Random Acts of Kindness

I've heard of these and I guess over the years I've even participated in some - holding doors open, getting up on the train, digging out extra change to help someone in line. You know things that used to be common courtesy. Seeing someone in need and helping them out.

I've been thinking alot about the vicissitudes of life and trying to assimilate some of my recent experiences into my understanding of myself. It's been a tough couple of years for us. I was very sick (thankfully I've recovered) and Dylan's knee travails are certainly well-documented on Facebook. We are struggling through a recession that has hit the architecture/engineering/construction industry faster and harder than many others and trying to keep a sense of perspective and humor about it all. This Christmas we are lucky to find ourselves in a better position than in prior years and I have enjoyed shopping and tormenting the kids with presents and really unhelpful clues. For example, there is not a grapefruit in any of your christmas packages. This seems to infuriate them and, well, that's what I was hoping for so - yeah me!

As usual, I'm not making the point I set out to make which is - Random Acts of Kindess. This morning, Pat surprised me by getting up first, emptying the dishwasher, AND driving Dylan to school! Someone still thinks that Santa is watching! Having the luxury of time this morning I did what any self-respecting person would do - I wasted it. Well, I wrapped the dog's gifts and annoyed Emma. So all-in-all a good morning.

I dropped Emmie at the bus stop at 8 and headed off to work but first I stopped at Dunkin Donuts on South Meadow to get a coffee. There was a line so I had a few minutes and it occurred to me to make a stranger smile. I pulled up to the window and asked the clerk how much was the order in the car behind me. It turned out to be only a couple of bucks and I told him to add it to my order. When he asked me if I had a message for them, I said, "Tell them Merry Christmas!"

Take the opportunity to surprise yourself. You might just be glad you did.

Merry Christmas!

I love my two gay cats!

Seriously, they're gay, and cats. Black cats. With stupid names.

Cookie (Oreo, actually, but I give my pets pet names; what, like I'm the only one), was given to Emma by my niece Lauren. She had named it Dog, so maybe that's where his initial identity issues started.

Cookie was soon joined by his sister, Minnie. From Minnie's first litter, Boots was the trouble maker and such a charming little kitten we decided to keep him. He was named Boots because he was a grey cat with black feet. Although over time he has turned completely black.

Cookie was jealous of Minnie's new brood and would try to win our love back by killing and leaving "presents" on the back walk for us. Mainly squirrels. Decapitated squirrels. Decapitated as in headless. Yeah just as nice as you're picturing. Pat would toss them over the back fence but Cookie would not be denied. He would go and get them and bring them back! Ha, suck on that human man.

It wasn't until after Minnie's second litter that we noticed the boys acting different. They started spending more time together, both angry at Minnie and all the attention she was getting for being a kitty-ho. Plus the kittens were so adorable and playful. Attention grabbing little furballs.

We noticed they would sleep curled up next to each other. Snuggling, spooning, hugging. Call it what you want, the boys they were doing it. Then it got really strange. The would "nest", you know the weird clawing thing that cats do when they're trying to make a bed, on each others, ah, stomaches, yeah stomaches accompanied by actual suckling. Quite honestly it looks like one is giving the other head. They both do it. Like take turns. I'm not going to lie, it's a little weird the first time you see it and takes some getting used to. And boy did they look embarrassed when caught in the act!

When it first started it would freak the kids out. I remember Emma walking into her room and screaming as loudly as she could: "The cats are being gay on my bed and it's gross!" Pat and I thought it was odd as well. We took the approach that cats need love too and everyone has the right to happiness and acceptance (as long as both are consenting).

We took the opportunity to show the kids how it doesn't matter who you love as long as you have love in  your life. We have expanded our world-view and accept our cats as they are, a little gay. Oh, and incestuous. Minnie and Cookie are brother and sister and Boots is, technically, Cookie's nephew. So, ewww.

Remember tolerance and understanding would solve so many of the worlds problems. Merry Christmas! Feliz Navidad! Seasons Greetings! Bring on the presents...

Bonus points to whomever can identify from which movie I hi-jacked (and slightly altered) the title.

Well, she's kind of bitchy and cranky...

As I was leaving the high school parking lot after picking Dylan up, the Obery Street crossing guard was getting pretty fiesty blowing her whistle and gesturing impatiently at a driver. No, not me. I remark that she seemed a little tense. At that point, my oh so mature and worldly 14 year old says to me, "She must be on her period."

