tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51671000280516804272024-02-18T19:51:28.637-08:00Mom to Mom: Motherhood, Madness & Merlot by Ann Meyers PiccirilloLife as seen by a newspaper columnist and freelance writer from the driver seat of a 2005 Dodge mini-van with a bunch of screaming kids in the back and a shaggy, overweight dog on her lap.Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.comBlogger111125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-5965133130662425802012-10-09T07:29:00.000-07:002012-10-11T09:42:53.442-07:00How Decisions in My 20's Landed Me in the Hell I'm in Now<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>God knows
why, but I had agreed to meet a twenty-something-year old for lunch the other
day. Said twenty-something was newly engaged, newly promoted and a strong
subscriber to the Prince Charming fairytale of being whisked off to <i>happily
ever after, </i><span>or as I now refer to
it, <i>Never, Never Land. </i>What she fails to understand at her age and
experience level is </span>that the spliced pieces of reality that Disney
spilled onto the cutting room floor were intentionally left for Cinderella to
sweep up on her wedding night. You can bet that in the real version, after
being whisked, Cinderella then <i>Wisk-</i>ed
the stains out of Prince Charming’s briefs for the rest of his jockey-stained
natural life. This young woman sitting across from me still believed that
Cinderella's life was crusted. I give her until her first anniversary to
realize that it's just not crusted in gold. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>But there I
sat, listening to her sing the pop song that is her life. Placed beside her
purified <i>Pellegrino</i> sparkling water, my three-olive dirty martini looked
oddly misplaced; kind of like that funny bachelor uncle your mother never let
you near and who was ordered by Uncle Joe to sit beside Grandma at the grown-up
table at every family gathering. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>Ordering a
second martini, post haste, I drained the sedimentary remains of my first from
the glass chalice as I listened to her. As she spoke spiritedly and eagerly I
wondered if I ever shared her confident enthusiasm; her dewy optimism dropping
its life affirming splashes like spring rain all over the room. The only place
my dewy optimism drops these days is into my <i>Depends</i>, or so advertisers
would have me believe now that they have ushered me into a new demographic age
range. A range, by the way, that includes the toothless and arthritic--my new
compatriots. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>How could
my mind not retreat to some speculative place where I was left undisturbed to
question how the decisions I made in my twenties led me to this godforsaken
hell of the here and now. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>Had the
'90's come with equipped with a crystal ball, rather than marry the safe
boyfriend (the only man I had ever slept with--<i>gulp</i>) I would have ran off with that Indie drummer from the East
Village and never looked back. At the very least, he owned his rat-infested
apartment on Avenue C and do you have any idea what that real estate is worth
today?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>I also
would not have so casually passed up that opportunity with the lesbian lawyer
with a house on Fire Island. Free and unlimited legal advice and a guaranteed
beach vacation? WTF was I thinking?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>Had I paid
closer attention to the physical details of my then boyfriend, now spouse’s,
apartment, I would not be surprised now that all of those piles of unopened
bills haphazardly strewn across the sticky top of the kitchen table of his
bachelor pad would result in a lifetime of having the utilities periodically
turned off. Even now, every time I flip a switch and a light actually goes on I
feel like I’ve won Final Jeopardy. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>In 1995,
when that buff marine fighter pilot whom I met at <i>Fleet Week </i>tried to
talk me out of my static relationship and join him for a weekend of <i>pure
pleasure, </i>I should have packed a little brown bag of indecent underwear and
fled with him. I wouldn’t know 48 hours of <i>pure pleasure</i> now if it
smacked me in the face. I had saved myself for what? Life with an unruly dog,
more unruly kids and a husband who insists on being unruly just so that he can
stay relevant?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>Fifteen
years ago I decided not to transfer to D.C. and work in the White House because
I wanted to stay close to my boyfriend. Here I am now sitting in a closet with
the dog, drinking wine and crying over spilt opportunities while listening to
Dylan. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>However,
despite the missed opportunities, despite the waning of youth and virility,
while at the dog park today a 28-year-old skin-head struck up a conversation
that lasted longer than any conversation I have had with a man over the age of
8 and under the age of 60 in a long time. I briefly considered taking the dog
and running away with my new skin-head lover. At least he wouldn’t complain
about his hair loss. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>But I
didn’t. I stayed firmly planted to the earth as I watched him walk away. But I
will admit that as I watched my skinhead's tight ass move in those faded <i>Levi's</i>, I was filled with so much dewy
optimism that you can <i>Depend</i> there was a (Victoria's) secret garden
growing in the land that time forgot. </span></span></span></div>
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Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-14712577212800362222011-12-02T05:48:00.000-08:002011-12-02T05:48:42.357-08:00Where to Cut Your Own Christmas Tree in New Jersey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimI1hmIYkk9Gjyo6_husWIQa0beOsecNrBTDy4OU47vI3F7XapMRxIls5mb8MDeOIB1LM20SyOJ4PG8AsrbL7dI8FoJ-IRn0hSVX_a2wCIy11GucKhHR2I7iBmKnlgf4VoZqVPSQ9tlyvn/s1600/101109+083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimI1hmIYkk9Gjyo6_husWIQa0beOsecNrBTDy4OU47vI3F7XapMRxIls5mb8MDeOIB1LM20SyOJ4PG8AsrbL7dI8FoJ-IRn0hSVX_a2wCIy11GucKhHR2I7iBmKnlgf4VoZqVPSQ9tlyvn/s320/101109+083.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm still not sure how our marriage survived this adventure</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">There are two types of Christmas tree people: those who prefer to buy at garden centers and local stands, and those who like the adventure of cutting their own.</div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If you are a "cut-your-own" type of person, or think you might be if given a saw and permission, here are the tried and true places in New Jersey where you can release your inner-yuletide lumberjack. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Rest assured. Almost all cut-your-own Christmas tree farms will cut them for you. Advice: bring gardening gloves to wear because the needles will pinch, and remember that most farms accept cash only. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://www.dixiedalefarm.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Dixiedale Farms</a>:</b> Family owned and operated since 1911, Dixiedale farms is a short ride from Bergen County. Dixiedale never disappoints. The town of Chester is also a great place to grab a bite to eat or a cup of hot chocolate. Open Saturday & Sunday 9 a.m.-3:30 p.m. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dixiedale Farms is located at 347 Hillside Ave & River Road, Chatham, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://www.hiddenpondtreefarm.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Hidden Pond Tree Farm</a>:</b> Hidden Pond Tree Farm makes cutting your own tree a family even you'll remember forever. Aside from roaming the farm looking for the perfect tree, they offer free hot chocolate and marshmallows that the children can roast over an open fire. There's nothing like watching the sun set while roasting marshmallows. Open daily (except Mondays) 9 a.m.-5 p.m.</div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Hidden Pond Tree Farm is located at 4 West Field Road, Mendham, NJ </em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://www.villagechristmastreefarm.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Village Tree Farm</a>: </b>Open weekends. To make the day even more fun for the kids The Village Farm is offering hay rides pulled by an antique tractor, cookies, candy canes and while supplies last a free coloring book! This year they will also be offering photography service where your pets and children can have their picture taken with two of Santa's Reindeer! </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Village Tree Farm is located at 8 Meyersville Road, Green Village, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://njchristmastrees.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Shale Hill Christmas Tree Farm</a>: </b>Open weekends through Christmas from 9:30 a.m. to dark. All trees are $75 plus tax--cash or check only. Cut Your Own Pines, Spruces and Firs, NJ State Fair Award Winning Trees. Adorable farm animals, tasty refreshments, the “REAL” Santa Claus. Christmas movies in the hayloft! </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Shale Hill Christmas Tree Farm, 98 Pond School Road, Sussex, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://plutfarms.embarqspace.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Plut’s Christmas Tree Farm</a>: </b>Family-owned and operated since 2000, Plut’s is open Wednesday and Thursday 10 a.m.–9 p.m., Friday and Saturday 9 a.m.–9 p.m., and Sunday 9 a.m.–6 p.m. Trees start at $35. After cutting your tree visit the gift shop.</div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Plut’s Christmas Tree Farm, Rt 31, Washington, NJ (2-1/2 miles south of the intersection of Routes 57 and 31)</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://www.wyckoffs.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Wyckoff’s Tree Farm</a>: </b>Family owned since 1839, Wyckoff’s Tree Farm has been featured in the NY Times.<b> </b>Open daily 8 a.m.–4:30 p.m. You will find an ample supply of both cut-your-own and fresh cut trees available. Wyckoff’s Farm starts the season with approximately 5,000 trees available including:<b> </b>Douglas Fir, Fraser Fir, Blue Spruce, Norway Spruce & Concolor Fir. Wyckoff’s also has a gift shop that features wreathes and ornaments. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Wyckoff’s Tree Farm, 249 Country Road, Belvidere, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://www.jollyhollychristmastrees.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Jolly Holly Christmas Tree Farm</a>: </b>All trees $48 no matter what size. Open weekends through December 18<sup style="line-height: 0;">th</sup> 11 a.m.–4 p.m. Santa comes to visit!</div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Jolly Holly Christmas Tree Farm, 56 Maple Lane, Blairstown, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://www.stonerowfarm.net/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Stonerow Tree Farm</a>: </b>All trees $50. Open weekends through December 11<sup style="line-height: 0;">th</sup>. Stonerow also has the Merry Moose Gift Shop where you can find all kinds of holiday decorations and gift ideas. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Stonerow Tree Farm, 242 Wykertown Road, Branchville, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://www.holidaytreefarmnj.com/our_trees.htm" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Holiday Tree Farm</a>: </b>Open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday through December 17 from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. All trees $61 regardless of type or size. The Christmas Shoppe offers holiday decorations, gifts, and refreshments. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Holiday Tree Farm, 44 Augusta Hill Road, Augusta, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://anneellenfarms.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Anne Ellen Tree Farm & Shoppe</a>: </b>Open daily from 9 a.m.–8 p.m. through December 23<sup style="line-height: 0;">rd.</sup> Over 100 acres of trees to choose from, farm animals, and Santa visits on the weekends! Anne Ellen Tree Farm is also an ideal place to grab a cup of hot chocolate and a cookie and have a picnic with the family. Anne Ellen’s also has a holiday shoppe that will personalize your ornaments while you wait. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Anne Ellen Tree Farm & Shoppe, 114 Daum Road, Manalapan, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://simonsonfarms.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Simonson Farm</a>: </b>Open daily through Dec. 23.M-F: 12 p.m.- 7 p.m. and weekends 9 a.m. – 6 p.m. Featured on CNBC, Simonson Farm has two fields with over 50 acres of trees to choose from. All U-Cut White Pine $10 off. Retail Lot White Pine $6/ft. Wagon rides and horse-drawn carriage rides available; barbecue sandwiches for sale on weekends. Simonson Farm has a Holiday Shoppe that features wreaths and other holiday gifts. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Simonson Farm, 118 Dey Road, Cranbury, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://www.cherryvillefarmsnj.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Cherryville Farms</a>: </b>Open weekends 9 a.m. to dark through Dec. 24. Cherryville Farms is a family-run farm that offers the best in cut your own trees. They also offer handmade wreaths and crafts for sale. Hot chocolate provided with a tree purchase. Cash or personal check only. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Cherryville Farms, 352 Quakertown Road, Pittstown, NJ </em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://perfectchristmastree.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Perfect Christmas Tree Farm</a>: </b>Perfect Christmas Tree Farm is owned and run by John and Cynthia Curtis, the farmer and his wife. As part of the William Penn Land Grant of 1681, this historic 45-acre farm has always been a farm, preserving this special place as a working farm. You can take a hayride out to the fields or walk across the covered bridge to find the perfect tree. Watch wreaths being made and decorated in the barn and then come inside & warm up by the fire in the Gift Shop. Children find Santa’s Box – a special trunk filled with small toys for good boys and girls, irresistible. Free trees for churches. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Perfect Christmas Tree Farm, 999 U.S. 22, Phillipsburg, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://sprucegoosefarm.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Spruce Goose Farm</a>: </b>Open daily from 9 a.m.–5 p.m. Spruce Goose Farm is a family-owned farm. Ride the wagon into the fields to cut your tree and then visit the gift shop.</div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Spruce Goose Farm, 194 Bordentown-Georgetown Road(Rt 545) </em><br />
<em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Chesterfield, NJ</em></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><a href="http://theevergreenfarm.com/" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0044aa; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Evergreen Farm</a>: </b>Open weekends through Christmas 9 a.m.–5 p.m. Family-owned and operated, The Evergreen Farm has a number of different types of Christmas trees all in the 6 to 9 foot range. Cider and cookies await as you pick your perfect tree. </div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.429em; margin-bottom: 0.714em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Evergreen Farm, 4 Bass Lane, Lebanon, NJ</em></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-21569610089276429092011-09-26T14:59:00.000-07:002013-10-01T19:44:42.089-07:00Braless in Briefs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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After writing my column every week for 4 years I finally took a mental vacation, but I'm back with a life more mental. Here's what happened on my summer vacation! </blockquote>
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In my next life, I want to come back as a douchebag cop. Now, I have many, many dear friends who are cops and are the most caring, community-minded, service-oriented people I know. In fact, they hate douchebag cops more than I because they have to work with them and invariably clean up their messes or suffer getting dragged into their morass. However, just like with every profession, there are the douchebags with badges. And those are the ones who always seem to find me. </blockquote>
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Like I was saying, I want to come back as crotch-adjusting, belt hoisting, elbow-on-my-holster kind of cop. Aside from the rush of unbridled power, there must be such freedom in not giving a shit and having a bullet to back up that emotion. </blockquote>
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Take for instance a day in my life this summer. One morning, after dropping my kids off at the town summer camp a cop came up behind me and rode the bumper of my sporty minivan while giving me an impressive display of his lights and sirens. </blockquote>
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Foolishly thinking he was trying to pass me, I pulled over to the narrow shoulder on the busiest street in town. Guess what? He didn't pass me. Instead, he locked his bumper onto mine as if we were teenagers whose braces got stuck together while making-out in my parents basement just as my mother was coming down the stairs. Awkward and more than just a little bit shocking. </blockquote>
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Ordinarily, being stopped by a cop would completely freak me out. However, this time I could feel myself heading straight for a seizure. <i>Por Qua? </i>I left the house in my pajamas figuring I was just going cross town so who would ever see me? The problem is my pajamas consisted of a pair of boys boxer briefs and a tee-shirt that hovered just slightly north of my navel due to all the baby fat I have failed to shed in the last 10 years. And, it goes without saying that I was braless. </blockquote>
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Looking through my sideview mirror, the officer pulled himself from his patrol car and immediately adjusted his crotch. </blockquote>
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In the fantasy of my head, I made the following imaginary report into my imaginary oversized Motorola handheld, "Headquarters, we've got a douchebag on our hands. Roger that." </blockquote>
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Instead, while I tried to keep my unharnessed breasts from grazing in the open pasture of the dashboard I impishly asked, "Is there a problem, Officer?" </blockquote>
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(Authoritative tubercular cough that released stale fumes of a recently extinguished Parliament.) "Um, mam, do you know your rear tail light is out?" </blockquote>
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<i>Really? Seriously? </i>I'm sorry, but I couldn't help myself and replied, "Not unless I'm clairvoyant." </blockquote>
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Did you know that douchebag cops have absolutely no sense of humor? Well, take my word for it. They don't. </blockquote>
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"Mam, step out of the vehicle now." </blockquote>
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Good grief! My body froze with fear as I saw my friend's husband standing at the bus stop and the president of the school board standing at the corner waiting to cross. Both looking in my direction. </blockquote>
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"Mam, I said step out of the vehicle. <i>Now!</i>" </blockquote>
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I hesitatingly opened the car door and placed one barefoot on the ground, took a deep breath and boldly climbed out of the car. Waiting to be publicly excoriated, I prepared myself for Officer Douchebag's tirade. But all I could hear as I stared at my naked feet was the sound of traffic passing <i>slowly </i>by. Very slowly. </blockquote>
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I raised my gaze to O.D.'s face. It took a few seconds before my brain could process the look on his face. He was thoroughly embarrassed seeing me standing in the line of traffic, in front of him, braless in briefs on the streets of his town. I could feel the power washing over me and I stood there waiting until the transfer was complete. Neither one of us said a word in that momentary powerful pause. </blockquote>
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By the time he muttered, "Okay mam, you can get back into the vehicle," I was sufficiently pissed off enough to righteously counter, "No, no, no, officer. I'll stand here like you requested. No problem." </blockquote>
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"Mam, please return to the vehicle." </blockquote>
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"No, no officer. Show me the broken light so I know which one to have my mechanic fix. Wait, let me just adjust these briefs before I bend down," I said as I exaggeratedly tugged at the little-boy fly-hole. </blockquote>
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"Mam, I'm directing you to please get back into your vehicle and make sure you get that taken care of as soon as possible." </blockquote>
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Dropping his pen without bothering to pick it up, he ran to his marked car and jumped in without the prerequisite tug 'o the crotch hopefully giving himself a bad case of ball burn. </blockquote>
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Now, with the entire bus stop filled with men watching me like I was some kind of freaky circus side show, I triumphantly climbed back into my minivan, but not before once again tugging on my crotch to let everyone know that there's a new sheriff in town and she's braless in briefs!</blockquote>
