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Beware the six pack

I must say, I was totally caught off guard by this.

Usually I get a nasty cold in October, I sound like a scary old man back from the grave and then I get over it. Then that’s it. Sometimes I get a sniffle or something, but you can count on me for a good cold every late fall and then I move on with my life.

It used to be that every time I went home to visit my parents and sisters and their kids, I’d catch some heinous thing. Every single time.

Those kids are like biological weapons.

But then they got older and I stopped catching stuff from then. But then the new batch came and now that there are six children of varying ages that all demand attention and affection. And God help me, I try to deliver. Unfortunately, two of them threw up on me (well spit up – but what’s the difference?) and one blew giant snot bubbles at me.

So for the first time in several years, I have caught something from the children. The six pack was no match for my immune system.

To that end, I have avoided speaking because my throat hurts. My head is throbbing and I haven’t gotten any of the 9 kinds of cold medicine in my house to take the edge off of that. On the bright side, I’m enjoying some quality TV time – yesterday I watched Robocop and Cobra.

Both are excellent films for watching while sick and possibly under the influence of powerful cold medicine. I found them both hilarious and lacking in plot, but not lacking in the shooting and blowing up of things/people.

This morning I watched the last half of Flowers in the Attic and then napped until I started watching a little mini-marathon of Skulls movies. So many bad movies, so little time.

Sorry for the most boring entry since that one I wrote about the cat.

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By: Alyssa | Tuesday, December 28, 2004 at Tuesday, December 28, 2004 | |

Meow Mix

Look - I know you were alone for like 48 hours, but cope already.You got to sleep in the bed, alone - like you love. This non-stop meowing of happieness must stop.

I'm going to bed.

By: Alyssa | Monday, December 27, 2004 at Monday, December 27, 2004 | |

The Great Escape

Our flight in was hellacious – but we made it, and our flight home was even better. We flew in just in time for the end of a big snow storm.

Hurrah.

Of course, it did involve spending too much time on a tiny plane with a rude German woman and a small dog (they weren’t together). Also, we sat on the tarmac for like 40 minutes before departing Indianapolis and then sat on it for another hour when we landed in Boston.

US Airways – they are on top of it. ALL. THE. TIME.

Never again is all I’m saying.

Last night we had an exciting few minutes as we determined if Slim’s sister was caught in the horrific earthquake in Asia. She’s been on vacation in Sri Lanka – luckily we tracked down her travel agency and learned she was okay. But for about an hour I was in charge of getting to know Sri Lanka’s geography closely. I know where Kandy is, if you need to know.

And now we’re back, Deeps is outside shoveling snow and I’m bundled up in warm clothes as soup simmers on the stove because I went home for Christmas and all I got is this stinking cold. The six-pack totally took me out.

Sick. I can’t hear. My head hurts. I’m so snotty – I’m grossing myself out. What happened? Also – plane travel makes a girl look very pretty. And plane travel that requires you to get up at 4 AM makes you extra pretty.

And did I mention US Airways because they have some surly women working for them in Indianapolis where people are usually much more polite. Of course, they might have just gotten off from the night job as either bouncers or prison guards.

More later – despite this gross head thing, we had a great time. Aside from the screaming. And the vomit. And the snot. And also the shortage of whiskey. Now, must take NyQuil and sleep. Ugh.

Merry Christmas! Wake me up in time for New Year’s!

By: Alyssa | at Monday, December 27, 2004 | |

Do they know it is Christmas time?

The screamers are in the bathtub. Normally, they may be known as Peanut and Macaroni - but I have a headache and am almost out of whiskey. Hence, screamers.

I have no idea where dinner is, but my biggest concern is the status of the Jack Daniels. Apparently someone thought there was "enough" - that's just faulty thinking and bad planning. I'm flying in across America. I can't do everything.

Yesterday we arrived at the airport and discovered approximately 2000 people waiting in line at the US Airways terminal. I guess there was some type of technical problem as all the monitors were displaying Os and 1s and none of the self-serve kiosks were working. We arrived pretty early - about two hours before our flight and there was no way we were going to make it.

Luckily, Deeps was with me and while I held a place in the giant 2000+ people line he scouted around for another line or at least some information. We still never figured out what happened, but we did eventually find a self-serve e-Ticket line and made it through in about an hour. We made the flight, which turned out to be delayed and ended up only being about 40 minutes late for Christmas. A new personal record.

Right now, I'm listening to the screamers let loose as their mother picks bits of macaroni out of their hair. Apparently wearing your dinner on your head is the new eating.

Also - did I mention the headache?

Yikes.

The good news is, I've been assured that there will be a Christmas poker game and everyone is playing. Huzzah!

Merry Christmas.

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By: Alyssa | Saturday, December 25, 2004 at Saturday, December 25, 2004 | |

Merry, Merry

We're preparing to fly off to visit the family in Hoosier land. There's a good chance I'll be updating from there since my parents have the high speed Interweb (hurrah!) and a schmancy new computer.

Plus, I expect I'll get bored.

And start shopping online. With my Dad's credit card. Oh it's just like being 15 again.

By: Alyssa | Friday, December 24, 2004 at Friday, December 24, 2004 | |

Holiday Memory – 2004: The quest for the New Year’s tato

So for New Year’s Eve 2003, we visited our friends up in New Hampshire. They were cool and invited us up to hang out with their kid (and another on the way!) and play poker and relax and drink champagne (well three of us – none for you preggo lady!).

We had a great night in which I seem to recall I was spectacularly triumphant at poker. We stayed up late and slept late and awoke on New Year’s Day with a fresh outlook and bright smiles.

It reminded me of college – K and I were roommates when she started dating her now husband – when we used to lounge around late in the morning, drinking coffee and talking about whatever. The "whatever" that morning was stuff that we loved but that was bad for us – namely Taco Bell.

You’ll notice again that Taco Bell figures into our holiday misadventures. I assume this was related to my telling the story of Santa and the magic taco from when I was like five. The pregnant lady was not charmed by the Santa or the five parts– all she heard was TACO. And thus we started a series of unfortunate events.

Da (her toddler son) and Ernesto (her husband) came home from a walk or something. They’d missed out on the genesis of the great Taco Hunt of 2004. When they came home with rosy cheeks and cold noses, they met a woman with a mission and her hapless friends that may have inadvertently contributed to her mania.

We started telling Da about the wonders of the Taco Bell tacos – which he promptly dubbed “tato”. So cute!

