A Few Catch-ups

Things have been so busy lately, mostly due to the new job that I haven't had time to reflect. Also, my home computer shit the bed so I am typing this from Jude's house right now (and she is currently talking to me about banking woes and her dog's diabetes).

So, in no particular order, here are a few gems to re-introduce you to the Scotch you once knew.

Landmines

My job is in the Financial District (wait, Jude is now talking to me about my niece.....), before I worked in Harvard Square I worked in the financial for 4 years - I was in my early twenties. If I had to guess I would say that at least 55% of the men I have been involved with came from that job. As crazy as I am now I was much more brazen and fun-loving in my early twenties. What kills me now is that everytime I am running around the South Station area looking for the kinkos or having a meltdown on the wooden bridge that connects Congress and Summer Street I always run into one of these guys. I call them landmines. I always look out to try and avoid them but when I least expect it, there is David or Josh heading my way wanting to have the ol' howyadoin chat. I want to scream "I AM NO LONGER THAT GIRL!!" I am not the asshole who you slept with and then stood up for an Elton John concert! I am not the girl who fell down a flight of stairs at Three Cheers pub! I am not the girl in the elevator with you holding her bra when the door opened and it was CEO!! I am Scotch, I am 31, I often drink too much and get loud and funny but that aside that is where the similarities end.

Kilts

The other night after way too many beers two of my friends and I decided to hit the shittiest last call bar in town - The Boyne. We weren't there for five minutes when two gentlemen walked in wearing kilts. My girlfriend turns to me and says "I dare you to..." she didn't even get it out before I was up there requesting a peek. Turns out the rumors are true. We danced to AC/DC and then went home.

I must sign off, Jude is now talking to me about tree pruning.

Love yas!

What Once Was Lost...

Saturday afternoon I got a call from Jude on my cell. She was up at the Rockingham Plaza in Salem, New Hampshire. She lost her keys. She was stranded.

Merging onto I-90 in my car that has brakes so bad it shouldn't be driven I was nearly side swiped and then nearly side swiped a car trying to avoid the first car.

But I made it up there, gave her the keys, and then headed back to Boston. Got lost, ended up on Mass Ave in Roxbury, as I always do when I get lost, but found a sneakly little quick turn back onto I-90 West from Boyleston Street.

When I got home there he was. This thing. This guy.

He had been gone for over 25 days. I dealt with the fact that he was dead over two weeks ago. But there he was. Tattered, injured. Hungry but unable to eat. Fucking really thirsty.

I'm not pointing fingers. But the vet says someone hurt him.

But hes home, my brother fixed my brakes, Sears called my mother and told her they found her keys.

Two Short but Sweets for Monday

One....

This weekend my mother was driving along Storrow Drive with my 5 year old niece Kay when someone cut her off.

Jude: “Jeezus!!”

Kay, waving her fist responded in a thick Boston accent (that we never even knew she had): “Stupid Ahshole”

See, you are never too young to be a Masshole.

and two….

Reg and I went out for drinks on Sunday to watch the game and got into a conversation about ID checking with the bartender .

Bartender: Wow, you sure know your stuff, you must work in this business.

Me: Um, no, (cough), um…I…uh…..we ….(now dragging Reg into it)…. just drink in bars a lot.

Drunk Girls on Golf Carts

So I went up on Monday and it turned out that Regina had some work stuff to take care of and couldn’t get there until Tuesday. My cousin and my uncle both have places up there but I was a bit hesitant just to drop in. They knew I was going to be up there for the week but I didn’t have a phone number so I didn’t want to impose or seem like a pain.

I got there about 2PM. I unpacked my car and dosed the cabin with Lysol before I settled into a lounge chair facing the pool and cracked a beer. What to do what to do. I texted Reg a million times and called Jude half a dozen. By 5PM I had enough liquid testosterone to slap on some make-up and heels and venture up the street to grab some dinner at the Ocean Grill. Sticking out like a sore thumb I ordered a beer and a sandwich and headed outside to the patio where I texted Reg, called Jude and chain smoked.

A few beers after that I concluded that it wouldn’t hurt to do a walk-by on my cousin and uncles places just for giggles. If I felt weird I would just leave and they would never know the difference. Aside from that, I could throw a stone at their park from the Ocean Grill. So off I went. I didn’t realize how frigin big the place was. It was a gated place and as soon as the click of the heels hit the pavement beyond the gate it seemed as though everyone came out on their porch to see who was intruding.

