Just call me “mommy”

not my kid with my bass drum mallet :: ucmb alumni day, the rent :: september 26, 2009

I use the term, “my boys” a lot - the UConn hockey team were my boys, my coworkers are my boys, the Storm hockey players were my boys, my friends in Instrument are my boys. It’s not really as possessive as it sounds, though. It’s not like I’ve lifted my leg and marked my territory to the exclusion of all others. I share. Honest.

Certain events in Cincinnati proved that, on some level, the boys in Instrument really are “my boys”. In this case, it is a wee bit more possessive.

Sometime during the day and a half the four of us hung out, I did become the band’s “mom”.

Yeah. Those of you who know me well are shaking your heads. I can see you. Quit it.

I think it started when I booked my hotel room. I just knew that they hadn’t considered where they were going to spend Thursday night. D had, but I knew the others weren’t going to be cool with it. I decided to book a room with double beds. Within walking distance of most of the bars involved in MPMF. Just in case. (You see where this is going, right?)

I had Aaron, Ben and Dave crash in my room. (Jonah’s left the band to spend more time with his family. He will be missed.) Of course, having the three boys stay with me couldn’t be easy. Nope. After the show, they came back to the hotel with me to drop their stuff off and then went out to an after party. I was exhausted but I was afraid to fall asleep because I knew when they got back they would wake me up. I don’t sleep as it is, so I really didn’t want to get woken up when/if I managed to fall asleep.

When they got back, they were all drunk and hyper. At 4 in the morning. I was not amused and at one point I yelled at them, “STFU! Mommy wants to go to bed.” (Yes, Peanut Gallery, I can’t believe I said it either. Stop laughing!) But I did and they really enjoyed making fun of me for it.

I was told to “not be cute” and say things in a “not so secret way”, but I can’t resist telling you that I woke up with a boy in my bed. Wasn’t a band member, though. I REALLY would have preferred it. But nope. I woke up with my traveling companion, Mr. Headache. The next one to wake up was Aaron, followed by Ben. For the longest time, I thought Dave was dead. I really wanted to go poke him and see if he’d react, but I refrained. Once he joined the land of the living, I had to corral the boys and feed them lunch. I do not recommend trying to corral three hungover boys. Especially when you have the killer sinus headache from hell and aren’t supposed to take Sudafed (the only thing that works) because of your broken ticker. Honestly, there are a lot of things I don’t recommend doing with three hungover boys… there was a field trip and a discussion about something so disturbing that it will not be repeated on teh interweb. Don’t get me wrong, both activities were enjoyable and funny as hell, but in retrospect, I don’t think I’d be present for either event if I knew then what I know now. Boys are gross sometimes. Wicked gross.

When it was time to go our separate ways, we stood outside the band’s van and waited for my car to get fetched by the valet. (I normally wouldn’t have, but it was a lot safer looking than my other options!) We talked for a bit and I asked them what they were doing for the rest of the weekend. (They had a show Friday, were trying to get one on the way back on Saturday night, and had one in CT on Sunday.) With that kind of schedule and the 16 hours drive, PLUS being stuck in the van together, I was a little concerned and I made my concerns known.

Not my best move. If you’ll remember their amusement with my “mommy wants to sleep” comment, you might be able to figure out what happened next. I was so floored by the comment that I don’t remember who said it. I think it was Ben… Whoever it was, they looked me square in the eye and told me I’d make a great mother. I’m pretty sure it was Aaron who said I’d make a good JEWISH mother because I know it was Dave who started acting like one. He was spot on in his impersonation, which of course, cracked me up and softened the blow. Of all the words in the english language, mommy is right up there after Tammy and groupie when it comes to things I hate being called.

Sunday, I went to the show in CT and did my normal stuff… helped the boys bring their crap to the stage and back again. Took my pictures. Got yelled at for helping someone else and got guilt tripped for not helping them with the same stuff. It was a little rough because I want to help, but I don’t want to do too much for them. My biggest fear is to smother them and piss them off. I know I go above and beyond when it comes to going to shows, but I like live music and I like supporting them. So anyways, awkward!

