Sound the Alarm

I lost my keys. I take pride in the fact that I don’t lose anything…not my wallet, not my jacket, not my hair ties, not my sunglasses, not my mind and certainly not my keys.

I need to get to work and can’t put my hands on my keys. Ugh! Abraham “misplaces” many things frequently, especially his keys, but luckily, I can usually find them for him. Of course, as I find his stuff for him, I heckle and ask where he left them while bragging how I never misplace anything. As a result, today he stands ready to arm our alarm with a smirk on his face asking if I’m ready yet. I'm frantic. A crazed loon looking in the same places, over and over again...coming up empty handed.

I fling the door open to retrace my steps from when I pulled in from work the night before. Maybe I left them in the mailbox as I gathered mail? I’m starting to lose my mind and this worries me as I never lose anything and in 1 morning I'm going to lose my keys and my mind!?!? Yikes.

But hold on....as the door flies open......I hear a jingle. It is my keys. They are hanging in the doorknob. I left them in the door. That’s right, all night my car and house keys hung in our door. I look up at Abraham, who is stifling a laugh and simply says, “see, you didn’t lose your keys, they were right where you left them.”

Touche.

Arctic Adventure

Recently, I had dinner with my nieces, nephew, and sister-in-law. I was complaining how cold it had become when Jess reminded me that it wasn’t “nearly as cold as our Artic Adventure” which reminded me of our fun trip…

As you may have read in previous blog posts, my sister-in-law and I took my nieces, Ella and Jess, to Sea World in Florida a few months ago. On our first day at the park, it poured rain. There was still a lot to see so we bought slickers and headed out anyway. It was nice because there were no lines anywhere and few people crazy enough to trudge through ankle deep puddles on a random Thursday but there we were. By mid afternoon, we needed to escape the downpour so we headed over to the Arctic Adventure exhibit.

Little Jess was just the right height to get onto the “helicopter” ride that would take us to the polar bears and ice hut. We explained the ride, and buckled in. The “pilot” told us to keep our items on our laps as it may be a bumpy ride. Jess commented, “I like keeping my backpack on my lap, better than when we flew in the plane down to Florida. This way, if I want to color on the trip, it is right here.” I started to think that maybe Jess didn’t understand the concept of this “helicopter” ride. I looked over at Ella who heard Jess’s comment, and being older and wiser, Ella shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes. The “helicopter” jolted us in our seats, tossed and turned. Jess whispered, “Is this bumpiness normal?” I explained that it was. “Oh good,” she says, “it is kind of fun.” People around us just smiled.

Then images of the frozen tundra started whirling by us on large screens and cool air swirled at our feet. Jess started to look around frantically. She questioned, “Do you think we will see Santa? I mean, I know he is really busy making toys but it would be neat to at least see him and his house.” Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up. To stinking cute.

Suddenly, the “helicopter” lands and Jess declares, “humph, I thought the trip to the North Pole would be longer than our trip to Florida. Who knew Santa lived so close?” People chucked and so did big sister Ella who whispered in my ear, “she doesn’t get that it’s not real but that’s ok.” Well bat-ear-Jess heard Ella declare the ride fake just as we stepped into the exhibit. Jess touched an iceberg and pointed at a large, very real polar bear, and argued, “oh yea, this is ice and that’s a polar bear. It could eat your head. That is for real?!?!”

No arguing with that logic.

Golden Boy

In an effort to shield my big brother, who is quite possibly one of the greatest men I know, I have not written too much about him but this story has to be told. Those if you who know our family, will not find any of this as out of the ordinary but I think it sums up our crew.

For as long as I can remember, every Easter, my parents would pack up my brother and I and we would spend the week in some tropical paradise. Our little family of four would eat together, swim together, share books on the beach and what I remember most is how much we laughed on these trips. The first year my brother went off to college, I know my Mom worried that our Easter getaways would disintegrate and that her baby boy would want to do spring break with his new college buddies. When my bro came home for Christmas, I think he got my Mom a college sweatshirt but the best gift he gave her was when he asked what the dates were that we were all going on vacation. She was on a cloud the rest of the day and I will admit, I was very excited that our crew was still intact, my brother still didn’t consider me an annoying little sister, and we were all looking forward to some spring break fun.

My Dad made all the arrangements. My brother would fly down to NJ and the 3 of us would meet him at the airport so that all four if us could be on the same plane to the tropical getaway.

Being former military, my Dad has a very regimented travel routine. I always saw the logic in his way – orderly packing, carry-on only, arrive 1.5 hours ahead of time, identification and boarding pass in pant pocket, hussle through security, set up a base point at the gate then go to the bathroom, get food etc., be first on the plane for maximum overhead space, schmooze the counter personnel to see about upgrading…all makes perfect sense. My Mom and brother were more free spirits. We would be in check in line for 30 minutes, finally get to the counter and my Mom would then start searching for her passport. She sought out restrooms at the worst possible time, and my brother walked slower than a snail and was easily distracted if a basketball game was playing on some tv somewhere in the terminal. Lucky for us, my Dad stands head and shoulders above most crowds so he could bellow for us and we could fall in line. We always got to where we needed to be. A well-oiled machine, each with our roles.

So, back to this particular trip – the first one that we didn’t leave the house all together.

My Mom, Dad and I arrive per our usual routine. We arrive at our gate, set up base camp and await my brother’s arrival. We had checked the monitors and knew that his plane had arrived, we had 30 minutes before boarding so all was right in the world. As every minute ticked by that my brother didn’t appear, my Mom grew frantic. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, we had no messages saying he wasn’t making it. My Mom declared that none of us were getting on the plane without Brian. Umm, that sounded like I was going to miss my vacation. Ugh. My Dad wanted us to board and get the precious overhead space figuring Brian would show up but my Mom wouldn’t hear of it.

The boarding process begins and my Mom is on the verge of tears and my Dad is growing frustrated as people board before us. We hear some commotion in the walkway of the terminal. Some people start to board our plane complaining that some kid on a skateboard is flying through the airport, he has a backpack with sneakers swinging off of it and is weaving in and out of crowds. My Dad grumbles to my Mom, “Who would do that?” My Mom’s frown turns upside down and she and I both answer, “Golden Boy.”

Five minutes later, my brother slides into our gate, flips his skateboard up and shoves it in his backpack – the one with sneakers swinging around. “Hey guys, ready to go? I was watching a game and lost track of time. You didn’t have to wait for me, I was going to make it.” You see, things always work out for my brother, he walks the golden path. My Dad, who had just minutes earlier decided whoever was skateboarding through the airport was a rude punk just laughed and said, “glad you could make it. Way to be innovative.”

That kid is a modern day Ferris Bueller.

I Pity The Salesman

By the time the cosmos decided Abraham and I should meet, we both owned homes. So, when we got married and began to merge our belongings, we had to figure out what to keep, what to donate, and what – if anything – we needed to buy new.

My bedroom set was the one I had as a little girl. Abraham’s was a mish mash of dressers and end tables. My bed was as hard as a concrete slab, Abrahams soft and fluffy but not doing anything positive for our backs. The decision was made…we would buy a new bed and bedroom set to begin our married life.

I thought the hard part would be agreeing on a bedroom set we both liked but that was easy. The first store we walked into, the first set we saw, we loved. And as luck would have it, the entire set was within our budget and could be delivered in a week. Score.

Off to find a bed. This is where things get difficult…..why are bed salesmen more annoying and creepy than car salesmen?!?!?!

Abraham and I start at the furniture store. Having learned from my Mom and my couch buying experience, we know to avoid eye contact and shuffle by the salespeople mumbling polite, “we’re all set, thanks” as they ask if we need help. We make it to the bed showroom unscathed. We know our price range which immediately limits us to about 4 bed options.

Just as we are about to sit on one, a salesman spies us and hollers out, “Jump on up there! You have to lay there to get a feel for it so go ahead, lay on down.” I look at Abraham, pleading with my eyes for him to not make me do that. He sits on the edge of the bed, ignores the salesman and starts to talk to me but the salesman won’t be swayed. In a more booming voice he instructs us to the importance of really getting a feel for the bed so we do what any well mannered, well raised children would do…we climbed on up. We lay there on our backs, ensuring we don’t touch, as this strange man watches us and lectures us about the virtues of a quality mattress. He’s jiggling the bed up and down demonstrating the springiness as we lay there bouncing up and down. The salesman starts to sound like a Charlie Brown teacher because all I’m thinking about is how many other people have been on this bed….did they have dirty hair? Is my hair going to be yucky when I get up? Did the people who were here before me feel this awkward?

After what feels like forever, we sit up and are instructed to the next bed. To his credit, Abraham tries to tell the salesman that we are more comfortable discussing on our own and will find him when we make a decision but this guy won’t. go. away. We leave that store telling him we need to think about it and will be back. As we get to the safety of our car, we start laughing about how odd that was and that we will find our mattress elsewhere.

