I was so caught up in the excitement of the Foo Fighters concert a few weeks ago that I neglected to post a few pictures I'd taken the following day in Wildwood, NJ.

Our friends were kind enough to invite us to spend the night at their condo in North Wildwood with them after the concert, so we wouldn't have to make the long drive home so late at night.

I spent my childhood summers here and I loved it. I still do. When I was a kid, going "down the shore," as we Philadelphians say, was a magical time. My extended family owned a few houses throughout North Wildwood, on the bayside, and it was always so beautiful and peaceful there.

I was never much of a beach person, but I would've spent our entire vacations on the boardwalk if I'd had my way. For as long as I can remember, the loud dance music blasting out of the speakers from the amusements, the screaming sirens and bells of the many arcades, and the smell of the sea and funnel cake and french fries mesmerized me. I loved roller coasters--still do, in fact--and I would ride them over and over again until I was dizzy. I loved the log flume, the fun house, the ferris wheel, the Gravitron. There wasn't a single ride I didn't like there. And during the day, I'd beg my mom to take me and my cousins to the waterpark on the end of Morey's Pier. We'd spend hours riding down the waterslides and tubing through the lazy river pool that ran the perimeter of the park.

As I got older, the boardwalk became a place for me to meet and hook up with guys, although the amusement rides never lost any of their appeal for me, either. I remember the painstaking process of getting ready to go out to the boardwalk at night: slapping on as much eyeshadow and lipgloss as possible, teasing up my hair and practically shellacking it with Aqua Net, and picking out just the right outfit in the hopes of finding a cute guy on the boards. I always despaired over my super-curly hair that went wild with frizz from the humidity of the coastal air.

Eventually, we stopped going to Wildwood, though I can't quite remember why. I guess I just grew out of it. Hard to believe I could outgrow something I loved so much, but that's life, I guess.

Until earlier this month, I hadn't been there in many years. I was happy to see that the boardwalk hasn't changed much, although it was much less crowded off-season. Gateway 26, my favorite arcade, is still there. Somewhere in my parents' attic, there is a Tupperware container with upwards of 20,000 Gateway 26 Skee-ball tickets. Too bad I didn't have them with me then! Sam's Pizza is still there. Kohr Brothers ice cream and Curley's Fries are still there, as is Douglas Fudge, of course.

The overwhelming number of new condominiums throughout Anglesea and North Wildwood did surprise me, though. It seemed like almost everything there was new construction. And expensive!

Here are a few pics. Enjoy!

Labels: childhood, family, friends, jersey shore, memories, nostalgia

This cracks me up every time I see it...reminds me of how I was as a kid.

Labels: childhood, family guy, funny stuff, memories

Teri's next question for me:

If the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World were still around, which one would you most like to see?

This one is a no-brainer for me! The only "ancient wonder" that is still in existence is the Great Pyramid at Giza, and that is definitely what I want to visit!

I've been interested in Egyptology since I was young. NERD ALERT!! From grades three through seven, I took part in a special supplementary program at school called ATP (Academically Talented Program...geez, wasn't I just SO SPECIAL? Not.). Once a week during the school day, I would get on a bus with three or four of my classmates and spend a few hours at the school district's Intermediate Unit.

ATP was so freaking cool. We got to do all kinds of stuff that we never would've had the chance to do in our "real" classes. In fourth grade, we spent half the year learning about the Milky Way. The final project required us to learn how to write a music program in Basic on the computer and to write a poem that tied into the specific planet of our choosing. I picked a piece from Gustav Holst's "The Planets" and somehow managed to write a Basic program on my little Radio Shack Tandy PC that synchronized my poem to the music.

Anyway, in fifth grade, we studied ancient Egyptian life and culture in ATP. Part of our studies included learning how to read and write basic hieroglyphics. It was unbelievably fun! Here's a site where you can see your name in hieroglyphics. One of these days, I'm going to get myself a little gold cartouche charm with my name in hieroglyphics.

Later, when I was 18, the second tattoo I got (of the five that I have) was a blue Egyptian ankh...the symbol for life and immortality. It's on my left shoulder blade.

My friend PJ has actually been to the Pyramids and I must admit I am incredibly envious of her for that reason! Someday I hope to make it there myself. The closest I've ever been to the Pyramid is when my mom and I stayed at the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas in 2003! Not quite the same thing, though...

