I Promise For Real This Time...

I have been saying that there are more posts coming and have alluded to them all over the place. So, where are they?

They're coming.

I don't want to make you sit there and think "Oh great, we sit around and wait for posts that she promises and for all we know the only thing up and coming is a post about her love for walnuts (I like to open the shell with an old school metal nutcracker and try and figure out why I bother digging the meat out when I can buy it shelled- but I enjoy the zen of the process) or why her kids are the bestest and funniest (they are though of course) or how the middle American states are a Republican party ruse meant to garner more electoral college votes but they don't actually exist (this one my older sister came up with in high school and for a while seemed kind of believable, until I had to fly to Kansas City, Missouri- they do exist, Republican or otherwise)."
Is that what you were thinking?

Well- I feel it is only fair that I share with you what some of my forthcoming posts are regarding:
My awesome organic heirloom tomato and fresh picked apple salsa recipe.
Mini-golf.
The trickery of town recycling (I know- you can hardly contain the excitement!)
My (once again awesome) zucchini blueberry bread recipe.
The search for a good primary care doctor in one of the greatest medical communities in the U.S.
How to sew a tutu on the fly.
Good reasons not to tempt fate by saying "My child hasn't really talked about god yet..."
The dangers of apple picking without proper safety equipment.
How to beat Martha Stewart in a centerpiece fight.

Now, not all of these are done so hold your horses. Some are but I haven't attached the pictures so I haven't posted them yet. And of course I will continue to blog without advanced notice, preparation or use of protractors and graphing calculators. I just wanted to put it in writing that I am indeed working on posting more and have a thing or two to say about a thing or two (I like to say that). So consider myself pledged unto thee as a true and faithful blogger to the best of my abilities and at least for the next month. I'm only making promises one month at a time. I'm crazy but not crazy enough to plan that far ahead.

After all- come November, I could be in Missouri cracking walnuts old school and swapping kid pageant pictures and report cards with the head of the GOP.

Here is a picture of me that is badly in need of
photoshop (sleep much?) that
seals unto you my promise to be a better, more faithful blogger.

First Day of Prison Treats

* Special Note- Contrary to my previous post, because hey, why not be contrary when you can- I am not going to backdate posts. If things seem wonky and out of order please try and understand that I have just been behind in things like linking pictures and such. I am trying to catch up without overwhelming the blogosphere with eighteen million posts in one day. Really, I have that many. Or maybe less, I'm not sure. Regardless- here we go.

As mentioned in my previous post about my son's first day of school- he has an uncanny knack for making faces in pictures that would lead state run social services to think we are doing something really wrong. I want to make it clear that I have no understanding of this phenomenon. I don't say "hey- make a face like the awesome-ness of right now is actually really terrible and the kitty you don't have just died." Followed by "Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnndddddd- SMILE!" Because that would explain the number of bizarre picture duos we have amassed.

So I will continue, in the interest of science and an effort to discover the underlying reason behind these happenings to periodically update you with pictures. Prison Face v. Free at Last Face pictures. Now there will not just be exploitative use of unflattering pictures of my otherwise adorable little guy but I will also be exemplifying my own dualities in the Good Mommy v. Bad Mommy world. Because really, is this a Good Mommy post or a Bad Mommy post?

This set is from the first day of school again. As a special treat for getting through the first day of school I took the itty-bitties for a spot of ice cream. In my family there is a genetic predisposition for loving ice cream as if it was made of, well, ice cream. It is passed down from my mother's side of the family and so far it seems to have taken root nicely in my children. So you would assume that after a great first day of school and swell surprise ice cream any 5 year old kid would be psyched.

Prison Face Ice Cream vs. Free at Last Ice Cream



Now here is apple picking a few weeks ago. Again- should be happy and fun for all (although you will likely soon read about the apple picking experience and how it went awry but that is before all that). This is at the start of the picking, just as we entered the orchard when the smell of fruit filled our noses and the sight of trees all around us was most welcoming. Or so you would think.

Fresh-picked Prison Pear vs. Fresh Picked Free at Last Pear



What is a gal to do? I'll keep going on taking photos in the name of memory and science and maybe one day I'll start a "Parents of Prison Face Photo Children" support group. Joiners?

Backdating

You might notice new posts going up that are back dated and that is simply because I wrote them up but have been slogging around in other projects that distracted me from posting them. So after final edits and picture adding I am posting them with the original dates even though it is today. I'll keep this as the top post until I am caught up.
If you could imagine or knew how far behind I am on FaceBook you would start sending out a search party. There may even be people who assume I have just stopped paying for my FIOS connection. I'm around, just slow and rifling through papers real and virtual.
Thanks for checking in.

He Done Growed Up

Like many a weepy mommy who had to send their first born children off to school for the first time this year I took a few pictures. Ezra started kindergarten this year which is pretty important and exciting and you would think kind of fun. However, as will come to be shown Ezra has a habit of making what I call the "prison face" in pictures during happy or celebratory times. The prison face is often followed by the "free at last" face. I really can't explain it. I give you the following evidence.

Prison Face Ezra Starting School



Free At Last Ezra Starting School


Weird, right? I mean the second picture is goofy no matter what but seriously- he was entirely thrilled to be going to school. In the first picture it looks like we are sending him to work in a shirt factory cleaning under the gigantic moving mechanical looms! Work ethic is great and we could use a couple extra pennies but they changed the labor laws ages ago.

Still we did end up with the next picture which kind of makes me not care that he did the prison face first. For real- a gal has to brag about her kids from time to time and announce that they and only they are the most beautiful children in the world. But come on now- what other conclusion can you draw here?


Although this is not representative of all our days (as is clearly proven by the ever-lurking prison face) I have proof that they liked each other for a few minutes and were very much the most adorable children in the world.

If you want to eat them just a little bit, I understand. I do too.

Words by the Page

I have collected dictionaries since I was is high school. To say I am selective is surely an understatement as my collection is probably less than 25 strong and I started it nearly 15 years ago. I like my dictionaries to be old, thorough, filled with words people have forgotten and I adore it beyond belief when there is any sort of inscription or notation anywhere within the pages. This is how I got the most recent one and the best yet.

When my grandfather passed away on February of 2008 he left a houseful of things both amazing and ridiculous. Historically vital and 2 for 1 at the dollar store. He came from a very important, smart and well educated family but also a frugal one. In his later years he (and my most beautiful grandmother before she died in September 1999) spent a bit too much time looking for diamonds at the church fair and packing them away for a rainy day.

