Damn Kids

This weekend, I attended a kid's birthday party in Salem. Despite the dangerous combination of seven-year-olds, drums, and my epic hangover, it was a good time. The party had a rock and roll theme, which was greatly enhanced by a three-year-old boy who vomited profusely all over his mother.

Seriously, it was like something out of The Exorcist. I don't know how a little body could produce so much bile. He went home with his puke-soaked mother, and I helped clean up the remnants before another kid fell in it. (And by help clean it up, I ripped up paper towels for my friend, who was doing that thing mothers do when they don't care how foul something is, they'll clean it if it needs to be done.)

I thought he might have eaten too much. But I later found out that the boy's sisters and mother had recently dealt with the stomach bug. And, lo and behold, I woke up today with stomach cramps. I suffered through a meeting this morning, and broke out in hives toward the end of it. Hives. What the hell kind of virus is this?

As I write this, I'm laying very still on my bed, hoping not to disturb whatever part of my intestines that are causing me so much pain. And reminding myself to get my tubes tied when I go into the hospital from whatever serious medical condition this virulent germ causes me. I have stuff to do, body. Sack up and fight it.

The Twilight of Overt Sexuality

Maybe this makes me a bad person, but I'd rather any children I have be inundated with trampy archetypes than messages that say too much lust will cause them to die. The Globe reports that kids these days are into romance, not the hit it and quit it messages I was getting as a teenager in the late '90s.

"If [the main characters from Twilight] kiss too deeply, he'll destroy her. It really equates desire with death," said Amy Boesky, who teaches English at Boston College and wrote two of the novels in the "Beacon Street Girls" series under the pseudonym Annie Bryant. "I can see why girls find it enthralling, but I also find it troubling."

You and me both, lady.

I read Pride and Prejudice and The Time Traveler's Wife. I love a good romance. But I don't believe that pushing a moralistic tale or purity rings on children is any healthier than the sexy schoolgirl costume Britney Spears wore to fame when I was in high school. Too much of either school of thought is bad for kids. My theory is that we teach kids the basic mechanics of how sex works, inform them of the risks, and let them make up their own minds.

Nowadays, we have to recognize that teenagers are ultimately the ones who decide what they do with their bodies. Whether they think they'll be made undead by a sexy vampire or beg their boyfriend to hit them one more time is a choice they have to make.

A Weekend of Autumnal Fun

As much as I hate what fall means (the precious few hours of daylight; six months of trudging through snow), I do love fall weekends. Yesterday, I took the kids I babysit to Salem for the day. It's a much different experience when you have the under-12 set with you. There are many trips back to the car for supplies. Making sure everyone has used the bathroom that needs to. And walking the fine line between boring and terrifying.

After taking in the pumpkin festival on Salem Common, I took my charges to see Cry Innocent, a neat mock witch trial. I figured it would give the kids some history, but wouldn't scare the crap out of the baby like the Witch Museum would have.

The actors presented their testimony, and then asked the audience if they had any questions. Eldest raised her hand, squirming she was so eager to be heard. After a guy in a Darth Vader costume had questioned the witch, Eldest got to say her piece.

"How come everybody believes these people? All the things they're talking about happened at night while they were asleep. Maybe they were just dreaming." She said it in a tone that screamed What the hell is wrong with you people? which caused the room erupted in applause, and eldest sat back in her seat, face bright red, but smiling.

At the end of the play, she said to me, "These people are crazy." Ah, history.

Today I spent the day cooking and cleaning. At long last, I trudged to the laundromat and washed my comforter cover. I swear that when I wash this thing, the colors become way more vibrant. I need to be more diligent in this regard.

I finally made some pumpkin bread, and also some roasted butternut squash with blue cheese and pecans. It's been weeks since I last ate a vegetable, so I shoveled the bright orange goodness down at a fast pace. Now I'm working on the chicken and rosemary I made. Healthy!

And on Friday night, I was on NECN again for the ever-popular NewsQuiz. Jim Braude wasn't there, but Chet Curtis made a fine substitute. Here are the clips. (And if you haven't seen me in a while, yes, my hair is very short. I love it, because I am too lazy to style it when it's long.)





So that's what's up with me. How are things with you? Oh, and Go Sox!