We got him really excited – not as excited as his mother – but excited. K mentioned that she knew of a Taco Bell not far away and that we could drive over there and get some tacos. The game was afoot! Deeps, Da, K and I piled into the car as Ernesto watched (perhaps with some disdain – he’s a much healthier eater) as we pulled out of the driveway. Deeps and Da sat next to each other (one with a seatbelt, the other in a car seat) in the back as we sped along the wide New Hampshire roads towards our destination.

It should be noted that by the time we got in the car, we were ravenous – and Da sat in the back quietly saying “tato”. Deeps was along for the ride – because you have to be if you’re married to me, it was in the vows.

We drove and drove. And drove and drove. K could not find the Taco Bell.

“I know it was here – I drive by it all the time,” she muttered in frustration. Da had fallen asleep in the back and Deeps was staring out the window, contemplative. I was starting to get a headache from lack of food.

“Maybe we should just go somewhere else,” I suggested as we drove by numerous open, fast food joints. “I’m sure Da is getting hungry.”

“I’m getting him a taco,” she said with determination.

Da stirred from his nap. Quietly from the back of the car, he said “tato”.

There were no tacos or tatos in Mudville that day. Turns out the Taco Bell was replaced by a Subway a few months earlier. The nearest Taco Bell was about 18 miles away. We ended up getting drive thru from Wendy’s. I don’t think Da minded, although I felt very bad about getting him all excited about tatos.

Several months later we went for another visit, this time we were starving en route. I begged Deeps to pull over so I could get a bite to eat. It just so happened that we pulled over at the exit where the nearest Taco Bell was. I couldn’t believe the luck – and I seized my opportunity.

“We are taking everyone tacos!” I cried. Deeps looked alarmed but understood – it was something I had to do.

I whipped out my cell phone and called K.

“I’m at the Taco Bell near your house – well 18 miles away – and I’m bringing you tacos. What do you want?” I asked. She was much further along in her pregnancy, and the taco lust was great. She rattled off her order and suggested a kid’s meal for Da.

“Just so you know,” she said, “this is the greatest thing ever.”

“I know,” I replied. “I know.”

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By: Alyssa | Thursday, December 23, 2004 at Thursday, December 23, 2004 | |

Chilly Willy

We’re leaving for Christmas travel tomorrow morning. On Tuesday it was about 2 degrees when we left for work. This morning when I strolled out the door it was almost 50. I’ve worn three different coats this week and ordered a fourth (for when it goes back to being –11).

Deeps gets all flustered by extremely cold weather, despite living in Chicago for six winters. Boston winters are snowy but not bitterly cold – at least, that’s what the locals tell me. They last a long time, but that can be said for Chicago.

In just two winters we’ve gone soft. It happens – now we’re entering winter three and last night we put up that plastic window covering for extra insulation. Combined with the arctic weight comforter and additional weather stripping for the back doors – things have gotten serious.

But Deeps is much more concerned about his first trip back to Indiana for Christmas in like five years – he’s worried about the cold.

“You know, I looked at the Weather Channel today and it’s going to be like 9 in Indiana on Friday. That’s the high temperature,” he announced when he came home earlier this week.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” I replied.

“That’s pretty cold, is it going to be warm enough?” he asked. He’s heard stories about our frosty childhood in Indiana where my sisters and I had many chilly nights in the upstairs bedrooms. We slept with lots of comforters and sometimes an electric blanket. I guess all those stories have started to freak him out.

“You’ll be fine – besides, there are babies in the house now and that means that the babies can’t be cold. You should be nice and toasty,” I suggested.

Last night Cuddles called to fill me in on the latest family gossip – there isn’t any – and ask about when we’re getting into town, etc.

I mentioned Deeps’ concerns about the cold.

“The parents have to keep the house warm for the kids,” she replied. “Did you tell him that? If it’s cold, I will raise hell.”

We can always count on Cuddles.

By: Alyssa | at Thursday, December 23, 2004 | |

Holiday Memory – 2004: Merry @#%&$ Christmas

I was all ready to write about something cute from like 20 years ago. But alas, I got an unwelcome holiday gift last night that has since tipped the scales for me from being mildly surly to outright cranky.

It was very cold yesterday. And it is just a few days before Christmas. Lots of people were carrying bags and packages and everyone just wanted to get home. We’re bundled, we’re tired, and we’re yearning for this day to be over.

At the T stop at Park Street, we’re huddled for warmth as we listen to the dulcet sounds of some kind of gourd thing that a guy is playing. He’s cool.

The Red Line (my nemesis – when I’m not fighting the Green Line) train finally pulled in and the platform was crowded. I knew it would be a tight squeeze, but I sucked it and moved onto the train.

In front of me a tall, well-dressed businessman stopped and grabbed the pole. People pushed in behind me, propelling us along. He reared his arm back, not wanting to give up his “good spot” and “pole position” – he smacked me square in the nose with his elbow.

I yelped – a woman near me who saw what happened gasped “Oh my God!”

The dude did not acknowledge what happened. He did not turn, he did not apologize, and he didn’t do anything.

I was stunned moved back a bit – my eyes already welling up (ever been clocked in the kisser – it hurts like a mother). Which is what happened next.

“Mother Pus Bucket,” I exclaimed as I moved backwards (but dirtier).

The woman who gasped asked me if I was okay. I replied that I would prefer not to have my nose broken on the ride home and that I’d catch the next train. I stumbled back onto the platform as the doors closed behind me.

I fished around in my pocket for a tissue – praying that my nose was not broken or bleeding. It bled a little, but stopped with some applied pressure.

The gourd guy kept playing as I tilted my head back. I found a mirror in my bag and inspected the damage. The schnoz would swell – but I’d probably avoid a bruise. I muttered under my breath about the jerk and cursed him with ED.

Half an hour later I met Deeps in Harvard Square and hopped into the waiting car. He asked how my day was.

“I’m having a Merry @#%$&** Christmas,” was my answer.

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By: Alyssa | Wednesday, December 22, 2004 at Wednesday, December 22, 2004 | |

Holiday Memory - 1997, part 2: Some assembly required

My niece, Blondie, was about 3 in 1997 and Christmas was all about catering to each of her dreams. Focus was like 6 months old and his mother dressed him as a little striped elf. Sure he was fun at parties, but he wasn’t clear on what the heck was going on. Plus we’d never met – but that didn’t seem to bother him much.