I stopped at a trailer near the gate and asked a woman if she knew where the two lots I was looking for where. She wasn’t so sure but flagged down two men on a golf cart. Next thing I know I’m on the back of a golf cart heading towards my uncle and cousin’s places.

So instead of being inconspicuous and taking a peek I arrive at their place buzzed and arms extended yelling “I HAVE ARRIVED, PEOPLE, I HAVE ARRIVED!” The surprise element had everyone in stitches. I was glad that I went to see my uncle, we had more beers, watched the game on a TV that my cousin had somehow taped to a tree, and laughed over and over again about the golf cart entrance.

I’ll write more tomorrow about how I now know why Sassy afraid of OOB.

Weekend Excerpt - the Walk of Shame

Well there is just way too much to write about this past weekend – my brother got married on Friday and my birthday was on Sunday, needless to say I did more drinking in the past five days than even the most seasoned alcoholics have done since the beginning of 2007.

After the wedding was over and the after party was in full swing I found it impossible to do two things – one, check into my hotel room, therefore I had to spend the night on the couch in a friend and his wife’s suite and two, going to get my bag with a change of clothes out of my mother’s car.

Because of this, when the sun rose and it was time to high tail it out of there and go to my mother’s car to throw on a track suit, I had no choice but the shamefully walk through the hotel lobby in my bridesmaid dress from the night before.

Five feet from the entrance I thought I had it made when I heard the all too familiar voice of my five year old niece, Kay, screech

“OH NANA!! THERE’S AUNTIE!!! LOOK AT HER BEAUTIFUL DRESS!!!”

Shit. I turned around to see my mother, Kay, the bride’s two brothers and their families and about a half dozen other relatives and friends of the bride and groom. Dammit. Shit.

All I could say is “this isn’t as bad as it looks.”

I’ve never been so ashamed.

Oh wait, yes I have.

Blinded by the light

On Friday night after work I had several drinks with the gang at Redline followed by even more drinks at my favorite local dancing dive near my house. Two things that are very funny after a few cocktails - one, letting people try on your glasses and two, demanding the DJ play back to back ABBA and then proceeding to dance like an idiot, all by your lonesome, on the dancefloor.

But, guess what isn't so knee slappingly, belly bustingly hilarious?

Waking up the next morning realizing you lost your glasses and the only thing you can see clearly is the vision of yourself from the night before doing high kicks to "Take A Chance on Me". Needless to say I am still free because no one in the right mind would have dared to take a chance on me at that point.

Considering I had ran out of contacts and I wouldn't be able to get any for a week and my old, crappy, spare specs were at the office and far be it from me to be responsible enough to locate my key card, I was pretty much screwed for the weekend. Fortunately, I didn't have any major commitments on Saturday and even relished in my handicap for awhile - I couldn't do laundry, dishes, or anything that I usually dread doing on the weekends.

Sunday, however, I needed to attend another wedding shower (along with my mother, Jude) so I had to get my shit together at least as much to dress myself somewhat decently. Late as usual, I ran around the house trying to get ready.

As I made my way down my hardwood stairs in only my nylons, a flash of black, presumably Nickels the cat, caught the corner of my eye. I shifted quickly to avoid stepping on her and ended up slipping then sliding and eventually crashing into a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Nickels, more than likely never in danger to begin with, immediately ran to me and began purring then kneading at my back as she curled up in a comfortable ball despite my cries of “go get help, girl!”.

I indulged myself in self pity for a moment, but then carried on despite the sharp pain in my side, because I was now running even later. I made my way to Jude’s apartment, directly below mine, and told her:

“I fell down the stairs and almost died….”

“Wow”, she said, “I thought I heard a big crash. But then I heard crying….is Nickels okay? You didn’t land on her did you?”

“No, the crying you heard was me. Because I fell down the stairs and almost died….”

“Oh”, she said, “is that what you’re wearing?”

I realized at that moment that Jude was never going to shine in the the role of “Elderly Mother of a Handicap Adult Child”. It was obvious that I was just going to be an embarrassment to her at the shower and that she’d probably spend the day gazing at all the normal adult daughters wishing she didn’t have to accompany me to the bathroom because if she didn’t I would more than likely walk into the men’s room or take a shit in an elevator.