We move on to a bigger chain mattress store. As we walk through the door, Abraham breaks left, I wander right. Uh-oh, how did that happen? Alone across of sea of mattresses, the sales people descend upon me asking about budget, size, firmness. I’m a deer in headlights. I look across the showroom and Abraham is happily wandering, unaccosted by salespeople, reading labels, feeling different beds…he finally looks up and comes to my rescue. Again, the salespeople are insisting we get up on the bed. We go through the same motions as last time but this sales guy is insisting we get “into the mood and cuddle.” Yes, he used the word cuddle. We ignore him and he says again, “you two shouldn’t be shy. You won’t get a feel for the bed if you don’t try it out like you would in bed. Snuggle. Roll around. Give it a work out.” I’m preparing to get up when Abraham grabs me, hugs, kisses, squeezes, rolls me around the bed. As I’m trying to break free and ask what the heck he is doing, the salesman is cheering us on, “That’s right. Really get into it. Gotta’ test it out man!”

We finally sit up and the salesman looks at Abraham and asks, “So sir, what do you think? Good for a tumble with her, eh?” While flattening my hair with my hands, I‘m about to voice my annoyance when Abraham says, “I guess. I mean it was a little uncomfortable because she’s my sister but you told me to go for it so I did.” Abraham gives me the head nod and off we walk. As we reach the door we steal a glimpse at the sales guy and he has a look of perplexed horror on his face.

We ended up calling some 800 number and having the perfect bed delivered.

Insight to all bed sales people...you work in a bed store. Most people aren’t browsing beds like shoes, we’re there to buy. I will find you if I have questions and when I’m ready to purchase otherwise, keep your distance, please. Less is more.

This is what it feels like parking on one of the City lots...and you pay for it!

It Is True...

...a small kindness can make all the difference in the world.

Eleven years ago, my first job in RI was for a non profit organization in Providence. I had to drive from Newport to "the city" every day (if you lived in RI, you would know that very few people venture over the bridges every day but being from NJ, that commute was a piece of cake). I had to park in a pay lot where you were supposed to leave your keys with the attendant. The less expensive lot filled quickly but being a full-time grad student and a full time, not for profit employee, I was barely able to pay even the cheapest lot. Anyway, one day it was raining, cold and miserable out. I was running into Dunkin Donuts to grab a coffee before trying to park in my usual lot. I figured the parking attendant must be cold and miserable as his post was outside, no shelter in sight, so I picked him up a coffee.

As I rolled in, spaces were tight and I was having trouble squeezing into the spot (the parking attendant - barley 18 - could tell I was struggling. In a thick Vietnamese accent, he told me to just leave it, he'd park it. Totally relieved, I handed him the coffee, he looked utterly shocked, and barely stammered a thanks as I ran for the office doors. When I came out at the end of the day, the sun was shining and it had turned into a beautiful day. I headed toward my car when I saw the parking attendant - which was odd because he usually left the keys under the floor mat since his day ended at four and mine at 5. I thought something must be wrong with my car. Shyly, he approached me and said, "Hi. My name is Cabbie. I didn't really get to thank you for the car so I wanted to be here when you got out. So, thanks." And then he took off.

That's how our friendship started. I began to realize that no matter how late I was running or how full the lots were, cabbie always had a spot for me - an easy spot to pull in and out of. If I didn't have cash on hand, he knew I was good for it and let me pay double the next day. He was interested in what I was learning at school, I was interested in how he emigrated Vietnam and landed in RI. The 2 years that I had that job, every morning started with a big smile from him and a greeting, "hello Ms. Sunshine" (his nickname for me. It was a nice way to go through the week.

After 2 years, I graduated and found a new job - a few blocks from my old job and parking lot. My new job came with a parking space so my time with Cabbie came to an end. I no longer had a reason to be on that remote part of town. He congratulated me on my new job, I wished him all the best. Flash forward 7 years to this afternoon...

...I was having a bad day. Was 15 minutes into my 90 minute commute when I realized I left my blackberry at home. I had to go back and get it. Annoying. I arrived at the office at 7 am to find my computer inoperable. Annoying. By noon, I had called the computer help line 3 times to no avail. Annoying. I decided to drive back the 90 minutes from where I came to go to tour Western, MA office and try to use the computer there. Not looking forward to driving through the rain. Annoying. On my way to my car, a truck sped by spraying me with water. Annoying.

Then, out of the distance, I heard, "Hello, Ms. Sunshine!" I looked up to find Cabbie waving frantically. He remembered me! I was touched. He rushed over. We exchanged greetings. He graduated college, was going for a job interview. I was thrilled for him. He was ecstatic that I was married and asked about "the lucky guy". His kindness and the mere fact that he remembered me wanted to make me cry.

I said, "of all the people you see come and go every day, Cabbie, you just made my day by remembering me. I really needed your positive attitude today and here you are." He looked down shyly and said, "you brought me coffee once, on the day after my sister passed away. You didn't know it but it was the kind of positive thing I needed then."

People are amazing and I am fortunate to have so many wonderful encounters with unbelievable people who keep life in perspective for me.

Memories....

Sweet Tea, Sweet Memories

This week, I have felt overwhelmed, over-worked, and woefully under appreciated. I was dealing with this feeling by wallowing in my misery. I looked for an opening in my schedule so I could take a couple of hours to go to the spa, sit in the sun, sleep past 5am....anything that would give me some down time. My calendar provided no such openings. Driving down the Mass Pike, off to another person in need of kindness, grumbling to myself, grunting at jerky drivers, snorting with disgust every time my phone rang, I did something I rarely do....I pulled across 3 lanes of traffic and found myself in the McDonald's drive-thru. I felt a little guilty -I'm a Burger King girl- as I ordered my sweet tea. Only a dollar. What a score. I had actually caught my first break of the week. The guy even remembered to put a lemon in it. It was 3 pm on Friday but the week was finally improving.

As I took my first sip - a long, greedy gulp actually, I felt a smile creep over my face. This was the real deal - real Southern Sweet Tea. It immediately took me back to 2005 - Louisiana - Hurricane Katrina. I had been sent there by my employer to help with humanitarian aid. I was sent alone and scared but knew I was doing good work at a shelter. It was long days (I worked from 9 am until 11 pm every day) and there were few restaurants open, let alone restaurants open at the hours I was available to eat.

At the end of my first shift (11pm), I was driving back to my hotel, the Gentlemen's Quarters, when I saw the bright yellow Waffle House sign. I pulled in, saddled up to the counter, ordered a grilled cheese and a sweet tea. The women behind the counter (who had gold teeth, gang tattoos, the most unruly braids I had ever seen, and neon fake nails) stared at me like I was crazy but served me the most refreshing iced tea I had ever had. I watched as they took thick slices of bread, held them over a spinning wheel of melted butter, slapped it down on the griddle. Next, 2 thick slices of American cheese were placed directly on the hot griddle until they melted to a bubbly perfection. As one woman scooped the cheese onto the grilled bread, the other filled my glass with more fresh brewed sweet tea. Comfort food at its best. When the bill came, it was $8 - I left a $20 and went off to catch some sleep.

Morning came too soon. I headed to the check-in area which had advertised a "morning special" which I assumed was food. Wrong. It was sexual in nature. Oops.

So it was back to the Waffle House for me where the same 2 women were working, still looking at me like I was insane. I had an english muffin, hot coffee with real cream, and a grilled english muffin which enjoyed the same butter bath my grilled cheese had the night before. My bill came, $4 - I left a $10. That night, the routine began - at 11 pm, I pulled into the Waffle House and ordered the same meal. The next morning, my same breakfast. Always the same women there.

By the third day, I asked, "don't you two ever get to go home?". They retorted, "don't you know you're the only white person in here at all sorts of odd hours?". I explained I was an aid worker and we got to chatting. Over tall glasses of sweet tea, they would tell me how they were sisters, Nadine and Jadine, how they worked nights (10pm - 8 am) as their Mom watched their kids so that they could be home when their kids came home from school and keep an eye on them. It was important that they cooked dinner for their kids every night and had dinner around the table. They would tell me how they saw too many kids slip away because their Mamas didn't keep an eye on them. They wold joke that they would catch up on sleep when they were old and gray.

They had lost people to the Hurricane. I explained how I worked with kids in shelters, tried to help complete aid forms, that I missed my dog and my nieces.......a friendship was forged. After about a week, they told me I could stop tipping them insanely, they liked me and had "put the word out" not to mess with the white chick. I explained that I appreciated that but I wasn't tipping them out of fear, I was tipping them because no matter what I ordered, I was getting a flat rate for food so I would rather pass it on to them...I wasn't there to make money. Always, fresh, cool pitchers of sweet tea full of lemons sat amongst us as we talked the night away. They laughed as I begged for a real southern sweet tea recipe - I had tried to duplicate it and just came up with a cloudy mess of tea.

Then I received word that I was to fly home. On my last night, I told Nadine and Jadine I would be flying out the next day. They made me promise to come in the nex morning before I left so we could say "proper" good-byes. I showed up bright and early. We took pictures. Cried a little. Hugged. As I was waving my final good-bye, the ladies tucked a gift bag in my hand and wished me safe travels.

Once I was settled on the plane, reliving all my Katrina memories, I remembered the bag. I opened it and found a note that said, "You gave us so much and we had nothing of value to give so we put this together. Thanks for showing us that not all white ladies are bitches. We miss ya already." In the bag was a Waffle House mug for coffee, a tall Waffle House glass (perfect for sweet tea), a long handled spoon a box of tea bags (a brand I had never heard of before) and the recipe for real southern sweet tea. The secret is in the brand of tea bag (which they had enclosed) and a pinch of...something else I won't tell.

