Dinner with Andre

Though I'm not sure all of the alcohol ingested last weekend has fully left my body, I'm off to drink copious amounts of champagne (Andre extra dry) with Katie-Beth and I'm very much looking forward to the evening.

In wedding news, I've found my dress! On just our second foray into bridal boutiques, my mom helped me pick out the perfect dress. Course, it was probably the most expensive one that I tried on, but it is lovely. There is enough sparkle to satisfy the need for dressiness, yet it has very simple lines. And, it lifts and tucks in all of the right places. I did a google search for the designer and dress # and I found it for over $200 cheaper online - Woohoo!

There's a ball in the eye for you

A tough game to watch tonight as the starting pitcher, Matt Clement, was hit in the eye/head with a rocket off the bat of Carl Crawford. That is one of the most painful things to watch (I'm sure it's no picnic being on the receiving end either) and we're crossing our fingers for a complete and speedy recovery.

This past weekend we:
started Friday's dinner with SoCo manhattans, followed by wine, then more wine, ending with wine (at least from what I remember) [Note to self, one bottle of wine per person is plenty]

traveled to CT to help the Righis move into their new home, which is beautiful and has more bathrooms than people

ate McDonald's twice in one day and discovered that Michelob Ultra really does taste like carbonated beer-flavored water

exercised our domesticity as we purchased two rocking chairs and a porch swing; however, we were a bit thwarted in our attempt to hang the swing due to a vinyl covering on our porch ceiling - drat domesticity

hugged Jason not once, but twice, and wished him well at his "new" "job" at the "Library"

once again, stuffed myself into a half-dozen wedding dresses in the hope of finding that perfect combination of fabric, decoration and boob management so I can get down the aisle in a bridely fashion while causing no black eyes to innocent bystanders

Snog all

I've had several conversations lately about Harry Potter and the latest book (6) of Rowling's. I pre-ordered the book a few weeks ago, so it was waiting for me on Saturday morning at 10am - thank you, Amazon.

I finished the book on Wednesday night, at 1:15am, amidst a flood of tears and with great praise for the author who pulled NO punches. She has told the story of Harry and his friends and professors in such a way that I care about every single person and want to know what happens to all of them. I have heard that it is going to take her a few years to publish book 7 because she would like to spend time with her children, and while this is understandable, I am very excited to read the last book in this enthralling, engaging, well-written, well-crafted series and would love to have the next book as soon as possible. I would welcome comments from anyone who has read book 6 since the only person I've been able to talk about this with at this point is Bryan, who has NEVER read one of the books (and while he has been sympathetic and supportive, I don't want to make him too crazy talking about it all the time). I love any book that gets people of all ages reading and engaged with the material, but I have a particular affinity for HP and was not disappointed with the latest book.

I will also be using the word "snogging" more often as I find it a lovely word and I didn't mind at all that this book made such use of the topic. I suppose that I can review the book more thoroughly when I am sure that enough people have read it and that I'm not spoiling any plot secrets.

Necessary Evil

Amid a few of the busiest weeks EVER at the Source, I have lost the use of my car for 2 and a half days.
My saga:
I was driving home on Monday night, when another car pulled up really close to my passenger side and started gesticulating. Afraid to look at first, lest I had committed some egregious act for which I was being "thanked," I finally turned my head to the right. The gentleman in the driver's seat was making the "roll down your window motion" and pointing to my car. I complied and was informed that my brake lights had given up their duties. I stared at him for about 3 seconds, hearing what he said but sure he was wrong, I then blurted out, "But they must work, I just had them fixed a month ago." He shook his head with sympathetic look on his face and then drove up to meet the traffic in his lane. I continued home, fuming, and worried that I was going to get smacked in the back end every time I stopped in rush hour traffic on Rt. 126 (which is horrible - worse, even, than the Pike traffic). I made it home safely but not in time to call the garage that had "fixed" the faulty brake lights the previous month.

The next morning, I called the shop and confirmed that I could bring my car to their other branch, which was farther from home, but down the street from my office. When I handed my receipt to the rep at the shop and explained the problem, I received one of the blankest stares I've had the pleasure of receiving in months. He said, "you mean, the bulbs are burnt out?" To which I replied, "that does seem to be the case, though they were just replaced for a mere $90 last month by your other branch." He agreed to look at my car, but not until lunch. I drove to work and had a colleague bring me back to the shop at 11:30, where I left my precious vehicle in their capable hands.

