Apocalpyse Not Now

Oh, hello!  I didn’t expect to see you here today. I’m so glad you’re able to join me for this column.  Honestly, I couldn’t be happier.  Do you know why?  I’m thrilled because if you’re reading this, then that means those fun loving, doom-predicting, wacky Mayans were wrong and the world didn’t end after all.

I mean really, nothing puts a damper on the holiday season like a good old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone, end of the world scenario.  Seriously, couldn’t the Mayans have planned a little more carefully?  If you’re going to predict the end of all time, then at least push it back a few days to December 26.  That way, everyone gets to enjoy the Christmas presents that were purchased, yet avoid the credit card bills in January.

And did the Mayans really think that December 21 allows us all enough time to consume the mountain of cookies we’ve accumulated from co-workers, neighbors and cookie swaps?  Did they not think about how long it actually takes to eat all those gingerbread, anise and thumbprint cookies, not to mention those miniature cookie cups with the Hershey’s kiss in the middle.  And speaking of cookies, did anyone else notice that the Mayan calendar in question looks like an Oreo cookie?  I saw a side-by side-comparison on Facebook and it’s uncanny.  I’m surprised Nabisco didn’t jump all over that and decide to sponsor this particular event:  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Nabisco Apocalypse.  Co-sponsored by the American Dairy council.  Because there’s no better snack for the end of the world than Oreos with milk!”

I joke about the Mayan calendar when all along a little niggling thought in my head whispers “what if?”  The rational side of me knows that this is just one of many doomsday predictions that will not come to pass.  When my son voiced his concerns about whether the prediction could be real, I said, “Let me tell you a little story about a thing called Y2K.”  I then proceeded to relay the tale of how everyone bleated about civilization grinding to a halt at the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2000 because the genius who invented the computer forgot to factor that the last couple of numbers would roll over again at the beginning of the millennium like a car odometer.  People were urged to stock up on water, duct tape, meals-ready-to-eat and cash because everything that ran on a computer (which was pretty much everything) would cease to operate on January 1. And when Y2K came and went with no noticeable impact, we all stored our spare gallons of water in the basement and re-deposited (or spent) the extra cash we’d taken out on December 31.

I reassured my son by suggesting he pull out his bible and read Matthew 24:36 which says, “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” I think he felt a bit better knowing that God would never reveal such secret information to the Mayans. Everyone knows God only shares that kind of information with Nostradamus.

I do feel bad that my child is anxious about December 21, because I can relate to him. At one time in my life, I was convinced that Skylab was going to fall to earth and hit me.  To refresh your memory, Skylab was the first U.S. space station, launched in 1973.  Although it was damaged at launch, it managed to perform several tasks fairly well before hurtling back to earth in 1979.  Since no one could predict where the rubble would land, I naturally assumed it would head straight for wherever I happened to be at the moment of re-entry.  Despite my mother’s soothing words of comfort and reason, I was steadfast in my belief that the wreckage would make a beeline right for me.  Thankfully, I was wrong.  Somewhere in Australia lie the bones of a dingo taken out by a flaming chunk of space junk.

So if you’re reading this column, that means that the earth has, once again, managed to avoid the total destruction and annihilation heretofore seen only in Michael Bay movies. 

And in the unlikely event that the Mayans were correct…I guess I should have billed my editor for this column at the beginning of the month, rather than waiting till the end.

Tragic events spur prayers of peace

I don’t know where to begin.

Typically each week, as I sit before my computer, the cursor blinking expectantly on the blank page, I have a clear idea of my topic.  During this week, I tossed around ideas about outdated Christmas specials you won’t see on television anymore, a variety of holiday cards received, or my ineptitude with the one kitchen utensil I just can’t seem to master: the cookie press.

But all of that now seems ridiculous and trivial in light of the tragedy that occurred last Friday at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.

A part of me desperately wants to choose a humorous topic for this column, to give readers a moment of escape from the horror of this unspeakable crime.  I know that by the time this column goes to press, readers will have seen endless hours of television coverage and possibly hundreds of online and print articles outlining every fact, hypothesis and opinion on this nightmare.   Who wouldn’t want to forget, if only for an instant, the images of those children being led from the school by law enforcement officials, their little hands resting on the shoulders of the child in front of them?   But not acknowledging the event feels wrong.

I love Christmas.  I love the music and the gift giving and the crazy dynamics of family.  I love the displays both tacky and tasteful.  I love the way people often perform additional acts of kindness because they’ve been moved by the spirit of the season.  I love sitting in church and quietly reflecting on the miracle of Christmas, the birth of Christ and the “good news” proclaimed for all mankind.  It all adds up to that one word that encompasses the holiday season: joy.

But in the wake of the Newtown tragedy, with Christmas just a few days away, it feels as if the mythical Dementors from the Harry Potter series have swooped in and removed all of the joy.  As I wrap presents for my sons, I can’t help but think about the wrapped gifts under some of those Newtown Christmas trees that will remain unopened.   As I debate over a scarf purchase (orange or blue?), I think about those 20 families who are faced with the task of planning their child’s funeral.  As I sit in church and thank God for all of His blessings, I simultaneously wonder how He can allow such evil to exist in our world.  How are the violent deaths of all those innocent children part of His plan?

This heinous act has already spawned much discussion about school safety, gun control, violent video games and mental illness, and I’m sure the debate will continue over the weeks and months to come: If only there were stricter gun laws in place.  If only kids weren’t allowed to play violent video games.  If only someone had treated the perpetrator’s mental health issues. These are important issues that need to be addressed, and should be addressed before the faces of these victims fade from our memory and another gunman batters his way into an elementary school.  These statements are also our way of trying to make sense of this senseless act.