I started to tear up. Nadine and Jadine thought they had nothing of value to give but they gave me comfort, friendship, protection and a recipe I searched my whole life for. All things I value tremendously.

So back to current day, while I cruise down the Mass Pike, sipping my McDonalds sweet tea, I am reminded of that time of my life and can't help but put aside my grumpiness and just appreciate all my good fortunes.

Who knew sweet tea could be so important?

NJesque

I have long considered myself a New Englander at heart - after all, I summered on Cape Cod for 30+ years. Being my cocky, slightly clueless self, I thought I knew everything there was to know about New England (a real New Englander would of course disagree). I knew New England was fabulous so moving there wouldn't feel like I was leaving my home (NJ) behind but rather, like I was moving to my home state, away from my home state (so to say).

I knew where to get the best lobster rolls (both Connecticut style and New England style on a top split hot dog bun), all the best beach locations, where to get a fantastic mudslide (outdoors, overlooking the ocean, while live music played in the dunes above), I knew I could find a drive-thru Dunkin Donuts on every corner (literally), new England was the home of coffee milk (yes, same as chocolate but with coffee syrup - I know, heaven in a bottle), dells lemonade, root beer and orange soda at every fountain machine, amazing Chinese food (not NJ style where fried rice is still white and has peas and carrots tossed in)...all of this, New England had to offer. However, I quickly learned that the great Northeast, lacked some items I considered essential and were in abundance in NJ...

...Bagel Shops - or even just a good bagel. Ask a New Englander where to get a good bagel on Sunday morning after church and you will be pointed towards the nearest Dunkin Donuts (no doubt within sight no matter where you are). Yes, that puffy round pice of bread passes for a bagel here and is only edible if you toast it and slather it with butter.

...Pizza - Dominos is considered the neighborhood pizza joint. (My NJ friends, do I really need to explain how disappointing this is?!!?!)

...Delis - ask where to get a good Italian grinder and you will be directed towards Subway or d'Angelos. Yikes.

...Lunch Meat - you want a quarter pound of cheese? a half pound of this sliced turkey for your weeks linch - they'll tell you to go to the Stop & Shop deli counter. Pure insanity. I don't think my mom EVER visited a grocery store "deli" counter while living in NJ.

...Macaroni Salad - New Englanders float over cooked elbow pasta in mayo and shredded carrots. Eeewwww.

But, by far, the BIGGEST disappointment in New England...NO REAL DINERS. When I moved here for graduate school, one of the first think I asked other students was, "where's the cheap, tons-of-food, open all night, diner. People looked at me like I was nuts and suggested IHOP or Bickfords. So. Not. A. Diner.

For the last 11 years, I have searched far and wide throughout New England for a diner. you know, I want a diner with slightly grumpy service, mildly cool tap water served in gold tinted small glasses, mounds of food, fries with gravy, plastic, greasy menus with pictures of everything from pot roast dinners to grilled cheese with bacon.

People have suggested various haunts but trust me, I've been down a lot of rabbit holes and these did not pan out. Last Saturday night, Abraham (formerly Alexander) and I stumbled upon a diner in MA that we thought looked promising. As we pulled in the lot, I had my doubts but as we opened the half smudged glass/half metal door and were promptly ignored by the hostess as she flirted with the Greek looking bus boy behind the food counter, my hope rose.

As she finally plucked 2 large plastic menus off a stack next to an old cash register and sat us at an old, torn, red booth with a mini juke box - a smile started to creep over my my face and I began to allow myself to believe that this could be it. This could be my NJesque diner. The big question remained though...did they have my ultimate NJ diner feast? A gyro with shaved meat in a large warm pita, slathered in tzatziki sauce served with piping hot fries??? As I scoured the menu (yes, it had pictures), Abraham declare he had found his favorite NJ diner choice - a hot open faced turkey sandwich with gravy, mashed potatoes, veggie of the day, and soup or salad. Happy for him but I was growing frantic looking for my gyro and then, there it was - under "Greek Favorites".

When the food arrived, you could have told me I was back in NJ at the nautilus diner and I would have believed you. The food was the real deal and I couldn't have been happier if Abraham had taken me to a swanky 5 star restaurant.

The Route 9 diner is a hike from our house. It isn't on the way to anywhere. But I will go back and I will go back often. I will b the NJ transplant in the booth, flipping through the juke box, eating a gyro and fries with gravy (drinking a root beer) with a smile plastered on my face. Come say hi.

Really People, Really?!?!?!

It was 5:33 am and I was well into my commute to work - don't be jealous.
I had lesson 15 of my "Learn Conversational Spanish" CD on. (Which, by the way - if you are in Mexico and see a handsome Spanish speaking man and want to grab a beer with him - I'm the girl you want with you because I have gotten as far as easily asking someone if they want to grab a beer at a local restaurant. Anyway, it is how I kill my commute.)

All of the sudden, all traffic comes to a screeching halt. I'm amazed to see so many cars lined up I mean, it is the crack of dawn on a kind of mild, back "highway" going towards RI on an overcast day. I rarely see cars on this commute let alone so many just stopped as far as the eye can see.

I turn off Mr. Spanish and tune into the traffic channel on my radio. Nothing. No update, no word, just a static and crackle. Grrreat. As I creep along the road at 5 miles an hour, watching the GPS continually recalculating the arrival time...later and later and later.

I can't help but wonder what the hold up is.

About 45 minutes later, I pass the cause of the hold up. A guy broken down, changing his tire on THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROAD!

Seriously, I know it is hard to look away from a car accident or something but a guy changing his tire on the other side of the road is cause to slow down the commute for 45 minutes??!!?!?! Really people, really? Get a life and get out of my way.

The Migration Ends...With a Couch

I had abandoned my sofa at my last apartment in NJ. I, along with everyone helping me move, decided it was best to just leave it on the second floor walk up as it was an ancient, long, bulky, HEAVY, pull out couch covered in hot, scratchy tweed. As a result, I was without a place to lounge at my newest, seaside cottage.

I had asked around about where I could get a decent couch on my newly limited, graduate student budget. The consensus was a place called Alperts. Still laughing from the beer mug, falling debacle, my Mom and I venture off into the unknown to buy a couch. My Mom is driving, we don't have a GPS, don't know the area too well, and briefly listened as my landlord gave us directions. Needless to say, we were driving around in circles. The worst part was, we could see the Alperts building from I-195 (it is hard to miss as it is a big tacky mirrored cube on the side of the road) but no matter what exit we took...we couldn't get there. We started cracking up again when out of nowhere, we see an Alperts delivery truck...FOLLOW THAT TRUCK. Off we went, trailing the big truck....right into a gas station. We patiently waited while he filled his tank and then followed him to the store a few blocks over. We had arrived.

Before we got out of the car, we had agreed on a game plan...stick to the budget...don't make eye contact with sales people and maybe they won't swarm us....do not tell them our budget....say we are only borwsing...decline help...no polite chit chat... all we needed to do was stick to the game plan and we would find our couch.

We hop out of the car and hear music. The Mexican Hat dance is being piped into the parking lot over speakers. Very odd. as we approach the building, we start to dance a little jig, see ourselves in the mirrored walls of the building and begin laughing all over again. We bust through the doors and are greeted by a slew of sales people who had just seen our antics through the one-way mirror. One sales person approached and asked if they could help. As i was saying, "no thanks, just browsing" my Mom is saying, "she just moved here. She has no couch. We have to buy one today. We're desperate and she only has $500 bucks." Way to stick to the plane, Mom. Why don't you just give him my social security number and my checkbook. Geez.

As it turns out, here was only one couch that fit the bill and fortunately, it was adorable. We paid and booked it out of there....straight to the Brick Alley Pub (http://www.brickalley.com) for alcohol and appetizers.

A Meeting of the Minds

I promise to continue with a blog about the couch shopping shortly (I know, you're just holding your breath in anticipation) but I needed to make an announcement...

Over the weekend, my parents had my friends, Tim and Dottie over for dinner on the Cape (yea, so apparently when my parents moved out of NJ, they didn't have to worry about making new friends 'cuz the just STOLE mine but I was raised to share so whatever) and they all sat around and decided that they hated the "code name" I used for my hubby. They didn't think he was an "Alexander". My Mom really thought he should be Hank but that didn't really fly so it was settle that he should be called Abraham.

Yuppers, that's right. From now on, he will be known as ABRAHAM in this blog. I didn't pick it. I just try to please the masses. Just sayin'....

The Migration Continues...

Now that I have found my little ocean side piece of heaven, I meet my Mom in NJ, jam our cars full of my stuff from the basement and drive (on 4th of July weekend let me remind you - yes, my Mom rocks) to little Rhody.

I have been stressing to her how uptight the landlord is, how he really wants a nice, quiet person, not a party girl (me? a party girl? what had he heard? So I still wore my Donut Shop t-shirt - the infamous sink your teeth into these tee- once in a while as a joke - how could he know that?!?!). I assured him I was his girl but he was still leery. I wouldn't feel secure until I had the apartment keys in my hand. As we approached the street, my Mom calls me to say she wants to stop for gas. As I pump her gas, she's complaining about how hot she is. Well, no kidding Dick Tracy.

