tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140846282024-03-12T21:09:49.674-04:00Sometimes I just think funny thingsSo she says, "Shut up, you're always talking...?"
But in Italian it sounds much nicer. Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.comBlogger143125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-2038457880573518622013-06-08T19:26:00.001-04:002013-06-08T19:26:27.900-04:00So That Happened.Please disregard all previous content. It's trite and disturbing. <div><br></div><div>I've spent the last three years dreaming up riveting, quality content to share. </div><div><br></div><div>See also, I thought of something funny the other day, and it made me want to write again. </div><div><br></div><div>Stay tuned. It's gonna be epic.</div><div><br></div><div>Or at the very least, it won't make you throw up.</div><div><br></div><div>Or, will it?</div>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-21663545343562731612010-05-13T15:50:00.002-04:002010-05-13T16:06:23.008-04:00Don’t even get me STARTED on rude cashiers.<p>(Shhhhhh….)
<br /></p>
<br /><p>(Quietly now…)
<br /></p>
<br /><p>(**CRASH**)
<br /></p>
<br /><p>(What was that?...)
<br /></p>
<br /><p>(You knocked over the damn lamp, that's what.)
<br /></p>
<br /><p>(**sneaking in on tippy-toes, ever so quietly, so as not to call attention to the fact that I haven't written a thing in five months.**)
<br /></p>
<br /><p>(**leaning against the wall unobtrusively, whistling, trying to make you think I've been here the whole time.**)
<br /></p>
<br /><p>(**unsuccessfully.**)
<br /></p>
<br /><p>So my latest beef? Beef. Or, rather, grocery-related products.
<br /></p>
<br /><p>The persona I now assume upon returning home from any trip to the store, whether it's for nine bags of groceries or <span style="TEXT-DECORATION: line-through">ice cream</span> <span style="TEXT-DECORATION: line-through">cookies</span> flax-infused tofu bars, is that of a grumpy old woman. One who will drive 30 miles out of her way to save $2 on gas, one who complains about the noise, oh the noise, oh the noise noise NOISE NOISE. One whose voice rises to levels previously reserved for discussing war criminals, when ranting about the price of CEREAL.</p><p>In other words, my mother. </p><p>So, my mother (me) returns from the grocery store, mumbling under her breath about the price of groceries, and WORSE, how the manufacturers think we're IDIOTS, as if we're not going to NOTICE that every product in a cardboard box or plastic BAG has shrunk by at least 25%. BUT THEY'RE CHARGING THE SAME PRICE. </p><p>"Hey, folks, our prices have been the same since 1947!! We're here to save you money! (except the joke's on you--we're actually giving you 25% less product for the same price. More money for us…MWAH HAH HAH HAH HAH!!!) </p><p>This week, however, I returned home from the store, unpacked my [overpriced] groceries, and pulled out the package of chicken breasts to make fajitas. I cut it open and proceeded to slice them into strips. </p><p>Only, here's the thing, oh irony of ironies. These <span style="TEXT-DECORATION: line-through">boobies</span> babies were so huge, I felt like I should be carving them to serve with a dish of jellied cranberry sauce* and a side of family drama. I counted the number of breasts in the package, looked at the total weight, and after a lengthy mathematical thinking session complete with fingers, toes, and a calculator, deduced that these chicken breasts weighed, like, a pound each. </p><p>(once more, in caps, for emphasis) </p><p>A POUND EACH.</p><p>Aren't whole chickens, like, 3 ½ - 4 pounds altogether? So either these are some seriously giantess chickens (which would haunt my dreams) or these are normally-sized chickens who are really, really well-endowed. Raised by some perv farmer, to boot, who like his chickens to be 50% breast. </p><p>"…yyyyeeeeaaaaahhhh, girrrrll…have some more of this chicken feed…thaaaaat's right..." *creepy clucking noises* </p><p>In summation, food manufacturers: ripping us off, royally. Chicken farmers: weird freakos who raise unnaturally large chicken breasts.</p><p>Which, this week at $top & $hop, were $1.99 a pound!</p><p>**** </p><p>Manufacturers who get my thumbs-up this week? Bausch & Lomb, for putting out a clear, nay, <em>opaque</em> bottle of multi-purpose saline solution. It's salt water you can see! </p>
<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/S-xa-7M2TlI/AAAAAAAAAM8/iZa5pYo_2bA/s1600/renu.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470847684438281810" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/S-xa-7M2TlI/AAAAAAAAAM8/iZa5pYo_2bA/s400/renu.jpg" /></a>
<br /><p><span xmlns="">It's like having an ocean view every time I open my medicine cabinet! See? Even the toothbrush is excited!
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<br /><p><em>*jellied only, please. No whole cranberries allowed on Guwi's plate. </em></span></p>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-52977647978367025342009-12-30T12:29:00.003-05:002009-12-30T13:28:27.924-05:00Ornaments and HopeIs there any more hateful task than taking down Christmas decorations? And if you have a short memory, as I do, you forget that while having <em>two</em> Christmas trees in the house may look fabulous and festive and you can divide the ornaments so you have a kids' tree and a grown-up's tree (my husband would argue it's the kids' tree and Carolyn's tree), dismantling two trees is not twice the work, but actually five times more work than taking down one. This is an actual scientific fact, backed up by much science-y-type research. By me.<br /><br />Putting away Christmas ornaments is also, surprisingly, the one task at which I truly excel in the house. I've been collecting for a number of years, and each ornament is wrapped individually and packed away with precision. (Those of you who've ever been to my house may think to yourselves...hm. It's a shame she squanders all of her housekeeping energy to that one area...perhaps if she spread the wealth to other tasks throughout the year, there would be more of an overall benefit. And if you thought that, you would be correct.)<br /><br />I do find, though, that wrapping each ornament is a mindless task suitable for much soul-searching, especially at a time of year that practically begs for it. <em>(C'mon...it's almost New Year's! Don't you want to think about what you've done with your life this year? What you've achieved, what you haven't? What your goals are for next year? It's required! 'People' magazine says so!)</em><br /><em></em><br />I find myself wondering, Next time I take out these decorations, where will I be?<br /><br />Will I be unpacking them in the same house?<br /><br />Will I still be home full-time or will I be working outside-the-home?<br /><br />Will everyone I love still be here, still be happy and healthy and well?<br /><br />Will I still be happy and fulfilled? What can I do next year to ensure that I will be?<br /><br />What, for that matter, would I consider fulfilling, besides my terrific home life?<br /><br />Will I be depressed because I'll be (gulp) 40?<br /><br />Do I have any band-aids, because I just cut myself on the &*^% reindeer ornament?<br /><br />I realize I can't shake the tree for an answer, like some green, prickly magic eightball. Though seeing an ornament read 'Signs Point to Yes!' just as I'm wondering if I'll finally hit Powerball would make for some sweet New Year's dreaming.<br /><br />A lot of people use the phrase 'what a difference a year makes' and that couldn't be more true. I've had many years that have been unbelievably wonderful, and just one in particular that was particularly difficult to muddle through. I'm hesitant to discount an entire year as being terrible, even if there were some rotten times. I usually manage to count my many blessings, even during the low times.<br /><br />Though I have had an overall great year; my blessings of love, health, family, warmth and relative prosperity do not go unnoticed, there are a few people in my life who have had more than their fair share of obstacles and loss to contend with this year. I am an optimist, and I speak now to them in particular:<br /><br />Friday is a clean slate. The first of the month, the first of the year, and the first of a new decade. The turning of a calendar page does not guarantee an instant bright outlook, but I do believe that having a fresh start counts for something. For these people I love, who have suffered loss and heartbreak, my New Year's wish for you is that when you're unpacking <em>your</em> decorations next year, you feel peace. That you feel hope. That you reflect back on 2010 as the year with more good than bad, more happiness than tears, and a fuller, unbroken heart. I hope that, a year from now, you're reflecting back on 2010 as a year better than the last, in all of the ways that truly matter.<br /><br />And to <em>all</em> of my friends, I wish the same. I wish you food on your table, a roof over your head, love in your life and peace in your heart. I hope 2010 is a year of promise and fulfillment, and success on your journey, wherever you're headed.