Hope everyone's well! And apologies to Teri for my serious slacking-off!

Labels: childhood, deep thoughts, friends, memories, tattoos

Teri has come to my rescue! I've been stressing about quality blog topics lately, and she has presented me with five personalized interview questions to answer!
Instead of trying to address all five in one post, as I do tend to get a little verbose, I'm going to dedicate one post to each question. So without further ado...here's Teri's first question for me and my response!

If you could change your current career, what would you do?

This is tough because it’s such an open-ended question. I’m not sure if I should work under the assumption that, whatever career I choose, I would have sufficient training, schooling, or experience in it. But since these are my questions to interpret however I want, I’ll just say that if I could change my career, I’d either be a writer or a chef.

Writing has been a critical part of my self-identity for as long as I can remember. I’ve been fascinated by language and expression since I was a little girl. I can identify three pivotal events in my life as a writer.

First, I got my first diary when I was in second grade. It was a small, square hardcover book with a photo of an orange tabby cat nestled in a tangle of red poppies on the cover. I was most enamored of the tiny lock on it that could only be opened by an even tinier brass key that I kept hidden in my jewelry box. I wrote in that diary faithfully, and that was really the beginning of my love affair with language. Now it's just hysterically funny to read back on my eight-year old self's musings.

Second, when I was in third grade, I came down with the chickenpox and had to stay home from school for about a week. My father felt bad for me because I was so bored and one night, he brought home a grab bag of goodies for me. One of the grab bag items was a fifty-page book with illustrations on every other page that had blank lines on the opposite page on which I could write a story that corresponded with the drawings. The illustrations depicted a dog that had been abducted by friendly aliens and taken back to their home planet, and I wrote the entire story in about three hours, loving every minute of it.

Third, when I was in sixth grade, I got a Brother electronic word processor from my parents for Christmas. Instantly, I was enthralled by it and that’s when I began writing in earnest. There was something magical about seeing my words come together on the tiny four-line dot matrix screen, and since then, I’ve always preferred writing via typing rather than longhand. I can type much faster than I can write. At that age, most of the stuff that was produced on that word processor were stories about my best friend and I bumping into the New Kids on the Block at our local carnival—imagine that!!—being spirited off to Boston to meet their parents and then ultimately accepting their marriage proposals (her favorite was Joe; mine was Jon. I always liked the dark, shy ones!).

As an only child, I spent a lot of time trying to entertain myself. Writing was always there for me. So if I could make a stable, reliable living from writing, that’s what I’d be doing right now.

As for the chef idea...well, I just like to cook. I find it both relaxing and extremely satisfying. Of course, if I had to do it day in and day out for a living, maybe I'd feel differently.

Teri, I hope I did your first question justice. I'll be back to answer your next question!

Labels: childhood, deep thoughts, memories, work, writing

OK, if any of you have ever seen my "random question" in my Blogger profile, you've noticed that I mentioned what my porn star name is.

Now I want you to tell me what YOUR porn star name is. Here's how to get it:

First Name = name of your first childhood pet
Last Name = name of the first street you lived on

My first pet was an orange tiger tabby named Whiskers, and I lived on Hampden Road in Upper Darby until I was 10. So voila! My porn star name is Whiskers Hampden.

Leave your porn star name in my Comments!

Labels: childhood, funny stuff, memories, pets

One of my favorite holiday traditions from my childhood was going to see the Christmas decorations at the Pflaumers' house in Drexel Hill, PA, known in my family as the "Christmas House." Every year, either my parents, my godmother, or my grandparents would take me over to the large Tudor-style home on Fairfax Road, where I'd stand, mesmerized, admiring the incredible variety of Christmas decorations on and around the property. The Pflaumers owned the Schmidt Brewing Company in Philadelphia, a beer distributorship that was fairly well-known in the area. Mr. Pflaumer wound up in the slammer for tax evasion and eventually had to declare bankruptcy in the 1980s, but that didn't stop him (or his family) from wowing the local residents every year with their Christmas display.