The year is 2000 and the temperature is 92 degrees. The outfit my Mom has chosen to wear to drive 4 hours and move me into my apartment is: beige shorts (ok, this makes sense), socks and sneakers (my feet crave flip flops but whatever), a t-shirt (also makes total sense), and a giant, over-sized, brown furry Express sweatshirt I bought as a high school sophomore in 1991. I call it her flying squirrel sweatshirt because it is so huge on her that it hangs to her knees, the "sweatshirty" part (you know, the soft fuzzy inside you like to curl into in the winter) is on the outside (I think that was a trend in the early '90s), and when she raises her arms, it looks like wings.

We finally get to the apartment where my uptight landlord meets us, clutching my precious keys. He eyes my Mom's car (a sensible, boxy Volvo - that screams respectable), and my BMW (hello, how yuppie can one family get - I'm so not portraying myself as a party girl - give me the keys already). He has me go inside the apartment to sign something and hand me my keys. My Mom is still getting "organized" in her car so I head in. As he is handing me the golden keys, my Mom busts through the door, she's clutching a box, her pocketbook is hanging from her wrist - dangerously close to the ground - she has sweat pouring off her nose so her sunglasses have slipped down...she misses the stair into the sunken family room...stumbles...tries to catch herself...gets caught up in her flying squirrel sweatshirt...loudly proclaims, "aw shit, I'm going down" and then promptly falls at the feet of my landlord. To her credit, she never drops the box though it is labeled in large block letters, "BEER MUGS TAKEN FROM VARIOUS BARS". Grrrreat. I get her up, grab my keys and the lease before he can change his mind and usher my landlord out the door. My Mom and I go into uncontrollable hysterics and decide we've had enough unpacking for today...let's regroup and go buy a couch. Sounds simple enough, right? As if.......

Stay tuned for the final installation of the migration....CeeCee and Mom shop for a couch.

And So The Migration North Begins.....

The time had come for me to consider career advancement. I had gone as far as I could within the State's Prosecutor's Office and I figured I needed an edge...that's when I remembered my parents' words of wisdom, "education is never wasted" and the even more important words, "we will pay for your education for as far as you want to go - 4 years of undergrad (a must no matter what), 2 years of grad school (if you choose), 4 years for a Doctorate (again, if I chose)." If it took longer to get through the programs than the specified years, I was responsible to pay the additional time but otherwise, the world was my oyster.

Ah ha!.....my edge would be graduate school...courtesy of my parents. (I know what you're thinking...I'm spoiled but here is another thing my Dad once told me...people who appreciate everything they are given, all of their life advantages and use it responsibly and with respect - those people are not spoiled, they are fortunate. Boy, did I ever appreciate all the advantages life had to offer me so while you may consider me spoiled I consider myself fortunate and indebted to my parents!)

So, I began applying to lots of schools - all in and around by beloved NJ. My plan was to get a Masters degree in 2 years and hop back into the job front at a higher ranking, better paying position. Of course, none of the programs were exactly what I was looking forbut they were in NJ so I was willing to compromise. However, I had recently spent some time with my brother (who had settled in RI) while I was in their wedding, loved the ocean, salty air and surfer guys so I figured I would look at schools in and around RI. Amazingly, there was a program that had every component I had ever wanted in a degree. It was as if I had written the ciriculum myself. That it happened to be in stunning Newport, RI was the icing on the cake. I applied, was accepted, gave notice at the Prosecutor's Office, packed up my apartment in my beloved NJ (with all my stuff stored in my parent's basement) and began my search for an apartment in Newport, RI.

I found a fantastic in-law apartment with french doors that opened to a patio where I could smell salt water and hear the waves crashing. It had its own driveway for parking multiple cars (a huge deal in Newport), private access to the famed Cliff Walk and I could easily walk to classes, downtown, the bank, the grocery store, the beach. It was newly renovated with a large bathroom and bright, airy open floorplan. In essence, I had found heaven. I had to have this location - it was made for me! My landlord lived upstairs with his wife and young son so you can understand his concern that the "right" kind of tenant live there. During the application process, I put my best foot forward - wore a tasteful skirt and top to meet him, had my resume in hand, references from my former landlord, personal references...and a check with first, last and security deposit. He said as long as I wasn't a late night partier, the place was mine as of July 1st. I couldn't have been happier as I signed on the dotted line. It was the first apartment I had ever moved into without at least showing my parents first and I couldn't wait for my mom to see it so I quickly enlisted her to help me move in....July 4th weekend.

And so the move began.....

Stay tuned to hear about our adventure of moving us in and furniture shopping!

Have I Ever Steered You Wrong?

Do something nice for your feet.

GO BUY SANUK YOGA MAT BOTTOM FLIP FLOPS! It's like the best $20 some odd dollars you will spend this summer. They run true to size and there are styles for men and women....even kids

Don't know where to get 'em?

http://www.zappos.com/sanuk-yoga-mat-pink

Free shipping. Free returns.

Trust me on this one....

“Grown-Up” Really Isn’t a Bad Word….Who Knew?!?

When Did You Realize That You Had Become A Grown-Up? Think about it - your answer might surprise you.

“Honey, put your shoes away. Daddy and I spent good money on those.”

My Mom said this to me every afternoon when I came home from school, as I kicked my shoes across the kitchen floor, and draped myself across a chair (leather, Pottery Barn – no doubt they spent good money on this item too). I couldn’t help but think…if you guys spent such good money on my shoes, why should I put them away? Shouldn’t everyone who enters be able to view my shoes? Yes, even as a kid, I was sarcastic.

One day I actually said it out loud and I got the parental glare of disdain which I promptly followed with, “Oh Mom, you’re such a grown-up.” I remember the pride I took in saying it with such angst.

Fast forward - When I came home for my first winter break from college with my dorm room packed up, my withdrawl form from the University in hand and proudly announced that I had dropped out to drive cross-country and take some time to enjoy my youth, I got the look of disappointment followed by a reality check from my Dad. Come January I would be returning to a college. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Geez, just another buzz kill grown-up.

College graduation - my parents were so proud, had their cameras at the ready and inquired constantly what I planned to do now that I was entering the world as a grown-up. The thing was, I didn’t feel much like a grown-up.

I would play the game, go through the motions, apply for jobs but in my heart, I was still a kid, excited for another summer on Cape Cod. I spent 20 summers on the Cape at my parents’ summer home, I wasn’t ready to trade in the flip flops for pantyhose, thank you very much.

At 16, my parents insisted I get a summer job – to help pay for the shoes and designer clothes they kept insisting that I put away. As grown-ups, they thought a part-time summer job would make me appreciate all of my carefree days and that at some point, I too had to grow up. Being the kid I was though, I got a job on a strawberry farm. It abutted a sparkling lake, required minimal labor, paid well, and I was done by noon. In my eyes, it was a dream come true, I could go to work fairly messy, I was outside enjoying nature while getting a tan, making money and best of all, I could still spend all day at the beach, evenings out with friends. Ah youth – something my parents, as grown-ups, couldn’t appreciate no doubt.

Fast forward - I got a job. A real job. One that required me to wear a suit and heels. I worked at the State Prosecutors Office – a very grown-up job. I liked the work. I liked the people and the socializing better. All the suits and pantyhose and responsibilities still, did not make me feel like a grown-up.

After a couple of grown-up years at work, I went to graduate school. A very grown-up thing to do. But I chose to go to graduate school in Newport, RI and when my dad asked me how classes were, my response was that I could see the ocean from every class. Ah, still just a youth.

I got a much coveted job (you know, the one where I get paid to be nice to people). Same feeling as the State Prosecutor’s Office. Loved the job. Appreciated having it. After all, it paid for my seaside apartment and introduced me to lots of new, fun friends. Nope, still didn’t feel grown-up.

I was making decent money so I upgraded to an apartment with a guest room. I had apartments before but could only ever afford a studio or 1 bedroom. Good enough for me, people could crash on the couch if the stayed over. So was it the 2 bedroom apartment that made me realize I was a grown-up? No, not exactly.

My 26^th birthday. By then, I was an Auntie. I had a professional career. I had earned a masters degree. I was a self-sufficient, strong young woman. None of this made me feel like a grown-up. But on that fateful 26^th birthday, my parents gift was to offer to buy me a bed for my guest room. “So you can have proper company” my Mom explained. Not some hand me down mattress. Not a futon. Not a $99 special or Salvation Army find but they offered to buy me a real bed to set up the spare room for “proper company”. Here is the kicker….I WAS TOTALLY EXCITED FOR IT.

I comparison shopped. I wheeled-and-dealed with the area mattress companies. I thought about sheets and comforters. I was excited to have company pay me a visit. On the day the mattress and box spring arrived, I was so excited. The delivery men couldn’t get out of my way fast enough. Finally, with the room set up, I stood back and admired the guest bed. Leaning in the doorframe, sun gleaming through newly Windexed windows, dust floating through the air, with an enormous sense of happiness for my birthday gift is when it hit me. I’m excited about a guest bed. A bed. I got a bed as a birthday gift and I’m happy about it. I mean, it isn’t even a bed I was going to sleep in and yet, I couldn’t wait to show it off. Right there, in that doorframe, three days after my 26^th birthday is when the realization settled in – I had grown up. I was, in fact, a grown-up.