But we went, and everything was fine. Jude hung by my side and didn’t even flinch when I took the hands of people I have known for years and introduced myself as if we had not lived next door to each other for 20 years or went to school together for 10 or we gave them a ride to the shower that morning.

Happy Tuesday everyone.

Chocolate Shower

I typically use this blog as a tool in my life long effort of dumbing down America or to shamelessly promote my drinking and weight problems. But once in a while I feel I have something important to contribute to society through experience, and it is my obligation to warn you and ask you to pass it on - a public service announcement if you will. So here it is:

Chocolate fountains - just say no.

You may see one of these babies in the bargain bin at Bed, Bath and Beyond and think - "how novel! This is a great idea for my next party! Why doesn't everyone have one of these?!" And I have to admit, in theory it is a great idea, who the hell wouldn't want to have a fountain of chocolate to dip fruit, fried cheese, and any random body part into?

But I’ve had two separate bad experiences with these babies and I can sum it up nicely in one simple equation:

Chocolate fountain + copious amounts of liquor = cat covered in chocolate

Even when you take the drinking and cat out of the chocolate fountain equation, they are still a huge pain in the ass to operate, so when I heard they wanted to have one at my brother and future wife's wedding shower, I threw my two cents in. Since the bridal party is made up of her friends that I do not know so well, I didn't press the issue, I just let them know that I've seen things go wrong in the past with chocolate fountains and we should just be aware of it.

We met well before the start time to prepare for the big party. I was pretty eager to help out in any way I could, I may have been a bit over the top because I felt I had a little to prove since people didn't know me that well and (although Jude and my brother will choke when they read this), I kind of felt I represented the groom's side in all of this and didn't want to let my family down. I am such a sweetheart – really, folks.

Anyhow, running around, doing this and that, I noticed no one was touching the fountain. I tried to avoid it with all my might, but when I looked at the time and noticed we only had 30 minutes until folks were supposed to arrive, I had no choice. I took it out, washed it, assembled it, and started to follow the directions.

I burnt the first batch of chocolate in the microwave, filling the entire hall with burnt chocolate stench, but got the second right and walked it over to the fountain. By this time, I had a following of three young ladies, my 4-year old niece included, all ready with pretzels and marshmallows on skewers in hand.
Realizing I was the adult in the situation, I told them to stand back. We all held our breath as I turned the motor on.

They squealed with delight as it churned and then one big burst splattered directly across my glasses. I backed away and they descended upon it, giggling and laughing, it was quite cute actually.

I went to the bathroom to wash off my specs and noticed that it got in my hair, all over my face, my hands and therefore my clothes. Great impression I was going to make. I washed up the best I could and went back in to check on the fountain.

In the five minutes I was gone something had gone wrong, the chocolate was clumping, the motor was very loud, and the girls looked like they were outside rolling around in mud. But they were still enchanted nonetheless.

I went through the motions for the next half hour adding vegetable oil, cream, more chocolate, whatever....by this time the guests had arrived and everyone took turns giving me advice on what to do. Needless to say, when the other bridesmaids approached me and told me just to give up on it, I was all too happy to throw in the towel - after I wiped everything down within ten feet of it of course.

Other than that, everything at the shower was beautiful, the other bridesmaids and I did a great job if I do say so myself. The bride was totally surprised, got great gifts, etc. etc.

There is another story about this Saturday (not shower related) that I'll blog about later in the week.

A Special Ladder for A Special Lady

This weekend I decided to tackle a home project that I have been procrastinating for almost a year now. So I got my ass up early on Saturday morning to get a jump start on taking down the wall paper in my entryway in an effort to repaint the entire thing.

I headed to Home Depot as soon as they opened to pick up some DIF, a scraper, and an extension pole for the scraper because the walls are very high on the staircase part. I found the dif and the scraper without a problem. When I came to the extension poles I picked one out and started to compare it with the scraper.

"That’s not going to work," the Depot clerk said.

Do you have any extension poles for wall paper strippers? I ask.

"No, you are going to need a ladder."

But it is on a staircase.

"Then you will need a special ladder. You can rent one here."

By this time everyone in earshot, all men, were staring at us.

Well, I’m doing this myself, so I’m a bit leery on getting up on a ladder on a staircase.

The clerk exchanges a look with another male patron. They both smirk.

