for a Flux Capacitor.
A few places I'd like to visit once my ride is set:

*Five years from now -- just to see if I'll actually do anything of the things I'm thinking about doing now. It would be so much easier to take some big risks if I knew in advance how they would play out... but I suppose they wouldn't be risks, then, would they?

*The day we bought our piece of shit condo in Boston that we loved at the time but now can't even give away after six months of being listed in the bottom-ed out housing market.

*The day my daughter was born. For so many reasons, but mostly to better manage the events of the day, and to take more time within the chaos to appreciate the preciousness of that moment she and I will never have again.

*September 10, 2001. Just for a few minutes. To remember what it was like.

I asked my husband where he would go if we had Flux Capacitor, and he said "August 19, 2--- (our wedding day) over and over again."

Damn sap? or Good answer? ;)

Where would you go?

*anyone born before 1985 and worth 1.21 gigowatts of salt should know what a flux capacitor is.

Entertaining Made Easy

2005-10-14T19:44:00.000-07:00

Hot off the presses!

Martha Who?'s Ten Easy Steps for That Perfect Dinner Party

1. THE GUEST LIST: Raise the bar -- If you haven't entertained in a long time, your first dinner guests should be people you don't know well -- or even better -- people you don't know at all! You'll be ten times more effective knowing that your dinner party will be the first impression your guests will have of you, your home, your children, and your cooking!

2. THE MENU: Plan your menu and do the grocery shopping a day in advance. Make it a family event so everyone feels involved. Resist all temptation to bring a shopping list. It's a fun and stimulating challenge to have to improvise later at home when you realize you forgot a crucial ingredient. It's even more fun to send your husband out in his non-existent spare time to get those forgotten ingredients!

3. FOOD PREPARATION: Make sure that you do not have a babysitter or any help lined up while you prepare the meal. Having a rambunctious toddler nipping at your heels while you cook increases your adrenaline and finely hones your multi-tasking abilities.

4. A NOTE ABOUT HOUSECLEANING: If you leave most of the lights off, the three inches of dog hair tumbleweed will go largely unnoticed.

5. WHEN TO START YOUR DINNER PARTY: Plan for your guests to arrive exactly 30 minutes before your toddler's bedtime. This will of course allow your guests to meet the princess while she is at her most fresh and alert.

6. GREETING YOUR GUESTS: Believe it or not -- a thorough crotch-sniff screening by a 100-lb Chocolate Lab is very in right now. It's a great ice-breaker and gets the evening off to a rollicking good start!

7. APPETIZERS: Another really fun party game is called "Human Coffee Table" -- increasingly used by hosts who have chosen to eliminate an actual coffee table from their living rooms. Guests take turns holding an unwieldy appetizer tray, while going to great lengths to keep it above the heads of the begging dog and the 19-month old toddler who is Tazmanian Devil-ing her way to a major past-her-bedtime kind of meltdown.

8. THE MAIN COURSE: The main course should be served an hour after your guests arrive, after your toddler has made it through 17 verses of Baa Baa Black Sheep and has made your guests sip make-believe soup from her Fisher Price kitchen set. Your guests will think this diversion is charming, believe me, and the extra wait will make everyone more hungry. Fifteen minutes into the main course one or both of the hosts should abandon the table to sing 17 verses of Sting's "Fields of Gold" (long story) to get said toddler to go to sleep. Don't worry. Your guests will understand. It's not like you're leaving them alone. The dog is warming their hearts with his big brown eyes and filling their shoes and laps with his warm sloppy begging drool under the table.

9. DESSERT: Dessert for the hosts will be the main course, since they spent most of the main course in the baby's bedroom. Dessert for the guests will be delayed.

10. AFTER DINNER DISCUSSION AND GOODBYES: The real adult conversation of the evening is reserved for this special part of the event when the baby is in bed, and the dog has given up on begging. This will be the point where you realize there is nothing to talk about because your whole life IS the baby and the dog, but that's OK because just then your dog will let fly a very silent but very potent fart which will smoke everyone out of the room and bring the evening to an early close.

PS Thanks to A and C for what actually turned out to be a lovely evening...

PPS I can't believe I just used the word "Fart" in my blog. How utterly UN-Martha-Like.

When in Rome...

2005-10-14T19:35:00.000-07:00

Seriously -- is anyone else watching the new HBO show, Rome? I can't even pay my husband to watch it with me. Why am I the only one I know who is addicted?

Is it the intoxicatingly handsome soldiers, or just that I need something to do on Sunday nights until The Sopranos returns in March? This Plebe is totally sucked in.