<br /><br />Happy New Year!Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-43066144633685346722009-11-13T09:29:00.009-05:002009-11-13T12:40:30.121-05:00A Sort of HomecomingI've had a constant eye twitch for the last three weeks.<br /><br />I've been at rehearsal every night this week till 11:00, which, for someone whose idea of a long night is tucking into her Snuggie for back-to-back tv viewing of Sons of Anarchy and Mad Men, has been exhausting. Muscles hurt that I didn't even remember I had.<br /><br />I wake up humming numbers from the show, which have been looping through my dreams all night. (And speaking of dreams, I had one that Justin Timberlake accidentally ripped my costume during my opening number, but was kind enough to repair it backstage with his sewing machine. Which he evidently travels with.)<br /><br />I had false eyelash glue stuck on my eyelid for most of yesterday.<br /><br />I haven't had a conversation with my husband in well over a week that's lasted longer than 15 minutes, at which point, my head drops to my chest in a puddle of drool.<br /><br />But. Tonight is <a href="http://www.theatreguildsimsbury.org/">opening night</a>. And that, my friends, is the big payoff for all of the madness that precedes it.<br /><br />It's been an adjustment getting my theatre groove back. At one time in my life, it was all I knew, both for amusement and social purposes. I knew every word to A Chorus Line and Les Mis. Life was divided into pre-show and post-show chunks of time, and I had a vast collection of tights, leg warmers, and detritus from previous productions: gloves full of confetti, a giant lollipop stapled to my wall, and dozens of programs signed by fellow castmembers, pledging eternal fanhood and friendship.<br /><br />Then came life, and my children, more precious treasures than the Oscar or Tony award I had dreamed of clinching for years. I hung up my character shoes <em>('hanging them up' is just a figure of speech--I think I lent them out. If you have them, I could really use them back) </em>put away my Stein's pancake sticks, and filed away the books of sheet music and boxes of cassettes. (Yes, cassettes. Shut up.)<br /><br />It had been awhile since I dreamed of the big time, and I was very happy performing in community theatre productions. It always felt like home to me: the smell of Aqua Net and musty costumes, fresh paint on sets, the tape spikes on the stage for positioning, opening night jitters and closing night tears and champagne. Friendships grew over long breaks between scenes during Hell Week, and there was cattiness and diva behavior, but always there was common ground, and a love for performing.<br /><br />I missed it. I missed the applause, the costumes, the makeup, the cameraderie, and the part of myself that thrived on all that wasn't dead, but was hibernating like a bear after Thanksgiving dinner. So last spring, I cowboyed up and went for an audition.<br /><br />And five months later, almost to the day, I'm sitting here on the morning of opening night, with the beginnings of a few jitters (could be coffee, could be jitters. Either way, the false eyelashes should wait until my hands are steady). We ran through the whole show last night for the first time. Watching the scenes I'm not in was such a thrill: the huge sets are truly magical, the spotlights hit their marks, and sitting in the audience just behind the live orchestra, seeing it the way as many as 900 people will see it tonight, gave me chills and left me a little verklempt. There are some astoundingly talented people on that stage, and I'm proud and humbled to work alongside them.<br /><br />But the biggest thrill of all? How excited my children are for me. They've been singing along with me for months, and now <em>they</em> know the whole show by heart. <em>(Apologies to my fellow castmembers if you hear two young children singing along with you. They know better, but you must admit: the music is tres catchy, non?)</em> My husband has been wonderfully patient and supportive of the long nights of rehearsal for the past few months, (even if he <em>did</em> watch Sons of Anarchy without me this week) and the first thing Sassy said when she woke up this morning was: "Mommy! It's here! It's opening night! I can't wait to see you on stage!"<br /><br />*tear*<br /><br />I've heard it said that you can't go home again, but you can find a new house, and bring some of your old furnishings with you. There are features about the new house you'll love, and there are things you'll miss like crazy about the old house, so they'll just have to live on in your memory and a few snapshots. But at some point, the new house is decorated, your pictures are up and there are lightbulbs in every socket, the kitchen stuff is put away and you've found a home for all those random boxes that you packed haphazardly just before you moved. And one day you unlock the door and walk in, take a look around at everything you've created, everything where it should be, and it hits you.<br /><br />You <em>are</em> home.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-39416655864029804782009-10-30T15:49:00.003-04:002009-10-30T16:10:06.937-04:00A True Halloween Story.Did I ever tell you about the time I went to a cemetery on Halloween? There were no cheap plastic tombstones from Target, no mummies wandering around with toilet paper dangling from each decaying extremity, no strobe lights or wailing moans or creaky doors swinging on hinges.<br /><br />There was none of that. But on October 31, 2001, I went to a cemetery to attend my father’s burial.<br /><br />I know! Didn’t see that coming, did you?<br /><br />In hindsight, I don’t think any of us much cared about the irony of a Halloween burial and hanging out in a cemetery (except perhaps my nephew, who normally celebrates his October 31 birthday with wild! abandon! Buuuuuuttt, that particular year he had to go to a cemetery to bury his grandfather. Happy Birthday!)<br /><br />Because my father was, like, insanely Catholic, he had two funeral masses. Actually, he had two because there was one in the town where we grew up, and one down on the island where he and my mother had lived full time for five years. I believe there were about seven priests in attendance between both masses (as I said, he was seriously Catholic) so we joked that it was his assurance of getting straight to heaven—no ‘do not pass GO, do not collect $200’ for him. Like a VIP pass for the hereafter.<br /><br />We had his first funeral in our old church where most of us received a variety of sacraments over the years, then a few days later headed down to the island for the second mass and burial.<br /><br />Only it was Halloween. And the really creepy thing? Either the funeral home didn’t provide services in locations that you had to take a ferry to get to, or my mom had decided that it wasn’t necessary. We’d followed in my father’s DIY tradition for everything from fixing plumbing to painting to electrical wiring, so why on earth couldn’t we just take care of the burial? I’m surprised duct tape wasn’t employed at any point.<br /><br />(It should be noted here, for practicality’s sake, that my father’s earthly remains were in a smaller, hand-carried box. Not the six-foot-long variety. Just to be clear.)<br /><br />On a blustery October morning, we drove the hour from our hometown to the ferry district, and hopped on the ferry with a number of attendees who were along for the second service. Some people took their cars, some didn’t. We carpooled to the church. All in all, it was a tremendously non-traditional funeral procession. There may or may not have been a Carling Black Label or two consumed, but if there had been (and I’m not saying there was) it was purely in honor of my Dad, and his favorite beverage. A toast, if you will.<br /><br />The funeral itself was fairly typical, with my brothers sharing tremendous words of love, humor, and respect. At one point, my sister had a coughing fit, and I had a baby bottle full of clean water to mix with formula for my then Baby B. When she really started convulsing I grabbed the bottle, took off the lid and thrust it at her to calm her cough, and when she realized she was drinking out of a baby bottle, we both got a first-class case of the giggles. Which no church service in our family would be complete without.<br /><br />After church, we made our way to the cemetery, and with the priest’s help, presented my father’s remains to the earth in the most dignified way possible. When the final words had been spoken, my brother produced a bag of peanuts in the shell and passed them out. If you knew my father, you knew peanuts were his favorite snack. He’d sit on the beach for hours, reading the paper, listening to the Red Sox, and cracking and eating peanuts, leaving a sports-bar-like carpet of discarded peanut shells at his feet.