On one of my visits home after his death my sisters and I did a sort of looters ceremonial walk-through of the house. There was no will specific enough to give any one of us the Go Bang set, wedding china or telescope we used to watch the lobster boats go in and out with the tides. My mother and her two siblings decided we would get low-tack stickers with our initials to apply to any items we may want when the estate. as it is/was/were... settled. Two or more stickers on an item and we would have to figure it out later amongst ourselves. All of these selections were provisional of course on my mother, aunt or uncle not selecting one of the items for themselves.

There wasn't a ton of stuff I wanted until we were about ready to leave. Walking through the downstairs library I spotted the two-volume, magnifying-glass-included, Oxford English Dictionary sitting happily but a bit lonely on a shelf. Even the Compact Edition of this gem is bigger than my head. And oh, the deep, professorial blue tone with delicate gold lettering. Ahhh. I looked around furtively like a thief. I felt a guilty for no reason. I said a silent prayer (which my grandfather the preacher, would have appreciated) that my grandfather wanted me to have the OED. It was right there. I love dictionaries. My god- the best one in my collection is an inscribed by a stranger, 1947 edition dictionary bound in packing tape that he, himself sent me off to college with. Silly, adorable old man.

I stuck my little sticker on it.

After mentioning to my mother that I wanted the OED she seemed doubtful. Apparently my uncle also wanted it- although only to replace the magnifying glass in his edition. And to boot my younger cousin who is my grandfather's namesake also wanted it.

I have it. I love it. I dust it. I wish I could carry it around in a little pouch like people do toy poodles. Maybe frame it. I wish I had more words to look up. I find myself trying to come up with words I don't know the meaning of just so I can look for them in its damp and inky pages. Did I mention I love it? And I have it.

Did I also mention that I live in a two-family house and that our half has only two bedrooms and a sun room/office. The dictionary does look rather handsome in the window seat next to the Peace Lily but then no one can see it. I can put it on the floor but come now, it is the Oxford English Dictionary, Compact Edition, Two Volumes with Case and Magnifying Glass. It doesn't fit on the mantle and our bookshelves are too packed.

Would it be going to far to use it as a pillow? I could see going to bed surrounded by the comfort of warm words and cool pages. Mmmmm. Sleepy words would be especially good.

FROGGY UPDATE-EEEK!

I have since learned after posting about my frog-snail issues that there is a lot of controversy about these African Dwarf Frog habitats. You can google beyond the link. Most people are claiming they are pretty damn inhumane. Now, inhumane does stem from not being good for humans but I get it and I am kind of agreeing. I just don't quite know what I am going to do. Mine are from a different company than the ones on the PETA site but they look pretty similar.
Obviously PJTruck and Humavark are not going to be released into the wild. They are not American Northeast Suburban Dwarf Frogs. So I think I have start thinking about a trip to a pet store (another somewhat inhumane and sometimes controversial concept) and get me a bigger boat. Er, tank. And some more rocks. And a filter. And a bubbler. And some more plants. And some snails that may or may not be murder victims within days of their entry into the habitat. And a heater for the winter. Damn frogs.
I haven't mentioned this to the Dearly Beloved yet so he may read this and come looking for me. My pet shop jaunts don't usually end well. They usually end in many, many dollars spent on fish and fish supplies. I don't why but I can't escape their slimy little gilled clutches. I will have to be strong. And this may be a slow project- so sorry PETA but my Frog Habitat Improvement Fund is a bit low right now so we have to start slow.
I'll keep you updated.
Maybe this will be a little more Good Mommy and less Bad Mommy. Or maybe it is just Don't Alert the Media Mommy. Meh- whatever gets the job done.

Don't Go in the Water

In a previous post I mentioned our beloved quasi-pets PJTruck and Humavark. They are African Dwarf Frogs who live in what is touted to be a mostly self-sufficient environment that costs less the $25. Nice. There is rectangular plastic tank that goes on a (available for additional purchase by suckers like me) pedestal thingy so are therefor very fancy and worthy of display. Inside are supposedly very special gravel rocks that have self-filtering properties. There is lucky bamboo, a pretty rock and you only have to change the water twice a year. Again- nice. And of course there are the frogs.
Oh wait- I didn't mention the most important thing. The two EMPTY snail shells lying at the bottom as if waiting for evidence tags. I smell murder most foul.
The frog habitat came with one freshwater snail with the super important job of head janitor. He/she had a name but being a Bad Mommy I have forgotten it. A few weeks, maybe a month and a half after we brought our water loving friends home the snail was found floating. Snails don't float where there isn't a current. We gave it a day or two to try and figure out what was going on and in that time it appeared the snail was "retreating" into its shell. I now have a different theory. Anyway it was clearly dead.
Not a problem. We are modern parents. We told the kids. They got it. It was kind of sad but not requiring of a shoebox kind of sad. Paper towels and a baggie into the kitchen trash was fine. Rest in peace and look out for the incoming apple peels.
I went to the company site for the froggy sellers and as it happens they could explain the dead snail. So I wasn't too worried at that point. The company also sold replacement snails that could be shippped right to your door. Fossil fuels be damned! I do like a nice package delivery and if ot comes with as sweet little gastropod mollusc and makes my kids happy too- awesome. I will gladly buy the carbon credits to off set the shipping.
A few days later not one but two delightful snails arrived in a bubble wrapped baggie of water labeled "SNAIL X 1." Math skills aside we were pleased and introduced the little ones to the frogs. We thought it best not to name them.
Good choice because less than one week later they were DEAD.
I cannot be responsible for theses deaths. We followed the directions to the colloquial "T." We never aggravated the snails or frogs with tapping or late night phone calls, requests for money or a ride to the airport. I didn't let anyone make wishes on dropping pennies into the tank- we always kept the ventilated lid on.