Letter from My Daughter* to: The Pope

2005-09-30T14:29:00.000-07:00

*the first of a periodical series of letters from my daughter to various folks. Everyone knows my daughter has an incredibly impressive vocabulary, but she's only 18 months old. So these letters are obviously on behalf of her. What I would hope she would say if she was able to do this herself.

Dear Pope Benedict XVI,

Just wanted to let you know you're letting a lot of good ones get away.

I am Catholic. Bred from a long line decent, good Catholic immigrant families, including the older generations who still go to mass every week; who believe in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit; who believe in the power of prayer and saints and miracles. I was baptized into the Catholic Church because while they are not really practicing or letter-perfect Catholics, Mommy and Daddy credited their Catholic upbringings with providing moral guidance and respect for tradition and elders. They wanted me to have a similar spiritual compass as I grow up. They had good intentions of at least considering whether or not to actively re-join the faith when I was old enough to sit still during a mass, and start to understand what was going on around me.

I saw a t-shirt last week that said "Christianity isn't for Sissies". I know it isn't supposed to be easy, so I guess that's an OK thing to say... but couldn't you make it even a tiny bit easier for people to be Catholic?

Let's be honest. If there is a God, do you think he is up in Heaven slapping a high five with the saints and angels while you do things like this? Or this? Or this? On the day of judgement will I be judged on whether or not I made it to every Mass, gave money to the Church, and supported all of your whacked Vatican laws?

No thanks. I will take what was good about Catholicism and leave the rest. I will honor my mother and father. I will love freely and openly all of my fellow citizens of the world regardless of race, religion, creed, gender or sexual orientation. I will fight for rights for all human beings everywhere. I will stick up for the little guy, and give generously to those in greater need than myself. And when I choose to have family of my own, I will provide them with this same groundwork.

I know you are only one man in a long line of men to hold this position. And I know that you cannot change thousands of years of church doctrine overnight. But you could have put up a signal that change was possible. Instead you are continuing to foster a powerful religious community that values discrimination over inclusion, hatred for some over love for all, and ignorance over mutual understanding.

I am youth. I was the future of the Catholic Church. And, your Holiness, you just blew it.

-- MRK

Tall Green and Handsome

2005-09-28T17:42:00.000-07:00

Oooooo I can't wait to get my hands on this guy...

ISO My Own Apprentice

2005-09-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

I could use an Apprentice of my own. Please only apply if you meet at least all of the following criteria.

1. You must be a highly-motivated, enthusiastic and very intelligent professional. Please note: If you sell real estate, arrange mortgages, own a contracting company, or are in any other way responsible for the rising debt of America's middle class by fueling the housing bubble, then you are automatically guaranteed a spot in the final four.

2. FEMALE CANDIDATES ONLY: You must be willing to undergo the following procedures if requested by my producer before filming begins: total body liposuction, laser teeth bleaching, breast augmentation, full body waxing, and hair highlighting.

3. MALE CANDIDATES ONLY: You must be male.

4. You must be able to pack 16 weeks worth of power suits, pajamas, workout clothes, accessories, toiletries, 20 pairs of shoes, 100 neckties, a small serving boy, and three french hens into one small carry-on pullman suitcase. And don't forget that in the Boardroom, many bags look alike. Make yours stand out.

5. You must (no exceptions) speak one of the following dialects of the English language fluently: Pennsyltuckansaw, Mormon, or NEYCL (New England Yacht Club Lockjaw).

I watched both Apprentice premieres this week (Donald Trump and Martha Stewart) and I'll admit being reasonably entertained by both. I was however irked by the opening "twist" of the Trump version.

What would possess The Donald to make his new crop of trainees run pointlessly around his golf course in search of the helicopter that would take only two of them to NYC for a head start on the first task? The sweating and huffing and puffing of 16 desperate power-suited executives running around like children on an easter egg hunt was almost painful to watch. It was a low point, even for reality TV, but as always I learned a lot from The Donald, and there two very important takeaways: 1. Power means I have the ability to make seemingly normal people do incredibly stupid things, while I sit back and have a martini on the back nine, and (most importantly), 2. If I'm going to have any hope of sprinting faster than a 6 foot tall marathon runner, I'll have to ditch my Jimmy Choo's early on.

Mock (yeah) ing (yeah) bird (yeah)...

2005-09-19T18:09:00.000-07:00

A One-Scene Play:

Setting - inside the car, on the road coming home from a restaurant. Circa three hours ago.

Car screeches to a halt at a crosswalk.

WIFE (exasperated)
You are going to kill a pedestrian one of these days.

