There's No Drama like Snow Drama...

Another huge snowstorm is walloping Boston today.  And once again I sit on my sofa, glued to the television set.  I’m watching local weather news coverage.  It’s addicting…I can’t stop myself. 

What is it with major snowstorms that suddenly get us interested in weather?   Maybe it’s Doppler radar showing those so-called ‘color bands’ indicating how much snow you’re estimated to get…and the excitement when you learn you’re in the heavy band zone.  By the way, I’m in what the weatherman calls “The Jackpot Zone”.  He means we’re getting a shitload of the white stuff, but probably can’t say that on air.  I’m sure he’s thinking it though.

Watching the news on snow days also refreshes my memory on measurements.  I enjoy watching as the local reporters stand by a road and say the snow is “about mid knee in depth” as they point to their knee.  “Oh, is that a knee?” I think to myself,  “Where again? I need an anatomy refresher.  And how tall are you again local reporter?  Because height matters. If you’re 6 feet tall that’s a hell of a lot of snow.  5’2” ?  Not so much.”

I also appreciate local viewers sending in their pictures of the snow.  Blankets of white snow in Brockton or Newton, MA looks so much different and unique than the snow in my yard.  Sometimes you’ll even get a cool shot of a downed power line or tree….the local weather coverage equivalent of a NASCAR crash.  Awesome.

High winds also add to local coverage excitement.  The local weather reporter is wearing ski goggles and a huge parka.  Like those National Geographic Antarctic explorer guys?  He looks like that.  And he’s sure to tell us he’s being anchored to the ground by another colleague to keep from falling down.  I stare as he struggles to stand as he’s buffeted by wind and say to myself, “Whoa, now THAT’S windy.  Be careful out there man…”

And lastly, the reporters who get to sit in the warm studio.  They have to remind us of the ‘warm studio’.  I can’t tell whether they use a day like today to tout their seniority to the other saps standing in the blizzard, freezing their asses off.  “We’re here in our warm studio,” they’ll say, as though other days they do without heat. 

Oh and here’s a nugget of wisdom provided by my local anchorwoman as she sits in her warm studio.  Brace yourselves.  Ready for this? “When you walk toward the snow, your face will get wet.”

No shit. 

Think I’ll stay inside.  And watch local weather coverage….

Black Velvet, if you please...

I once aspired to be an artist.  No, not in the musical way I ended up.  A velvet poster artist.  You know, those unfinished color your own posters?  With the black velvet?  That.

My first work of velvet artistry was completed circa 1978.  You haven’t seen it?  No really, like in a gallery or on Antique Roadshow?  I thought it was that great. It was commissioned on my 9^th birthday.

I was fucking serious about it.  I marveled as I unwrapped the unfinished portrait of a Unicorn running and smashing through an oversized rainbow.  It was awesome, but needed my artistic touch.  I was going to break out and get discovered, I just knew it. 

My work ethic really came into play as I colored the allocated white spaces with my half dried markers. I even referenced books on the proper order of colors on a rainbow. Have to be accurate about those kind of things..

The unicorn was a bit of a challenge as most I had seen were already white.  But the velvet artist in me knew I had to be different…set myself apart from the others.  “Pink!” I said to myself.  “With a purple horn…”

I stayed up late and woke early. Painfully but thoughtfully choosing between 9 marker colors…The white areas dispersed between the black velvet haunted me.

And after 2 days, my art was complete.  I swelled with pride as the unicorn finally came to life.  The rainbow colors really popped.  In modern adult lingo, “It was the shit”…

I hung it on my bedroom door for all my family members to admire.

I need some good heavy metal music now…See ya…

Kmart Fan Fun...

My parent’s house didn’t have central air conditioning.  As kids we never really missed it.  The climate in Colorado wasn’t humid so it wasn’t really a necessity.  That isn’t to say we didn’t have some summer evenings that were scorchers. 

It was on those nights the kids were treated to stale circulating air courtesy of our Kmart fans.  My parents were pretty decadent.  They splurged for three of them…one for each bedroom.  They looked just like the one pictured above.  Huge, ugly and loud all wrapped in a gorgeous turquoise metal housing. 

I still think they were actually made by Boeing. You know, the jet engine people?  They were that noisy.   I have some hearing loss.  Perhaps that Kmart fan is to blame…who knows.

The Kmart fan sparked conflict between my sister and me. We shared a room.  My sister would aim the fan toward her bed to hog the air.  I’d get torked and turned it towards my bed and hog the air back.  We’d continue the back and forth air war until it escalated to a fist fight.  Then, exhausted and hot from our hair-pulling match, we’d agree on perfect placement of the fan for optimal air for the two of us.  Isn’t that sweet?

Maybe we were a little deprived as kids because I remember we had a lot of fun with those fans.  Did you know you could talk like Darth Vader?  Dial the white plastic knob to “High” lean up against the plastic grating, breathe like the dark evil guy and say, “Luuuuke!  I am your father!” Way cool. Or maybe get a playing card, feed it through the grill and listen as it makes a cool clicking noise.