<br /><br />People looked a little confused upon receiving a peanut at a burial, but after following my brother’s lead, proceeded to crack them, eat them, and gently toss the shells into the shallow grave. Some did it self-consciously, some did it thoughtfully and meaningfully (at least, with as much meaning as one can convey with a peanut), and some, like the eight of us and my mother, did it tearfully. What a bizarre, unconventional tribute, but it couldn’t have been more fitting.<br /><br />We started toward the American Legion for my Dad’s official send-off, and my brothers very quietly called aside the older few of their sons and nephews, and produced a few shovels. As I said, the funeral home had not accompanied us to the burial, and there was work to be done. In the tradition of my father, who’d woken up these same men since they were boys with a loud, Marine Corps bellow and the passing along of a lawn-tending implement of some kind to start the yard project of the day, my brothers handed shovels to their sons and they set about burying my father. Peanut shells and all.<br /><br />After the American Legion, after the friends had taken the ferry home, we went back to my mom’s house. My ever-practical sisters produced some home-baked Halloween goodies and candy and started costuming their children. I’d bought a costume for my little guy, only ten months old then, and began to dress him as a little green dinosaur. My throat tightened as I remembered going shopping for the costume with my mother the week before. I’d dropped her off, showed my Dad the costume, he’d had a quiet chuckle about it, and I headed home. It was the last conversation I would ever have with him.<br /><br />Halloween has morphed into a huge, commercial holiday similar in scale to the commercialization of Christmas, only instead of brightly colored festive lights, reindeer and a jolly man in a red suit, people decorate their homes like graveyards. Rotting tombstones, ghostly hands clawing out of the ground, bats circling overhead and blood and gore galore. Don’t get me wrong: I love Halloween. It’s still one of my favorite holidays, and we do the whole pumpkin-carving/costumed trick-or-treating thing with our kids. I love horror movies, too, and I relish curling up with a good scary book.<br /><br />It’s just…I’ve been in a cemetery on Halloween. It wasn’t scary, or ghoulish, or creepy, or a scream-inducing thrill-a-minute. It was a first-class bummer. I was there for a funeral, just like every other person who’s ever had a legitimate reason to go to a cemetery. It was surreal and weird and heartbreaking. Everyone’s entitled to their own decorating style, but you just won’t ever see my front lawn turned into a cemetery for the sake of entertainment or esthetics.<br /><br />Peanut shells though? That would be a totally different story.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-29894829760882828622009-10-16T07:56:00.003-04:002009-10-16T08:35:41.587-04:00In which she rends my heart in twoWhen Big B was on the last train out of Toddlerhood (just west of Clarksville), I conjured up this little piece of interactive prose:<br /><br />"Are you a baby?" I'd ask.<br /><br />"No!" My gangly child would answer.<br /><br />"Are you <em>my</em> baby?" I'd prod.<br /><br />"Yes!" He would answer gleefully.<br /><br />He still plays along, knowing instinctively, I think, that if he ever said, <em>'Mooooommmm!'</em> or 'Uhhhhh, yeah. I don't think so,' it would be the verbal equivalent of cutting my heart out with a spoon (y'know, it's dull, it'll hurt more). He always ends with a tight hug.<br /><br />My children are merely trained actors in my own little scripted family drama.<br /><br />Sassy, of course, plays along too. And because she's just a squishy ball of squishy sweetness, she usually ad libs an extra little morsel of verbal love. Sometimes it's 'Yes, <em>always</em>!' or 'Yes! And you're my <em>best</em> mommy!"<br /><br />Straight from Central Casting, that one is.<br /><br />This morning we were snuggling in front of the fire, watching a few flurries tango outside the window (IN OCTOBER) and I prompted her:<br /><br />"Are you a baby?"<br /><br />"NO!"<br /><br />"Are you <em>my</em> baby?"<br /><br />"YES!"<br /><br />And because she hates me and wants me to spend the entire day weeping, she added,<br /><br />"I will ALWAYS be your baby. Even when you're in HEAVEN."Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-1845159614663053292009-10-13T09:59:00.006-04:002009-10-13T11:09:08.740-04:00Blame it on the rainI let the babies sleep in this morning, recovering from the hardcore partying they did yesterday at the local fall festival PLUS looking for Halloween costumes. Those two are wild! Must hide the liquor and car keys.<br /><br />After dropping Big B off at school, I looked in my rearview and Sassy was staring out at the rain. "Whatcha thinkin' about, SuperSass?"<br /><br />"Oh nothing. As you can see, I have a scratchy throat too, like Big B. Also, I was staring at the rain." She continued to watch the drops, transfixed.<br /><br />Rain even makes the little ones withdraw; thoughtful and melancholy. One of my clearest childhood memories was me sitting in the front seat of my parent's station wagon (very likely also not wearing a seatbelt, but we already know that the 70's were the decade of living on the edge), lulled into near-sleep by the rhythm of the windshield wipers. I watched as a drop of water started gliding slowly south, absorbing each drop it touched along the way, until finally it was a shimmering, amoeba-like blob, only to be splashed violently into the street by the wipers, in the midst of their snow-angel arc.<br /><br />Fall rain has the power to cleanse, to settle my chatty five-year-old into contented silence, to tamp down the leaves into the beginnings of compost. It grants permission to withdraw into contemplative stillness, to have another cup of tea or coffee or cider, to wrap a sweater tightly around, warding off the chill. Unlike summer rain, which is usually greeted with disappointment over ruined plans and soggy paper plates at a barbeque, fall rain seems expected, part of the deal, making us almost thankful. <em>'At least it's not colder,'</em> we say. <em>'Can you imagine how much snow this would be if it were colder?'</em><br /><em></em><br />Fall rain. Permissable melancholy, accompanied by hot beverages and a warm sweater.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-39336746200419383462009-10-08T09:23:00.004-04:002009-10-08T09:42:13.313-04:00It's a good thing she's got those soft earsWhy is it that my dog won't eat the kibble that falls on the floor when I'm feeding her? I've seen what you eat, mutt, and trust me: that kibble that's been tainted by *ew! Floor germs!* is sterile as an unopened bag of cotton balls compared to the list of things you've put in your mouth. (Which, incidentally, does include an unopened bag of cotton balls.)<br /><br />I don't need to be specific. Dog owners will understand. Non-dog owners, well...there's really no reason you need know details. You're better off. Here, Jules will explain. <em>(Warning: Jules explains in a very colorful, NSFW kinda way. But he does have a point. Just not a point you'd want to make to your children or grandmother.)<br /></em><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/c0zJSgHDnpw&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/c0zJSgHDnpw&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-55065081453916175902009-10-06T08:32:00.003-04:002009-10-06T08:46:18.611-04:00Best. Birthday. Present. Evar.This birthday began with an extra half-hour of sleep and a delicious breakfast in bed. John packed our adorable kids off to school so I could wrap my hands around my warm coffee mug in peace.<br /><br />I settled in front of the fire for a little pre-shower facebooking. There's someone with whom I share a birthday and I was determined to get to her first (I did! I rule!). John came out and started tying his shoes, and I started complaining. Like I do.<br /><br />"Y'know, this would be complete if my arms were covered. I'm a little chilly--too bad I don't have a Snuggie! I'd write on facebook, 'I wish I had a Snuggie' but I'm afraid someone would take me literally and drop one off today."<br /><br />John laughed, we said our goodbyes, and he headed out to the car. A moment later, he came back in.<br /><br />"Shut your eyes and hold out your hands!" Always willing to be blindly showered with gifts, I obliged.<br /><br />When I opened my eyes, I was holding a box. and in that box?<br /><br />A Snuggie. Hilarity ensued.<br /><br />"I didn't want you to think I ran out and bought you one today!" As we were doubled over laughing, it suddenly occurred to me to ask,<br /><br />"Honey, this is an ironic gift, right? Or are we as-seen-on-tv shoppers now?"<br /><br />He just smiled. "Happy Birthday, honey!"<br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Btw, Snuggies? Totally rock.</span></em> <em><span style="font-size:78%;">I'm just sayin'.