HUSBAND (sarcastically)
I know. I suck.

brief pause

18 MONTH OLD DAUGHTER (triumphantly raising her pacifier in the air, a la Rocky Balboa, from carseat in the back)
I-I-I-I-I-I suck!
I SUCK!
I suck!

CURTAIN

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

2005-09-19T17:05:00.000-07:00

This past weekend for the first time in four years, I visited my college campus for Homecoming Weekend. It was a weekend of conflicting emotions. The campus was charmingly the same, yet completely different. The people were achingly familiar but strangers the same. The whole visit was at once exhilirating and tremendously disappointing. All things I'd expect to feel after having a decade of real life separating me from those good ol' days.

By far the biggest disappointment was the eerie solitude of the campus on the big Game Day. As I walked with Dan and my college roommate and her fiance, there was nary a student to be found... anywhere. We walked into unlocked buildings, turned on lights in two empty theatres, popped into the gym/field house, peeked into the library, browsed the campus bookstore, pressed our noses to the locked glass doors of the new cafeteria... and wondered where the hell everyone was. Even the disc jockey at my old radio station haunt was a "townie" -- working a non-student weekend shift.

Down at the alumni tent, the numbers were only slightly more encouraging. Members of the classes ending in "5" or "0" were celebrating reunions. The beer taps were flowing, and the buffet was pleasant. Amid the memories and the cameras and nametags and the orange-shirted alumni staff there were a familiar faces. A former party lush with a baby stroller, That annoying sorority sister who's name escapes me but whom ALWAYS remembers me at these things, the guy who I had a crush on who married his college sweetheart only to divorce 8 years and a couple of kids later.

But outside the tent, empty campus greens begged for picnickers, idle healthclub treadmills languished, overstuffed club chairs in the library remained cold. There were no campus tours. No students hammering away in the theatre scene shop. No students lining up around the spanking new Mongolian grill in the caf.

This was not a wild crazy campus when I was here, but there was a sense of a campus community. That does not seem to exist any more. Back in the day people didn't leave campus for the weekend -- there was a heart and a soul beating beneath it all. We were all overstretched to our limit with extracurricular activities, parties, and get togethers. And on a lovely fall weekend there were frisbees to be tossed, lines to be memorized, books to be opened, and friends to enjoy. Where are today's students and what are they doing with their lovely fall weekends?

But the alma mater, she did look ravishing in the September sun. Even with the many new buildings and all of the changes, the campus remains as I remember it in my heart, in all of its red brick, tree-lined, ivy-covered glory. It remains heartbreakingly beautiful in that Rockwell-esque, snow-globe kind of way.

It all provided fodder for many conversations for the afternoon and all through the ride back to my college roomie's house where we stayed that night. Rhetorical and philosophical questions: Are we mis-remembering how great it was? Are today's students just different? More absorbed in internet and video games and less with the outside enchantments that campus life provides? Did we decide to go to this school because it looked so quintessentially academic and beautiful, rather than weigh the rigors of the academic program? Does it matter? And more important questions: When did college students start looking so young? How did I get out of four years without ever trying a beer funnel? Why do I regret that in a sick way?

The weekend was not a total loss. There were upsides to the low alumni attendance and apparent mass abduction of the underclassmen. We had a sweet parking space with no trouble. There was no line at our favorite downtown restaurant. The football team was brilliantly terrible as always. There were many other little delights as well, not the least of which was connecting with the friends who were there, including the roomie, and my favorite bourgeois deviant and his wife. Friends who are the real pillars of the campus I remember, friends who provided the memories, and the education, that I prize most dearly.

Call the SPCA

2005-09-15T19:34:00.000-07:00

Today, I came face to face with the enemy.

I mean, there has been certain... evidence... that a certain pest has been visiting my kitchen at night. A few weeks ago I had Dan put wire mesh around the ductwork and pipes in the cabinet under the sink ... I was trying to convince him that the black specs under the sink were mouse droppings, and he was trying to convince me they were not, but he's a good guy and he did what I asked anyway. Once the holes were blocked up, I bleached and scrubbed and reorganized until all trace of the pestilence was gone. And every morning with joyful satisfaction I open the doors to a sparkling under-sink area. I'd let my 2 year old eat off the floor of that cabinet now. Mission Accomplished.

But the little telltale specs started popping up near the dishwasher this week. The little bastard found another way in. I know it's the pipes around the dishwasher. We need to pull it out and fill the holes around the pipes.