The best that I can come up with is that although these teeny frogs are supposed to be very content and have even earned the nickname "Zen Frogs" for the way the float peacefully- their captivity has hardened them. Maybe it wasn't both of them who did the deed most foul. Maybe one of them came from the wrong side of town or had been through the tank business before. Maybe the two of them are just trying to send us a message. Attica. Attica. Maybe they are segregationalists. That would be awful to think I was harboring frogs of that ilk. No matter what I honestly beleive the frogs my kids love to watch jump and swim and spent hours perfecting the names for are actually snail killers and what is almost worse- snail eaters. There is not a trace of snail body to be found.
No body- no murder?
We have not sent in another snail. The frogs seem restless but I cannot sentence another snail to what seems like certain death. We continue to treat them as though they are the same frogs we knew in the first blissful weeks of our relationship and maybe one day they will be ready for us to put pretend snails on Popsicle sticks and move them around the outside of the tank. Rehabilitation will be slow but PJTruck and Humavark just might turn back into model frog habitat citizens again. For the children, I really hope they do. Frogs would need a shoebox.
On a brighter note- supposing you don't get a batch of killers- these little guys are wicked cute and would make a neat-o executive desk accessory or gift for someone who you know is completely incapable of caring for an actually needy pet. Maybe get a spare tank filled with extra snails though. Just in case.

4 Letter Words

Ezra is 5 and is working on writing and spelling and is using special Post-It notes to label things all over the house. He wants to fit more and more on the little pages even though they are really only meant for 4 or 5 letter words like wall and house. When I gave him the sticky-notes he used them appropriately. But after labeling less than ten things I found him chasing my 3 year old Lena around the house with one while she cried.

Why was he chasing her? Why was she crying?

Ezra had written "sweet smell" on a sticky and wanted to attach it to her butt.

I don't even know what to do with that. I had to make him stop because he was making her cry but I also thought it was hysterical. It was also a pretty smart joke. And he had written two words small enough that they fit. Still- you can't let one child use irony to make another cry. Still I was so proud of his writing and spelling... It was one of those parenting moments you have to file under "What the Hell?" and cross-reference with "Fodder for Embarrassing Children" and "Graduation Inscriptions."

We finally worked it out by me consoling Lena and Dear Old Dad helping Ezra find something else in the house with a "sweet smell." It ended up being the refrigerator. I'm encouraged by that as an indication of my cleaning skills and grocery lists.

Ezra is growing brain cells faster than a frat boy can kill them during Spring Break in Cancun. He wanted to write a longer word on his little Post-It so he asked my husband to think of a 12 letter word. During the 45 to 90 seconds he was trying to come up with one Ezra said "Is kindergarten a 12 letter word? It is, isn't it?"

Yep.

When my husband relayed that conversation I sat dumbfounded trying to think of another 12 letter word. I couldn't. I know some. I write them. I say them. But for whatever reason- my 5 1/2 year old can pull them from the ether. I know I have to file that under "What the Hell?" but what do I cross-reference it with? "Mommy isn't That Smart?" "Do More Crosswords?"

What it boils down to is that every parent is convinced their child is a genius of monumental proportion. If you frequent mommy chat rooms, blogs or library story times you would have to come to the conclusion that in the next 10 to 20 years our country will be inundated with Nobel Prize winners, MacArthur Grant recipients and Forbes magazine cover makers all under the age of 25. In a lot of ways I hope Ezra isn't in that projected group. A lot of kids level out and the rest of their peers catch up. And in the mean time, being smart and carrying a lot of stuff in your head can be hard when you are just a wee little person with wee little person skills and wee little social mechanisms. But Ezra is smart right now and I am going to let him enjoy it when it doesn't involve chasing people with clever bits of word play.

The real bonus for me is that since Ezra has all the big words covered for me I get to stick my friendly four-letter friends. Not that I swear, I do have small children you know...

Show and Tell Day

I'm not going to show the pictures so don't worry.

I am just setting to keyboard what once would be set to pen that I don't know yet where the line is. I don't know what I want to share and what is only mine. Who do I know is reading? Who will secretly read? Am I seriously convinced I am that important?

I haven't read any Blogging for Dummies type thing and trust me, have NO intentions of doing so. But I wish there was a Big Brother Big Sister program that matched you up based on your life and what you like to talk about and then they help you decide if you are going to bring your new puppy to show and tell or the map to the old puppy's grave. Geez that sounds creepy. See- I'm not actually that creepy. I don't think.

There is almost a need for a person to have one blog for everything they have done, do or will do. Mommy, wife, work, hobbies, medical history, civil war re-en-actor, conspiracy theorist, writer, gamseshow contestant, pie lover, gambling adddict- whatever your category is.

I barely know my categories and I still need to figure out my audience. Hello audience. It's me. How are you? How is all this working out for you? Want more milk and cookies or do you prefer gin and tonics?

Egads but don't this just beat all. Well today for show and tell I am bringing me, my blog as it stands and my willingness to push myself farther. Onward and upward, forward march, small steps for mankind and all that tripe. Enough of the New Year's resolutions in July, I have crazy-ing to do and make. Here is a picture of my little man so he doesn't feel left out after all the pictures of his sister. Enjoy.

It was preschool graduation. Hence the overalls. They are de rigeur for all graduations these days.

Open up and say ahhhhhhhh....

I had an endoscopy yesterday and they let me take home pictures. Hehehehehe. Ewwww. I know I shouldn't share and I totally won't and I'm not even going to go into the topic right now because I'm tired but I kind of want to show you.

Don't you kind of want to see?

No? Okay, so admittedly once I saw them there was a pang of regret for having asked but the chance to say "Hey Doc- can I get a copy of the shot of my esophagus?" is pretty rare. I promise I won't share.

I was just bursting at the seams with the knowledge that I have the pictures and I needed to put it out there. Okay- no more sharing.

Now onto your day and enjoy your lunch.

Girls in Their Summer Dresses

I made this dress for my baby girl and I adore it. I don't know if she does or not but oh well- I am the Mommy and the boss and I get to pick the outfits sometimes. Seriously- I flipping love it. Modesty aside because I hate being boastful.

She has only a handful of wee sundresses and I had been meaning to whip a few up for ages but nonsense had gotten in the way. I finally decided to just do it as quickly as I could and see how it went. So we picked out the fabric from ye' old box o' fabric (fabric I have spent way too much time and money gathering but wish I could sleep in a pile of sometimes because I love it sooo much) I cut out a piece I thought was bigger than her and had her lay down on it.

I marked her armpits (and measured around them), belly button, knees and where I wanted it to fall on her legs. Then I measured around her belly and added two-ish inches. I am not an exact crafter although I have heard they exist. I cut according to my marks.