</span></em>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-92122836417640270952009-09-25T13:56:00.006-04:002009-09-25T14:46:09.423-04:00The reasons are many, but here's just one.<a href="http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/MakingStridesAgainstBreastCancer/MSABCFY10NewEngland?px=12853805&pg=personal&fr_id=19920"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 216px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 94px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385477919758795250" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/Sr0PonDuwfI/AAAAAAAAAMs/BJb_NOUttmc/s400/strides.jpg" /></a> She was loud, and effusive, and believed in tight, lengthy, full-body hugs. When she talked to you, she gave you her full attention, and often grabbed your arm when she responded. She loved hosting and attending loud, chaotic family holidays, and when she entered a room, you knew it. You saw her (the female version of my Dad), you heard her, and there was no mistaking it because she was swooping in for a big, wet kiss: Aunt Barbara's here!<br /><br />She was a sister, a wife, a cousin, an aunt, and a mother to five children. Then she was a mother to four. The loss of her son when he was eighteen changed her permanently, but years later, she'd still grab your arm, enfold you in the full-body hug (even tighter now) and swoop in for the big, wet smooch.<br /><br />My father's older and only sister, Aunt Barbara was a common fixture in my home growing up. She lived two hours away so I'm sure we didn't get together as often as I think we did, but I remember being kept awake many a night by raucous laughter, wine-soaked singing and bad guitar-playing (usually to songs they'd made up). Old pictures usually depict she, my uncle, and my parents holding up beer bottles or wine glasses, grinning, arms around each other and various string instruments. Pictures of we the cousins had the same grins (beer bottles likely were hidden under the table). Remembering my aunt and her loving family laughing at our house or theirs always intermingled with memories of going to my cousin's funeral and the years that followed. Happiness mixed right in with shock and sadness.<br /><br />She went on with her life; they all did. She lived to see many more years and lots of grandchildren. Then came the breast cancer diagnosis, and like a houseguest overstaying her welcome, that cancer moved right in and took over. As if she hadn't been dealt her fair share of sadness and tragedy.<br /><br />They had moved to California by then for a change of scenery, so I was unable to see her in those final days or even go to her service with my parents. If she was anything like she was in the old days, she was thankful for the good days she had, and was still grabbing arms for emphasis and hugging as tightly as she was able.<br /><br />She was my aunt, and she was loud, funny, and full of life. I'll be thinking of her when I walk on October 18th, channeling just a bit of her joie de vivre.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-14997987695319626102009-09-23T09:48:00.004-04:002009-09-23T10:14:09.154-04:00Best. Compliment. Ever.To review the U2 concert would be redundant and totally predictable. I could have reviewed it before I went. "The concert was AWESOME. The end."<br /><br />Can I have "Captain Obvious" for $200, Alex?<br /><br />So I will refrain.<br /><br />Having bought the obligatory t-shirt (and not to segue into a whole thing here, but here's an excerpt from the Concert T-shirt Planning Meeting: "Hey, I heard this whole 'tissue-weight' tee thing is really taking off. It costs 1/3 as much from that third-world country to make them, so one t-shirt will only cost us $.000001 cent to make! If we charge $40 per shirt, we'll be making $39 and...ummm...a lot of change <em>[remember math is not my magic talent]</em>! And tissue weight is more stylish so people will actually think it's fashion instead of a re-usable kleenex with a logo on it! Cool?" "Cool!" the executives chorus in unison. Digressing here? Yes I think so.)<br /><br />Please to digress.<br /><br />SO, having bought the oligatory t-shirt, I was wearing it last night (I have this crazy thing about wearing clothes I've purchased. I know! I'm a trendsetter.) and said to my son, fishing for compliments as I'm wont to do, "So, B, what do you think? Do I look like a rockin' mom?"<br /><br />Without a trace of irony or sarcasm in his voice, "You <em>always </em>look like a rockin' Mom.*"<br /><br /><em>*tear*</em><br /><br />Even though I fished for it, it didn't make it any less sweet, catching a good one.<br /><br /><em>*This obviously excludes the times when I wear the knee-length, thick, dirty-dishwater-colored sweater I throw on when I go out to the bus. My Sexy Sweater, as John calls it**.</em><br /><br /><em>**it's not Sexy at all. Unlike my son, he is, in fact, employing the clever use of irony. Just to be clear***.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>***Says Captain Obvious.</em>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-45119237855377386072009-09-14T09:21:00.007-04:002009-09-14T10:13:12.851-04:00Who's Counting? Oh, right. I AM.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/Sq5NZXEZIgI/AAAAAAAAAMc/1XBNgs0PbKw/s1600-h/earlydays.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 98px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381323702838829570" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/Sq5NZXEZIgI/AAAAAAAAAMc/1XBNgs0PbKw/s400/earlydays.jpg" /></a>I would hereby like to amend my previously-stated definition of <a href="http://guwisays.blogspot.com/2009/03/happy-u2-week-everyone.html">U2 week</a>. There are, in fact, TWO U2 weeks in a year. (there would be multiple U2 weeks, but I have a mortgage and a recently acquired car payment.)<br /><br />The first U2 week is the one in which they release a new album and you can find them everywhere without even trying. Huzzah, U2 week!<br /><br />The second U2 week is the week leading up to the day on which I POSSESS TICKETS TO SEE THEM. (MAD props to my ticket connection--you know who you are.)<br /><br />I count down the days, and eventually, the hours. I play U2, and only U2, in heavy rotation. (It's been in <em>moderately</em> heavy rotation for the last six weeks, and the recently acquired car has now been temporarily christened Bonomobile.) I conjure wildly preposterous scenarios in which I meet him, or get pulled up on stage, or sing with him, or bask in his serenades to <em>me,</em> or all of the above<em>.</em> (None of these Utopian hallucinations depict me simply enjoying the show. That's a <em>foregone conclusion</em>.)<br /><br />I behave, in short, like the 16-year-old I was when I first saw them. (minus the big hair, parachute pants, and <em>Choose Life</em> t-shirt.) There are a few distinct differences between 16-year-old hero-worship, and that of a <span style="font-size:78%;">[<em>omitted to avoid undue stress to someone whose birthday is rapidly approaching</em>]</span>-year-old. For one, I've eliminated the whole "I will totally meet Bono soon and he'll fall madly in <em>love</em> with me and we'll sing duets together and I will bake APPLE PIES all the time for Edge, Adam and Larry and it will be, <em>like</em>, TOTALLY AWESOME." As I've grown a little wiser and more realistic, this seems somewhat <em>unlikely</em> to ever actually happen. I don't know if the guys in the band even <em>like</em> apple pie, and it might also seem, you know, <em>bad form</em>, to my husband. WITH WHOM I AM MADLY IN LOVE. In case there was any doubt.<br /><br />The other thing that's a little different about being a Serious Fan in my thirties vs. my teens (and yes, I prefer Serious Fan to Crazy Stalker, if you please)...okay, I can't think of anything else. I have eliminated the desire to become Bono's muse. Otherwise, it's completely the same. (Excepting the mortgage and car payment.)<br /><br />So, for the second time this year, Happy U2 Week!!! Apologies if you're at a stoplight next to me and I shatter your windows with the sheer artistry that is Adam Clayton's bass, if I interrupt you at Stop and Shop, finger in the air, because I hear <em>'With or Without You'</em> on the muzak, or if you are my husband or children and are just. Damn. Sick. Of. U. 2. Which, if you are? A POX ON YOU.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/Sq5NgNinudI/AAAAAAAAAMk/MqQOraN8Q84/s1600-h/u2inbarcelona13sh_640.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 268px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381323820540344786" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/Sq5NgNinudI/AAAAAAAAAMk/MqQOraN8Q84/s400/u2inbarcelona13sh_640.