Life is so freakin' wonderful

Evil Sadistic Penguins

2012-02-06T15:44:00.000-05:00

AUGHHH!!! RUN!!!

So yesterday we had our weekly Sunday dinner at Granny's, and my daughter brought a guest - her cousin Samantha, who also happens to be one of her best friends. Since this was Samantha's first visit, Granny and Daddy told her some amusing family tales, particularly the stories of my dad's and uncle's time in the Catholic schools of the '50s in Philly. Even though I've heard these stories hundreds of times, it still strikes me as unbelievable that the nuns in those days were so cruel and abusive, while the nuns my daughter and I had were always so kind and loving. My guess is that most of these nuns lived through the sadistic nuns' reign of terror in the '50s, and vowed to bend over backwards to be nice when they themselves became nuns.

First was the story of my dad's brother Sam's introduction to the devil: one day when Sam was in second grade, a huge dragonfly buzzed through the open window (then, as now, Catholic schools were too poor to afford air conditioning. You haven't really lived until you've felt sweat dripping down the back of your itchy polyester uniform jumper while you futilely flail away with the accordion fan you folded out of an old test paper). In those days, Catholic schools were even more overcrowded than now, and there were at least 45 rambunctious eight-year-olds presided over by one elderly nun. The kids were hot, cranky and wound up, and predictably started freaking the heck out when they saw the dragonfly. The nun's brilliant idea to restore order and make the little rascals behave? She told them the dragonfly was the devil, and he would immediately snatch away the soul of any child who made so much as one more peep. Needless to say, my poor Uncle Sam came home bawling his eyes out that day.

Next was the day my Uncle Sam got quite the spelling lesson. He was asked what the letters H-E-A-D spelled, and got it wrong. The nun came over to him and hit him over the head with his spelling book, punctuating each smack with "head, HEAD, HEAD!" When Granny arrived at school to walk him home that afternoon, he told his mother that school had been fine, but his friend Kimmy piped up, "Sammy, it was not fine!" and proceeded to tell Granny what had happened. Granny was understandably furious, and went right back to the school to have a word with the nun. "Oh," the nun laughed, giving my uncle a motherly squeeze, "I would never hit a child! I just tapped him on the head with my finger and said 'head, head, head' [in a lilting voice]. Remember, Sam?" My uncle just nodded, terrified. In those days, the Church was supreme, priests were God incarnate, and my granny ended up believing every word of this.
Two days later it was Kimmy's mother who told Granny what happened in school the day after this incident: the nun immediately asked in an icy voice, "Okay, who squealed to Mrs. Lagrotteria about yesterday?!" Fingers pointed to Kimmy. The nun called Kimmy up to the front of the room, handing her a dunce cap. "Kimmy, we do not like dirty squealers in this school. You will wear this dunce cap on your head and go to each and every class in this school. You will open the door and loudly announce 'I am a squealer'. Go, Kimmy." Off Kimmy went, sobbing the whole way. By the third class she was crying so hard she could barely get the words out, but children in those days did what they were told without question. My granny was horrified at this and said to Kimmy's mother, "My God! We have to go say something to the principal about this!" "NO!" Kimmy's mother replied. "You've done enough damage already! Please don't say anything!" So Granny let it go, reluctantly, telling Sam to mind the teacher always. The lesson stuck, because my uncle was rarely disciplined after that.

My uncle may have been the obedient one, but my father was the rebellious one. He was always mouthing off to the nuns, priests, anyone in authority. He simply hated school. Case in point: on his very first day of school, he noticed many of the students raising their hands to be excused. These students then left the classroom. So he raised his hand, asked to be excused, and left the classroom - and walked the four blocks home. When my very surprised granny asked what he was doing home, he replied, "Well, I tried school, and I don't like it."
Naturally my dad got quite his share of smacks and outright beatings with rulers and pointers. He told us of one nun's penchant for grabbing the "naughty" boys by their ties and repeatedly slamming them against the chalk board while she nonchalantly continued with the lesson. One day, she started to grab my dad by his tie, but he was (luckily!) wearing a clip-on. When she grabbed him, putting all of her force into it, the tie came off in her hand and he was free. This threw her off balance and she toppled over, much to the amusement of the students. Furious at the affront and the class laughing at her, she proceeded to beat my dad with her pointer until he could get away.

My uncle never once sent his two children to Catholic school (wonder why?) My mother, however, very much wanted me in Catholic school so my dad did what any rational person would do: he sat in the back of the classroom for a week to make sure the nun didn't try to beat anyone. The first time he saw a student turn around and start talking with another student - in the middle of a lesson - he panicked, sure he was about to witness a nun smackdown. He was astonished when the nun calmly said, "Joe, please turn around. Thank you." He was even more astonished when the student actually listened. He never got over his fear that eventually, something would go wrong, but at least he stopped sitting in on my classes.

Crying over commercials? Yep, you're old too

2011-01-13T17:40:00.000-05:00

Growing up and growing old are funny things. I remember being a young kid, thinking "When I hit double digits, THEN I'll be big." I turned 10 but still felt the same as always, so next it was "I'll be big once I become a teenager." Turned 13, yet I still enjoyed playing with Barbies and yes, I was still so afraid of the dark I slept in my mommy's bed every chance I got. I basically spent my entire childhood waiting to be "grown up", until the day adulthood was abruptly thrust upon me and I realized I'd better grow up PDQ.

Being a young mom will make any woman feel old before her time. Once I turned 30, I started feeling the inevitable tick-tock of life's clock speeding up. My husband was shocked to discover the other day that most of our daughter's friends are now both old enough to drive and old enough to vote or buy cigarettes. Since our daughter's the size of a typical 11-year-old and is one of the youngest kids in her class, we tend to think of her as our little girl; the occasional reminder that she herself will be voting (and NOT smoking) in about two years is pretty shocking indeed. I know my husband, who's always had an irrational fear of growing old, is having a hard time adjusting to the fact that he's now outside of advertisers' coveted 18-34 demographic. He makes light of his age by joking that our daughter's Playboy-centerfold-worthy friends will be legal in a mere two years. I'm pretty sure he's joking, anyway. And if he's not, well, our daughter also has guy friends with pretty nice bods, who turn 18 in just a few months...what, I'm joking, for Pete's sake!