I’d like to give you a chuckle or two before Christmas, but out of respect for those who were taken from us, I’ll offer you a prayer instead.  I pray that your holidays are filled with love and joy.  I pray that the families of the victims draw strength from their loved ones, their community and the nation.  I pray that someday we may finally learn how to live together in peace.

And may God bless us, each and every one.

Hippos not as cute and cuddly as they seem

The floodgates have opened and the deluge of Christmas music has begun.  I admit that during the holiday season, I set my car radio to one of the local stations that plays nothing but Christmas music.  And though I enjoy most of the songs they play on the radio, there are a few I could certainly do without.

Who knew there was a Christmas donkey named Dominick?  I find it icky to hear a child sing, “I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus, underneath his beard so long and white.”  The morbidly depressing “Christmas Shoes” makes me want to rip my eardrums out.   These songs do nothing to enhance my Christmas spirit.

And then the other day, I heard a song that gave me pause:  “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”.  Recorded by 10-year-old Gayla Peevey, the holiday favorite shot to number 24 on Billboard’s pop chart in 1953.  The lyrics include, “Don't want a doll, no dinky Tinker toy; I want a hippopotamus to play with and enjoy.”  The singer is the antithesis of the kid who only wants his two front teeth for Christmas.  This girl wants the third largest land mammal.

I’ve always thought of hippos as lovable, quiet creatures.  The dancing hippos in Disney’s “Fantasia” are clumsy, but adorable.  Hasbro’s popular “Hungry Hungry Hippo” game is a perennial bestseller.  I loved Hanna-Barbera’s “Peter Potamus” series when I was a kid and this generation has their own share of cutesy hippo characters from cartoons like “The Back Yardigans” and the “Madagascar” series.  All in all, you’d get the impression that hippos are sweet, docile creatures, right?

That’s what I believed until a recent party, when one topic of discussion at dinner was the aggressive nature of hippos.  Someone had seen a video of a hippo attacking a family trapped on a small island in a river, and suddenly all the guests were chiming in with stories they’d seen of hippo attacks on television and the Internet.  “I thought they were vegetarians,” I countered, but a quick peek at Wikipedia confirmed that if you get between a hippo and their young, or even deep water, you risk death by an angry, angry hippo, regardless of their herbivore status.  “Imagine being chomped to death by those giant Chiclet teeth!” my friend hooted.  I left the party with my image of the sweet, lumbering, lovable hippo destroyed.

And then two days later, I heard that charming little ditty, “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”.  Ordinarily I would have relegated the song to background noise, but in light of our dinner conversation, I was fascinated.  As I listened to the lyrics, I couldn’t help but picture what the little girl would really think if Santa brought her Africa’s most dangerous animal.  One line says, “Mom says the hippo would eat me up but then… teacher says a hippo is a vegetarian.”  Yeah, Gayla, that’s what I thought until I saw the YouTube video entitled “Hippo Attack on Boat” when a hippo tried to take a bite out of a giant, metal boat.  Or how about the video “Hippo Rams Tour Vehicle” where an angry hippo charges after a jeep. The song continues,   “There's lots of room for him in our two car garage; I'd feed him there and wash him there and give him his massage…” Yes, you’d definitely want to keep him in the garage as opposed to your living room, because I also learned that hippos poop while spinning their tails in a circular pattern, thereby marking their territory more widely.  And if you don’t believe me, check out the YouTube video “Hippo Poo Storm”.  If this little girl really received a hippo for Christmas, the entire living room including the walls, windows, carpet and Christmas tree, would be covered in hippo spoor.

Clearly the song was written in a time before the Internet and Animal Planet and the NatGeo channel.  Perhaps the songwriter was overly enamored with those lively hippos from “Fantasia”.  But believe it or not, little Gayla Peevey got her wish.  According to Wikipedia, “A local promoter picked up on the popularity of the song … and launched a campaign to present her with an actual hippopotamus on Christmas.”  Thankfully, Gayla donated the animal to the city zoo, where it lived for 50 years.

I tend to doubt that vicious animal ever set foot in that little girl’s home.  Then again, the “B” side of “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” is the disturbingly titled song “Are My Ears on Straight?” 

Hmmmmm.

This Season, The Signs of Peace Are Everywhere...

Peace has returned to my town after a long absence.

Now that Thanksgiving is over, the holiday season is heading into full swing.  Radio stations are playing Christmas tunes around the clock, the cable channels are featuring night after night of holiday specials and catalogs are piling up in my mailbox.

The melee of Black Friday has segued into Small Business Saturday and Cyber Monday.  The stores are packed with shoppers and the parking lots are jammed with cars.  Though it’s supposed to be the season of “good will towards men”, that goodwill doesn’t seem to extend to someone else trying to grab the last parking space, the last pair of Ugg slippers or the last iPad mini.

And yet peace has returned to my town.

Lawns have been scraped clean of autumn’s last leaves and the natural foliage has been replaced with endless strings of lights.  The warm ones remind me of Christmases past, while the new LED lights seem cold and impersonal.  There are light displays that coordinate to music, pulsating to the sounds of Mannheim Steamroller and The Trans Siberian Orchestra. Enormous inflatable Grinches and snowmen and Santas loom over bushes while illuminated skeletons of reindeer graze silently on lawns.  Some folks prefer the understated look of a single wreath on their door and a few white candles in the window, while others try to outdo their neighbors by planting more candy canes along the walkway, hanging more icicles on the roof and blaring Christmas carols from their outside speakers.