Adding even more to our entertainment value was tying long pieces of toilet paper to the grate and watching as it streamed.  Or get a craft feather, hold it up, release it and watch as it shoots back into the room.  See whose feather traveled furthest. Winner takes all.  The “Beauty salon” game was another winner for amusement.  Sit in front of the fan and watch your hair blow. 

I really did have shit for brains as a kid.  Entertained by a fan.  What the hell…

No wonder I’m weird.

Take this bread, Given for you...

Growing up, my family went to church pretty regularly. Since my mother was an organist, it was pretty much a required call of duty.  Not to be left out of the fun, my Dad was instructed to participate in church activities.  He served on various committees, handed out bulletins, greeted new members…And once a month, he’d help our pastor with Holy Communion. 

My dad was a pretty quiet, reserved individual…and socially awkward.  After the initial “Hello” he’d struggle to carry on a conversation.  One thing he was good at was holding a grudge if he didn’t like you. 

On Communion Sundays, as we called it, Dad would wear one of those Pastor-y type robes and stand at the front of the church.  A Pastoral wingman if you will.  He was entrusted with administering the body of Christ to congregants.  I know a lot of churches hand out those Styrofoam wafers.  My church used a big loaf of bread…

Anyway, after blessing the bread and wine, the grand event would start.  One by one, rows of pews were instructed to rise and walk to the front of the sanctuary.  After everyone knelt, the cavalcade of communion goodies made its way down the line of recipients.

Our Pastor was always hands free so he could bless the children and whisper whatever it was he whispered to worshippers…My dad would then break off a piece of bread and place it into the mouth of the communal participant.  Another person carrying the tray of wine would follow. 

It was during this ritual that the random person who at one time in the prior month pissed off my Dad, was unveiled.  He’d never confront them outright…You know, talk it out, resolve differences, “agree to disagree”… He’d just break off an extra hearty portion of the Body of Christ.  Like golf ball big.  Then he’d place the wad into the unlucky recipient’s mouth.  The tiny cup of wine that followed didn’t have a chance in hell washing it down.  It was a chewy dough ball. 

Before the person had a chance to realize what had just happened, the row was dismissed and was instructed to return to their seat.  Dad would stand up front, straight faced, amused as he watched the person stand and walk away while chewing…likely needing to pick their teeth.

And how do I know he did all this intentionally?  He told me.  Said he loved seeing the surprised expression on the person as they held their mouth open.  The confused look of “What the hell just happened?” as they struggled to chew quickly.

He swore me to secrecy knowing he’d catch all kinds of hell from my mom.  So I’ll just share his secret with you….

I know I'm going to hell...

I had homemade party hats....

I never was a huge fan of birthdays.  Even as a kid.  Lots of my friends had lots of dough, very few siblings. This combo resulted in kick ass birthday parties.  My parents had moderate amounts of cash with six kids….My birthday parties paled in comparison. 

My friend Naomi came from a wealthy family.  For her 12^th birthday, her mom and dad were totally fine with us driving their car around a huge field.  You read right.  Ten 12- year olds driving a car….Unattended.  It was a blast.  It was the first time I drove a Beemer.  You read right again.  They were THAT rich.  I mean, really?  Anyway, it was great.  We even rode on the roof yelling like little 80’s valley girls…

Fast forward to my birthday party.  My ‘crafty’ (meant in the most sarcastic sense) mom thought she’d have a party at home.  So homey in fact, we wouldn’t drive to the local five and dime for party supplies.  She had a great idea.  The party attendees would make their own hats.  Imagine attending a party and the hostess says, “Welcome!  Grab a paper punch!  We’re making confetti!”  Yeah, that fun.

Materials did we used: Generic paper plates (as in, “Thin White plates that couldn’t hold a chicken wing without bending), a paper punch, crayons, markers and yarn. 

The idea was to allow every girl to scribble her creative drawing on the paper plate.  As a guest, you could draw a picture, maybe write your name…go wild.  Once completed, two holes were punched exactly 180 degrees from one another.  Yarn was then drawn across the top of the plate and fished down the holes.   The fancy chapeau was then held in place by tying under the chin.  It looked cute.  In a “plate on the head, yarn under the chin” kinda way…..

You think I’m kidding.  No, I’m not.  I even have pictures.  Somewhere.  I won’t post them because they’re so embarrassing.  All of us were standing around with plates on our heads.  What the fuck. 

Nothing else to say here….Too many scars.

Hello, Ronnie?

In high school I rarely dated.  I wasn’t a prude…or a nerd.  Just shy I guess.  I mean I rarely got asked out.  That’s not to say I didn’t have secret crushes on guys….