For me the biggest indication that I'm getting old isn't how big my daughter (or her disturbingly well-endowed female friends) get. It's the fact that I get a lump in my throat over the stupidest things. I've spent my whole life getting choked up by the soaring arias in the Phantom of the Opera - what can I say, my mom got me hooked on Andrew Lloyd Webber - but now it seems just about any poignant lyric or good memory will do it. When I saw Taylor Swift perform "Innocent" at the VMAs? Lump in my throat. The first time I heard "Frosty the Snowman" on the radio this Christmas? Lump. Rock songs will do it too - there's a line in Offspring's "Gone Away" that goes "I reach to the sky/ and call out your name/ and if I could trade/ I would". See? BIG lump.

Commercials do it to me - anyone around my age will remember those old Folgers commercials where the soldier comes home for Christmas. I can't recall specific commercials, but let's just say there have been an embarrassingly large amount that have made me choke up in the past few years.

Life events? Dear Lord, where do I begin?! When my daughter had her Confirmation two years ago, I sat in the church watching these kids, the very kids that used to run up to me and hug me around the waist and call me "Lexi's mom" or even "Mom". The vision of their little six-year-old selves merged with the tall young women and men I saw before me, and that did it for me; I just lost it, much to my husband's confusion. I was a bit better at her 8th grade graduation, luckily.

My daughter makes fun of me for my frequent lumpy throats, especially since most of her life I've been something of an Ice Queen, keeping my emotions firmly and safely bottled. I wonder how much of this new weepiness of mine is due to age, and how much is due to the inevitable cracks in my carefully built glass shield. I hope I learn to repair the shield, or else I may just flood the place when she graduates high school - heck, even when she gets her license!

Weird Al Helps A Grocery Store With Its Grammar

2010-11-02T20:52:00.001-04:00

Weird Al Helps A Grocery Store With Its Grammar

I always did like Weird Al...

The Frogman of Hammonton

2010-10-08T20:19:00.002-04:00

This is not the Frogman, but the real thing was MUCH SCARIER

My Granny told me this story years and years ago, one of her many too-wacky-to-be-fake True Stories. I was having a conversation about frogs' legs with a coworker today, and was reminded of the story. Don't ask me to explain, just work with me here.

Anyway, as my legions of loyal fans* know, my beloved Granny has had quite the interesting life. For your reading pleasure, I present another of Granny's True Stories: The Frogman of Hammonton. (dum dum DUM!)
*legions of loyal fans = three family members and two inexplicable readers from Canada and Australia. That's LEGIONS of devoted fans right there.

One day Granny was doing the dishes. As I described in this post, her kitchen is on the second floor and overlooks a very long, woodsy backyard with Hammonton Lake beyond. Hammonton Lake is small as far as lakes go, and although the wider part near the White Horse Pike is certainly pretty, it's never been much of a fishing or swimming lake. Where she lives, at the narrow "swampy" end of the lake, there's no activity at all, and with all the underwater weeds at this end, fishing or swimming could be downright dangerous.

On this particular sunny and pleasant day, Granny glanced up from the dishes and gazed towards the lake, only to do a double take. She saw a dark shape, far too large to be a fish, swimming below the surface. As anyone who has read my Granny posts knows, she's got quite the imagination, but even she was flummoxed - what on earth could that huge shape be? And if that was a fish, how unfortunate that her son and grandson weren't there to see it!

AUGHH!!!

Transfixed, she followed the shape with her eyes. She set the dish she'd been holding down as she came to realize the shape was looking more and more human-like every second. Suddenly, the figure broke the surface, and she stared openmouthed as the figure emerged, dripping, from the lake. Her first panicked glimpse had her convinced it was some sort of aquatic alien with dark shiny skin and bulging eyes (sort of like a Sleestak, if you will).

As her panic subsided, she saw that it was no Sleestak but was instead a fully outfitted scuba diver. When I say fully outfitted, I mean FULLY OUTFITTED - wetsuit, flippers, mask, scuba backpack, the whole nine yards.

Granny continued to stare, transfixed, as the Scuba diver slowly walked up the embankment of the lake and started to walk through her back yard to the street out front. Her paralysis broke as he came closer and closer to her home, and she quickly dialed her trusted neighbor across the street. It's a testament to what a dear friend and neighbor this woman is, because instead of calling the guys with the white jackets on Granny, she instead looked out her window. She confirmed to Granny that indeed, the frogman was now crossing the street in front of Granny's house, passing the neighbor's house, and was walking on down the road. Granny and neighbor stayed on the phone until the frogman padded out of sight, his swim fins flapping on the asphalt.

Granny never did find out why on earth a scuba diver decided to go exploring in the swampy little area of the lake behind her house. Several neighbors saw the bizarre sight, and one even called the police, but no arrests were made and indeed, no one ever saw The Frogman of Hammonton again. Theories abounded; my personal favorite was that he had just robbed a home on the far side of the lake and thought he'd found the perfect getaway route. I'd hate to think of where he stashed the jewels as he swam across, though.

My cat is a friend of Dorothy

2010-08-20T19:53:00.001-04:00

Two of my cats, Panther (in disguise here as a gansta) and Athena

I have four cats, which to me seems about a 3 on a Crazy Cat Lady scale of 1 to 10 (with 10 being the women on Hoarders who, when the cleaning crew arrives, are eerily blasé about the 17 cat carcasses squished into the rug). However, judging by peoples' reactions ("You have four cats?!?!11!"), apparently I'm nutty as a squirrel.

Anyone who owns cats will know exactly what I mean when I say that accumulating multiple cats is like the inevitable creation of a household "junk drawer": you started off with a clean, organized extra drawer, but one day you opened it and found it overflowing with crap. Multiple cats, like junk drawers, just sort of...happen.