Despite those hurdles – we had amassed an ungodly amount of gifts. On Christmas Eve, we all spent the night at my parents’ house. After the kids were asleep, we hit the sauce because that’s what the holidays are about for the grown ups. I drank and drank – it was delicious. We played cards and chatted and gossiped. Sometime after midnight, my stepmother Slim piped up.

“So what did you get Blondie from Santa?” she queried my sister Peepers.

My sister was ready, she had found a toy store that was going out of business a few months earlier and got some cool things like a baby carriage, a toy vacuum cleaner that worked and a giant tent that was filled with those plastic balls – the at home version of the ball pit you might find at Chuckee Cheese.

Since we figured it was safe since the kids were asleep, she hauled the large boxes downstairs and placed them by the tree. She placed large bows on the awkward boxes and looked quite pleased with herself.

Slim took one look at the boxes and made a gentle comment, “You know – Santa doesn’t leave stuff in the box. He puts it together and leaves it under the tree for you because he’s magic.”

Peepers looked panicked for a moment – but I volunteered to help out. I’m always mostly likely to volunteer to help when I’m half in the bag.

We opened boxes and started assembly. I was on tent/ball duty while my sister attacked the baby carriage/baby carrier/baby doll whatever thingy. I just remember it had 3 distinct functions.

Slim opened the vacuum cleaner and found a battery to put in it. Sure – she takes the easy one.

About 30 minutes later, I’m wailing on the plastic doll thing with a rubber mallet (having abandoned the hammer) and Peepers is pulling out pieces of black PVC piping to assemble into the shape of a tent-like thing. Except some of the pieces are missing and she is drunk and starting to cry.

Slim has grabbed the video camera and is filming what is later know as the Christmas assembly debacle of 1997.

Offering a bit of holiday sympathy, I climbed into the giant ball tent box looking for more pieces. Sure, I should have dumped it on the floor to find the missing pieces – but at the time, this made a lot of sense.

A couple of hours and glasses of wine later, the toys are assembled (however shakily) and Slim’s sides are sore from all the laughing. Peepers finally stopped crying and I thought it might be time for bed. But I was cognizant of the fact that all video evidence would have to be destroyed at a later date.

The next morning we were awakened early to the sounds of kids yelling that Santa came. Well – that might have been Cuddles. The details on that get a little fuzzy.

The best part of the whole thing was that the kids were kinda freaked out by the massive showing of gifts and refused to go near the toy ball tent/pit. I had to show them it was safe by climbing inside (with a headache, naturally) and sitting in the pit. I think I took a nap in there later, as small children climbed over my unconscious body.


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By: Alyssa | Tuesday, December 21, 2004 at Tuesday, December 21, 2004 | |

Holiday Memories – 1997: The year I met Santa

During the dark days of the early ‘90s Christmas was pretty low-key for us as a family. But then my niece, Blondie, was born and everything started to change.

Christmas trees went up. Elaborate snow villages arrived -with little lights and figures – for display on shelves. Stockings went up by the chimney with care. And a working train was placed under the tree.

Prior to the arrival of grandkids, Christmas consisted of a tree (sometimes) and the occasional nativity scene (with a Scotch taped camel because I was a mischievous kid).

I cannot emphasize this enough – there was never a train.

In 1997 Deeps and I fresh from college graduation moved from glorious Western Massachusetts to the metropolis that is Chicago. We lived in a tiny, cramped apartment that was scary and weird – but that’s for another entry. What’s important to this story was that we were closer to my parents’ home in Indiana. And I was working evenings and nights at the Chicago Tribune. I usually got off work between 1 and 3 AM.

On Christmas Eve eve (Dec. 23 – well, technically Dec. 24 at this point) I got off work around 1:30. I had Christmas Eve and Christmas day off. I got lucky – but had to work New Year’s Eve in exchange. I had planned on driving down to Indy from Chicago in the morning, but I was wired at 1:30 and figured why not drive down now? I headed home, threw a few things in a bag – loaded the car with presents and headed south.

The drive from Chicago to Indianapolis is basically I 65 for like 150 of the 180-mile drive. It’s boring, flat, and straight. During this drive it was snowing hard and dark as pitch – thus making the drive my most interesting ever.

I got to my parents house and let myself in around 5 AM. I quietly snuck into the house and walked to the living room, expecting to sack out on the couch, as I wasn’t sure who might be in any of the other bedrooms. Or in what condition one might find them – plus no one was expecting me.

As I moved from the kitchen to the living room I saw a man standing at the patio, peering into the house. I almost screamed and grabbed for anything that might be a weapon (those 5 months in Chicago had made me tough!). I moved towards the figure, adrenaline blazing through my body. As I got closer I realized there was a giant Santa on the back porch, staring into the house.

I shook my head know that my parents had officially become Kristmas Krazies – I learned later that the Santa was my Dad’s idea, he found a great deal somewhere.

I finally sacked out on the couch and awoke a few hours later to find Slim peering over me. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
I yawned. “I came with Santa,” I motioned out the door. She laughed and said it was all my father’s idea.

That much I’d already guessed.

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By: Alyssa | at Tuesday, December 21, 2004 | |

More Holiday Cheer

I pilfered this link from PlanetDan.com (beware Cuddles, sometimes he uses naughty words).

Behold the horror you may be inflicting upon your children. Fear the Santa.

Updated: Dan is right - he sometimes posts naughty pictures, but always offers fair warning. In fact, I think Dan might be the premiere source of unfortunates who embarass themselves for all the Interweb to see. Go Dan!

By: Alyssa | Monday, December 20, 2004 at Monday, December 20, 2004 | |

Holiday Memories – 1990

My sisters are not all blood relations. It’s not a distinction that I make given that a) they have been part of my life longer than not a part and b) now that everyone (not me) has kids, who cares? Once I tried to explain to them that Grandma Slim and Grandpa Pops were married to other people before and that is why Focus does not come with us (Peepers, Blondie, and me) to Grandma Glass’s for Christmas.

The kids looked at me like I’m nuts. So I’m not going to bother trying to explain stuff anymore.

Anyway – Christmas 1990 was still early in the marriage timeline of Slim and Pops. I think they tied the knot about 18 months earlier. That first full year we lived together was pretty tough. Four teen girls living together under one roof is hard enough; adding in the “blended” family factor and the blood feuds that erupted between us – well… frankly, I’m surprised my father didn’t have a stroke or resort to self-medication.