And amidst all the noise and electricity and conspicuous consumption, peace has managed to quietly find its way back to my town. 

You see there’s a home not far from my own, which features the same display each holiday season.  I forget about it each year until late November rolls around. Driving through town after dark, I spot that wonderful, seasonal beacon of hope.

It’s a peace sign, mounted on the owner’s garage, completely wreathed in lights.  I’m sure there are some that scoff at this leftover 60’s relic, but that simple symbol bathed in white lights never fails to bring me a moment of calm during the hectic holiday season.

The peace sign was original created in 1958 as a symbol for the British Nuclear Disarmament movement.  The symbol is a combination of the semaphore signals “N” and “D” for nuclear disarmament.  Shortly afterwards, it was adopted by anti-war protestors in the United States.  Recently, I’ve seen bumper stickers that identify the peace sign as “the footprint of the American chicken”, suggesting that someone who wishes for peace is automatically a coward.  Perhaps that person just wants peace.

Isn’t peace what we want, not just during the holidays but also all year round?  Imagine opening a newspaper or surfing the Internet and seeing no war in the Middle East.  No unrest in Africa.  No shootings in schools or movie theaters.  No trampling innocent shoppers to get the last digital camera on Black Friday.  There would be no bullying, no road rage and no family feuds.  Just…. peace.

I guess that’s a pretty tall order, so for now I’ll strive for a peaceful holiday season.  When the crowds and the shopping and the school projects and family squabbles get to be too much, I’ll get in my car and drive by that house and let that glowing white symbol serve as a reminder of why the word “peace” is such a prominent part of the season: Prince of Peace.  Peace on earth and goodwill towards men.  Sleep in heavenly peace.

May the peace of the season be with you all.

And Onion Rings to Rule Them All

The other night I had my nose buried in a book while my husband watched a sports program beside me.  I was only half paying attention when a commercial came on, but it was the words spoken at the end of the commercial that made my ears prick up.

“Come into Denny’s and try our ‘Hobbit’-inspired menu!”

I turned to my husband just in time to catch the horrified look on his face as he cried, “Nooooo!” 

You see there’s a fine line between selling and selling out.

We’re no strangers to sellouts, are we?  When we hear Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll” playing in the background of a Cadillac commercial, or a family of four singing Ozzy Osborne’s “Crazy Train” in an ad for the Honda Pilot, we know that somewhere, someone we once respected and admired has decided that income has trumped integrity.

When we see manipulated footage of deceased film star Fred Astaire dancing on the ceiling pushing a vacuum, we realize that the Dirt Devil sucks on a whole new level.

And now J.R.R. Tolkien’s beloved story of Bilbo Baggins’ quest to defeat the dragon Smaug and collect a portion of Dwarf treasure has inspired such menu items as “Gandalf’s Gobble Melt”, “Shire Sausage Skillet” and “Make-Your-Own-Hobbit Slam”.  Do you hear that whirring sound?  That’s old J.R.R. Tolkien spinning in his grave every time someone orders “Radagast’s Red Velvet Pancake Puppies”.

Now I don’t have the same attachment to “The Hobbit” and the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy that my husband does.  As a teenager, I enjoyed Judy Blume while he immersed himself in the intricate mythology of Middle Earth.  Truth be told, the only reason I went with him to see the film version was because I spied Viggo Mortensen’s Aragorn in the trailer and decided there might just be something watchable in this fantasy film after all.  After seeing the films, I actually read “The Hobbit” but quickly lost interest in the extremely dense LOTR book series.  Still, I admire Tolkien’s brilliance in creating such a richly drawn world, his attention to detail so strong that he invented entire languages for his characters.  I guess I always associate Tolkien with a more highbrow style of writing, given that he was a Professor of English Language and Literature at Oxford University, and counted C.S. Lewis and W.H. Auden as his friends.

Which just makes Denny’s “Lone-Lands Campfire Cookie Milkshake” all the more ridiculous.

Is this selling out?  Or is this just another example of extending brand recognition? The Lord of the Ring book series had millions of fans before the movies were produced.  How many millions more were added as a result of Peter Jackson’s films?  How many people would never have known the story of Frodo and Sam and their quest to destroy the one ring of power, had they not seen the film and bought their children the subsequent action figures, Lego sets and Happy Meal toys?  I still remember my son, much younger at the time, pressing his McDonald’s Gandalf figure over and over to hear the little tinny voice say,  “The ring must go to Frodo…the ring must go to Frodo” a zillion times.  And he was still years away from being old enough to handle the violence and intensity of the films.

If “Lord of the Rings” was marketed with costumes and posters and Monopoly games and McDonald’s Happy Meal toys, is it really any worse for “The Hobbit” to be promoted by Denny’s? 

For me the answer is “yes”.  It might be because menu items such as the “Ring Burger” weigh in at 1420 calories, 93 grams of fat and 2800 mg of sodium.  It might be because of the $54 million settlement Denny’s had to pay due to its racial discrimination practices in the 1990’s.  Or it might be because when Tolkien wrote his tale of Oin, Gloin, Fili and Kili, he never imagined that one day those characters would be served up on a warm plate with a healthy side of grease.  Perhaps all of these are why the selling out of “The Hobbit” leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

And that’s a taste that even “Bilbo’s Berry Smoothie” can’t wash away.

No Need To Repair This Relationship

This week we will all sit around tables laden with food and bow our head in thanks for the blessings that God has given us.  Among those blessings I include my family, my friends, my church, good health and my mechanic.