Pond Day

Yesterday evening, I went to see the family I babysit for. They'd just come back from Europe, and I still had their car keys from when I'd dropped them off at the airport a few weeks ago. The kids' sweat-soaked mother opened the door and collected the keys. As we chatted, Baby (who is now four, which makes me feel older than a redwood tree) appeared on the stairs and repeated my name like a mantra until I looked up at her.

"I went to farm camp today," she announced proudly. Her older siblings had both attended this day camp, and she'd been excited to finally go for months.

"And tomorrow is pond day," she added.

"What's pond day?" I asked.

"We're gonna catch frogs and butterflies in nets," she explained.

In that moment, I was intensely jealous of a 4-year-old. The weather this week is beautiful, despite the sweltering heat. While I love my job, I miss summers spent outside, riding bikes and foraging for slimy creatures in swamps and lakes. Baby spent her day dripping sweat and picking strands of slime off her fingers. I spent my day sitting at my desk, drinking several cups of lukewarm office coffee, stopping only to venture to the gym to ward off obesity and arthritis as best I can.

I thought being a grown-up would be more fun than this.

This Train's Going Express to Traumaville

Sometimes, I like to think I have psychic dreams. Not all the time, and certainly I don't take every dream I have as literal predictions of the truth. (This weekend's dream featured some futuristic spaceship-plane hybrid that was cool and I hope comes into reality someday.) I like when my dreams give me a heads-up on something I may need to be prepared for in the future. When I was in college, I had a dream that the kids I babysit for and I got split up while riding the train. My subconscious may have been helping me deal with feelings of powerlessness-- I had to run ahead to the next stop to catch the kids, but I couldn't run fast enough-- but after that dream I was always very careful loading and unloading the wee ones into the train. The dream served me well too-- only a week or so later an over-eager T driver tried to close the doors while Boy was still disembarking the train. Luckily, I managed to thrust my arms into the closing doors and grab him off the stairs.

More recently, I was on the T in Government Center on a busy weekend, and I watched a mother load her daughter into the train. The mother turned around to see if the rest of her family was behind her, and the doors started to close. The little girl who was loaded onto the train started to scream, and somebody standing in the doorway held the doors so the mother could get on the train. It was a very near miss. The little girl sobbed while her mother tried to comfort her. I gave the girl a smile, but she looked away and continued to sob. When she got off the train a couple of stops later, she clung to her mother for dear life.

This weekend, I was reading Universal Hub and came across this post, which is the story of a child who did actually get separated from their family on the T.

Being in a state of shock that a door was closing on me, and not wanting my 8-month-old to be hurt by the closing door, I backed up. The door then closed with my 7-year-old on the train. I panicked. I banged on the door and screamed that my daughter was on the train -- but to no avail. The train proceeded on.

Yikes. That poor kid. Her poor mother. This problem seems mainly centered on the Green Line. The other lines have more doors and no stairs to navigate into the train, so it's easy to heard kids inside. Also, the doors seem to remain open for longer on the other lines. Some T drivers on the Green Line basically flip the doors open for only a second, then close them up regardless of the fact that the very young or very old may take longer to get on or off the train, especially the older cars with steep stairs. I'm surprised this hasn't been more widely reported as a problem.

I don't know how many parents read this blog (sorry for the swearing, folks) but if you've got young kids, you need to discuss what to do if you get separated on the T. Make sure they know your home and cell numbers. Since cell phones don't work underground on the T, make sure kids know who to approach for help. If they're on the Green Line, make sure they know to talk to the driver of the car, or how to recognize a T official on a platform. (Good luck finding one, I know, but you don't want your kids admitting to any sketchball on the platform that they're without adult supervision.) Have your kid get off the train at the next stop and wait for you. As someone said to my comment on Universal Hub, make sure your kids know what stop you're using. It sounds extreme, but hopefully your kid will know how to handle a situation that never happens.

Sweet Taste

Okay. Not only do I have a cute Valentine made by a kid under ten years of age, but I have these two sweet treats on my bleak Valentine's Day to warm the cockles of my heart.

Observe.



I am in love with that kid who President Bush is physically trying to hold down. He is just so angry about the state of affairs. I love his set jaw, steely gaze, and his "fuck you" demeanor toward the President of the United States. I couldn't keep that kind of composure around the vice principal at the age of seven, never mind the leader of the free world. I love that the teachers around this kid are smiling like they're in on the joke and delighted this kid had the cajones to say what he wanted.

