Posts Tagged ‘Marblehead’

35 degrees.   School vacation week.  About an hour before naps.

Go nuts, my little men.  Go nuts.

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You? Ick.

Hey You.

Yes, You.  You, the woman in the big ole’ white Mercedes Benz.

You.  The one that refused to move aside on the street today when I clearly had the right of way on that narrow, old town street meant for horses to pass alongside one another…not my SUV and your Benz.

Yes, You.  You, who saw that big old pick-up truck parked on your side of the street.  You who chose to speed up towards me instead of moving aside behind the truck so I could pass first.

Just so you know.  I know you now.  Because, I saw your vanity plate pass by as I was forced to barrel my Jeep onto a sidewalk, narrowly missing a mailbox.

It’s a memorable plate, lady.  You probably meant it that way.

But, I’ll tell you what “WKG MOM” in your giant Mercedes Benz.    I know one thing.  Even without your poor driver etiquette.

Yup, I know one thing for sure.  Call me crazy, but it’s just a hunch I have.  You and I, Miss WKG MOM?   Nope.

I wouldn’t have liked you, anyway.

I live in a small town and recognize that this is a somewhat risky post.  I’m irritated enough at the moment not to care.  But, if the post disappears sometime, you know why.

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I had lunch yesterday with a girlfriend of mine.  One of those friends with whom I can discuss anything, say anything, do anything.  We lived together in Boston once upon a time and, while our other two roommates were off at their own jobs, she and I spent all day long in pajamas, playing hooky from work, watching ridiculous television, eating like pigs, laying around like sloths and laughing….our…asses…off.   She does that to me.   Every so often she makes me belly laugh so hard that I can’t breathe.  Isn’t that the best feeling?   We all need more friends like that.

Anyway, the point is, we can talk without any screening.  Which makes me somewhat hopeful that I wouldn’t actually have the following conversation with anyone else.

Me:   So, how’s she doing?
Friend:  Oh, terrible.  She’s so lazy.  I don’t even know if she has a job.   She has no motivation.  Living with her parents.  It’s pretty bad.
Me:   Oooh, do you think she’s ON DRUGS?

I mean, really.  It was barely out of my mouth before I realized how I sounded.  OLD.  O-l-d, OLD.  Christ.  It rattled me.

I think I need to get out of my Mommy cocoon, score a joint somewhere and collect myself.

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‘Twas Christmas Walk weekend and in old Marblehead

There was Santa by boat, there was Gingerbread
The town was a twinkle with white lights galore
Trees on the roof racks and wreaths on each door
But that Saturday night there was more don’t you know
We looked forward to a party Chez Matt and Chez Mo
7:30 the start time but we called the sitter that night
“Can you come a little early, so we can grab a bite?”
At just about 7 we sat down at the bar
The Barnacle, our choice — from the party, not far.
He ordered a vodka with olives, you see
So I stepped up to the plate with an appletini
Then a second, which was clearly my downfall, I fear
I should have known better. Husband ordered a beer.
An old sot named Victor had us chatting, its true
But I wish Vic had told me “Dear, the drunk here is you.”
So then off we went, down the street just a spill
Where I presented my cheese platter, then it all went downhill
“Chardonnay? Oh, yes, please. Oh yes, sure, another?
I know you from t-ball? Isn’t that guy your brother?”
“Have you met my husband? He’s a big Yankees fan.
Do you think that Tiger is a really good man?
What’s your opinion on health care? Oh, what did you say?
I’ll just stir up the pot and then saunter away.”
“Have you seen my husband? He was just here, I think.
Oh well, I can’t find him, wanna go get a drink?”
Well, he found me, thank goodness, not a moment too soon
And brought me directly to the food table room
Where I made an attempt at some crudite
Or some crackers, whatever, I just couldn’t say
But then talking and walking it seemed was a struggle
So I leaned in and listened when Husband said with a snuggle.
“Party’s over, I think. Honey, don’t you agree?
It’s time to head home to two seventy-three.”
I briefly protested but then acquiesced.
“Let’s go,” he said firmly, “You’re a bit of a mess.”
So, please let me say sorry to my host and hostess
For ducking out quickly, no doubt for the best
The party was fabulous, from what I recall
Good food and good friends, the event had it all.
And I am so sorry that I couldn’t attend.
And hope you’ll invite me, when you do it again.

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One of our carpenters showed up yesterday in a pink Vineyard Vines polo shirt. Young guy, cute smile. Hmmmmm.
Welp, time to go make chicken nuggets, change a poopy diaper and, maybe even, actually find time to wash my hair. Ah, reality.