We got our first family pet when my daughter was 3. My sister-in-law's boyfriend had adopted a stray cat who turned out to be great at math. (She multiplied, get it? Get it?) He knew I'd always loved cats, and he knew I'd never gone so long without a pet, so he offered to let us pick a kitten.

I picked the black kitten he'd nicknamed Jigaboo (did I mention I absolutely love this guy, who is now my brother-in-law, even with his politically incorrect humor?). I chose the black kitten simply because I'd always had silver tabbies as a kid and I now wanted a Halloween kitty. We took him home and started the arguing over potential names - I wanted Anubis, the Egyptian god of the underworld, or Bast, the (female) cat goddess; my husband wanted Rocky (ugh); and my three-year-old wanted Panther "cus he wooks wike a pan-fer". We decided to let the kid decide, and Panther he became.

Jigaboo/Anubis/Panther was a treasured, spoiled only kitty for two years, until 2000. My husband was working for the Philadelphia Housing Authority then and saw a lot of strays. Unfortunately, most of us know what happens to a stray cat in the Philly projects. He saw this adorable grey tabby wandering around, and decided to rescue him. I resisted, until he took the scrawny little guy out from under his coat. He became Morpheus, named after the Greek god of dreams.

Two cats and a preschooler was manageable. Morpheus, scarred perhaps from his brushes with death as a kitten, was and still is our "invisikitty" whom we seldom see since he's always hiding. I don't think either cat ever went through the pounce-on-your-feet kitten stage. They were both good cats, never missing the litter box, seldom puking, and never knocking over the Christmas tree.

In 2006, one of my daughter's neighborhood friends had a mama cat that had recently given birth. They invited us over to see the kittens, and what can I say...never show a cat person a mewling 2-week-old kitten. The minute those little velcro claws grab you, you're toast. I had a few moments of sanity, but they weren't enough to stop me from agreeing to take the little calico-and-white tabby. His naming process was one of the longest we'd ever had, and is perhaps key to the way he is today (more on that in a minute). When I met him he had bright blue eyes and a very triangular shape to his face, like an Oriental cat. I had recently read Memoirs of a Geisha, in which the narrator is a rare blue-eyed geisha named Sayuri, so I wanted to name him Sayuri. Did I mention that we still thought he was a she at this point? That name went out the window as "her" eyes gradually became yellow, so I then decided on Mei Ling. We took him to the vet as Mei Ling. The vet must've thought we were quite slow indeed when he informed us that Mei Ling was a boy. Great, so now I had three boy cats. My daughter and I were outnumbered. Eventually, Mei Ling became Orion, the hunter of Greek mythology.

Three cats it was until 2008. My husband's aunt had started rescuing the hordes of abandoned stray kittens around her rural home, fostering them until they were old enough to pawn off on...I mean, lovingly give to...others. Who better to give a stray kitten to than a person with three cats, right? She told me she wanted to give my daughter one as a birthday present, and of course I couldn't say no, because that'd be forcing her to then go out and spend money on a replacement gift. And besides, the little black-and-white kitten was awfully cute. They'd named her Bojangles or Bo for short, and I got Sammy Davis Jr's haunting "Mister Bojangles" stuck in my head every darn time they mentioned her. Ah and yes, she was a bona fide SHE - my first ever female cat! I could give her a pretty name! Almost immediately she was rechristened Athena, after the Greek goddess of wisdom and strength.

After all that backstory, let me say that, just like children, all four of my cats have very distinct personalities. Panther is the most un-catlike in that he loves strangers and greets us at the door. He's the alpha kitty (or at least was), the humungous, fat, lazy elder statesman . Morpheus, as I mentioned, is our invisible cat. He hates strangers but will lick us to raw-skinned death. Either he loves us a great deal or he's trying to marinate us. Athena, the female baby of the family, replaced Panther as the alpha, which I get a kick out of. She's the size of his right leg, but she's brash, bossy, opinionated, and frankly...a bitch. Somehow she knows she's adorable and she milks that to her advantage. And then there's Orion.

See, I do believe if Orion were human he'd be Norman Bates - a closeted, repressed homosexual with a bad case of mommy issues. Orion has slept next to my head every night since he was 8 weeks old, and for the first year tried to suckle my hair or an edge of my pillow. He follows me around the house and gives kisses on command. Whenever I come near, he scrunches up his face and turns his head up with eyes half-closed, as if to beg for a pat or a cuddle. He gets bullied by the two boys, and growls at Athena like he can't stand her. Seriously, I'm waiting for him to play some Barbra Streisand one night.

I now realize I've just written a very long blog post about my four cats. So...look for my episode of Hoarders coming soon!

A Friend-of-a-Friend-of-a-Friend Told Me, So it Must Be True!

2010-06-22T23:57:00.001-04:00

When - or if - I ever publish my book (see this post), I plan to include a few funny stories from the rest of my family, not just from my beloved Granny. She may have some great tales, but since I'm Italian on both sides of my family, the possibilities are simply endless. I'm sure there will be plenty from my Mommom for instance, my Granny's mother. She was a firecracker of an Italian grandma who died just a few months shy of her 100th birthday. She spent much of that lifetime entertaining her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren with tales from the epic saga of Mr. Banana Nose.

Mr. Banana Nose will have to wait, because frankly, my Mommom's English was so broken I barely understood her stories. Even after I took four years of high school Italian, I couldn't understand her because we're Calabrese, and Calabrian accents are not very, um, proper Italian. I'll have to get translations from my dad or my Granny someday. But anyway kiddies, this story is even better than Mr. Banana Nose, because it's true. At least, my dad, who heard it from some guy, who had it happen to a woman he knows, says it's true. So without further ado...