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Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-31328936792469841692011-07-29T10:28:00.000-07:002011-08-01T17:54:01.545-07:00ON LANGUAGE: A COCK & BALL STORY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMRGkUVyd2xrf6lhh0SdSk9fcHCe8Nwajv2zsO7nryqu7GAF547iNbiRrlOPGA_K03HKMX8Xp4dzRNMOEd3vCgLxecy8jwLffisaBGu-njDgvSatEg3gOCDsUrZOVHOTZcusbrd3uPBouv/s1600/2011-07-15+17.23.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMRGkUVyd2xrf6lhh0SdSk9fcHCe8Nwajv2zsO7nryqu7GAF547iNbiRrlOPGA_K03HKMX8Xp4dzRNMOEd3vCgLxecy8jwLffisaBGu-njDgvSatEg3gOCDsUrZOVHOTZcusbrd3uPBouv/s320/2011-07-15+17.23.12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Why is that every time I go to use my balls they’re lying all over the place dirty and deflated?” Jim huffed as he came in from outside balancing two dirty basketballs in his hands. “People in this house better start respecting my balls and treating them a little better!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It isn’t often that life, specifically my husband, hands me such a golden nugget. Retorts popped in my brain like kernels of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jiffy-Pop </i>until the overload switch kicked in and I was rendered completely speechless. The best I could do was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cock</i> an eyebrow at his dirty balls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes, I know this is juvenile, but I have an eight-year old son so I’m kind of stuck in the land of all things juvenile right now. And recently, the eleven-year old brother of one of his friends decided to inform all the neighborhood eight-year olds that the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ball </i>carries a dual meaning. I know this because he told me as I was tucking him into bed one night. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know mom ‘Sam’s’ brother told us today that the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ball</i> means something else,” Jack confided.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>HIT THE PAUSE BUTTON and REWIND. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span closure_uid_r3tnnb="800" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Okay, I learned that before jumping to conclusions, it’s always good to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perry Mason</i> your kids because often (in my case) conclusions are jumped to that often convict them of offenses they never intended to commit. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">The last week of school Jack informed me that a classmate urged him to say the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“C”</i> word. Horrified, I cut him off, stormed out of the room and immediately called said classmate’s mother. She emphatically protested that there was no way her son would ever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know </i>that word let alone say it, and summarily hung up on me, ending what never would have been a friendship. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Filled with indignation, I went back to Jack for more information to prove her wrong. Not wanting to have Jack <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">say </i>the offensive word the boy tried to force him to say, I instructed him to spell it for me--letter by letter. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Jack, what letter comes after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C?”</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">D,” </i>he replied matter-of-factly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C-D?</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack, what letter comes after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C</i>? I asked, beginning to lose my patience. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I told you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">D.”</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>word isn’t followed by the letter <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">D.”</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Mom,” he replied in irritation. “You asked me what letter comes after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C. D </i>comes after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>in the alphabet.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, No, No. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>word. What letter comes after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>word?” I pressed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. Are we still talking about that? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">R.</i> R comes after C<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">”</i> he said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“C-R?”</i> I couldn’t make it out. “What letter comes after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">R</i> and if you tell me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">S</i> I’ll send you to your room!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“</i>A comes after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">R.”</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">C-R-A…</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C</i> word isn’t spelled that way. “Give me another letter,” I demanded, mingling my impatient frustration with his. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Geeze mom, what is this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wheel of Fortune?” </i>he angrily retorted. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I want to know the next letter in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>word!” I yelled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">P.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C-R-A-P. </i>There mom. Are you happy now? You just had me spell the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C</i> word.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crap?</i> Crap is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>word you’re talking about? Are you kidding me?” I almost said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Are you fucking kidding me? </i>but thankfully my half-second delay had miraculously kicked in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Relieved that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C </i>word he was talking about was only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">crap </i>I said, “You’re right Jack. That is a bad <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C</i> word. I’m glad you didn’t say it. I’m proud of you.” And considering that swearing is my second language, I was indeed proud of him for not saying it to his classmates.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which is why I hesitated jumping to conclusions with his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">balls </i>story. I wanted to make sure we were both on the same page.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mom,” he whispered conspiratorially, “did you know (laugh, laugh, giggle, giggle) that a ball isn’t only something you toss, kick or dribble. It’s your…you know,” he continued to laugh as he pointed towards his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">SpongeBob</i> briefs that he was wearing inside-out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I don’t know which was cuter. Him thinking that he and his friends were let in on a great newly discovered secret, or the fact that he thought he was teaching me something entirely new. I was just so thrilled that I still had enough currency in his world that he wanted to share this with me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">The problem is that he now tries to fit this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">double entendre </i>into every possible sentence and scenario. And his father, so happy to have a bona fide excuse to act like an eight-year old again, was happy to indulge. He did not see it as immature; he preferred to see it as bonding with his son. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">So, needless to say I am referee to all the dinner table father-son <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ball-</i>banter stories whether at home, at restaurants, or at Grandma’s; all the sports references about chasing balls, kicking balls, balls hitting the net…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">And then there was my son’s original song, “I’ve Got 3 Balls, That’s Why I Limp” created as we were walking to the field while he was carrying his basketball, soccer ball, and baseball. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">So how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to unleash my inner eight-year old when my husband stood before me asking about his deflated dirty balls? However, the moment was interrupted by the doorbell. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Standing in my doorway was our neighbor holding a mud crusted basketball in her hand that she had plucked from the body of her newly planted azalea bush. She and I just stood there staring each other down until she cocked her untrimmed eyebrow at the dirty ball. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“I believe this dirty ball belongs to you? Can you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please </i>keep them out of my bushes? ” she scolded. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Jim,” I called from the porch. “The neighbor wants you to keep your dirty balls out of her bush!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I’ve learned that if you can’t beat your metaphorical balls, you might as well join them. And laugh out loud.</span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-16486058934540108352011-06-24T11:21:00.000-07:002011-06-24T11:28:00.079-07:00Will Somebody Please Jump My Husband?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqnu1uBXlK9Z3X9uHRB62IJFWIOZRHQuGSrfDQVCt9RRtj6jHtwKX_6_SGheR5VZkt9P4pn-NiKERMIen7MWj-2aevbKsRGrk6Nv-8r0wS7np5irO8QVGYxZtCDOk7Sf2Vq1FWh5BopdU/s1600/FIRE+HELMET.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqnu1uBXlK9Z3X9uHRB62IJFWIOZRHQuGSrfDQVCt9RRtj6jHtwKX_6_SGheR5VZkt9P4pn-NiKERMIen7MWj-2aevbKsRGrk6Nv-8r0wS7np5irO8QVGYxZtCDOk7Sf2Vq1FWh5BopdU/s320/FIRE+HELMET.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“I have to ask my husband, first,” the slightly overweight woman with one flip-flopped foot out of her child-bearing years hesitatingly responded as her face blushed a terrific shade of ruby red. “I’ve never done it alone with another man. I wouldn’t even know what to d-d-do,” she stammered before turning away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Critically, I watched as she shuffled away from my husband and through the door of <i><a href="http://www.syms.com/">Syms</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>still tightly clutching to her chest her husband’s dress loafers that she had come out to her car to retrieve so the tailor could properly measure the cuffs of his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">almost </i>purchased pants. Even from where I stood I could tell by the width of the shoes, along with the visibly worn condition of the heels (the sides depleted into lopsided discs from the weight of wear), he was quite the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loafer</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What</i> did she say to you?” I asked my husband, Jim, as he returned to our car, shoulders slouched in total dejection.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “She said she had to ask her husband first.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “What<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">? </i>When the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hell</i> is a man as good looking as you ever going to ask a woman like her for a jump!” I demanded. I wanted answers. “Did she see that you’re wearing a <a href="http://fortleefire.org/">Fort Lee Fire Department</a> tee-shirt?” He just gave me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the </i>look. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> We stood in the parking lot, the hood of our aging mini-van propped open; two hot, sweating, irritable children leaning against the trunk. The jumper cables hanging precariously from the hands of my eight-year old who, by the way, felt compelled to put on his old hockey helmet he had retrieved from the <i><a href="http://www.goodwill.org/">Goodwill</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>bag in the trunk only to realize that the reason it was in the <i><a href="http://www.goodwill.org/">Goodwill</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>bag is because it’s too small. It was now firmly affixed to his skull. While I was yanking at his head, Jim was approaching people as they exited <i><a href="http://www.syms.com/">Syms</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>asking if they could give our car battery a jump. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> The 50-year old man with his trophy girlfriend responded, “Sorry, man, we’re in a hurry.” Trying to stay positive, I just assumed he had to get her home before curfew. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> The 30-year old with the brand new <i><a href="http://lexus.com/">Lexus</a></i> murmured, “Sorry, I don’t want anything to happen to my car.” (My positivity waning, I wanted to instruct my son to head-butt the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lexus</i> with his helmet<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> The father of the family of six informed Jim, “Wish we could help, but we have to get the kids home.” (Oh, don’t worry. My kids have been pining for us to let them spend the night in the parking lot of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Syms.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> My favorite, however, was the man with the shiny <i><a href="http://www.ford.com/trucks/superduty/">Ford</a></i> pick-up truck, oversized wheels, adorned with American flags and 9/11 decals, who looked our way, but didn’t respond. He just got into the cab of his truck and drove away. This man who probably shed buckets of <i><a href="http://budweiser.com/public/agecheck.aspx?ReturnUrl=%2fdefault.aspx&AspxAutoDetectCookieSupport=1">Budweiser</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>tears on the anniversary of 9/11 for people he doesn’t even know. This man who feels it necessary to billboard his patriotism for the entire world to see so his love and devotion to country is never questioned, has not one ounce of compassion for his countrymen or their young children. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Rejection after rejection after rejection. I was stunned by the conscious diffidence of humanity as it passed before us, refusing to make eye contact. Is this what we’ve become? We can all be friends on <i><a href="http://www.facebook.com/">Facebook</a></i>, but isolate ourselves from each other when real life interferes? Have we been reduced to <i><a href="http://sims.com/">Sims</a></i> characters—just virtual shadows desensitized and controlled solely by the functions of the keyboard?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Growing up our car regularly broke down. Hell, everybody’s car regularly broke down. I have no memory of my father ever having to ask anyone for help—people would just pull over and help us. And I don’t think we ever went anywhere without stopping to help someone whose car was disabled. I was raised to understand that an open hood was the universal sign for “Stop and Help Your Neighbor.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Finally, listening to yet another rejection and unable to take it anymore, the sky now black with night, I stood in the middle of the parking lot and literally screamed to everyone walking past us, “Can’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone JUMP</i> my husband? He’s a firefighter for godsake! He doesn’t say ‘No’ when your house is on fire—he just runs in! He leaves his family to help yours, but no one, NOT ONE OF YOU can give this man a jump! What’s wrong with all you people?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> I wish I could tell you that everyone came rushing to our aide, but they didn’t. Although they listened to my rant with seeming amusement, most kept on walking. Walking without pause or concern. Except for a group of elderly people, two men and their wives. Four people, their words thickened by accents not native to our country, put their hands upon my shoulder and said of course they would help. They drove their car up to ours and within seconds our motor was humming. I could have cried from their simple generosity.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> As our family piled back into the running van my husband looked at me and said, “Wow, that was embarrassing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I know,” I replied in agreement. “I can’t believe no one would help us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I’m talking about your outburst,” he said before bursting into laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Momentarily I considered pushing him out of our van that was now doing 60 m..p.h. on Route 17 North, but thought better of it. Not only because we’ve been together for so long he’s like an accessory that never really goes out of style, but because I cancelled my life insurance policy on him. And who could I possibly get to walk <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bad Dog </i>every day? But just see how long he has to wait for me to give him a jump!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-50133988127666076812011-06-12T13:57:00.000-07:002011-06-12T16:32:28.817-07:00DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES OF MATTEL<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKvS5SzPonp4pDnxVZV-Iz-YBV57k6JcX04bMbEsgxkt2BYocY7eN7KXTNlUuqq_hKBjSZRrhYzPLSLsBjPwEVSCDO3zGwovyDb4dh5fAuGMA_tTDcsbyQRUao8k35FbU5DINepJien_BJ/s1600/BARBIE+IN+BETTER+DAYS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKvS5SzPonp4pDnxVZV-Iz-YBV57k6JcX04bMbEsgxkt2BYocY7eN7KXTNlUuqq_hKBjSZRrhYzPLSLsBjPwEVSCDO3zGwovyDb4dh5fAuGMA_tTDcsbyQRUao8k35FbU5DINepJien_BJ/s320/BARBIE+IN+BETTER+DAYS.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbie in better days<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Here—these have been in my hall closet for 35 years,” my mother said as she walked into my house and thrust two ragged vinyl cases into my unsuspecting hands. There was a familiar feel to them, and as she walked towards my kitchen, I lifted one of the cases closer to my failing eyes. I focused on the familiar script scrolled across the flamingo pink case – <i><a href="http://shop.mattel.com/search/index.jsp?kw=barbie">BARBIE</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">For some reason the moment became awkward; like unexpectedly meeting an old flame and pretending that you meant to leave the house without wearing a bra because you believe that your breasts <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> up for the challenge. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I shoved them (the vinyl cases, not my boobs, although there was an iffy moment) underneath my son’s train table and decided not to think of the implications of having a forty-something year old <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie</i> living with me under my roof. Let’s face it—at seven <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>presented our un-formed bodies and ego with endless possibilities which is why we played with her for hours. At forty-something, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>is a reminder of all I never achieved--a camper, plane, or cruise ship with my name on it; breasts that never needed a bra; no back fat; a high-arch from wearing heels to the moon and the beach; a pose-able body; and an androgynous boyfriend (no, wait—I had one of those in college). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Those cases sat hidden beneath the train table for weeks. I felt compelled to wait until I was alone to open them. Truth be told, I knew how the last 35 years treated me; I was afraid to see how they treated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie. </i>I chose to open the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie Dream House</i> case first. I was startled by the familiar fragrance--piquant plastic with just a hint of toxicity so evocative of everything 1970’s. I remember the Christmas morning <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Dream House </i>case sat sparkling new beneath the artificial tree. I was beside myself with joy because unlike the standard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>cases, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Dream House </i>case came with drawers for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie’s</i> clothes and two Murphy beds—you know, for when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>had those fabulous all-girl sleepovers! She slept in the camper whenever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">G.I. Joe</i> visited. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Hanging onto the memory of that Christmas morning I opened the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dream House </i>door and…OH! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The horror! The horror!</i> The years had not been kind to my beloved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie</i>. Shrouded by a pile of knotted clothes, I found <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie.</i> She was missing an arm, and had a gaping bald spot. However, even in her amputated state <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie</i> oozed that haughty deluded “You can only dream you were me” attitude. When I opened her dream drawers I half expected to find a collection of empty bottles of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prozac</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jack Daniels </i>buried beneath her pastel string bikinis and matching kerchiefs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">My mother had thought that my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>collection might be worth something; sadly they held value only to those who collected “<i>Crack Whore</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie.</i>” Was it the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">free love 70’s, </i>or the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boom-boom 80’s,</i> or never being able to walk flat-footed that ultimately broke <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie</i>? Perhaps it was her sexless relationship with Ken—I mean, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mattel </i>may have given him mod hair, but they gave him <i>nothing</i> down <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie’s </i>sad condition just a product of her being overworked? Her career(s) really took off in the ‘80’s—she was a teacher, an astronaut, a roller-boogier, an aerobics instructor, a veterinarian, a doctor, a rock star…could she realistically maintain that workload without a little help from her friends? (Wait, am I talking about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>?) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Almost like a premonition of their future divorce, I had stored <i>Ken</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>in the other case. The years had been kinder to him, but the glue from his 1973 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mod hair </i>left a permanent sticky, icky five-o’clock shadow and his plaid sports coat seemed grossly dated. Although I must say, his plastic Birkenstocks seem so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">today</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mattel </i>discontinued <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ken </i>(read: divorce) and I always thought that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>preferred the roughness of <i><a href="http://www.hasbro.com/gijoe/en_US/">G.I. Joe</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>(read: penis) ergo their camper sleepovers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Stuffed into the case with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ken </i>were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie’s </i>friends, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midge </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Francie.</i> The way they were all tangled together it might have looked like a sick orgy, but they were worse off than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie</i>—legless and naked, and let’s be real—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ken’s </i>Birkenstocks don’t exactly scream orgy. At least not with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midge </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Francie.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I decided <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>and her friends desperately needed a <i><a href="http://www.bratz.com/">Bratz</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>intervention. Of all the housewives, my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie’s </i>were the most desperate of all. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bratz</i> girls could introduce Barbie and her friends to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy Glue, Rogaine, Botox</i>, more natural looking implants, and martinis. In exchange Barbie could teach the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bratz</i> girls the merits of working rather than “working it”. My girlfriend suggested that a better solution would be to send one of the <i><a href="http://store.americangirl.com/agshop/static/home.jsp?utm_source=bing&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=american%2Bgirl%2Bdolls&utm_campaign=Bing_Brand">American Girls</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>over to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dream House, </i>but with the way my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie </i>dolls looked, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Girls </i>would need serious therapy! And just wait until those <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Girls</i> hit puberty. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I closed the cases and looked around at my own dream house. The paint is peeling from where the tub leaked into the dining room, baskets of laundry are waiting to be ironed, and my <i><a href="http://www.videosurf.com/video/1973-quick-curl-barbie-mod-hair-ken-commercial-81376304">Mod Hair Ken</a></i> is just happy to have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> hair, mod or not. 35 years later, I finally looked better than my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie, </i>but I wouldn’t mind a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bratz </i>intervention – or a martini – right about now! But that’s just this American Girl’s opinion.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-87152656495826258112011-06-10T20:55:00.001-07:002011-06-10T20:55:51.746-07:00DATE NIGHT GOES PAWN<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8rt0sGgvqPoWUF-OpRY8Ue6mlR_84PDKPwnZx7v-a_mRAJnb2fNdOS8XU3QFBQ8JKEXzE3cdZ6yENF_1dZ0P_dsC71EiNvYa7SxT2Ivl3BrWCyS7_9wRxVLEupOkg2eQDp8h3HUrDSJZN/s1600/131+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8rt0sGgvqPoWUF-OpRY8Ue6mlR_84PDKPwnZx7v-a_mRAJnb2fNdOS8XU3QFBQ8JKEXzE3cdZ6yENF_1dZ0P_dsC71EiNvYa7SxT2Ivl3BrWCyS7_9wRxVLEupOkg2eQDp8h3HUrDSJZN/s320/131+-+Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px; line-height: 24px;"></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“You know, we really need to put more effort into having a date night every week,” my husband Jim told me as I breathlessly pushed the over-flowing basket of just-washed laundry past him so I could begin the titillating task of folding underwear, towels and socks.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Great,” I replied as I struggled to dump the heavy load of laundry onto our disheveled bed, “That’s exactly what I need. You babysit and I’ll find a date.”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">He looked at me with a gaze that was less, “I’m passionately bemused by you,” and more like a little boy who’s gone and got himself lost at the zoo and he’s scouring the crowd for the familiar face of his mother. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">The same look he wears when the mortgage is due, or when a kid in the playground mistakingly calls him “Daddy.” </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Okay, okay,” I surrendered. “I’ll babysit and you get a date. If you find someone with paid health benefits, I’ll even buy the two of you dinner!” I shouted after him since he had already turned and walked away. I even leaned over the railing and repeated my offer as he descended the stairs to find comfort in the storied arms of the</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2073898015"><span style="color: blue; line-height: 200%;">History Channel’s</span><span style="color: windowtext; line-height: 200%; text-decoration: none;"> </span></a><i><a href="http://www.history.com/shows/pawn-stars"><span style="color: blue; line-height: 200%;">Pawn Stars</span></a></i>.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">What happens as we get older? I mean, when I was in my twenties, if anyone looked at my man I would have unleashed my inner-Jersey on them. I guess when you’ve been together for as long as we have, it’s like going to war—you’re so weary that you can barely sit hunched in the trenches together let alone converse. Except the trenches in our war are in desperate need of being reupholstered. We’ve been through good times, bad times, two kids, one Bad Dog, holidays with a houseful of people when the town sewer backed up into our basement, unemployment, partial employment, sickness, more sickness, dog’s sickness…tell me when to stop.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Thinking back now, our marriage didn’t really begin until we had children. Prior to that, it really was one big endless date night interrupted only by the occasional major blow-out fight. When I think about those fights now I think two things: 1) Wow, we had a lot of time on our hands. I mean with kids, when do you have time to put a coherent sentence together let alone fight and indulge in a good post-fight three-day brood-fest (oh, how I miss those brood-fests!); and 2) we had money in our pockets, sneakers without holes, my ex-boyfriend’s rent-controlled apartment, and a weekly house cleaner so what the</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">hell</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">were we fighting about?</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Once, only once, I threw my engagement ring at Jim’s head. It was after he dumped me at “pre-Cana.” For the uninitiated, pre-Cana is required pre-marriage marriage counseling that the Catholic Church requires all engaged couples to take part in before you can get married in the church. Having gone through 12 years of Catholic school and having, at that time, never missed a Sunday mass, I opted (yes</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">) for the pre-Cana weekend retreat (rather than the six-hour quickie session) that was being offered in a church somewhere on the foreign soil of Maplewood.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Mike and Carol Brady were our pre-Cana chaperones. I don’t think that it was physically possible for them to stop smiling. Now, that wouldn’t have been so bad if they had been older than me and Jim, but they weren’t. Nor were any of the other couples in attendance. And of course, we had to bunk with a same-sex partner (the only time the church condones same-sex anything) in assigned rooms in the rectory. Unfortunately, they had overbooked the weekend, and because we were the last to arrive all the men had already grabbed their partner and had claimed their room which meant that Jim didn’t have a room. Somehow I ended up in a three-way with two cousins from Kearney, but I think Jim’s 6’5” frame was too intimidating for any of the men to consider bringing</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> him into their fold, so to speak. So, Mike and Carol assigned him to a loveseat in the rectory foyer and asked him if he wouldn’t mind answering the door and phone if someone should ring. The love seat was about 3’ long which is about 31/2 feet too short for him. Being the silent type, Jim said nothing.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">We were the last to arrive because we had both got out of work late</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> (I believe we were the only ones old enough to hold a full-time job) and not only did Jim not get a bed, we also got no dinner because they had already served the buffet and</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">locked</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">the food away in the pantry. Neither of us had eaten all day. When Jim told Mike and Carol he was going to run out to get us something to eat they told him he couldn’t leave the premises and gave him a pack of gum to stave off the hunger. Jim, being the silent type, said nothing.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">There was a priest there; in fact, he had married Mike and Carol. He corralled us into a room to tell us what we could expect from marriage, which struck me as odd then, but odder now. He even discussed the woman’s role in sexual relations which, yes, was odd though I marveled at how many people were furiously taking notes. I didn’t even have a pen. Then the priest, Mike, and Carol gave us notebooks and sent us all off to find a quiet place where we could write to our betrothed our true and honest feelings. After 10 minutes of writing how much I loved him, and how excited I was to spend the next 50 years of my life with him, Jim arrived at the door to my room. Jim being the silent type, threw the notebook directly at my head and seethed, “Here read this,” and stormed out.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I opened the book and read, “I hate this <i>fucking</i> place; this is a big <i>fucking</i> mistake. I’m leaving. Love Jim.” I did what any other woman in my circumstance would do. I started sobbing. Not crying, not weeping, we’re talking deep, soulful</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">my man gone done me wrong</span></i><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">sobbing. Mike, Carol, the Kearney cousins, the priest and all the other pre-Cananites came running and before I knew it I was in the middle of some twisted group Kumbaya. Through heaving sobs I explained what had just happened and showed them what Jim wrote. Carol said this was a direct message from God that I shouldn’t marry him. As the group avidly concurred and started a prayer chain invoking Jesus to bless me, I snapped back to my senses and took a good look at the crowd. Then I, too, said a little prayer to Jesus, “<i>Jesus Christ</i>, if I don’t get out of here quick I’m going to be stuck with these crazy people.” I grabbed my knock-off designer duffel bag and ran outside to the parking lot.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Jim was sitting in his car, two lit cigarettes in one hand while the other proceeded to unwrap and chew each stick of gum as if they were pieces of filet mignon. I threw myself into the passenger seat just in time for him to peel out of the chain-linked fence parking lot. Except for the chewing, all was silent until we reached the entrance to the Turnpike. That’s when I took my engagement ring off and threw it, no,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> I mean</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">wailed</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">it, at his head while screaming, “You</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">dumped</span></i><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">me at pre-Cana????</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Really???</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">What kind of sick</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">fuck</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">does that???”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">He took me home where I brooded for a week. Ultimately I ignored the advice of Mike and Carol Brady and went through with the wedding. Thanks to a compassionate priest, we did a drive-thru version of pre-Cana in a church hall that had vending machines and allowed smoking.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">And here we are, years later, still together. Thinking about this as I folded the laundry, listening to the kids screaming over the incessant barking of the dog, I shouted, “God bless you for still wanting to have a date night with me after all these years,” but he couldn’t hear me. Not even</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I</span></i><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">can come between my man and his <i>Pawn.</i></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-50564944679125349702011-04-27T16:46:00.000-07:002011-06-10T22:06:04.536-07:00ASKING BILL BUCKLEY TO MY SENIOR PROM<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.suite101.com/2585353_com_buckley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://images.suite101.com/2585353_com_buckley.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hmmm...I must remember to tell Pat to have my tux cleaned so I can wear it to take Ann to the prom."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">In 1981, while other 15-year-old girls were hanging pictures of rock stars on their bedroom walls, I was amputating the perfectly chiseled face of William F. Buckley from newspapers and magazines and scotch taping it with random precision to my floral papered bedroom wall as if Bill Buckley might just stroll one day through the pastel garden of my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boudoir</i>. Bill Buckley smiling; Bill Buckley in tuxedo; Bill Buckley with his hair askew standing on the bow of his yacht. This was the collage of the man who spoke to me every week with such elegance and erudition. I was simply in love with a man who was in love with language. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> Our cerebral love affair (mine and Bill’s, of course) began when I first sat down to watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Firing Line</i> with my union president father. The first majestic note of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F Major, Third Movement, (allegro assai) ushered me into the cerebral cathedral of Compassionate Conservatives<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> Listening to Bill debate with his guests the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sturm und drang</i> of world politics; the responsibility of our leadership to retain our position of dominance while extending the rewards of our capitalistic philosophy to Third World countries—all this, made me fall in love with him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> Despite the great divide of our ages, I knew that Bill and I could form a perfect partnership. It’s because of Bill that I studied Latin at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paramus Catholic Girls Regional High School</i>. As I sat imprisoned in my archaic wooden desk, diligently concentrating as Sr. Helen Rita dryly lectured on declensions and etymology, my thoughts ebbed and flowed with imaginings of my future with Bill. Sitting elbow-to-elbow in a darkened corner of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elaine’s </i>fluently whispering our private Latin to each other while Norman Mailer eyed us with drunken jealousy. I wanted to be Bill’s muse, his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tabula rasa, </i>upon whom he could impart the worlds of his knowledge while Pat and Bill Blass did the Paris fashion shows. I didn’t want to have his name, or his child--only his vocabulary. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> In the spring of 1983, my political science class was awarded an opportunity to attend a taping of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Firing Line. </i>As we walked onto the darkened set, I noticed the overflowing pile of notes by Bill’s chair. I lifted one of the notebooks and stared at the hieroglyphics of Bill’s handwriting with the same rush of discovery of a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National Geographic </i>explorer who has just unearthed the new tomb of an old pharaoh. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Then there he was, striding confidently into my life. The stagger of his swagger suggested he had sipped one too many gently shaken dry martinis at PJ Clarkes for lunch<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>He gently collapsed, rather than sat, into his chair. His broad smile metastasized into an annoyed grimace, his lips emitting a barely audible grumble, as he shooed away the make-up person, who was hovering directly above his face with a large black-bristled powder brush that dripped its incandescence all over his dark blue suit. His eyes looked beyond the bright overhead lights as he adjusted his tie—focusing his gaze on the black space beyond the lights, beyond the audience, to that space that held no reflection, only darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">After the show, Bill came over to our group. Overwhelmed with anxiety, I stood off to the side. After answering questions from my classmates, he strode away from the circle, approached me and asked about my future plans. I told him that I wanted to be a writer and was reading the ancients, classics, and my monthly subscription to The National Review. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> With a wry eye he proposed that while the ancients would impart to me substantial intellectual footing, his works would endow me with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gravitas. </i>And then, utterly charmed, I was moved to ask him to my senior prom. He tossed his head back and released a sincere laugh while his eyes stared above me in the act of great consideration.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yours is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best</i> invitation I’ve had in a very long time; but an old man like me escorting such a vibrant thinker as yourself would be a bore to both you and your friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> Before walking away he placed his left hand upon my shoulder and said, “Keep reading and writing and thinking. I expect to be reading you one day.” And then as quietly and undisturbingly as he had walked into my life, he was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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</div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-52323108628018828492011-04-20T22:40:00.000-07:002011-04-20T22:40:47.915-07:00ANNIE SEZ: ALL SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW UNLESS YOU’RE A CRAZED WHITE WOMAN WHO’S LATE PICKING UP HER KIDS FROM SCHOOL<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mydoorsign.com/img/lg/S/Shoplifting-Is-Crime-Sign-S-7247.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://www.mydoorsign.com/img/lg/S/Shoplifting-Is-Crime-Sign-S-7247.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As my left foot crossed the exit of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Annie Sez</i> it sounded as if I had hit the jackpot on every slot machine in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tropicana</i>. So startled was I by the incessant “beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep” of the security bar that I couldn’t move. Once again I had lost track of time and now I was running to pick up the kids from school. An older sales woman gently guided me back so that the noise would cease. Like a patient <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brownie</i> Scout Leader spending extra time with that child who just can’t quite grasp the craft of the day (that would be me), she checked my bag that contained a lone pair of $1.99 earrings purchased from the 75%-off sale rack. I had only gone in to browse for five minutes--an hour before.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s see if there’s a security sticker on the earrings that we forgot to remove,” she kindly sang.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As she and my new dangling faux diamond earrings walked past the security bars, all was silent. “Hmm, nothing seems to be wrong with the earrings,” she commented.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I took the bag and walked through the security bars, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh for goodness sake!” I yelled. “I have five minutes to get my kids from school!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe it’s your keys or your cell phone. Don’t worry, go ahead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe it’s my artificial brain,” I quipped as we both giggled. I dashed across the parking lot fumbling for my keys only to have my cell phone smash to the ground. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Terrific!” I cursed. This phone has to make it to May 1<sup>st</sup>. That’s when my contract is up and I absolutely refuse to cave to that smug <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Verizon</i> sales guy who informed me when I brought him my fractured phone, “Well, the cheapest replacement phone we have will cost you $300 since technically when you broke your phone you broke your contract.