Wait…what?

You may laugh at the latter, and if you do then you are clearly not among the automotively challenged, like myself.  You are someone who knows the difference between a camshaft and a cylinder.  You change your own oil, rotate your own tires and change your own brake pads and spark plugs.  You do not tremble in fear each time the “check engine” light flickers on, and you are confident when you walk through the doors of AutoZone.

You are my polar opposite.

I purchased my first car in 1990 for $100 and I’ve been riding the repair rollercoaster ever since.  I’ve watched in horror as my dashboard lights slowly dimmed (alternator).  My ears prick up at the first sounds of high-pitched screeching (brakes, water pump, power steering).  I’ve driven like a bat out of hell to get to the dealership after being told, “Whatever you do, don’t turn your car off!” (head gasket). 

Over the years, I’ve taken my cars for repair at dealerships, private garages and franchise repair shops.  I quit going to the dealer because each time I brought my car in for service, I could swear the technician had little dollar signs where his pupils should have been.  The franchises were pleasant enough, but it always seemed like when I brought the car in for one repair, the technician would always find two more that were needed.

And then a few years ago, my friend Jessie referred me to Chuck Stymest at the Auto Hospital in Hanover. I took my car in for a few minor repairs and it was shortly after that I realized I had finally found that special someone every motorphobe dreams of: The Car Whisperer.

Again, with the laughing?  My husband and I don’t upgrade our car every few years.  Quite simply, we can’t afford to.  Instead, we drive our cars into the ground (and in my case, the curb).   Because of this, I’ve learned that an honest, trustworthy mechanic is just as important as a loyal babysitter, a knowledgeable physician and a savvy financial planner.  And sometimes, just as hard to find.

Our relationship began when I brought one of my cars to Chuck for a minor repair.  While I was there, I mentioned in passing that both the dealership and another car repair center told me that a major, expensive repair was coming up very soon.  Chuck responded by telling me that the repair wasn’t due for another 30,000 miles.  With that, Chuck became my new best friend.

There have been several instances over the years where I was positive that my car needed a pricey repair, only to be told by Chuck that the problem was a minor one:  I was pretty sure my car needed new brakes; it was a frozen pin.  My husband thought our van needed new shocks; there wasn’t enough air in the tires.  Granted, we’ve had our fair share of big-ticket repairs, as you’d expect with cars as old as ours.  I took my Saturn in for an oil change prior to a long car trip, only to discover that the car was unsafe to drive.  But because of the trust that’s been built, we know that when Chuck says, “This needs to be done,” it needs to be done.

I’m not the first to sing the praises of the folks at The Auto Hospital.  My predecessor, Cathy Harrington, wrote a column about them many years ago, which was how my friend Jessie heard about them, and then referred them to me.  When you find a good thing, you just want to pay it forward.

So I may be a complete ignoramus when it comes to cars, but that’s all right.  I’ve got Chuck in my corner.  And for that, I am truly thankful.

The last time I was "Shawshanked"...

The other night I fell asleep in bed watching the 11 o’clock news.  An hour later I woke to discover my husband still awake beside me.  “What are you watching?” I asked sleepily, to which he replied, “’Knight and Day’ with Tom Cruise.”  I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

My husband had been “Shawshanked”.

I first heard this term at a party last summer. “I got ‘Shawshanked’ last night by ‘The Departed’,” a friend lamented.  Though I’d never heard the term before, I knew exactly what it meant even before looking it up on The Urban Dictionary website. “Shawshanked: the condition of having been sucked in by a highly watchable movie while channel surfing or walking past a TV. Originally derived from The Shawshank Redemption.”

Sound familiar? Who hasn’t been “Shawshanked” at one time or another?  You’re watching television while lying in bed, or folding laundry catching up on paperwork.  As you scan through your two or three hundred channels, you discover “Apollo 13” is on.  It doesn’t matter that you’ve seen the movie in its entirety umpteenth times, not counting all the snippets you’ve caught over the years.  You think to yourself, “I’ll just watch that amazing launch scene one more time…” and before you know it two hours have passed and you’re watching Tom Hank’s exhausted, smiling face as he waves from the safety of an aircraft carrier.

You just got “Shawshanked”.

“The Shawshank Redemption” has to be one of the most watchable films of all time, Nominated for seven Academy Awards, the film features inspired performances by Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins, and was also instrumental in launching the career of screenwriter and director Frank Darabont, who went on to make ‘The Green Mile” and “The Walking Dead.”  Aside from being a true classic, what is it about “Shawshank”, and films like it, that sucks us in time and time again?

Is it because channels like TNT and TBS and AMC rebroadcast these films over and over again, drilling them deep into our DNA?  American Movie Classics hosts “Can’t Get Enough…” marathons, showing five nights of the same movie back to back in primetime. “Can’t Get Enough” marathons have included films such as “The Matrix”, “Rocky” and, of course, “The Shawshank Redemption”.  Common sense dictates that this should have the opposite effect on viewers, turning them off because the movies have been broadcast ad nauseam.  Shouldn’t you be inclined to be “Shawshanked” by a more elusive film? Shouldn’t absence make the heart grow fonder? Apparently not.