You could actually hear the Christmas House before you saw it, thanks to the holiday music that blared on an endless loop over a loudspeaker system. Often we had to park our car two or three blocks away from the house; there was always a crowd gathered around it, from Thanksgiving all the way up until New Year's, and understandably so: there were so many fantastic sights on the property that one's eyes could hardly rest. Here was a life-sized illuminated Santa's sleigh, complete with eight reindeer, suspended from a pulley system that wound around the side yard of the house. On the front lawn was an enormous Nativity scene, with real straw and a real stable and nearly life-sized figures gathered around the manger. Not to mention all kinds of flashing lights and holiday statuary scattered everywhere. From the peak of the roof, a huge lit-up Santa statue appeared on the verge of climbing into the chimney.

If I had to guess, I'd say that there were easily 50,000 lights in the display, but that may be a conservative estimate. I remember the adults standing around and speculating what the Pflaumers' electric bill must be. There was a hurricane fence erected around the property, and I was always curious if anyone actually lived in the house during the holiday season. I never saw any cars, interior lights, or other signs of life within the house when we went to look at it. Now, as an adult looking back on it, I wonder how the Pflaumers' neighbors tolerated this show year in and year out. As much as I loved going to see it, I can't imagine living next door to it!

I can't remember exactly when I stopped going to see the Christmas House; I suppose it was sometime around the advent of my teenage years, when I thought myself too "cool" to be transported by the extravagance and magic of the display. You know what teenagers are like--nothing impresses them. But now that December is upon us, I've found my thoughts turning back to the Christmas House, wondering if the Pflaumers still put on the display.

Labels: childhood, holidays, memories, nostalgia, Upper Darby

You know, I was looking through some old posts here and realized that somehow a few of them were gone. Poof. Vanished.

So here's one of them, with a new addendum at the end. Enjoy.

The combination of nostalgia, intense curiosity, and sheer boredom can do a real number on you. I have recently started Googling or searching MySpace for old friends, acquaintances and even ex-boyfriends.

The results of my searches have frequently surprised me: a handful of old high school buddies are now doctors; some are still single, some have kids, some are divorced, and some happily married. A few of my old friends are scattered across the country, but most have remained in the Philadelphia area.

I can’t ever think of the people who have come and gone from my life without thinking of Brian L. We had attended the same high school, but he was a year behind me, and I didn’t really know him until after we’d both graduated. Although we only spent a few short months together during the summer between my freshman and sophomore year in college, I know I will never forget him. He made that big of an impression on me.

I was totally and shamelessly crazy about Brian. He was probably the closest thing to a soul mate that I’ve ever had. We understood each other perfectly. He was sensitive, quiet and somewhat shy but wickedly funny, smart as a whip, and incredibly, incredibly hot. Just the thought of him made me drool all over myself.

We spent most of the summer of 1997 together, getting stoned, going to the movies, to the diner, playing video games, and talking about everything under the sun. On the rare nights I was not hanging out with him, I couldn’t even sleep, so consumed by my thoughts of him was I. I spent those nights listening to my Walkman, wandering up and down the driveway of my parents’ house, chain-smoking and brooding. I just ACHED for him, the way that only lovesick 19 year-old girls can.

Early that summer, I had bought a small, green-bordered book entitled "Getting to Know You." It was a book of questions, such as "Name the three things in life that frighten you the most," or, "If you had only 24 hours left to live, what would you do?" Basically, these were the kind of questions that provided outstanding conversational fodder for the semi-intellectual stoners we were. I don’t know what prompted me show it to him, but as soon as I did, he was immediately fascinated by it, and expected me to share it with him.

And so we spent entire nights, often from midnight till sunrise, poring through this book together while lounging on sticky vinyl lawn chairs in his dimly-lit backyard. We took turns asking each other questions from the book and discussing our answers at length, absolutely hanging on each other’s answers, and only occasionally breaking for a cigarette or passionate, urgent kissing.

As the pitch-black sky slowly turned steely grey and pink, he’d walk me to my car, where we’d cling to each other like the last two people on earth, until I tore myself away from him and went home. I realized that I really loved him when one late night, around 3:30, I asked him (from the book), "Who is your best friend?" He looked at me and said softly, without a pause, "You are." SWOOOOOON!!!!! Yes, I loved him. I really did.