Dave and I were talking a bit about what I do for the band, since I’m not the manager (even though someone asked me point blank if I was. No, but it is my goal… even if I’m still not ready to admit it yet. Oh wait, I just did. Crap.) He ended up calling me the “marketing mom.” Meh. Honestly, I’m still not sure how I feel about being called that, even though it did lead me down the path of clarity, closure, cookies with a side trip to the land of boys of st00pid.

So, to get back to my point, the boys in Instrument are “my boys” now, for better or for worse. Like I said, it is a wee bit possessive, but more in a motherly way. I do take care of “my boys.” (In the mothering sense of the word and not in the take care of them sexually sense. I am The Married, after all. They are definitely the dessert cart in the diet of my life: wicked fun to drool over, but so off limits it’s not even funny.)

In other news, BU raises the National Championship banner tonight and I’m beyond impatient. I can’t believe how slow time is going this afternoon! I am thankful that they are doing the banner raising at 6:30 instead of during the game because I have to leave early and head to Hartford. It’s Soup’s birthday and they’re playing at Up or On the Rocks. I probably would have blown off the hockey game since it’s just an exhibition, but because of the banner raising, I’m going to stay for the first period and then bolt. I’m meeting Michele in Hartford and I’m really looking forward to the show. (See? It’s not just Instrument that I’m hell bent on seeing at every opportunity. I support my friends and after getting to know All Crazy, I definitely count them among my friends.)

OK. It’s time for lunch and then it will be time to leave for Boston. It’s the braids’ last night out. They’re getting chopped off next Saturday, so they better have fun tonight!

 

Boobies FTW!

$13,205 raised this year :: something like $63,000 since this started in 2002 as ‘boobies to florida’ :: THANK YOU!

I had an interesting day yesterday…

I got a vicious email from a reader of this site and several odd DMs via Twitter from the same person. So much hate towards me.

Now, I’m used to not being liked. I’m not really here on this planet to be friends with most of the people I cross paths with. I’m a loner and an introvert… for me to say, “I don’t need people” is pretty much the truth. I don’t need you and I really don’t need your drama.

But to be attacked for spending seven days pimping a fundraiser that I believe in… for spending seven days overusing the word “boobie”... for putting my rack up on flickr and the boobiethon site… for fighting a disease that is attacking my loved ones… well, that’s just really unnecessary.

Did you think your venomous words were going to stop me? Seriously?

I said a lot of what I needed to say to you yesterday in my email, but I also wanted to blog it. To make it perfectly clear to you that not only was your opinion unwelcome, it was also pretty asinine and to let you know, again, that you crossed the line when you called me a pervert.

I didn’t realize that sharing pictures of my boobs and constantly hyping a fundraiser - where ALL funds raised go DIRECTLY to the recipient - made me a pervert. If that’s so, then I must be a huge pervert. 

That’s fine.

But tell me this - what did you do over the past seven days to help save boobies? I know you’re female… do you ever think about a day when you might be diagnosed with breast cancer? Or one of your loved ones? You should. If that day ever comes, and you find yourself thanking Komen for all they’ve done, think about my perverted, softcore pr0n peddling friends and I and how we worked our tails off this year to raise over $11,000 just for Komen. That’s ELEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS that went DIRECTLY to Komen. Not one of us made a dime on this fundraiser. Not even our fearless leader who worked countless hours backstage, making sure everything worked the way it was supposed to… Not. Even. A. Single. Penny.

We engage in this “immature” fundraiser every year because we want to. Because it’s important to us. Because we all love boobies and want to save them.

Don’t you love your boobies?

Why not?

 

It’s time to save the boobies!

it’s blogger boobiethon time :: donate cash and/or pix :: save boobies :: oct 1 -7 2009

If boobies bother you - yeah, you, over there, in the back - please go elsewhere for the next week.