My personal “Shawshank” list includes the aforementioned “Apollo 13” and, I’m embarrassed to admit, “The American President”.  There’s something about this film, which stars Michael Douglas and Annette Bening as a widowed U.S. president and a lobbyist who fall in love, that sucks me in every time.  Though it may not be a “classic”, the combination of Rob Reiner’s direction, Aaron Sorkin’s witty dialogue and the chemistry between the two romantic leads “Shawshanks” me every time.  Though the film has fallen off in popularity, there was a time when I just couldn’t get enough of “The American President”.   I can’t count the number of times my husband walked in the room, saw me watching it, rolled his eyes and walked out.

Now if you’re wondering just where the term “Shawshanked” originated, I’m happy to report that the brilliant creator resides right here on the south shore: Jerry Thornton.  Jerry is a hilarious writer and comedian, known to many (especially my husband) for his posts on Barstoolsports.com and his creation of the very entertaining and addictive site, Moviequoter.com.  I discovered this fact when a Google search turned up the Twitter page “#shawshanked”, a page created by Jerry.  I should have known, with his sharp sense of humor and his passion for film, that Jerry Thornton would be the one to introduce “Shawshanked” into our pop culture.

Regarding my husband, I discovered one more important thing about being “Shawshanked”: The movie doesn’t necessarily have to be good to suck you in. My husband admitted that “Knight and Day” wasn’t worth the sleep he lost watching it.  And yet, he still stayed up till 2am.

Shawshanked!

Election Season has been none too pleasin'

The phrase, “Out of the mouths of babes…” intimates that innocent children can often make some of the wisest observations.  I think I can speak for everyone when I say that little four-year-old Abigael Evans, star of her own viral video, is voicing a sentiment with which most of us would agree:

“I’m tired of Bronco Bamma and Mitt Romney.”

Yes Abigael, I too am tired of Barack Obama and Mitt Romney.  I’m also tired of Scott Brown and Elizabeth Warren.  When I sit down to watch “Modern Family” or “Survivor”, I don’t want to see six or eight political commercials back to back. I’d rather watch a stuffed fish sing, “Gimme back my filet-o-fish…” than hear people arguing about whether or not Elizabeth Warren fought for or against asbestos victims.  I’d rather see obnoxious ducks screaming “Aflac!” than listen to Laurie Myers’ drone on about Scott Brown’s support of women’s rights for the millionth time. 

I’m sick of all the backbiting and finger pointing and name-calling.  I’m exhausted from watching debates where the candidates can’t answer a simple question about where they stand on the environment, taxes or health care without using up most of their two minutes insulting the reputation of their opponents. 

My phone rings off the hook with recorded messages from candidates who don’t care whether they interrupt my dinner or my sleep.  The only call I actually listened to was from Matt Damon, who urged me to vote for his candidate and offered a lift to the polls if I needed one.  Great idea Matt, let’s pick up your buddy Ben Affleck and swing by The Fours for a couple of pops on our way to the polls!  

My mail has been flooded with postcards praising some candidates while demonizing others. Some days, I’d receive three or four mailers for the same candidate.  Just imagine if that money was actually spent on the issues these candidates support, rather than cluttering up my mailbox and my recycle bin.

The election is ending just in time.  Now I can focus on all the Christmas catalogs cluttering up my mailbox and recycle bin.

If possible, the Internet is even worse than the mail or the television.  The sidebar of my Facebook page carries all kinds of political endorsements.  Let’s face it; if I haven’t “liked” a candidate by now, I’m not going to.  My children, who enjoy watching stupid YouTube videos, are getting frustrated by all the political ads that have to run before they can watch Psy’s latest version of “Gangnam Style” or the newest installment of “How it Should Have Ended”.  My eleven year old summed it up perfectly: “Mom, people who want to look at cat videos on the Internet don’t really care about Elizabeth Warren or Scott Brown”.  Again, out of the mouths of babes…

My only consolation is that by the time this column goes to press, the elections will be over.  My mailbox will be clear, political spots will be replaced with holiday commercials and the only computers calling my house will be those asking me if I’d like to lower the interest rate on my credit cards.  Life as we know it will resume.

Unless, of course, something the election results are delayed.  After all, what will happen to those voters in the tri-state area who are still without power?  What if there are hanging chads again?  What if the election is so close there needs to be a recount?  What if…gulp…this election goes on for several more weeks?

If that happens, Abigael Evans better move over and share the spotlight with another crying baby.

Me.

Waiting for--and waiting out--the storm

As I type this column, I’m bathed in the glow of my kitchen light.  My iPhone is charging next to me and my husband is downstairs watching the Patriots broadcast.  A pot of tomato sauce burbles on the stove as I heat up a cup of cider in my microwave I pause to appreciate this scene, and realize that by the time this paper goes to press, all of these small but important actions may very well become impossible.

Because “Frankenstorm” is headed our way.

That’s right, we’re gearing up for yet another “hundred year storm”.  Though Hurricane Sandy is predicted to make landfall somewhere in my beloved New Jersey, she’s still planning to beat the stuffing out of New England.  I love the way they throw that term, “hundred year storm” around. Sandy is being compared to the “Perfect Storm” of 1991, another Halloween nor‘easter, and if my math calculations are correct, that was only 21 years ago.  I remember last year’s “Irene” being referred to as a “hundred year” storm as well.  Actually, there have been more than a few “storm of the century” storms in recent memory.  I’m starting to think that perhaps I was born in the wrong hundred-year span.

I don’t doubt that Sandy will wreak havoc on the Northeast.  As I write this, the New York City transit system is halting service and there have been evacuations in parts of the city.  The predictions coming out of that area are eerily reminiscent of those scenes from the disaster movie, “The Day After Tomorrow”, where a giant wall of water decapitates the Statue of Liberty and plunges most of Manhattan undersea. Of course Jake Gyllenhaal’s character was able to outrun that wave, so perhaps there’s hope for the Big Apple after all.