I had to share my revelation with my parents so I got to the phone and invited them for a proper visit – to stay in my guest room with the new beautiful bed. When they arrived the following weekend, I served them lunch, bought them dinner, made breakfast the next morning. It was unbelievable. I talked to my parents as adults and we laughed and I discovered that being grown up is fun.

What's In A Title?

Saturday morning, I awoke - before sunrise - by the ringing of Alexander's work phone. I can faintly hear the voice on the other end asking if his wife is there. I can't hear who it is but I hear Alexander's reply, "Is everything ok? I will see if she is available."

Ummm, "I will see if she is available" must mean me (right?) and I'm thinking, I'm right here, where else would your wife be at 5:30 on a Saturday morning?!?!? What, do you need to search through the bevy of women in your bed to see if your wife is available? Helllooo, I'm right here and despite whatever fantasy you may have, I am the only woman in the bed (and will be as long as he wants to live).

I take the phone and on the other end is a co-worker of Alexander's who needed assistance on how to be nice to a person - you remember, I get paid to be nice to people....anyway, I walk through the scenario with him and tell him I will see him at the office shortly for further assistance. All is good, right? Wrong!

On my night stand sits my blackberry, silent. You see, Alexander and I work for the same organization but at different branches, 70 miles apart. I have worked there for 7 years and was always known by my name, my work capabilities and my title (a title I will admit, i am quite proud of as it reflects my 14 years of on the job experience and 6 years of education and hard work that earned me this title within this organization) but the day I married Alexander, I became, Alexander's wife. Co-workers introduce me as, Andrew's wife. I will ask a question and the answer will be told to Alexander to relay to me. I send an email, Alexander gets the reply.

So I'm pacing around the room complaining about the loss of my identity to the very man I'm feeling I lost my identity to. His response, "sorry you keep getting identified as my wife. that must be a bummer, you worked really hard to get where you are. Sorry."

That's when it hit me...I waited 30 plus years to find the ideal mate so that I could change my Miss title to Mrs. and here I am complaining to the man that has made me happier than I can imagine and he's apologizing for me being known as his wife. Am I crazy?!?! There's no other title I could wish for.

That's What I Like About You

HAWAII


1. Kona Coffee - just the memory of the smell off 100% Kona Coffee - freshly brewed - makes me smile

2. The People - mahalo for your patience and kindness to all of us tourists - I know I would never be that polite to so many haoles asking annoying questions


3. Blue Sky, Blue Water, Powder White Sand - really, no explanation needed, right?


4. Duke's Hula Pie - It's not really pie and I don't really care - it is fantastic!


5. Snorkeling the Na Pali Coast - a hot rainy day, just my husband and I and thousands of tropical fish and coral - paradise found!


6. Diamond Head - the view from the top is indescribable. The fact that I made the hike to the top makes me feel like I can do anything. If I had a bucket list, this would have been on it and it would have felt fantastic to scratch it off the list.


7. The Seven Sisters Waterfalls - natures waterslide


8. Black Sand Beaches - lava tubes, smooth black stone pebbles against colbalt blue waters.....you just can't make that beauty up.


9. Did I mention the Kona coffee?


10. Dole Plantation - fresh pineapple, lightly salted (yes, you read that correctly - just when you thought fresh pineapple couldn't get any better...) comes with everything from pancakes to steak to fish.


11. The Banyon Tree - taking up an acre of land, it is said to symbolize eternal life as it has never ending expansion. Beautiful tree, beautiful symbolism.


12. the Postal Code Is HI - how great is that?!?! The people are so flipping friendly, even their state code is welcoming.


13. Fraaaaank - Nobody gets hurt on Frank's tour


14. Disney may claim to be the happiest place on Earth but 2 weeks in Hawaii with the man I love is my happiest place on Earth.


These are a few of my favorute things...Hawaiian style.

Pre Wedding Conversation

The day before my wedding, my 5 year old niece, Jess, was showing all the kids on the playground how she could skip monkey bars - only she couldn't...she fell...she broke her arm. She called me to tell me she had a bright pink cast (she hoped I was ok with that), promised not to let anyone sign it until after the "formals" (photos, that is), and most importantly, she asked, "Does this mean I can't get my very first manicure and pedicure with you?" I tell her as long as she feels okay, I would love for her to still get her nails done. She seemed very relieved and declared, "phew, I've waited my whole life for this and would hate to miss it. See you at the salon, Cee."

The afternoon of the wedding, all the ladies were made up and ready to go to the ceremony. I had arranged for a limo to pick up my parents and me and another to pick up the bridal party (including the flower girls - one of which is Jess, in her bright pink cast and painted nails). As I'm getting into the first limo with my parents, I hear the following conversation:

Jess: Mommy, is that a HOLLYWOOD limo?!?!

Her Mom (my sis-in-law): Uh, yes, I suppose that could be considered a Hollywood limo.

Jess: Am I going in that Hollywood limo???

Her Mom: Yup, you are!

Jess: That's awesome!!! I told all my friends at school that I was going in a Hollywood limo but I didn't think I really was going in a Hollywood limo. I thought I was lying but now I'm not.

Her Mom: What? You lied to your little friends at school?

Jess: No, Mom, I thought I was lying but I am going in a Hollywood limo so I'm not lying.

Her Mom: But Jess, that is lying.

Jess: Huuh? But it's true, I am going in a Hollywood limo.

This conversation went back and forth a couple more times before her Mom said, "ok, sure, sure, whatever you say...just get in the Hollywood limo.

Classic.

Flying The Friendly Skies

So, Alexander and I were flying back from the final leg of our fantastic honeymoon. We were on the 10 pm flight with 13 hours of flying ahead of us. Being the good wifey, I give my hubby the aisle and I take the middle seat. It has to be love, right? I mean, otherwise, I would battle for the aisle. Next to me (in the window seat) is a 60 year old woman traveling with her husband, adult daughter and grandson. her family is in the row behind us.

The trip starts out pleasant enough, I'm starting to doze, Alexander is zonked out....but then this woman decides to reach behind her and squeeze her grandson's knee and ask how he's doing. Well, he had been asleep but she woke him up. he has now decided to pass the time kicking the back of my seat. Thanks, lady. I figure, since I'm awake, i will read my nook. I turn on my overhead light and the woman next to me groans. Really?!?! You woke this kid up so he's kicking my chair and you're going to groan that I turned my light on. Ever the polite person (my Mom raised me right), I asked her if she minded the light. She said she did but she would survive and then proceeded to wrap a sweater around her head, covering her eyes. This annoying lady tossed and turned for the next 30 minutes. I gave up, turned off my light and decided to sleep.

Just as I start to doze, I feel something hit the back of my head. It is a kid's sneakered foot. Grandma decided to drag her precious 3 year old grandson over the back of the chairs so he could sit in her lap. I mean sure, why not? The seats are plenty big enough. NOT! It was my turn to groan and it must have been loud because Alexander woke up.

The three year old exclaims that he's hungry. Before I know what is happening, this sweaty, hungry kid is saying over and over, "I'm hungry! Hungry! Now hungry!" and grabbing at my arms (which are folded across my chest as my seat mates have hogged all the armrests). I'm dazed and confused as he grabs for my boob - "Want it now! Hungry!" The grandmother is not restraining him and actually says to me, "I know what he wants!" Ummmm, hello, I'm not about to breast feed a three year old - EVER - especially a strange yucky kid that isn't mine, on a plane, when I'm not even preggers. I'm in a mild panic, annoyed state and don't know what to do so I turn to Alexander for help and all he says is, "that kid thinks he hit the mother load."

here's what I learned:

1. People are freaky

2. If your kid can say he is hungry and unbutton a shirt, he's too old to breast feed (my opinion).

3. I can always count on Alexander for comedic relief.

4. from now on, I'm flying first class - more space between me and the freaks.

I'm Here....Kinda

I'm here, really I am. Please stay tuned. I promise, when I have a weekend where I'm not working and a day where my commute isn't three plus hours, and the sun isn't shining...I will post another blog...I have lots of time on my commute to think of funny things that happen throughout the day - i just need to keep may eyes pen long enough to type it up.

Thans,

CeeCee

hi from HI

Having a blast in Hawaii. Promise there are plenty of blogs coming from this trip...sunrise at the crater...Fraaaank and his bus tour..."biking" down the volcano....parking the jeep....navigating the highways...stay tuned for those.

Just didn't want y'all to think I forgot about you.

I do have one complaint...I suppose it isn't really about Hawaii per se....why, oh why does Marriott feel the need to put a down comforter on their beds no matter where they are. I mean, it is 85 degrees and sunny out like every day of the year - is a down comforter (the exact same one o get in Albany in January) really necessary?!!?

I Meant To Do That

It was mid-morning at work and I was a little fidgety. what better way to cure a case of the fidgets than to go to CVS, right? Lucky for me, there is one in my building, 9 floors below where I work.

I grab my wallet and hop in the elevator, push the button, the elevator doors close...I don't move. So, I hit the button again. Still, I don't move. I'm starting to mildly panic and start to punch the button over and over, faster and harder. Still, nothing. In a nearly full panic with the thought of not being able to get out in time for my wedding (2 days away mind you), I search for my cell to call someone. Of course, I left my cell on my desk. UUUGGGHHH.