A few years ago, I got in on the ground level of what would become the blog world’s most insane breast cancer fundraiser. Of course, we had no idea what was happening at the time. We just wanted help pay for a trip to Florida for a girl that could have really used one. We bloggers got a wee bit too excited, and donated way more than was needed for the plane ticket. Robyn donated the overage to Komen and the fundraiser was born. (There’s a more in-depth history, written by Robyn herself, available here.)

 

SAVE THE BOOBIES! | SAVE THE BOOBIES! | SAVE THE BOOBIES!

Anyhoo, with the exception of one year, I’ve been involved ever since. I’ve given my cash, my time, and yes, my rack.

Seriously, it’s quite astonishing to realize that my boobies have been made available on teh interweb since 2002. It’s not something I would normally do and I’m never quite 100% with posting pictures of The Girls online, but…  I look at it like this: if some guy wants to pony up $50 to see a picture of my nekkid boobies, then more power to him. Give the cash to a good cause and enjoy the view. It’s just skin. At the end of the day, I still have my boobies. Thousands of men and women aren’t so lucky.

 

SAVE THE BOOBIES! | SAVE THE BOOBIES! | SAVE THE BOOBIES!

I didn’t used to have a “real” reason to get involved… I just did it because I’m a girl. I have boobies. I want to keep my boobies.

Then, a couple of years ago, I got my reason. A few months ago, I got my other reason…

As if I didn’t have enough different versions of cancer in my extended family, now I’ve got breast cancer attacking my loved ones.

This. Stops. Now.

 

SAVE THE BOOBIES! | SAVE THE BOOBIES! | SAVE THE BOOBIES!

Please check out the Boobiethon’s website and learn how you can help out.

The boobies (and those of us attached to them) thank you very much.

 

SAVE THE BOOBIES! | SAVE THE BOOBIES! | SAVE THE BOOBIES!

 

——>  If you’re not comfortable with the Boobiethon’s modus operandi, please don’t hold that against any of us who participate.  We all have our opinions about the best way to fundraise and this is something I look forward to doing every year. I do not consider it softcore pr0n or exploitation or anything else that has been flung at us… your opinion has been noted and duly ignored.

Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool…

adam duritz :: mohegan sun, uncasville, ct :: august 29 2009

I’m writing this from the beautiful Millennium Hotel in The. Worst. State. Ever.

I don’t know what is wrong with Ohio and I, but this state apparently hates me. Hardcore.

Which is fine because the feeling is quite mutual…

 

I almost didn’t make it here yesterday.  The incoming flight was delayed and every one (including the flight staff) was getting kind of antsy waiting for it. I don’t know if that had anything to do with us getting rushed onto the plane, but we left Charlotte ASAP only to have to turn back not too long after we left due to some sort of mechanical issue.

In the Charlotte boarding area, I saw a woman knitting so I sat across from her and pulled out the Retro Rib Sox. (Magic loop, toe-up, two at a time, if you’re curious. In a GORGEOUS red.) We knit for a bit and then others started noticing us. This woman came over to talk to us about knitting - she tried, it looked terrible and she gave up, so she basically came over to get some “how to” advice from the two of us. Sadly, tatmom was the more friendly of the two of us because I couldn’t seem to count past five without getting all confused and I spent a lot of time looking at my knitting going, “WTF” and counting stitch after stitch. Despite my issues, I did manage to be friendly and social. (Go me!)

You know how you fall into conversations with people and you just *know* their conversational boundaries? Yup. Between the three of us, we must have chased off six different people with our toxic ideas and free thought. Tatmom is a Christian (not THAT type LOL) who was brought up in a wicked conservative, whack-job offshoot of Christianity. She has since decided she likes being able to think freely and have certain freedoms, so she is no longer practicing that particular flavor… The stories she was telling were along the lines of the stuff you’d hear on like 20/20… you never meet people who have lived something that f’ed up.  Fascinating.