On the one hand, I’m glad that people are given enough notice to prepare.  We all want enough time to stockpile water and batteries and canned food and generators and gold kruggerands and pinot noir and copies of Us Magazine and People.  The downside is enduring more than a week’s worth of Doppler maps and storm tracks and reporters in windbreakers on the beach.  I’ve seen endless news footage of empty grocery store shelves and people gloating over getting the very last generator.  With all that advance warning, our hatches are thoroughly battened.

I appreciate that our governor declared a state of emergency long before the first drops of rain hit Massachusetts.  I’m thankful that National Grid has a plan in place to try to minimize power loss to its customers.  I’m thrilled that our town has been proactive in contacting residents with suggestions on how best to prepare for yet another apocalyptic storm.  But no one has really addressed one of the most pressing issues of all:

What about Halloween?

I know there are many experts already forecasting the financial damage that may result by Frankenstorm, but what about the emotional damage caused when all those Disney Princesses, Transformers, Zombies and Fairies are denied their fun-size Snickers and Mini Kit Kats?  If you think planning for a hurricane a week in advance is impressive, my kids start planning their Halloween costumes on November first.  The inside of my house looks like The Spirit Store, and my son has already a strategic route to maximize his candy intake.  Hell hath no fury as a child denied the opportunity to travel from house to house and beg for full-sized Hershey bars.  Any suggestions, FEMA?

All kidding aside, now that my grill has been bungeed to the deck, my flashlights properly tested and my pantry stocked, there’s nothing else for me to do but pray that everyone I love comes out of this storm safely.  And when it’s over, I’ll thank the Lord that there won’t be another storm of this magnitude for a century.

Until next year, that is.

A Picture that's Far from Perfect

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It’s that time of year again.  The air is cold and crisp, tinged with just a hint of wood smoke.  The days are a collage of vivid blue skies blended with leaves in hues of red, orange and gold.  As autumn ticks by, parents and children alike will carefully select getups for that one frightening day that can result in grown men and women squealing with terror. 

Brace yourselves.  It’s school picture day.

As a parent, I should love school picture day.  Though I take hundreds of candid photos of my children, picture day is my one opportunity for a professional photographer to take a portrait that is the embodiment of that school school year.  In years to come, I’ll be able to look back at these school photos and reminisce, “Awww.  He looked so sweet in 5^th grade.”

That’s the fantasy.  The reality was that in 5^th grade, my son’s school portrait looked like an ID photo for a 40-year old software developer. I sent the photos back and opted for the retake day.  Unbelievably, the make-up photo was even worse.  The photographer, compensating for the glare on my son’s glasses, had him tilt his head at an angle that gave him a double chin and made him look like a hippo.  I ended up demanding my money back and submitting my own photo to the yearbook. I understand that there are hundreds of children to shoot in a limited amount of time, but in this digital age, there’s no excuse for pictures that make children look like safari animals.

Of course, the photographer isn’t always to blame.  In kindergarten, my younger son forgot to turn in his picture money.  While other families received class photos and portraits, we had to wait for the retake day.  Prior to the make-up day, I picked up my son from school when another mother stopped me and said,  “You’re Cooper’s mom?” She burst into giggles and confided, “My husband and I were laughing so hard over the class picture last night.”   I explained that we had missed the first round of pictures and hadn’t received a class photo yet. “You mean you haven’t seen it?  Oh, I’ll make a copy for you.”  Making good on her promise, I received a copy of the kindergarten class photo. My son was smack in the center of the group, eyes shut tight with his tongue sticking out.  “Why did you do that?” I wailed. He shrugged his shoulders and simply replied, “I don’t know.” In an unrelated conversation with the school principal, I hesitantly asked if she had seen that particular class photo.  With a sigh she replied, “Yes, and we’re planning to re-do that class picture on the retake day.”  That year, Mrs. Brown’s kindergarten class had the distinction of providing families with two class pictures.  But only one of them was suitable for framing, thanks to my son.

The school picture process has changed drastically over the years.  In my day, a photographer in Sansabelt pants and a shiny shirt would place everyone on the same stool, in front of the same backdrop and comb everyone’s hair over their foreheads with the same icky comb. Flash forward to today, when kids can choose from over a hundred and fifty different backgrounds, including the Brooklyn Bridge, snowy fields, a Japanese pagoda, the Las Vegas strip, and even outer space.  My son chose “Dark Matter”, a galactic background that makes him look like he’s about to be sucked into a black hole. Still, I consider it a better alternative to the one that evokes the phrase “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”.  How many grandparents will receive a school portrait of their grandchild in front of the Golden Gate Bridge and wonder, “When did they go to San Francisco?”

Then there’s the “package” selection.  How many 8X10’s, 5X7’s and wallet photos do we really need?  Judging by the number of leftover photos from years past, the answer is “not that many”.  That doesn’t include the trading cards, calendars, mouse pads, beverage cups and dog tags that are also offered.  Dog tags?  Who knew that dogs even wanted to wear pictures of their owners?

Thankfully, both kids are over this year’s picture day hump.  Though I’ve yet to see the results, I’m crossing my fingers that both sets of photos are acceptable, thereby avoiding the dreaded retake day.  I don’t think I can handle this process twice in one year.

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I can sum up school picture day in just one: Oy!