I just don't get how Bush managed to blow a fluff junket. He had two options when this little seven-year-old voiced his opinion. Bush could have a) agreed with the kid, saying that he wanted the troops to stabilize Iraq enough to come home soon, yadda yadda optimism, or b):

He talked not of armies in Iraq but of 'armies of compassion' at home. Even the kids seemed confused. One asked why he came. 'I came to see you,' the president responded. As the cameras clicked away, a 7-year-old boy made peace signs. 'Put your hands down,' Bush chided playfully.

Yeah. Okay. Way to let a SEVEN YEAR OLD make you look like an idiot.

And there is also this tasty morsel:

The sweet taste of liberty in your mouth, indeed.

"I'm not afraid to say it. Dessert has a well-known liberal agenda," Colbert said in a statement. "What I hope to do with this ice cream is bring some balance back to the freezer case."

God. I can't top that unless given a jar of maraschino cherries. God bless you, Stephen Colbert.

Cupid Shall Not Be Defeated

Oh for fuck's sake, it's Valentine's Day again? Didn't we just do this?

I know, I know, I'm a bitter bitch because I don't like Valentine's Day. Yes, I'm some emo sad bastard because I don't get excited for doilies and roses and the stink of love and pheromones in the air. Yes, I'm some pinko commie liberal because I think Valentine's Day is a sham PR move by the chocolate/flower/greeting card industry to make money between Christmas and Mother's Day. "Can't you just enjoy it?" People coo at me.

No. No I can't. I'm sick of being single. I don't like it. I'm tired of my grandmother bugging me to bring somebody to a family function before she dies, for crying out loud. I'm tired of getting screwed on my taxes. I hate sitting and shivering on the couch by myself. Continue with the pity party ad nauseum.

This year, I'm not even going to worry about the pity party. Eldest made me a Valentine's Day card with a cute hand-drawn heart-shaped rose that I have out on my desk. My Mom got me a cute bracelet and a card. Tonight, I've got a hot date with my cool single friends, some Chinese food, and Ryan Seacrest that I'm really looking forward to. Then I think that I could still be in one of the crappy relationships I've had, I realize I'm better off on my own until someone genuinely good comes along. Plus, there's half-off candy to be had tomorrow, which I love.

Go die in a fire, Cupid. You won't get the best of me.

Big Bird Needs You

Won't you help them?

Through various email petitions I've signed, I receive MoveOn.org emails. Generally, I delete them without reading them because it is my greatest fear that Jack Reed or Sheldon Whitehouse (BOO!) will know my name and address and forward all my calls to voicemail because I'm the constituent who bitches about everything under the sun. When it comes to gay rights, abortion legislation, or new Supreme Court appointees I take the time to write out an email. I have my short list of things I worry about because I care about them.

So when I got an email from MoveOn saying that President Bush is attempting to tinker with the already dismal funding to NPR and PBS, I signed the petition. As a kid without cable, I looked forward to watching Ernie (my favorite!), Bert, Big Bird, the Count and Cookie Monster in the afternoons. My Mom looked forward to me watching Sesame Street and Mister Roger's Neighborhood because I was out of her hair for an hour or so and still learning something. When I got older, I loved Reading Rainbow ("I enjoyed this book, but you don't have to take my word for it!"). I have vague memories of 3-2-1-Contact. More recently, I enjoyed watching Ken Burns' Jazz epic that I'd seen in parts in a class at Emerson. I cried when I watched the American Experience episode on RFK. I was enthralled by the episode of Frontline on the meth epidemic in America and how the government totally dropped the ball on preventing the proliferation of meth. PBS has given us Julia Child, the awesome creative work of Jim Henson, Arthur, and NOVA all for free. How can you not get behind that?

Then there's NPR. I spend my mornings with Bob Oakes on WBUR. I love A Prairie Home Companion. Car Talk is pretty funny too. It's talk radio with a brain. We need this.

So be you conservative or liberal, please sign this petition to let lawmakers know that the minimally-commercial programming PBS provides is important to you. Both kids and adults need thoughtful programming that's available to anyone with an antenna and a sense of curiosity.