There were some problems, of course. The first big issue was that, although he and I did everything together, he refused to call me his "girlfriend." He said he did not want to put a label on our relationship. At the time, this bothered me immensely, though looking back as an adult, I don’t understand why. I guess I was overly concerned with labels back then.

Secondly, we had some, ahem, physiological difficulties, if you will. We spent hours kissing, touching, exploring—but when it came time for the act...poof! The moment was gone. I guess that, technically, we only ever consummated our relationship TWICE. That was it. But still, I loved him and it didn’t matter to me. Until I met David, who would be my last serious relationship before I met my husband.

David was just about the polar opposite of Brian. He rubbed hot and cold with me. Sometimes he’d show up with dozens of roses for me for no apparent reason; other times, he was grumpy and distant, tantalizingly uninterested in me. A real challenge. Oddly enough, in my youth, there was nothing I liked more than a challenge. The thing that drew me to him the most, though, was that David had no problem with the boyfriend/girlfriend labels. How I wished Brian had felt the same!

For a while, I somehow managed to date both Brian and David simultaneously, even going to see Rage Against the Machine and Wu-Tang Clan with both of them. Looking back, I’m sure they both knew what was up, but I was just enjoying myself at the time.

Then, a few weeks after the concert, David asked me to be his girlfriend. As in, exclusively. As in, there would be no other people for either of us. Honestly, I can’t remember much about those days (all that pot-smoking destroyed large portions of my memory, sadly), and I can’t recall how difficult it was for me to decide what to do about Brian.

If I knew then what I know now, I can say with unqualified certainty that I would have--and should have--stuck with Brian L. I do remember, however, that shortly after David asked me to date only him, Brian and I were hanging out, as usual--making out in my car, in fact--when I dropped the bomb on him. The conversation is hazy, but I can remember this much:

Me: “This probably isn’t the best time to bring this up…”

Him: “Hmmm?”

Me: “Well...David asked me to be his girlfriend...and to go out with only him...and I said yes.”

Him: “WHAT? WHY? How could you do this, without talking to me first?”

If my (admittedly spotty) memory serves me correctly, Brian was crushed and furious with me. I felt awful, but in my mind, David was giving me what I wanted. I wish that I could recall more from that incident, but that’s it. And I never saw him again after that night. It was August 1997.

Fast-forward to the present: I know exactly where Brian L. is today and what he’s doing with his life, thanks to mutual acquaintances and my penchant for internet detective work. He’s in the Air Force, active duty, and living in Texas. This cracks me up because I can’t imagine him in the military at all, based on the person I knew way back in the day. Of course, we all grow and change, so what the hell do I know? Also, he’s got a daughter who is preschool age, and I think he was recently remarried.

For a while, I toyed with the idea of emailing him, just to say hello and see how he’s doing. Then I decided to go for it. I doubt anything will come of it. He may not even respond to my email because he either doesn't remember me or thinks I'm some kind of nutty stalker. So I don’t expect to get a response from him at all.

Have any of you ever contacted someone (a friend or an ex) from your past? I want to know what happened! How did it turn out? Were you surprised? Disappointed? Happy?

Labels: childhood, concerts, memories, nostalgia, technology

My friend sent me this link to a story about an American woman living in England who wrote that motherhood bores her. The comment my friend sent me with the link was "No, these kids won't be too scarred for life." After reading the article, I have to say I disagree with her.

When I was a kid, my mom didn't play with me all that much. Instead, she encouraged me to go outside and knock up for the other kids on my street and play with them. There were days that I hardly saw my mother, except at meal times, because I was so busy playing with the kids in my neighborhood. Yes, there were times she took me to the playground and pushed me on the swings, or occasionally treated me by taking me to Chuck E. Cheese--and that was HUGE deal; it wasn't an everyday occurrence. Hell, it wasn't even a MONTHLY occurrence. I had to do something pretty damn spectacular in order to spend the day at Chuck E. Cheese--like get very high marks on my report card.

But my mom didn't stop her life because of me. She worked part-time as an ER nurse, and if she had errands to run on her days off, she took me with her. I didn't have a choice about how we passed our days together. If we weren't out grocery shopping or going to the bank or the post office, she spent most of our time at home with her nose in a book. I was made to understand that adults were entitled to having some time away from kids, and I was perfectly OK with that. My mother often told me, in a most loving way, that it was not her job to entertain me constantly. So I learned to entertain myself. Sometimes it was hard, because I was an only child, so there weren't any siblings around to play with. Yet I found things to keep myself busy, by reading books and playing games by myself if the neighborhood kids weren't available. I give full credit to my parents for making me the independent person I am today.