Older Crowd Can Still Get Its Kicks

I’ve become a soccer fan these last eight years; a necessity since both of my children have played soccer through our town’s sports association.  My younger son played for a few seasons before deciding that baseball was more to his liking, while my older son has played every fall and spring season since kindergarten.  In addition to spending endless hours on the sidelines watching my sons practice and play, I’ve enjoyed attending some of the New England Revolution games at Foxboro, and watching World Cup Soccer on television.

With all that in mind, I can honestly say that I’ve found something infinitely more entertaining than watching my children play soccer.  And that’s watching my husband play soccer.

Recently, my husband was invited to join a local “over 40” soccer league.  My husband is over 40 and then some, so you can imagine my concern about him suddenly deciding to sprint around an indoor soccer court for fifty minutes every Friday night.  Though a regular at the gym, at his age every physical endeavor brings potentially new and exciting ways to hurt himself. The team’s name, “Under Construction”was a little puzzling, but definitely preferable to something more ominous, like say, “Condemned”.

My husband had a brief stint on a co-ed team just a few years ago, and what I remember most was each game ending with someone limping off the field in need of an ice pack.  At the end of that season, I was thankful that most of his body parts were still intact.  There were no subsequent invites to join another team until earlier this fall when the “over 40” team came calling.

And so for the past month, my Friday nights have been spent sitting in the stands at the South Shore Sports Center in Hingham, cheering on the efforts of my husband and his fellow soccer cronies…er, I mean teammates.  I can honestly say that there are marked differences between watching children play soccer and watching mature men play the game.

For example, the language is much more colorful.  Mind you, the teams do try to keep their exclamations PG-13, given that there are often kids in the gallery, but I’ve seen a few missed plays result in an f-bomb.  I guess I can’t expect men entering their golden years to yell, “Oh POOPY!” when they miss a goal.  Though that would be funny.

Speaking of language, my Friday nights have taken on an international flavor.  My husband’s team was slaughtered three weeks ago by the Brazilian team.  Big surprise there, since Brazilians come out of the womb with cleats on their feet.  My husband’s team was definitely at a disadvantage because their opponents were shouting instructions to each other in Portuguese.   That and the fact that they’re Brazilian.  Things didn’t go much better the following week when they played the Irish team.  Though instructions were shouted in heavily-accented English, my husband’s team just couldn’t get out from under the luck o’ the Irish.

I don’t remember much fighting when my children played soccer, but in my husband’s league I see players posturing, chest bumping and getting in each other’s faces over the most minor infractions.  At one point I wondered if I was watching soccer or hockey.  Luckily, most of the blowups dissolved quickly, and no one came after us in the dark parking lot after the game. 

The adult games also offer something the kids’ games never could: booze.  There’s nothing that can’t be improved by the addition of alcohol, and that includes watching an assortment of older men, some in questionable physical condition, sweat their way up and down the pitch for the better part of an hour.  Cheers!

I will say that with age comes improved skill at (ahem) ball control. These over-40 teams have perfected the art of carefully passing of the ball to each other, rather than slam-kicking the ball at every opportunity as children often do.

As far as injuries, so far my husband has strained a muscle in one leg, necessitating the use of a wintergreen-scented muscle rub that stinks up the entire house, and just recently twisted his foot, causing a big, swollen bruise to appear.  No serious injuries or trips to the emergency room…yet!

While I wouldn’t mind the occasional Friday night movie or dinner out, I know that one of the things my husband enjoys most about these evenings, other than his pure love of the game, is to have his family in the stands cheering him on. When he comes off the field with that big, beaming smile on his face, looking almost like a kid himself, I’m reminded of how much this means to him, and I’m tempted to  throw my arms around him and share his joy.

But I don’t.  Because let’s face it, he’s pretty sweaty.

Spirit and Skill are Band Substances

As many of you know by now, I am not a huge football fan.  Though my husband loves spending hours watching the Patriots on Sunday afternoons (he’s watching them play as I type this), I prefer to spend my time reading, watching movies, folding laundry or even scrubbing the bathtub.  I have nothing against Tom Brady and his crew; I just find football to be a slow-paced, confusing game.  No matter how much someone tries to explain the rules of the game, I just can’t seem to grasp it.  

Maybe if my kids played football I’d have more of an appreciation for the sport, but it’s definitely not their game.  However, at least once each season, my younger son will ask me to take him to watch his friend play football.  As a result, I wrote a column last year about the appeal of the Friday night football game.  Under the lights, bundled up against the cold, crisp fall air, a palette of leaves scattered on the edge of the field, with moms and dads calling out encouragement to their fifth and sixth graders; I may not understand what’s happening on the field, but I definitely can appreciate the camaraderie in the stands.

And now I have a new appreciation for football thanks to one more very special element:  Marching band! 

Now that my older son is a freshman in high school and a member of the marching band, football holds a whole new appeal for me.  I may seem to be paying attention to what’s happening in the game, but what I’m really doing is sneaking peeks at my son in his band uniform.  Who knew that the strains of “Gonna Fly Now” could sound so inspiring? I’ve always found “The Star Spangled Banner” to be moving, but now it brings tears to my eyes.  Marching band is the final piece of the puzzle.  Football now has meaning.

Okay, well I still don’t know a flag from a fumble.  But who cares as long as there’s a combination of brass and percussion to entertain me?  I rely on my husband for cues about the game.  When he claps, I clap.  When he cheers, I cheer.  When he curses, I ask, “What just happened?”  And then I wait for the band to strike up a rousing version of “Bad Romance”.   

Marching band provides inspiration for the team.  It gives the cheerleaders something to dance to.  It entertains the spectators, especially when the band performs their rendition of “Jaws”, complete with a bloodcurdling scream at the end.  But best of all, it gives us the halftime show.