I pinned down the top to form a channel wide enough for the 1/2 inch elastic I had found in my bits and pieces collection and pinned the bottom of the fabric to make a close seam. After that it was easy-peasy-pudding-pie. I sewed straight lines where I had pinned and made them as neat as possible for an "on the fly" kind of project. I threaded the elastic through the channel and attached it at one end. Using the measurement of her armpit/bust/chest whatever it is when you are 3, I pulled the elastic until it was stretched enough to fit closely around her top without leaving marks or pinching, pinned the stretched end in place at the opening of the channel and then pinned the elastic in several places to keep it flat and prevent it from changing size. Next I sewed the elastic at the open channel, thereby closing the channel and forcing a gather in the top of the dress. After that I made a straight seam across the bottom of the dress and a simple flattened out seam to close the back of the dress.

To make the straps I attached 1/2 inch double fold bias tape cut to about 8 inches to the inside of the top of the dress on both sides, being careful to match front to back so the ties would work well. I also added a VERY long belt loop on the back with the same bias tape. I figure this will allow for the dress to grow with her some. It is generous in size already and the shoulder ties can be adjusted, have buttons added or sewn together to fit a larger child. The belt is simply the same bias tape with the ends stitched to stop fraying. I will probably knot them later.



It took about an hour to an hour and a half all told but as I said it was not done with exact measuring or perfection in mind. It has stood up so far though. Plus she had been wearing braids the day before the picture was taken so she looks all crazy, wild child in it. She was a little put off by the tiger being the main image on the chest so we made up a story about Bernard the Tiger who lives in and ice cream shop. It was very complex and fascinating. Email if you want first pick for the movie rights.

I will try to post more projects and have more exact directions. This was more of a "Look Ma- No hands!" kind of thing I guess. I also wanted to show myself that I still had it in me to find time to do the things I want to do. In the meantime I am going to strongly encourage her to wear the dress everywhere but especially places where people will see how adorable she is and ooh and ahh over her. Because then secretly they'll be oohing and ahhing over me right? In written form that does seem very very wrong. Bad Mommy. But ooooh. Aaaaah. Wheee!

Birthdays Gone-by

Since I have already posted about my anniversary coming and going without a parade I wanted to mention that my baby sister had her 30th birthday just the other day. That means she is O-L-D! Okay so if she is my baby sister I guess I am also old. But I am only 2 years older- 21 months actually. I am pretty much younger than she is.

She got to spend her birthday in Maine in spite of having abandoned the majestic and generally free of major earthquakes East Coast for Seattle and then Portland, OR 6ish years ago. I think she had a good day from what she described. Still she probably missed being on the "other side" with her friends who would have celebrated in a style more fitting than my mom can muster.

I haven't sent her a gift yet. Originally it was because she was in Maine and had a mail stop on her Oregon address so I figured I would wait. Then I thought I would be enviro-me and not send something via jumbo shipping company vehicle but find a local merchant to purchase from in Portland and have it delivered locally. Then I got sleepy and took a nap after supper. Then I woke up and watched Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Then I decided enviro-me would really rather send an e-card with an e-gift certificate.

Surprise! Then I fell asleep. I think I went to the Farmer's Market. I know I went to Starbucks. Later I thought about sending her some of the jam I canned but that went back to the fuel-sucking shipping company thing again so I decided no. Wait but now it gets good- I have totally neglected to get her a damn thing.

I could try and pass this off as being enviro-me and smaller-footprint me. Or it could be hey-my-husband-works-for-a-non-profit-where-they-made-massive-cut-backs me. Or it could be schmucky-sister me. I think I have to fess up and admit to option three. It may have started one way but after all the naps and tv and outings and the days that have passed and the fact that she is now back home with no mail stop... well... I just have to lay it out and say I blew it.

So my dear peepsio sister, if you are reading this- hi. I love you. Isn't love enough? How's about I said you a smnabddkgkfndsglybu via onlinupsfedbikemesenpostal ? I know you've always wanted one. It'll be there for sure by... oh geez- I would say I heard Mom calling me but in order to update that I will say I hear the kids stepping on rusty nails outside. I really ought to get to that. But I'll be in touch super soon. Honest.

Yeah. I blew the 30th birthday thing for her. Good thing is, I remembered to call and there is still the 40th birthday to totally not screw up. Better write that down though.

9 Years in the Making

My anniversary has come and gone. It was July 15th. My dearly beloved and I have been married nine years. Wow. Not quite a decade. Everyone asked us afterward "Why didn't you say anything?" or "What did you do? Where did you go?"

Ummm. We didn't say anything because it has been nine years and we have two kids and we know we have been married and don't really expect the people around us to keep track of something that happened again, nine years ago. Also- we're not that impressed. We kind of figured we would be married in 2009 when we got married in 2000. Wine and roses, candies and bowls of cherries all the way- yeah, no. But we have always worked under the assumption that we would stay married. When things were hard and words were exchanged that we tried to suck back into the empty space of our lungs- it was still okay. Fights are fights. This is the last time is not always the last time just as the first time isn't always the first. We all know time is indeed relative.

I have always maintained that the ability to call one's spouse a jackass with a smile and alternately a sneer all the while knowing you love them regardless is what makes a relationship. If you were to ask my dearly beloved he would definitely vouch for having been called a jackass under both circumstances. And here we are at the nine year mark. Ta da- jackass.

So where did we go? What magical way did we find to express our triumphant love and joy on that magical night of the 15th?

Well, I had an appointment so I missed dinner but I think the kids may have had a bath. We don't have a babysitter. Wah wah wah waaah. That is the true sound of suck for a parent: "We don't have a babysitter." There are a million ways I could express my sadness on this topic but I will leave it with the understanding that it is wicked, wicked, wicked, wicked crappy.

Okay so we weren't going anywhere anyway and if we were we might have taken the kids. We like them. They are funny and we get served faster when they're around too... Really though I am not sure we would choose to spend money on one night of a sitter and a few hours of pricey alone time with pricey food when we could put that toward something better. We can eek out alone time- even if it is at midnight over True Blood on the DVR and popcorn. But my husband makes the best damn popcorn in the whole freaking world. For real. And popcorn is cheap. And I don't usually have to tip him for bringing extra sodas.

So it has been nine years. I don't mean to diminish them. They have been wonderful in so many ways. I love my husband, he loves me- that works very nicely for a gal such as myself. We have hit many a roadblock as a family, as a couple, as parents and as individuals and so far we always make it to the other side. I don't think that is coincidence or luck. I think that comes from way back in 2000 when we got hitched under an assumption that that was that. A big anniversary will be the one when I am surprised to have made it to that year. I sincerely hope that is a long way away.

