Friday, March 30, 2012

So I'm trying out the new look, which results form Google+ sucking the life force from Blogger. What the hell, any old excuse for a blog post.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Best. Day. Ever.

Becky in Florida mode (she's a lot more cheerful than her expression would indicate).

We wake up around 9:30 or 10. The pool is bright blue in the sunshine. A little cereal, a little coffee... the girls are having a blast in the pool. Ben joins them. I jump in as well and we play Shark. Ben retires to the adjacent hot tub. I eventually get out and sit in the lounge chair and read for a bit ("Friday Nights" by Joanna Trollope). Then I sit on the screened porch and read the New York Times cover to cover. Now time for a little lunch -- I boil some hot dogs for me and the girls, Ben eats some cold chicken and pickles from the fridge. Then more lounge-chair time. This is one of the rare times I do nothing but stare at the sky, watching the clouds and trying to guess which layer will cover the sun and which will move away. I love when the cloud layer is just the right thickness so I can look directly at the sun and see a perfect, sharply edged circle of light.

I get a little warm, I jump in the pool, I lie in the sun, then in the shade. Then Ben goes to the club to get a massage. The kids are out of the pool, quietly watching TV or playing on the computer. When Ben gets back, I take the golf cart and go for my own hour-long Swedish massage, mind drifting as aimlessly as the soft New Age music in the darkened room. Afterwards, a steam room session and shower. Now I'm back at the house, sipping a gin and tonic, reading, chatting with Ben's stepmother, and waiting to hear which restaurant we'll be going to for dinner.

Life is good.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Worst. Commute. Ever.

I left work at about 5:10 p.m. last night, It usually takes an hour or a bit less until I'm walking in the door. Last night? Not so much. I stood on the platform in Kendall for about half an hour until a train came -- packed like sardine can, naturally -- and I literally couldn't get on. (Meanwhile, a train going the other way was sitting at the opposite platform with its doors open. For about 20 minutes.)


But my patience was rewarded, or so I thought, when 10 minutes later another train arrived, and I crammed myself into the last few cubic inches of space by the door -- which also satyed open as the minutes dragged by. I overheard another passenger say it had taken the train 45 minutes to get to where I was from Park Street (two stops). That's about when thought to myself, "Do I really want to be snuggling upright with my fellow commuters for an indefinite period in a train packed to tight that I can't even move my arms enough to get at my iPhone or magazine?" So I stepped out again on the platform and went back upstairs to call Ben, who had the brilliant (to me) though obvious (to him) suggestion to get a cab to Alewife where my car was parked.

I got some cash and walked through the Marriott to the taxi side, where about 15 other people were in line for a cab. I figured I'd be there for quite a while, but I got into about the fourth cab, sharing it with three other guys who were also going to Alewife. So then we had about 20 minutes of driving before I got into my car, turned on the ignition at 6:45 p.m., warmed up... and sat there. For an hour. Waiting to get out of the parking garage. No lie -- it was exactly 62 minutes before I cleared the last stoplight between the garage and Route 2. Total elapsed time, door to door: three hours.

It hasn't snowed in about two weeks, and this article says the disaster was due to signal problems. If I were in charge, I would've sent every MBTA employee into the Red Line tunnel with an old-fashioned railroad lamp, stationed them every 50 feet or so, and said, "OK, you're now signalmen. Get those goddamn trains running." Or just politely asked the drivers to proceed with caution and beep their horns when approaching an intersection. I mean, really. As one guy put it in the news article, "the MTBA is as reliable as Lindsay Lohan without an ankle bracelet."

Thursday, February 10, 2011

You rock, you farshluggineh kids!

Usually Ben has little interest in this blog, but recently he actually suggested that I post something here -- something that tells a profound and historic story in images. I'll let him take it from here...

Ronnie James Dio apparently is credited with inventing the heavy-metal hand sign that means "You rock!"

In doing a bit more digging on the web, the honor also seems to have been claimed for Gene Simmons and even John Lennon.

Won't they all be shocked to realize that the gesture was actually invented in Farmingdale, N.J., by Jewish chicken farmers.

The historically important moment was recently discovered in a photo taken on February 24, 1946 at the wedding of none other than my parents (Ed. note: from left to right, person #1 and #3; person #2 is unknown but looks somewhat menacing and/or drunk.)
Look carefully at this picture and you'll see one of the invited guests expressing his enthusiasm for the wedding, proudly proclaiming, "You rock, and du bist shoen!"

Monday, January 31, 2011

Did I leave the keys in the freezer AGAIN?

The aging brain. Perhaps instead of a senior moment, you could call it a WTF moment (in which the W stands for "where")


By the way, we're supposed to get another foot and a half of snow in the next two days. If we hadn't bought that snowblower, we'd either be hundreds or even thousands into a plowing service, or dead of a heart attack about two weeks ago.

LinkWithin

Related Posts with Thumbnails