From my observations, I would agree that many parents I've seen these days have become too child-centric. Children should learn to amuse and occupy themselves. I think it helps them grow. It's not good for kids to believe that it's all about them 24/7. Because when they grow up, their expectations are completely skewed.

I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't be a good parent. If you do read the linked article, be sure to click on the reader commentary -- I'm amazed by how divisive this piece is. There are some really harsh comments and it's clear how passionate people are on both sides of the issue.

But do you think the backlash this article is getting would be anywhere near as severe if it were written by a father? I don't think so!!!

Labels: childhood, family, friends, meme, parenting

The 80s was a pretty good decade to be a kid.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I feel bad for kids these days. It seems to me like there are so many more problems for them now than the people of my generation had.

One of my coworkers sends his two kids (ages 4 and just over 1 year) to a very swanky daycare in our area. They’re learning Spanish and Mandarin Chinese. Some of these children have their very own laptop computers. Their parents are already beginning to talk about getting into the “right” colleges. It seems a bit excessive to me. Not to mention downright scary at times.

When I was 4 years old, I went to the pre-K program at our local YMCA. We didn’t learn Mandarin Chinese. We learned how to make homemade applesauce and peanut butter. We put on incredible, heartwrenchingly dramatic productions of “The Little Train That Could.” But mostly, we just played with Legos and Tinker Toys and Lite Brite and Fisher-Price Little People. Because isn’t that what the crux of being a kid is? To play all day long and not have to worry about the real world?

Now I admit that learning Spanish makes sense to a point—after all, I watched a whole lot of Sesame Street when I was a kid and learned how to count to ten in Spanish, along with other random words (“agua” was a big one, if I recall). But Mandarin Chinese? Exactly how will these kids practice speaking Mandarin, anyway? I don’t get it. Maybe the daycares are teaching this now because they believe that someday the Chinese will own all of us. Hee.

Another thing—what’s up with designer clothes for first graders these days? Not to mention those repugnant message t-shirts for little girls. The day I dress my hypothetical kid in a shirt that has “Spoiled Brat” emblazoned in pink sequins across the front is the day I’ll die. I wasn’t even decked out in clothes from The Children’s Place—they were too expensive.

(That was the one store in the mall I used to BEG my mother to take me to. They had a really neat playhouse with a sliding board and a closed-circuit TV that played episodes of “Steampipe Alley” on an endless loop. Yes, that show was hosted by Mario Cantone, way before he was Charlotte’s flamingly gay wedding planner on Sex and the City.)

No, my clothes came from stores like Jefferson Ward (later Bradlees), Clover, and Burlington Coat Factory. I didn’t have pint-sized versions of designer jeans. I didn’t have my own laptop computer. I didn’t have a VCR, or even a television, in my bedroom. I did have a Speak-n-Spell, though. And Alphie. Remember those?

My friends and I didn’t sit around inside all summer to play video games. We were outside playing from the minute breakfast ended until the streetlights came on. Our parents didn’t have to watch us like hawks because it was (or seemed, at least) so much safer back then. Child molesters were something that we saw on after-school specials—not something we had to contend with every day of our lives. The most we worried about was who was going to be “It” when we started an impromptu game of Tag.

Man. I loved being a child of the 80s. You can read a couple of essays here and here that bring back some terrific memories of those times.

Happy Friday!

Labels: childhood, fashion, friends, memories, nostalgia, school, technology

Since I was a little girl, I have had a keen interest in language. I began to teach myself how to read at about age 3. English was always my favorite subject, at least until I reached high school, at which point I began taking formal Spanish lessons. Accents particularly fascinate me. I often listen carefully to people and try to guess where they live, or at least where they were raised.

So it should come as no surprise that I absolutely ADORE hearing British people speak. I could listen for hours on end. Sadly, there is a dearth of Brits in my life, so when I come upon one I am especially delighted. One such person is our cats' veterinarian, Dr. Nicol. Every time I bring Bailey and Sebastian to the vet for their check-up, I make sure to request him. The Huz thinks I'm crazy.