One day this woman, whom I'll call Jane, gets a frantic call at work from her son (let's call him John). Jane's son John is a strong, tall young man who happens to have Down's Syndrome and is mentally retarded. Now, John is agitated, but not in a bad way - more like he's incredibly excited about something. Jane tries to get her son calmed down enough to understand what he's saying, and finally she gets the gist: he tells her that he's caught a troll. He has this troll barricaded in the coat closet. Can she come home and get the troll?

Anyone who has had experience with Down's Syndrome people knows that they mostly think and reason like a child, and thus have the vivid imagination of a child. Jane is used to her son's imaginings, and has learned to take them in stride. So she soothingly tells John, "What a good boy! Just keep him in the closet until I get home." John happily agrees, and Jane gets back to work.

An hour or so passes, and John calls again. Jane isn't too pleased to be interrupted at work a second time, but she takes the call as any parent of a disabled child would. John now sounds less excited and just a teensy bit frightened. He tells Jane that the troll is becoming angry. He knows he shouldn't, absolutely shouldn't, let the troll out. But what to do? Maybe the troll is hungry?

Jane again soothes John, telling him, "Just throw some M & Ms under the door. Don't worry, honey, I'll be home in an hour." John once again agrees, and she can hear him opening a bag of M & Ms as she hangs up, smiling. Kids and their imaginations!

When Jane gets home, she notices three things immediately:

First, the rather inventive barricade her son has constructed in front of the coat closet door.

Second, the liberal sprinkling of M & Ms in front of the coat closet door.

And third, a nearly incoherent yelling coming from behind the coat closet door.

She quickly overcomes a brief, almost hysterical fright - there's no such thing as trolls, she reminds herself - when she hears quite plainly, "HEY! GET ME OUT OF HERE! THAT CRAZY KID LOCKED ME IN HERE!"

After grabbing a baseball bat, she cautiously opens the closet door to reveal an exceedingly irate dwarf wearing a business suit, holding a briefcase and a clipboard. Turns out he was a census taker going door to door, and when John saw the poor man, he put two and two together and instead of getting four, he got...troll.

Hey, I didn't write it. To paraphrase Lord Byron, truth* is stranger than fiction.

*truth told by a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend

Tee Hee Hee

2010-06-14T14:02:00.001-04:00

Who doesn't like the Cheezburger Network blogs? (There's a handy guide here to the 34-and-counting Fail blogs, Lol blogs, and other time-waster blogs). I've got at least 10 of them in my reader. What can I say? They're always good for a smile, if not a laugh. Here's one that made me giggle:

What, Me Worry?

2010-05-26T19:41:00.000-04:00

As anyone who knows me or has read this post knows, I worry a lot. Granted, for the past year and a half I've had more reason to worry, but I'd probably be a wreck even if my daughter were fully healthy.

Lately I've been wondering if all moms are as crazily obsessive as I. Hopefully they are, and I'm not crazy OR obsessive. I also wonder if it's only moms who turn into basket cases, or if dads worry too. See, there's a distinctive lack of worrying coming from the male half of our household; for the almost-fifteen years our bundle of joy has graced this planet, my husband has taken about as much active interest in her as he would, say, a cute puppy: pleasant to look at, soft to cuddle, and does some neat tricks, but YOU clean up after her. Now, I'm not bashing my husband. I've been informed that most fathers are, indeed, just like this, and have been since time immemorial. Fifty years of feminism has not yet erased the my-wife-can-handle-the-kids gene. I think it helps to envision a spectrum of dads, from the "I think that one's named Debbie" dad on the far left to the "Just got back from Junior's playdate, made some cupcakes, and now I'll put him down for his nap" dad on the right. My husband falls much more to the left side, but hey, at least he'll never leave me for a guy named Trent. (Kidding, kidding! I can poke fun all I want, but what woman wouldn't want an enlightened dad like the far righty?)

I'd like to think that the dad on the left worries about his kids (Debbie and...what's-his-name) just as much as the dad on the right. But my question is, just how much worrying is that? I certainly don't see my husband obsessing over our daughter. The only time he shows fear or worry is if she goes someplace that may contain boys. Of course, the one seizure he was unlucky enough to witness had him plenty shaken up, but he doesn't stay up at night wondering when the next seizure will occur like I do. As a mom, I stare at the bedroom ceiling for hours, wondering if my nagging our daughter to clean up her room will lead to her someday being a neurotic clean freak whose kids live in a hermetically sealed bubble. When I complain about a wrinkle, am I ensuring she'll one day be a Botox addict? When I argue with my husband in front of her, am I unconsciously turning her into a shrewish wife who'll nag her husband to death? And let's not even get into the time I spend worrying that her school bus will crash, or someone will slip drugs into her soda, or she'll get kidnapped, or...or...see?! It's enough to make you crazy.

Why do we women get the short end of the stick in this world? Perhaps if we had someone to do 50% of the worrying, our lives would be easier. Hey, that could be the most lucrative business idea ever: moms, outsource your worry! But seriously, guys and gals, what do you think? Do moms and dads worry equally? Am I crazy and/or obsessive? (Please say no) Any dads out there want to take up my husband's worrying slack?

Second Annual Link Roundup

2010-05-16T21:50:00.001-04:00

As I said in this post, I'm a bit of an Internet addict. Okay, more than a bit. Although I'm a voracious reader who's quite content during a power outage (as long as I have a book light handy), I will start to go into withdrawal if I don't check my favorite blogs and go on a clickity-clicking internet treasure hunt every so often. Occasionally I even find something worth sharing with the rest of the world. I could patent the idea with a tagline like "I surf hard so you don't have to". *groan*

That being said, may I present: The Second Annual Link Roundup! It's been about a month since my First Annual Link Roundup, so I figure it's high time I get to the second annual. Yes, I realize in this case "monthly link roundup" is the correct term, but it just doesn't sound the same. So there. Now, onwards!

1. Some of the "art" on Etsy really stretches the definition (which of course inspired Regretsy), but I have no doubt that this collection is art. That's one talented recycler!

2. Another awesome artistic vision: Desiree Palmen. The level of dedication to achieve her desired results is incredible; I suggest starting with the "exterior camouflage" section.

