the scrooge

true stories

I've never had much of an interest in writing fiction, because (among other reasons) it seems to me the best stories come from real life. Take, for example, the one about the morbidly obese man who went to the hospital for medical attention. Problem was, he was so big he hadn't reclined in ages because the weight of his own chest made breathing difficult. So the nurses and doctors helped him on to a gurney, which caused a massive resettling of his flesh for the first time in years, which in turn caused an old cheese sandwich to fall out from the folds.

Doctors have some of the best stories, whether tragic or funny or poignant or humiliating. A fourth-year med student told me last night that a woman brought her young daughter to the pediatric emergency unit, worried about a lump on the girl's chest. Could you, as the doctor, explain with a straight face that the girl will likely develop another lump, on the other side of her chest, and that these lumps are normal and commonly referred to as breasts? No need for surgery today.

But that's why stories are so good. They make you look at yourself and your perspective and your own history and biases. They keep me going.

I leave tomorrow to celebrate the birth of some peoples' lord with my unbelieving family, then I'm off to sail in clear blue Caribbean waters for 10 days. If all goes well, I'll return with stories to share (hopefully not medical in nature) and a tan to be smug about. Happy new year. See you on the flapjack.

sloppy seconds

The Yankees are like that friend you had in high school who waited until you had a serious crush on a boy, then she pounced. On that same boy. And stole him away, utterly sans remorse. In fact she wanted you to be happy for her.

Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, New York can have Johnny Damon. I am so over him. Whatever.

an open letter to the young man with the green coat and bad judgment rubbing up behind me in the subway this morning

Dear dumb-ass young man,
Maybe you're going through a dry spell in your social life. Maybe all your college friends settled in New York, but you wanted to try out Boston because Aunt Susan said she'd keep you well-fed if you moved nearby. Maybe you just got out of prison and the bus dropped you in unfamiliar surroundings with only enough money for a T fare. It's tough meeting new people. The ladies, especially. We can all probably relate.

But really. Is that any reason to press the entire length of your lonely-ass body against mine? Sure, the train was crowded. Sure, that crazy lady and her bags were taking up three seats and you didn't want to risk it and get too close. Fine, you needed to hold on to the pole. But really. I'd like to tell your mamma what you did. With that breath of yours, she'd probably tell you to brush more often--something I can actually get behind.

life's little mysteries

This morning I found a cat turd in my dresser drawer. It's the middle drawer--third from the top and third from the bottom. It has pants in it. I'm not a filthy pig. I simply cannot explain this.

Any ideas?

from a craptacular low to bumpin good times

Even if a dental procedure has a 98 percent chance of success, someone has to make up that other two percent. That someone is probably the same unlucky fool who gets stopped for speeding in a hoard of cars traveling at the exact same speed. Or the one who trips and falls, causing skirt to fly over her head, while the rest of the marching band is getting into position on the field for the Thanksgiving-day half-time show. Or whatever. Just some examples that pop into my mind.

Anyway, I found myself in that unlucky two percent on Friday. And you might not think it's such a big deal, but among my talents, I am skilled at blowing the smallest, most insignificant detail into an utter debacle. And I did. "They took out," sniffle drip drip, "the implant," pathetic sobbing, "and now it's going to be another year," snotty dribble, "and another pile of bills not covered by my freaking dental insurance," WAAHHH, "before I get a tooth," I cried to my poor sister. She kept all "WTF?"s to herself. Instead, she booked me on a train--the Acela, no less!--and let me mark the anniversary of her birth with new pants and Mexican food in New York. I had the cheese enchiladas with a side of dental sutures. Then there followed a celebratory game of bowling. In New York's Port Authority, the place you'd hate to spend an extra two minutes if you could avoid it. But the bowling was spectacular. Three strikes in a row (remember that, guys?) and a score in the triple digits--something that happens as often as those Olsen twins eat a hamburger and keep it down.

a friday treat

It's the freaking holiday season. To celebrate, you and your credit card plan to spend the weekend developing headaches from the blaring of Christmas carols in stores hawking crap. Work is the pits. You have to go to yet another yankee swap. The public-radio station is doing another fund drive. You think you might lose it before Santa arrives.