"Well, I really don’t know what to tell you," he says, "there is no alternative. You are going to have to get a special ladder." Or get a man in your life you lonely pathetic cat lady. (okay, so I made that last part up. But dammit he was thinking it).

I thanked him and slowly walked away with my head down, defeated and feeling foolish.

Shit. I was sure of two things. I wanted that paper down and I sure as hell did not want to rent a ladder, regardless of how special it was. The only way I would consider it is if it included a free wheelchair in the deal, because if I got up onto a ladder on a staircase, I would likely be confined to one for the rest of my life.

I waited until the clerk was busy raining on someone else’s parade and I grabbed and extension pole and hightailed it out of there (stopping to wrestle with a self check-out lane first of course).

I got home and took out the pole and the scraper. By god that man was right, there was no way on earth that the two were going to fit together. Who would have thought? I am a crazy broad after all.

But I didn’t give up so easily, I went into my closet to find my drill to see if I could doctor it up (MacGyver it if you will) when I came across an old plastic push broom. Forgetting the drill, I grabbed the broom and took it apart.

Wouldn’t you know it, the broom handle and the scraper fit perfectly together and worked like a charm. The paper was down within hours.

I was so proud of myself when Jude and my niece Kay came up to check it out. I told them the story about the man who wanted me to rent a scary ladder, how he told me it could not be done, but I did not give up.

Let this be a lesson to you, Kay. Never give up. If you can dream it, you can do it.

She was silent for a moment as she scanned the now bare walls and debris on the floor. A look of confusion came over her face:

This is your dream, Auntie? she asked.

Nothing like a four year old to take you down a few notches.

God, this has got to be the running for the most boring blog ever. Sorry folks. Don't think it was lost on me that I created my own "stripper pole" - it's Monday and I'm too tired for sexy humor. Also, note that I was appreciative of the clerk's assistance, he was honest even if his tone was a tad condescending.

Happy Monday!

May The Power of Christ Compel You

There was a time in my life when Good Friday meant something more than excitement over light traffic on my way to the office.

As a kid, growing up Irish Catholic mind you, my mother tried to instill in me that Good Friday was a day of solemn relfection, of course this was partly a ploy to get my brother and I to behave, but still. I mean, he died for me, right?

There was only one other person who even alluded to dying for me and that was my freshman year boyfriend. I'm fairly certain that his testicles were the color of the Antarctic flag when this proclamation was made.

In any case, every Good Friday my mother would pack my brother and I up and off we would go to the stations of the cross. One word to describe the stations of the cross to a child - petrifaction. In fact, third only to being possessed by the devil and Guy Smiley, the crucifixion was a major contributor to my childhood night terrors.

The devil thing came about when at the age of eight while I was vacationing with my immediate and extended family in York Beach. One night I snuck out of bed and into the living room where my mother and aunt were watching a movie. They were so involved in the film they didn't even notice me as I quietly curled up in a chair in the back of the room. I remained undetected for about ten minutes until I left out a whimper. They turned to find me shaking and crying, they had been watching The Exorcist and I had snuck in during one of the more horrific scenes.

For days after that I couldn’t sleep, I was obsessed, I was sure that everyone, and everything, that I loved was going to be possessed by a demon. To make matters worse, my brother and some of my cousins decided it would be hilarious if they attached my Cabbage Patch Doll onto a coat-hanger contraption and dangle her over my bed in the middle of the night while making demonic utterances. It was only then that I pulled my shit together – being eight years old, chubby and the only girl amongst a brood of 11 – 13 year old boys, I didn’t need to add additional gasoline to the mortification blaze.

But I eventually got over it. I can safely say that I am no longer a demon-phobe and one time I even attempted to see the film again in its entirety.

I still, however, pee my pants a little bit at the thought of Guy Smiley.

Cherri-Oys

Last night I was visiting my mother, Jude. While bantering about the remains of the day, she went to the cabinet to fix herself a bowl of cereal.

Oh my goodness! I forgot to tell you! I bought Jewish Cheerios. They didn't have the smaller boxes of Cheerios so I bought these instead.



Now please understand that according to my mother, this is ethnic cuisine. I don't think an event like this has happened in my family since my father was alive and discovered a Jewish bakery a mile from the house. And they are even open on Christmas! he beamed. And so a tradition was born, every Christmas morn (after church of course) he would go to the bakery and buy bagels, mostly because he could.

