Tag Archives: creepers

Today: OMG.

I don’t claim to be an expert on world religions, or even my own religion, but back in 1987 George Michael told me I’ve gotta have faith.  And I took it to heart.  (That same year, he also mention something about being a Father Figure… but um… does that mean something creepy?)  So while I’m taking spiritual direction from a former member of Wham!, here’s a pretty picture taken from high atop an overpriced parking garage in the Back Bay.

This is what the back of one of my favorite churches looks like.  I’ve approached St. Cecilia’s from the front a million (okay, a thousand… um… many, several dozens) of times, so I felt sort of sneaky seeing her from a different angle.  But then again, sneaking a peak at faith from a different angle every now and again couldn’t be a bad thing.

Being Catholic feels very home to me, but I think that my faith has been enriched significantly by the experiences (now matter how divergent) of others.  I like to know what other people believe.

Through my work, I’ve had opportunities to meet with teachers at an Islamic academic and a parochial school in the same day.  I’ve sat at tables with members of the Black Ministerial Alliance and leaders from Boston’s Jewish community.  When you get to spend your days doing work that feels good, surrounded by people who are doing similarly, life feels like one big prayer.  I’m a lucky girl.

We won’t always agree about our beliefs.  Even when we… um, believe the same thing. Like that time some kid and I got into an argument about whether or not “we” should be offended when people say “Happy Holidays.”  I reckon that’s not the same as wishing someone a “Crappy Christmas.”  I think, at least, they’re saying, “Whatever you’re celebrating, I hope it’s happy.”  The Crappy Christmas comment didn’t go over very well.  Nor did “Let’s agree to disagree.”  “You’re a moron” wasn’t well received, either.  Surprising, I know.

What was I rambling about?  Oh right, we’re not always going to see eye to eye, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  As long as we’re not poking any eyes out in the process, that is.

Please file this post under: Out of left field.

Also On Tap for Today:

Does faith factor in your day?  Is George Michael a genius or a wee bit creepy?

Today: Clark is in a basket.

And I’m just a basket case.

Yesterday something really cute happened while I was in the shower.  Captured your attention?  Not so fast, creeps.  Clark was being rambunctious, but since I am gainfully employed and need to keep up a certain level of hygiene, I didn’t really have the time to make sure he didn’t get into mischief.  I essentially locked him in the bathroom with me while I showered.  Maybe I’m the creep.

I’m too lazy to delete this post, so we may as well proceed.

At some point, I noticed Clark was being awfully quiet.  He was nowhere to be seen from the shower.  He had crawled up and into the basket of warm, clean towels next to the shower and was sound asleep.  He snoozed just long enough for me to capture a picture on my malfunctioning BlackBerry, which I will post as soon as this thing is working again.

Update: Here he is!  (Excuse the awful picture quality.)

I’ll temper your jealousy of our adorable dog with this:  He peed on the Christmas tree.  Feel better?  Speaking of baskets and Christmas, how many of you asked Santa for this flower makin’ basket in 1987?


OK.  Back to real life.  Something less cute happened within an hour of showering.  I left the condo without my keys (house/car/office) and there was no one available to let me back into the building.  Nick had left at the same time, so I chased after him, down into the city’s underbelly (more specifically: the T station outside our door), hoping to catch him before he boarded the train.

It was like an action movie, but with better accessories and real Boston accents, not Matt Damon ones.

When he reached the turnstile just steps a head of me, and descended down to the platform, I gave up.  And then I said to myself, “I need his keys…” apparently loudly enough to be overheard by the four Massachusetts State Police officers doing random screenings.    Do the State Police have a motto?  If not, it should probably be something about always having a Charlie Card at the ready.  One officer swiped me through the turnstile and encouraged me to run like the wind.  I reached Nick as he was half in the train, and probably scared the daylights out of him.

When I climbed back up the stairs, out of breath, but with Nick’s keys in hand, I was met with cheers… and a playful request for Dunkin’ Donuts.  I thought about offering my smoothie, but I was really hungry.  Nevertheless, thank you, officers!  Your help today almost made me forget about the moving violation I was issued last week… almost.

Don’t you just love how nice everyone is this time of year?

Also On Tap for Today:

Did a stranger help you out today?

Today: Have a happy Monday

Mondays get a bad rap. lundi

In college, we invented Monday Night Club to kick off the week with a little fun and festivity.  In college, I didn’t have adult responsibilities that precluded me from being over-served on a weeknight.  In hindsight, those late nights with good friends may have done more good than I intended.  I came up with some pretty incredible ideas for the week ahead on those bus rides back to campus.

I had medieval French lit at 9 o’clock on Tuesday mornings.  For my final, as Kristine will remember well, I made puppets that resembled figures from an illuminated manuscript.  I sat under my professor’s desk and the puppets acted out some weird play (in French) atop the desk for my bored and boring classmates.  I got an A, so while it was great for my grade point average, it did nothing for my reputation as a normal human.  Then again, most normal humans are not French majors.  I guess it’s all relative.

Speaking of things medieval (if you consider the 19th century “medieval”, which would make you… wrong) and Mondays, the following nursery rhyme (published in 1838) explains why I am so darn good looking:

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

From now on**, instead of grumbling about the week ahead, I will celebrate Mondays as the day I was born… and the day I decided to make French-speaking puppets.

Also On Tap for Today:

  • Unpack a little, repack a lot.
  • Take a bite out of Shark Week 2009, raaaaaaaaaa!
  • Shake it in Zumba will Hilary

Were you born on Wednesday?  Woe is you.  [Not sure what day you were born?  Click here.]  How do you adjust your attitude on Mondays?  Thoughts about puppets?

[Monday’s Child lyrics from (shock!)  www.wikipedia.org]

**Let’s see how long this lasts.

Today: Find out who’ll stop the rain.


It’s been raining, it’s been pouring. And man, has it been boring. And a little creepy. Today I left a meeting and was walking back to the office. I was wearing sandals, much to the concern of a group of construction professionals.

Construction worker 1: Honey, I got a towel. Can I dry off your feet?

Construction workers 2-7: [gaggle erupts in giggles, high fives ensue, stereotypes of the construction work break live to die another day.]

I suppose, given the lack of a proper shoe, my feet were wet. It’s been raining for 19 of the past 23 days. Everything is wet. The other footwear in my closet is probably wet. I don’t even know.

I thought about replying in kind with an offer to shove the aforementioned towel in a place where the sun don’t shine. But on second thought, that place seems to be very much here, so I doubted it would prove any point similar to, Your offer, kind sir, is altogether inappropriate. The weather has succeeded in watering down my snark, and let’s not even talk about my hair.

So I played undisturbed and scurried on. In my haste to escape, I nearly lost a sandal. And then I accidentally hip-checked an old man. He looked up, smiling (did I imagine this, or was he impervious to the rain?). “Good morning, miss,” he said. And I felt suddenly sunny.  Incidentally, when I was younger, I thought the lyrics were “And I wonder, still I wonder, who’s Doctor Strraaaange.”  Can’t win ’em all.

Also On Tap For Today:

  • Reschedule MFA visit with my mentee for a sunnier day
  • Read NYT article about running and sleep

How are you, fellow Northeasters, coping with the weather? Did you get one of these yet? Would you ever let a stranger dry your feet?