Kids Say the Leftest Things

Thanks for the kind thoughts yesterday, everybody. I took an emergency run home to check in, and after some tears my Mom cheered up a little. We went out to dinner at a spendy place near our house and were treated to a Muzak rendition of "Walk on the Wild Side." As I said, nothing says "classy dinner" like a song about a transvestite.

I don't really have a whole bunch of rage to muster up today. I'm kind of in an emo kid mood. However, I will treat you to this out of the mouth of babes moment I had this weekend.

Eldest: Amy, if you could ask anybody from history any question, who would you ask and what question would you ask?

Me: Hmm. I don't know. I have a lot of questions.

Boy: I'd ask about slavery! Why would anybody think that's a good idea?

Eldest: I think I'd ask the guy who started slavery and who started segregation, but I would also like to ask President Bush why he started this stupid war in Iraq because it just doesn't make sense.

They don't watch much TV, but at least there's ample entertainment to be found. I also loved our macabre discussion about boiling the baby:

Boy: I can't wait to get home and take a bath in really hot water. I'm freezing!

Me: Well, we'll make sure the water's cool enough for Baby. We don't want to boil her alive.

Boy: HA! Don't boil the baby!

Baby: Don't boil the baby!

Boy: Boil an egg, don't boil the baby.

Me: Boil noodles, don't boil the baby.

Baby: DON'T BOIL THE BABY. HA HA HA!

Adventures in Television

I grew up in a television family. We did other things too, like gardening when my Mom felt good or going shopping or just playing around, but we always loved TV. As a kid, I'd watch Sesame Street and Mr. Roger's Neighborhood on PBS in the mornings and afternoons. When I got older and was left to my own devices on hot summer days, I'd watch Mr. Ed and MASH reruns when it was too hot to move. I knew all about the cool toys from TV, what kind of clothes I should be wearing, and that I always wanted to crimp my hair but my Mom wouldn't let me bake my hair at the age of ten.

I've always admired the people I babysit for and how they've kept their kids away from the commercial aspects of the world. When the kids watch TV, they watch videos of Scooby-Doo. Personally, I hate Scooby-Doo and just admitted this to the kids this past weekend and I don't think they've quite recovered from the shock that someone they love can hate something they love so much. I think they have a video of Sesame Street songs and that's it. It's amazing to me that the kids, especially Eldest, hasn't revolted and demanded to watch something on network TV, but it hasn't happened yet.

Last night, I got home from post-work drinks with my coworkers and decided to watch My Name is Earl and The Office. Eldest stays up until 9pm, so she was jumping around on a trampoline when I flicked on the tiny set. The kids' dad seemed excited to watch some TV while their mother seemed vaguely annoyed. My Name is Earl came on, and before the first commercial break there were about three "dammits" and two "hells" and one "bitch" let loose. I blushed, and looked over at Eldest and her mother.

Eldest had buried her head in a pillow while Mother looked at the TV blankly. I always forget how swearing has become much more mainstream since I was a kid watching TV. When I'm with the kids, I keep my language to a minimum because they're not my kids and I don't want them learning how to insult each other with "stupid bitch" on my watch. If I should have kids someday, they're just going to learn swearing because I can't keep the language to myself for eighteen years. It's just not fucking possible.

We made it to the first commercial break and Eldest watched the commercials with rapt attention. She watched the Ford commercial where the car drives along a building ledge and remarked "that's not possible." Within two minutes of the show starting again, Eldest handed her mother a book and hid behind a pillow as talk of sex started.

"She's at the age where she knows it's not something she should watch, but she doesn't understand why," Mother explained.

"I can turn it off," I offered. "It's not a big deal."

"Also, I think she's a little bored. Don't worry about it."

We got through My Name is Earl and started in on The Office. Which had much discussion of strippers. Awesome. Eldest would pop in for the commercials, diving for her pillow when an ER preview came on with someone trapped inside a burning building, someone struggling for breath on a hospital gurney, and someone getting shot. I tried to explain the Jim/Pam/Karen love triangle to Mother. Then came this exchange.

"Didn't Ben Franklin have syphilis?" Pam asks the Ben Franklin actor Michael hired as a "stripper."

"What's syphilis?" Eldest asked the room. I kept my eyes glued to the TV so her parents could take that doozy.

"It's a disease," Father offered after an awkward silence.

"How do you get it? What does it do?"

Nobody fielded that one.

