Just Another Day at the Office

Hoop dreams, oaths, and clogged pipes.

Oh No You Didn't ...

Eat my candy.

Ask me to clean my room.

Call Zac Efron "cute."

Touch my viola.

Suggest that I need a shower.

Drive over my scooter. Again.

Tell me you love me.

Recessionary Road Kill

If you want to see signs of the recession up close, just hit the road. And think Mean Street, not Main Street.

It ain't pretty. All the angst and frustration people are feeling about the economy and a million other things they can't control, like continence, falling leaves, and rising costs, become fuel for rage behind the wheel.

No one is immune. I mean, little old grandmas will not only steal your parking spot without a second glance, but they'll flip you a crooked bird while they do it.

Just the other day, while inching along on a traffic-congested highway, the driver behind me screamed something that looked like "YOU MUG DUH FART HER CLOCK STICKER!" while trying to prove that tailgating was a contact sport. Not one to shy away from important conversations, I glared back through my rear view mirror and replied, "GED AW FMY ASH YOU GOT DAN MUG DUH FART HER CLOCK STICKER!" while taking both hands off the wheel and shaking them vigorously in the air, as if I were conducting the New York Philharmonic.

By far the animals have it worst. In Connecticut, squirrels are bearing the brunt of this raging recession, but skunks, raccoons, opossums, foxes, deer, wild turkeys, and crows are definitely feeling the pain.

When I noticed the missing front section of grill on my husband's car, I didn't even have to ask. But I did anyway.

"So, er, what happened to your car?"

As he muttered something about hitting three animals in one day, including a chipmunk, a squirrel, and an enormous raccoon, and then attempted to justify the massacre by stating that he hadn't hit anything in a really, really long time (as if that made it alright), I suddenly had a revelation. A stroke of insight.

Local wildlife has thrown in the towel. Lost hope. Given up.

Look, I'm sure there are many hardworking and optimistic squirrels and chipmunks out there pounding the pavement from dawn to dusk every day trying to gather acorns and prepare for winter. Certainly, tragic accidents do occur.

But I'm now convinced that there are many more despondent skunks and turkeys than ever before, wandering out onto our roadways and staring down oncoming cars because, well, because they feel hopeless and forlorn. (Maybe they're watching too much Fox?)

Think about it. How many times since the market meltdown have you had to screech on your brakes to avoid hitting an animal? How many times have you swerved into oncoming traffic because a squirrel or bird just wouldn't budge? How many times have you hung your head in sorrow after hearing that familiar thud and seeing the fur-smeared splotch in your wake?

Listen, it may not be entirely your fault. Perhaps it's just a sign of the times - a sign that should remind all of us to slow down, breathe deeply, and maybe even pull over to talk that squirrel back onto the curb.

Great Holy Mecca: Saved by a Supermarket

You would have thought Elvis had been spotted buying toothpaste at CVS, or that aliens from Uranus had descended upon Friendly's for the sole purpose of handing out free ice cream to the masses.

Throngs of people swarmed about the center of my small town like sharks to a bucket of chum.


Was 50 Cent back in town to perform an impromptu concert in front of the local bank? Had Sarah Palin dropped by to say "howdy" and do her best Tina Fey impression? Was Oprah giving away cars or houses or big wads of cash?

No. It was something much, much better. Bigger. Something wonderful! Magical! Something that would prove to be altogether life changing for me and many other people.

My town's long-awaited brand new and glorious Stop & Shop had opened its doors for the very first time.

"Don't even bother coming here," my husband had said when I phoned him on my way home from work. "You'll never find a place to park - it's completely jammed."

He had taken the kids to this exciting grocery store grand opening celebration "to eat," and there he found himself sandwiched between every single one of our neighbors and their kids, as well as what appeared to be every single resident of our town.

Clearly, Stop & Shop was the place to be - as it's always been to me, though for different reasons.

Security Guard Extraordinaire Rob Merrill doing his best to keep the peace and prevent stampedes at the big event.

Long time readers of this blog (Hi Dad!) may recall my love-hate relationship with a store I used to affectionately refer to as "Stinky Stop & Shop." Sadly, I wasn't terribly complimentary of this small relic of a supermarket, well-known 'round these parts not so much for what it offered, but for what it lacked. Namely, fresh produce, fresh dairy products, fresh meat, fresh bread, fresh anything.