4:49pm, later that same day: having received no phone call, and starting to worry about meeting my friends for the Red Sox game to which I had tickets that evening, I phoned the shop. The rep with whom I had my earlier dealings said, "oh, the car with the brake lights. Oh. It's not a problem with the brake lights, there is something much worse wrong with your car. I am going to write up an estimate and call you back in 15 minutes to let you know the deal." Great.

5:08pm: Upon answering my phone, "The problem is in the fuse panel box - it is completely burnt out, which, in turn, is causing the brake lights to short out and only work intermittently." Impressed by the use of the word intermittently, I replied, "Uh." He continued, "in order to fix the problem, we have to replace the entire panel box." This sounded very serious indeed, so I braced myself as I asked, "How much?" He came back at me with the figure $279.15 - a seemingly reasonable price for such a crappy problem. "Okay," I answered. Then, came the zinger, "yes, ma'am, we'll order that box right now and put it in tomorrow."
I'm in Watertown, about to head to a Sox game and there is blessedly little public transportation (a bus that I have no idea where to catch, followed by the red line, followed by the green line-2 hours later, I'd be at my destination) to bring me where I needed to go. "But, how am I going to get home?" He must've heard the panic in my voice because he offered me a loaner if I could get to the shop in the next few minutes, but explained that the car had to be returned at 7:30am the next day. I had to be in Cambridge the next day to present info about the library to teachers taking one of our Summer Institutes - I explained this. He then offered me a ride to Cambridge if I got him his loaner back by 7:30-7:45am. I pounced on the next person that I saw to secure a ride to the shop and went to collect my wheels for the evening.

A silver Honda Civic with stickers all over it advertising the shop from which it'd come greeted me and I was off to the game. As previously mentioned, the Sox won (and they won yesterday and I'm expecting the White Sox to continue their losing streak as the idiots pull down another 'W' tonight), and I zipped home in my fuel-efficient borrowed Civic, and zipped back in the morning, right on time. I was now ready for that ride to the Longfellow House in Cambridge.
"The what?" said the young man behind the counter.
"The Longfellow House."
"Is that a school?"
"It's a historic home."
"No kidding?"
"Oddly enough, I'm not. It's in Cambridge. Near Harvard. Which is a school."
"Lemme see if anyone knows what that is."

Finally, a mechanic was located who had previously worked at Harvard and had an inkling of where we were going. We set off for Cambridge. The mechanic and I discussed the weather, my car problem, and as the car radio was set to the local sports talk radio, the Sox. This was followed by a mildly uncomfortable silence while the radio told us about Gary James and his trial for putting cameras in ladies bathrooms so he could watch them urinate. Lovely. We made it to the right area and I exited the car with a very big thank you. I presented my library info and found my way back to work with a colleague. Around 3pm, having received no phone calls, I rang up my friendly rep to see how my car and it's burnt box were doing. When the rep came on the line, he seemed perplexed that I was calling, asked me which car I was calling about and what was the problem. I regurgitated the information he had fed to me the night before, a bit worried that I had temporarily lost my mind and called the wrong shop, or that they had lost my car. He finally recognized me and said, "oh, your box is coming from Maryland (heehee) and it hasn't arrived yet. I'm not sure if I will get here in time to put it in tonight. Could you get a ride home tonight?" Not funny. So, I queried my wonderful fiance who agreed to chauffeur my sorry, car-less ass home and back again in the morning.

And the story will have a happy-ish ending: my car is ready, the brake lights again burn brightly, the work actually cost the amount quoted to me, and I have a ride to the shop after work. However, this entire experience has just illustrated my complete reliance on four doors and an engine (the roof and CD player are nice), and I find this reliance frustrating and one-sided. I mean, it would be nice if my car gave me a hug, just once, to say thank you for the tasty, expensive gas I supply weekly. And would a kind word be so difficult to muster, especially after the new tires last month? If I wasn't afraid to look ridiculous (and to face sure and immediate painful death), I would get a Schwinn in a heartbeat - leave that car in a lot somewhere alone and neglected. But, tomorrow is another day. And I must press on.

Off by a little, but who cares?

Ok, so it was Manny who hit the homer, Renteria did get an error, and there were no reports of open weeping from Mussina (though he did seem to get pulled unnecessarily by Torre), or choking on the part of Jeter. BUT, Damon reached and the Sox did indeed win a great game, saved by Schilling (Oh, how I try to block out his politics and focus on his skill with the fastball). And, of course, the Shankees lost, and we ate Cuban sandwiches, followed by "free" hotdogs (courtesy of the Mastercard promotion), so all in all, a very lucky night. My belly rarely fails.

