Baby Momma Drama

Tucked deep into the woods, there isn't much to do out here for fun, let alone people watching. Everyone knows everyone in the boonies... that is, everyone but us. To get our fill of gawking at strangers, an old habit formed after lengthy subway rides in New York City, we have turned to our new favorite hotspot: Hannafords.

You may recognize the name from previous posts, and the gems from there keep on coming. Affectionately dubbed "Hannies", we tend to visit once a week even if we don't need/can't afford anything.

Originally we met our friends who introduced us to "The Barn" [see: I need an adult! 6/10/09] and left curious what other oddities the Athol area held. Later on, when I was struck with a dead battery in the Hannies parking lot, we discovered nice people shop there too. Frank came to our rescue screeching over in his giant pickup, tossed on some haphazard jumper cables and got us up and running in no time. Thanks, Frank.

Hannies also is a supporter of adoption. No, not kids, though.... (hold that thought) Anywho, there is a bulletin board that posts new adoptable pets from the Athol shelter in a rotating basis. We have yet to understand their rotation schedule, but coo and aww everytime we leave with our Ramen. One of these days, Zane, one of these days. Although I distinctly have refused to forget that "someone" mentioned a while ago that for our anniversary we could get a pet. Which... according to the dates I have etched on Zane's person... is August 21st. I promise to feign surprise.

So we recently decided to subject our reputation to some brutal reality by turning in bottles for cash. Zane at first fought walking up and down the highway just to support my ice cream habit but after tying him to the car roof, he was very willing to participate. After lugging in our 3 (three) filled garbage bags of beer bottles and cans to Hannies' entryway, we set forth to become the shameful people methodically dropping in our days worth of brewskies. Shunned by the elderly and their oxygen tanks passing by, Zane refused to stop screaming and laughing hysterically that the machine kept eating his wakeup juice. I was able to get the situation under control by challenging Zane that the big bottle one couldn't fit a human head. I feel it was worth being wrong.

After the head incident and getting the blood cleaned up, the machines no longer accepted some bottle brands. We went into Hannies to turn in our numerous little slips each worth a nickel before setting out to find homes for our remaining empties.

Oh Hannies you never let us down! Master eavesdropper I am, I listened as the young lady cashier chatted up the girls in front of us. Thinking they were originally close sisters, I realized it was a young Mom (barely older than us) and her tween daughter. I hate that term, but I set aside my judgements for the sake of setting this scene properly. As soon as I begin to grasp the short branches on this family shrub I overhear the cashier ask when she is due. Surprised, I look again. How embarassed that cashier must feel as that woman is as skinny as a rail. Then her tween rotates. Why, she isn't stealing a basketball! She is stealing her youth right out from underneath herself!

Shocked, I cannot whisper fast enough to have Zane uncomfortably stare at this poor toddler. I can only imagine what my face looked like, watching this youth toddle away with a new life only a week or two away. When I finally get Zane's attention I tell him "Look! Look! She's pregnant!" No no I correct, the one with the hot pink training bra straps (think they make training nursing bras?) and the short shorts sporting her unshaven legs. Not in the gross way, just in the peach fuzz late elementary school way. I swear, this girl still enjoyed stickers.

We may or may not have run to the car to more closely study her loading her mom's pickup... again with the pickups!? with groceries. As we crawled through the parking lot analyzing her belly, I figured she didn't even make the cut for MTV's new heinous fad inspiring hit "16 and Pregnant". Sad for her new life, I then found a positive spin, hey... at least they'll bond over their shared love of Barbies.

Oh Hannies, what will you bring us next?

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Road Rules/Real World Challenge

What happens when a 56 year old man takes up residency in your basement pounding on walls from 8:30am until midnight?

You guessed it... Road Trip!

Last Wednesday Zane and I hit road in an effort to escape our demons (Hi Dad if you're reading this!) and visit all the Gould/Lippke/von Barta/Calzia relatives in one swing. Success! With the help of juice boxes and books on tape we arrived on the lengthy island at 4pm. Feeling pleased over our stealthy arrival (Mom and Dad Gould were in Ireland and didn't know we were there) Zane treated me to something long overdue. A truly classy date. Taco Bell and driving range.

Ladies, contain yourselves. He's taken.

