Tales of the traveling hat.

Ames texted me: Don't forget to bring a wide brimmed hat for the film shoot

In the land of underwear and socks, I flipped out my cell phone and texted back: Getting hat now.

"But do you think it's a little too much?" I whined to Corb as I placed the hat on my head. It was an explorer's hat, all right. Stanley would most decidedly have met Livingstone in it, if there was a WalMart around in those days selling cheap wide-brimmed hats. "Where's a mirror? I need to see what I look like here."

"Be quiet and pose," said Corb, whipping out his camera. He reached over and pulled down the strings that wrapped around the front of the hat, so that it looked like I was wearing a baby bonnet. "And make a pouty face, while you're at it."

Being the obedient servent I am, I complied. Then, like a dog with a bone, I returned to my topic. "But it looks really silly, right? I mean, even without the baby face. Even though Ames is insisting I bring this, I look totally ridiculous, don't I?" Ames, by the way, is the director of the video shoot. She from LA and has a voice that would make Mercedes McCambridge proud. 

"You look fine," replied Corb, then giggled. "I gotta post this onto Facebook!"

"Oh, Jesus..." And with that, I raced to the changing rooms. I made a beeline into the nearest open room. "Just a second!" I called out to the Hispanic woman overseeing the rooms, who frowned and tried to protest I was in a handicapped changing room.

I ignored her. I stared in the mirror. "Hmmm..."

###

Thirty minutes later, Corb and I reached Josie's place. The kids were relaxed on the couch, in that lifeless rag doll pose that all teenagers assume when they are resting on a couch.

The first words out of Theo's mouth:

"What are you wearing on your head?"

He said it precisely, in clipped, measured tones. Apparently, the King was not amused.

I posed for him. "Oh, do you like it? It's my traveling hat."

Theo paused for a moment. He pursed his lips. "I do not like it."

"Oh. Isn't there a Doctor Seuss book like this? 'Do you like my hat?' 'I do not like your hat.' 'Good-bye.' 'Good-bye.'" I walked into the living room to sit down next to him.

A foot, placed on the section of the couch I intended to sit in. "So, I get it's your traveling hat. Why are you wearing it now?"

"Oh. I'm breaking it in."

Ashes looked up from the book she was reading. "Dad," she said, amused. "Some things are better left not broken in."

###

This trip is really kind of weird to me, because the timing is just so off.

I know how these video shoots go. It's a full day of taping and setting up the shots and trudging through debris and talking to people and doing the political stuff, like haking hands and making small talk. By the end of the day, you're exhausted, and you have absolutely no time to do anything else BUT the work at hand. Which means, that I am going to get nothing else but this video done for the next our days. And after that, I have all next week off.

This is like two weeks out of work, and I'm a little worried about what's going to happen to all the other stuff I'm working on. Then again, it could be good experience for the people I work with, if the job offer that Joe is dangling in front of me comes to be. Maybe it's time they learn to do the things that I do.

###

Arrived in Oklahoma. Picked up the rental car and drove to the hotel. Made it into the lobby, just in time for our production meeting.

"It's a nice hat," said Amy, approving. "Cut off those strings. They make you look silly."

An act of beer.

As with most couples, our holidays are always divided up among our families. Memorial day, being a somewhat minor holiday, isn't much squabbled over, and it's become a day dedicated to visiting Corb's family. Usually at his mother's house, usually involving a cookout. How freaking American.

This year's barbecue was actually held at his brother Scott's cookie-cutter McMansion, with the large pool and the row upon row of similar palatial monstrostrities squeezed in next to each other. Eh, the food is good, and Scott's wife Tina was really helpful with Ashes, who undwerwent surgery for removal of a cyst in her breast about a week ago (to our great relief, it's benign.)

Corb's grandmother, who has been in and out of the hospital and rehab facilities for almost a year now, was allowed out to visit. She came equipped with a wheelchair, walker, and oxygen tank. Getting her onto the deck was an ordeal in itself.

Every time I see her she seems more and more frail. The Parkinson's seems to be getting worse, and one of her fingers on her left hand seems to be drooping. Still, she seems to have a bit of fight left in her. We parked her in a shady spot next to her favorite food: salsa and a bowl of nachos. Tina placed a bottle of iced water next to her, so she would have something to sip.

I could tell she was having trouble, as she grabbed a few chips and valiantly tried to dip them into the salsa and bring them to her mouth.