It was interesting and challenging to talk to her. I like how she can’t come to terms with the biology of being gay (it’s not natural to be born “that way”) yet is able to fully believe that people should be allowed to be who they want to be, and that includes being gay. If you’re in love, it doesn’t matter what gender you’re in love with - it should just be enough that you’re in love. It’s awesome that she still holds to her belief but is open minded enough to accept alternate realities. So, anyhoo, we’re stitting there talking and the other woman decides to come out and tell us she’s been with her partner for 18 years and that she used to downplay the fact that her lover was another woman. They had gotten married when they lived in MA but now they live in the south where it’s a little different. It was awesome to see how happy she was that she could say that she was gay to someone. I had said something about being a bleeding heart, tree hugging liberal and she was thrilled. Her next comment was something like she “knew the three of us were of the same mind”.

After she made that comment, it dawned on me that you couldn’t have picked three more different looking people and come anywhere near close to assuming that they shared very similar beliefs. It made me wonder how it was possible that we just knew that our overt liberalism, subtle homosexuality and open minded, yet deeply religious world views would mesh. It’s something I’m still chewing on.  How is it possible that you can just *know* where a random’s strangers boundaries are but you struggle with determining your friends’ boundaries? I’m talking about people you’ve known for years, even your spouse, yet you still don’t know what’s safe to talk about. You always know when you cross the line, but you never knew where the line was until that point.

It was weird. Very weird.

Just goes to show - you never know what’s going to happen when women start to whip out pointy sticks and play with string.

One of THOSE entries…

one of these things is not like the others
dido, baba, me, dad, mom, grandma :: manchester, ct :: april 1976

(Ya’ll can go grab the kleenex and curse Mr. CC Chapman for the inspiration for this entry... I’ll wait.)

Today, Sept. 19, is my father’s birthday.

Normally, I take it hard… aren’t birthdays a celebration of life? He’s dead. Has been for a while now.  It makes it hard for me to be all “*happy dance* it’s my dad’s birthday!” because, well, he’s not here to celebrate it with me. And it sucks.

For whatever reason, this year started out relatively painless. To be honest, it started out on a kick-ass note. J and I headed into Boston for some retail therapy of the best sort. We hit the BU Bookstore for our traditional “stock up on new BU gear to wear to the hockey games” purchases. I had to deviate from tradition *just* a wee bit and get myself one of the National Championship shirts in addition to my long-sleeved t and sweatshirt. (Well, as much as I love my boys I have to bask while I still can. I really doubt they’ll repeat, but who knows what the freshmen class will bring. We’ll see on the 3rd.)

[Tangent: Can I just say that I LOVE the fact that the BU Bookstore is in a Barnes & Noble? I got to use my B&N discount card -saved $16!! On clothes!]

Then we went out to lunch at Fire+Ice. Eh. I’m wicked spoiled - in Ann Arbor, MI, there’s this awesome restaurant called BD’s Mongolian Barbeque. Basically, it’s a make-your-own stir fry place, and mere words can’t do it justice. It really needs to be experienced. Fire+Ice is good - for what it is - but God, do I miss BD’s. Crappy atmosphere aside, I did still manage to stuff myself silly.

After that, we wandered to the Pru. I had to go to Levenger to get supplies for my latest project. Oddly enough, I was out of Circa parts. I was in desperate need of rings and covers. I have no idea how that happened! *grin* I spent way too much, but amazingly, everything I bought was on sale. Levenger stock up sale FTW!

Came home all excited to watch Matty Gilroy take on the Bruins, only to find out the game was blacked out. BLACKED OUT! And not a single regional channel was showing it. NESN had tennis! TENNIS! W.T.F?!?!?!  So not happy about that. I think I’m calling Comcast and getting NHL Center Ice. *sigh* Like we don’t have enough sports channels already. *grumble*

Since I didn’t have the hockey game to keep me from being productive, I came into my (still under freaking construction) office to work on Mr. B2’s b-day gift. HOLY CRAP. I am NEVER doing anything like that again. I think, all together, I lost 4 days to it. So, yeah - if you’re expecting anything that requires high levels of creative energy from me, you’ll be disappointed for a while. I’m done. Kaput. Finis.

So… before I started on the Project From Hell, I had to check in with Twitter and Facebook. I saw CC’s video in that little sidebar whoozey on FB and remembered I wanted to watch it. It’s really a beautiful and touching tribute to his family. The bits with his Dad are… they made me cry. I bawled through the entire 5 minutes and then watched it again. And one more time.