We had a blast and I learned how to truly bust some balls. The next day we set out to visit Maren and Kevin in good ol' Philly. This left us nervous for their safety. As we approached their 'hood we passed a billboard boasting "Every Murder Is Real" with a hotline so you can validate your loved one's brutal slaying. Maren. Kevin. Get out. Get out now.

I have decided that a couple years ago some clever marketing person for Philly decided to hold a "Whitest Couple Ever" contest which Maren and Kevin clearly won. As a prize they were plopped straight down into the heart of the most dangerous "quaint" city in existence. Each year they survive they have received a consolation cat. While they are noble competitors in maintaining their "Whitest Couple" status, I think it's time to hang up the doctorates and tandem bikes and escape before the brotha's get down on your 'hood with that love of theirs.

After unsuccessfully pleading for them to just hop in the backseat and return to small town life with us, we sadly trotted back to Long Island to prepare for our returning vacationers from Ireland. Of course we wanted them to be greeted in style so we stayed up Thursday night making our sign.

There's nothing greater than those bored looking chauffeurs holding up placards with strangers names on them. Don't you just want to know what that stranger's life is like that enables them a personal luggage caddy? I wanted people to envy Melissa and Tom that way. "Gosh, Brad and Angelina sure look different in person!" "Well those are the best looking chauffeurs I've ever seen!" But the real reaction was "...what... does... that sign say?" Bingo. Shock and awe achieved.

Flashback to Zane's graduation dinner months earlier: Sitting at a dinner table we discussed the naming of grandparents. Zane and I decided to provide monikers for Melissa and Tom that the next generation could use. Something original, something with sass, something... odd.

So back to us at the airport with a giant sign reading "Mammy and Ta Ta" awaiting our guests. I followed the looks in their eyes when they nonchalantly scanned the crowd of anxious drivers/relatives/weird kids holding a sign that... wait a minute... those are our weird kids! It was sweet. There may have been tears. We don't like to talk about it.

The remaining weekend was filled with numerous adventures. Car breakdowns (not mine, phew!), hospital visits (everyone's okay, phew!), inappropriate movies watched (I wasn't the one sitting next to Tom when male genitalia was prominently displayed onscreen, phew!), fires (in a fire pit, phew!), and visiting with more family (not mine, phew!). All in all a successful time away from my family spent with my other family. Luckily it's only been a year so I still like them.

Next year though, we'll have to find a group of strangers to escape to.

The ER Marathon

Recently we made a stint to my old haunches to pay a visit to the family members of mine still unfortunate enough to evade becoming Massholes. During our time there my lovely grandmother Madge-Dogg was told by her physician that she would have to go to the emergency room. This was nothing too dire, he just suggested that she visit the ER because the only clinic nearby to have one of these Vulcan Death Rays was closed until Monday.

3 hours into her visit we received a call from her saying that she had undergone the machine's 2 minute scan and was left to wait for the test results. Julie and I went to keep her company and perhaps rough up some preoccupied nurses. On our walk into the building I came across a $5 bill laying on the entrance ramp. I picked it up and handed it to Julie who insisted that I keep it, but as I wiped the blood off on my pant-leg I told her that I just didn't feel right taking money from some unsuspecting victim.

We entered the waiting room and after noting that the receptionist had her back turned we went in search of my grandmother's room. We made our way down the hall passing patients sleeping in gurneys, group of police officers surrounding one of their own sporting a neck brace, hustling nurses, and bustling doctors. As I contemplated the joys I could have if I took the policeman's utility belt that was abandoned on a nearby chair we entered my grandmother's room.

She sat directly in line with the door in a beautiful powder blue diamond paper gown. She greeted us and we were filled in on how she came to be sitting in her cozy 4 bed room, pantless, and alone. Rather than confront any of the staff busily running down the hallway I spent some much long awaited quality time with my grandma as Julie went to find out what the hold up was all about. Apparently in the emergency room of this particular hospital (the one I was born in might I add) each doctor is in charge of fifteen patients. Rather than treating the patients that are ready to leave, they seem to tend to those closer to death.