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>Six days, and counting. </div><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>photos from www.U2.com</em></span>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-41211501390548235512009-09-02T11:06:00.002-04:002009-09-02T11:30:49.396-04:00The Second DaySo I'm past the first day of school. I've been dreading that day for five and a half years, since Sassy was born, and suddenly it's come and gone. I've written previously on other <a href="http://guwisays.blogspot.com/2005/09/turn-around-and-youre-two-turn-around.html">first</a> <a href="http://guwisays.blogspot.com/2005/09/turn-around-and-youre-two-turn-around.html">days</a>, but for some reason this day, the first day of kindergarten for my youngest child, the last first day, if you will, was particularly hard.<br /><br />Rather than sharing my thoughts on the first day of school, which could be summed up in three words: tearful, exciting, and tearful, I stopped this morning to consider: The Second Day of School.<br /><br />Because it's all over at that point, isn't it? There will never again, at least in this academic year, be another First Day of School. Now it's just...school. Routine. The day to day. The Nitty Gritty.<br /><br />I was out last night at bedtime and upon returning, asked John how the kids did while I was out. First day of school excitement and all.<br /><br />"Well," he said, "Sassy gave me this big sigh at bedtime and said, 'Dad, I <em>really</em> have to go to bed now, I've had a <em>long</em> day. I had <em>school</em> this morning, then I <em>played</em>, then I ate <em>dinner</em>, and I have a <em>lot</em> of work to do tomorrow.'" Already embracing the routine of life, that one.<br /><br />But what about us? The ones who are <em><strong>Left Behind</strong></em>. (Apologies if this is starting to sound like some Armageddon-laced diatribe. I'm going in a different direction here, I promise.) When Big B was a wee bebe, I struggled emotionally with leaving him at day care, as did nearly every new mom I've ever met. I think it took me two or three weeks to not cry on the way to work after dropping him off every day. And my heart tore a little bit when I realized he finally just...got used to it. I didn't want him to get used to it, at least on the inside. I wanted to know that somewhere, in his four-month-old (obv brilliant, this is my son we're talking about) brain, he knew that this day care gig wasn't so bad, but that he really would rather be home with me, playing, taking walks, and being silly. I wanted him to <em>tell</em> me that. To reassure me, 'of course, Mother, this place is safe and warm and they take good care of me, but it's just not as good as being home with you, because that really is the best.' He was happy and content when I dropped him off every day, and although that made it easier on me, somewhere deep inside I craved the satisfaction of knowing he hated it too.<br /><br />My children love school, and for that I am so, so thankful. We have an unbelievable public educational system in our town, so add another point to the thankfulness scoreboard. I believe it is a safe learning environment in which the teachers and staff are committed to giving my children the best education municipal tax money can buy. My two clambered onto the bus today with bursting enthusiasm and smiles, not looking back, not crying (therefore not ripping my still-beating heart right out of my chest for which I am <em>truly</em> thankful).<br /><br />I just like to think, in some corner of their brains, behind the letters and numbers and geography and new friends and snacktime, that they're missing me. Just a little bit.<br /><br />And that they never get too used to it.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-67859770058632188402009-08-09T12:21:00.003-04:002009-08-09T12:42:06.764-04:00'Tis a gift to be SimpleI love that we have such great friends who can come over for a Saturday night rib throwdown, and, upon leaning in for a hello hug, are told, "You might not want to get too close, I didn't shower today," and they respond, "That's okay, neither did we."<br /><br />I love that when someone is sick, whether serious or not-as-much, the calls and emails immediate start flooding in with 'what can I do' in the subject heading. They offer dinners, babysitting, carpooling or a sympathetic ear, and not only do they offer, they come through. That's just how my friends roll. <br /><br />I love that without going further than 10 miles from our home, we can run into old friends, new friends, dear friends, re-kindled friends, kindergarten teachers, and a sister or two. Clearly, Stop and Shop is the new Studio 54. <br /><br />I love that my sister lives just down the street, and she, her husband, or either of her two children are likely to be passing through our home at any given time for borrowed sweatshirts, shared leftovers, babysitting, fun new treats or [attempting to] borrow a large piece of equipment. I used to fear the drop-in, now I can't remember what life was like without it.<br /><br />I love mundane errands in the center of town. There's something so satisfying about hitting the post office, the drug store, the bank, the grocery, the consignment shop, and the library without traveling more than 1/2 mile between destinations.<br /><br />I used to love living in the city, but I'm a small-town girl at heart. And I love that.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-41566366025788641562009-08-04T16:43:00.012-04:002009-08-04T17:41:08.274-04:00The New Phone Book's Here! The New Phone Book's Here!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/Snif8QXUAAI/AAAAAAAAAMU/IFeiBSYJOxU/s1600-h/bookCover_home.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366214813545660418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 318px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_l8qdjLNmwVc/Snif8QXUAAI/AAAAAAAAAMU/IFeiBSYJOxU/s400/bookCover_home.jpg" border="0" /></a>I was saving that title for the day when I <em>received</em> my <a href="http://dannyevansbooks.com/">new favorite book</a>, but evidently the Postal Service has better things to do than deliver it to my house today. HowEVer, I wanted to convey my excitement(!!!) that <a href="http://dannyevansbooks.com/about-danny.php">Danny Evans'</a> new book, <a href="http://dannyevansbooks.com/about-the-book.php"><em>Rage Against the Meshugenah</em> </a>comes out today, and you should all head straight to your favorite <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rage-Against-Meshugenah-Takes-Balls/dp/0451227115/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1224949459&sr=8-1">purveyor of bookes</a> and pick up a copy.<br /><div></div><br />Since I'm not one of the select few who received an advance copy (I won't hold it against you, Danny, but don't think I won't be bitter and remember that when MY book comes out...just sayin')*, this recommendation is based on my having been a faithful reader of his blog for the past few years. And that said? As soon as you finish his book (or at the very least, <a href="http://www.borders.com/online/store/TitleDetail?sku=0451227115">order it</a>), go to his <a href="http://www.dadgonemad.com/">blog</a> and familiarize yourself with his archives. Especially <a href="http://www.dadgonemad.com/2005/12/10_minutes_and_.html">this post</a>. And <a href="http://www.dadgonemad.com/2009/07/her.html">this one</a>. And <a href="http://www.dadgonemad.com/2006/08/bombs_away_but_.html">this one</a>.<br /><div></div><br />I'm a little biased, I realize, when it comes to being drawn to his writing. He has a boy and a girl, I have a boy and a girl. He has a hot wife, my husband has a hot wife. He battled depression, and some of the people I love most in this world have as well<br /><div></div><br />But. Be assured that even if you're none of the above, if you at least possess a shred of a sense of humor and the ability to read, you won't be disappointed. This guy is one of the funniest and best writers I've ever come across, and oh! added bonus: he has a heart, and a conscience.<br /><div></div><br />So what are you waiting for??? <em>Go buy the book!!!!</em><div></div><br /><div>And Danny, if you're reading this, of <em>course</em> I'll send you an advance copy of my book. As soon as I find a publisher. And an agent. And actually write a book. In fact, you can haz two!)</div>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-26069727180317135962009-07-27T09:28:00.007-04:002009-07-27T10:37:33.766-04:00Armageddon ItIs it just me, or are things just scarier in the middle of the night?<br /><br />I have, on occasion, and only under extreme duress (read: hormonally challenged, only that's BS b/c it happens all the time) exhibited <a href="http://guwisays.blogspot.com/2005/07/its-twister.html">paranoid behavior</a>. But if it's the middle of the night, especially when I'm woken from a sound sleep, the fear factor is ratcheted up to 97.3 on the Richter Scale, a unit of measurement which I've just made up, having no basis in scientific fact whatsoever.<br /><br />What was I saying?