"Want me to help?" I asked, making sure I spoke to her like an old friend rather than talking down to her. I hate it when people do that. She nodded, and I scooped the chips into the salsa and brought them to her mouth. I felt almost like a mother feeding a baby bird, except for the disgusting pre-chewing part of things.

"Can I get you anything else?" I asked, after four or five nachos.

"Yes," she said, eyeing the water jug next to her with disdain. "Can you get me a beer?"

"A beer it is," I said, smiling. Yes, that's the spirit.

A plastic glass filled with Bud light located. Glass brought to lips, her entire demeanor relaxed. It's amazing how a simple thing can serve to change the dynamics. Despite the discomfort she felt being carried onto the deck, the attention paid to her, the fuss that had made, there she was, kicking back a beer, feeling a bit less self-conscious, a little more normal for a few precious minutes. 

I smiled and glanced at Corb's mom. "What a day," I said, and winked. "Nachoes, salsa, and a cold beer. If Ernest Hemingway were to drop in and hit on grandma, the day would be complete."

Diana shook her head, recognizing immediately one of her mother's favorite life stories. "If Ernest Hemingway were to drop by, I'd be more than a little worried."

Then, on to the burgers. These are the days to treasure.

The politics of suds.

Living in an apartment isn't necessarily a social experience. Really, there are relatively few times we interact with our neighbors, other than possibly to wave to them or say hi as we are exiting or entering the building. Our next door neighbor across the hall, Linda the Cat Lady, is a little different, but even then...she knocked on my door yesterday to borrow two chairs and a table from our deck, for Mother's day. It was the first time I had a full-on conversation with her in about a month.

The one exception is the laundry room. I DREAD the laundry room.

It's not the inconvenience of actually socializing. It's the fact that there's only one washer and one dryer in our apartment building, which means that everyone is fighting for the same piece of real estate.

Our neighbor on the second floor is the worst. She has two small children and honestly feels that the laundry area belongs to her family. Which means that she does a load and then leaves it there for hours. Sometimes days! One time I opened up the washer and her clothes actually smelled moldy from being in there, damp, for so long. And don't get me started about having to pick out other people's clothing from a washer or dryer. It's just...uncomfortable.

Yesterday, I wanted to do all the laundry, but the second floor lady was hogging all the action. Today, I went down with a load, determined to get it done. The place was covered with piles and baskets, but fortunately, both the washer and dryer doors were open.

At last! I couldn't tell where she was in the process, but the lights were off, which meant she hadn't been there recently. Now was the time to get that little load done. As fast as I could, I shoved my laundry into the washer.

And the MINUTE I closed the door and turned the washer on, I heard the door open upstairs. Footsteps down to the laundry room.

It was the lady from the first floor, with a small bag in her hand. NOT the annoying lady from the second floor. It looked like she had run out of detergent or something and had gone to the supermarket. Had I stolen her place in line?

Here's how I solved this: "Hi," I said.

"Hi," she replied. Then we parted ways.

Fifty minutes later and I knew the washer was ready. I ran downstairs to change loads, But no, the dryer was running.

Ah, okay. The first floor lady had been looking to dry her clothes. I was going to have to wait. Okay, I could handle this.

Ten minutes later and I'm upstairs. And I realize I didn't bother to check to see how long that damn dryer was running for.

Shit, I was sick of running up and down the stairs. "Corbie?" I asked, sweetly. Corb was sitting on the sofa, watching Modern Family, his current obsession. "Can you do me a favor?"

Corb frowned. Oh, the "F" word. I hate it, too. "What?"

"I've been downstairs for the laundry twice today. Can you go check and see if the first floor lady's laundry is done?"

Now seriously, Corb looked a little bothered. You'd think I asked him to rob a bank or something. "But how about if she's done there?"

"She was, earlier."

His lower lip jutted out. "But if she sees me nagging her to get her laundry out of the dryer, she'll hate me."

"If that's the case, she already hates me for stealing her space with the washer."

Ah. Corb triumphant. He had found his way out. "Then she can't hate me. We are a couple. You're only supposed to hate one half of a couple. If she hates you, she has to like me. So I can't go down."

"CORBETT!"

Reluctantly, he went downstairs. It wasn't easy. I had to lift him off that sofa, push him to the door. Shove him down the stairs. But goddamit, why should i have to deal with the laundry politics, each and every time? There's another advantage to getting a house (if we get a house...this week will determine that!): no getting lathered up about the laundry. For that alone (and the thought of getting my own den,) it's going to be well worth it.