In the meantime we are accepting applications for babysitters or in-house sous chefs.

Over the River and Through the Woods

I recently had the chance to spend a weekend at my grandparents' house in Maine. They passed away (she in 1999 and he in 2007) and now my mom and her siblings are trying to get it set up as a rental. It is an okay house as houses go. The view and setting is what really sets it. The house is actually on a bluff, as in walk too many feet past the driveway and you might drop and hit the breakers kind of bluff. You can see endless ocean and a lighthouse and all sorts of boats and buoys and gen-u-ine Maine beauty.

I swore I would never sleep there. EVER. Ever, ever, ever, ever, ever.

I loved/love my grandparents but that house was theirs and it is freaky to think of settling in at night in the room next to the one my grandmother died in. Or using the shower my grandfather used so infrequently as he got older and needed to be reminded of more things. Plus- who would make me root beer floats if I was behaving nicely?

However, my baby sister (not my baby, baby sister mind you but my regular baby sister) and her husband of a year were flying in from the west coast and we all really wanted to see them. And "due to the current economic climate we are unable to "fill in the blank______." Here the blank was pay last minute prices for a hotel in the high season on the coast of Maine. There is always the option of staying with one of my parents but my dearly beloved and I have decided against that for various reasons. So that left us with Dearly Departed Loved Ones Creepy Mc-Seaside-Escape and Resort. I cannot even tell you how many precious minutes of therapy I spent discussing rational vs. irrational concerns, grounding techniques and ways to deal with my family while I tried to avoid seeing dead people. (god rest their souls)

So we went. It wasn't as bad as I had expected- no visits from beyond over breakfast or while gazing through Grampa's binoculars. Hmmm. A lot of changes had been made to the house physically which is only a help in the finding renters department because as fabulous as my grandmother was she really could have used a color session or whatever they call it when they "do your colors." Aqua and Moroccan orange were not hers and they certainly were not those of the house. There was still work to be done but my sister and her husband had a firm hand on it and my help only proved problematic so I settled into uselessness and poking people.

I love my family. You know whenever someone leads with that there is more than chocolates and popsicles coming. They are amazing and wonderful and we are all completely out of our minds in one way or another. We function in our worlds and when we mix can pull it off for a while but there will invariably be some discord. Unheard of I am sure- we must be unique as each time an argument erupts it does seem like there has never been anyone in the world who has had experiences like ours that would lead to fights like ours. I'm guessing I'm wrong.

Anyway (I hate when I say that but I have yet to hone my transition skills so enjoy or complain but get used to it for now while I work at it please)- my constant worry is that my family is afraid that I am surrounded by eggshells. Or that my reactions are more than what they seem; that they can't be simple irritation or fatigue but most be signs of a coming melt-down. I need to find a way to fix that but the time spent in Maine made it feel particularly necessary.

Everyone knows/knew my feelings about the house, about Maine, coming "home," my health carpola, blah blah. Even when I stopped waiting for Grandma to appear from her sewing room with half a quilt and suggest I go play under the stairs (that sounds WAY crazier than I meant it) it seemed my family still was waiting for me to shiver in the night, be terribly on edge or bust out with anxiety. Maybe I was. Maybe I did. My current vision is poor and my hindsight is definitely not 20/20 so I would have to take a poll. History takes a toll on all of us and in my case that toll is that sometimes things feel icky. But guess what- I am quite confident many could say the same and I could be the icky making factor.

How do you resolve the ick when it is so individualized but comes from a common thread?

It is hard to evaluate yourself and to guess what other people are thinking about- especially family. It is also a very dangerous practice that leads to people you love becoming very angry or hurt. They all know I love them beyond the beyond and I assume the same in reverse. One of these days I will learn to act after thinking and think things from a more muitli-dimensional view before the acting part.

The good news is that the house my grandparents love although it will never be a second home or a dreamy summer retreat for me, has the potential to be a place I can go and be with my sisters and their families whether we're staying at hotels or the house itself. I don't know that my grandmother would have been happy with all the changes and my grandfather certainly would have had something to say about the use of conventional methods to secure things. He preferred twist-ties, rubber bands and bits of string. Maybe next visit I'll wiggle loose a handle just to tighten it back up with a paperclip. Then I'll watch the boats for a spell with my family.

Pick Your Berry

It has come to my attention that I ramble and my posts are a wee bit, well out with it- I am taking up a lot of valuable blog viewing time with my lengthy posts. So here is a short one to break up the monotony. Although you get what you pay for.

I think New Jersey blueberries make a mockery of nature's purest intentions. Wild blueberries of the sort found in Downeast Maine are the only true blueberry and anyone who says different has clearly lost their marbles or taste buds. Maine blueberries are grown on the glacial barrens and nurtured by lightly salted air. They take a delicate touch and still a firm stance to pick and they taste perfect warm, cold, frozen or hot. Beauteous and ideal in pies, covered in cream in sugar, on oatmeal, in muffins, in big heaping spoonfuls. Clearly a higher power had a hand in this creation.

But Jersey High Bush berries? Come now? Who are you fooling? Standing comfortably and picking leisurely with minimal effort. Giant berries that are an affront to the order of things? And the tart, slightly sour taste when there is taste at all? What is going on with that? I'm not beating up on New Jersey- they take care of themselves in that department. I'm just begging you as a reader with a palate and interest in pleasing it to consider choosing the better berry this year if you haven't already. Blueberry season starts around August in Maine so I'd get on it.

Finis et bon apetit.

I and Screamy

My daughter has made friends with some newcomers to the neighborhood. I can't see them and they are according to her "the size of a pea." Their names are I and Screamy. I'm trying really hard not to read into that. She has had imaginary friends for a little bit now- ever since my physical health issues amped up the interference with our daily lives. Not so much the Mommy-on-the-floor or couch again but the Mommy-missing-dinner or Mommy-missing-library because of appointments. She is no dummy. I am gone a lot.

In some ways you would think this would be awesome because of all the extra time with dear old Dad or Grammie and Zadie but apparently parents are not interchangeable. So enter stage left her new friends. I think the first was Lomaid. Then Lateet. Yeah- that one makes me giggle too. Especially when for a little while she decided it was Daddy's new nickname. Nothing shrieks of masculinity like being called "La-Teet." I am spelling it in a generous way but I really want to spell it the other way because it is much funnier.