She sat across from me with her bowl of Crispy-O's and eyed them suspiciously. I suspect she was wondering if by eating the cereal she was somehow denouncing Christ and therefore losing her special place in heaven with all of the other saints and martyrs. As she lowered her spoon I giggled a bit because I thought of the old Life cereal commercials - but instead of Mikey sitting across from me it, of course, was my 65 year old mother.

A smile came across her face. She likes it, she likes it!!

These are the best things since....

Moses parted the red sea? I asked.

No, no, I mean. Best thing since regular cheerios.

I'm so glad I am witness to these moments.

So today at work, I warned my friend Amy, who is Jewish, that my mother will likely bring up the subject of Crispy O's next time she sees her and to please not indulge her .

Amy immediately gets worked up and exclaims:

It's a conspiracy! Scotch, do you know what Kosher for Passover means???? All it means is that a Rabbi blessed it. That's it! Nothing more. Seriously, a Rabbi probably went to the cereal factory....no, wait, he probably flew over it or called it in, and now that cereal is kosher.

I reply: How do you know? Maybe they put him in a golf cart and drove him around the factory. We should really investigate this. Do an undercover operation of some sort.

Now let's go smoke and gossip about people at work and put all this thinking behind us.

And that is just what we did.

profanity penance

It never fails that I am trying to do something that takes concentration when I hear a knock on my door followed by a "HELLO AUNTIE I'M HERE TO VISIT!"

Last Saturday I was in the midst of hanging up curtains in my office when my niece Kay made her way up from Nana's house (Nana lives downstairs from me). Being four years old, one of her favorite games is play-acting. She pretends to be so and so and I in turn have to pretend to be whoever she tells me to. The cats sometimes get involved, for example last Christmas Nickels was up for the part of baby Jesus but then got booted when she hissed and scratched when we tried to wrap her in a blanket. No divas allowed on the set - the role eventually went to a teddy bear, which turned out to be a blessing since we could pay him scale.

Anyhow, on Saturday I talked her into pretending to be an office worker while I pretended to also be an office worker but one who got sucked into being chair of the volunteer beautification committee and therefore had to put up curtains.

While she typed away on the computer and took phone calls I tried to balance myself on my desk when suddenly I lost my footing and went crashing into the window.

"FU&K!!" I yell.

Kay got up from her office work and helped me up. When I got back onto my feet she says:

"Now Auntie, when you say the word fu&k, that means I am going to hear you. Then I am going to repeat it, and kids aren't suppose to say the word fu&k. So that means we will both get in trouble."

I apologized and told her I would never use that word again and told her even if she hears an adult say it she cannot say that word until she gets into college. I tried to explain that sometimes adults let that word slip without thinking about it when they get frustrated.

That said, I promise never to use that word in this blog again. Unless of course it is a direct quote or absolutely necessary to get my point across.

Ah fuck it, I've got some time before she can read full sentences. Just be thankful that I am most likely barren due to all the recreational drugs I did in the 90's.

Nutterbutter Junkie

I have a confession to make – I am a full blown peanut butter addict.

Peanut butter is one of those foods I trick myself into believing is healthy for me (and for those who are not binge monsters it is) but then I abuse it to the point where I can no longer look myself in the mirror.

I hit rock bottom a few weeks ago after an extended peanut butter and whole wheat pita binge while watching “The Real Housewives of Orange County.” It may have been the anxiety of watching that show – the people on this show are so foolish I sometimes feel embarrassed for them, but I can’t turn away. I packed up all my peanut butter, 2 full and 1 half eaten jars of it, and brought it to my mother’s house explaining that I could not longer be trusted around its nutty goodness.

Last week I was visiting my mother and noticed she had the peanut butter on full display on the counter. I figured this was a ploy to shame me as she did when I was 16 and her and my dad found a joint in my coat pocket. They put it on a paper plate on the kitchen table for all who saw it to inquire about so I would have to tell them my big, dark, pot smoking secret. Most of these visitors were friends of mine and my brother so it did not have the effect they intended it to have, although my dad did threaten to invite the pastor over for tea.

Where was I? Oh, peanut butter. So I ask my mother what gives with my Peter Pan and she says:

“Oh, I forgot to tell you....wow, um, how have you been feeling?”

I went to check the bar codes on the Peter Pan and was quite shocked that the first three digits were 2111.

What are the frigin chances?