(photo is courtesy of Vineyard Vines website and NOT stealthy, stalker photography by me)

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I’ve spent the last four and a half years on a whirlwind tour of New England residency. Left Marblehead (and a full time job as an event planner at a big corporation) in July of 2005 for Vermont. “Threw it all away” with my husband and new baby in favor of “the country life.” And we did it to the letter — I even managed a small inn that was the epicenter of the quintessential New England town where I grew up. Across from the general store, down the Village Green from the post office. My husband left a successful Cleaning Services sales job in favor of insurance sales for a small agency owned by a close family friend. We loved it. Our son (then 6 months old) thrived. He spent two days a week at daycare, two days a week with my mother and since I worked Tues – Saturday he spent one day just with Mom, one day just with Dad and Sundays were VT-freakin’ perfect. Wide open spaces, pig roasts, a commute past more cows than cars. We loved it there. We also struggled to make ends meet although we both held “real jobs” full-time. We struggled to find our place between the extreme haves (multi-millionaire 2nd home trust fund beneficiaries) and the extreme have-nots who, really, are what I believe make Vermont such a fabulously special little state.

After two years of making mortgage payments but neglecting any savings whatsoever and, therefore, NOT having the second child we both wanted….we bailed.  Husband got a flattering job offer in Manhattan — back in Cleaning Services sales where he would undoubtedly flourish. And flourish enough that I could be a stay at home Mom and we could have that baby. We moved to Connecticut. You know the rest. Had the second baby and all was good. However, the CT to Times Square commute was somewhat rough but he did it chin up. Pregnant when we arrived and then a shut in with a late October baby for 6 months after that, I struggled to make friends. Finally signed up to be a room parent at my older son’s pre-school and slowly (like about 18 months slowly) began to find my place. A few new girlfriends that could make me laugh (still not like my best girlfriends but I took it happily), all was ok. Sunny days.
And then…the offer. Open an office in Boston. We believe in you. Go. Was I up for it, he said? Move again? Third time in four years? Can we do it? “If you can land me right back in Marblehead. Marblehead – home to two of my bridesmaids. Home to three of the only six women I turned to when my Dad had a heart attack, when my Mom had a brain aneurysm, when I thought my unborn Little Brother had Down’s. If you can land me back with THOSE women..hell, yes. Move me again. I can do it.”

And, I’m so glad we did. Let me preface my upcoming b*tchfest with how I know it was the right move. I live in a beautiful town, with built-in friends and I am meeting more wonderful, smart, funny women each day. They (usually) have interesting husbands, happy sweet kids and I know that my life is enviable.
But, I admit, lately I wish he was home more. Working his tail off, some late nights, Blackberry buzzing when he’s home. Out the door at 5:15 am, sometimes home after Little Brother goes to bed. And, now, because he’s announced he needs to go in on Saturday all day and maybe some of Sunday (and he does need to, no doubt), I reply by saying that I will, therefore, try to go home to my parents in Vermont for the weekend. He’s hurt. “But, I’ll be around some of the time. And, I haven’t seen you and the guys all week. What about Saturday from, like, 3 pm on? And probably most of the day Sunday? You won’t really go, will you?”
But, I will. And, as I tell him, not to be spiteful or mean or insensitive to the fact that he’s working like a dog. But, because I simply can’t face another full day of single parenting (because let’s face it 5 am – 3 pm is a full day) and then a second day during which we rush around trying to do a errands and then the Giants are on (stop, world) until 4 pm and then it’s time for kids dinner, baths, bed, our dinner and the weekend is over. Where did this weekend differ from my week? And, it’s been a long Mommy week. So, country roads, take me home. To the place where my Mom and the ultimate “it takes a village” township will wrap my wild boys and me in their arms and ease. the. mommy. monotony.
Wah, wah, wah.
I see the other side. I do. He clearly doesn’t enjoy having to work, being away from us, bearing all the pressure as the sole bread winner. He truly likes his job but it’s a lot at the moment. And now his family, who he does it all for, is ditching him for the weekend. Sucky at best.
I’m an only child and, apparently, not very good at sharing my husband. Even if it’s sharing him with his employer – the employer who ultimately brought me back to this town, keeps my kids in their Crocs and who is the first in a long time that I think really gets that he’s good. Very good.
I’m proud of him. We’re all proud of him. But, this weekend I’m pretty sure we’ll all be proud of him from roughly 180 miles north west.

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