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I leaned in close to him and seethed, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can you hear me now</i>? I don’t care if I have to use <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Campbell Soup</i> cans to make phone calls! Hell will freeze over before I give <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Verizon </i>one extra penny before my contract expires!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Make sure you get the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Campbell’s</i> Alphabet Soup if you want to text then,” he said as he went back to his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smart *** </i>phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I drove up Route 5 to Leonia with my left hand on the wheel, my right hand reached over and into the glove compartment, grabbed the duct tape, ripped a piece off, and wound it around the broken back of my Blackberry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With seconds to spare, I made it to the school in time. As I gathered my kids from the front door, I told my son we were going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modell’s</i> to get him his baseball cleats and run a few errands. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I beeped both going into and out of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modell’s. </i>I told the security guard “Oh, this has been happening to me all day! I feel like I’m going to be on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">America’s Most Wanted!</i>” We both laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I beeped my way out of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mandee’s, Bed Bath and Beyond, Burlington Coat Factory</i> and the library, each time laughing with Security as I joked, “Oops, you caught me!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When we finally got home I kicked off my shoes and as I removed my jacket to place it over the banister something hard fell to the floor. Then something else. And something else. I looked down and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oh the horror! THE HORROR!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lying on my floor were two $29.99 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">August Silk </i>tee-shirts and a $24.99 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Calvin Klein</i> bra. All with those rectangular plastic security tags hanging from them, I have since learned are called “hard maxi’s” in the security trade. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the hell?”</i> I screamed out loud to no one in particular.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s when I saw another plastic security tag hanging from the lining of my jacket. Inside the detachable lining of my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">L.L.Bean </i>barn jacket hung yet another <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Calvin Klein</i> bra. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Who stuffed these down my back? How did I not feel someone do this? Am I a somnambulant kleptomaniac? Did I sleepwalk through shoplifting?” my mind raced. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That’s when I remembered the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Annie Sez </i>dressing room. When I went to try on jeans someone had left clothes hanging on the room’s lone hook. None of those clothes were on hangars and I remembered thinking that was odd. I had hung my coat on top of that pile of orphaned clothes and when I left I must have grabbed the clothes along with my coat. They must have somehow fallen between the gap in my coat’s removable lining where I’m missing three buttons. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Panic set in. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear God! </i>Here I am running around Bergen County all afternoon, a mule carrying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hot</i> clothes, setting off alarms in store after store, and no one even asks me to remove my coat? It made me realize just how much a white woman with bad hair, no make-up, and a minivan can get away with! Seriously. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I drove back to the scene of the crime I imagined a thousand scenarios to explain what had happened because the truth was just too unbelievable. But the truth was all I had left to give. That and the unintentionally pilfered clothes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As I beeped my way back into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Annie Sez </i>to return the swag I explained to the perfectly coiffed, well-heeled twenty-something childless manager what had happened. She looked at me as if I were insane. Truth be told she wasn’t all that wrong. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-24501209647235815792011-04-14T13:48:00.000-07:002011-04-14T13:48:24.660-07:00WALKING IMELDA: A BAD DOG STORY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNXutboStcy0uU3CVmG7Kiv3FB1wYadO7ubC3-AZwpdr-4EFVZu8YWNUszqC4lx1uVuFYRhCYyuqDeFxL2mPPHtCB-5U7LgwWqAk1QAhbMJi8fi37ImObrDWrQDygz1C1mgS3jEQW3HWI/s1600/IMELDA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNXutboStcy0uU3CVmG7Kiv3FB1wYadO7ubC3-AZwpdr-4EFVZu8YWNUszqC4lx1uVuFYRhCYyuqDeFxL2mPPHtCB-5U7LgwWqAk1QAhbMJi8fi37ImObrDWrQDygz1C1mgS3jEQW3HWI/s320/IMELDA.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What should I wear on my walk tonight?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I have a bad habit of talking to people in line at the Shop Rite rather than doing what everyone else does—devouring every gossip rag until it’s time to load the groceries onto the conveyor. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Bad Dog was a serial killer in a past life???” I answered her incredulously.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m just trying to explain to you that in my religion, animals hold a very special place. Divinity is found in the midst of everyday life and permeates all forms of being. All life forms are manifestations of God as limited beings.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She asked me to consider the idea that animals were people who had made mistakes in their life as a human and have come back to earth as a lower life form in their quest for enlightenment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So, Bad Dog did something <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bad</i> in her life as a human and now she’s back as a dog to repent for past mistakes? Newsflash: she’s failing miserably,” I said as I thought of all the times she snatched my husband’s steak from his dinner plate, purloined the Sunday loin, and managed to claw open the refrigerator door and chow down when left alone in the house. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>However, my conversation with this lovely lady has made me look at Bad Dog in an entirely new light. At night as Bad Dog snuggles up to me from Jim’s side of the bed I wonder if I’m really snuggling with Jeffrey Dahmer or Saddam Hussein.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No, there’s no way that Bad Dog was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> a man. She’s entirely too smart in a cleverly manipulative way. No question—her karma just screams WOMAN! But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">which</i> woman? I made it my mission to find out. There is no doubt in my mind that her Pomeranian friend Bitsy was Marie Antionette in her previous life. Her perfectly pouffed coif could display a naval ship, or a birdcage, no problem. Also, Bitsy’s regal carriage possesses a “Let them eat cake,” air of superiority. Of course, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bad Dog carries a “Let me steal cake” air ala <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Miserables</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I tried to see what Bad Dog gravitated towards that would help me to discover what notorious woman in history she was. You all know her recent penchant for drinking day old wine if she can get the bottle to fall to the floor at the right angle when she knocks it off the refrigerator shelf. Well, there’s <span class="apple-style-span">an ancient Persian fable that credits the discovery of wine with a woman. Could this woman have been Bad Dog?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">According to the fable a princess lost favor with the King and the shame was so overwhelming that she ate some table grapes that had spoiled in their jar in an attempt to end her life. Instead of dying she got so silly and giddy passing out. When she awoke she found that all her troubles had disappeared. She decided to eat more of the spoiled grapes and the more she ate, the more her mood changed for the better. So much so that she regained the favor of the King. Wine had solved and dissolved all of her earthly problems. Could this be Bad Dog?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No, because no matter how much wine she drinks, she never regains the favor of King Jim who threatens to return her to the pound every time she pilfers his dinner. In fact, no matter how much wine <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> drink I seldom regain the favor of King Jim who threatens to return me to the pound—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in his dreams!</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then one day I walked into my bedroom and there, cuddled around the pile of my shoes that she had haphazardly, yet carefully, pulled from my closet slept Bad Dog. She looked so comfortable and peaceful dozing amongst the Madden’s, Weitzman’s, Edelman’s, BeBe’s, Dolce Vita’s, and Puma’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it struck me. Since the day she arrived from the pound, she has regularly feasted upon Jim’s two pairs of shoes, and gnawed on the kids’ rubber-soled sneakers like she was eating salt water taffy. However, she never touched my shoes. Not even my furry slippers. I now knew Imelda Marcos was living inside the body of Bad Dog. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Technically, Imelda Marcos is very much alive, but I believe that her old unreformed self, the Imelda of the martial law years, has taken up residence within Bad Dog’s body. It all makes sense. The disregard for Jim’s dinners, the wine, the shoes. The shoes, the shoes, the shoes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So now when we have a playdate with Marie Antionette, Bad Dog will fit in just fine. However, despite the fact that Imelda Marcos has attempted to transform her life within her lifetime, I fear that Bad Dog never will. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></td></tr>
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</div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-59203230737884754642011-03-22T19:35:00.000-07:002011-03-22T19:35:47.486-07:00PREPOSITIONAL CLAUSES ARE NO RELATION TO SANTA CLAUSES<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxq7QQGFWs_GhEGzXexptaT5_ueT4eeu8TjabxB0uCxJ4K0VgN71CKvqbAuOp4TClo-NRc7Uldq4LmrJHCBJSJyREElQQoabtoPIPNJa_o8Fjng6gJQ3NQiznKR1SCk3cHTEjVUbu_1Z-j/s1600/Sr.+Lawrence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxq7QQGFWs_GhEGzXexptaT5_ueT4eeu8TjabxB0uCxJ4K0VgN71CKvqbAuOp4TClo-NRc7Uldq4LmrJHCBJSJyREElQQoabtoPIPNJa_o8Fjng6gJQ3NQiznKR1SCk3cHTEjVUbu_1Z-j/s1600/Sr.+Lawrence.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Learn to Listen and Listen to Learn"</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">About, above, across, after, against, among, around, as, at, before, behind, below, beside, between, beyond, but, by, down, during, except, for, from, in, into, near, of, off, on, over, through, to, towards, under, up, with.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If your chest just tightened because you recognize those words are prepositions, then there’s a good chance you had Sister Lawrence in the fifth grade at Holy Trinity School in the Coytesville section of Fort Lee. And if you had Sr. Lawrence, you will not only be able to diagram every sentence in this entire column, but you will also have been through, or are in desperate need of, deep psychoanalysis or rehab. The emotional scars she inflicted for your inability to retain and repeat the memorization of said prepositions as she paced up and down the standing line of your class in an exercise of terror makes the stories of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guantanamo Bay seem to pale in comparison. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For me, as well as the many others whose older siblings brought home <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the horror</i> of experiencing the fifth grade,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>entering Sister Lawrence’s class was a ritual akin to moving from the general population to death row. The actual physical move from the fourth grade classroom to the fifth grade classroom required that you relocate to a new corridor and enter a world known as the “upper grades” with the eighth grade standing at the very end like a winning spot on a game board. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Sister Lawrence’s philosophy was to strip you down forgetting about the building up side, which many of us found through alcohol or drugs in the ‘80’s. The result of her reign of terror was that you became bonded to your classmates in a way that only those who are in a hostage situation understand. There was no “cool,” “jock,” “weird.” We were all equally capable of incurring her wrath. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The only thing that gave anyone joy was the wall of windows that looked out across the front yard of a rogue house that came before the building of the school and onto the curve of road that leads cars from 9W to Linwood. I used to spend entire mornings staring out those windows imagining a life without fear. My best friend Rosie used to stare out the windows dreaming of becoming a truck driver as she envied the18-wheelers as they tipped around the bend of road. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That year was also the year that my mother became the school secretary. This tidbit of vital information came directly from a disliked classmate who took great glee in informing me of this during the summer before entering fifth grade. I nearly started a fist fight with her for telling such a lie, but when my mother confirmed it to be true, but had not yet told me, I knew it was a portentous beginning to an already discouraging year. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As luck would have it, my mother became very good friends with Sister Lawrence, much to my horror. I not only had to suffer through the school day with her, but off-hour visits to the convent and more-than-the-once-in-a-while-occasional drop-ins at my house. The first time my mother dragged me to the convent and I saw Sister Lawrence out of her habit, wearing a snappy housecoat and slippers it was like seeing porn. I couldn’t look, but I also couldn’t look away. There was something so unholy about it, yet oddly fascinating. Add to that her terse conversation informing me she was intentionally harder on me because of her friendship with my mother and didn’t want the appearance of playing favorites. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fantastic!</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So each day in school I had to balance the horror of withstanding her class with the uncertainty of when our social circles would intersect and I had to pretend I didn’t want to run screaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Which brings me back to prepositions. As she stopped in front of me and barked the order to recite, my mind went blank. I could feel the discomfort of my classmates who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me on the line before the window. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, she screamed, “Idioms are a dime a dozen, but idiots appear to be free in this class!” <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’d like to take a trip down prepositional memory lane, Holy Trinity is having reunion for all classes at the school on April 30<sup>th</sup> at 8pm following an alumni mass at the church at 7pm that will be celebrated by Father Dominic Lenoci, class of ’78.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you know of an alumni, please pass it on and contact me for more information.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-74581402712077331552011-03-18T16:18:00.000-07:002011-03-18T16:18:50.061-07:00MAD-LOVES FOR COUPLES WHO'VE BEEN TOGETHER A REALLY LONG TIME<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bookapex.com/images/Dysfunctional-Family-Therapy-Adult-Mad-Libs-0843189266-L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.bookapex.com/images/Dysfunctional-Family-Therapy-Adult-Mad-Libs-0843189266-L.jpg" width="199" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The other day, while our family was playing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Libs, </i>that timeless word game where you fill in the template with specified nouns, verbs, adjectives, places, body parts and other grammatical phrases in order to create a comically absurd story, I realized that Jim and I were engaging in the most effective communication we’ve had in years. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It’s funny how a word game made me think back to the early years of our marriage. As a newlywed I used to write cute little erotic notes and stick them between the bread in Jim’s sandwich. I knew if I put the note into the lunch bag he’d never see it so I stuck it between the bread and cold cuts. I’ll tell you, the notes became an instant hit with the boys in the construction yard. They loved to see him pull the chewed paper remnants from his mouth and try to piece together words that he hadn’t swallowed in an absurd game of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Porno Jumble</i>. But then came kids, and no privacy, and the notes began to change; at least the messages did. “Guess what I’m going to do to you tonight!!!!” turned into “Guess what I’m going to do to you tonight if you don’t get that goddamn (fill in the blank) out of my dining room, now!!!!” Yes, the passion of the papyrus fell by the wayside as so much often does when we get distracted. Anyway, if I stuck a note between his sandwich at this point in our marriage, the only thing I’d arouse is his indigestion. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I joked with Jim that maybe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Libs</i> was the perfect communication tool for us—we can leave templates around the house and fill them in quickly to spark the spontaneous flames of passion (and humor) that playing the role of responsible adults and parents has dulled. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So here’s my Mad-Love to Jim. As of printing, he’s still working on his to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Dear <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Jim</u></b><u>:</u><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Because we have so little <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>money</u></b> to spend together, I thought I'd pour my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>bladder</u></b> out to you since after all these years my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>body</u></b> still <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>breaks</u></b><u> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">down</b> </u>every time you <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>come near me.</u></b> Still, what we lack <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>in the</u></b><u> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">bank</b></u> we make up for in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>unpaid bills</u></b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember when we first met and you couldn’t keep your <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>seatbelt</u></b> buckled? And here we are 20 years later and your <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>seatbelt</u></b> is still <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>unbuckled</u></b> every time I slink into <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>the driver’s seat</u></b><u>.</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since we’ve <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>had children</u></b> our relationship has only <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>been tested in ways I never thought imaginable.</u></b> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Parenting children</u></b> together has brought out the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>gray hairs, bald spots, and frown lines</u></b> in us. I couldn’t <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>parent</u></b> without <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>lots and lots of wine</u> </b>and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>drugs.</u></b> Nor would I want to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Every time I look at you all I see is <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>your father staring back at me</u></b><u>.</u> It makes me want to wrap my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>head in a noose</u></b> and give you a big <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>box of Grecian Formula 44</u>.</b> If I knew 20 years ago that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>in 20 years I would be married to my father-in-law’s twin</u></b> I would have still <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>kept in touch with that 20 year old indie drummer from the East Village.</u></b><u> </u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And let me not forget to add <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>that opportunity I passed up with the lesbian lawyer with a summer home on Fire Island.</u></b><u> </u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I have to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>kick myself</u></b> to make sure this is really our life. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Though <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>children</u></b> have <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>stripped us of any and all carnal desire</u></b> and made us into <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>the cranky sexless people we swore we’d never become</u></b> we must pray to God everyday <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>that their real parents will come and get them soon.