"I want the ads to come back on," Eldest said, rolling on the floor. "I like the toothpaste ads."

"That was a toothpaste ad," Mother said after a Rembrandt ad featuring two people making out heavily in a tight shot. After that, the commercial where the woman goes for a jog while her boyfriend follows her in a car blaring the Spice Girls came on, and I had to explain that he was doing that because the woman needed her iPod reward from the credit card company.

"Ohhhh," both Mother and Eldest said.

I am going to ruin this family.

Urgh

Remind me to never, ever, ever move again.

After nearly six hours, three trips with varying numbers of automobiles, one bent and broken fingernail, six pizzas, numerous beers, several threats of cannibalism, three highly confused children, and a very sore back, I'm almost out of the shithole. I have an atlas laying on the dusty floor that Annette was reading while she waited for the van to return and some garbage I left laying on the floor to clear out, but that will take all of twenty minutes. Then I leave the keys behind, never again to return.

I owe a great debt to my friends, who handled my spaciness with relative good will and entertained the kids while Jeff, Dan, Annette and I loaded stuff into a minivan and Dan's Jetta while literally playing in traffic on Beacon Street. I also owe the people I babysit for dinner, since they fed me all three meals yesterday. The kids stole glimpses into my room, asking who was in pictures. The baby was especially curious and somewhat behind the curb on names.

"Who's that?"

"That's my friend Sharon and I."

"Who's that?" She asked, pointing at me.

"That's me."

"Who's that?"

"That's Sharon."

"Who's that?" She asked again, pointing at me.

But there are no rats in this new place (except the stuffed one Kristen and Marianne gave me to the delight of the kids) and it's very quiet in the evenings, which is nice. There's also the built-in entertainment of the kids. Last night, the baby wandered into the kitchen. She's learning how to use the toilet, so her father asked her if she had anything on her bottom, meaning underwear or a diaper.

"A rash," she said, then wandered out of the room while itching her butt. Try the veal, she'll be here all week.

Idiots of the Week

You've got to be fucking kidding.

The principal of the Saint Rose of Lima School banned talking at lunch after three students choked in the cafeteria.

Hold on. Wait. Back up. I don't think I can shut enough of my brain cells off to understand this kind of stupidity. None of the kids can talk because three morons can't figure out how to control the flow of food and air through their bodies? The snippet doesn't say what age group these kids are, but even if they're kindergarteners, they should have the basic body control to figure out HOW NOT TO CHOKE WHILE EATING if they're able to attend school. Also, it's absolutely the dumbest thing I've heard this week (including Bush's "I'm the boss of this family and what I say goes" comment) is the diocese's plan to try and regulate how the kids eat their food. And, strictly speaking, the real problem is that the kids have to breathe and eat at the same time. So really, the kids should be told not to breathe at all in the cafeteria while eating lunch. Perhaps the nuns should go around and cut the kids grapes in half and chop up their hot dogs too. God.

Sweet fancy Christ. That's the absolute dumbest thing I've heard all week. I fear getting old since the future of America can't even chew it's own food properly. How are they going to manage the blender to turn my food into mush I can gum?

You Say Goodbye, I Say Goodbye

Goodbye, shitty apartment.

Goodbye, bathroom that lights on fire for no reason.


Goodbye, ceiling tiles with rats above them. (Of course, since I've agreed to leave I haven't heard so much as a scurry from the fuckers, leaving me thinking oh my God, I've made a mistake. Which I haven't, because being able to save up three months of rent will be good for me, as will not having to rush into another crappy situation. And I'm back in the hizzle with all my friends.)

I was talking to my neighbor, whose apartment I need to move my bed and loveseat out through since my stairs are narrow, and he was shocked to hear I was moving. I reiterated the whole rat/fire problem to him.

"I've lived here nine years," he said, "and I have had those [rats] too. But he fix them. How much you pay?"

"$800 a month," I said.

"Oh. He used to rent that place for $650."

I hate the Boston real estate game. I know it's because Boston is a great place and people really want to live here but the high cost, high deposits, and low quality drive me crazy. I've never had an attentive landlord who wanted to actually fix a problem with the building-- they always want to do the cheapest, half-assiest job possible to shut me up. I've never had a realtor who actually listens to what I tell them about my price range. Some days, when I'm feeling particularly masochistic, I look at craigslist listings in other cities and dream about how nice it would be to have a two bedroom condo for half of what I paid for the shithole.