3. Just in case you're one of the three people who've never heard of him, Edgar Mueller uses strategic positioning to create "3-D" scenes out of sidewalk chalk. The results are sometimes creepy, sometimes awe-inspiring, and always amazing. Here is his website.

Hmm, I just realized I have quite an artistic theme going on here. I didn't plan it that way. But...um...my next link happens to be artistic, too. So, you know, if you really hate art, you might want to skip this post altogether.

4. Anyhoo, Michael Hughes does some truly awesome work with a camera. My favorite is his Souvenirs collection (click "Flickr" tab, then "Souvenirs") - he visted famous landmarks and, working to get the perspective just right, replaced the real landmarks with cheap plastic souvenirs. Well, he didn't actually replace the landmarks, ya know. Oh, forget it.

5. This one's not art-themed, unless tree houses count as art. Which, who knows, may be the case. I'm kind of glad I didn't have a childhood tree house, because then I'd be awfully bummed that I never had one of these nifty tree houses.

6. To even things up, these final two links are educational. The first is an armchair-traveler's dream: I've always dreamt of traveling the world, but until I win the lottery, I'll have to make do with virtual visits. One method is using Google Maps' Street View to visit Unesco World Heritage sites. I also enjoyed getting 360-degree looks at famous European cities with Arounder.

7. Last but certainly not least, because this particular link has eaten up many, many hours of my time. Even my husband was fascinated, and that's saying something. Popular Science recently archived every back issue, from way back in 1873. Try searching "automobiles" or "television", and pick the very oldest search result. Unfortunately you can't just choose an issue and browse, but once you arrive at a search result you can browse through that entire issue. I get a kick out of reading the classifieds - 100 years ago, they were full of get-rich-quick ads just like today.

That's all for now, kids!

Losing My Religion

2010-05-04T01:45:00.001-04:00

I'm in the middle of reading The Year of Living Biblically, a memoir of the author A.J. Jacob's attempt to adhere religiously (no pun intended) to the Bible for a year. I had read his first book The Know it All, in which he read the entire 32-volume Encyclopedia Britannica, and I liked his writing style, not to mention his lofty ideas. So I grabbed this book on a recent library visit. I won't get into a long description of his book (that's what the Amazon links are for, after all), but suffice it to say that it's not just a this-could-be-interesting fluff book. Jacobs did an exhaustive amount of preplanning and research before he even started his experiment, and his book has really made me examine my beliefs, or depressing lack thereof. Last night I even cracked open my King James Bible - something I haven't done willingly since...well, ever - to read Ecclesiastes as he recommends.

I should now state a fact that I'm not exactly proud of: I'm an agnostic. I was born into a relatively devout Catholic family, raised Catholic, attended Catholic school for 12 years - and had originally planned to get my Master's at a Catholic college, which would've given me a grand total of 18 years of Catholic schooling. And, get this, I've never been whacked on the knuckles by a ruler, forced to wear a dunce cap or touched inappropriately by anyone. Ba-dum-dum. But the thing is, even though I was an imaginative child who believed in unicorns and fairies, I don't think I ever really believed in God. I said the prayers in the same way I would later recite Shakespeare - with an appreciation for the beauty and syncopation of the words, but nothing more. I sang in the church choir for five years because I loved to sing and thought the songs were beautiful. I later became a solo cantor because I enjoy the spotlight, which I realize is a most un-Christian reason to want to sing in church! I got chills and goosebumps when I sang the holy songs, but not due to religious ecstasy; I get the same feeling from listening to, say, Mike + The Mechanics' The Living Years - it's simply a visceral reaction to the emotional power of a great story backed by a soaring melody or two.

As I got older I went from practicing to "lapsed" Catholic, but didn't self-identify as an agnostic simply because that would have upset my mother. She knew of my doubts - I get my logical mind from her, after all - but she always hoped that someday I'd believe. The funny thing is, so do I. I'd like nothing more than to share the belief of countless faithfuls that I am not alone in the universe. I've always loved the poem Footprints, the comforting idea that God is with us always. At rough times in my life I've practically screamed out to the heavens, begging for a sign that someone, anyone was listening. I certainly have enough loved ones that have gone before me. But I didn't feel anything, so eventually I just gave up.

I am not a soulless heathen, though. I live by a moral code that I suppose most closely hews to the Buddhist mold and Jesus' teachings (be kind to others, love thy neighbor, respect all living things, etc). I adhere to the moral codes, but don't believe in enough of their dogma to consider myself Buddhist or Christian. After reading a book in which the main character is Wiccan, I was surprised to find I also follow a few of their credos. Wicca has really gotten a bad rap - mention it and most people automatically think of devil worshippers or crazy voodoo cultists. Wicca's most vital rule is the same rule any licensed medical doctor has sworn an oath to follow: Do No Harm. They also believe in karma of sorts, the "threefold law" that states that anything one does will come back compounded by three; thus, if you harm no one and only send out good into the cosmos, good will be returned to you. That sounds lovely to me, but I don't believe in the central beliefs of Wicca either.

My stubbornly rational mind simply can't fathom a religion of Things You Must Believe Without Seeing. I love the line one of the elves in The Santa Clause says: "Sometimes seeing isn't believing; BELIEVING is SEEING". It's a lovely statement that applies to so much more than Santa. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll ever believe enough to see. (Yes, I believe in Santa; well, I believe in everything he symbolizes anyway. It's not like I believe there's a jolly elf living at the North Pole. But believing in everything that God symbolizes while not actually believing in the man Himself doesn't make me a believer.) Lately I've thought, wouldn't it be great if I could find a religion that perfectly suits me? But immediately after that I wondered, isn't that incredibly vain, that I should want a religion that caters to me instead of me sacrificing a little to suit the religion? Sigh.