We finally moved into a large house where everyone had her own rooms. That did not mean that those rooms were not invaded from time to time. For some reason, the three younger girls really liked my stuff – although I don’t know why. It disappeared on a regular basis much to my annoyance.

During the dark days of this particular holiday season, it became clear that Christmas wasn’t going to be the chipper holiday we might have hoped for. I’m not even totally sure a tree went up, to be honest. Gifts were light as my parents opted to hand over checks for use at post-holiday sales.

And my clever sisters decided to give the gift of stuff I used to own. Yes, they wrapped up several items they’d stolen from me over the previous year and placed them under the tree. I got back a lot of socks and possibly some underwear. I could not believe they stole my underwear!

Oh those girls! How I hated them!

I never did get my Swatch back or my cool polka dot pants (don’t ask).

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By: Alyssa | at Monday, December 20, 2004 | |

Please speak into my good ear

Saturday morning I awoke – late (per usual) – to discover that my left ear was congested. You know when you get a bad head cold or water in your ears and everything sounds foggy and weird?

I had that – but only in one ear. And really, I cannot figure out what the problem was. I figured it would go away in a few minutes, once I was up and about.

It did not.

I did the airplane trick (chew gum, swallow a lot, etc); I used a blow dryer on a low setting to see if that would help to readjust the pressure; a hot shower; I caved and took some sinus/allergy medicine to see if that would help.

Nothing worked!

Around 5 I was very frustrated – despite having a lovely allergy medicine-induced nap.

I found the greatest frustration at trying to communicate with my husband. He’s kind of a low-talker sometimes. And he can mumble. I finally resorted to telling him that if he wasn’t going to speak up, clearly and talk into my good ear to not bother.

I figured we’d have that conversation at some point, I just didn’t think it would come the week after my 30th birthday.

I started searching online to see if I was having some sort of serious issue. Everything I read suggested that if the congestion lasted more than 48 hours I should call a doctor. After about 8 hours I was thinking about drilling a hole in my skull.

Deeps went out for the afternoon to “run errands” (he’d better have been shopping for me!) and when he returned he asked about the prognosis.

“Well,” I said, “it seems to be a common problem. I should be okay, and I’ll keep taking that decongestant.”
He smiled and spoke into my good ear. “Good! I’m sure you’ll be fine soon.”
“Yeah – I should be okay. Apparently this is a problem that’s very common in small children under 5,” I added.
He smiled again. “That seems appropriate.”

This morning I can hear again.

By: Alyssa | Sunday, December 19, 2004 at Sunday, December 19, 2004 | |

Holiday Memories – 1979: Behold the Christmas Burrito

Christmas 1979 was located on the Southside of Indianapolis, in a house my parents had recently purchased. The little ranch was comfortable and modest – but had a big yard where we planted and harvested vegetables in the summer.

That winter, I had just turned 5 and my sister, Peepers, was about 2. My parents were still married; I think this was their last Christmas together.

On Christmas Eve my father had an idea (a stroke of genius, really) that my sister and I pile into the old Duster with him and drive around to look for Santa. He said he’d heard on the radio that he might be in the area.

My mother stayed home to make sure she could let Santa in because our house did not have a chimney. She also suggested that my Dad pick up some dinner while we were out and about.

We drove and drove – the cold, vinyl seats did nothing to deter us from the joy of staring out the windows and yelling “I think I see him!” I think my Dad may have made the clever move of driving us out around the airport, thus distracting us with flying things with lights. Oh joy!

When it was over, we stopped by the neighborhood Taco Bell where we got some food and headed home with hearts full of Christmas cheer and the promise of tacos. What is better than the Christmas Taco or Burrito? Nothing!

We rushed inside, dropping coats and mittens and headed to the kitchen where we huddled around a small dinette. We passed through the living room en route to the kitchen and the tree was lit up but the area underneath was pretty empty aside from a few things that had been under it for days. Presents we were to take to my Nana’s house.

We ate our food with gusto – our exasperated parents had promised that we could open presents AFTER we ate. I shoved a holiday burrito down my throat and pronounced I was finished with eating. I think my Mom caved and told me I could go into the living room.

As I rounded the corner from the kitchen to the living room I stopped and gasped.

Santa had been to our house while we were eating. The once bare tree was brimming with presents – including a shiny metal sink and stove for our playroom! I started yelling, Santa was here! And my sister got all excited. We couldn’t believe he could come in and out so quickly, without making any noise.

I think this particular mystery explains why I believed in Santa longer than most other kids.

Looking back, I still haven’t quite figured out how my parents pulled it off. We were in the kitchen, which adjoined the living room, and I think we were in there for no more than 10 minutes. I don’t remember my parents leaving the table. I don’t remember hearing anything.

But I do remember the living room being pretty bare of presents before dinner and being filled with them after dinner. In the 25 years since I haven’t had the heart to ask my parents if my memory of that night is accurate – or how they pulled off that little magic trick.

I just remember that we had some damn good burritos and a pretty great Christmas.

By: Alyssa | Friday, December 17, 2004 at Friday, December 17, 2004 | |

Holiday memories – 1983

I’m really light on stories for the blog – not to worry because I’ll be going home next week to spend the holidays in Indiana. I’m dragging Deeps along with me and it should be very fun because there are babies and pregnant ladies and BIL and poker and hopefully – god willing – booze.

For today, I thought I’d go to the ol’ Way Back machine and dig up hilarious stories from holidays past.

Let’s see – 1983 was the year I got the Cabbage Patch doll. I had just turned 9. This was an exciting year because I had a very strong notion that if my sister and I sang the Toys R Us song every single time it came on TV we would magically get a Cabbage Patch doll.

(FYI Sidebar – these links are as entertaining as they are disturbing.)

My mother and (at the time) stepmother united in one of their few joint efforts to procure us each a doll.

You may not remember the big craze, but people were nuts for those dolls and mothers went to great lengths to get them. According to my mother (disclosed years later), she and Step-Mom were on numerous waiting lists, had cut deals with other people and even got some black-market dolls. I’m not sure if they were actually from the black market (it was Indiana after all) but they were gotten by unusual means.

Children were desperate. Mothers are particularly sensitive to the doll needs of their daughters, as evidenced by my mother’s yearly proclamation that she wants to buy baby dolls for my niece.