Today between conference calls I was tossing a ball out in the yard with Mercury the Wonderdog and he starts sniffing around by the red wheelbarrow, upside down in the yard. Sure enough I hear something thumping around under there. A few half hearted pounces from my lazy-ass canine friend and sure enough, a little fluff of grey mousehood darts out from under the wheelbarrow and into a patch of grass near the basement bulkhead doors.

The internet is an amazing place. Over the next hour I learned that this was not just any pest -- it was Mus Musculus (a little known Marvel villain). It can squeeze through almost any 1/4" hole. It can shit 40-60 times a day on my kitchen floor. It can live off crumbs, dried spills, dog food (and if there is anything we have in abundance around here it is crumbs, dried spills, and dog food -- Hell-O, can you say life with a toddler??). It can reproduce 8 times in its one year life span, with multiple babies in each litter. And wondrous, almost magical, the teeth just keep growing and growing nonstop throughout its life -- it MUST chew on things to keep its teeth worn down enough to function normally. (But really the most wondrous magical thing is that it shits 40-60 times a day).

In the abstract it was a gross disgusting invasion of the most sacred room in my home -- my hearth! But then I met the critter face to face and well, the struggle sucks. Since my slobhound doesn't leave much in the way of food at night, and I have tried to be diligent about cleaning up spills when they happen, and we never leave food out, the mouse food is in short supply. What then, keeps him coming back? Is he looking for sanctuary, taking the chill off for a few hours in my warm house? Is he paying homage to the weeks-old stainless steel 5 burner dual fuel 2-oven Jenn Air? Is he lost?

I used to hate driving. I did not have a lot of experience -- I didn't really drive after leaving high school. I didn't take a car to college, and I lived in cities with good public transportation afterwards. But when we ended up in Boston in 2000, I had to do a little more driving on my own. I learned cautiously the 10 block comfort zone around our Cambridge Apt but never strayed beyond that one my own.

One day there was a dying squirrel in my back yard. It was bleeding and broken. I don't know if it fell from a tree or dragged itself into the yard from a car wreck. I called Animal Control and a host of other public works offices, with the same response -- they all told me to leave it alone, nature would take it's course, but they could come get it for the price of $100 (!!!). A call to Dan who was in B-School class at the time, ended with my sobbing after he asked me if I could take a shovel and "finish the job"... I called the Animal Rescue League and told them of my plight... they agreed to come pick up the squirrel to see if it could be rehabilitated, but it would be 5 hours. I told them I couldn't wait that long, and they said I could bring it to their "ER" myself. It was 8:30AM, and the ARL office was in downtown Boston. I put on my best rubber kitchen gloves, put the squirrel in a cardboard box and covered it up with a little tea towel and mapquested my way through the morning rush with my special charge. When I arrived they told me there was nothing they could do, so I filled out the paperwork and authorized them (authorized them! Me! Like I "Owned" the squirrel!) to euthanize the poor soul. (They did offer to give me the tea towel back, but I declined). Although it was a pivotal day in my driving career (it's been smooth sailing since), I was racked by guilt and nightmares and what ifs about the stupid squirrel for many days after.

So therein lies the dilemma with Mr. Mouse today. I cannot co-exist peacefully with this vermin in my kitchen. And yet I cannot bring myself to set traps or put out poison (both of which are dangerous with kids and dogs around anyway). Another Google search yielded many creative ways of solving the problem -- ranging from instant mashed potatoes (apparently the mouse will explode if he eats too many of them and then drinks water... I'm skeptical and it's gross anyway), to an elaborate contraption with a coffee can and a vat of bacon grease and water which guarantees a "humane death by drowning" (?)

Depending on its age, it could have 5, 6, 7 or even all 8 of it's reproductive cycles left! And it could have six inches of ungrown teeth and 3,600 more "deposits" to drop. I can't kill it. I don't want it to die, I just want it to move out.

So instead I'll be spending this weekend plugging every 1/4 inch hole in my kitchen with a combination of steel wool, dryer sheets, mothballs and essence of peppermint. I mean, who doesn't have time for that? And if that doesn't work, well -- his lifespan is only a year anyway, right?

Things I know to be true right now.

2005-08-20T18:54:00.000-07:00

in no particular order:

Working from home is still work.

I Y Tivo.

Hot pursuit of the american dream is hampered by carrying two mortgages.

Parenthood is an awesome responsibility. (Obvious, I know... but -- holy shit! Nothing can prepare you...)

Nobody is banging on my door reminding me that I wanted to do something else with my career.

Recycling is not as easy as it looks.

Book clubs suck.

The most exhausting things in life - marriage, children, family, friendships - are also the most exhilirating.