I shopped there anyways. It was too convenient not to, just a stone's throw from my front door. And then, of course, there was the lure of my bagger lady friend and her random acts of kindness. "You look pretty," she said to me once or twice, and that was enough to keep me coming back for more - shopping for compliments while filling my cart with wilted lettuce and expired cream cheese.

Even without her sporadic niceties, I always felt pretty at Stinky Stop & Shop, and since it's demolition several months ago, I have to admit that I have felt distinct pangs of loss.

Judging by the scene I witnessed at the gleaming new beacon of a store in its place - a modern day Mecca composed of rotisserie chicken, sushi rolls, fresh flowers, and warm sourdough bread - I wasn't the only one.

This was the biggest show of community I had ever seen in my town - more than our popular Memorial Day parade and even our local fire department's annual fourth of July fireworks display.


Shoppers young and old navigated new aisles on old familiar territory with wide eyes and wider smiles. Old ties were re-kindled and new friendships made through the shared experience of supermarket discovery. "Hey, did you see the expanded natural food selection? The deli department? The bank?"

With plates of baked ziti and cheese cubes in hand, neighbors toasted neighbors and our collective good fortune with dixie cups filled with free soda and sparkling apple cider. And cake. What's a celebration without a little cake?


It was like Christmas in October, and all of us had been blessed with 34,000 square feet of consumer paradise. Our ugly duckling of a supermarket had transformed into a beautiful swan.

And in a way, we did too.

Stop & Shop photos courtesy of my pal Gruppie Girl, a woman who's greener than grass, more eco-friendly than a happy face reusable hemp shopping bag, and able to leap tall piles of recyclables in a single bound (but only if she's wearing footwear constructed with organic bamboo. Thanks, Gruppie!

Bring on the Stupid

It's far surpassed "ruthless" in these suburbs lately, what with the economy imploding, stupid politics, child sex offenders moving into the neighborhood, old scabs being picked, people I know dying...maybe I should rename this space "Morose in the Ghetto"?

Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Today I took a break from stock market nosedives, cretinesque politicians' racist slurs, and the rest of the madness to delight in the presence of my kids - and the rest of the neighborhood. With the exception of my child sex offender neighbor - the guy with the unusual GPS ankle bracelet - my house has become a magnet for virtually all kids living within a 3/4-mile radius.

Have I mentioned how many kids live within a 3/4-mile radius of my house?

It's a lot, but you know, despite all the detritus splayed across my lawn and the wet leaves tracked throughout my living room, I would have it no other way. I love that kids feel welcome at my home, in my yard, up my trees. I love that they feel comfortable enough to sing at the top of their lungs on my front lawn, or play imaginative games on my back deck. I don't love the episodic squabbling and the screams and the mess, but I relish my bird's eye view.

I see and hear everything - from the way my kids react to confrontation to the way they belly laugh at absurdities. I witness live dramas as they unfold - a wounded baby bird is found, then "saved" by a cardboard box, then keels over and dies before a crowd. I watch as the group digs a hole and buries the bird they've named "Tweety" next to my garage. I am touched (if slightly annoyed) by the flowers from my surviving mums they've plucked and placed on Tweety's burial site alongside a Badminton "birdie" and a sign that says, "Tweety the Bird." They are clever, so I forget about the mums.

I am touched by the way my son wanders over to the burial site long after the crowd has dispersed, rearranges the "Tweety the Bird" sign, and stands there, paying his respects, for several minutes with his head hung low.

I am glad this is my yard. I am glad the neighborhood kids have chosen this place to be kids, because on the odd days I am home, I get to watch.

It's a beautiful thing. And beauty is restorative.

Today, after being forced to watch Weird Al Yankovic videos for far too long, my son looked up at me and said, " Mom, is Weird Al related to that tennis player you like?"

At that moment, my heart may well have skipped a beat.

"No, sweetie," I told him, "They're not related. But the fact that you remember Jelena Yankovic the tennis player makes me very, very happy."

He shrugged, and then we both watched Weird Al again and again and again. Much better than the alternatives, don't you think?

A Lightness of Being

It isn't fair. It isn't right. It's not the way things should be - should have been.

It just is.

The life of this Nancy, just like that of another Nancy I knew and loved, reminds me to live each day out loud.

Today, I will scream.

Rest in peace, Nancys. Rest in peace.

Dynamite's Lifetime Premiere: Tuesdays with Harold

"Anthropomorphism," my sister stated triumphantly, as if she were a contestant in a children's spelling bee and about to enunciate each letter of the word with confidence and bravado. "Um hmm. You heard me. Anthropomorphism."