By the time it was close to Christmas they had amassed a collection of some 20+ dolls between them. So they looked at all the dolls and picked out (according to them) the two “cutest” dolls which was hard because those dolls are ugly. (My mother concurs.)

And so on Christmas morning, the presents had been unwrapped and there was a moment when I thought – oh my god, we failed. We sang that stupid jingle for 4 months for no good reason. My mother, sensing the impending meltdown, suggested we look behind the tree to make sure we didn’t miss any gifts.

My sister and I found the oddly shaped boxes, wrapped in paper, and started yelping with glee. And singing that freakin’ Toys R Us song.

As a further side note, I learned from my friend EA, which she has actually visited the Cabbage Patch "hospital" where the dolls are born. She relayed the following story to me, which I will share with you.

In the early/mid 90s her mother was exploring other job opportunities in Atlanta. EA went down to Atlanta with her mom to visit the area and get a feel for the place (note - EA was post-college age at this point) and see if Atlanta would be a good fit for her mom. A man from the company interviewing EA's mom took them around the city, briefly, then drove them out to the Cabbage Patch hospital for a tour of the museum and birthing facility.

This is where it gets weirder.

EA described the "birthing" area as a giant cabbage thing that brought forth the babies. A disembodied voice would announce that a baby was on the way and ask for a "nurse". The nurse would come in and pluck the baby from the cabbage - viewable through a giant nursery like viewing window.

EA said she started to kind of giggle and turned to the man, who was sobbing. He said he'd been out to the museum/hospital many, many times and that each time the birthing really got to him. He thought it was really magical and beautiful.

EA's mother decided the job, the company, and Atlanta were not a good fit for her. And EA was left with the memories of Cabbage birth.

Yes - she's been to therapy.

By: Alyssa | Thursday, December 16, 2004 at Thursday, December 16, 2004 | |

When malls attack

Deeps is struggling with my birthday gift. As you may notice from the date – my birthday was three days ago – so it’s a REAL struggle.

I did get Frogger, so I was very excited. But he doesn’t think that’s “enough” and that my “list” isn’t very diverse and he’s trying to get me to come up with other ideas.

I thought I’d look around for inspriation. Now the mall hasn’t been great for us – but browsing might spark an idea. The problem (according my husband – the bad list) will rear its head again in just a couple of weeks for Christmas. I just make the one list and apparently it’s not cool enough for everyone.

Whatever – it’s my damn list!

Just as I was going to suggest we hit the local mall, we caught the big news story last night about a shooting near the food court! The food court – I ate there on Saturday after my hair cut! Horrors.

It’s not enough to fight the crowds and the snooty sales staff – now you’ve got to worry about getting shot.

I’m rethinking my strategy – isn’t ecommerce great? We’ll be ordering any remaining gifts online.

Now all I have left is to help negotiate a peace accord between one of my cranky sisters and the rest of the family; and I need to talk my mother out of any attempts at cooking. I think this year she could be arrested for crimes against humanity.

Happy Holidays!

By: Alyssa | Wednesday, December 15, 2004 at Wednesday, December 15, 2004 | |

Filled with the holiday spirit

I found this excellent entry on Pagooey about ugly Christmas Cookies. And then I found actual pictures of the event (okay, she included a link) – even better.

I’m a horrible cookie baker, and I have much admiration for those who can successfully make cookies. I’m a mean cake baker, but suck at the cookies. I have no idea why.

Judging from the photos, perhaps I’m not using enough wine.

By: Alyssa | at Wednesday, December 15, 2004 | |

How to spend your lunch hour

It’s kinda cold out, although it’s going to be colder tomorrow. Anyway, I spent my time this afternoon writing inelegant letters to the FCC about how they can’t let crazy TV haters ruin my good time.

I’m a big fan of writing complaint letters – I complain all the time. But in letterform, well – sometimes I get stuff done. Never for myself, usually for others. In fact, I’ve thought about offering up a letter writing service for those who have been wronged.

So if you have been wronged, let me know and I may be able to help by writing long, inelegant letters to various and sundry corporations. For a price. Often in the form of cupcakes.

By: Alyssa | Tuesday, December 14, 2004 at Tuesday, December 14, 2004 | |

At large

My wedding band is still missing. I called the spa and the woman was all “Oh my God!” when I told her. I left my number and she said she’d call me back.

So that was at 10 AM. I’m guessing the wedding band has made a break for it and is somewhere near the Mexican border.

At least there, ol’ whitey (white goldie) can find a decent taco.

By: Alyssa | at Tuesday, December 14, 2004 | |

Third time is the charm

You should know that I’ve had 3 engagement rings – from one man. I’m not used to wearing jewelry and if it’s not low-profile, I’m going to lose it. So some girls dream about a big fat, tall diamond – I freak out because I know I’ll lose it. I can’t wear it to bed, it’ll scratch me. It’ll get caught on stuff. It moves around. It’s bulky. It itches. I’ve seen it all….

That’s why I have a nice simple wedding band and that’s it. My (last/final) engagement ring is gorgeous and special and valuable as it was my grandmother’s. And it’s tucked away in a safe deposit box because I already have a ring to wear and if try to wear another one (I know I have 9 other fingers available) it ends in tragedy.

Today I lost my wedding band. Again.

It’s simple, wide, white gold band. It’s very low-profile on the hand. It doesn’t get in the way. It fits just right (which is how I lost my first wedding band – poor fit). For my 30th birthday I gave myself a little gift – the gift of massage (and facial and a pedicure). So the lady at the spa told me I need to take off all of my jewelry. Which I did – the tiny stud earrings (also a gift from my beloved, not valuable but sentimental and also COOL!) and the wedding band were carefully placed on a side table. I trudged from room to room with my bathrobe and the jewelry nestled in the bathrobe pocket.

I realized about an hour ago that in my haste to get out of the freaking spa (I have learned I only have the patience for one treatment on any given day) I left my ring and earrings. In the pocket of the robe, left at the bottom of a laundry hamper in the spa.

I’m assuming I’ll never see them again.

So now the plotting starts. Do I tell Deeps that I lost the ring? He got uncharacteristically upset when I lost the first wedding band. It’s a symbol of your blah, blah, blah – it’s just a symbol like this # that is a symbol. Still. Boys, whatever. I eventually found the first one, but had already replaced it. He never knew about the replacement until much later – he just thought I found it again.

So do I tell him? I think I do. Mostly because I really liked those earrings. They were not a symbol. They were just really cool.