Now we have I and Screamy and a host of others who come and ago. They have names like Kapoofaca and such. I don't really understand but I am not 3 1/2. As background I should mention that after much deliberation and list making the wee children decided to name our two African Dwarf frogs "PJ Truck" and "Humavark." Again- I am not 3 or 5 so what do I know about names.

Other than the frogs we are expected to be very respectful of her friends at all times, taking them places, holding the door for them, making room at the table etc. Mind you- they are the size of a pea. She talks to them and being proper imaginary friends they talk back to her. Most of their talks seem quite serious but she assures me they are very funny and tell good jokes. My son has no imaginary friends of his own but he interacts regularly with Screamy and the gang. I think he likes to stick to the tangible when he can.

My brother-in-law is a pediatric neuropsychologist and I routinely beg for free advice like "is my kid crazy because she's afraid of spiders?" or "do you think he reads too much and therefore has a disorder that we are making worse by letting him go to the library?" It is even rumoured that on one ocassion I may have asked why if my IQ was what it was I couldn't speak 7 languages or solve complex physics equations and the like. If you choose to believe the rumour then the answer may have been a suggestion that perhaps I lacked motivation and follow-through which would explain MANY MANY things including all the classes I dropped out of in school mid-semester... Anyway- he is confident my daughter is just fine. But in the middle of saying that he did have to stop and consult with a six-foot tall rabbit.

It is of no surprise that my little lass came up with her peepsios when she did. Developmentally she is right on the money, her imagination has started to race ahead of her and she can rip a yarn like no one's business, Do people say that? Rip a yarn? What the hell does that mean? Is that a real saying? Maybe I should check my imagination or get a dictionary of antiquated slang that only people like me find use for. I wonder if there is one. Hmmm. Hello eBay.

Oh yes- the arrival of my little girl's friends also coincides with changes in the household as I mentioned above and what I believe is her new understanding that in the fall my son will start kindergarten and she will not. He was in preschool last year but we had lunch together, dropped him off, she took a nap and then we picked him up. I don't think she missed him that much. Loves him buckets but missed him in her sleep- not so much. But now she knows he'll be gone all day and she'll be stuck with Mommy all day who may be Art Project Mommy, Sick Mommy, Park or Museum Mommy, Appointment Mommy or just Crap There Isn't Any Damn Diet Dr. Pepper Mommy. It's all me. I am fortunate to be a singularly minded crazy person but that doesn't mean that for a 3 year old you might find comfort in numbers. Even imaginary, oddly named, miniature friend numbers.

Lastly- because it I have been awake for too long today and I can't vouch for the cohesiveness of this post I want to mention that she often has to chase her friends around the house for extended periods of time calling after them quite loudly. They sometimes get caught and put in time out. In case someone who reads this ever witnesses an event like that in my home- I want to set the record straight that we generally don't chase the kids into captivity. We barely even use time out. Why use time out when we can just ask Lateet to have a sit-down talk to hash things out and clear the air. Parenting by imaginary friend proxy. I think I read about it in a Dr. Sears book...?...

The Only Doctor For Me

I truly do not like my doctor. That is my primary care doctor. But I am tethered to her by a million strings that are all knotted up like a 16 year-old's stomach on prom night. Yes I will find a new one. No really, for sure this time, I swear it. Honestly. This is the last straw. See my back- I'm the camel and it just broke.

Damn- I just called myself a camel.

Truthfully, I am not going to find a new doctor right now because of all those invisible strings. I have to get them untangled and then untied and then I can move on. But geez Louise! When did medical care get so complicated? What happened to the good old days of Dr. Saffer with his creepy clip-on koala attached to his stethoscope and the little glass finger pricker blood taking thingies? I'd even go back to the therapist in high school who always offered me coffee even though I was 15 or so. I always refused until finally I gave in and she got me hooked while she sat cross legged in her hippie skirts with her too-long-for-her-age hair and looked dopey. Although actually- I kind of should be looking at that fondly because I do really, really like coffee.

Anyway- you would think that living just a short ride from Boston I could get the best medical team I wanted but as it turns out- they all gave up and turned to research or teaching. You have to do everything piecemeal. A doctor here, a doctor from over there, ooh- I'll take the specialist in the sporty red tie... It is exhausting.

Of course it is clear from this that I have the need of a medicine man or woman, shaman or voodoo priestess or maybe 10. So that must mean I have a bit of a headache, or a tummy ache, or a slight tickle when I cough. Let's run with those concerns and leave the others out of it for now. So I guess I must be a bit tuckered as is. Which leads me to think I might not have a bucket of time and energy for calling doctors, looking for people who also have tummy aches who might have good docs, calling the insurance company, doing interviews and then picking up and moving from one medical trailer park to another. Damn.

Thus I am deciding that I will search for only one doctor and although he remains somewhat elusive, he is often seen at the local drugstore/pharmacy so I might be able to get a hold of him. I actually only assume it is a him. But he is my friend, my go-to-guy, my pick-me-up and brush me off, my kick in the pants and my Calgon take me away all in one.

Yes- as you may have guessed I am speaking of the highly praised, sweet and effervescent,

Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper.
mmmmm

There is of course his precursor regular Diet Dr. Pepper, but my allegiance has been sworn (although Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper would have been my first choice but he seems to have been placed into witness protection as their is no sign of him in the area... I yearn... ) and though my doctor is often unavailable when I need him mostly due to a plot against me by the local grocery stores- I know that the drugstore will get my back most of the time.

Still- he doesn't do lab tests and I am pretty sure I can't trust him to accurately assess liver function test results. But he has yet to be an ass to me . I'll see how small they make stethoscopes.

You may have guessed I have had a few too many Diet Cherry Dr. Peppers by now. Imagine if I drank what my posts would read like...

Physical Therapy a la Dante

Ok so- PT person from HELL. Yes, physical therapy- I'm not going to get into it in depth at this moment but today's appointment is aquatic therapy for a chronic pain condition in my back that has been fluffing my pillows and filling me with joy since 2001. Back to the physical therapist (PT)-

I swear I was told 9:15 and being the diligent person that I am and totally psycho about being early I came up from the hotel lobby 15 minutes early. (Interjection: to get to the pool I have to go through schmancy hotel and super-mc-fit-fit athletic club first. Not cool.) She comes out to get her 9:00 patient, sees me and says "You know you're not supposed to be here until 9:30 right?" I say: "Really? Oh. I thought it was 9:15." Curtly and with pursed lips- "No-ope... 9:thiiirty- we never do it on the quarter hour. Always half hours. 9. 9:30, 10, 10:30. 11."