And, to make this day better, the hometown boys are now ahead 6 zip after the first. Division title here we come.

Lucky Charm

That's right, right here, right now, I'm proclaiming myself and/or the 6 other people I will know in the stands as the lucky charm that will break this unbearable streak. Tonight, Damon will reach, Ortiz will homer, Renteria will suffer no errors, and the bull pen will be needed only in the late innings for some dazzling, 1-2-3 work. Alternately, Sheffield will trip on his way to first, Mussina will leave the field weeping somewhere in the middle of the second, and Jeter will choke on his Big League Chew.

Rub my belly, I'm feelin' it tonight.

Remembering

"Honey, you have beautiful white teeth! Doesn't she have white teeth, mother?"

This comment to his wife Rita (whose herself has a smile equal to sunshine), while I'm eating a banana at the dining room table across from him.
Papa Joe sat in his undershirt and shorts, black socks pulled firmly up to mid-calf. His sincere appreciation and respect for my pearly whites made me smile wider, thus giving him further opportunity to look at these shining examples of the dental ideal. At this point, overwhelmed with disbelief, he rises from the table and travels back to his sitting room where he finds comfort in his comfy recliner. I have to follow him into this haven if I want to continue to talk with him. So I do. He asks me what's new and why I'm not married yet (a very important status to achieve for all women). I laugh and reply that he's taken so who am I going to marry. He realizes the joke, waves his hand at me and says, "go on," giving me his side-eyed half smile, glad to know he still has it.

Another day, having received a golf cart in which to ride around his neighborhood and keep an eye on things, he convinced me to take a turn with him. Actually preferring to sit in the passenger seat so he could really check out the goings on, he handed me the key. Nervously pulling out of the driveway, I follow his navigation around the streets of his home turf. He waves to those out on their lawns or porches, explaining who's who. We pull over to say hello to a handsome German Shepherd mutt tied up in a yard, the sibling to his beloved S(h)adie. I start up again and to Papa Joe's consternation, hit the gas pedal in an effort to go over 10 miles per hour. He looks at me and asks if I'm trying to kill us both. "Yes," I reply, "if we go faster than 11 miles, we decombust." He, again, realizes that I'm joking, and shakes his head muttering about young people. I ease up on the gas and we continue our leisurely drive, he - the carefree king of his domain, me - his willing Hoke (though a little less black and manly).

Wherever he is now, I'll bet he's got a golf cart made of gold (don't worry, it doesn't go faster than 10mph) that he's using to visit everyone he knows who got there first. And he's drinking wine (don't worry, he didn't pour it for himself) and telling stories of his girls and his grandson, whom he loved so well and did everything to support and provide for.

When I'm in Pittsfield next, I'll miss hearing that voice call out from the "other" living room, and I'll miss that twinkle in the eye as he got the joke. Rest in peace Papa Joe - we'll remember you often and fondly.

Dingers!

Quite an exciting Home Run Derby last night - Bobby Abreu hit a total of 41 home runs thus shattering the previous year's record number of 27. Watching him hit all those long balls had me wondering if his arms feel like jelly today. And he is leading off the All-Star Game tonight for the National team.

This past weekend started with a movie-watching, game-playing evening with Kate & Matt, the night before he was to finally 'meet the parents' - it was amusing to bring up this looming meeting at various times throughout the evening. You know, "want another beer, Matt, maybe if you drink enough tonight, you'll still be drunk tomorrow when you meet Kate's mom" - good stuff.
The movie we watched was The General with Buster Keaton, a movie that Bryan and I saw just before compiling our movie lists and which impressed us both so much, that it made it quite high in our top 100. Bryan even purchased a copy of the film for his very own. However, upon a second viewing, of a DVD apparently distributed by a different company than the first viewing, I was disappointed by the music. It was really synthesized, sounding like a computerized organ or something that is laid over video game scenes. Next time we watch it, we'll have to mute it and hire a piano player to accompany the movie in the original fashion intended. Guess we won't be watching ol' Buster ditch that train too many times.

After traveling to Bryan's aunt's house on Saturday evening to meet another visiting aunt (the 5th and final of his father's sisters), we then spent a lovely, if buggy, night in New Hampshire eating meat and listening to some of the best improv singing around a fire. The weekend tried to end with me doing some gardening and washing my car for the first time this season in my very own driveway, but weeding is evil and it did me in - I pulled my back again in a somewhat less violent fashion than at Christmas, but badly enough to halt all gardening efforts. Instead, Bryan and I went to his cousin's house to meet a visiting cousin (catching a theme here?), which, in the end, was way more fun than gardening ever would've been.