By: Alyssa | Monday, December 13, 2004 at Monday, December 13, 2004 | |

Scenes from the mall

We had a few people over on Sunday which meant preparation shopping on Saturday night. Okay, I was at the Best Buy parking lot (I lured my spouse to Best Buy easily – he looked at DVDs whilst I perused the digital cameras for him, keep that under your hat) and we saw a dude kinda put the cart away. But then it started rolling towards his car.

I thought – instant cart karma, he will hit his own car with the stupid cart. I started to move towards the cart to stop it. But thought otherwise as I was carrying giant bags of party junk. Plus how much damage can a cart do to a plastic car?

Exactly.

Until I saw that the car in question (with headlights on and exhaust pouring out of the back) was not the bad cart guy’s car but another car. So they basically sat there, watching the cart move towards their car to hit it.

I think you know where this is going.

After impact, the woman jumped from the passenger’s seat and started with the whole “Excuse me!” thing whilst her thuggy boyfriend jumped from the driver’s side to yell and yell.

“Oh man,” Deeps said. We high tailed it to the car. We’ve lived in Boston long enough to know when people are looking for trouble.

Words were exchanged, scuffling, and screeching tires later (not ours) we watched the cars pull away from each other with fists and fingers shaking out of windows.

Because shopping makes people crazy and ‘tis the season for all kinds of crazy.

By: Alyssa | Sunday, December 12, 2004 at Sunday, December 12, 2004 | |

Well he’s no Dick Van Dyke

Before I headed to the dentist’s office I went home to meet my husband. He was waiting at home to meet a chimney sweep that was sent by our landlord to deal with our funky fireplace.

Over Thanksgiving we had this sweet idea to have a big old-fashioned fire roaring in the fireplace. It seemed like a great idea. If only we’d left it as an idea.

Instead, we discovered that despite having the flue open, about half the smoke that should have been going up the fireplace was pouring out into the living room. Our house smelled like a campfire gone wrong for a couple of weeks (which wasn’t all bad because we finally drove out that linger hippy smell).

So the sweeper was fast and efficient. He didn’t make a mess and he had a giant tarp to protect our rug and floor. Turns out the flue was not open all the way because of a lot of rust and it’s also too small for the fireplace opening so we might still have smoke if we build a fire.

Fantastic.

But this is when it gets really weird.

After he starts to pack up he begins telling us stories about some of this “bad clients”. Like the guy who had a furnace that had never been cleaned and was so full of soot it would no longer function properly and it was belching black, sooty smoke all over the house. Apparently the guy’s bad maintenance meant the entire inside of his house was covered in a thin layer of soot and ash. He tried to blame the chimney sweep for the problem.

Which started a war of escalating retributions. Like not paying bills and getting tickets and puncturing tires (not one but two!) and breaking windows.

All of this was relayed to us in language salty enough to make a sailor blush. Now I’m no shrinking violet – but I try not to swear much around people I don’t know just in case they’re….sensitive. If you have ever played poker with me you’ll know two things – I’m a bad loser and I’m a not afraid to drop a litany of curses that would make a long shore man proud.

But I couldn’t get the guy out of the house. He was just lingering, telling us stories and the minutes ticked by. He must have been there for another 25 minutes yammering away.

When he left we raced out the door and hopped in the car – heading to the dentist.

“Wow, that was some character,” I said to Deeps as we pulled away from the curb.
Deeps smiled. “Yeah – he’s no Dick Van Dyke.”

By: Alyssa | Friday, December 10, 2004 at Friday, December 10, 2004 | |

I’m no Rockwell

Yikes! I’m dating myself, well – whatever. (I made a freaking Rockwell joke. I am old.)

I’ve been watching you. Well, noticing you. And I thank you for thinking of me and reading and linking.

I’m lame and haven’t done a template update in a while, but I’m going to do my annual holiday overhaul in a few weeks. You’ll see changes then - oh the changes.

For now – you should visit some of Big Red Blog’s Interweb friends like Miss Rachel at Picky Eater and Kim at Pagooey and Omega at her Diner (and her lovely husband Glen) and Zander at Beautiful Vacuum (who has a link, but you can visit him again anyway) and Gus (and his mom Janna!) at Baby Days.

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By: Alyssa | Thursday, December 09, 2004 at Thursday, December 09, 2004 | |

Cancer free is the way to be

Hurrah! I have no tongue cancer, yeast infection, herpes, cooties, diphtheria or rabies. The small whitish area on either side of my tongue is - as expected - a function of my teeth irritating (I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you) my tongue.

The periodontist guy said he wasn't even going to bother with a biopsy. Double Hurrah! His fellow doctor guy came in and looked at my tongue too, because it was slow - and he agreed. No bad stuff, totally normal. However, I should "keep an eye on it" in case anything changes. If I have any pain or if anything looks funny I should call him.

Done and done.

And the doctor said my giant eyebrow zit is probably not a brain tumor pushing its way through my skull. Whew - that's a relief.

Many thanks to all of the nice people who emailed me or posted supportive comments. You all rock hard.


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By: Alyssa | at Thursday, December 09, 2004 | |

Self Diagnosis

I love the Interweb for a lot of reasons – but one of my favorites is that I can look up weird medical stuff and do some self-diagnosis.

I would never go to the doctor if it weren’t for the fact that she’ll cut off my birth control prescription if I don’t show up annually. She’s wily that way.

After doing a bit of research, I feel like I probably don’t have tongue cancer. Although – I won’t find out until after the freaking tongue biopsy (aka the birthday biopsy around my house) this afternoon. Well, until after the results are back – which better be fast because there’s nothing like the impending doom of tongue cancer to ruin the holidays.

Not like last year when the dog died AND some jerk stole presents off my front porch. Christmas, you will not win! This I vow.

Plus, I’m currently sporting a giant zit on my eyebrow courtesy of the birth control that I so relish using. Thank you prescription-drug induced adult acne. I do enjoy such things as I am about to turn 30. I just can’t believe that I would have both the giant zit and tongue cancer at the same time. It seems grossly unfair.

I did not think I would be using benzoyl peroxide and retinol at the same time.

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By: Alyssa | at Thursday, December 09, 2004 | |

The greatest gift ever purchased on a Saturday for less than $19

Saturday I was at Target – because that’s where I go, okay. Do not judge.