Stop. I offer you this dose of goodness. I dare you. Go ahead, poke around, no one will think less of you for it.

the cat ate my gymsuit, and everything else in the fridge

Good people have asked me, "Why no photos of your cat--what gives?" The sorry truth, I'm afraid, is that The Pickle is difficult to photograph. I don't have a wide-angle lens wide enough, for starters. (That incline leading up to her belly--merely the foothills of Mt. Kitty.) Plus, she's jumpy. Sure, she's big as a barn, but she's fast. As soon as you focus on her, she jumps out of the frame and is off fixing herself a sandwich.

confession

My eye has been somewhat swollen for the last two days, and I'm secretly hoping there's a hair or eyelash or something buried in there, waiting to make a dramatic exit. Have you ever pulled a hair out from behind your eyeball? If not, you haven't lived. If so, you smell what I'm stepping in, and you know you like it. You just have better judgment and wouldn't go announcing it to all of the world wide web. And I can respect that.

working overtime

The good thing about not having a job is that, when a friend who recently gave birth to a beautiful peanut of a human is planning to go back to work in two days' time but hasn't yet found a super nanny/babysitter, I can step in to help. My days are, like, totally free. Or they were.

Now they're all about bottom-wiping, bottle-fixing, and drool-catching. I also spend a great deal of time burping the wee one. A LOT of time.

So I wasn't all that surprised to find myself trying to burp my cat last night in my sleep. She didn't really mind, because she takes affection in whatever shape it takes, but I was annoyed that it took her so damn long to produce a belch.

his words, not mine

Walking through Davis square the other night, I'm behind a gentleman pushing his daughter in a stroller. Now, winter has hit New England like Muhammad Ali thumped George Foreman in the rumble in the jungle. It's cold out. Not frozen-booger cold, but it's not far off if trends continue.

So the guy and the stroller: Daughter is clutching something. It appears to be a coffee cup, but with a straw coming out of the sippy hole. She seems to be otherwise dressed for the weather, but her hands are bare, clutching her cup. Another man--silverhaired, probably pushing his golden years--walks alongside the father-daughter pair and offers, "No gloves for the little person?"

Dad, taken aback, has no comeback whatsoever. Then, a moment later, "I tried to get them on her, but she won't wear them. If you think you can get her to put them on, be my guest."

"Oh, no, it's just that I noticed she wasn't wearing any, and it's cold out, and I thought she should be wearing some." Long awkward pause. I'm not even a part of the conversation, and I feel like crawling out of my skin.

Dad: "Listen, do you make a habit of criticizing people on the sidewalk, or is just a pastime for you?"

Unsolicited criticizer: "Um, well."

Dad, clearly uncomfortable: "Look, I'm sorry. I'm from New York. Maybe I'm just socially impaired."

homewrecker

It's the classic story, subject of endless hours of daytime programming and countless trade paperback romances: Me, underemployed and slouching toward boredom, with all the love and wet-nosed canoodling a woman could hope for at home. Enter a handsome house guest, with strong features, monogrammed luggage, and the most charming patches of toe hair ever have I seen.

I'm sunk. Hopelessly falling for someone else's dog. Please, don't judge me. She does that thing where she whips her stuffed animals around in her mouth, trying to snap their plush little necks. And the ear hair? I can't be helped.

the old nag

I set down 40 pounds of dog food on the passenger seat, without buckling it in, and I sense that my car doesn't like it. "Bing, bing, bing," she says, like a mother gently reminding her child. When I respond by taking my foot off the brake, she gets increasingly on edge. What if we're in an accident? What if we can't stop in time? What if . . . ? I ignore her and start to leave the parking lot. "Bingbingbingbingbingbingbing!" she cries. I step on the gas and proceed into traffic, sending her into a panic. "BINGBINGBINGBINGBING!" All the way home, this nagging. And me without a button to turn off the Swedish smart-assitude.

overheard

The setting: Harvard square knitting store, nerds aplenty, myself included.

The characters: A huge, pizza-faced college boy, speaking in annoying, didactic tone to earnest-looking and much cooler female friend. While bandying about advanced knitting terms like "hank" and "swift" (in the noun form), he brags to salesgirl about the "fabulous Chilean wool" that's been sitting, unused, in his knitting bag for three months now, as if that's a sin on par with puppy killing.

"This stuff will treat'cha good," he says to his friend. "Sure, it can get kinda kinky, but if you're going to be a knitter, one thing you're going to have to get used to is ripping out your work and starting over. You'll be alright, I'll show you."