While my grandmother sat there saying "I don't know why I'm here I feel fine" her single serving roommates were hardly so lucky. One woman was released shortly after her induction because the doctor determined there was nothing to be done about the blood emanating from her 90 year old honey pot. We assumed the person at one end of the room to be an overly excited old man as we heard the interaction with one visitor; "We're going to the movies!" "Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" "Do you want to go to the movies?" "Yeeeeeeoooooooo"; only to realize that this preconceived cheering accompanied other questions as well; "Does this hurt?" "Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaa". Adding insult to injury it turned out to be a woman. Fortunately the third roomie was nearly blind so her family turned on some WWE Raw and sat contently watching.

At the 6th hour my mom came by to lend her stories of Ireland to give Julie and I a chance to have some dinner. As we finished our meal my mom called to let me know that they were finally heading home. After 8 or so hours Madge-Dogg was released with a practically clean bill of health. We stood on her front lawn watching a silent lightning storm light up the sky over the hospital. All we could think was grandpa must be pissed.

There Will Be Buoyancy

I have been a rather competent swimmer for most of my life. As far as the YMCA is concerned I have the aquatic prowess of a Flying Fish. Recently I have made the discovery that swimming with a life vest is one of the most relaxing ways to enjoy the water. It combines the freedom of swimming with the joys of an inflatable raft.

While it may be the adult equivalent to wearing floaties, I much prefer it to traditional bare-back swimming. When swimming in a natural body of water (something I had previously been put off to the idea of up until this summer) it provides some much appreciated bodily coverage to whatever may be lurking in the murky amber-colored water. My fears of vengeful fish stalking me with their illegitamate lip piercings is qwelled thanks to the fact that I no longer need to tread water to stay afloat. Instead, I can lean back and keep all my appendages in close view near the surface of the water.

While I'm sure this makes for a strange sight to my neighbors; me wearing a bright blue vest, swimming in waters 3 feet deep, it is a minor draw for the fun and pride I have in my selfserving ingenuity. I realize that it is pretty much the same as walking on the sidewalk wearing a helmet, but once the pros and cons are weighed it still seems like a good idea to me.

525,600 minutes and all I got was this lousy post.

While it was nice that Zane took time to reflect today on one of the bitches in his life, he failed to remember about the other one. Today marks a year since the fateful day that brought Zane and me together to meet outside the Beer Garden by our mutual friend James Whalen (shout out!). It was James' birthday party (happy birthday James!) and Zane was the first to... well, let's save the story for the wedding. James, we'll corroborate before you give that speech to our guests. :)

Tonight Zane and I went out to celebrate/commiserate in downtown Northampton. We ironically ended up at a beer garden there and sat down over a pint to reflect. So much has happened over a year, lots of "remember this" or "wasn't it funny when". Because we are two nerds, we started a list and compiled a factual sheet charting the progress of two souls on the same path over 365 days.

In the past year...

We have killed 5 plants.
Been through 5 roommates.
Moved a total of 3 times.
Had 1 pet.
Managed 3 Christmases.
Endured 1 ER visit.
Gone through 2 cars.
Had 365 fights.
Seen 7-11 movies in theatres.
Julie has slept through 38 movies at home.
Visited 8 states.
Stayed in 3 hotels.
Had a total of 6 haircuts.
Gifted 2 diamonds.
Exchanged 0 engagement rings.
Been to 1 wedding.
Gone to the airport 2 times.
Met 41 relatives.
Julie has been threatened by Melissa 15 times.
Julie has been threatened by Tom 1 time.
5 people have talked to us against our will.
Zane has been dragged into 12 projects with Barry.
Attended 2 professional sporting events.
Played at LEAST 24 board games.
Endured 16 games of Mexican Train.
Zane has beat Julie at Boggle 0 times.
We have gained a total of 8 pounds.
And lost a total of 3.
Zane has had 4 different facial hair styles.
Had 366 fights.

When the bitch comes to visit

Every weekend Julie's parents come up to stay with us and enjoy their house. While this is usually a bummer for me seeing as I can no longer blast hip hop music or make forts out of the furniture in the house, it is nice to get a break from the responsibilities of entertaining Julie. This week my duties as court jester have been doubly cut back thanks to Neil graciously letting us dog-sit his beloved Allie.

She is a sweet Oreo colored Husky-Mutt who is probably the most laid back dog you could possibly meet. Like most dogs she enjoys long walks, treats, licking sleeping people, dismembering toys and tearing out their squeaker, and above all else; other dogs. When last Julie and I took her out for a pee/poop, we encountered a couple of sweet Labradoodles. After some salutary butt-sniffs the fluffy, friendly dogs went on to enjoy their freedom. Unfortunately for Allie I had to keep her on a leash as to not lose Neil's capricious pup.