I tried to think back to that fateful night when I pretended to give up peanut butter forever - but I didn’t remember feeling like shit, or shall I say worse than normal - and if I did I guess I would have probably guessed it was god punishing me for worrying about eating too much peanut butter when there are starving people in the world. I should be lucky to be given the opportunity to contract salmonella poisoning, that's more than some folks get.

Is it Friday yet?

Fear of God

When I was a little kid and got hurt due to running around the house or goofing off as kids do, my parents would always say the same thing when I ran to them in tears:

"See, this is God's way of punishing you..."

To this very day, every time I have some sort of accident, my first thought, even through the shock of pain, is always - shit, what did I do to deserve this??

For example, the other day I was sneakily trying to take a peek at my new cat who has taken to hiding behind the couch. Quietly, careful not to startle him, I swung my head over the back, completely forgetting I have a monstrous room-dividing bookcase behind my couch as well, and BLAM - forehead to shelf. The cat ran as if it was his own personal 9/11 and I was left head in hand on the couch regretting laughing at the guy who tripped over the curb in front of Au Bon Pain last week.

Who's laughing now, God asked.
Certainly not me.

In any case, last Christmas my niece, Kay, four now, three then, took delight in my mother's nativity scene and in-particular the little Baby Jesus figurine. As she held him in her hand, marveling, I took the opportunity to use this beautiful moment as leverage, and comic value of course, by telling her:

"You know, every time you misbehave, the Baby Jesus cries ..."

Now, this may seem cruel to tell a child such a thing but you have to understand - Kay does not take anything I say to her seriously, even when I'm stone faced, anxiety-attack, swallow my tounge serious (i.e. on Sunday - "I SAID PUT THAT HAMMER DOWN NOW!!! REALLY!!! STOP LAUGHING AT ME!! I'M TELLING SANTA").

I gave up on being any type of disciplinarian with her years ago, it's just too much work not to give into every tiny little whim that she may have. I am only her Aunt after all and telling her no is what Mommies and Daddies and Nanas are for. But on the other hand, sometimes she wants to do things such as swing a hammer around or sled down the stairs in a cardboard box, that even I cannot condone, so that is when folks like Santa and Baby Jesus come in handy.

So anyhow, I commented about the Baby Jesus crying on Bink's Myspace today and got a renewed chuckle out of it so I had to share it with Amy. Amy in turn came up with the ultimate twist to the crying Baby Jesus:

Aunt to Child: Oh, it's raining, you know what that means....
Child: What??
Aunt: It means the Baby Jesus is crying in heaven, you must of done something real bad....

Some Things Don't Mix

Sunday Jude and I took a mini-road trip up to New Hampshire to attend my Uncle's memorial service. Although it is said there are no guarantees in life, I can always count on a few sure things anytime Jude and I get in a car together and have to travel over 20 miles. First off, just as we are about to get to our destination Jude's gut directional instincts kick in and she decides that we have gone too far, the wrong way, etc. Suddenly we are off the directions and lost - let the ritual begin. We stop at the first gas station that without fail, every time, gives us the wrong directions. We drive around, I realize my bladder is full, the inner-fighting begins. Our nerves are shot, we contemplate just turning around and going home and finally, we find someone on the street, or stop at a second gas station and get the correct directions on where we have to go. We always make it, even if we are late and ready to kill one another - but we make it nonetheless.

The tribute to my Uncle was very nice. They had it in a ballroom in Newmarket and everyone showed. I come from a very large family so it isn't often that we are all together in the same room, it's unfortunate it had to be under these circumstances, but it was good to see everyone and catch up.

After chewing the fat with my cousins for a bit I decided there was no time like the present to go up and get myself a rum and coke. I figured it couldn't hurt my social anxiety and it would take the edge off the trip home since it was almost time to leave. I sipped my drink slowly over the next hour (and i know that is hard to believe coming from me but it's true) and as I greeted a few more aunts/uncles/cousins no less than two of them asked - "you're not driving home are you?"

The honest answer to that was, no, I wasn't - Jude was.

But what I really wanted to say was - if you know me well enough to assume that I am totally hammered just because there is a bar here (which by the way is the safest assumption you can and will make) than you should also know me well enough to know my view on drinking and driving.

I mean, anyone who has tried to man the wheel and shake up a decent batch of martinis knows that it is nearly impossible to do so. On top of that it's dangerous - say you hit a pothole, you are running the major risk of dumping your drink all over the place and you damn well know I don't condone spillage.