It's not just that I don't have a religion; I'm not sure that any one religion has it "right", and many times I'm not sure religion is such a good idea at all. Polytheistic religions outdate monotheistic religions by thousands of years. The concept of a virgin mother and a son who is sacrificed for the greater good is one of the oldest recurring themes in pre-Christian religions. Heck, it pops up in ancient pagan religions, something the nuns certainly never mentioned. Things like that make it hard for me to believe that Catholicism is the "true" religion; how can it be, I wonder, when others far outdate it? And don't get me started on the parallels between war and religion: I wonder how pleased any God (or goddess) can be at us humans blowing each other to bits simply because our deities may differ. At the end of the day, almost every major religion today stresses love, honor, kindness - a basic moral code. So why can't we all just get along?

Like I said: sigh. In the meantime, I'll just try to be a good person.

First Annual (Monthly? Weekly?) Link Roundup

2010-04-18T01:00:00.004-04:00

I surf teh interwebs way too much, I'll be the first to admit. I'll quickly click someone's link, and that page in turn just happens to contain other interesting links, and before you know it I've found 30 new favorite websites. I mean, I just spent an hour - on a Saturday night - totally enthralled by the links on one particular site (I'm talking about you, Toxel.com.) Since I don't want to bore the Facebook community by sharing a million random links, I plan to periodically round up some of my favorite links to great websites/blogs in general or particular pages and posts. Have fun, but please don't blame me if you end up at WSA - Web Surfers' Anonymous :-)

1. Star Wars Millenium Falcon bed - anyone want to buy me one?

2. Totally awesome and NOT 'shopped black & white Santa Claus costume. One of these days I might try it, great idea.

3. While I don't advocate destructive or harmful pranks, these sign hackers are my heroes. One day I literally read EVERY.SINGLE.POST they had. Pathetic, I know. Don't judge me.

4. This guy's entire YouTube channel is full of entertainment, but his review of the creepiest dolls (ever!) will leave you checking behind you every few minutes. Hmm, I could've sworn that doll was lying face down a minute ago...

5. Awe-inspiring view meets severe vertigo and possible panic-induced heart attack at this viewing platform in Norway.

6. Even my husband is seriously considering buying a few of these garage door stickers - we can't wait to see the look on our neighbors' faces when they see a fighter jet in our one-car garage.

7. Mother Nature wows yet again with these captivating photos from Antarctica.

8. Okay, this last one I did share on Facebook, simply because their products are so awesome: Fred.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

2010-04-13T17:29:00.000-04:00

By most accounts, I'm somewhat of an intellectual. Though twists of fate have thus far prevented my attaining the advanced degree I've always wanted (merely a piece of paper, I console myself), I still consider myself educated, a well-read and well-versed geek. I'm a treasure trove of both useless and useful information (and I kick butt at Trivial Pursuit). If I had enough money I'd be at art house movie screenings every weekend. I prefer classic literature to Oprah-approved bestsellers - although I proudly admit to being a rabid Twihard and Potterphile. Even my TV habits are a bit meatier than the standard fare; my DVR is embarrassingly full of stuff from the Smithsonian and NASA channels. How can you not love a channel that lets you catch live ISS coverage at any given time of day?! In some ways, I'm sure it's a good thing I'm not "educated", because perhaps then I'd be more insufferable - I'm the annoying person in the movie theatre pointing out plot holes and implausibilities. I try to shut up, I really do, but sometimes it's hard not to have a "C'mon, REALLY?!" moment or two.

But I have to admit a guilty pleasure: I love my popcorn flicks. You know, those mindless summer blockbusters that are big on explosions, not plot. CGI, not DNA (as in flesh-and-blood actors). Try to understand these movies on a Scientific Method level, and your head will explode. That's a proven fact. Just like Scanners: pow! I finally gave up trying to rationalize time travel in either the Back to the Future or Terminator worlds. It just happens, somehow. If you time travel in John Connor's world, you wind up naked. Because, uh, clothes are inorganic material, as are cool space-age guns that could've come in handy when attempting to go mano a mano with an angry Terminator. And don't even think about attempting time travel in Marty McFly's world without a DeLorean going 88 miles per hour. On a side note, isn't it funny that when that movie first came out, that seemed so incredibly fast? I remember thinking "Ooh, 88 miles per hour! How the heck do they not crash?!"

Most of these popcorn flicks do very, very well at the box office, which is a rather sad reflection of our society. Some are "bombs" that end up doing well on DVD or overseas. Whether blockbuster or bomb, I think these movies are good for us. They transport your mind - sometimes a bit too much, thus causing head explosions - but they also transport your soul. For two hours you're whisked away to another world, and you can leave your cares behind. In today's world, who doesn't need a bit of an escape now and then?

Avatar (Two-Disc Blu-ray/DVD Combo) [Blu-ray]
Back to the Future - The Complete Trilogy (Widescreen Edition)
The Terminator [Blu-ray]
Harry Potter Paperback Box Set (Books 1-7)

Purple People Eater

2010-03-26T17:48:00.001-04:00

Today is Wear Purple for Epilepsy Awareness Day! (Check out EpilepsyFoundation.org for more info on Purple Day and epilepsy in general.) As some people may know, my daughter Alexis was diagnosed with epilepsy a little over a year ago. Up to that point, she'd always been healthy as a horse - no broken bones, no medications, no allergies. I can count on one hand the number of times she's even had a fever. She saw her pediatrician once a year only because they would call and bug me to get her yearly shots. The fact that epilepsy can strike anyone out of the clear blue is therefore very clear to me. To anyone who wore purple today, a sincere thank you, and my best wishes, because most likely you know someone living with this condition.

Lexi actually came to terms with her diagnosis pretty quickly. I know from past traumatic experiences that Lexi's very good at getting past and moving on, but every new thing that's been thrown at her this past year - did you know you're three times more likely to die than a "normal" person, did you know that your future pregnancies are automatically very high-risk, did you know that John Travolta's son died after hitting his head during a seizure - just seems to roll off her back. I don't know if she's just avoiding the issue or if she's a lot more like me and my late mom than I'd realized. I am very stoic and hide my emotions and feelings well. My mom was very big on strength - emotional, mental, physical - and I've always lived by the thought that showing your pain is a sign of weakness. I feel I have to be tough to live up to my mother's greatness.