I was placed in the uncomfortable position as the oppressor of Allie. Here she had just made some friends and would very much like to run and play with them, but I held her back as if to say "Freedom is for the White 'n fluffy". Sure I was dealing with a dog and not a person but the racial undertones felt all too real. Who was I to say she must be held captive as the rest of the world goes on adventures? Sure I had been co-entrusted with maintaining possession of Allie this week, but morally I didn't know if I could take on the role of master.

I'm sure the domestication of certain animals does lend them to leading healthier happier lives in many instances but I have personally always wished for a greater coexistence with animals, namely in metropolitan settings. Of course, this is a dream as far-fetched and implausible as world peace and fat-free ice cream that still tastes good. I would picture walking through the Washington Square Park, passing a couple of deer grazing by the street performers, ducks wading in the fountain, buffalo crossing the street, and packs of wild dogs begging homeless people for food. A world where for every cursing yuppie on a cell phone there would be three mocking birds breaking up the monotony with beautiful music. There is no room for any of that in Man's civilization, just more movies about CG dogs being mischievous.

a photo essay experiment

a summary of google images that appear when googling phrases that would depict this past weekend.

up to you to figure out what happened...

Our day and a half long detox program

I don't typically see myself as someone who would ever undergo a diet. I have no problem with my figure that can't be solved with a month-long fast, and I respond very well to reverse psychology. So when Julie introduced the idea of trying an "all-natural, fruits and vegetables program" I wanted no part of it, "...or not" I was all for it.

The concept behind the diet wasn't so much to lose weight but to cleanse ourselves of the unhealthy toxins we've been ingesting courtesy of Papa Johns. Last Sunday we were filled with hope. We went to the friendly neighborhood grocery store and stocked up on greens, oranges, and the occasional yellow. Little did we anticipate the hell we were about to put ourselves through.

Monday started off well. We had bananas and peaches for breakfast. It really had us thinking "this is nature's candy". The day proceeded as usual; hours of job searching, wedding show marathons, tense stares at one another over our laptop monitors. Then as lunch neared we grew eager to dig into the carrots and celery. The earth-meat tasted good and all, but it left much to be desired, namely grease and fat. Afterwards our stomachs felt full but our mouths begged for the appearance of an entree. This lack of climax left us in a state of limbo. While we were physically satiated, our taste buds were starved. We may as well have just licked the outside of an ice cream container, for in that perhaps we could have enjoyed some slightly sweetened condensation. Instead there we were, stuck with "healthy" food, nourishing us in ways the big Oprah in the sky intended.

By dinner time we were contemplating whether cannibalism would fit into the diet. In the end we felt the whole process of cleaning and preparing the "neighborhood toddler sashimi" would be more work than it's worth. All that we really craved was bread. Of all the things that we were being held from it was the only one that we were prepared to kill for. I mean, come on! It's the bottom of the food pyramid, one of the few foods that is so good it can act as both a plate and utensil, and can make any object a meal just by placing two slices around it. Ultimately we caved and each had ourselves a bagel. We went to bed satisfied with our bellies feeling full for the first time in what seemed like a year.

The next day started off well. I discovered that cantaloupe can be used for more than just a makeshift botchy ball. As agonizing as it was to dine on our rabbit food lunch we did it with a stripe of pride. The gratification was short lived when Julie had the greatest idea she has ever had in her life (namely making her amazing turkey chili for dinner) I felt it was time to put our little dietary venture to rest.

Overall the stress of having every food I enjoy being withheld from me was much worse than any toxin that may be lurking in the recesses of my rockin' bod. I think next week we'll fair much better with Billy Bob Thornton's all orange food diet.

Julie's Rebuttal

So this is fitting. I have been laid up on the couch for 2 days now, having come down with a cold the day after our July 4th celebration. In hopes of regaining my sassy health in time for this fun-filled (Cousin Erin's wedding) weekend, I have been planted in front of my innocent pleasure: wedding shows. I feel it is a good way to express my creativity by envisioning my special day vicariously through these other women who have been lucky enough to find someone committed. *cough* Ahem, pardon.