I continue to push and panic when - poof - the elevator doors open. Standing in front of me is one of the guys I work with. He says, "why are you just hanging out in the elevator?" Well, that is a very god question. I had been punching the floor I started on (floor 9) over and over again, instead of the first floor - where CVS is.

Clearly, I need a vacation.

There's Been A Revolt!

My technology has turned on me, all at once. It is like they unified and decided to remind me who was really in charge.

On my drive home from work, I was in the middle of a very important work call (well, it had to do with upcoming dinner plans but I was talking to someone I work with so technically, a work matter) when my BlackBerry just turned off. I didn't think the battery was that low so I hit a button on the screen, and the key popped off, into my hand. I'm not on Best Buy's Geek Squad or anything but my diagnosis of the phone would be something like, "it doesn't look good".

Next, I needed to refill a prescription at CVS so I use my iPhone Google app where you just speak what you're looking for and it finds it for you. The search that kept coming up was, "See Vs Bar and Tin" instead of CVS in Barrington. Ugh.

I came home thinking the house could use a quick once over with the vacuum. I plug my iPod into my Bose so I can rock out nice and loud over the cleaning noise and my iPod has no music in it. My music has been lost in cyber space.

Feeling the need to retreat from this technological revolt, I grab my tried and true nook (Barnes and Noble's awesome, love, love, love it e-reader for those of you out of the geek loop), run a bath, and figure I will read while soaking my troubles away. I've had the nook since Christmas and this afternoon is the first time I've ever received the warning, "your nook is too low to function. it is critical that you charge it." Critical that I charge it?!?! Really? Critical. Fine, I will follow the nooks order, pop a bottle of wine and get on my laptop, connect with the masses.

You don't think that would go smoothly, do you? My laptop battery is dead so I dug out my cord only to discover that it will power up the laptop but the battery won't charge.

Here's what I'm thinking - if I want to talk to people, I will use a hard wired, home line. Does anyone have one of those? If I want music, I will learn to play the piano. Future reading will be done with an actual book and I should start publish my blog as a weekly Gazette using a hand powered printing press, distributed via the Pony Express.

You win technology, I surrender.

Scram!

Could someone please tell Precious, the neighborhood cat, to find another screen door to scratch. This single girl is about to be married so I think this cat should know that I will not be the neighborhood spinster with a thousand cats.

You're scratching up the wrong screen, Precious!

Mildred and Me

When I first started in my job, I was told to travel to Southern New England and get trained by one of the best in the field, a woman named Mildred. Really?!?! I mean - MILDRED - I pictured a 75 year old grandmotherly type who wore granny glasses, a sweater guard, used tissues jammed up her sweater sleeve and who smelled liked boiled onions (yes, I think that all old peoples' homes smell oddly like sweaty onions - you think I'm nuts right now but pay attention next time you are around old people).

As I climbed into my car for the 2 hour drive, I was plotting how to get out of having to eat lunch with Mildred. The closer I got to her office, the more distraught I became - here I was working for this amazing organization that I worked really hard to get employed by, there were young, fun, fabulous people everywhere (me being one of them, of course) and I was going to be stuck hanging with Grandma Mildred because we were the people who got paid to be nice to people while everyone else got paid to be cool.

Ugh!

Upon my arrival, the receptionist buzzes Mildred to let her know I had arrived. She replied that she would be right down. Shortly after, the door flew open, I heard my name and looked up to find a well dressed, pretty, young, hip chick calling out to me. Mildred's secretary, I wonder? Nope...Mildred...in the flesh.

She whisks me upstairs, saying hello to everyone, joking with people, introducing me - clearly this Mildred girl was cool and I just had to be her friend and just had to find a way to get her to go to lunch with me. When we arrived at her desk, I blurted out everything - how I thought she'd be old and smell like onions and be wearing a sweater guard and dirty tissues all because I thought she had an old lady's name. That's right, on our first meeting, I blurted right out that I thought she had an old lady's name - What is wrong with me?!?! Yup, I get paid to be nice, can't you tell?!?!?

Instead of being insulted or pissed, Mildred busted out laughing and we have been thick as thieves ever since. We spent that morning discussing our families, what we did for fun, movies, books - everything but work. Mildred took me to lunch where I had the most amazing salad that I crave on a regular basis. For my birthday that year, Mildred bought me a sweater guard which still cracks me up every time I come across it in my desk drawer.

Don't know what a sweater guard is? check out:

http://thesummer.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/il_430xn-95170004.jpg)

Stay tuned to read about some of CeeCee and Mildred's hilarious adventures - there have been many and hopefully, many more to come!

Summer Days Are Here Again...

...and I am thrilled about that but doesn't logic dictate that if the weather outside is 90 degrees, maybe we should take the down comforter that we used when it was 9 degrees, off the bed?!?!

I mean, I made the mistake of moisturizing my legs before I went to sleep and then I crawled under the covers, curled onto my side and slip, the top leg slid right off the bottom. I tried again. Slip. The heat and the moisturizer made my freshly shaven legs so slick I had to sleep on my back, legs flat on the mattress. That's not comfy.

I suppose, logic also dictates that I could have been the one to change the comforter instead of waiting for someone else to do it...we will just consider that irrelevant for purposes of this blog.

From The Mouths Of Babes...

Yesterday, on my birthday, my seven year old niece, Ella asked me if I was pregnant. Well geez, thanks kid, happy birthday to me. I quickly deny that I'm preggers and ask her why she would ask me that.

She looks me up and down, up and down and finally answers, "Well, CeeCee, it's just that....well, you have boobs and Mommy only gets boobs like that when when she's gonna have a baby so I thought, well, you must be pregnant."

Now I feel bad for assuming she just thought I was fat (paranoid much?) and I explain that you can have "bigger" boobs without being pregnant. "Oh good, that's what I want then" (I'm sure her father will be thrilled to hear that). In the next breath, she asked me if I am coming to her kickball birthday party.

"I don't know Ella, first I've heard about it but it sounds like fun." As she runs off to play with her little brother she shouts back to me over her shoulder, "let me check the status of your invite and I'll get back to ya!"

So here I sit, on a Friday night, waiting to "hear the status" of my birthday party invite from a seven year old.

Yellow With Chocolate Frosting

My brother, Dad and I decided my Mom's 60th birthday was reason to celebrate. She's hard to surprise (and I'm really bad at keeping exciting news from people and nobody knows me better than my Mom so this one was going to be tough) but we figured we were up to the task.

The party was to be held at my house...50 invites went out....booze was bought...a tent was rented.....iPod loaded with oldies but goodies.....food ordered (you didn't actually think I was going to cook, did you?)....flowers bought....house cleaned....anticipation building.

On the day of her birthday (conveniently, a Saturday), people as far as NJ, Florida, Cape Cod, New York and California descended upon my home. My mother had no clue what awaited her. The ruse we used to get her to come over was that she and my Dad were to pick me up so we could go out to dinner. While en route, I called to inform them that I was running a few minutes late so if they didn't mind coming in, I would appreciate it. Rounding the corner, my Mom noted to my Dad how bustling the neighborhood was. As they pulled into the driveway, she commented further how nice it was that I let my neighbors bark in the rather large turnaround in my driveway (in truth, many older homes in my street don't have driveways at all and street parking can be tough so I do let people park in my driveway). To this day, I believe that my Mom had no clue what awaited her inside my house.

As she pushed open the door, she was greeted by a chorus of surprises and happy birthdays! She look overwhelmed, thrilled, excited, and on the verge of tears. As she saw more and more of her family and friends who traveled from near and far to celebrate with her, she became emotional and excited. As she sipped her Tanqueray and tonics (with a large hunk of lime, of course) she loosened up- laughter, eating and dancing abounded.

And then it was time for the cake.....

We position my Mom behind a large sheet cake which reads, Happy 60th Birthday to the best Mom, Wifey, Friend, Auntie, Sister we could ask for. My brother is holding a small video camera and can see my Mom is getting choked up so to lighten the moment, he tells her to express her love for the cake...in French. (My brother is fluent in french thanks to a language aptitude and studying a year abroad...I know, life is tough. Over several years, he would teach my Mom french alternatives for words you know, especially to express her "frustration" with people so him telling her to say she loves her cake in french wasn't too out of the ordinary.) My Mom agrees and asks him how to say it. he tells her the french word for cake is (coq - pronounced, COCK).

With a giant smile on her face, camcorder rolling, 50 people looking on, my Mom leans down over the sheet cake and declares, "I love coq". Rumbles of, "what did she say?" filters through the crowd and my brother tells my Mom she needs to say it louder as not everyone can hear. "I LOVE COQ" she hollers into the crowd.

My Mom looks perplexed as people start to laugh. Having taken several years of French in high school and college, I whisper into her ear, "the french word for cake is, gateau. You just told everyone that you love cock as in well, COCK." Always a good sport, she blew out her candles and proclaimed it, "time to eat gateau!"

Ps. for a good coq...errr, I mean yellow cake recipe, click the title. I'm home if you make it and want to share.

Lunch Is Served

At my office, we spend a lot of time discussing where we should have lunch that day. I've worked in the same place, same office, same location for seven years so I have eaten pretty much everywhere in and around the City but nonetheless, I can rarely think of exactly where I want to go. Luckily, this particular day, my friend Tim is in town for a meeting and calls to see if I want to meet him at the Cheesecake Factory. Of course I do (I mean not only is the Cheesecake Factory yummy but it is in the mall and within walking distance - the trifecta of perfection) and tell him I will be bringing a new girl in the office, Farrah, with me.