This apartment went from awesome to craptastic in record time. When I moved in, it was warm and sunny and I had money for movers and I imagined all the time my friends and I would hang out in my cozy nook. I imagined the kitchen island I would buy and all the cooking I could do without someone breathing down my neck to get out of the kitchen. I was dating a guy I thought was good and would be around and I dreamed of how he could come over and bring his dog and hang out without a roommate giving me dirty looks whenever he used the bathroom. Then the guy left, I got broke beyond my scariest nightmares, my apartment got infested with flies, then rats, then lit up in a crack of dawn shithole flambe in the bathroom. Just like the relationship, the apartment was a gigantic disappointment and I'm happy to leave it behind.

Next week: Stories of teaching Eldest, Boy, and Youngest how to not wake me up at 6am because I will not find it funny unless they bring me coffee (cream and sugar) and a bagel. Also, my deep debate with myself on whether or not the Eldest should be exposed to American Idol since it comes on while she's still up, or if I should just put a TV in my room to keep her innocent to in-show commercials and the horrible brain-killing power of competitive reality shows and Ryan Seacrest.

Movin' On Out

...Sort of.

My landlord's lawyer called me and I had horrific nightmares of being served papers for an appearance in court. However, he was calling to tell me he would be handling the procedure for getting me out of my apartment. I am sending him a letter today to tell him which day I will be leaving, and he will send me something back absolving me from the remainder of the lease. While I'm excited now to get things underway, I won't quite believe I'm out from under the obligations until I have that letter from the lawyer in my hands. The lawyer also mentioned that my landlord wants to rip apart my apartment to get into the ceilings and figure out where the rats are coming in and he can't very well do that if I'm living there, so we all win. I hope the next person who lives there appreciates their rat-free existence.

I also think I will be turning myself into an indentured servant for free rent for a couple of months. The idea of saving up some money so I can adequately pay deposits and get myself back together again is appealing, so I think I will take the Family up on their rent-for-work program. The idea of a two-year-old waking me up at six in the morning on a Sunday isn't as appealing, but it's all a tossup. At least the kids are cute and don't poop in the ceilings. As far as I know.

Hickory Dickory Dock

I'm not the only one dealing with an infestation:

"You don't leave any food out, that's for sure," said Councilor John Tobin, who once had a gingerbread house, and "overnight it was downsized to a two -bedroom condo." "If you do, there's a major after-hours mouse party here. They leave behind their party hats, if you will."

It's interesting-- after detailing my myriad rodent problems, I've had several coworkers complain that they've had vivid dreams about rodents. If I've wreaked this havoc on any of you, dear readers, I apologize. I don't want rodent problems inflicted on anyone else, even if they're only in your dreams.

I'm still waiting on my landlord to drop off the written permission to leave my apartment early. Since I called late in the day yesterday, I'm hoping to find it waiting for me tonight when I get home. After one more call to the legal services people to make sure there's nothing in the language to allow them to come and sue me in a couple of months, I'll get ready to leave. I did get some information from the Boston Housing Court about the various things a landlord can be fined for and I've got at least one month's rent of fines I could get if the landlord wanted to get nasty. If the sublet doesn't work out, the people I babysit for have offered me a spare room for a couple months in exchange for some light housework and free babysitting. This would undoubtedly be exciting for the kids, who've been after me to live in their spare room for over a year (and the Eldest can keep an eye on if I'm getting ready to get married and have kids), but I don't want to be underfoot. It's a big house, but five people and two cats is a lot to handle for a family.

I'd also like to thank you all for your kind offers to help move and donate to the "legal fund." I may take you up on the moving, but I'm hoping to extricate myself from my apartment without getting tangled up in housing court. But it's good to know I have an internet/real life posse at my back.

Christmas is not only getting more commercial, it's getting more dangerous.

I was not in the best of moods last night. I had to go to the part-time job after a long day at the day job, and I'd been reminded of an ex-boyfriend's continued existence on this planet twice in one day, which I hate. Just because that pussy continues to walk these city streets doesn't mean I need to know about it. (Yeah yeah, I'm an evil, hateful wench. Save it. It's been a shit year in the relationship department for me and I have a right to be pissy.) I arrived at the part-time job with a black cloud hanging over me. I microwaved my dinner and started talking with a coworker about his son's birthday party on Sunday and it began to lighten my mood. After some food and a nice conversation, I went to work.