<br /><br />During daylight hours, an unusual noise might make me hit pause on my stories, put down my bon-bons and go, "Hm. I wonder what that was? I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for that," and continue to go about my [very important] business. That same innocuous noise at 2:00am? The answer is in multiple choice form: a) Very, <em>very</em> bad people are breaking into the house and will inflict all manner of bodily harm on me and mine, b) Armageddon, basically, c) The sky is falling! the sky is falling! in manner of Chicken Little, or d) all of the above. Just ask John how many times I've clawed <em>him</em> in the back (not that way, you pervs) when I've heard, like, the <em>cat</em> clawing the couch. From a sound sleep, it sounds like some Jabbathehutt-sized, warted, drooling sea monster somehow managed to stay alive without benefit of its usual watery depths to track <em><strong>me</strong></em> down, and is flipper-flopping its way up the stairs to get at my peacefully sleeping children.<br /><br />Naturally occurring weather patterns are not immune to my impaired judgement. In fact, they rank right up there on my list, and just because they're out to get the entire Eastern Seaboard and not only me gives me no comfort in the wee hours.<br /><br />So despite the fact that I had a perfectly gorgeous, lovely weekend at the beach, frolicking, drinking, eating and frolicking some more, the bipolar weather habits of my region decided to hit us with crazy loud scary storms each night. How thoughtful! you might think of the Weather. Giving you the storms in the middle of the night, clearing the way for warm, sunny, beach weather by day? What a perfect scenario.<br /><br />Which, yeah, totally perfect, unless you actually pull a muscle doing the 3:00am 'duck and cover.' The first night we were there, the wind kicked up with such colossal force that I was entirely sure that there was a category 5 hurricane going on, and they weren't able to classify it until <em>after</em> we went to bed, and it was going to take the house down and we were all going to die. Or, the huge tree right next to my window was going to crash down on only me, which momentarily made me consider curling up [hiding] in bed with my kids. Or, the wind would shatter the glass and send ginormous shards flying at my eyeballs. Or, the hurricane would be so catastrophic, it would simply annihilate the entire island, Atlantis-style.<br /><br />Etc.<br /><br />So, of course, the night was spent tossing, turning, and thinking up scenarios more ridiculous than the last, all ending with a flattened house and no Guwi. And the next morning?<br /><br />Good day, Sunshine! So we went to the beach.<br /><br />The next night as I was drifting off to dreamland, I actually verbalized the following (to myself, duh, I didn't want to jinx anything): at least there won't be a storm keeping me up tonight so I can get a good night's sleep. And God laughed. And sent the worst, most cataclysmic thunder and lightning storm I've heard in, oh, EVER, down on my wee, previously sleeping head.<br /><br />John's favorite was when I was blindly making my way back from the bathroom at crazy dark-o'clock because we had lost power (again!) and CRASH! BANG BANG KA <span style="font-size:180%;">BOOM!!! </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Illuminated only by a flash of blinding lightning, I might have, just maybe, violently crashed onto the bed in the fetal and pulled the covers over in one swift [clawing, clumsy] movement. And whimpered. Hence, the duck and cover.<br /><br />Thankfully, as each day dawned sunny and new, my night terrors faded. Sam Adams Summer also helped me gain a little perspective (and four extra pounds). Frolicking helped, too.<br /><br />Back in my own bed last night, with the window unit in our bedroom tempering the humidity in manner of meat locker, I slept the sleep of the peaceful, burrowed under my down comforter, content in the knowledge that all was right in the world. I was safe, cozy, comfortable, and getting a great night's sleep.<br /><br />And woke up to a downed tree in my backyard.<br /><br />The moral is? If I sleep through it, it can't possibly be that bad.</span>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-69910599019292276352009-07-18T09:37:00.002-04:002009-07-18T10:12:50.452-04:00End of an Era.There are some people in this world that demand a high level of respect. Their actions, their demeanor, their backstory. You hear them speak and you think, damn. What's he got that other people are lacking?<br /><br />My father was one of those people. Walter Cronkite was another.<br /><br />I didn't know Walter Cronkite, of course. Never met him. I would have loved to, and I'm sure he tops the list in our collective unconscious of 'person I'd most like to have dinner with, living or dead.'<br /><br />My earliest memory of Walter Cronkite was when I about four years old, and living in my old house. I was sitting on the floor in our family room, and I said to my mother, "If Daddy couldn't be my Daddy for some reason, can <em>he</em> be my Daddy?" Which I'm sure was an awful thing for a mother to hear, but I know I meant no disrespect. I just meant, hey, Dad's a great guy and all, but this guy's pretty cool too, no? (For the record, I also asked the same thing about Captain Kangaroo. No idea why the temporary obsession for having back-up Dads, and tv ones at that. I was four. I was probably eating paste.)<br /><br />There's not a single journalist or anchor in the modern world who inspires the trust and respect Mr. Cronkite did. Not a single one. The news world has changed along with the rest of the world--'Can I have trash reporting for $200, Alex?' Everyone gets breaking news one minute after it happens, and nobody cares whether the source is trustworthy (or whether the news itself is even newsworthy, a la Jon and Kate and Paris and Britney). We don't have to wait for the evening news to find out what happened during the day, we're constantly wired into our computers, our phones, we're twittering, we're facebooking, there's not a news story that breaks that we're not instantly informed of. The messages are everywhere, and the source doesn't really matter. (Sorry, Katie Couric and Brian Williams, but it's true.)<br /><br />It was different with Mr. Cronkite. He was our source of important stories, he was our comfort when the stories were troubling, and I'm sure the reason why I wanted him to be my backup Dad was that he was gentle and trustworthy and honest. All qualities my father possessed.<br /><br />When a dear president was gunned down in cold blood, his impartial reporting did not prevent him from being overcome with grief and wiping away a tear. When a rocket shot into space, he broke from his usual decorum to cheer them on. He was a gentleman and a professional, and he was one of a kind.<br /><br />I miss my Dad every day, even now, almost eight years later. I'd never begin to compare losing my beloved father with the death of a man I'd never met who just happened to do an important job well, with dignity and decorum. He wasn't my father, and though it's sad to know he's gone, I won't grieve for Mr. Cronkite, national treasure though he was. It's not my place to.<br /><br />Still. It was nice to know he was out there.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-79371813444728332462009-07-13T18:00:00.005-04:002009-07-13T23:55:06.954-04:00You won't mistake this for a Dr. Seuss storyNot to belabor the category of '<a href="http://guwisays.blogspot.com/2009/07/play-in-one-act-question-of-licking.html">Kids Say the Darndest Things That Sound Dirty But Aren't Meant To Be'</a>....<br /><br />We've had this cute little birdy bonking into our window the last week or so. He's yellow (or a citrusy green--we debate this point. Endlessly.) and he likes to sit on the arched support for our new honeysuckle bush. He's very tiny, kind of finch-like and for some reason he likes to fly full speed at our window, repeatedly. Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! Silly birdy! Bonk! Bonk! Bonk!<br /><br />The kids are ridiculously amused by this bird, and at least once a day we catch him bonking into the window. Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! I'm also amused by this, but more because I'm cruel, and I'm really not a bird person. They frighten me, if I'm being perfectly honest. (The first time it happened, I actually hit the dirt because I looked up and this thing was flying right at my head. The fact that there was a barrier between it and me, preventing it from burrowing into my hair and nesting there didn't matter. It was still a bird, and it was flying right at my head.)<br /><br />Because this is a living thing that has made a repeat appearance at Casa de Guwi, my children decided to name it, as they are wont to do. The wee finchy birdy bird follows in a long tradition of Bob the cardinal, Gary the squirrel and Chuckles the coyote. This time, instead of going with human or clown names, my children decide to be more...how shall I put it...<em>descriptive</em>.<br /><br />Our new bonking birdy friend's name?<br /><br />Pecker.