Where Lexi seems to have inherited this stoicism, I on the other hand am slowly turning into a basket case. At first Lexi only had seizures in her sleep, and they seemed to stop after she was put on anticonvulsants. I thought "Okay, we can handle this. At least she's relatively safe in bed." But then she had one while awake, and fell to the floor. And another one. And another one. Meds were increased, a second med was added. She had one in the shower, and now I panic every time she drops the shampoo bottle. To her, my hovering is laughable and a bit annoying, but not to me. Every time she drops something, my heart stops and I yell upstairs "Lex?" My heartbeat doesn't resume until she answers "Sorry, dropped my book." My panic has just been exacerbated by the knowledge I'm gleaning from medical journals and textbooks. I spend my days basically waiting for the proverbial other shoe to fall, waiting for the "big one" that some other epileptics of her type have had. There are stories like one woman who, after a massive seizure, woke up unable to remember her twenty-odd years of life before it. Family, friends, even herself were all strangers. The neurologist assures me that this is a long shot, far from likely to ever happen to Lexi. But hey, I'm a mom. It's my job to obsess about the worst-case scenario.

Lexi informed me that a lot of kids in school were wearing purple today (as much purple as possible in a Catholic school with uniforms, anyway). The support that these kids have shown her is incredible, and restores my faith in her generation. These are the same kids who, rather than avoid her after she had a seizure right in the middle of Latin class, called her and left Facebook messages to make sure she was okay. Many of the kids in purple today said they were supporting not just Lexi, but their cousins, aunts, grandparents, etc. It seems everyone knows someone with epilepsy, yet it remains one of the least understood and abysmally underfunded neurological disorders.

At the end of the day, I know my obsessing over Lexi accomplishes nothing. But one little post on Facebook asking people to wear purple accomplished so much. Being an advocate gives me some purpose and some hope. Perhaps some day Lexi will live in a world free of epilepsy and the other conditions that have affected our family. Who knows? Already there's an intercranial implant that seems straight out of a science fiction movie - it senses an impending seizure and delivers a targeted anticonvulsant straight to the focal area, preventing the seizure from spreading to other parts of the brain. The developments that are possible are amazing, provided there is enough funding. Please, help spread the word and maybe donate a few bucks to the Epilepsy Foundation. If 100,000 people donated just $5, there'd be a half million dollars for epilepsy research! You can bet that when I finally win the lottery, both lung cancer and epilepsy will be cured :)

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Somebody please buy me this castle

2010-03-16T19:11:00.006-04:00

This is a seriously cool house. Actually, I think a lot of the real estate on Lovely Listing is seriously cool, which I guess makes me pretty strange.
Click the picture below for more info:

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South Jersey: the 51st state

2010-03-13T13:54:00.006-05:00

New Jersey is a weird state. It's a state of relativity. To people from Newark, Trenton is South Jersey. To people from Cherry Hill, Trenton is North Jersey. Heck, people from Cherry Hill see anything past McGuire Air Force Base as North Jersey. To a South Jerseyan, there is no "Central Jersey", only Us and Them. A lot of South Jerseyans, myself included, live their whole lives never venturing further north than Fort Dix (passing through North Jersey on our way to NYC doesn't count).

I get upset when New Yorkers (or the rest of the country) make fun of New Jersey, because what they're actually teasing about is North Jersey, with its smog and factories. The South isn't like that at all. Depending on the area, our neck of the woods is either literally the woods (aka "the Boonies"), blueberry farms, or cookie-cutter suburbs with a Wawa on every corner. Most of the time, one of these areas is right next to the other two areas. You can go driving down the road and within 20 miles see an isolated farm with real live horses, spooky woods that you just KNOW the Jersey Devil is hiding in, and a bustling semi-urban center with gas stations, Wawas, and nail salons. Speaking of the Jersey Devil, hunting him is practically a rite of passage for a South Jerseyan. The Pine Barrens might extend well into North Jersey, but we know that Jimmie Leads, the thirteenth son of Mrs. Jane Leeds, was born right here in South Jersey.

South Jersey is so exclusivist, I'm waiting for us to secede from the rest of NJ and form our own state. The northern border would probably be the McGuire/Ft. Dix area, the areas east of Egg Harbor would be collectively known as "the Shore", and all areas south of Vineland would be "the Boonies". Wait a minute, it's already like that...so we've already seceded!

The one thing that really sets South Jersey apart from the rest of the state is our sports teams. See, we don't root for New Jersey teams. In fact, the NJ Devils, NY Giants, NJ Nets, and NY Jets - all of whom practice in New Jersey - are the enemy. We root for Philly or Camden teams: the Phillies, Eagles, Flyers, Sixers, and Camden Riversharks. If you do happen to find a South Jerseyan who roots for a NY or NJ team, you'll see that person heckled mercilessly by "friends".

Let's not forget about the stereotypical South Jerseyan: the Italian! Most of us (yes, I'm Italian; what, you thought I was a NATURAL blonde?! ha ha ha!!) have family "back in Philly" that we've never even met. For a South Jersey Italian, going to South Philly with an older relative (we'll call him Uncle Vinnie) is a strange experience indeed. For example:

UNCLE VINNIE: "You see that guy over there?"
YOU: "The tan muscular one who looks like a douche? Yeah, what about him?"
UNCLE VINNIE: "He's your cousin Vito."

It can work in even more awkward ways, too. Say you're a guy, and you're visiting Philly with your own Uncle Vinnie (every Italian has an Uncle Vinnie):

UNCLE VINNIE: "See that girl over there?"
YOU: "Whoa. The one with the big t**s? Ooh yeahh I see her."
UNCLE VINNIE: "That's your cousin Carmella."