Apparently by me - on what is only my second appointment and my first PT after the evaluation- by me coming early she assumes that I am only of nominal intelligence and do not understand where the half hours fall on the 24 hour clock. Thank god I have her to elucidate!

I say again: "Oh- okay- I guess I just thought they said come 15 minutes early."

"No-oo-ope." Grrr. "Not unless it is for an evaluation or you need to get changed." I know she is eyeing my swimsuit under my button down shirt. "Okay- no problem," I say. "I'm fine here- happy to wait and read for a while."

"Gree-ea-eeeat. Better get the name of whoever you spoke to so they can be corrected and this doesn't happen again. (long dramatic pause.........) Right." And off she goes. I am sure her 9:00 patient loved the show and time suckage. Makes me feel super awesome about hopping into the pool with her and letting her bust my ass for 30 minutes.

As a comparison my "dry land" physical therapist (different issue) and I talk about her moving in with her boyfriend and how great a holistic approach to medicine is and how the patient should be the driving force behind their own care. When she did finally move in with her paramour- I bought her a housewarming plant. The official flower of South Korea. And she asks me for tips on its upkeep and feels the need to confess when she doesn't water it and a bloom falls off.

This gal here at the rooftop pool clearly lost whatever bloom she may have once had.

Now on with your swimmies and jump in!

The Cobbler's Bench

As a girl and a mommy to boot, I need a purse of some heft. Although I used to be happy with a simple man's wallet in a back pocket, this no longer suffices. Current style would dictate the purse should possibly be big enough to carry a newborn. That is not even close to the look of something I would carry around. And I hate that I even have to think about this for more than a second but my tried and true, totally acceptable in any circle, carries 2 kiddo Sigg bottles, maybe a pull-up and all mommy needs or just the lady things a lady needs for a lady day- has broken.

I will have it repaired. I'm not going to fall into the landfill mentality. But a cobbler to do the leather (sorry my animal friend) repair is not someone I have on speed dial. I know where there is one but I've been going by it for 6 years now and I'm not sure I have ever seen anyone go in or out and its underneath a supermarket! How long does it even take to repair a purse handle?

So now I am left looking at my online bank balance with sidelong glances at my lonely sewing machine and trying to decide which makes more sense. Dip into the dwindling funds for a quick fix and then have more bag than I need or skip some M*A*S*H reruns (why is Alan Alda so dreamy?) and work on a pattern which my sewing machine and a tad bit rusty skills may or may not be able to manipulate into a functional replacement purse/mommy-bag.

Time, money, TV, waste not, want yes, cobblers and spinning bobbins. Do you see what the economy is doing for my mind and my fashion sense. Truth be told the mind was what it was even before the bail out and my fashion sense has always been off but the damned point is I don't have a flipping bag to carry my planner, books or spare pull-ups in! Until I can make up my mind as to mend, pay cash, or stitch and bitch I will try and simply be grateful that the spare pull-up I need to bring along isn't for me.

I CAN READ!!

I haven't settled on the exact direction of my direction. Does one want to be a niche writer? Settle on writing about mommy-hood or physical and mental health or craft or cooking or just super-crazy nonsense? Does one write a tell all about their childhood? Maybe a daily diary of caloric intake compared to kilowatt hours used by the household? Quandaries, no? So until then this is what we've got: I CAN READ!

Make me a list of 100 writers or books- the best of the best- honest to god greatness. I've read 60. I've heard of 20 of the others, hate 10 and have not a clue on Earth who the remaining 10 are. I have to figure my stats are pretty good (modesty aside). At least comparatively- although to whom I'm comparing I'm not entirely sure I know. I will note here that I am totally incapable of making said or proposed list. My brain doesn't work that way exactly oddly enough.

I think it also bears noting that the proposed list could be compiled by 10 different experts on literature and have 100 different authors thereby obliterating my statistics. So where do I really fall on the continuum? Probably not where I want to or where I think I do.

I covet books and hold them dear. I read "voraciously" as so many people claim. I don't like to borrow books because most of the time I know I won't return them- just ask the head librarian of any town I have ever lived in. I don't like to lend people books either- even to dear friends. Yes, for all the regular reasons: they could lose them, dog-earing, forgetfulness etc. But also because they are MY books.

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. wrote in a commencement speech for students in April of 2007 - a speech he never got to give as a result of dying 16 days before he was meant to deliver it- bleh- run-on and poor grammar. Writing is a process and I do not claim perfection. Let us now correct ourselves.

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. wrote shortly before his death an interesting passage regarding books.

" I consider anybody who borrows a book instead of buying it, or lends one, a twerp. When I was a student at Shortridge High School a million years ago, a twerp was defined as a guy who put a set of false teeth up his rear end and bit the buttons off the back seats of taxicabs."

A vivid description at the least and a valid point at the most.

Don't worry though- I do respect economics and understand both the frugality and green-ness of using libraries, book swaps etc to get your reading material. I don't call people "twerps" nor do I imagine my friends who ask to borrow books grinning gumless-ly in the back seat of a cab. I myself rarely pass up a book that is given to me, no matter from where it came. Still, in the back of my head I always want the new copy, the glossy pretty one that smells like fresh ink and paper and can join my collection and make friends. I think I have made it clear that I am a covet-er of books as objects but I should really get back to the original point. The list, the authors, the literature.

Half of my essays ever written have been not just about authors but about my obsession with them. When I like an author I flip to the inside fly pages to find the list of "Other Books Available by "MOST AWESOMEST EVER WRITER FOLK." Then I set out to match my brain with the list and be sure that I have really done the work of falling for the writer and their material. And sometimes when required of me while I was in school I would follow that with a paper that didn't quite match the assignment mostly because it was written to show my breadth of knowledge on the author and his/her work, life, cat's name etc. Not just why "Catcher In The Rye helped shape an image of disillusioned youth culture" or some such nonsense.

But there is a secret component to me having read so many books and for mastering an author so to speak. I don't want to be the wine guy at the party who says "Oh yes, the boldness of the Bordeaux reminds me of a passage in Dante's blah blah blabbbedy blah..." I don't want to be the girl in the back of the poetry reading who points out the connections to Rilke when the speaker said "god" and "flower" in the same stanza. I do want to keep my statistics steady or rising when it comes to that "top 100" list though. I want to eat the words and love them and thrive on them and let them fuel me. But I also want that one other secret thing.