I don’t know - maybe I’m more emotional about it because of what today is. Maybe I’m just a big softie at heart. (SHHHHHHH! Don’t tell anyone!)

At any rate, it got me thinking. I spent a lot of time with my mother’s parents (the ukrainians) and I have so many great memories of my Dido. He wasn’t perfect but he used to take me to Carvel and the park all the time in this big old Buick that smelled like old man. Really, for a little kid, what more do you need than that? So many of my memories of him focus on meals in the dining room, watching him, my uncle and my father (and sometimes the in-laws) doing shots of Metaxa. (I have NO idea how I remember THAT of all things!) He got to meet his first three grandchildren at least. We were his pride and joy and we knew it.

I never got to know my father’s father. He died when my father was in Vietnam. My father never talked about him.

Since I didn’t know my grandfather, I started thinking about my father and what he would have been like as a grandfather.

To be quite blunt, he would have fucking LOVED it.

He knew that I was never going to have kids. He might have known it before I did because he never said a word about grandkids. Not ever. He’d talk about when I got married, and then, after the divorce, he’d tell me to never get married, but he never once brought up the idea of having grandkids. Instead, he put a lot of energy into joking about the business he was going to start -  “Rent A Kid”. Basically, it was Big Brothers / Big Sisters without the commitment. You want to take Bobby to his first Sox game, but there’s no Bobby? Rent him! You want to take your daughter prom dress shopping, but your real daughter would rather go to the prom in a tux and Chuck Taylors? Rent a girly girl for the afternoon!

You have to admit, it was a pretty brilliant idea. It would never fly - especially not in today’s world - but there are days when even I think taking a kid to their first Beanpot would be fun, but there’s no way in hell I’m making that sort of commitment for two Monday nights in February!!! I’m positive, though, that my father would have covered all his bases. I’m pretty sure there would have been rentable reasons as to why birth control is a Good Idea.

I don’t know what impact his father had on him or if it had any thing to do with the way I was raised, but he was a good father. He was strict as heck some times. Other times, he was wrapped so tight around my fingers he’d cut off the circulation. We spent a lot of time together and he was my best friend. He used to joke that, at first, he was disappointed that he didn’t have a son and then he realized that he had a daughter who didn’t know she was a girl. When he was feeling playful, he’d introduce me to people as his son Tom. I grew up with some minor gender issues, but I’ve always been the uber-tomboy and my dad loved it. He did not like it when my body reminded him I was not his son.  Our first trip bra shopping? I wish I had taken a picture of his face! He was totally not prepared for that or the other joys specific to being the father of a teenaged girl. (My mom was pretty much a non-person by the time I was 13; Dad was left to do this all on his own because she and I couldn’t be in the same room.)

I could go on and on… he had a lot of faults, and I hated him sometimes. REALLY hated him. But at the same time, he was the type of father more guys should aspire to be. He was amazing - he taught me so much, and instilled so many good things in me, that I know I wouldn’t be the person I am if he hadn’t been who he was. (And, yes, one day I *will* get that MBA and really make him proud, but I’m still recovering from the 2nd undergrad…) Seriously, I look back on all of it, even the way he died, and I’m thankful I knew him. I’d give anything for more time with him, but I’m beyond thankful I had 26 good, quality years with him.

I’m not sure how to end this, so I’ll share this joke. Someone sent it to me a long time ago, and it perfectly captures him. (That tweeting dad in the Verizon commercial (“I’m sitting on the porch”) is also very much like him…) Where was I? Oh yeah, the joke.

An old man was sitting on a bench at the mall. A young man walked up to the bench and sat down. He had spiked hair in all different colors: green, red, orange, blue, and yellow.

The old man just stared.

Every time the young man looked, the old man was staring.

The young man finally said sarcastically, “What’s the matter old timer, never done anything wild in your life?”

Without batting an eye, the old man replied, “Got drunk once and had sex with a peacock. I was just wondering if you were my son.”