</u></b> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Remember when we were dating and we’d sit in the back row of the movie theater where I would gently nibble on your <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>popcorn with extra butter</u> </b>and you would unzip my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>wallet</u></b>?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now when we escape to a movie alone you still can’t help but <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>fall asleep and snore</u></b> and I can’t refrain from sticking my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>elbow</u></b> into your <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>rib cage to wake you up every five minutes</u></b>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Your talent for <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>not hearing a single word I say</u> </b>continues to amaze me. Remember all those <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>cheap motels with hourly rates</u> </b>we used to go to for fun when it was just the two of us? I never thought then that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>those would be our vacation destinations and the only places we’d be able to afford 20 years later</u></b><u>.</u> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, if I had to do it all over again I would still <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>be connected to that East Village indie drummer</u> </b>because after all these years <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>real estate in the East Village is worth a mint.</u> </b>After all, if I never met you I would be absolutely and completely <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>drinking margaritas at happy hour on South Beach with my gay hairdresser and his buff bff’s</u></b><u> </u>without you. <u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Love, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Ann</u></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-27042955260264063982011-03-06T22:44:00.000-08:002011-03-06T22:44:59.499-08:00DAMN DEMOGRAPHICS GOT ME AGAIN<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hola kids! Since your mom's wearing diapers, isn't it time you got out of yours?</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Lately, my ten year old daughter has become obsessed with watching cable news. Her favorite stations are NY1 and News 12 New Jersey. Considering what kids can become obsessed with today, the news seems harmless. And at least with NY1 and News 12 New Jersey she’s not being exposed to the more salacious stories that the network news stations and less censored cable stations are promoting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At least that’s how I was feeling until she became more obsessed with the commercials than the news stories. And here, again, we get into demographics. The demographics of the viewers of these news programs must be seniors since most of the commercials advertise senior products, at least during the times that my daughter is watching. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last week, after I stubbed my toe on the end table and I limped my way upstairs, she suggested I look into the Acorn Chair Lift that she saw advertised on T.V. “This way, you can just ride up the stairs instead of limp up them.” After noticing the gray that has begun to populate her father’s hair she announced that he is a senior citizen since all the men who appear on the commercials for NY1 have gray hair and introduce themselves as a senior citizen. The look on Jim’s face was priceless, and laughing, I asked her what that makes me. She replied straight-faced, “A pre-senior citizen, of course.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jim started to laugh, but frankly I could not find the humor in it. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pre-senior citizen?</i> I have 20 years before I can be classified as a senior citizen and they’re an important 20 years! I mean, think about it. 20 years comprises a whole infancy, adolescence and adulthood. It’s an entire generation. In other words, it’s a long, long, long time. And I still need to have my mid-life crisis and act like a teenager all over again, only this time not get grounded. (Although with Jim, I’m not so sure. I think he’d love to tell me I’m grounded. Then again, like my parents when they grounded me as a teenager, he’d be stuck under house arrest with a very petulant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me.</i>) However, Katie insists that I am a pre-senior and even produced Jim’s AARP card that had my name listed as “Spouse” to prove to me that if I want to reap the benefits of pre-senior status I have to own up to that status. She even asked if there was a status on Facebook for pre-senior. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve always joked that Jim is deaf because he’s always asking, “What?” after I say something. Well, maybe I’m not joking, but now Katie insists he buy the hearing aid she saw on a commercial between news segments. She even left a note on his pillow that showed a picture of a Jim wearing a hearing aid and exclaiming in a bubble over his head, “I can hear you now!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But wait! There’s more. She asked if we could buy one of those motorized scooters she saw on T.V. for Jim so that he didn’t always have to take the car when he went to the firehouse. “Look,” she pointed out, “It even comes with an attachable orange flag so that cars can see him.” I had visions of Jim riding up Fort Lee Road with a blue fire light blaring on the handlebar of his sporty red senior scooter with attachable orange flag on his way to the firehouse.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I guess I shouldn’t complain because last month she was fixated on the fact that I had bald spots. When she first commented that I have bald spots I brushed it off, but then I became paranoid. Holding a mirror in one hand, I’d stand with my back to the bathroom mirror trying to see if there were any bald spots peeking through the back of my head. Even though I couldn’t see any, she had me convinced that I was losing my hair. It took me two weeks to realize it was because she saw a commercial for women with thinning hair and balding.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh how I miss the days of my youth when television was filled with all those cigarette and booze commercials. I’d rather have my daughter announce to the world, “My Mom lights up a Camel and drinks Budweiser all day long!” rather than “She can’t hear, she’s going bald, and she carries adult diapers in her bag. Wanna see?” <o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-25272464104784103602011-02-25T07:04:00.000-08:002011-03-06T22:21:35.422-08:00POISED IN SHIFTING DEMOGRAPHICS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the hell are you looking at? I'm Wonder Woman, dammit!</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">We wrestled each other with a fury that came from some reserve of vengeance deep inside; both of us holding on with a death grip refusing to yield; the sinews of our muscles straining to keep from giving in to the will of the other. Finally, she yielded, more likely grew bored, and I was able to pry the mail from Bad Dog’s clenched canine jaws. I ran my fist-pumping victory lap around the porch. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">YES! I AM ALPHA DOG! </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> And so this is our daily ritual. Each day when the mail truck parks in front of our house the dog and I race to the porch and jockey for position in front of the mail slot. This must be done for if I’m not there to collect the mail when it comes pouring through the slot then all my bills will be shred into confetti and eaten by Bad Dog, and although there’s nothing more festive than confetti bills, it’s no picnic watching the dog howling to extract them from her intestines at two in the morning or explaining to Time Warner that the dog ate my bill. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> In today's mail there was a promotional give-away box from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CVS</i>. I love getting free samples from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CVS</i>. What could it be? Shampoo? Hand sanitizer wipes? New hand lotion? I ripped open the box like a kid on Christmas while Bad Dog gnarled and shredded the PSE&G bill before ingesting it. I reached my hand deep inside the box and pulled a clear plastic package that contained…wait a minute. This can’t possibly be meant for me. I checked the box’s address label and sure enough, it was addressed to me. Then I got furious. In my hands was a sample of an adult diaper! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Poise</i> for those moments when your bladder just can’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pause.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">WHAT? </i>How do I go from birth control one birthday to adult diapers the next? I was so furious that I actually looked up the phone number for the main headquarters of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CVS</i> which I discovered was in</span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #56595c; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Woonsocket, Rhode Island. After suffering through Dante’s Fifth Circle of Hell also known as the automated answering system, my thumb just kept pressing zero until a human voice answered. After airing my complaint I was switched to about three other people until finally I was transferred to a man whom I’m sure was the janitor put up by the rest of the office staff to act like a customer service manager and handle my complaint so they didn’t have to deal with a freak like me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Mam,” he said trying to placate me, “we are so happy that you enjoy our free samples.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No, no; I don’t enjoy this one. I’m not old enough for adult diapers!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “They’re not diapers; they’re liners.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Don’t try to spin it on me. I’ve seen the commercials!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“If you don’t mind, what is your age?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Reluctantly, I told him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Oh, that explains it. Since your last birthday your demographics have shifted, and that’s why you may be noticing a difference in product samples that are being sent to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “My demographics have shifted? What does that mean?” I cried. (True, my body has been undergoing seemingly seismic shifts, but that’s none of his business!) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “It means that for promotional purposes you’re now contained in a group whose needs are more maintenance than restoration, if you will.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What? I missed my own restoration period?</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Mam, as I’m sure you found with our past samples, not every product is aimed at you—it’s aimed at your demographics. And that group constitutes over 25 years.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> He was right. Not every free sample was for me like the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">K-Y Body Gel Tabasco Sauce</i> or the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Legg’s </i>all in one thong panties and pantyhose, but at least they were life-affirming. At least they oozed possibility. At least they screamed "DESIRE!" rather than "Oops I crapped my pants!" I mean, am I wrong to suggest that the implication of adult diapers is, “Don’t worry. I’ll do my business right here on line so we won’t be late for that sunset buffet. Here’s a coupon.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> I hung up the phone, dissatisfied and feeling old. However, to look on the bright side, I would still be considered a trophy wife if I dated at the top of my demographics. (And at this point, I don’t think Jim would even notice.) Anyway, I took the packaged <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Poise</i> and threw it…well, truth be told I threw it in my purse because frankly there may come a time when I just can’t pause. And at least I’ll be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">poised</i>. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-68961351790490252892011-02-19T20:55:00.000-08:002011-02-19T20:55:55.000-08:00MUSINGS FROM MID-LIFE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://sequoiahamilton.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/woman-writing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://sequoiahamilton.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/woman-writing.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I think I’m going through a mid-life crisis. At least I hope that my mid-life point hasn’t already passed me by. I mean, if I only live to be 50 that means that my mid-life crisis occurred at 25. And isn’t the entire decade of our 20’s one big life crisis anyway? At least upon reflection it seems that way. When we’re in our 20’s we’re just trying on one bad choice after another. Some of us married our bad choices, some of us gave birth to them, and some of us spent a lot of time in rehab thanks to them. Compared to our 20’s, our 30’s begin our assent into the age of reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Anyway, among the many things I’ve been musing about, the one thing I can’t stop thinking about are the career choices I’ve made. My employment choices were based on the Sally Fields’ method of finding a job. The key to mastering this method is to accept the very first offer regardless of what that job is because that offer screamed “You like me! You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> like me!” Considering taking a job that might be fun and interesting never entered my mind. It’s only now that I realize someone has to be hired for the fun and interesting jobs, right? Of course, considering my bad choices, these are the jobs I would have applied for in my 20’s with my reasons (now) why they scream “bad choice.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Cameraman for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lock Up</i> or any other show about prison</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">: My biggest fear in the entire world is prison. So it makes perfect sense that I love to watch the show <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lock Up</i> which is about being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">locked up</i> in various prisons around the world. Whenever I watch the show I care less about the reaction of the inmate who’s being asked if he has any remorse for murdering 15 people and more about the cameraman’s reaction to the inmate’s response. If I’m sitting before a man sentenced to death or serving 20 consecutive life sentences I want more than just a hand-held camera separating us. Let’s put it this way, if I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>the cameraman, all you would see on your television screen is a picture of the tiled floor because I’d drop that camera and run the second I saw a man in an orange jumpsuit with face tattoos coming towards me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Deck Crew or Cameraman for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dangerous Catch</i></span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">: Okay, one of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the </i>best shows ever. Who’d think that crab fishing would be so riveting? And I consider myself a seasoned crab fisherman having spent many summer days tossing nets into the Hudson and pulling out pots filled with crabs until my shoulders ached. I can stand the grueling work; however, there’s no way I could ever be one of the deck crew on a ship being tossed around like a bath toy in the Bering Sea. Hauling heavy pots out of a violent ocean that keeps throwing fresh waves of Arctic ice water over you in the middle of winter during a hurricane takes more than a sense of adventure! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I’m always amazed at how steady the camera is while filming during those storms. If I was the cameraman all you’d see would be pieces of my liver floating around the deck because not only would I be constantly sea sick, but the rest of the crew would pull a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mutiny on the bounty</i> on me to rid the ship of my miserableness. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Editor for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Snapped</i> on the Oxygen Network:</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> This is the show that highlights women who have snapped and usually always involves multiple murders. My fear about editing this show is that I might find myself the star of one of the episodes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">National Geographic </span></u></i><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Photographer:</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Travel the world, go to remote places, dance with the wolves, swim with the sharks, and sleep with the lions. The job would be the perfect job for me if it weren’t for the wolves, sharks, and lions. And the fact that sleeping outdoors in remote places of the world is not on my top ten list. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I guess I’ll just stick with being a writer and continue to write from the tamed jungle I call home about the wild adventures of my life. And show me a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National Geographic </i>photographer who’s driven away from a carwash with a Mexican in his trunk. Ha! There’s adventure! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-67821884539884353622011-02-06T14:45:00.000-08:002011-02-06T14:45:59.342-08:00BAD DOG HAS GOOD TASTE; OR, THE GOOD LIFE OF BAD DOG<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDQM1K301b4czUmQH1VahvuYNsEtXi_7m8BSf847fasU2cZuEfRqIvOWFyBCO440-xL6NG_en2owciXDsbxE2xbeUtc1uqi32gLKj5rAns16XVC96HIcEwDrbHpCFp6Qb5eIe0T0ZYtIZJ/s1600/GOT+MILK.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDQM1K301b4czUmQH1VahvuYNsEtXi_7m8BSf847fasU2cZuEfRqIvOWFyBCO440-xL6NG_en2owciXDsbxE2xbeUtc1uqi32gLKj5rAns16XVC96HIcEwDrbHpCFp6Qb5eIe0T0ZYtIZJ/s320/GOT+MILK.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Got Milk?</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh my God! We’ve been robbed!” my brain screamed as I entered the kitchen after having come home from work only to find the refrigerator wide open and half-eaten food strewn all over the hardwood floor. I tried to remain calm by taking a few deep breaths. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I didn’t understand. The front door was locked. I checked the back door, basement door—all locked. No one could’ve have gotten in through a window since they’re all painted shut. If a burglar did open a window I will hunt them down just so they can open the rest of them since in ten years my husband hasn’t been able to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Then I panicked. Where’s the dog? She’s always waiting at the door for me. Was she harmed? I ran around the house shouting her name. Nothing. It wasn’t until I grabbed the phone to call the police that I saw the burglar prostrate, dead to the world, beside the couch. The burglar was none other than Bad Dog, her bad self. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I’m pretty sure the clues pointed in her direction--strings of spaghetti crusted to her snout; her beard drenched with Sunday gravy. Anger replaced the panic. I nudged the hairy culprit with the toe of my snow boot but nothing. No response. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> I bent down and put my face next to hers to make sure she was breathing. Her pungent breath almost knocked me over. I recognized the sour smell but it took me a few seconds before I…Dear God! She was drunk. Full-out stinking drunk! No wonder, really, because lying among all the food on the kitchen floor was an empty bottle of 2003 Malbec that had only been open the night before. I had an open bottle of Malbec and cheap Chardonnay in the fridge; she went with the Malbec. Good choice considering the menu of leftovers she chose: artisanal cheese that my friend had sent me from her Seattle dairy farm, four marinating Porterhouse steaks from the butcher at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fairway</i> that I was planning on grilling for dinner, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Godiva Chocolate</i>, leftover eggplant parmigiana, spaghetti, and Sunday gravy with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Johnny Meatballs</i> meatballs! (She ate all the meatballs, so 2 thumbs up from Bad Dog and the canine crowd for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Johnny Meatballs </i>meatballs!) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">How did Bad Dog get her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bad self </i>into the fridge? Well, my good man Watson, I’m going to conclude that someone to whom I said “I Do” to almost 20 years ago forgot to close the refrigerator as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> was returning the gallon of milk that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> had just poured for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> and Katie’s cereal. Since I had left for work before he and the children left the house, I’m going to further conclude that he did not notice the refrigerator door was ajar when he<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>left the house. Now, I can’t entirely blame him since our house is well over 100 years old and no longer level. (Hell, I’m over 40 years old and no longer level.) The kitchen is so slanted it’s like working in a ship’s galley during a raging storm. Things just toss and roll at will. My kitchen could definitely qualify for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Weird New Jersey. </i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> After I had cleaned up the mess I sat down on the sofa with a cup of coffee. (Unfortunately, the Malbec was all gone.) I watched as the carcass of Bad Dog began to stir. She pried one, then two hairy eyeballs open and, after a few feeble attempts, was able to lift her head. Talk about the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hair of the dog! </i>When her eyes were able to focus she just stared at me. It was a knowing stare that said, “Do you have any idea how many times I had to look at you like this? At least I licked your feet to ease your pain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> As she tried to rise on all four paws I could relate to her staggering imbalance, but still I said, “So, you had to eat the marinating Porterhouse? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Johnny Meatballs </i>and eggplant weren’t enough for you? Hope you enjoyed the wine!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> She wobbled unsteadily to the back door reminding me of a drunken sailor’s drunken girlfriend who gets paid by the hour. I mused about taking her to A.A.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hi, this is Bad Dog and she’s an alcoholic.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hello Bad Dog!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">As I watched her repeatedly fall sideways into the snow I thought that as bad as Bad Dog is, and she is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bad</i>, at least she has good taste. Artisanal cheeses, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Johnny Meatballs, </i>Porterhouse steaks tartare, and Malbec. Not a bad life for a bad dog. <o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-66511190999054196062011-01-27T20:54:00.000-08:002011-01-27T20:54:57.617-08:00CHINESE FOOD FOR MARTIN LUTHER KING DAY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8o2RT9JobAO2ggmIGcCy2whrd0C7lYj45i0qPePciBNzc7ruHrmAfFQsVpisYXJ9rgGXdCM6cb-qkTGJ_-WbVWxJ_w23bzjaVtWbXhivFllXoOBpHcFpcx1VTLoKCypxc941aA6nnXzc/s1600/KATIE%2527S+10TH+BIRTHDAY+012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8o2RT9JobAO2ggmIGcCy2whrd0C7lYj45i0qPePciBNzc7ruHrmAfFQsVpisYXJ9rgGXdCM6cb-qkTGJ_-WbVWxJ_w23bzjaVtWbXhivFllXoOBpHcFpcx1VTLoKCypxc941aA6nnXzc/s320/KATIE%2527S+10TH+BIRTHDAY+012.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Mom,” my eight-year old son said as he came sliding across the hardwood kitchen floor Tom Cruise style, “Let’s celebrate Martin Luther King Day by ordering Chinese food.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For the uninitiated, let me fill you in. From the time Jack was in preschool he thought we were an African-American family. In fact, Martin Luther King Day 2006 he declared his ever-lasting devotion to Martin Luther King.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s fantastic Jack,” I said at the time. “Tell me what you know about him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, if it weren’t for him, we Piccirillo’s would still be riding the back of the bus,” he replied matter-of-factly as he handed me the crayon drawing he did in school of our family. He gave Jim a 1970’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Soul Train </i>Don Cornelius afro and raw umber skin. He gave me brick red everything, no neck, and one eye. He made my daughter an odd combination of me and Jim which is to say that he gave her three eyes and plaid skin. Jim was thrilled that Jack gave him hair. In fact, he was thrilled that Jack made him look cool. And let’s face it, you can’t get much cooler than Don Cornelius. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I still have that drawing and all the others that came after. So precious are the memories of those years, and the purity of his belief in the goodness of mankind, that I dreaded there might come a day when his world would no longer be color blind. So when he announced this year that he wanted to celebrate Martin Luther King Day with Chinese food my heart soared with delight. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chinese food! Yes!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why Chinese food?” I curiously queried.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, my friends who don’t celebrate Christmas eat Chinese food on Christmas Day so I thought that since you don’t give gifts for Martin Luther King Day, or eat turkey, or watch the ball drop at midnight in the middle of New York City, let’s celebrate like my friends who don’t celebrate Christmas do—let’s eat Chinese!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As he slid back out of the kitchen the same Tom Cruise way he slid in, I wondered where this little boy came from and wished, as I never wished before, that I could stop time. As a mother we all get swept up in the moments that don’t matter but are powerful enough to continually consume us—getting the kids’ dressed for school, out the door, into school on time, laundry, dinner, scheduling playdates, hosting playdates, avoiding playdates, food shopping, cleaning, supervising homework, bath time, bedtime, oh…and working—that when the moments that matter come along, like this one, they hit us in the heart like a ton of bricks. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I was 8 months pregnant with Jack I was shopping at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Burlington Coat Factory</i> on Route 17 in Paramus. While browsing the claustrophobic baby section an older woman who worked there approached me. I heard her before I saw her. She was about 4’10”and impeccably dressed. Around her neck were strings of silver chains with circular beads that sounded like wind chimes when they brushed against each other. My immediate thought was that her face looked like an ancient gypsy from a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grimm</i> fairytale. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She took the liberty of rubbing my belly and said, “You’re having a boy,” her slight eastern-European accent confirmed her gypsy status in my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?” I replied. “I think it’s a girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. I tell you it’s a boy. I know this because a terrible war is coming. This war will last many generations and there will be a need for many men. Your son will be called for this war. Your friends’ sons will be called for this war. I tell you truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I dropped everything in my hands and ran from the store. A month later when I delivered my baby and the doctor said, “It’s a boy!” my initial thrill was replaced with the haunting words of this woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And now, as I watch my sweet, sweet boy slide out of my kitchen I know, the way only a mother can, that this time with him on earth is brief. I don’t know what will take him from me, but eventually someone or something will. And so I savor this moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So mom,” he yelled from the living room. “Chinese food for Martin Luther King Day?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, absolutely yes. Chinese food for Martin Luther King Day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-32614185941951144692011-01-18T12:37:00.000-08:002011-01-18T12:49:33.438-08:00BOOT ON GROUND<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBFoasLUAL94vieXXvQDrwCyJHWtDSR2Wu4uxZO78ZueEWFZxwfdilc8YhcEITzn_NvYd8Yb7i0jrt3fYBSYe_lSor8NRr_vE6h1GlfIvyXN74ca5yUibWm_7l2NzeILejV9dFlm8YLo9i/s1600/BOOT+ON+GROUND.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBFoasLUAL94vieXXvQDrwCyJHWtDSR2Wu4uxZO78ZueEWFZxwfdilc8YhcEITzn_NvYd8Yb7i0jrt3fYBSYe_lSor8NRr_vE6h1GlfIvyXN74ca5yUibWm_7l2NzeILejV9dFlm8YLo9i/s320/BOOT+ON+GROUND.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Motherhood: It's not a job, it's an adventure!</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Confession: every morning as I drive the kids to school I pretend I’m a special ops pilot assigned the dangerous mission of dropping fresh bodies into enemy territory. I call this mission: Boots on Ground. Laywoman’s terms: Kids in School Before Late Bell. I play this game not because I harbor any unfulfilled military desires, but because if I succumb to the daily monotony of my life I’d drive my car straight into the red-brick wall of CVS.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Mornings are awful. My son, Jack, and I, can get out of bed, brush our teeth, wash our face, dress, and be out the door in exactly 12 minutes. We know because we’ve timed it. However, my husband Jim and my daughter Katie are considerably slower. Mornings with them are like being on an acid trip. And I don’t mean a good one. Katie can spend the better part of her day staring at the toothpaste on her toothbrush while Jim stares at his towel as if it’s going to perform the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dance of the Seven Veils</i> for him. And that’s just their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">first </i>morning task. Times that by the ten others they must perform before they leave the house. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Breakfast is an exercise in keeping my blood pressure down. While my friend Randi makes her three sons a hardy homemade breakfast every morning, I subscribe to the belief that a little fire in your belly is a good motivator. Jack subscribes to this philosophy, but Katie and Jim have to have their cereal every morning. Katie stares at the little “O’s” of her Cheerios and Jim makes sure he chews 25 times before swallowing each spoonful. Chew 23 of spoonful #4 is usually when I snap. Jim says hinges open on the top of my head and monsters fly out of my skull. If he only <i>really </i>knew!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Which brings me to this non-sequitor. I bought Jack a pair of rain boots on-sale at Target for $4.99, but it wasn’t until he put them on one cold, rainy morning that I realized they weren’t a size 5 as the tag read. Some comedian in Target rubber-banded the wrong sizes together. One boot was a size 3 (two sizes too small) and the other was a size 8 (three sizes too big). I didn’t notice this when I purchased them because I was in complete “maniac mode” trying to get out of the store and get the kids from school before they were remanded to the Main Office.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> So here Jack stood before me looking at the uneven feet of his new boots. Our eyes locked in a power-play stare-down. “Just put them on!” I hissed. Obediently, he put them on and didn't say a word. He looked like Quasimodo dragging his size 8 boot and backpack out the front door. Then over my shoulder I yelled, “KATIE! NOW!!!!” Katie <i>Morticia Adams-ed</i> her way onto the porch. I pulled her coat on, shoved her feet into her boots, and pushed her out the door. She screamed for her umbrella. “MY HAIR!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Don’t worry about your hair!” I yelled. “Just Run, Forrest, Run!” She shoved something into her pocket. As I ran out behind her it felt like my coat was caught. It was Jim holding onto my elbow. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“What?”</i> I screamed annoyed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I want to give you a kiss good-bye,” he said tenderly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Kiss my…” the final word trailing behind me as I broke free. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> As I burned rubber out of the driveway the clock in the car said we had 4 minutes until the late bell. No problem. I can get across town in 2 minutes!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> As my car squealed around the corner of Fort Lee Road, I illegally pulled up to the fire hydrant five hundred feet from where the third, fourth and fifth grade parents are instructed to drop off children and ordered, “Run, Jack! Run! YOU CAN DO THIS!” He dutifully jumped from the car, but as he hit his stride the size 8 boot flipped off and flew through the air before landing splash into a rogue puddle. I popped my head out of the car window and yelled, “Leave it Jack! Go! Run Buddy, run!!!!” And he did--the toe of his sock flapping from the weight of the water. Meanwhile, Katie casually stepped out of the car and strolled as if she was making her entrance into a garden party with the Queen. That's when I noticed something was off and thought, as she sauntered away from the car,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“What the hell is that on her head?" </i> I groaned when I realized what it was, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"Oh, Dear God!” </i>She had somehow managed to smuggle a blue shower cap out of the house and was now wearing it upon her head so her hair wouldn't get wet. I reached down to the floor of the mini-van, grabbed an empty snack-sized Doritos bag and began to breathe into it hoping to ease the pain that was shooting from my arm to my chest. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> When my breathing returned to normal, and my pulse slowed down, I climbed out of the car and waded through the steady stream of rain to retrieve the boot that by now had been sufficiently run over by just about every third, fourth, and fifth grade parent. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Boot on Ground, kids in school, heart-attack avoided. Mission accomplished. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-88377504459275278732011-01-06T10:29:00.000-08:002011-01-06T10:29:17.385-08:00GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN, THE WOMEN WILL CLEAN UP<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSWZFn6UwP_B_NHJ0CFu_svC8vy_c90xkm5nizwgwz4qHBN96qyiQ" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSWZFn6UwP_B_NHJ0CFu_svC8vy_c90xkm5nizwgwz4qHBN96qyiQ" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">While other people shed tears of longing and regret on New Year’s Eve I cry tears of pure joy. The drop of the Waterford Ball in Times Square at precisely twelve o’clock midnight signals the official end of the fanatical holiday season for me. 62 days. 62 days of madness from Halloween to New Year. Those haunting nightmares of not getting the kids’ costumes on time, not being prepared for the 30 guests, give or take a dozen, that come every year to my house for Thanksgiving, or waiting too long to go shopping and not being able to find that one gift that my son and 100,000 other kids want, and trying to avoid a coronary while cooking the feast of the seven fishes by thinking, “If Jesus fed 5,000 on two fishes, surely I can feed 50 on seven?” All this is behind me now. Can I get an “Alleluia?”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">The truth is that while other people are shouting “Happy New Year” it’s all I can do to refrain myself from screaming, “All right! EVERYBODY OUT! We’ll see you all on Memorial Day. Have a great year! Take your coat, take your germs. Goodbye!”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">The problem this year was that when everyone finally did leave I realized that they left more than just good memories behind. The sewer had overflowed (again) into our basement. In my book, this is not a fortuitous start to the New Year. Although it is said to be good luck to step in it, I don’t know about swimming in it. The second I opened the basement door to retrieve the mop I knew what had happened. Some things need no second opinion. Trust me, sewer overflow is one of those things.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">I did what any woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown she’s been withholding for 62 days would do. I called for my husband.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">“Hon!”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">“What?” I heard from the living room where he laid prostrate on the couch watching post New Year’s Eve celebrations on the Spanish channel.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">“The sewer overflowed into the basement. Happy New Year!”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">“<i>Que? Como?</i>” was his reply from over the din of <i>Feliz Ano Nuevo</i>. (This white boy secretly longs to be a steamy Latino and loves to kid around by using the Spanish he learned from <i>Dora the Explorer</i>. I never wanted to burst his bubble by telling him that <i>“vamanos”</i> is not a dirty word that inspires anything when whispered into someone’s ear, especially if that someone is carrying a 50 pound basket of laundry.)<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">“It seems that everyone’s lower intestines dropped with the ball.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">“Donde esta? Donde esta?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">“Doo-doo <i>donde </i>in the basement.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">Unamused by speaking Spanglish, I realized that I had had it. I had just spent the last 62 days standing with the masses in line at Party City for costumes; trick-or-treating in the bitter cold; spending an hour of Halloween scrubbing my daughter’s hand after she crushed a stink bug that flew into her bag making me understand why they call them “stink bugs”; examining candy to make sure no crazy person tampered with it; pumpkin picking in Dante’s Fifth Circle of Hell; getting up in the dark to cook for Thanksgiving; cleaning up after Thanksgiving; shopping for Christmas; pulling everything down from the attic to decorate for Christmas; decorating for Christmas; suffering through a fist fight between the person in line in front of me and the person behind me at Wal-Mart on the night before the night before Christmas Eve; being unable to suppress my sarcasm while being interrogated by the cops about said fight when they asked me what caused the fight and I replied, “The celebration of the birth of our Lord”; wrapping all the gifts; getting everyone dressed and out the door for the Children’s Christmas Eve Mass; spending the first ten minutes of Christmas Eve Mass outside the church with my son in a headlock scrubbing his forehead raw with my nails because he thought it would be funny to tattoo a penguin with a Santa hat onto his forehead in the car; cooking for Christmas Eve; cleaning up at four in the morning after everyone left on Christmas Eve; telling Santa that I’d handle the heavy stuff; getting up at seven with the kids on Christmas day; cleaning up Christmas morning; preparing for New Year’s Eve, cooking for New Year’s Eve, cleaning up after New Year’s Eve, and trying to fit in three jobs.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">For $500 the plumber arrived to <i>temporarily</i> fix the problem with the sewer line. He suggested that since we live on the bottom of a hill we should tell the uphill neighbors to refrain from flushing so much. Gee, now should I offer them a plate of homemade cookies when I tell them that? No, that will just make them ultimately have to flush. The plumber added, “If the back-up was only 15 feet to the north it would be the town’s problem.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">He turned to leave my house and the grotesque mess that he had just made in my house. When I mentioned how his wife would feel if someone left her floors, toilets, and tubs such a mess with sewerage he replied, “Come on! Women love to clean!” God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, a woman’s work is never done. <o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">And so as I dip my big toe into the dirty waters of 2011 all I can think of is flushing neighbors and only 10 months of rest before the holiday rush starts again.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42px;">Happy New Year! By the way, Jim says, <i>Feliz Ano Nuevo!</i></span></div></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-84504804336884750212010-12-31T14:33:00.000-08:002010-12-31T14:33:05.443-08:00INAPPROPRIATE CHRISTMAS GIFTS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://rationalwiki.org/w/images/7/77/Ken_Doll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://rationalwiki.org/w/images/7/77/Ken_Doll.jpg" width="182" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">While everyone else is busy reading this year-end top-10 list and that year-end top-10 list, I’m dishing with my friends about all those inappropriate holiday gifts we got from our parents and in-laws! While God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, (don’t worry gentlemen, rest! We women will take care of handling all things holiday. FYI we’d be merry too if we were resting!) I like to dish the dirt with my girls (and a few boys). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, although my friends and I have performed this ritual for many years now, I’ve been reluctant to actually put any of it into print because, simply put, I fear the wrath of my mother. However, this year is just too priceless and I have to share! (By the way, if I go missing look for my remains in Hackensack near the jail—my mother knows all the back roads around there.) Okay, here goes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Does something happen to our parents once they reach a certain age? For the past few holidays, my mother has surrendered getting books and dress shirts for my husband and has opted for more, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">je nais se quoi</i>, intimate gifts like socks and under-shirts. This year as Jim sat upon her quilted couch unwrapping his gift I could see his face begin to pale and a cold nervous sweat begin to bead his forehead. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What is it hon?” I queried. “Show us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reluctantly, he pulled a package of underwear from the thin cardboard of the decorated dollar store box. Not just any package of underwear, but tiny briefs. Size small. (Jim is 6’4”.) Now this is bad enough, but when I got home and took them out of the bag they had no opening that briefs are supposed to have, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. The stitching on the front alluded to an opening, but it was just decorative, like crown molding around your ceiling. Based on this gift, I’ve come to the conclusion that my mother thinks that my husband is either a) a Ken doll or, b) ball-less. Considering he said “Thank you so much, Mom!” and kissed her, I’m inclined to go with “b”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>However, it is a step up from last year when she re-gifted a gift my brother’s girlfriend gave to her and, forgetting who gave it to her, wrapped it and gave it back to said girlfriend. (P.S. said girlfriend was not around this year. I’m just saying.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But stories abound, dear friends, that are better than mine. One friend told me that her mother-in-law sent her an X-rated Christmas card. She didn’t realize it was X-rated until she gave the envelope to her eight-year old to open. After all, it was from “Nana!” It wasn’t until she saw the porno snowman that she fell over herself ripping it out of her daughter’s hand. Let’s just say this snowman had a carrot, but it wasn’t on his nose. Also included with the porno card was a bag of water balloons because, as my friend says, “Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without water balloons!?!” My friend didn’t know if her mother-in-law intended her to fill the balloons and throw them at passer-bys, or fill them and wear them under her sweater. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then there’s my friend whose mother-in-law knitted her “His” and “Hers” potholders. It wasn’t until she removed them from the box and held them up for her family to see and take pictures of that she realized they were anatomically correct “His” and “Hers.” M-I-L even knitted little fig-leaf flaps. Very considerate. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then there’s my man friend whose mother-in-law got him the DVD of Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ.” He’s Jewish. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another friend who has six children, got a package of condoms from her mother-in-law. Along with a flannel nightgown and Dr. Scholl’s Foot Soak. Meahwhile, her mother gave her lingerie from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Victoria’s Secret</i> that resembles a French maid uniform along with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Isotoner </i>slippers and scratch-off lottery tickets. She thinks there’s a message in there somewhere, but it hurts her brain to think about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sharing all of these stories, I just hope I never do this to my kids or their significant others when I get older. Then again, one has to get their kicks somehow, right? And I suppose we all reach that point where we really don’t care what people think about what we say or do. And being passive-aggressive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> be so much fun as long as you’re the one passing the aggression. So I guess I should never say never. Because you just never know. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-25823248680405729362010-12-30T09:43:00.000-08:002010-12-30T09:43:48.716-08:00'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE NEW YEAR<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.partytimesrus.com/item_images/Top%20Hat%20B&G%20Glitter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://www.partytimesrus.com/item_images/Top%20Hat%20B&G%20Glitter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"That's when he turned his hat into a bucket..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So dear readers here we are at the end of another year. And you know what that means--just one more holiday to get through and then we can breathe a collective sigh of relief knowing that as soon as that ball drops and the cork pops at midnight we can avoid the germ-manic mass gathering of people until Memorial Day! Well, that is if you haven’t already spent this holiday season (and by holiday season I mean the endless 62 days between Halloween and New Year’s Day) nursing sick children, avoiding other sick children at the pediatrician’s office, and administering shots of liquid Motrin like a bartender at happy hour. (Minus the happy!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There’s one thing every mother wishes for during the holidays--that her family gets through them healthy. There’s no greater emotional balancing act than trying to prepare for the festivities, entertain relatives, and care for sick children. And God forbid <i>El Husbando</i> gets sick at the same time…that’s a special kind of hell that will propel you into immediate sainthood. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The story I share with you today is inspired by real events that occurred at a New Year’s Eve party a few years ago. It’s also a story, I’ve discovered, that’s familiar to many of you as well. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">But before our story begins, I want to thank each and every one of you for reading me every week. All of your emails, letters, kind comments when you see me, and phone calls mean more to me than you’ll ever know. Mom to Mom, Dad to Dad, Person to Person, we’re all in this crazy life together. Even if mine seems more crazy at times.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">On behalf of my husband (the most patient man and <i>best</i> sport in the world), my children Jack and Katie (who in the future can just hand my columns over to their therapists and save a few years’ of explanation), Bad Dog (the most faithful misbehaved canine companion <i>ever</i> who I'm determined to spend the eternity of my afterlife with), and myself, may this New Year bring you much happiness, good health, and an abundance of humor to see you through the rest! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p> </o:p></span><b><u><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Twas the Night Before New Year’s</span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Twas the night before New Year and as we ventured out<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our family was all hearty, healthy and stout.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our lungs were all clear, our noses mucous free<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As we awayed to our friend’s party all giddy with glee.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I with my bag of antibacterial wipes readied the kids for the trip,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To drive across town to eat chips and dip.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The hostess was smiling as we all hugged and kissed her, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After which I noticed on her lip was a blister!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wanted to run, I wanted to hide, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But Jim still had not found his way in from outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So I entered the house with great trepidation and fear, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And tried not to cringe as all the other sniffling guests appeared. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A runny nose here, a croupy cough there,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wondered how not to breathe in the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I sat on a chair trying hard not to worry,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Resisting the urge to leave in a hurry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then what to my wondering eyes should appear? A sickly looking teenager,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Fevered, ‘twas clear.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So next to me he did sit, black plastic hat on his head,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To ring in the New Year on the couch, not in bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2…</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When suddenly I heard the rumble from deep down below,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The rising sound of vomit before it started to flow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s when he converted his hat into a bucket,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As everyone cheered “Happy New Year!” I screamed---<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">MOTHER (fill in blank)!!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It gushed from his mouth, his nose and his ears, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And all I could think was, “Let’s all get out of here!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Why did we leave our sweet nest that ‘twas clean<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To sit here and wade in this germ-infested scene?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Bubbles from his nose continued to pour<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Round the brim of the hat and onto the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally he stopped, the rest seems so vague,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I grabbed hold of my family and escaped that black plague.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And so we were home in three minutes fast,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Scrubbing and rubbing the germs from our…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Everybody sing:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Should Old Acquaintance get the flu and throw up on the floor,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just get the hell out of there, but climb out the window there’s germs on the door!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">HAPPY NEW YEAR! Come on 2011--Bring it on!<o:p></o:p></span></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-73156205590367569212010-12-23T10:29:00.000-08:002010-12-23T10:29:21.669-08:00GO TELL IT ON THE MOUNTAIN (BABY JESUS IS GONE)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3v4O7yYi_Zrm3NI5ra4jISsgmSkB-4pPvlwiKvix-aqb0wR6-v6JnJxwNuLzgRILaJQjp4zdSaisoosfFLFC8a3vdLafqSaFgVywSn4xwvPXknWCmjVJ-ElkSCTYOq71dJUMWm8KvL-9F/s1600/Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3v4O7yYi_Zrm3NI5ra4jISsgmSkB-4pPvlwiKvix-aqb0wR6-v6JnJxwNuLzgRILaJQjp4zdSaisoosfFLFC8a3vdLafqSaFgVywSn4xwvPXknWCmjVJ-ElkSCTYOq71dJUMWm8KvL-9F/s320/Image.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the road to a lifetime of therapy, my 5th grade class at Holy Trinity 1975 with the little nun who broke us all.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">She paced before us, her black orthopedic shoes screeching against the institutional black-and-white speckled tiled floor. We were four months into our nine months sentence with Sister Lawrence in the fifth grade of Holy Trinity School in Fort Lee. There was still a brutal six months ahead of us. If we survived tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Where is it?” she commanded. Her four-foot eight-inch frame striking terror into us. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where. Is. Baby. Jesus</i>?” her clenched jaw deployed the lever that made her fists curl into dangerous balls. She stopped in front of Rosemary costumed in a long dress, her head veiled by a beautifully hand-embroidered sheet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> How could Sister Lawrence be yelling at Rosemary? Rosie was the ideal Catholic! She was on the “A” string for Team Jesus! She was chosen from all the other girls to play the role of Mary in the Nativity Scene for the annual Christmas Concert, but she had forgotten her Baby Jesus, a.k.a. Tippy Tumbles, at home. We held our breath as Sister Lawrence rained insults down upon Rosie. No one could strip you of your dignity with such skilled precision like Sister Lawrence. Her meticulous dissection of the ego is still studied in some convents far, far, away. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mary</i> forget to bring Baby Jesus to Bethlehem? NO! But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">YOU </i>apparently think it’s okay to forget our Lord and Savior and deny us the pleasure of his blessed birth! Do you think that Baby Jesus grew up to die on that cross (our eyes automatically turned towards the crucifix she was pointing at) just so you could forget him at home?! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your sister</i> didn’t forget him last year when she was the Virgin Mary!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I felt dizzy with faint. I’m pretty sure the boy next to me wet his pants. For the last half-hour as we waited for our class to go on stage and perform for our parents, Rosie had been holding her arms to her chest as if she was cradling a baby hoping that Sister Lawrence wouldn’t find out she left Baby Jesus home. Now I could hear her sniffles and knew that Sister Lawrence had reduced her to tears. Like all my other classmates, I thanked God it was her and not me. Sister Lawrence already got her licks in with me earlier in the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">That morning, she chose me, Mary Lutz, Helena Toledo, and Lia Bizzaro to stay behind at recess to wrap Christmas gifts for the retired nuns at Convent Station. (I always pictured Convent Station as a town with train-fuls of old nuns waiting to go to Heaven.) Feeling privileged to be hand-picked by her, she directed us on how to wrap presents. My euphoria of having been chosen quickly faded when, upon wrapping my first gift, she jerked it out of my hands and intentionally ripped the paper from the box, her face a blooming shade of apoplectic red. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Look at this!” she bellowed. “What is this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I did look at it. It was a ripped open present. My sarcasm, being in its nascent stages, I kept to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“Look at all this paper you wasted to wrap this gift! You didn’t need all this paper! Are you so rich that you can afford to use all this paper on one tiny gift? Look at the size of your side-triangles! You only need enough paper to barely cover the box and no more. These nuns have NOTHING and you’re going to show them how little they have by wrapping their gift with all that paper! Go sit down. You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">disgust</i> me with your waste! You’re going to grow up to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i> a waste!” As instructed, I sat down wondering if these wounds would ever heal enough to have scars. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Despite Sister Lawrence’s wrath, we appeared on stage and sang to an empty manger while our Mary fought back her tears. Whenever I hear “What Child is This?” I think of 29 ten-year olds singing to an empty cradle while our parents snapped pictures capturing a moment we would spend years in therapy trying to forget. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">But despite the long divide of years, each Christmas I can't help but think of Sister Lawrence and the legacy she left behind: Rosie’s anxiety attacks whenever she sees a nativity scene, my strong feelings of inadequacy whenever I see beautifully wrapped presents, and knowing that somewhere there’s a boy who just wants to wet his pants. Merry Christmas!<o:p></o:p></span></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-40184902842121976302010-12-21T20:59:00.000-08:002010-12-21T20:59:50.534-08:00OUR CHRISTMAS STORY 2003<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTE9PA8nWfXMt6MWWf2q8KRqSSSQENOlwsG4p4EI9ZvJWS2zgOCkg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTE9PA8nWfXMt6MWWf2q8KRqSSSQENOlwsG4p4EI9ZvJWS2zgOCkg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It’s the time of year when many young children are being professionally photographed for their holiday portraits. This annual ritual of sending pictures to grandparents, relatives, and close friends is a big deal, and I never cease to marvel at the confidence of new moms as their faces glow with the unmitigated joy of anticipation that accompanies that first holiday photo shoot. No visions of vomit or hanging globules of mucous ever dance through their heads. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I had their confidence once -- until December 2003. That was when my husband and I took our two-year-old daughter Katie, and our one-year-old son Jack, to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sears </i>for professional Christmas portraits. Katie had engineered the “terrible twos” into high art, and my son had uncontrollable reflux. While she threw props aimlessly around the room, he would projectile vomit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a game of “Watch out for the flying….get me a wipe!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Looking back from where I stand now, five years later, I can say with great certainty that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>Christmas photo shoot at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sears</i> irreparably broke us. We would never again be the same optimistic people we thought we were. We became unsettled and jumpy; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tums</i> became a menu staple; and, perhaps worse of all, we never again doubted the destructive power of little people. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I remember being so upset when we left <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sears</i> without having had any photos taken. I felt a failure as a mother. However, the next morning after my husband left for work, I glue-gunned the diapers of both my children to the kitchen chairs, took a grainy photo of them screaming, and then sat down to scribble a holiday poem to accompany the picture. That poem appears below. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I’ve since learned that no matter how bad things get, time, good humor, and the fact that my children have broken me in greater, more imaginative, ways has made me laugh and appreciate the memory of that night at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sears</i>. Had the photos been taken without a glitch, all I’d have is a perfect picture in a frame, and that moment of madness would have been lost to time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, life’s not picture perfect—only our perception of what it ought to look like is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; line-height: 115%;">Our Christmas Story<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; font-variant: small-caps; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></u></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">'Twas the night before Christmas and as in past years,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We ran with our coupon for portraits at Sears.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The children were dressed in their holiday clothes,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And nothing was running from anyone’s nose.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the waiting room we hung with our children so quiet,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">While all those around us created a riot.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then what to my deafening ears should I hear?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But our names being called as the photographer appeared.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So into the studio we all merrily walked,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And it was then that our little Katie started to balk.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Slowly it rose like boiling steam in a heater,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And I shuddered as the photographer knelt down to greet her.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For it was then that Katie pulled at her hair,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Knocked down the props, jumped on a chair.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Running and reaching and try as we might,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The whole sordid scene turned into a fright.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And still as a church mouse baby Jack sat and stared,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I could tell from his face, he appeared very scared.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And Daddy in his sneakers, and I in my hose,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tried hard to grab Katie to sit for a pose.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She sat for a second then jumped up and yelled,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I screamed ‘cross the room, “Oh, damn it to hell!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But the photographer stood, immobile, unable to act,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Looking at me as though I was whacked!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I finally agreed that it was not very wise, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To subject all at Sears to Katie’s loud cries.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So kicking and screaming we left that good store,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Not through the front, but out the back door.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Agreeing that it wasn’t a very good idea, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And so there are no portraits to send you this year,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So here are our children as best as they’d sit,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And to tell you the truth, I don’t give a _____(hoot!)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-35544098729628066542010-12-16T18:14:00.000-08:002010-12-17T08:04:04.628-08:00CHRISTMAS ON MAIN STREET 1968, CONCLUSION<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq00HoWj4idPInBY0ZXPeMnooqvhGIIQ1ev9e704GPtNjkb0kTpUdRoWMzXXjrDZ6wtJuWWJitmWgisYh_RENC9OlzHyEUtylZfWkwhyphenhyphenk5_ypVq7vW-BZwaA0k5IVwZSa65UOjudtZj8fJ/s1600/Biff+Bear1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq00HoWj4idPInBY0ZXPeMnooqvhGIIQ1ev9e704GPtNjkb0kTpUdRoWMzXXjrDZ6wtJuWWJitmWgisYh_RENC9OlzHyEUtylZfWkwhyphenhyphenk5_ypVq7vW-BZwaA0k5IVwZSa65UOjudtZj8fJ/s320/Biff+Bear1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Biff, still with me 40 years later.</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Christmas in my house was a lot different than Christmas in your house, unless you were related to me in which case you were hostage to the madness. Christmas 1968 was memorable for so many reasons, but that was also the year that my grandmother decided to buy everyone artificial Christmas trees. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">I remember pulling into the snowy parking lot of a dilapidated warehouse on River Road in Hackensack one cold Saturday morning to pick up the trees. There we were shoved into Auntie Anna’s C&C Ford station wagon—Auntie Anna and mom in the front, Grandma behind them, and me, my brother and cousin Ronald bouncing around the back of the station wagon making faces at all the cars that had the misfortune to follow us. We tried to let our mirth extinguish the thought that on the ride home we’d have to sit with Grandma so the trees could fit in the trunk. There was no fooling around when you sat next to Grandma in the car. If you acted up she’d pile-drive her elbow into your head and make you say “Thank you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Dad worked Saturdays, so my brother and I waited excitedly for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Old Man </i>to come home so we could set up the tree. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Old Man</i> was our term of endearment for dad and one that he adored. It’s also the only way he referred to himself when he told us stories from the old days. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did I ever tell you about the time your Old Man ran a craps game in Cuba?…Did your Old Man ever tell you about his stint as a boxer in the army? ”Did your Old Man ever tell you about the time…” </i>All those amazing stories he told about the adventures of his life in the third person would grip our imaginations and hold us captive. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">When we heard the screeching wail of our screen door, followed by a turn of the key in the front door’s knob and a comically deep voice announcing, “Your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Old Man’s</i> home!” We raced to meet him. Without giving him a chance to get settled we pulled him into the kitchen where we ceremoniously began to remove all the envelopes he had stuffed inside his coat. Envelopes filled with cash from the people he delivered mail to.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Grabbing letter openers my brother and I went to work at the kitchen table slicing open envelope after envelope; shards of torn paper flying like confetti, as my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Old Man</i>, merry with joy, interrupted his whistling to raise his hands in the air and caution, “Okay you two, slow down.” But that just made us move faster, ripping fives, tens, twenties from inside the hold of holiday cards to the rhythm of Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters singing “<span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000W0CT9I/ref=dm_mu_dp_trk18">Mele Kalikimaka</a>.<b>”</b></span> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Then it was time for dinner—steak dinner. Saturday’s were always steak night in our house. I can still smell the aroma of butter and <em><span style="color: black; font-style: normal;">Worcestershire</span></em></span><em></em> <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> sauce floating above us in the kitchen as the broiler spit and bubbled behind us. But this night we rushed through dinner because we wanted to put our new tree together. We couldn’t wait. Even the promise of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jiffy Pop</i> couldn’t slow us down. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">As “Charlie Brown’s Christmas” played on our black-and white TV, my brother and I trudged the boxes of ornaments, lights, and gold garland up from the basement. Meanwhile the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Old Man</i> methodically removed the pieces of our new tree from the box. There was a green wooden pole with little colored holes. The idea was to match the color on the wire tip of each branch to the color of the hole. Easy to do, but as the years went by and time faded the colors on both the pole and the branches you had to be Houdini and guess where the branches went. And we also had to plug the stretched holes with matchsticks so the branches wouldn’t fall out. For many, many years our tree looked like it was put together by the criminally insane. But tonight it was new; it was perfect. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> The following Monday my mother took us to see Santa downstairs at the Bergen Mall. Impatiently I waited on line, craning my neck to send the hairy-eyeball to each kid who sat on Santa’s lap wasting his time and mine with drivel. Finally, when it was my turn I was unexpectedly overcome with the need to use the bathroom. Badly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “And what do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>want for Christmas?” Santa asked. As his breath fell upon me it resonated with the scent of juniper berries and olives. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> I was afraid to speak. Not because he intimidated me, but because I thought if I made a move I’d pee all over his leg. That wouldn’t get me Biff. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “How about a Dolly that wets?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Oh dear God, Man! Please, let’s not talk about water! Let’s stay on dry land, okay?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Finally I held my breath and somehow managed to say, “Biff. I want Biff!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> “A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mitt?</i> No. Every little girl is asking for a Dolly that wets this year! Ho, Ho, Ho!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> And that’s when I rained Christmas all over Santa’s knee. Ha! Ha! Ha!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Christmas morning began at 4:30 a.m. I tip-toed to my brother’s bed and woke him up. As we headed toward the stairs I pushed him in front of me to be my beard just in case Santa was still there. He felt the hall wall like he was reading Braille looking for the light switch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">“How the hell long have you been living here?” I whispered to him. “Don’t you know where the switch is?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Finally, he found it—or more likely, it found him. The hall light illuminated the living room just enough to see that Santa wasn’t there so I ran across the fringed green area rug and turned the lamp on. The living room had been magically transformed into Toy Land. All those toys shiny and new sitting beneath the tree. (Our Santa didn’t wrap.) I ran over my brother like road kill and indiscriminately waded through the G.I. Joes, Creepy Crawlers, Barbie dolls, a View Master Projector, and Colorforms until I found him waiting for me inside his cellophane box—Biff Bear! Finally, he was home. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Four decades later, Biff is still with me. He’s worn, torn, and a little bit ragged, but so am I. Regardless, he’s always, always <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> Biff Bear; my reminder of the best Christmas <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i>…Atlas Five and Ten’s windows overflowing with toys, a family gathered around a small kitchen table laughing and opening cards stuffed with cash, a new fake Christmas tree, and a Santa who smelled of juniper. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> A Christmas that was undisturbed by the touch of sickness, death, and the great divide of years that gives birth to memory, regret, and longing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5167100028051680427.post-27747728754116541712010-12-10T21:18:00.000-08:002010-12-11T08:21:25.909-08:00WHERE TO BUY CHRISTMAS TREES IN BERGEN COUNTY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDEFeAHUXhzmfxbrcV7v7nzM_5O4Fd9Km7GIFweAUxXqt7P0FwxAxQxwdhdofis4Li385P5-PNzbJlqmohWT_ozYfkWA-ibzs_bzqfmmOjlSL0Agku6G9mNSbzigF-j_hKpj4BOGXb9S6/s1600/12092010+031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDEFeAHUXhzmfxbrcV7v7nzM_5O4Fd9Km7GIFweAUxXqt7P0FwxAxQxwdhdofis4Li385P5-PNzbJlqmohWT_ozYfkWA-ibzs_bzqfmmOjlSL0Agku6G9mNSbzigF-j_hKpj4BOGXb9S6/s320/12092010+031.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why cut your own when someone else can cut your own for you?</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">So, the idea of cutting down your own tree has either lost its allure, or you never seriously considered it in the first place. You’re in luck. Here are some places in Bergen County where you can get the perfect tree already cut. Some of them even deliver! I’ve listed all places that over the years I’ve bought trees from and highly recommend.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Willow Run, One County Road, Cresskill</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><a href="http://willowrungardencenter.com/">http://willowrungardencenter.com/</a></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56rwl4lBG_bEoLXBFnbTLpcwGwMcfGtO0fMz7kbm8lIlX9cPmwsX4Go39LfjUTXn6HAbDnw7hRl8DG-oPBEtSvGxJzLVsgO3OJbkj_iNLgCHrpQDoJOJf7GJI4AA6YSCOpe-KBWt5nK5R/s1600/12092010+035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56rwl4lBG_bEoLXBFnbTLpcwGwMcfGtO0fMz7kbm8lIlX9cPmwsX4Go39LfjUTXn6HAbDnw7hRl8DG-oPBEtSvGxJzLVsgO3OJbkj_iNLgCHrpQDoJOJf7GJI4AA6YSCOpe-KBWt5nK5R/s320/12092010+035.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;">I visit Willow Run year round, but it’s this time of year when they really outdo themselves. They're one of the last (what I would call) Christmas stores. Not only do they have a large assortment of trees, but it’s a magical place to take the kids. There’s a large interior room lined with beautifully decorated trees. And every ornament that appears on the tree is for sale in boxes beneath it. There’s also a room with every imaginable kind of stringed light (including bubble lights), Christmas balls, decorations for outside the house, nativity sets, stockings, smaller Christmas trees, and so much more. If you like the light up Christmas villages then you’ll love the displays they have. If you like to collect these villages, Willow Run has a great selection and some great discounts, especially on discontinued pieces.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnt78nHECNAdAX__Nrb5ke6pzt2to7B7kDkg_YgKU0JAzbvBKx5ugImkC-D4oQGTOS57GaD1qxI4CfF8crxrW78PSPymPDtXpdy5JsN7ZjL4zU6_1L-oJsSHPwBeTmDdBCfk4UfXAP0zQ/s1600/12092010+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnt78nHECNAdAX__Nrb5ke6pzt2to7B7kDkg_YgKU0JAzbvBKx5ugImkC-D4oQGTOS57GaD1qxI4CfF8crxrW78PSPymPDtXpdy5JsN7ZjL4zU6_1L-oJsSHPwBeTmDdBCfk4UfXAP0zQ/s320/12092010+025.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The most beautiful ornaments in those boxes and they're all 50% off the day after Christmas!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">In addition to the freshly cut trees outside there’s live animals the kids can feed.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1mr_RBoFyLt3zdq9ojY13NX0LXNLFlSY-0jZIqndeVwpRku8gye5HoOST3gpOSE_Lq3T9-TKbbqXsLkMUsvQLmxGZ0zLwSJGo2mtR7IJ_oy95OYQ1RacYAlBfQ8u4AmekQcofRX3OXtX/s1600/12092010+029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1mr_RBoFyLt3zdq9ojY13NX0LXNLFlSY-0jZIqndeVwpRku8gye5HoOST3gpOSE_Lq3T9-TKbbqXsLkMUsvQLmxGZ0zLwSJGo2mtR7IJ_oy95OYQ1RacYAlBfQ8u4AmekQcofRX3OXtX/s320/12092010+029.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It isn't really Christmas until you've fed a llama.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;">A barn that has all kinds of mechanical Santas, elves, reindeer, and more.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrCV2zw8EvUKxxJP3NQeYuP_Pp3KR2I5R1wdRX9Mub_n1xyj7lp8c-8IGl0qIEVOpCSOQi-p9suH-GnTXTkTUW5F-y8EL6P0b6fTetqQQwrD2Ak_MsB3pmLCJxvHEsKjpC_a_m-pDUStgY/s1600/12092010+028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrCV2zw8EvUKxxJP3NQeYuP_Pp3KR2I5R1wdRX9Mub_n1xyj7lp8c-8IGl0qIEVOpCSOQi-p9suH-GnTXTkTUW5F-y8EL6P0b6fTetqQQwrD2Ak_MsB3pmLCJxvHEsKjpC_a_m-pDUStgY/s320/12092010+028.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">A complete throwback to when you were young.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;">A child-sized Christmas village that has three houses where the kids can peer into the windows and watch life-sized Santas, Mrs. Claus, Mickey Mouse and more. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: 32px;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Je2CwCHapAyIZDPYX0tXuwbCLH1krC8qhqCM91HOxmFQ80jBls-cu-5X4wFS-KaiyLWkyV2Km2IRfpwzPFi6hn6ejW5sfMmivw8ygfVjP084frw0LfcuN47F4B-8tzOYnk8iS90UiNX-/s1600/12092010+032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Je2CwCHapAyIZDPYX0tXuwbCLH1krC8qhqCM91HOxmFQ80jBls-cu-5X4wFS-KaiyLWkyV2Km2IRfpwzPFi6hn6ejW5sfMmivw8ygfVjP084frw0LfcuN47F4B-8tzOYnk8iS90UiNX-/s320/12092010+032.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Kids will love what they see when they look inside the windows of these Christmas Cottages!</td></tr>
</tbody></table></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;">You know what I love MOST about Willow Run? The day after Christmas almost everything is 50% off including the artificial trees. I wait all year for that sale.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;"><br />
</span></span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Hirams, 1345 Palisade Avenue, Fort Lee</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">: </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCifhc4mM0resNM5Su-xjWYOpPCRTgeMjIiwZmCQ0dqQlHZVm1MYExNKm9V6SP750_EzvKlRUhb6bzMudhsrL0hIFTsWRuYkf8L_O_JA-L-GNW1a9lRJrYU1AGVpswjR73YcJFPxqVWd9X/s1600/12092010+043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCifhc4mM0resNM5Su-xjWYOpPCRTgeMjIiwZmCQ0dqQlHZVm1MYExNKm9V6SP750_EzvKlRUhb6bzMudhsrL0hIFTsWRuYkf8L_O_JA-L-GNW1a9lRJrYU1AGVpswjR73YcJFPxqVWd9X/s320/12092010+043.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiram's has the most perfect and full trees. Also, they deliver!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Okay, so Hiram’s isn’t actually selling Christmas Trees with their hot dogs, but they are allowing trees to be sold in their lot. This is the first time that trees are being sold at Hiram’s, but if you remember the Christmas Tree lot by Bridge Plaza back in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s, then you know the trees because the same guys are selling them. Disclaimer: I’m very partial because the guys selling the trees are local boys I grew up with in Fort Lee--Vinny & John. They have a nice selection of trees to choose from and they DELIVER. They also have a collection box for toy donations that will be delivered to needy children for Christmas. And, once you pick your tree you can go into Hiram’s and have one or two of their famous hot dogs (and a beer)!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Leonia Sports Boosters, Broad Ave (across from Rec Center), Leonia</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">: </span></b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAbyUKBIZNTmribiXDA9_ec_Tu1wjG_Z7ZDwfEb_xXpoVQFO8Gzt29LGe9iDemelcVgOnvNC5DBJo0_3VeXa5pu3XEPDXtnrzf4X0jQXOaj9jb9o2LCmBxbS7B5aSAQyQKkb5fYkwS6NC/s1600/12092010+045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAbyUKBIZNTmribiXDA9_ec_Tu1wjG_Z7ZDwfEb_xXpoVQFO8Gzt29LGe9iDemelcVgOnvNC5DBJo0_3VeXa5pu3XEPDXtnrzf4X0jQXOaj9jb9o2LCmBxbS7B5aSAQyQKkb5fYkwS6NC/s320/12092010+045.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing better than supporting a good cause.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Not only can you buy a tree here, but the proceeds are going to support Leonia’s sports teams. What a great way to give! All of the people working there are volunteers who every year give so much of their time so that the kids can benefit. This is the first year that Sports Boosters are selling on Broad Avenue; for years they sold in Wood Park. Again, since I now live in Leonia, my son is active in sports, and I know most of the volunteers, I’m really partial to this group! I also don’t mind spending money when I know who’s benefitting. And I can think of nothing better—buying a great tree and donating money to such a great program!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Metropolitan Plants, 2125 Fletcher Ave, Fort Lee</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">:</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><a href="http://www.metroplantexchange.com/">http://www.metroplantexchange.com/</a></span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs815.snc4/69526_10150135177102004_136754037003_7839263_4412008_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs815.snc4/69526_10150135177102004_136754037003_7839263_4412008_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go to their Facebook Page and print a $10 off coupon!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Metropolitan has been selling fresh Christmas Trees for almost as long as I can remember. They have a very large selection of trees from which to choose from and no doubt, their price for a standard Douglas Fir is unbelievable. Metro has been running coupons for $10 off in the local newspapers so check them before you go. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">The Farm, 515 Piermont Road, Closter</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">: </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><a href="http://www.thefarmincloster.com/index1.html">http://www.thefarmincloster.com/index1.html</a></span></span></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsYz_oBBO1XaBgQ76m7NIfESYeDoiDvNgdg7UQye-uNY1f3BY293jOkE5poC9MOTHJGE8VIm3w0zdFmOuo83S2AWL20vdg5_FHVUnMKgyvY6u2Myw9XqKigqN1EVa8P2MUpougJ1NnjC5/s1600/12092010+036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsYz_oBBO1XaBgQ76m7NIfESYeDoiDvNgdg7UQye-uNY1f3BY293jOkE5poC9MOTHJGE8VIm3w0zdFmOuo83S2AWL20vdg5_FHVUnMKgyvY6u2Myw9XqKigqN1EVa8P2MUpougJ1NnjC5/s320/12092010+036.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wood burning fire will put you in the Christmas Spirit as you look for a tree!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;">One of the last of the “real” farms in our end of Bergen County. Compared to other places, The Farm doesn’t have a huge selection of trees, but what they do have is fresh and healthy. They also offer wreaths, poinsettias, and some decorations. Also, you can go inside the farm stand and choose from whatever is in season, and they have a bakery that is so good! Home-made cider donuts, pies, cakes, cookies…you can’t possibly leave there without buying something from their bakery. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Matera’s: 514 Broad Ave, Ridgefield</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;">Right off Broad Avenue in Ridgefield is a great little secret: Matera’s. I love Matera’s year-round for their flowers and mulch, but at Christmas they offer great deals. For instance, Douglas Firs for only $29.95. And I went to grammar school with the lovely Matera sisters, so we’ve known about this great little secret for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">long</i> time. Not that I’m dating myself.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Al D’s, 174 Sedore Ave, Fairview</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">: </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://aldlandscapingandtreeservice.com/var/cp/135046/1109244-1081401-al-callout3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://aldlandscapingandtreeservice.com/var/cp/135046/1109244-1081401-al-callout3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Another great little spot is Al D’s. In addition to Christmas Trees, Al D’s has a beautiful selection of grave blankets that can be custom made. It seems that almost everyone I know gets their Christmas grave blankets from Al D. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"> Here are some more places in Bergen County recommended by moms: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Karadontes Nurseries, 48 Grand Ave, Palisade Park<o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><a href="http://static.yellowbook.com/adartwork/paidadslogos/000/009/318/54.1.gif.art?width=72&height=75" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://static.yellowbook.com/adartwork/paidadslogos/000/009/318/54.1.gif.art?width=72&height=75" /></a></span></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><a href="http://static.yellowbook.com/adartwork/paidadslogos/000/009/318/54.1.gif.art?width=72&height=75" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span>Old Hook Farm, 650 Old Hook Road, Emerson</span></u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><u><a href="http://www.oldhookfarm.com/">http://www.oldhookfarm.com/</a></u></span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.oldhookfarm.com/images/640_poinsettia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.oldhookfarm.com/images/640_poinsettia.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Goffle Brook Farm & Garden Center, 425 Goffle Road, Ridgewood<o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><a href="http://gofflebrookfarms.com/Home_Page.php">http://gofflebrookfarms.com/Home_Page.php</a></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px; line-height: 42px;"></span></span><a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/hs181.ash2/44405_430616022294_105938412294_4649567_7868595_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/hs181.ash2/44405_430616022294_105938412294_4649567_7868595_n.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Demarest Farms, 244 Werimus Road, Hillsdale<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><a href="http://www.demarestfarms.com/">http://www.demarestfarms.com/</a></span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTJP9RTM_Hy64nMxHQozUOXoHuYw3ja1f_-WH4cvl8qfReLjg4-gKdhV8JbEkPXtmQtc5M9B9cBMG7uOX1TdRTis4AW5wSo0RVdBgO6PXY6Li9gklMGx8xwu5Sdt_fVlOtdEd-NVqd5II/s1600/Demarest+Farms+015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTJP9RTM_Hy64nMxHQozUOXoHuYw3ja1f_-WH4cvl8qfReLjg4-gKdhV8JbEkPXtmQtc5M9B9cBMG7uOX1TdRTis4AW5wSo0RVdBgO6PXY6Li9gklMGx8xwu5Sdt_fVlOtdEd-NVqd5II/s320/Demarest+Farms+015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Abma’s Farm, 700 Lawlins Road, Wyckoff<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><a href="http://abmasfarm.com/">http://abmasfarm.com/</a></span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://abmasfarm.com/images/pic1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://abmasfarm.com/images/pic1.jpg" /></a></div><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">DePiero’s Farm, 300 Grand Ave, Montvale<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><a href="http://depieros.com/events.html">http://depieros.com/events.html</a></span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs033.snc1/3239_64928934891_64927179891_1688835_7530279_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs033.snc1/3239_64928934891_64927179891_1688835_7530279_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Secor Farms, 168 Airmont Ave, Mahwah<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 42px;"><a href="http://www.secorfarms.com/Winter/tabid/57/Default.aspx">http://www.secorfarms.com/Winter/tabid/57/Default.aspx</a></span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bestofnj.com/files/2010/11/Jersey-Christmas-Tree-Farms-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://bestofnj.com/files/2010/11/Jersey-Christmas-Tree-Farms-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;">Rousseau’s Nursery, 765 Wyckoff Ave, Wyckoff<o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.dependable-mulch.com/Portals/48430/images/Christmas%20Trees1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.dependable-mulch.com/Portals/48430/images/Christmas%20Trees1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></u></div>Ann Piccirillohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11007707114421832462noreply@blogger.com0