This year, our marching band is performing a medley of Beatles tunes.  It would be tricky enough to perform “Eleanor Rigby” marching up and down the field, but watching the performers sidestep and cross each other without collision is truly a wonder to behold. I asked my son, who plays bass drum, why he “crabs”, or walks sideways.  “It’s because we can’t see over the drum and if we walked forward we’d crash into each other”.  His comment reminded of the scene from “Animal House” when “The Stork” leads the entire marching band down into the alley.   I never thought much about all the time and work that goes into the choreography of marching band until I watched my son beat a 20-pound base drum while “crabbing” from the 50 yard line down to the 40. 

Of course, none of this would have been possible without summer band camp, which could also be considered “boot camp” for musicians.  For five days, the members of the band marched up and down the field at Camp Wind-in-the-Pines during the dog days of August.  In addition to giving kids the skills needed to perform, it also gave the incoming freshman a chance to get to know the upperclassmen.  One seasoned band mom said to me, “If your freshman discovers his friends aren’t in the same lunch, remind him he can always sit with the band.” One my son’s first day, he did just that. Marching band is what made the transition to high school a smooth one for my son.

So if you happen to see me at a football game, clapping and cheering and having a fantastic time, don’t think it’s because I’ve finally learned the ins and outs of one of America’s favorite sports.  I’m not there for the fumbles and the interceptions and the touchdowns.

I’m with the band.

A Case of Jet Lag with Time Travel Movies

By now, most of you know that I am a movie fanatic.  This weekend I took my son to see the movie “Looper”.  The film stars Joseph Gordon Levitt as an assassin who is tasked with eliminating an assortment of targets sent to him from the future.  He is taken aback when one of his targets turns out to be an older version of himself, played by Bruce Willis.

Ah, time travel.  Thou art a fickle plot device designed to mess with the heads of audiences time and time again.  Or is it just me?

I started thinking about all the movies I have seen throughout my life that featured time travel as a plot device, and was surprised at the length of the list.  One of the first I remember was “Somewhere in Time”, in which Christopher Reeve travels back in time to romance Jane Seymour.  In the beginning of the film, she approaches him as an old lady and urges him to “come back to me”.  He does this by dressing up in antique clothing, removing all traces of modern day artifacts from his person, lays down on a bed in a hotel and wills himself to travel back in time.  Wow, how lucky can you get?  No time travel machine like H.G. Wells, no special powers like the main character in “The Time Traveler’s Wife”.  He just thinks his way back.  Here’s where it starts to mess with my head.  If old Jane Seymour had not implored him to “come back to me” at the beginning of the film, how would he have known to travel back to see her when she was young and hot?  And if he hadn’t traveled back to see her when she was young and hot, he wouldn’t have run into her when she was old and craggy.  This type of thinking literally makes my brain hurt.

In James Cameron’s “The Terminator”, the character of Kyle Reese travels back in time to protect Sarah Connor from being killed by Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator.  You see, her unborn son, John Connor, sends his best buddy back in time to protect her.  In the process, Kyle impregnates Sarah.  With John Connor.  Ouch!  That’s my brain trying to figure out the logistics of that.  If John hadn’t sent Kyle back in time, he would have never existed.  At one point towards the end of the film, Sarah muses on this paradox saying, “A person could go crazy thinking about all this.”  Yes Sarah, and that crazy person is ME!

These films remind me of my failed attempt to read Stephen Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time”.  In the book, Hawking takes complex topics such as the origins of the universe, black holes, gravity and the nature of time and explains them in basic terms that those of us not blessed with brilliance can understand.  Unfortunately, Mr. Hawking didn’t dumb it down enough for me.  I found myself re-reading the same paragraphs over and over again, unable to grasp even the simplified explanations.  With a Homer Simpson “Doh”, I finally gave up.  So please, don’t let me think about an ever-expanding universe unless you want to see smoke leaking from the top of my head.

“Back to the Future” was a film that helped me understand time travel a little more easily.  As Michael J. Fox inadvertently makes changes to the past, the present-day photo he carries of his brother and sister changes as well.  First his brother’s head disappears, then the rest of his body, then his sister.  It is only when he sets the course of history back on the right track that the photo is restored to its proper image.  This was much easier to grasp than the book and film for “The Time Traveler’s Wife”, about a man with a genetic deficiency that causes him to bounce all over time.  He’s like Willy Wonka’s elevator in that he goes forward and backward and sideways and all other ways.  The only way I could read the book was to just let all the time travel references wash over me and not get too bogged down in the “where’s” and “when’s”.  My two friends who came to see the movie were not as lucky.  I swear I saw smoke coming out of their heads as we left the theater.

This is akin to the feeling I had when I watched “Inception” for the first time.  It took about five or six subsequent viewings for me to finally grasp the finer points of the “dream within a dream within a dream” scenario.  At least I think I understood it. I’m not completely sure.

Getting back to “Looper”.   I left the theater with a slight throbbing between my ears.  This only increased during the ride home as my son tried to explain the logistics of the film, complete with parallel universes and multiple realities.  It all made sense to him, but I had to ask him to stop talking before my head exploded. 

Perhaps time travel will be invented in my lifetime. If that happens, maybe I will finally grasp the intricacies of it.  By then the novelty will have worn off and Hollywood will stop using it as a plot point.  And when that day arrives, I’ll travel back in time to today and rewrite this column.

In the meantime, please excuse me while I pop a few Advil.