As I was cruising to the Christmas decorations on the quest for cool garland I blew past the toy section and then came to a screeching halt that nearly caused my husband to crash into a lady with like nine kids.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed! I grabbed a box from the shelf and started doing this weird happy dance. “LOOK! Look at this! Oh my God!”

“What?” Deeps asked, clearly annoyed.

“It’s Ms. Pac Man!” I cried moving into some kind of fugue state where all I could do was dream of the Pac Mans living together in happy harmony.

“We have to buy it! We have to!” I begged. Then I remembered that I’m in charge of the money and tossed it into the cart. *

I grabbed one of those little game consoles that are popping up in malls and stores around the country. It’s plug and play – you just throw in a few Double A batteries, plug it into your TV and you can play (in this case) 5 classic old-school video games: Ms. Pac Man, Galaga, Pole Position (my personal favorite), Xevious and Mappy (which was apparently popular in Japan).

This little console has taken over our happy home. The cord is just long enough to plug into the front of our VCR and where we can sit on the bed, reclining against giant fluffy pillows. Or in the living room we can play from the very popular chair. It’s the greatest thing ever. We carry it around from room to room, plugging it in and playing for a few minutes here and there.

It’s all the joy (and for me, mostly frustration) you can get from a computer game console for a lot less money. We never had anything like this at home; growing up until I was like 14 and by then I wasn’t too interested. However, when I was about 8 I would hang out at a neighbor’s house and play Frogger and Pitfall to my heart’s content. I really sucked at it but I didn’t care. It was blissful.

And now I might be able to live the dream again. I’ve heard from a little birthday fair that there’s a little Frogger console on the market and that perhaps it will find it’s way to me by Sunday.

Great day!

*Buying stuff impulsively is never encouraged and rampant, unchecked consumerism is driving the country into the financial toilet. However, in most of the rest of my life I’m pretty responsible with dough (I have an insanely detailed budget and savings plan). I’m an adult and sometimes I get to live a little – for less than $20, I was able to recapture a tiny bit of my childhood.

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By: Alyssa | Wednesday, December 08, 2004 at Wednesday, December 08, 2004 | |

When H-E-Double hockey sticks freezes over

I try not to swear in the blog too much because my parents read it.

Last night was cold, cold, cold. This morning around 6 Deeps got the heat working again. Ultimately I blame myself because I should know better than to let the man wander around in the basement with a flashlight assuming he knows what he’s doing. It’s not fair to him or me.

And I was fighting a war on two fronts. First I was just trying to stay warm (front 1) and second I was fending off the aggressive attacks of one Poopus the Malevolent (cat and tormenter).

She was incredibly well behaved when my parents visited. She snuggled in laps, napped quietly, didn’t knock anything over or try to attack my face while I was sleeping. I was relieved but I knew it would not last because she is pure evil and must make her will known.

While she likes to think I’m her worst enemy at night she really has come to hate my alarm clock. It’s really small and battery operated (picked up during the great power outages of 1998) and doesn’t really harm anyone. Except the Poopus because she really just wants to knock it around on the floor every single moment that she can.

This morning Deeps commented on the war – he sleeps through most of the battles – but in light of the heat situation, he was awake.

Deeps: And this happens every night?
Me: No – it’s just bad this week.
Deeps: How long has this been going on?
Me: Off and on for like 8 years.
Deeps: No wonder you don’t sleep.
Me: I’ve been thinking, maybe we should get another cat because then they’d keep each other company at night and leave us alone. She gets really bored.
Deeps: (looks at me like I’m crazy) That is so not the answer.
Me: Sorry – it’s the lack of sleep and the frozen butt talking.


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By: Alyssa | Tuesday, December 07, 2004 at Tuesday, December 07, 2004 | |

I am not interested

I’m not interested in being a grown up.

I went to a first-time homebuyer’s class tonight with Deeps. We have to sit around for eight hours and learn about buying a house. From what I’ve seen so far, I learned more from the book.

When we got home from the class we discovered that the heater was not working (again) and that the house is like 60 degrees. After two hours trying to figure out what the H is wrong – we’ve given up, despite the dropping temperature. Thankfully I have the arctic weight comforter. I didn’t think I’d have to test it to arctic temps.

And I have a freaking mouth biopsy scheduled for Thursday.

Getting old sucks.

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By: Alyssa | at Tuesday, December 07, 2004 | |

What you don’t want to hear from the dentist

I went to the dentist today for my routine 6 month check-up.

My dentist’s office is kinda low-rent. You walk in and think “Am I at the dentist’s or a nail salon?” It could go either way.

Anyway, I went today and waited for like almost an hour before they saw me. I guess there was a dental emergency or something which made everyone run late.

I got in, got the lecture about how I need to floss more (my dentist is all stick and no carrot) and then she started breaking the bad news to me. I am getting old and hence my teeth are getting old.

“You are grinding your teeth a lot,” she hissed from behind a giant plastic face mask. “You need a mouth guard.”

Sexy is the first word that comes to mind.

“I mean it – if you don’t do it then you’re going to have nubs in a few years. You’ll grind your teeth away,” she intones.

Fantastic.

“Now hold this mirror,” she instructed – shoving a small hand mirror in my hand. “Look at your tongue – move it over towards me. Do you see that big white spot?”

I look and see something kinda white – there’s one on both sides of my tongue. “Yeth,” I say with my mouth gaping open, tongue akimbo.

“You need to have that biopsied. It could be something serious,” she replies.

What? Biopsy? Holy crap? Do have mouth cancer? I try to be cool.

“What do you think it is?”

She starts to pull off her mask and gloves. “Well it could be over developed salivary glands, or taste buds or just an irritation. But you should have it looked at next door – I’ll write you a referral. Call them Monday.”

Great – mouth cancer and I have to wait until Monday.

“And I want you to take a look at this X ray – see this shadow under your gold filling? I think its decay and it’s sitting on the nerve. We need to do something about that immediately,” she says – I think she’s relishing all the bad news.

“But otherwise, you’re fine.”

“Thanks,” I mutter as I walk into the lobby with my biopsy referral, instructions about a mouth guard and make an appointment for further exploration of the gold filling (aka pimp tooth) in my back molar.

Deeps picks me up a few minutes later. “So?” he asks.

“It didn’t go well.”

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By: Alyssa | Saturday, December 04, 2004 at Saturday, December 04, 2004 | |

At the movies

I know someone who is hosting visitors in a few weeks – sisters with small children (infants of about 6 months old). There was a general discussion about where one could go with a child that young, given that it’s December in Boston.