I want to be in the Red Robins not the Blue Birds. Mrs. Abbott simply didn't believe me in 2nd grade when I said I could read as well as I could and I will be damned if she doesn't let me into the stupid, stupid, stupid Red Robins! Damnit- I CAN READ!

Yeah- I guess I can hold a grudge. I have spent all these years trying to out read and prove to everyone that I can read when I am fairly confident they figured it out a while ago. And when it comes down to it, the Blue Birds were reading too. They just weren't reading what I wanted to. In spite of my relatively petty and pretty neurotic need to prove myself to people who didn't need to see- that push really did push me so far that I can think about that list I mentioned about eight billion gobbledy-gook words ago and be a tad bit proud.

Okay so I have to post it in a blog that I can read and that I have read a lot of books but everybody has something they are desperate for people to know about them. Regardless of everything else about me the fact that I can and do read falls into the top five things I want everyone to know about me. It just says so much and leaves so much room for people to wonder and guess, assume and ask questions. How great is that?

I'll get to the other four.

What You Need to Know

Enough about me…
Or have I not yet said much? Hmm. Well there are the basics minus the creepy cyber-stalker clues. I am married and at last bed check counted two children, one boy- age 5ish, one girl- age 3ish. I live in a suburb of Boston that I can probably never afford to buy into but refuse to leave. Renting well maintained first floor apartments in two family homes in a town with good school districts and not having to pay taxes for the plowing, library or the aforementioned good schools works out well enough for me. I do wish the recycling system wasn’t so backwards though. I can rant on that another time. I know- you must be counting the days until that gem of an entry makes its way out!
I grew up in what most people consider a rural town in Maine but the town is definitively not rural. There weren’t sidewalks except for in front of Town Hall; there was only one blinking traffic light, 53 miles of road and a handful of working farms. BUT we were/are not rural. I don’t know quite how to justify that fact but we weren’t and still aren’t. I don’t think. I’ll ask around just in case this is some form of brainwashing delivered by my family or the school system. Mainers are known for being a bit wily.
I have lived in or around Boston since 1995, save for a 2 year stint in Washington, D.C. where I once had my life saved by a squirrel. I have been married for about 9 years and don’t plan on turning the model I got in for a refund any time soon. I like him plenty and he understands why there are certain things that I just HAVE to be the boss of. And he lets me drive a lot and always takes the crappier car to his job (his job by the way makes me super proud of him…gee golly but its true- check out Facing History and Ourselves).
I come from a good sized family, 4 sisters, divorced parents. We are wholly dysfunctional according to any documented source but somehow we manage to function a fair amount of the time which makes me question what “they” mean by dysfunctional.
I have some friends. They are mostly lovely. I used to work in the world where people got paychecks but stay home now. I do have my own craft business from which I am on “leave” and have been for about 2 years. I’m thinking about getting back though.
We’ll see what else I disclose as all this progresses.
Enough about me…

Paper Boxes

My rainy day garb
has brought me
up from my down

No money in the bank
red hair when I
need to be blond

Nobody's here but me
and my broken down smile
an excuse to leave not soon enough

I'm trying to be better
bolder and wiser
fighting a coward in warrior's armor

Never enough 'til the rain
starts to fall my joints
start to swell and I sink in

I'm deep into my mood
this funk that pulls me out
into summer and somewhere

Words on the pages
like chocolate in a mug
sweet mother's winter relief

I'll pack my books and
then my thoughts
all in one plain paper box

I'll store the blues away
behind the thunder and clouds
step into my boots and walk

Unfettered by time or family
constraints my eyes start to
open and I am awake

Feel me know the power of a
storm as it rises
discover me in the puddles

Oily reflections and a cab's
passing waves
distinguish my greys from yours

The sun sneaks out to gawk
at my varying fabrics
and my grin pulls away*

The date on this is probably around 1997, 1998 somewhere around Boston. I publish it here not for proof of worth or talent- that is not something I want judged by a piece written a decade ago. I just realized that I wanted to include it because it took me so damn long to come up with a silly little name for this here blog that I felt it only right to give the piece the credit. So voila. And yes- I know "grey" is not the way Americans spell the word but my dad is an anglophile above anglophiles and I like to tip my hat to the folks across the pond when I can. Always have- always will. And don't worry- I have no expectation of this blog becoming my personal poetry slam so keep breathing. I think I have a thing or two to say about a thing or two.

Why hello there...

I’m sitting outside and having a coffee while writing for the first time in ages. I feel like I’m playing hooky. My two kids and dearly beloved are miles away at the grocery store and me with spare time before an appointment… indulging and guilty.
This writing effort, this blogging venture is not supposed to be an indulgence. The triple shot latte- yeah that counts as frou-frou indulging. But here I’ve got sunlight, a cool breeze, ambient conversation, surprisingly comfortable metal seating and even silly little birds darting about my feet. Too much!
I feel like I need to wrap it up- back to the car and on your way. Let’s not dilly dally. Who thinks phrases like that? Let’s not “dilly dally?”
Okay then- let’s not.
Paper Boxes. Here it is, here I am- a synopsis of the big bang of the blog and then maybe later a mind-numbing profile of myself. Don’t get too excited. It’s just dilly dallying. Paper Boxes as a title comes from a piece I wrote over a decade ago. * The writing expressed everything I needed to say in that moment of time. I would like to allow this blog to leave some space for inaccurate, ill-advised delirium but mostly I would like it to do the same as that one piece I wrote so long ago.
I would love for each entry to describe the moment, the situation as is: density, core temperature and nutritional value. But I will never expect my writing to be anything that couldn’t be stored away amongst the items in an attic. Now to be obvious and bring it ‘round the front for the folks in the back who may have missed it…
I won’t expect more from myself here than bits of writing that could be put away in a plain paper box. Maybe forgotten for a while, hidden, sometimes treasured or found by the wrong person at the wrong time. Or just simple words that used to go on paper you carried into smoky diners in the wee hours and now go out onto the wires and a highway that is nothing more than metaphor. I am indulging a part of me, the one that wrote “Paper Box” in the middle of the night in a sketchy part of Boston and really felt her hands tingle with the energy and the need to get the words out. And now I wait for the words.