Last week, I took the cats in for their rabies and distemper shots. As Dr. Nicol carefully inspected them and took their vitals, I stood across the exam table from him, completely entranced as he spoke, with a silly grin plastered across my face. He probably thinks I'm crazy, too.

Yesterday, I received a follow-up phone call from Dr. Nicol about the results of Bailey's blood test. I can't say that I remember much of the actual content of our discussion. I sat at my desk and murmured "mmm-hmm" and "okay" as he spoke. I must have looked like quite a sight, because after I hung up the phone, one of my coworkers asked me what was so funny. Apparently I was grinning like an idiot again.

Then The Huz called. When I mentioned that the vet had called about Bailey's blood test, he wanted to know the outcome.

"Uh...I think he said it was fine," I responded.

"What? You don't know what the results were?" The Huz demanded. "Why not?"

So naturally I had to break down and confess that I didn't remember a thing about our conversation. I just remembered how it sounded! Which, to my Anglophilic ears, was perfectly lovely.

PS - This love does not extend to Americans imitating a British accent, unless they are REALLY good at it. Example: Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones' Diary was good. Outstanding, in fact. Madonna, not so much. And Joaquin, my darling, your accent in Gladiator was atrocious. Sorry, luv.

Labels: celebrities, childhood, memories, movies, pets, writing

When I'm bored, one of my favorite online pasttimes is checking out the Missed Connection postings on Philadelphia's Craigslist site. Some postings are hopelessly romantic, some wistful, some funny, some angry, and some are just plain crazy. Reading these postings satisfies my need for drama, romance, deception, and sex without the mess of actually being involved in any of it.

A typical posting on Missed Connections goes something like this (some of these are actual postings):

Hot guy on bicycle - West River Drive - Sat. 5/13 (w4m): Our eyes met briefly when I nearly mowed you down with my convertible. You were really cute! Plus your ass looked great in spandex. Pls email me if you read this!

Or:

Leah B. - You stole from me. You are a theif (sic). Everyone will know how evil you are & how many drugs you are on. Crack, heroin, where do you want me to stop. give me back my money!

And the occasional:

Nugget Sauce - Biggity B! MySpace my ass! PJ MD wants to rock it with you all night! I want to dip my nugget in your sauce! You feel me...ouch!

Or:

Richard K. - Liar Liar Liar. If you are dating him, most likely he is already seeing someone else and cheating on them too. If he says he has changed, here is a tip:
-go through his wallet and check for his receipts.
-the nights he says he is somewhere, check up on it. Most likely he is not there.
-But the best one of all! Get his passcode to his voicemail and check his messages! It will soon be all clear to you!
Warn other women!

OK, the last three were real. The first one I completely made up.

On occasion, I have seen names of people that I recognize on Missed Connections. About a year ago, I saw a posting with the name of the sister of a girl who went to my grade school. It was posted by her prom date from 1989. He was looking for her. So I responded to him and told him that I knew who he was talking about, but that she was no longer in the area and that she was married with kids.

He went BERSERK -- it seemed like he was really obsessed with her. I received multiple emails from him for about three weeks, trying to pump me for more information. Which I truly did not have, and even if I did, I would certainly never pass on to a stranger. Eventually I had to put him on my ignore list because he was getting nasty with me.

Then, about a month ago, I saw another posting from him on Missed Connections, asking about her again. This time I just clicked right past it.

I always wonder if someone I know will ever post about me in MC. Guess I'll have to keep reading...

Labels: childhood, funny stuff, technology, Upper Darby, weird

...but going to see Def Leppard in concert most definitely takes some of the sting out of it!!

WOOHOO! A few friends and I are going to the Def Leppard/Journey concert in June at the Tweeter Center in Camden. You cannot possibly imagine how much this excites me. Going to see DL live represents the fulfillment of a lifelong dream for me. I can barely sit still, I am that amped!!

When I was a kid, my parents were pretty much like the Gestapo. Every television program, movie, and album I wanted was heavily scrutinzed before my parents decided whether or not I could watch it or listen to it. For example, I was not allowed to watch MTV (then again, the MTV of my youth was like Mr. Fucking Rogers' Neighborhood compared to the soft porn they broadcast these days!). I was not allowed to own any cassette tapes with the parental warning labels on them. I was not allowed to talk on the phone on school nights after 7 p.m.