Farrah has just transfered in from Chicago and has been disappointed by our City - small and apparently unfriendly compared to Chicago - so I have taken her under my wing and showed her around and introduced her to people. Off we go...

She and I shove through the crowd waiting for tables to find Tim in a nearby booth. After introductions, drink orders and a mouthful of that fabulous brown bread, we al undertake the task of figuring out what to eat. The Cheesecake Factory menu is massive and instead of ordering my usual crab cake sandwich, I'm considering being adventurous. After several minutes the waitress comes to take our order - Tim gets the black and bleu burger, I go with Thai chicken and then it is Farrah's turn....

She's pointing to an item on the menu and with total sincerity asks the waitress, "umm, what's in the B.L.T?". The waitress questioningly looks at Tim and I who are looking at Farrah like she's crazy (asking what's in a BLT is like asking what's in PB&J)..."Well, that would be bacon, lettuce and tomato". Farrah thinks for a minute and says, "Yes, I see that in the description but anything else come on that?" The response, "a little bit of mayo." Tim isn't able to contain his laughter anymore and my shoulders are bobbing up and down as I try to contain my laughter.

Farrah's still going, "Well what about turkey or cheese or something?" Is this girl for real?!?! Wouldn't that be called a turkey sandwich or a club or something? Is she really continuing to ask for a definition of a BLT? (By the way, a good BLT is quite possibly the best sandwich created - I'm just sayin').

The waitress just stares at Farrah in disbelief. Finally Farrah declares, "I will have a BLT with turkey and cheese." The waitress huffs, turns on her heels and Farrah looks at Tim and I and ask why we are laughing. How do you even explain to someone that they're entire line of questioning was nuts.

When the bill comes, we see Farrah has only been charged $5.25 for her "BLT" as opposed to $9.50 for the turkey, cheese and bacon sandwich on the menu. Hmm, maybe Farrah isn't so clueless after all.

The Truth, The Whole Truth and Nothing But The Truth

I met my parents and nieces, Ella (7) and Jess (5), for dinner at the local burger joint last night. Over my "Burger in the Rye" (a fabulous mixture of flame grilled beef, american cheeses, sauteed onions, a hint of mayo, lettuce and perfectly vine ripened tomato), Jess looks up at me and declares, "CeeCee, I'm the best reader in my class".

Nothing like a healthy ego on a five year old so I reply, "I'm sure you are", even if you do say so yourself is what I'm thinking but don't say. The kid is really smart and last weekend read me a 2nd grade level book about frogs but still......

As if reading my mind, Jess follows up by saying, "If it's the truth, then it's not bragging and it is ok to say so I'm just sayin', not braggin'."

I like this logic and think I will try it out.....
to my supervisor: I'm the best in the office at getting paid to help people so I want a raise....I'm just sayin'

to my fiance: Did you know I'm the best fiance you ever had? You're lucky to have me.....just sayin'

at JCrew: I have the perfect feet for these shoes....hey, I'm not braggin' - just sayin'

Nordstrom Is A Little Piece Of Heaven

When Alexander and I first started dating, his job "volunteered" him to work out of state for 60 days. We were right at those critical beginning weeks where we both knew we were in love but hadn't told each other yet. Having known I had finally met the "keeper" guy, I was heartsick about him leaving but trying to believe my friends when they said, "if he really is the keeper, you will both be fine apart for 60 days." Uh-huh, yea right, that's not how my life goes but ok....

Well, lucky for me, Alexander had it all figured out. On the night before he was to leave, he told me was going to get settled in but hoped that the following weekend, I would fly out to meet him with the plane ticket he had already bought for me. Yes, even me - potentially the most jaded, glass-is-half-empty kinda girl squealed in excitement and then got down to business.....I had nothing to wear for a whirlwind weekend with the man of my dreams...next stop, Nordstroms!

As I wandered around the shoe department debating which shoe would be the cutest but cause me the least amount of pain as we toured the Nations Capitol, a very nice salesperson, Lizzie, asked if she could help. Perhaps you've noticed that I'm not really one to hold much back so I blurted out my life story, my need for cute weekend worthy wear that would look like I made no effort but look gooood. Izzy was a dream. She grabbed stuff from every department, shoes, jeans, shirts, casual little jackets, accessories...it was heaven. We settled on a number of outfits and the most fabulous pair of red shoes (click the title of this blog and it should take you to a picture of them, you know, if you want the full effect). We worked a dinner date night outfit around those shoes which was good because Alexander emailed me to say he made us Saturday night dinner reservations. A little internet research on my part revealed it to be cozy and romantic. Yes, there was more excited squealing when I discovered that.

Izzy wished me luck and made me promise to return and tell her all about it.

Off I flew and our dinner night arrived. I applied make-up (yes, more than mascara and chapstick), flat ironed my hair, wore a simple black skirt, slightly ruffled trendy one-shouldered top, and slipped into my fabulous shoes. We took the metro to our restaurant stop (I know, it sounds so big city chic and I was feeling awesome. I mean, maybe fabulous things like this do happen to me and why shouldn't they?!?). Head high, full of confidence and excitement, Alexander and I started to cross the busy street to our restaurant when i strutted myself right off the curb, stumbled, and fell into the gutter. Alexander hadn't noticed and kept walking, thank goodness for that, so I popped up just as he turned back to see where I was.

"What happened, are you ok?" he asks. "What do you mean, what happened, I'm fine" is my overly eager response. Meanwhile my hand is aching (along with my ego), I just know the wet spot I feel on my thigh from the gutter has to be some homeless guy's urine, and my adorable pumps are scuffed and torn but I'm still thinking I can recover from this because he didn't see anything, right? Wrong, this is me.

"I'm wondering because there are leaves plastered all along your left side, there is some sort of water dripping down your leg and your hand that I'm holding appears to have gravel stuck to your palm. Also, your shoes are wrecked." Crap, so much for a grand cover up. I tell him what happen, we laugh, I get cleaned up in the bathroom and we proceed to have one of the best meals of my life. I leave knowing that Alexander and I will be fine for the next 60 days.

Upon my return to New England, I return to Nordstrom's to tell my tale of woe to Izzy. I bring my battered shoes with me but when I see her, she's so excited and wants everything to have gone wonderfully, I couldn't bear to tell her about the fall so all I say is, "the shoes didn't quite work out". She looks at them, looks at me... smiles and asks if I would like another pair or a refund.

Ah, dreams do come true right here in this little piece of heaven called Nordstrom.

Mama Drama

As our family expanded (thanks to my brother and sister-in-law pumping out three kids and my impending marriage), my parents decided to put an addition on the Cape house. Not only was I excited that my beloved summer cottage was getting a fantastic upgrade but it meant an opportunity to decorate more rooms, bathrooms, pick out bed linens and art for the walls. Curtains, and pillows, and rugs, oh my!

After a winter of building, summer arrives and my Mom and I decide on a "theme" to decorate - "seaside relaxed". Of course, this theme is dependent on my Mom being able to find everything she wants within a three town radius. Thirty summers at our Cape house and my Mom has never seen a reason to leave our town and the two surrounding towns. She can get to the post office, beach, CVS, book store, movies, Christmas Tree Shop, a few boutiques and plenty of yummy restaurants without "fighting the traffic" beyond her three town kingdom. Also, have I mentioned that my Mom hates computers and the internet and refuses to buy anything online because she "can't touch it and feel the quality". (How am I her daughter?!?! My garage s full of mail order boxes that need to be recycled!)

So, last summer, we venture off to a shop in town and she finds exactly the linens and summer quilts she wants. They are beautiful and unique washes of blues, yellows and whites. Perfect! We need enough for two twin beds and one king. You don't think they'd have everything we needed, do you? Of course not. They don't have the king bedspread but we are in luck as their Hyannis store has it. Phew, what a relief, right? I mean, my Mom is having company tomorrow so what a relief that this is going to work out. Not so fast...Hyannis is outside the tri-town area...it is a 20 minute ride down the dreaded Route 6. I convince her to be adventurous and even offer to drive. The shop owner calls and has them put it aside for us and before my mom can change her mind, I thrust her out into the world.

We arrive at Bedding Bliss in Hyannis. It is in an adorable plaza which might be fun to explore but my Mom is having none of it. We are on a mission. She wants her comforter and then wants to get back to the comfort of home base. We walk through the sliding doors, there are a couple registers up front with lines of people. We don't readily see customer service and I can see my Mom is ready to jack rabbit out of there and ditch the whole mission. I shove her past the registers where we see a young man stocking the shelves.

My Mom walks right up to him and starts explaining her saga. Yes, she considers it a saga. She's going on and on about the addition, her company, our seaside relaxed theme, her arms are flailing, she's saying she has a comforter on hold, explaining the long drive, and complaining that now that she has arrived, she can't find anyone to help her blah, blah, blah. (Clearly, I get my ability to talk and talk and talk from my Mom) After several attempts to interrupt her, I give up - she's on a role and when she's on a role, there is no stopping her.