<br /><br />Not only have they named it Pecker, they have made up songs and poems about it, with a play on his name. Hearing <em>"Pecker Peckingham Peckadoodle"</em> sung repeatedly in the car today was beginning to make me feel as though I were in a Monty Python skit. If Monty Python did bits for the 5-8 year old set.<br /><br />Now <em>that</em> would have made a swell addition to the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p9PiqCeLEmM">The Penis Song</a>.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-86562773325921877152009-07-06T20:08:00.004-04:002009-07-06T20:18:41.248-04:00A play in one act: A Question of Licking.<em>Scene: two children, an eight year old boy and his five year old sister, over dinner.</em><br /><br /><em>Curtain warn...curtain rise.</em><br /><br /><strong>Sassy</strong>: B, if you were <em>something</em>, would you lick yourself?<br /><br /><strong>B</strong>: Heh?<br /><br /><strong>Sassy</strong> (speaking as if to a toddler instead of her older brother, who is nearly as tall as his mother): If you were <em><strong>something</strong></em>, like a dog or a monkey, would you <strong>lick</strong> yourself?<br /><br /><strong>B</strong>: I don't think so. I mean, that's gross, for one, and for another, why would I? I mean, except to clean myself. But not, you know, for fun.<br /><br />[Sound of muffled laughter as mother tries to busy herself inside the refrigerator, stage left.]<br /><br /><strong>Sassy</strong>: Well, why not? I think you'd probably like to, you know, if you were <em>something</em>, instead of a <em>boy</em>. Because boys definitely do not like to lick themselves. I mean, obviously.<br /><br />[More muffled laughter, bordering on hysteria, from direction of refrigerator. Mother mutters joke punchline to herself, 'because they can,' and laughter becomes of face-cramping, tear-rolling variety.]<br /><br /><strong>B</strong>: And anyway, I don't think I'd <em>think</em> about it so much, if I were an animal. If I needed to lick myself, I would just <em>do</em> it, and not discuss it all night.<br /><br /><em>moments later...</em><br /><br /><strong>B</strong>: Eeeeuuuuuwwwwww...Mom! She just licked her hand and touched me! Gross!<br /><br />Aaaaaaand....scene.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-42892587092242764582009-06-23T10:38:00.003-04:002009-06-23T11:19:20.731-04:00Do you have a flag?<blockquote><br /><p>Though I frequently dream about being in Catholic churches, Eddie Izzard administering communion while dressed in a drag cassock was a first. It was purple, I believe, with a hot pink roman collar and silver accessories. As he offered the wafer, he seemed amused that one of his oft-quoted catch phrases also fit the occasion; I'm not sure whether it was <em>"Cake or death?"</em> or <em>"Hoocha hoocha hoocha...lobster!"</em> but either way, I'm quite sure it's sacriligious. But what are you gonna do? It's my dream, dammit.</p><p>I'm not sure why I dream about being in Catholic churches--I've officially been an ex-Catholic for close to five years, so the guilt would seem to have subsided by now. (HA! say all of you current or former Catholics. The guilt NEVER SUBSIDES. Welcome to the rest of your GUILT-RIDDEN LIFE.) The funny thing is, I still enjoy being within the physical confines of a Catholic church. My church is simple and lovely, and distraction-free which helps me in particular, because...ooo, look! Shiny cross! </p><p>But I do love a really old church--all intricate carvings, centuries-old stonework, tattered flags hanging, flying buttresses. I never think it's a distraction, more of an enhancement. I've been to Ireland several times and am pleased to report there are almost as many churches as pubs. Proximity is convenient should you have something pub-related to confess.</p><p>Eddie as a Eucharistic Minister though? While I'd love to see that, something tells me his application would be denied (or, you know, not submitted in the first place). Which is a shame. The purple/pink/silver combo was really striking.</p><p> </p></blockquote>Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-82340799695494496052009-06-17T14:51:00.003-04:002009-06-17T15:01:57.771-04:00And, why, exactly, did this need to be put into words?Random snippets of songs inexplicably whirling through my head today, and my educated guesses as to why:<br /><br /><em>Burn baby, burn...disco inferno! Burn baby burn...</em><br />(we have a family wedding friday night, and I think I'm subconsciously planning out my moves. Yeeeeahhhh, boyeeee....how YOU doin'?)<br /><br /><em>HU--UHEGHEEEEY! I feel good (da na na na na na na) I knew that I would now (da na na na na na na)</em><br />(I have clearly had enough fiber for the day. Diverticulitis: 0, Me: 1. HOO-AH.)<br /><br /><em>Didn't we almost have it all....A NIGHT to end...without...um...the morning....or something...</em><br />(Whitney Houston, get the HELL out of my head. The reason I don't know all the words is because you SUCK. Even though you're stuck in my head.)<br /><br /><em>You've got to get yourself together you got stuck in a moment, and you can't get out of it...</em><br />(Bono, you're my guy, but please stop. This is clearly about all the laundry I have to do today, and you're just stressing me out, rendering me even less productive.)<br /><br /><em>I never think about the future I just live for today (yesterday, girl...yesterday, girl...)</em><br />(Please see above, re: planning my moves, not doing laundry etc. But still! The Smithereens rock!)<br /><br /><em>Get up off your rumpah and do the damn laundry...HOLLA</em><br />(I just wrote it...what do you think? I'm sooo a hip-hop girl at heart.)<br /><br />peace out, East Coast representin'Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-11004086205029476332009-06-15T14:16:00.004-04:002009-06-15T14:36:20.675-04:00Shi Ta DuSorry for the prolonged absence--I know there's been some nail-biting and wringing of hands as all of my reader(s) have wondered...where is she? Has she run out of things to say? (Not possible.) Has she had a mental breakdown? (Possible, but unconfirmed.) Has she had a case of writers' block, which, while not particularly bothersome to others, is frustrating to her because she finds writing to be therapeutic, especially at such a busy time of year and with a lot of things on her mind? (Um. What? Ooo! Cookie!)<br /><br />The truth is I've been very busy with some foreign investors. I can't divulge a lot of details because it's all very confidential, but a member of a certain royal family has contacted me and we're about to embark on a financial journey together that will change my life!<br /><br />Wish me luck!<br /><br />In truth (because I know you were all asking/worrying/wishin'/hopin'/waitin') writing always seems like one extra task to me, on an already crippling pile of tasks, both mental and physical. In terribly busy and/or stressful times, I always table any writing because it seems like just one more thing on my to-do list, an item that doesn't have to get done, because no-one's demanding it of me; there's no deadline hanging over my nearly exploding head. When, in reality, it's one of the few things that keeps me sane. Instead of being at the end of my to-do list, right after 'clip dog's toenails' and 'hobble small tunneling woodland animals' it should be at the top, just after 'breathe' and 'drink gallon of coffee.'<br /><br />So amidst the chaos of little league games and school winding down, making summer plans, organizing parties and group gifts and going to weddings (yippee! by the way) I will write. I'll be writing seen and unseen, blog and private-like, but I will be writing.<br /><br />Because I know you've all lost sleep about this, and I can't pile guilt on top of everything I have to do. Those moles aren't going to hobble themselves.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-43087445020866302202009-04-07T11:13:00.006-04:002009-04-07T13:07:46.689-04:00Not exactly Singin' in the Rain...As I’ve mentioned before, I danced as a young'un, and was involved in theatre from an early age as well. This suits my somewhat dramatic personality (NO! Surely not!), and as a young[er] adult, I also did a few shows in a Boston-area community theatre. And this one time? I got to be a stripper! No worries, though, it was G-rated stripping, in the style of early burlesque. I didn’t get to play <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0056048/">Gypsy Rose Lee</a>, but I was: <a href="http://www.tdf.org/TDF_Article.aspx?id=75">Tessie Tura, the Texas Twirler</a>! (and only got to twirl batons, much to my husband’s dismay).<br /><br />Though I once had aspirations of life as a professional actress, as do most people who have any kind of theatrical background, starting a life with John became my priority, as we journeyed together on the road to the American Dream: two kids, a house, a dog, a cat (not John’s Dream, btw, more a nightmare), two cars and messy closets. But the stage, it beckons.