Sunday Afternoon Booze and Blog

It is a beautiful crisp clear New England fall day today. I was up early to go to church with my family as I do every Sunday (YEAH RIGHT), have already run some errands and picked up the house. Bella and Elsie are out shopping, Regina has a headache from last night, and here I am.

I jumped in my car earlier and just drove around for a bit hoping something would come to me. When I have free alone time coupled with energy and opposition to watching television or reading, I usually shop. But, the last weekend of the month is always the time I am most budget concious and poor due to all of the things throughout the month that I simply could not live without and had to buy. But I truly see no need to beat myself up about over-spending when there are so many other things to fuel my self-loathing. The main purchases this month were a new bench and four pieces of canvas art for my bedroom. I hope that me and my cat Nickels enjoy these items since at this point the only man in my room I possibly forsee in the near future would be a rescue worker if the house was burning down. And probably even then I'd get the only chick in the firehouse trying to assist me down the ladder. Perish (bad choice of words) the thought.... I'm only kidding. There are no women firefighters in Brighton. Again, I tease.

So as I drove I was thinking to myself - I should do something fally, Halloweeny even! PUMPKIN CARVING!! That is it. Where does one buy a pumpkin? Wait, didn't I read somewhere that there is a pumpkin shortage this year? Wow, don't feel like hunting around for one and I certainly don't want to deprive a kid of a pumpkin if I do find one .

Next thing I know I'm in the parking lot of the liquor store.

And now, here I am, drinking a beer, hoping Reg will shake the headache and get over here, and writing in my blog.

This morning started off early, as I mentioned I went to church, and no, I really don't go every Sunday, although it couldn't hurt. Maybe I'll start. I went today because it is the 10 year anniversary of my father's death.

It has been a long time since I went to a regular Sunaday mass, but since I was raised by semi-strict Catholic parents and attended Catholic schools my entire life, most of it comes back to me like an old 80's tune, let's say "Video Killed the Radio Star" just for shits and giggles. But, there were a few things about attending mass that I had completely forgotten and I was kicking myself for when I rediscovered. One, I always get a really dry throat in church and cough like a lunatic and I was without a cough drop. Two, my brother always passes gas during mass. This has always led me to mouth (since I was ten ans apparently continues on to this day) "I am going to fucking kill you after church" because I freak out thinking what pigs the poor bastards behind us must think we are and then I doubly freak out when I wonder if they think I am the culprit. Damn you Michael. Today, the only saving grace to the later fear was Kay, his four-year daughter, yelled out "Daddy farted!!" which in hindsight may have alerted others who were not in smells way to the situation but at least it cleared my name.

After church it was off to the IHOP with Jude, Kay, my brother, my brother's fiance Jen, and her mother.. I have not been to the IHOP sober in probably 10 years. There is a very good reason for that. I'd go on about the horrible food, service, bathroom conditions, etc. etc., but it's the fucking IHOP, what should anyone expect?

Kay insisted on coming back to my house afterwards and I don't see what is so fun about my place to her. Oh yeah, we have two cats and a dog who we let her dress up in hats. Not to mention my roommate Bella and our friend Elise (who pops in on the weekend) - the two of them are more entertaining than Sir Thomas Tophat and Harmony the Carebear to her and both have the patience of Christ.

So Kay came back and told me she had something very serious to talk to Bella about. I pushed for details but she wouldn't budge. When we got inside she went into Bella, took her by the hand and said "I am so very sad today." Of course we both gushed and asked why. "Well, I miss my Papa very much." Papa? Your Daddy? No. Your grandfather (mother's father)? No. "my Papa. He died. He's in heaven and I miss him so very very much." Holy shit she's talking about my father. Hands over face, she runs to the next room. Bella and I look at eachother and in unity say "dah-rah-mah." We follow her into the next room where she has already discovered a cat toy and is waving it in front of Nickels, giggling. Can't wait until she's a teenager!

Well, I just got off the phone with Regina and admitted I've been passing the last hour or so writing in my blog about my brother's gas and IHOP. Apparently that was the only motivation she needed and now she's jumping in the shower, grabbing her "Arrested Development" DVD, and getting her ass over here. Bella and Elsie are coming through the door.

So, as ashamed as I was at the beginning of this it turned out not to be such a bad way to spend an hour on a Sunday afternoon.