Seeing as I was standing in the check-out line at the grocery store with my requisite four cans of dog food and all the fixings for make-it-yourself pizza, I thought it best to congratulate my sister for her "keen insight" and tell her that she "nailed it" - even though she was dead wrong.

A more correct word to describe the psychological behavior I may or may not have been exhibiting during our phone conversation just minutes earlier would be projection.

To "anthropomorphize" (if that's even a word) is to attribute human characteristics to a non-human being or thing. For example, if I said, "My cat Sugar rolled her eyes in disgust and embarrassment throughout the vice presidential so-called 'debate' due to a certain female candidate's sheer inability to intelligently or knowledgeably address even one issue of national regard," then I would be attributing human characteristics to my cat. An-thro-po-morph-ism.

However, if I said, "My cat Sugar is terribly despondent and afraid for the future of this great country after watching a winking politician be congratulated by the masses for her ability to sidestep direct questions and regurgitate scripted lines of gobbledy gook," then I would be projecting human thoughts and feelings onto my cat. Pro-jec-tion.

[My cat, mind you, would like to add that she is doubly disturbed by the media's kid-glove treatment of a certain female political candidate, but rather than belabor the issue until her fur stands on end, she'd rather curl up on the sofa with a good book while sipping a stiff gin martini - extra olives, por favor.]

Uncannily perceptive cats aside, I am superbly blessed to have a sister like I do - the kind who is quick to put me in my place when necessary [very, very rarely] and one who can restore my good humor with her unique and hilarious brand of snip and snark. She's a funny one, that Dr. No.

She's the kind of sister who can help you turn your life into a Lifetime movie, if only in your head.

"I see that your screenplay is coming along great," she says, snickering just a little after I tell her about my week, a week in which I revisited some very emotional memories, raw emotions surrounding the birth of my son, when inspired to do so by a Boston man I met. A very special man.

"It should be called, 'Tuesdays with Harold,'" she says, deadpan. "Make sure you get someone good to play me."

I can't help but laugh at my sister and my melodramatic self, even as tears filled my eyes just thinking about the unlikely connection I had with someone I met by happenstance, by fate of circumstance. In an instant, transported by this sage of a man, I morphed from small-talking social gadfly to deep-talking real person, sharing honest thoughts and painful memories about things that matter most in my life.

And it was this relatively brief moment of connection that prompted me this week to pry open the Pandora's box of emotion I had tucked away and press on the nerve a bit.

And interestingly enough, while I've been pressing on this ultra-sensitive nerve and allowing myself to embrace the fear I've swallowed over and over again, one of my son's local doctors, an ophthalmologist extraordinaire, made the suggestion that I might want to touch base once again with another ophthalmologist extraordinaire - seeing as it's been years. Five and a half years, to be exact. It's been five and a half years since this other ophthalmologist extraordinaire, a most masterful and kind man - a sage of a doctor, a Boston man - saved my son's left eye.

I didn't hesitate to call him, and curiously enough, he answered the phone.

"Of course I remember you," he said in his soft-spoken way, adding, "You're not easy to forget."

It was my interpretation of this line that caused my sister to search for the word to accurately describe what she thought I was doing. "What's it called when you attribute your own thoughts and feelings to someone else?" she asked. "Personification? Transference?"

I had just shared how touched I was by the thought that this special doctor remembered my son, no doubt because of the urgency and magnitude of his medical situation at the time. In my mind, he recognized his critical role in my son's life, knowing that my son's eye - his vision, his future - rested in his hands.

Not one for Lifetime movies herself, my sister suggested otherwise. "Look, you guys might have been 'not easy to forget' for other reasons, you know," she said. "Maybe your son soiled his diaper in the operating room and made a memorable mess, or maybe he cried too much? It sounds to me like you're just - what's the word? - you're applying your own feelings to him, and you could be way off."

Perhaps.

Perhaps I'm projecting. That's the word. Pro-ject-ing.

I guess I'll know for sure when this Boston man to whom we are all forever indebted first lays his eyes upon our now tall, rosy-cheeked, stringbean of a boy with wonderfully healthy, unique and special eyes - the boy he only knew as a chubby-cheeked blob of a toddler seeming lifetimes ago.

But one thing I already know for sure is that we wouldn't be re-connecting with this Boston man were it not for another Boston man, equally special, equally sage, who got me thinking and feeling again in the first place.

Yeah. Tuesdays with Harold it is.