<br /><br />Trying to fit theatre into my busy, disorganized life hadn't been a priority until recently, when a local theatre group announced auditions for one of my favorite shows. With my husband’s support (as well as <a href="http://www.oscars.org/">The Academy’s</a>, obv) I’ve been warming up my rusty voice and singing along to the soundtrack nearly every day. As have both of my children, who now know most of the words. My house is a strange place to be these days, on account of the singing and jazz hands busting out at any given moment.<br /><br />So I’m breathing, sleeping, and singing this show, which only leaves one problem. This show?<br /><br />Involves Tap.<br /><br />All those years in ballet, all those years in my high school’s Show Choir, I never learned to tap. It especially wouldn’t have seemed a necessary skill for the life I lead now. I’d probably benefit more from some cooking or closet organization lessons.<br /><br />Still...I have made a decision. I have to learn to tap.<br /><br />[Intermission. Laugh amongst yourselves.)<br /><br />Not ready to expose myself to others and the inevitable hilarity that would be me in tap shoes, I felt a home-school approach would be best, at least for now. If I do decide to subject any poor souls to being in a tap class with me, I’m going to get the giggles out first, so to speak, in the privacy of my own home.<br /><br />After poring over the myriad options available for Learn-to-Tap DVDs, I decided on this <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0002HOD8Q">little beauty</a>. And yes, friends, the instructor is the same actress from the classic tv sitcom: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0072554/">One Day at a Time</a>.<br /><br />The one…the only…<a href="http://www.gasolinealleyantiques.com/celebrity/images/Artwork/072476.JPG">Bonnie Franklin.</a><br /><br />It’s a bad sign when I got hysterical, all by myself, during her introduction. This thing was filmed during her heyday, and her outfit alone is ridiculous enough. She’s wearing suspenders, for the love of Gregory Hines. She’s an incredibly good tap dancer, not that I’m any judge. (If you ever hear me say that <em>I’m</em> an incredibly good tap dancer, you’ll understand just how poor my critical review qualities are.)<br /><br />Then, I attempted to tap. On the living room rug, in my socks. I’ll let that sink in for a minute. Tap dancing, relying on the rhythm of the feet, is best performed when you can hear the taps on a hard surface. Bonnie Franklin: 1. Me: 0.<br /><br />I got as far as a shuffle-ball-change-hop-with a lemon twist, or some other nonsense, when the laughter consumed me and I had to stop. Sassy had begun dancing right alongside me and damn if <em>she</em> didn’t actually look like she was tap-dancing. Anyone driving by, glancing through my fishbowl windows, might have called 911 for fear I was suffering some kind of seizure.<br /><br />I’ll try again, though. I’m sure Savion Glover didn’t pick up tap in a day, even if he'd been able to learn from the great Bonnie Franklin. Which would have been FULLY AWESOME.<br /><br />To round out my day of tap (otherwise known as ‘The Day the Music Died’) I showed John what I’d learned when he got home. He’d had a bad day.<br /><br />It’s funny—I can <em>always</em> cheer him up. He was so happy for me he was actually doubled over laughing! He’s the most supportive husband EVER!<br /><br />Tune in next time for: Tapping with the Rhythmless: Shuffling off to Buffalo (aka Someone Gets Hurt).Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-81936021745236649002009-03-02T12:30:00.003-05:002009-03-02T12:49:14.311-05:00Happy U2 Week, Everyone!Not quite as exciting as Shark Week, but U2 Week is here! What? You've never heard of U2 Week? I will pause amidst my reverie to explain.<br /><br />Normally, though U2 is the greatest rock band EVAH, a housefrau such as myself would have to devote herself to daily internet scanning to find the latest and greatest on her boys. If I sat here for 10 hours straight, I'd only brush the tip of the iceberg in terms of available information on the Dublin Four. Not that I've ever sat online for 10 hours reading about U2. Please. Eight is my limit. After that my legs fall permanently asleep.<br /><br />But you see how a full-time, non-paying, some might say <em>obsessive</em> job might be in conflict with my other full-time gig, taking care of the babies and the house. (which currently has a <em>spotless</em> basement, thanks very much). Enter: U2 Week! <br /><br />When U2 comes out with a new album, you find them <em>everywhere without even trying</em>. This week alone, they're on David Letterman every night. Let me repeat myself in case you missed it: U2 is on David Letterman EVERY NIGHT THIS WEEK. Please to excuse while I wallow in the beauty. They're also on Good Morning America Friday morning, and there are rumours of free concerts and small club gigs in the large cities nearest me which DO NOT HAPPEN TO ALSO INCLUDE MY SMALL TOWN IN CONNECTICUT BITTER WHY NO WHY DO YOU ASK.<br /><br />Still and all, I love it when they're in the midst of promoting a new album, and I can't open a paper, magazine, or website without some mention of their bad selves. Why, at this very moment, I am free-viewing their new album on <a href="http://www.u2.com/index/home/">U2.com</a>. You can't download it till tomorrow, but I can listen to it to my heart's content for the next eleven hours till my pre-order automatically downloads in my itunes account.<br /><br />And it, my friends, is <em>awesome</em>. (One order of bias please, extra gushing on the side?)<br /><br />So Happy U2 Week! May you see every episode of Letterman, read every article easily accessible online, and of course, enjoy the album. And if any of you members of my vast readership catches them in a small club gig, please keep it to yourself. No need to tell me the truth about Santa on Christmas morning.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14084628.post-18675034044093764072009-02-16T13:06:00.006-05:002009-03-25T16:04:15.168-04:00OMG...and one time? in this book I read?I can be something of a book snob. Specifically, I internally pass judgment on adults who read books meant for teenagers. A few years ago, I started reading Harry Potter to my son, and I remember thinking, 'if I were a few years younger (a '<em>few'</em> being preferable to saying '<em>more than twenty but less than thirty'</em>) I would have loved these books, read every single one thirty-seven times each, memorized them, and arrived at bookstores well before the midnight release of every single book in the series dressed like Hermione Granger (or maybe Harry--it was the gender-bending 80s, after all). Then I read my son the second one, then I read the third one myself. Y'know. To make sure it wasn't too scary for him.<br /><br />And I sat up late every night, absorbed, unwilling to put it down until Harry had triumphed, yet again.<br /><br />Thinking [hoping] this was an anomaly in my cherished reading list, (<em>'JK Rowling may not be Hemingway, but she can tell a good story,'</em> was my typical defense when someone asked if I was enjoying Harry's adventures) I thought nothing of it until I came across <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Saga-Book-1/dp/0316015849/ref=pd_bbs_sr_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1234826519&sr=8-2"><em>Twilight</em> </a>at TJ Maxx the other day. For $6.99. <em>'Seven bucks?'</em> I thought to myself. <em>'I can spare seven bucks to see what kind of storyteller this woman is.'</em> I'm fascinated by the author's story--a stay-at-home-mom who had a dream about a vampire, wrote the first book in three months, followed up with three more and has movie deals coming out of her ears.<br /><br />I read it in three days.<br /><br />Crow tastes good, especially if you add a little jerk sauce.<br /><br />I think I was channeling my inner 15-year-old: feeling out of place, a little awkward, never dreaming that the hottest guy in school would want to date me, let alone pledge his undying, undead love for me and promise he will never, ever turn me into a vampire no matter how much I beg...<br /><br />Okay, my secret's out. That whole vampire thing used to happen to me all the time. It must be my milky-white skin that attracted them.<br /><br />What I'm most embarrassed about though, is not that I read it, or enjoyed it, or literally devoured it in a few days. What I'm really embarrassed about is that I'm seriously considering going out right now to get the second one, to see if Edward really did turn Bella into a vampire (I don't think he did), or if her father's old best friend, Billy the native american, spills the truth about Edward being a vampire (I think maybe he does but Charlie doesn't believe him) and for the love of bloodsuckers, DO THEY EVER GET PAST THE KISSING STAGE?????<br /><br />Sweet merciful cupcakes. I need to go read Great Expectations or something. Next thing you know I'll be listening to the Jonas Brothers, painting my nails blue and texting in code.<br /><br />The vampire magnetism. It beckons.Guwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17671706189168131048noreply@blogger.com1