Yeah, it sucked. And yeah, they had hell to pay for it in later years, when I rebelled by sneaking my boyfriends into my bedroom in the middle of the night and spending almost two straight years stoned off my ass. Let me tell ya, I could roll the TIGHTEST joint ever! Ahem. But those are stories for another post...

Anyhoo. In 1987, my cousin Tracie, who is eight years my senior and was, in my eyes, the arbiter of all things cool, turned me on to Def Leppard. I was about 10 years old. This was around the time when Hysteria was first released. For me, it was love at first listen. Not only did I immediately adore their music, but I also developed an extreme prepubescent crush on Rick Allen, the one-armed drummer.

All of my weekly allowance was funneled to the purchase of magazines like Metal Edge and Hit Parader, as I began to accumulate photos of the band. At one point, I had over four hundred posters and pictures of Def Leppard taped to the walls of my bedroom. My parents were suspicious, but they never made me take down those posters. Tracie, knowing how strict my parents were, made me a copy of Hysteria on a blank, unmarked cassette tape. I listened to it nearly every waking minute of each day, until it eventually was eaten by my Walkman.

I decided to take the chance and buy my own copy of Hysteria at Wall to Wall Sound and Video (remember that store?). Shortly thereafter, my parents were on to me. They read the playlist and saw song titles like "Women," "Pour Some Sugar on Me," and "Armageddon It" (my mother: "Is this that SATANIC music?!?") and immediately took the tape away from me. I was crushed. I begged and pleaded with them to give me back the tape, to no avail. They wouldn't even reimburse me the damn allowance money that I spent to buy it. I was crushed...but only briefly.

You see, what they DIDN'T realize was that I knew that they'd hidden the tape in one of the drawers of my father's dresser. So as soon as my parents weren't around, I snatched the tape and dubbed another copy of it for myself. Then I replaced the original back in my dad's dresser, and they were never the wiser.

I was a sneaky, underhanded, conniving child. Indeed.

So going to see Def Leppard in concert now is guaranteed to bring back all of those fond memories for me.

Plus, they're playing with Journey. Freaking Journey! DON'T STOP...BELIEVIN'!

(I know, Steve Perry hasn't been with Journey in years, so I'm kinda bummed out about that, but still. There is NO way I would miss this show.)

My real concern is, should I break out the acidwashed denim and curl my bangs sky-high for this show?

Labels: childhood, concerts, decisions, Def Leppard, family, friends, memories, music

Last night I brought dinner over to my grandmother’s apartment and hung out with her for an hour or so. I’ve decided that I need to spend more time with her, no matter how much it bothers me. Because I’m not doing it for me, I’m doing it for her.

She has lived alone since my grandfather died from cancer in 1995. She never made any friendships outside of her relatives, because she believed that her husband and her family were her first and most important priorities. Unfortunately, all the family members of her generation have died. She is the only one left.

She only held a job outside her home briefly, before she married my grandfather. Other than sewing and housekeeping, she never had any hobbies or interests. My parents and I have tried to convince her to go to a local senior center, with the hopes that she would make some friends and benefit from the social interaction, but she refuses, saying, “But I don’t KNOW anyone there! It would be a bunch of strangers and me.” Maddening. So instead, she literally sits in an armchair in front of her television from sunrise to sunset, watching the Game Show Network and reruns of Hawaii Five-O and Magnum, PI. Her legs have gotten weak from disuse, so she won’t even walk the half-block from her apartment to the Rite Aid drugstore at the corner of her street to buy a newspaper. She has never driven a car, so she is dependent on my parents and, less often, my self-centered aunt who lives in south Jersey to take her to the supermarket and to doctors’ appointments. It’s a sad existence.

In the past couple of years, she has begun a downhill slide. It’s really hard for me to watch. Her doctor believes that she has had a few mini-strokes. Nothing major, but enough to affect some of her motor skills and some of the executive function of her brain. She has been diagnosed with early Alzheimers. Last year,she mailed us two Christmas cards, both with Brian’s name spelled “Byron.” She’s starting to forget to balance her checkbook properly, so my father has taken over her bill paying. She also hasn’t been taking all of her (many) prescriptions on a regular basis. Worst of all, she has been having frequent episodes of loss of control of her bowels and bladder, which I know must be a terrible and humiliating experience for her.