How to Defuse a Bomb

Like most Bostonians, I’ve been glued to the television this past week, watching the events of the horrific Marathon bombing play out. I’ve become a devout couch potato, from the initial announcement, with the image of the explosions replayed over and over again. Then, the speculation around who and how and why it all happened; then the identification of the alleged responsible parties on Thursday night. Friday was the coup de grace, with almost 24 hours of almost surreal events, from shoot out to lock down to the show down at the boat. 

And of course, the celebration that followed. The police were amazing; they got their man. The people in the village cheered. 

Possibly because I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather, I spent much of Friday afternoon watching it all on my favorite pinko Commie cable station, MSNBC. First while I was working, but as the hours went on and the search grew more intense, I found myself doing nothing but watching and waiting. Watching and waiting. Would Suspect #2 be found? Where was he hiding? How would this end?

It got to the point where Corb started to get a little irritated. Not to mention, hungry. He was waiting for supper while I was waiting for something to happen.

“They’re just saying the same things over and over,” he complained. “Even worse, they’re just making things up about what might have happened.”

I tried to be patient. Out of the goodness of my heart, I turned half of my attention to him. “That’s the way these things go,” I said. “They need to kill time until something happens.”

“Then why do we have to watch it?”

Well, duh. “In case something happens!”

“We have to wait to eat until something happens?” His voice betrayed just a bit of desperation. Corb wanted his Taco Bell!

I sighed. “No, I guess we don’t. I’ll put my shoes on and we can…” I started to rise, then abruptly sat down again. “Oh, look! They just heard shots!”

Corb finally became so desperate he started posting fake news updates on his Facebook page.

“Reports of a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a gun in Watertown. Please be careful.”

“CNN states suspect is hiding in a boat. Suspect was attempting to escape for a three hour tour.”

“CNN reports I am having Taco Bell for dinner and the suspect is not.”

And finally, as we were driving home from apprehending our calorie-laden fast food fix (and I of course had missed the suspect being apprehended and the villagers were rejoicing):

“CNN reports it’s finally over. Now, on to Golden Girls.”

Later that night, as I was taking in all I had missed while getting supper, and then watching Harry Potter with the boys, I reposted the first image of Suspect #2 being captured. His face, a bloody pulp. His shirt, ripped and lifted up, revealing his boxers and his belly. It was something I found interesting, but I also knew it would generate a response from Corb.

Sure enough, the next day. “I bet you wish I had a stomach like that bomber kid.”

We were in the car, checking out houses. If I had been behind the wheel, I might have swerved off the road. “That’s what you noticed? This kid has been shot and is bleeding all over the place, and all you notice is how pathetically skinny his stomach is?”

Corb flashed me a knowing look, as if to say, don’t get all high and mighty with me, Mister Man. “You know you were thinking it, too.”

Sigh. To have a stomach like that again. And I did, too, back when I was nineteen.

Superficial? Cynical? Perhaps even gallow-y? Guilty, on all counts! But I guess it’s an indication of the way the Bostonian mind works.

On one of the news shows today, someone (I forget who) was quoted as saying that this Boston Marathon has changed us all, forever. The always astute Doris Kearns Goodwin, herself a Bostonian, was quick to point out that as evidenced by the huge public celebration at Fenway Park (complete with Neil Diamond!) that took place last night, it clearly hasn’t.

It’s more than a sense that the public has become desensitized to violence, post-9/11, post- Columbine, post-Newtown. It’s more about the character of Boston itself.

Boston is the birthplace of independence in this country. The shot heard around the world, and all that. That means we’re made of pretty sturdy stuff.

It will take more than two misguided pups to kill that spirit. What took place Monday was sad and unfortunate, but it was decidedly not the end of anything. Throughout the past week, there have been numerous examples of the strength and resilience of the people of Boston and our amazing ability to come together and carry on when things get tough. The runners who continued running extra miles beyond the finish line after the bombing took placed to donate blood. The willingness of an entire city to stay indoors and turn the place into a ghost town for one whole day so a manhunt could take place (what other city would participate so willingly, without complaint?) Then, the incredible coming together when all was said and done.

And now, life goes on, once again. Things continue. The spirit endures.

These are the signs of a strong backbone, of a spirit that cannot be broken. It’s why I am proud to be a New Englander. We may not be the warmest people in the world, but by God, we endure. That’s something no bomb in the world will ever be able to break, because we are far too stubborn to ever let things end with a bang.