Yup, on her period. Seriously. That's what he said.

Really, I say. Why do you think that? "Well" he replies, "she's kind of bitchy and cranky." "Isn't that what happens?"

Surpressing the urge to get bitchy and cranky on him since I am not currently "on" my period, I instead seize the opportunity as a teaching moment. What, I try to be a good parent. I ask him several questions. Could anything else be making her bitchy and cranky? Maybe she has children at home that don't like to do homework or clean up messes they make.  You know, like the kids that live at our house.

Can you, I ask, only be bitchy and cranky when you're on your period? Followed closely with why then do men get bitchy and cranky? At this point he's rolling his eyes and wishing I would just shut it already but no, not me. I have a point and I'm going to make it. Dammit!

Not sure what I accomplished this afternoon but I'm pretty sure I didn't do women any favors. Although I pretty sure he now knows that you do not need to be on your period to be bitchy and cranky!

Or even a little crazy!

Blogs, Blogging and Measurability

I started blogging because of peer pressure (Wendy) and while it's been fun embellishing childhood stories, sharing the funny that the kids bring, and finding my voice (whatever that means) I don't really know what I expect to achieve by blogging.

I've been to enough meetings and seminars to know that whenever you start a new project you should have clearly defined goals, some idea on how to achieve those goals, and a metric for measuring success. I have none of these things. I'm not really a planner. I prefer just jumping in and seeing what happens. I'll eventually run out of childhood memories, and the kids aren't as funny as they used to be. So what happens then?

I'm restless. My mind is not fully engaged. The kids are growing quickly. Dylan is almost 15 and Emma becomes a teenager next summer. They're already making summer plans. Dylan plans on playing lacrosse non-stop after what will be 9 months of inactivity due to injury and Emma starts auditioning in January for summer dance programs that will take her away most of the summer.  Where does that leave me?

What's next for me? I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it certainly won't be dull. Maybe I'll start painting again. Maybe sculpting. Perhaps I'll write a book about a little blond girl growing up in absolute and utter chaos; or about a boy with glass knees; or a girl who found her voice; or maybe it will be a love story. I can't promise earth-shattering revelations but I can promise a laugh or two.

Stay tuned...

The Friends: Honorary Sisters

This blog is a surprise. Shhh. It's a birthday present for a Sheridan Street Survivor. One of the honoraries. The girls that spent so much time at Casa Crazy that they absorbed the madness and kept coming back for more. There are several of these crazy girls passing themselves off as responsible adults. You never know when they'll pop up or where. You know who you are. Don't be shy. Say hi to the group.

This is about that one family. From Cranston Street. Not one honorary. Not two honoraries. But Three. Three. That's like the gold medal in the crazy olympics. The Cecchet girls. Robin, Kim, and Patrice. Robin was Deb's friend; Kim had Tracey (and by extension me) and Patrice. Well Patrice belonged to Laura. She spent an enormous amout of time at our house and that, right there, should explain everything you need to know about her. Hell, she's in more family pictures than me!

She was treated like one of the family. And believe me, we were not nice, sunday-school sisters. We were (are) mean girls. Everyone of us. And as Dad liked to say "Shit rolls down hill". So the youngest (and her friends) always bore the brunt. Patrice learned loads from the sisters.

She learned that disco was dead; she learned that Santa was a fraud; she learned that pet rocks can die (well technically she learned that from Judi, our cousin). She learned that girls are mean. She learned that the sisters are loyal. She learned that she was our family. She learned that family matters. A lot. She learned that, for better or for worse, she had a place on Sheridan Street. That she is a patch in the crazy quilt of Mulvey. She survived the madness and we'll love her forever. Oh, and she'll always be a pesky, annoying, younger sister!

Happy Birthday Princess P!

Christmas Memories - The Perfect Tree

I love Christmas! Love! It hasn't been a life-long love affair. For a little while, in the middle, I was kind of over it. But it's back now baby! The funny part is, I don't even care if I get anything. I love the giving. Paying attention and giving the perfect gift. The unexpected. The one they didn't think anyone paid attention to. That gift. Priceless.