As my Mom takes a breath, the stock boy mumbles something and walks away. Humph, Mama is not happy about that. For all in the store to hear, she bellows, "HELL-LOOOOO. I was talking to you. Are you getting my comforter? Am I supposed to follow you? HELLLL-O, do you even want the name it is on hold with?".

She turns to me and starts to lament about college kids and their summer jobs and how they have no pride in their work or customer service. She says to me, "I hope you provided better customer service in your summer job than this kid". (Let me think, I worked at a local donut shop where I rode my bike to at 5 am. My uniform consisted of flip flops, jean shorts and a Murphy's Donut t-shirt that had a picture of a Honey dipped donut over each of my boobs and said, Sink Your Teeth Into These - Best on The Cape. I can promise you, my customer service sucked and rarely did people actually get decaf coffee when they asked for it. But these are stories for another day.)

My Mom finally notices that people are staring at us and she asks me why. I finally have a chance to tell her what I wanted all those times I tried to interrupt her on her tirade with the stock boy. "Well, Mom, the kid you were just explaining all your drama to is wearing a large yellow button on his chest that reads, 'I'm deaf. I read lips. Please speak slowly and directly to me'. I'm guessing he missed just about everything you were saying at mock-10 speed while looking around, flailing you arms."

"You're lying. Please tell me you're lying" she says. No such luck and then we do the only thing we can do, laugh like maniacs and run for the door. Just as the exit doors slide open, we see the freedom of the parking lot and I'm promising never to take her out of the tri-town area again...we hear our last name shouted through the store. Crap, now all these people know our name. We turn around to find the stock boy (giant yellow button and all) holding our comforter. My mother slowly, clearly, loudly (odd, since he's deaf) and looking right at him, thanks him for his help.

It really is a lovely bedspread.

Is It Wrong That This Site is Like A Religion for Me?

I couldn't even tell you how I first stumbled upon the "What Would Tyler Durden Do?" website (www.wwtdd.com) but I have gone to this site more times than I have ever gone to church. Is that wrong?

I mean, is it wrong that I find his musings, sarcasm, and cutting wit about all things celebrity, hilarious? My whole career is treating everyone with compassion and kindness and celebrities are people so I should feel guilty, right? But I don't.

Be careful if you check out this website...you'll become hooked. Keep in mind, you've been warned.

"Hello, my name is CeeCee and I have an addiction......"

Scott Peterson and Me

Yes, as in the guy from California who murdered his wife.

Alexander and I had out first date the Friday night of Labor Day weekend. If you know me, you know that my parents have a summer home on the Cape where I have spent the last 30 summers of my life*. Memorial Day weekend signaled the beginning of summer and Labor Day weekend, the end of the season. I never missed either weekend on the Cape. Tradition. When I accepted the date with Alexander and told my parents I would be coming to the Cape on Saturday instead of Friday after work, they already knew that this guy rated higher than anyone else in my life ever had.

Alexander arrives on my doorstep with flowers in one hand and a book in the other. I love to read and he knew it so he brought flowers as a typical first date gift and the book because, "any guy can bring a girl flowers but only a guy who pays attention to conversation would bring you a book". Yup, I was smitten.

Off we went for our waterfront dinner where half way through our appetizer, chatting and laughing it struck me - I like this guy. As in really liked this guy. After dinner we walked around the quaint historical New England town, got ice cream, sat on a park bench and people watched. Friday night bled into Saturday morning on that seaside bench.

Alexander asked if I wanted to go for a hike on Saturday. I quickly agreed. Then we had dinner Saturday night, brunch Sunday, boating on Monday. Yes, all Labor Day weekend we hung out having a fantastic time, falling in love.

Of course my Mother, brother, and friends had been calling my cell and house phones all weekend to find out where the heck I was. They all knew I had the date Friday night but when I didn't call to say how it went or show up Saturday at the Cape - people started to panic. I didn't call because funny thing about falling in love - it is true that nothing much else matters. When I wasn't with Alexander that weekend, I was thinking about our dates and what I would wear the next time I saw him.

By Monday night, my Mom left me a voicemail, "CeeCee, this is ridiculous. Where are you and why aren't you answering the phone?!?!? I'm about to call the police and am going to tell them I'm afraid you got 'Scott Petersoned' but I can't remember your date's name and I don't want to be that woman on the nightly news who appears to have no idea what her daughter was up to." That's right, my Mom used Scoot Peterson as a verb - as in she thought my date murdered me and disposed of my body. Did I mention she watches a lot of Nancy Grace? Classic Mom.

So, before the search party was sent out for me, I called her with my exciting love tale and got an earful about her fearing me being Scott Petersoned. To this day, whenever Alexander and I are driving someplace new or he takes me on a different route I tell him not to get any ideas about Scott Petersoning me because my Mom will be all over it.

Good to know Mom's got my back.

*One hot summer day, if you find yourself on the Cape and want to teach your kids to water ski, need a place to park to go to the bay, need to use a bathroom, want to take a dip in the pond, kayak, or are in need of an afternoon gin and tonic waterside with some of the best conversation with the best neighbors and friends you'll ever find - call us. Once you experience my Cape life, you'll never want to leave. And yes, I am aware that I have a charmed life and how lucky I am.

To Tee Or Not To Tee, That Is The Question

My job has assigned me to a task in upstate NY for the last year. One week of every month, I head across New England, farther and farther away from the ocean, through the mountains to upstate NY. There was a time I looked forward to that week away from my usual duty station but recently, I have found myself questioning why NY can't find anyone who wants to get paid for being nice to people.

Anyway, last year, Alexander got me interested in playing golf. He bought me a nice beginner set of clubs and on the weekends, we would go to various driving ranges around our houses. I always considered golf to be a fairly boring sport of which I would be no good (hello, I was a soccer player most of my life - I'm like a bull in a china shop). Alexander was smart though as he stroked my ego every time we would go to the driving range..."wow, I know people who took years of lessons before they could hit that hard....you have a natural grip....awesome job, babe...". Of course I believed all of this to be true and quickly, the driving range became fun - so much fun that on occasion, after work, I would go on my own. What does this have to do with upstate NY, you ask?

Well, I decided that I would go to a driving range out there. This way I could get some fresh air and practice a bit after work. I went online and found a place close to my hotel. During a heat wave, I trek off to the driving range. It was called a "public country club" whatever that means. You would have thought, as I drove down the beautifully landscaped, mile long driveway, that I would have known this wasn't my typical mini golf/batting cages/driving range/ice cream/arcade places that I had been going to. But no, not me...I carried on. Heck, I even decided to get a medium basket of balls.

I followed the path to the driving range and what did I see....grass. No turf with a little rubber stand to put my ball on. Just grass. And no partitions between golfers...just grass between us. what else did I see...people staring at me like I was a stray cat off the road. Perhaps they were looking at me that way because the women wore golf skirts and little sweater vests, the men wore khakis with festive polo shirts. Everyone had clubs neatly lined up in their golf bags and had leather shoes with little spikes on the bottom. Oh, did I fail to mention my "look"?

I wore a pair of green Nike running shorts (circa 1991 gym class - at the time, I was just happy that they still fit this many years later), gym sneakers, my favorite LSU grey and navy faded t-shirt with a rip under the arm and a giant ink stain on the upper left shoulder. My hair was swirling around my head (why is it that I buy a hundred hair elastics but can never find one when I really need it?!?!), I had giant fashion (not sporty) sunglasses on, a blackberry in one hand, and in the other, 2 clubs with the medium basket of balls swinging on the end. That's right, I didn't even have my full bag of clubs - took up too much trunk space.

I decided to stay calm and just hit the balls. I find a place in line...step up...and see...grass! Where is the little rubber thingy to put my ball on like I have always used at the driving ranges at home?!?!!? Stay calm. I put the ball on the neatly manicured, perfectly green grass and swing. The ball takes off....with a chunk of grass. More stares. I recover the little chunk of grass and mound it up and put the next ball on it - like a makeshift tee. That ball takes off - along with the little patch of grass - it was like a green toupee flying through the air. That medium bucket of balls is growing but I can't retreat. What do I do??! Duh, I send a nasty text to Alexander and explain my circumstances and blame him for not preparing me for such a place. Naturally, this is somehow his fault, right? His response?

Wow, that's a much nicer place than I've ever brought you to. What you need are tees - no duh - and you mean you had an excuse to shop and buy a cute golf outfit and you didn't, I'm shocked - LOL.

I would have responded but now people were glaring at me. Texting, in addition to my outfit and lack of golfing knowledge, was apparently starting to really bug people. Just when I considered running out of there, the guy next to me offers me some tees which I gladly accept. Hitting the ball (sans grass) gets much easier after that. Of course, towards the end of the basket of balls (why, oh, why did I have to get the medium basket?) I have broken all the tees the nice guy has given me so I dig around my dirt/grass area for some "usable" broken ones and finish the basket. Phew, my humiliation has ended and I can leave.

As I gather my mish mash of crap, the guy who gave me the tees is cleaning the dirt from his clubs and neatly putting them back. He takes pity on me and offers to buy me a beer in the clubhouse overlooking the driving range. As we sit on the deck looking at all the perfect little golfers, they bring me a beer and a glass to pour it in. I decline the glass. Let's be honest, the day has proven that I'm a drink-it-from-the-bottle kind of girl.