I once had a major crush on a guy named Ronnie.  He played French horn, was tall, super nice and very handsome.  I’d see Ronnie in the band rehearsal room and smile at him.  We knew each other, but didn’t run in the same circles.  Regardless, at that time, if there was anyone I wanted to ask me out to a movie it would be him. 

So imagine my surprise when my mother answers the phone one night and yells upstairs, ”TRIIIINA!  Phone!  It’s a BOY!”  I honestly didn’t know who was on the phone.  Before she could embarrass me further I ran downstairs and yanked the phone.

“Hello?” I answered, trying to act cool, as though a call from a guy was an everyday occurrence.  “Hi!” the guy’s voice said on the other end.  “It’s Ronnie.  How are you?”.  I couldn’t believe my ears.  Trying to contain my excitement I replied, “Good.  What’s going on?”  “Well, I’m actually calling to see what you’re doing this weekend” he continued, “ I was thinking maybe we’d catch a movie or something.”

Although I was in disbelief I didn’t want to act too excited at the prospect of dating Ronnie so I told him very casually that Friday would work great.  You know, as though I needed to clear my dating calendar…We then agreed on a time. 

Just as I was about to hang up Ronnie had a quick question for me.  I thought he was going to ask me something about our exchanged glances in the band room, maybe how cute he thought I was, or maybe even that he admired my musical abilities…

“Why do you keep calling me Ronnie?”

As it turned out, the voice on the other end of the phone was another guy I wasn’t even remotely interested in.  How the hell was I going to get out of that corner?  His name was “Ricky” and in my enthusiasm for getting any kind of phone call at all, I must have tuned out everything that came after “R”. 

Honestly, I don’t remember what I said.  I was beyond embarrassed.  And I actually felt badly for Ricky.  He was a guy I knew from Calculus.  He’s probably some rich attorney or maybe found a cure for something.

You can bet after that ‘incident’ I clarified who I was speaking with….

Oh and about Ronnie?  He turned out to be as nice as I thought.  We never dated, but he did take me to my Junior prom.  I was moving away my Senior year, and he felt bad for me.  We had a good time. 

No, not like that you pervs….

The Big Corporate Squeeze Play...

I never envisioned myself settling into a corporate type of career.  In college I was a music major.  I was artsy, creative…a musician…So imagine my surprise when a prominent bank wanted to hire me as a computer programmer.  I had very little experience in IT, but hey, it was a ‘real job’ and was going to pay my bills.  Besides, who was I kidding? I was a broke college student with limited prospects for a job, so I accepted.

Initially I was excited about the idea of corporate life.  I would upgrade my day-to-day attire from jeans and a college sweatshirt to a suit.  I’d have a nice desk stocked with cool office supplies like highlighters, paper clips and pens.  Meetings would enlighten me on banking operations, I’d learn about the real underbelly of ‘Big Biz’.  I pictured myself getting kudos from my boss, recognition for a job well done…and all this while collecting the most money I made in my life. 

Well, I’m sure it doesn’t surprise you I quickly found corporate life anything but exciting.  In fact, I found it a tortuous experience. Eye glazingly boring….One upside to the job was I quickly made some good friends. One friend in particular really stands out.  His name was Jeff.  He and I would sit around my office and grumble about our miserable existence. 

One day, Jeff and I were off to a big meeting.  As was the usual, we boarded the elevator and headed to one of the top floors where it was to be held. Often the elevators were busy this time of day and we expected a relatively lengthy ride as the elevator stopped on nearly every floor to pick up or drop off employees.

As was our luck that day, we couldn’t even bitch about our forthcoming meeting because the top five executives for the bank (as in direct reports to the CEO) boarded the elevator. I was feeling particularly ornery that day and as Jeff and I made our way to the back, I gave him a little ‘watch this’ type of elbow nudge.

In front of us was what I can best describe as five “flat and wide” executive asses shoved into Brooks Brothers’ finest suit trousers.  Unhindered by their position of corporate power, I proceeded to make a squeeze gesture with my hands as though I was caressing their sweet asses.  I mean, my hands were mere inches from their butts.  Oh, and everyone got a pretend feel up.  I started left to right and gave each ass some loving attention.

In addition to pretending to feel them up, I made my eyes as wide as saucers and mouthed, “Wow!”, “Oh my god!”, “Hot!” as though I was completely turned on by the experience.  I glanced over to Jeff who at this point was teetering between complete disbelief and fear over someone seeing my antics.  He had his arms crossed, head down and was completely red as he tried to contain his laughter…

We got off the elevator before the execs did and I gave a polite, “Excuse us” as we approached our floor so we could make our way to the door.  By that point, I could barely talk while keeping a straight face. After the elevator doors closed and the execs were out of sight, Jeff gave me a swat on the back of the head with his folder, but was dying laughing…He also asked I never do that again or he’d go into cardiac arrest.

So, to any corporate big wigs out there?  Watch out!  We underlings know you put your pants on one leg at a time too…Oh, and check behind you when riding those elevators.