When I was a kid, both my parents worked, and she was my primary caretaker before I was old enough for school. I have so many memories of her; she was strong and vital and animated. Now she’s just a shadow of her former self. It breaks my heart.

Last night, I brought her veal Parmigiana and spaghetti from the Italian place up the street from her. As I sat next to her, eating my lobster ravioli, I watched her struggle to cut the veal into edible pieces. At one point, I interjected, “Can I help you with that, Grandma?”

She ignored me and kept doggedly sawing away at the veal cutlet.

A few more minutes passed, and she still hadn’t made any progress, so I again said, “Let me get that for you.”

Resigned, she slowly released her weak grip on her knife and fork, and I stood over her, cutting up the veal into bite-sized pieces. It was then that I was struck by our role reversal, and my heart lurched. Was it really so long ago that she cut my meat for me? How had things gotten to this point?

I quickly finished cutting her veal and excused myself to the bathroom, where I quietly cried.

Labels: childhood, family, memories

You know, I have been insanely busy. I feel awful for neglecting this little piece of internet realty.

We rented the movie "Crash" on Friday night. What a powerful, interesting story! It really made me think. Definitely not a feel-good piece, though. At the end of it, I was quite disturbed for the remainder of the evening, even though it attempted to go out on a high note with the suggestion of redemption.

Overall, I thought it was an excellent movie. Of course, I think that any movie with Don Cheadle is great, so no surprise there. It featured quite an ensemble of actors: Sandra Bullock (in a decidedly different role), Matt Dillon, Thandie Newton, Ludacris (who I thought did a great job), Larenz Tate, Brendan Fraser, and Ryan Phillippe.

We spent most of the day Saturday painting our bedroom. Between Coat #1 and Coat #2, I did endless loads of laundry, and made French onion soup.

Time-out: can someone please tell me how two adults manage to create SO MUCH DIRTY LAUNDRY? I did four loads over the weekend, and when I opened the hamper this morning, it was full again! Maddening!

October 21 marked the beginning of my 28th year on this planet. The Huz surprised me with Rachael Ray's newest cookbook, and we went out to dinner with some friends of ours. It was a great time.

I can't believe I'm 28. It seems that all my life, I have been waiting for my chronological age to catch up with my perception of my maturity. In school, I often felt frustrated by my classmates, because they acted so much younger than I did. Most times, my good friends were several years older...I got along with them better, and felt that they understood me, too.

Now, however, it seems that it's going the other way for me. At what point will I feel like a "grown-up"? This is something I ponder all the time.

I am married with a mortgage. I have been working a full-time job since I was 21, and have even remained in the same industry. I have a platinum MasterCard and an impeccable credit rating. I subscribe to Reader's Digest (well...I didn't subsribe to it; my dad gave me a gift subscription to it...but still, I read it every month when it comes!). I garden and cook for pleasure, for pete's sake, which I had always considered "old people hobbies." I can't remember the last time I got sick from drinking too much. Yet, I still feel like a kid most of the time.

Last week, I received an invitation to my 10-year high school reunion, which is being held the Friday night after Thanksgiving. I decided to attend, just out of blatant curiosity, since I was never really close to anyone in my class. So after I RSVP'ed yes, I logged onto Classmates.com because I'm nosy, and wanted to see what my fellow Class of 1995 grads were up to. Many of them have a kid...or three!

I'm still not sure if I even want to be a parent. I like my life the way it is now! I only have to take care of myself, my two cats, and my husband (to a reasonable degree). I still cannot imagine being wholly responsible for another human being, 24/7. It scares me. I don't know where I'd get the energy to do it. And I'd be afraid to mess it up. Don't get me wrong, I loooove kids. Just can't imagine birthing and raising one at the moment.

Maybe if/when I have a kid, I'll finally feel like an adult. But still, not in any hurry to do it. Much to my mother-in-law's dismay. Ugh.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Labels: childhood, deep thoughts, holidays, home improvement, life events, memories, movies, parenting, weekends