As a child, Christmas was magical. Dad loved Christmas. And he did Christmas like everything else with a style all his own! Or, the tackier the better. He had a lot of great qualities, taste was not one of them. Being colorblind factored into it certainly but it was more than that, it was his absolute inability to edit. Every idea, according to Dad, was a good one and needed to be accommodated. Some how. Somewhere.

You have no idea how much garland, fishing wire, and tinsel were lost to Dad's quest for Christmas decorating perfection.

First things first.

The Tree. Not just any tree. The Perfect Tree. A Scotch Pine. Oh, the tree, couldn't be any Scotch Pine. It had to be the biggest, the fullest, the christmas-treeiest of all trees on the lot. He would not tolerate bare spots or other disfigurements. This was Christmas. This was the centerpiece of his decorating madness. The crowning glory of his vision.

I don't think Dad ever paid full price for a tree. Hell, I'm not sure he paid any price for a tree, ever. People gave stuff to him cause he was a nice guy. He was always the first to offer help and would stay there, at the lot, carrying trees to cars, tying them to rooftops, just helping out a busy guy. For an hour of his time, doing what he loved - shooting the breeze - he would come home with a tree. Dad was smart. He did his shopping, picked out his tree, and brought it up to pay. Then, he would start with the chit-chat and the helping. And when it was time to go, he'd go to pay, and tree-guy was like "nope, we're good. Merry Christmas." It was a true talent.

He would drive up Sheridan Street, tree tied to the roof of whatever car he was currently driving, the sisters all excited. Waiting. Anticipating. Dad would park and unload the tree. It would be monstrous. The tallest tree we had ever seen. It towered over everything near it. That folks, that is when the fun would start. Getting it in the house. No easy feat when you purchase a fifteen foot tree for a home with nine foot ceilings!

Wrestling the tree into the house to gauge it's true height, Dad would then start with the "trimming". Usually 3-4 feet before the tree could be safely placed in the stand and slid into the box bay in the living room. We would be admonished to leave it alone. Decorating would take place the following day.

The tree trimming doesn't stand out in my memory. Most vivid, to me, is the wrestling and the chopping. Taming the tree into the confines of the living room and the box bay. I remember some cussing as bulbs blew out and wires tangled. As we all got older, the trees got bigger. One year he cut so much off the top of the tree, we had two trees. One for the living room and one for the playroom.

But the tree was just the beginning of the decorating on-slaught. The true decorations were yet to come.

Stay tuned for the next installment of Christmas memories. Wherein Jim bends wire hangers to his will and another family legend is born.

Attitude Adjustment in 3... 2...

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and widsom to know the difference.

That, for those not in the know, is "The Serenity Prayer". And, yes I know I spelled wisdom wrong. It's an inside joke for the sisters.

My first experience with it was when Dad joined AA. He had it in his wallet, he had it engraved in lucite, he had it memorized. He clung to it. It was his lifeline and his salvation.

I heard him refer to it often in the 11 years of sobriety he attained before he died. Which one is it Blondie, he would ask, do we change it or accept it? Change it, I would reply, no matter what. That was my answer. Even the color of the sky? Of course. He would laugh and say no, it wasn't possible. I'd tell him to put on a pair of sunglasses - sky color changed. Suck on that Big Jim!

My most vivid memory of the prayer is saying it over his casket at his funeral. Mom asked if anyone wanted to speak and, me being me, said yes. What I was going to say, well I wasn't sure about that. As I stood at the podium on that cold March morning, in front of family and friends, it seemed so right; so appropriate. I remember asking all present to say it with me, if they knew it.

I remember my aunt, Marie, not knowing the prayer. She scolded me after for not telling her about it so she could learn it. Sorry, Marie! I remember another aunt, Mary, scolding me for using the "alcoholics" prayer as she called it. Her I ignored since well, she annoyed me. It was important to Dad and if his sister couldn't see that, arguing with her wasn't going to change her mind. Nothing ever did.

I have no physical copy of the poem these days but it's written on my soul. It's my personal attitude adjustment. See I'm an optimist, well really more of a realist with a positive attitude. I don't wish for things to get better. If I'm unhappy with something, I change it. If I can't change it, I deal with it. If I can't deal with it - well, let's just say I haven't run up against anything I can't deal with. Yet.

I forget every so often that I have an amazing life. I certainly don't have everything, not even close. But I have what matters: family, friends, and work (both professional and volunteer). What else do you need. Oh, right.

The widsom to know the difference.