One guy piped up that you could go anywhere with a baby – even to the movies.

I nearly choked.

I’ve been at movies with babies present for a while – at least 5 or 10 years. It never ends well. (Disclosure – I don’t bring the babies or know them.)

Movies are loud. Really, really loud – it’s part of the surround sound movie experience. Babies generally don’t like loud noises.

Often, parents almost never know when they should take the baby out of the theater – like when the kid starts to wail. Nope, they paid their $10 and they are staying to see the big fight or final court scene or confrontation.

We went to see The Incredibles last week and some people behind us brought their kids including a two-year-old toddler. He was really restless and didn’t want to sit for that long – and who can blame him? He’s two – he’s got stuff to do like run around and scream. (And as a sidebar – while I thought The Incredibles was a good movie, I would not say that it’s especially made for a kid audience. It’s pretty sophisticated, deals with some heavy themes, and there’s a lot of mayhem and death.)

I’m not going to begrudge anyone taking his or her child to a kid’s film where really anything goes. However, I’ve been to showings of movies with small kids – like under 5 – that were clearly too intense for kids (Xmen 2) and then there was the woman who was breastfeeding during Eyes Wide Shut – the kid wasn’t that interested and cried a lot (given the film, perhaps that was appropriate).

If you poop your pants regularly, you probably aren’t ready to be at a movie theater.

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By: Alyssa | Friday, December 03, 2004 at Friday, December 03, 2004 | |

Holiday Olympics

My oldest niece – I’ll call her Blondie – wants some heinous holiday gifts – like musical CDs from Ashlee Simpson and Hilary Duff.

I bought her Britney CDs a couple of years ago when she HAD to have them. I’m not sliding down that slippery slope again.

She also wants a thing called a Fur Real Kitten – which sounds horrifying and after seeing one in person… well, my first guess wasn’t wrong. But you know – I cannot deny her.

When I was her age I’m sure I wanted something equally hideous – in fact I know I did. I really wanted this creepy “preemie” doll thing that was filled with bean crap that made it feel heavy and it was disturbing and doll-like and I HAD to have it.

I’m sure my Aunt and Uncle felt the same way about that doll as I feel about the creepy Bratz and Polly Pockets Blondie asks for. Have you seen the Bratz? They look like porn stars.

Kids like what they like. I’m the aunt. Not the parent. Still. I’m not buying those stupid CDs. Amazon thinks I like Britney and no matter how many times I explain it was a gift I keep getting Britney-related recommendations. Ick.

But I got lucky – because she also asked for books.

I was browsing through a list of nice kids books. Blondie is a big reader – despite her questionable taste in music – she has a great intellect that I’d like to encourage her to further develop. I tried to remember novels (chapter books as Blondie calls them) that I read as a kid and I asked Deeps for suggestions.

He said no one read to him and he had to read to himself when he was old enough. Of course – because the baby doesn’t know how to read. Right. So I went back to some Bev Cleary classics and picked out a few favorites along with a couple of new books.

The hard part about giving most kids books is that there’s almost never any instant gratification. They never open it and go “YAAY! I love this! It’s just what I wanted.”

And to be honest, around our house at Christmas it doesn’t happen anyway. As the grandchild of divorced grandparents – Blondie goes to like 14 Christmas celebrations with gifts all around. All the kids get lots of stuff and by the time they get to your gift, if you get a thank-you … well, you’re lucky.

But my pay-offs come later. Much, much later. I hope the kids will remember that I encouraged them to read. That they’ll do well in school and be life-long readers and really love books and stories.

Sometimes the tiny dividends are enough to sustain me.

I asked my sister, Bangles, what my nephew, Focus, would like for Christmas. She told me some toy stuff – then I asked about books. In the background I heard a resounding chorus for NATE THE GREAT!

He likes that book? - I asked her incredulously. She confirmed that it was his favorite.

I was quite pleased – that is what I gave him last year.

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By: Alyssa | at Friday, December 03, 2004 | |


Look - it's a marble dog guarding a tomb. This is how we spent Thanksgiving. Not guarding tombs but inspecting them all through the Mt. Auburn Cemetary. I've got lots of pictures like this. Makes the simple grave markers you see in most modern cemetaries seem a little lame. Posted by Hello

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By: Alyssa | Thursday, December 02, 2004 at Thursday, December 02, 2004 | |

I have spirit

A few weeks ago I went out to hunt for boots. I lost two good pairs over the past couple of winters – as pedestrian, good footwear is a key to success. Depending on what I do - I can walk between 2 and 5 miles a day (not counting what I do at the gym).

I vowed this would be my last attempt. As with shoes and boyfriends – sometimes it is best to not look but rather come upon them. But I digress. I was hunting.

I hit the mall and walked around for a while – searching and stalking. About an hour into my hunt I thought my search would be fruitless. Then I turned a corner and saw a giant sign that said 50% off.

I ventured inside the Easy Spirit store.

It should be noted that prior to entering the Easy Spirit store I had stopped by a few other times over the past two years. Every time I went inside I was pleasantly surprised by the clientele (women my age – in their late 20s) and by the shoe selection. They had a small offering of dowdy shoes – but most were very stylish, cute and comfortable.

I thought they had targeted a new demo, diverging from their previous target of women over 100 (approximately). Surely I’m not the only urban woman who walks a lot and would prefer not to wear sneakers and then haul the “cute shoe” to work only to find myself with a giant collection of shoes in a desk drawer. Surely.

Back to that 50% off sign: a sign like that in a shoe store is like – it’s the thing almost any woman looking for shoes hopes for. There’s almost nothing better, except maybe 75% off. The sign had me so intrigued that I took no notice of anyone or anything around me except for the sleek black boots perched on the wall display. I picked them up and turned to the saleswoman. It was then that I noticed I was… outnumbered.

Every granny in town was parked on the little curved sofas trying on hideous shoes. With their smell of lavender and mothballs – the place was swarming. I was the only person there under 70.

Boot in hand, I paused for a moment. Was this what I wanted? What I am to become? Then, I figured what the heck – it’s 50% off. Sure the place is running rampant with old ladies. And now I’ve crossed over to the world of possibly ugly but comfortable shoes. For half off.

I took the size 8.

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By: Alyssa | Wednesday, December 01, 2004 at Wednesday, December 01, 2004 | |

 
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