I'd love to complain about how Jersey Shore is negatively stereotyping Italians, but the truth is, I have relatives JUST LIKE THAT. The aforementioned douchey musclehead with way too much hair gel, or the buxom megatanned girl with neon fake nails. Heck, sometimes in the summer I have to keep myself in check, lest I become too "Snooki" - yes, even a real tan can look orange on an Italian, because we get gold tans, not brown. I tease my blue-eyed Italian husband for using too much hair gel. I may have to stage an intervention, because he was seen perusing Ed Hardy t-shirts.

Most South Jerseyans get fed up with the cold weather, and the high taxes, and the borderline-Communist laws, and flee to Florida. I think at this point Florida is mostly Cubans and South Jerseyans. But as much as I complain about living here, if I were to move I'd really miss Wawa, "the Shore", and going hunting for the Jersey Devil.

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My Granny was (almost) abducted by aliens

2010-03-10T07:24:00.004-05:00

I've been trying to write a book for oh, about ten years now. First my excuse was lack of money for publishing. Then self-publishing websites came on the scene, and that excuse went out the window. Next my excuse was that I was way too busy trying to be a good mom while having to stay at my office till 9:00 some nights or dealing with a long-distance commute. That excuse is also no longer valid, as I am currently blessed/cursed with an abundance of free time (we'll just leave it at that). So what the heck is my excuse now?

Laziness.

My book has a theme and a title, and is sitting on Lulu as an unpublished work-in-progress, ready to be uploaded as a bestselling (cough) Ebook or Paperback. That's a start, believe me.

So what will this heartbreaking work of staggering genius be called? And why didn't I think of that awesome title first, before David Eggers? Drumroll, please...

If I'm Not Here in the Morning, I Was Abducted by Aliens: True Stories from an Italian Granny

Catchy, right? I know it's a mouthful, but I've liked it for 10 years and am not about to change it now.

My Granny is a bit like Rose from the Golden Girls, lovably daffy and charmingly sweet. She also has a vivid imagination and is easily spooked - pay attention class, because that will be on the test. Her life is so full of funny tales, I just knew they'd make for a good book someday. Take the title story, for instance.

Granny lives on a lake, and her house is set up such that while in the upstairs kitchen, she has an excellent view of her back yard leading down to the lake.
One early fall night, she was getting a bedtime snack when something caught her eye outside.
There was a bright red light suspended over the lake, and as she stared she saw that it seemed to be coming closer and closer. This, she guessed, was a spaceship of some sort. She then saw flashing white lights bobbing about down by the waterline, and she was sure that these were flashlights from the aliens inside as they made their way up the shore and on to her house. Why would beings intelligent enough to travel millions of light-years have the need for flashlights? I don't know either.

Knowing the end was nigh, and knowing one of her sons would stop by on the way to work as always, she hastily scribbled a note:

Gary and Sam, if I'm not here in the morning, I was abducted by aliens. Love, Mom

She went to bed, pulling the covers over her head, heart skipping a beat with every creak of the old house. Eventually, she drifted off to sleep.

By the bright light of morning, her ordeal the night before seemed like a bad dream. She proceeded to go about her daily routine, and had largely forgotten about it as she greeted her younger son when he stopped in.
As she went into the spare bedroom to get something, she heard her son start to guffaw out in the kitchen.
"Mom", he asked through tears of laughter, "what the heck is this?" He held up the note.
The events of the night before came rushing back, and she laughed right along with him. She was sure now, in the bright light of day, that her overactive imagination had gotten the best of her.
It turned out that the lights were from a radio tower that had been erected early in the summer on the opposite shore of the lake. She hadn't noticed it before, because the lush foliage surrounding the lake had hidden it - until the autumn leaves fell. The lights seemed to "bob" on the water's surface as the breeze rippled the water.

There are plenty more where that came from, boys and girls. Hopefully, I can get them done while Granny is here to enjoy the profits from what is sure to be a #1 bestseller ;-)

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P90X is transforming my living room!

2010-03-08T16:53:00.007-05:00

One night I, like so many others who can't or won't go to bed at a reasonable time, saw the infomercial for Tony Horton's P90X program. For those of you unfamiliar with Tony Horton's awesome abs, P90X is a super-intensive 90-day program (hence the title. Well, the "90" part, anyway. I guess the "X" is to make it sound more "xtreme". No clue where the "P" comes in). Anyway, you basically kill yourself for 90 days straight, no rest, no excuses. By mixing up the workout with 12 different routines, you will supposedly confuse your muscles and avoid the plateau effect common with traditional workouts. They promise you a completely transformed body, all lean and sinewy and muscular, in just three months - if you stick with it.

Let me now state for the record that while I have always been thin, I have also always been a total couch potato. Never did team sports, never rode my bicycle all over town, never even climbed a tree like a "normal" kid in those days. My childhood was basically spent writing stories, playing board games and reading books. Besides a general aversion to sports, I was a total klutz too. Gym class was a total nightmare for me. I was like Bella Swan to the nth degree.

In my adult life, I've thus far managed to remain thin by a combination of healthy eating and sheer luck. I still don't exercise. I huff and puff like a very large person just from climbing the stairs, so I know I'm unfit on the inside even if I look fit on the outside. When I took the Wii Fit age assessment for the first time, it told me I'm 42 - and I was 31.

So as you can see, I'm not exactly a prime candidate for something like P90X. I'm not sure I could even handle a P5X. But I was willing to try, because I was tired of being tired and unhealthy. I wanted to be Tony Horton, damnit! (Well, a female Tony Horton. Oh, forget it) My husband and I ordered the DVDs, bought the chin-up bar and resistance bands, and got mentally motivated.

P90X has been sitting unopened on the coffee table for about two weeks now. Why? I can't get my husband to commit to the stupid "pre-program fitness test" you must take before starting. It's for our own safety (he's 35 after all, not too young for a coronary), but he just never gets around to it. Why didn't I just start without him, you ask? Well...I want company. I want us all, even our teenage daughter, to do this together and be buff and glorious together. It can be a...uh...bonding experience.

So P90X sits in our living room, and after two weeks I can really see some definition in its abs. It works, I tell you!

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