I don't really want to get into the part-time job's actual location, mainly because it's retail and public and allows for easier stalking than my day job. Let's just say the store sells home furnishings and knick-knacks to go along with the furnishings. It's a good part-time job for me since I don't have enough room in my apartment to put a ton of crap, so I don't spend my salary before it leaves the store like I would if I worked at J. Crew or Banana Republic. Generally, they keep me away from the cash registers and in the front of the store where I direct customers to whatever bric-a-brac they want. When I'm in the front of the store, I'm not supposed to leave unless absolutely necessary. Since the weeknights tend to run on a skeleton crew, I ended up showing customers around more than I'd like. Most customers just needed to have me show them where something was specifically. One customer, however, drove me nuts.

She walked in and said she was just looking around. I said that was fine, and to ask us if she had any questions. I recently figured out that saying "us" instead of "me" plants the idea that customers don't have to come back to me for answers, but can ask someone further back in the store. This woman, however, decided to come back to me.

"Can you show me something?" She asked.

I smiled, then inwardly groaned as I left the front of the store to follow the woman to whatever she had to ask me. She stopped at a mirrored plate.

"How heavy is this?" She asked. The mirrored plate was sitting on top of its box without anything else on top of it. She could have easily lifted the mirror to see how heavy it was without bothering me. I kind of looked at her and shifted the mirror off the box it came in and handed her the box.

"How much is it?"

I looked at the price tag and told her.

"Can you open it to see if it's not broken?"

I groaned inwardly, and went to find some scissors to open the box. The mirror wasn't broken. But as I repackaged the mirror, the woman wasn't sure if she wanted the large mirror and had me put it back as she picked up a smaller one. Frustrated, I went back to the front of the store and told my coworker that if I was to stay in the front of the store, he'd have to help the high-maintenance woman.

"She's intimidated by me," coworker said, after asking her if she needed help. "I didn't have to open a thing."

"Of course," I snitted. I began policing the front of the store, referred a couple more customers to other areas of the store, and tried to keep my eyes open.

"Excuse me, can you help me again?" High-Maintenance asked. I showed her a couple other things, went to put what she was holding behind the register, and got roped into ringing her up.

"I need to get some of those little twigs another time because I don't know where they are," High-Maintenance said. I left the register, which was developing a line of people waiting behind her, and grabbed the twigs. She then asked me to wait mid-transaction while she picked out a candle to go with the stuff she was buying. She picked up a gold candle and handed me her credit card. I swiped it, had her sign the receipt, and then asked if she could switch the candle for a different color.

"No, you'll need to return it and I'll have to re-ring you," I said, not even bothering to mask my growing impatience with the woman.

"I can't just switch it?" She asked.

"No," I replied, "it's a different item than what you bought."

She frowned, as did the people in line behind her with bigger packages than she had, and she went and stood by the candles for a good minute before returning with two candles.

"Which do you think is better?"

I think I actually rolled my eyes. My patience has been very short lately, and this woman was certainly trying it. My interior monologue went a little something like this:

Listen, lady. I would have gladly had this conversation with you before you got to the register, or would have at least referred you to someone else who would have been able to help you. Now you are holding up customers who actually know what they fucking want to buy, so either make up your damn mind now, or step aside and let me help one of the myriad people behind you who would also like to punch you in the bits.

Eventually, High-Maintenance caught her snap and bought both candles. "Can I pay the difference with cash?"

"No, I have to return what you just bought on your card and then ring you again."

"Well, do it quickly, please. I'm in a bit of a rush."

I turned around to grab something, and muttered "fuck you" under my breath. If you're in such a hurry, make up your goddamn mind before you extend this relatively quick process by ten minutes. God.