Despite my heart fluttering at Z's claims to "lock this down" I did take note that not once was my name mentioned within his wedding day dream. Perhaps I shouldn't take offense to the fact that he has spared me from partaking in his, *cough* glorious day. I didn't even know what a zepplin is, but was glad he had okay music taste. (I was then told it's a blimp.)

All I know is that if I were to be made an honest woman by such a liar as Z, I would do it up in style because a lifetime with him will do me in quickly. In an effort to make sure we were meant to be, it would be an obstacle course to my heart...

First, guests would be placed throughout the Grand Canyon (which we will refer to as the "Love Pit" for the big day). I will be at the top, accessible only by... well, I'm getting ahead of myself. Z will be pushed off a low flying airplane by my father (his version of "giving me away") My mother will be in a nearby Cessna and will toss the flailing Z a chute pack. Midair, Z will be expected to situate his pack and release his chute in time to sprial into the Love Pit. Amidst the skeletal remains of past fiances of mine, Z will go through a series of holes avoiding natives much like Legends of the Hidden Temple. Once the silver monkey has been assembled, Grandma Madge will lock him into his billaying gear and Grandma Joan will begin yanking him up as he scales the interior walls of the Love Pit.

Once reaching the top, Grandpa Jim will give Z the approving thumbs up to marry me and Z will proceed to the obstacle course of eternity.

A mound of burning tires and rope ladders compose all that's left between Z and a lifetime of happiness. As he ascends, well thought out vows in rhyming couplets must be shouted out for cheering onlookers to rate. Once our aunts and uncles tally the results, it will be determined if Z can move on to the final elimination round. At the top of the tire and rope mound, I will be there in my beautiful dress, being held high by Cousin Blaine. Z must tickle Blaine until I am released. Once that is achieved, Tom pops up from beneath the burning pile and begins the ceremony.

So... I mean, I'm not obsessed with all this froo froo wedding crap the TV has to offer. It just helps distract me while I sew together this faulty parachute. I mean, what? It's not like Z doesn't enjoy a challenge. :)

200 Channels and there's something to watch...

...unfortunately they only seem to be wedding shows. After two years without TV Julie has been ecstatic to be able to watch it again. Little did I suspect if you search hard enough you can find a wedding themed show to fill every half-hour block of the day (fortunately the same can be said for Law & Order). From multi-million-dollar destination weddings in Belize, to cakes that are a life-sized replicas of the bride, these glamorized exposes on the day every little girl dreams of make the event seem daunting and terrifying.

While some might think this is Julie's way of subliminally gearing me for that frightful day, it really has had the adverse effect. After a marathon of Bridezillas it is apparent that weddings turn women into ruthless egocentric terrors. This hopefully inaccurate portrayal of women on the weeks leading up to their big day makes me fearful of what I have in store for me should I ever plan to turn this blog into a sitcom the bible-belt can appreciate.

Platinum Weddings is the greatest display of the gross infestation of materialism in the world second only to QVC's "Patriotic Family Commemoratives". The centerpieces take on Red Wood tree size proportions, venues span from castles to mountaintops, and brides surround themselves in tool (not referring to the fabric). They claim that these lavish weddings will make the occasion ever more memorable, yet in many cases it seems their only reason worth getting married in the first place.

Watching all these shows do make me wonder how I would design my perfect wedding, because let's face it, someone's gotta lock this down eventually.

(Spoiler Alert) First off, the ceremony would be held in an abandoned airport hanger. Scratch that... an ACTIVE airport hanger. I would appear at the alter in a puff of smoke to the song "The Final Countdown" by Styx. Instead of a tux I would wear a suit of armor. After slaying a giant 3D projection of a Giant Squid the Argentinean national anthem would play as my bride enters. She will be dressed up like some sort of nearsighted archeologist holding a bouquet of chocolate covered strawberries and grapes. She will approach the alter in a zeppelin. For a little extra buzz, we'll be married by whomever was most recently ratted on in the tabloids, and our vows will be presented in the form of dirty limericks. Naturally the reception will be held on the zeppelin and we will serve all you can eat Taquitos and Dairy Queen Blizzards. At the end of the evening I will puncture the zeppelin and force everyone to skydive to safety but my new bride and I will go down with the blimp; because a captain always goes down with his ship and I'm not one to spoil tradition, especially on my wedding day. (End of Spoiler)