I owe birthday shout-outs to Colleen (the 5th), Laura and Jason D (both the 9th). Hope they were happy and that the birthday suit still fits as well as it did last year.

And RIP Kristie L - it was one year today that we found out you were gone too soon. If there is some sort of consciousness after death, I'll bet you're laughing your ass off at the plight of the "library". For you, we'll drink a gimlet and talk about Chadwicks and the shitty state of the world. And we'll smile.

I had the bright idea to take this past Tuesday off, following an already long weekend thanks to the 4th of July. This was a bad idea. I have been so swamped at work that I've barely seen daylight this week. Luckily, the weather has been cooperating and I haven't wanted to be out in the rainy, chilly outdoors. I am actually looking forward to rush hour traffic tonight because it will mean that I have left work along with all of the other people who leave work at a reasonable hour.

So, enough work ranting. Shit, I was so busy this week that I didn't find out that bombs had been detonated in London on Thursday until the day was almost over. I find it so atrocious that the victims of these bombings, much like those in America in 2001, are people who were innocently on their way to work. What do these people have to do with the "war" in Iraq/Afghanistan? If the Taliban doesn't like the fact that England is involved with Bush's fiasco in the Middle East, bomb Parliament or a military base. To attack unarmed, unprepared citizens is weak and cowardly.

Anyway, Bryan and I spent a lovely 4th in Maine. We actually dared to let the sun beat down on our tender, white skin and got some color as a result. I neglected to lube up my legs and did get a bit of a burn, but it's faded to light brown now so the gams no longer blind all who pass when clad in shorts. The 8 year old inside was sufficiently placated with a loud, and bright, firework display near the LL Bean store in Freeport. The ensuing ice cream cone didn't hurt either.

I also managed to stuff myself into a few wedding dresses on my day off (aha,you say, the justification for missing a day of work). I found 2 that I like very much and will take my team back to the store to help with the final decision. I will feel quite on top of things if I manage to check this daunting task off the list.

I leave you with this nugget of wisdom: Dean Koontz is a bad writer. Listening to one of his books on audio CD does nothing to change this fact.

Drowning in heat, and Be Careful!

Mother Nature is one sick entity. At the beginning of this week, she apparently turned on her oven and then went away on vacation (somewhere nice and cool, like northern Canada). I have been craving air conditioning and ice cream and I've had the overwhelming desire to take off my shoes and socks when confronted with the stifling air sitting outside my door. Today, she decided that we should've been appreciating that muggy, still air because it could only get colder and rainier. Just in time for the holiday weekend...

I've been pretty swamped at work and everytime I open a new entry window, I end up walking away and forgetting to blog and then it's the end of the day and I have nothing to say. So, I've saved it all up (not that there's much, don't get excited).
Last weekend, Bryan and I ventured to my cousin party where he met a few dozen insane, screaming Italians. There was enough food to make the participants at an Overeaters Anonymous convention weep with joy, and somehow my cousin Sonny got his hands on a bottomless bottle of red wine (apparently wine fairies are Italian). Luckily, this year's gathering was small due to an accordion convention in Vegas and he was spared seeing the full force of my family in action. The setting was pretty idyllic: a huge house on Cape Cod, nestled in a bay, with a large deck where one has a perfect view of the sea and the air and where the stars are not afraid to shine with all their ferocity.

This weekend is the 4th. Of July. Holy crap time's a-flying. We are again heading to a beach, but this time we're traveling north to Portland, Maine. I hope to lay on the sand during the day, letting my skin soak in some much-needed warmth and color. And to sit on the sand at night and let my eyes and ears feast on the colors and sounds of gunpowder and gases shot into the sky for our amusement (oh, yeah, and to celebrate our independence).

Happy Birthday to Tyler, Charlie and Uncle Steve.

And remember these important tips (culled from ACTUAL fireworks labels - gotta love Chinese to English translation):
DANGER: FLAME WITH LOUD REPORT. DO NOT USE IN CHILDREN.

CAUTION: SHINY BRIGHT, HOT HOT.

WARNING. DO NOT POINT TO EYE. DO NOT WAVE NEAR FACE OR OTHERS. KEEP AWAY ALL HAIR.

Happy 4th!