I got through the rest of the night relatively well. I walked home quickly, hoping to have a cup of tea and decompress well enough to get a good night's sleep. I opened my mailbox and found a card from the people I babysit for. I basically ignored the information that my health insurance wants me to use an inferior diagnostic company for my blood samples that also came in the mail, and happily opened up the card. Inside was the "family card" with a picture of Eldest with her science project, smiling happily; the mother and Baby on a playground; Baby wearing Eldest's clothes, Baby's face beaming in the big pink sweater; Boy riding a bike without training wheels; and the whole family in Colorado. The older kids had signed their names and the Baby's name and the parents had enclosed a gift certificate to Amazon.com as well as the kids' school pictures. Boy had on a blue button-down shirt and had what looked like trace elements of cookie crumbs around his mouth. Eldest had her hair in pigtails, with her face in the middle of smiling. It wasn't the best picture of her, but it completely made my day to have them smiling at me from the picture frame and to think how far they've come since I met them in 2001. While my ex-boyfriends and high-maintenance customers may still be a plague upon this city, there are also my friends and the kids I babysit to remind me why I live here.

Charlie May Be Here, But He's Unwelcome

I hate the MBTA. Like, a lot. When I moved here six years ago, I loved the T. The clickty-clack of the trains, the unbelievable people-watching, the systematic, no-traffic way to get around. All that for the low low price of eighty-five cents. Now, a mere six years later, we're on the threshold of paying $2.00 a ride, or $1.70 with the CharlieCard. I don't quite understand the new fare system-- the T's website is not very helpful since it's an overwhelming amount of text with very little information. All I know is it's going to cost me forty-five cents a pop more to ride the T and will cost me three bucks more (roundtrip) to go home to Rhode Island.

From what little information I've heard on this subject, what's going to happen is I'm going to need to find someplace that has CharlieCards, not the CharlieTickets I've been buying $10 at a time and running down during my blessedly infrequent jaunts on the train. The MBTA has posted a schedule of dates they'll have smiling, happy, well-informed representatives (ahem) handing out the plastic conduits of the thirty-cent discount, but the small-print "Schedule subject to change without notice" isn't very assuring.

There's also the matter of the subway pass going the way of the Edsel, and in its place is the "Monthly LinkPass" which combines both bus and subway privileges. While that sounds great, many people I know who ride the subway never ride the bus. Ever. Since I moved out of Brighton Center, I take the bus maybe once or twice a year. The bus is unreliable (as evidenced by the time my hungover ass spent over an hour waiting for the 1 bus to take me to the South End for brunch) and much more affected by the weather than the T is. (Though I did hear that the Green Line was a disaster this morning with that heavy snowfall we got.) So this LinkPass (I will never forgive Apple for the burring together of words to sound hip and futuristic-- it works with iPod and iTunes, but doing it with LinkPass is just stupid) forces T riders to pay for a service they may never use.

I babysat yesterday afternoon, and I was talking with the kids' mother about the T fares going up and perhaps moving well outside the city would be a good investment since all the fares will be universal, even all the way out to Quincy. The kids listened, and we walked to the Green Line to wait for the train to take us one stop to the grocery store. We waited for the train for about seven minutes while even the under ten crowd complained about the T fares. Then, when a train finally came, the driver pleasantly (ahem) informed us that the train was going express to Cleveland Circle.

"You stupid train!" the eldest said as the doors slammed shut in her face. "We may as well just walk."

The baby got upset because she saw her best friend waving to her from the inside of the train. "Hi! HI! Amy, I want to see Adam."

"Adam's going to Cleveland Circle, honey," I said as the train pulled away and the baby looked confused.

"Let's just walk. I hate the stupid train." The eldest snitted.

Last night the rats and I settled in and watched An Inconvenient Truth. (As an aside-- can I just say how fucking angry I was that Al Gore was not that engaging, entertaining, informative, honest, and human during the 2000 election?) Fucking frightening movie, that. You see glaciers melting like a Slurpee in the sun, and how we are actively destroying our planet and not really concerned by it. Public transportation that is efficient, relatively inexpensive, and reliable is a great way to reduce our carbon dioxide output. But with the T jacking up fares on service so crappy even an eight-year-old gets fed up with it, people who are on the fence about driving into Boston versus taking the T are going to change their mind and start driving themselves in. Maybe the T will suddenly provide service we'll all love. The Green Line will run on schedule and people won't freeze their asses off when it snows an eighth of an inch and they have to wait for half an hour for a train. Maybe we can even dare to dream of service that runs until the wee hours of the morning for those of us who like to go out on Fridays and not shell out $30 for a cab ride home. But, as it stands now, I'm going to invest the money I'd spend on taking the T and buying a nice bike.