SantaCon is a not-for-profit that collects non-perishable [...]]]> So it turns out yesterday was SantaCon.  It seems that Rocco and I were the only two people on earth (or at least the tri-state area) unawares of that fact.  Just in case there are a few of you who also live under rocks, I’ll break it down for you.

SantaCon is a not-for-profit that collects non-perishable food items for the NYC Food Bank.  Every year a whole mess o’ drunks (my people!) assemble at various meeting points (with cans o’ food) while all decked out in their holiday finest, then traipse all over the city.  These people take their “bringing of Christmas cheer” very seriously:

Santa looks like Santa. HOLIDAY APPAREL IS MANDATORY. A Santa hat is not enough. Get a Santa suit. Buy a Santa suit. Make a Santa suit. Steal a Santa suit. Get creative: be a Secret Santa, a Santasaurus, Candy-cane, a Reindeer, a Chanukah Chicken, a goddamn latke, Stewardess Santa, Knight Rider Santa, Crusty Peace Punk Santa, the occasional Legless Reindeer, Chanukah Squirrel, Emo-Elf, or the Santichrist.
Just don’t wear your fucking jeans.

One of the meeting places was Pier A in Hoboken.  So while he thought it was just any other day at the salt mines, Rocco quickly figured out strange things were afoot when his train car suddenly filled with fifty odd Santa inspired costumes.  I got the details when he called from Manhattan.  To get you in the holiday mood, here’s a few of the highlights he shared with me:

• Once the doors slid closed, one of the Santas shouted, “Are there any kids on here?”  After he was answered with a chorus of nos, he whipped open his book bag and started handing out Bud Light.
• Beer Santa offered his stocking stuffers to a couple of girls.  After they declined, Rocco heard one girl’s whispered confession to the other girl.  “I don’t think I want beer.  It just seems awfully early to start mixing and I’ve already had A LOT of Bailey’s.”
• A female elf said to a male Secret Service Elf, “There is absolutely no reason to offer blow jobs to strangers on the PATH train.”
• Rocco was sitting next to a huge guy wearing a Yankees jacket.  Other Drunk Santa poked the guy and said, “Santa’s a Phillie’s fan.”  Down the car Mrs. Other Drunk Santa screamed, “But his wife loves the Yankees.”

I think I’m going to get started on next year’s costume NOW!

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You see, Rocco kind of likes [...]]]> I don’t know if you’ve heard, but apparently there’s some sort of brouhaha about baseball these days.  Rocco is spending hours in front of the TV and computer clapping maniacally and texting his fellow Yankee minions – even more than usual.  It’s really cutting into my NCIS time I tell ya.

You see, Rocco kind of likes baseball…just a little bit…like I kind of like Twilight…except his crush on Jorge far predates my obsession with Edward and runs far deeper.  I suspect if I whipped him up a pair of Jorge panties he’d wear them to bed.

His favorite shirt (other than his #20 jersey) is one that reads “I support two teams -the Yankees and whoever beats the Red Sox.”  He’s made it his own personal quest to torment the Boston fans he works with.  This isn’t a new phenomenon, he’s just got a bit more to gloat about this year…or so I’m told because I damn sure haven’t watched a single inning this season.

Our friend Sandy gets the worst of it.  I think Rocco texts her at least twenty times each game with snarky insults to her beloved Sox.  I like Sandy a whole lot, but she does sort of have it coming to her.  I could care less about baseball, but I’m more likely to vote Republican than say a single nice thing about the most sinister place on earth.  Seriously, pick a different team.

Sandy and Rocco have a wager each and every year over which team will make it to the…finals…or whatever the hell are they called.  Maybe it’s the playoffs.  I think there’s something about a series in there.  Then again, maybe it’s as simple as which team won more games at the end of the season.  Hell, I’ll ask Rocco when he gets home.  Look, all you really need to know for the sake of this story is that if the Yankees are still playing baseball in November, Sandy has to pay Rocco $100 and vice versa.  Stop badgering me to use the right terminology.  Don’t make me pull out the cancer card, damnit!

Last year Rocco lost the bet.  Ever the good sport, he happily paid Sandy her $100…via an envelope packed with crisp one dollar bills.  I should point out that if I told you Sandy’s full name, you’d never believe she wasn’t a stripper; the name is just too good.  People (and not just me!) tease her about her name, so she was a bit self conscious whipping out that big envelope of ones while buying coffee with her fellow stage hands.  Rocco laughed for weeks over his own wittiness.

Rocco won the wager this year.  He told me he was meeting Sandy between shows to collect his money and have dinner.  I started plotting ways to spend our windfall (sarcasm, as if you had any doubts).

He gave me a call later that evening while the hippies were putting back on their clothes during the intermission.  “How was Sandy?” I asked making small talk.  “What’s the haul after you treated her to dinner and hit the Yankees store for playoff paraphernalia?”

“I didn’t use any of that money for dinner or the Yankees store,” he answered.

“Why not?” I asked curious.  “I thought you had a system.”

She ‘forgot’ the money at the theater.  I walked her back after we ate to pick it up.  I can see why she didn’t want to carry it.”

“I’m lost.”

“She had to one-up me and paid me with rolls of dollar coins.”  I could hear him grinning.  “They’re heavy as hell.”

“I heart Sandy!  I want to be her when I grow up!  Well, except for the stripper name thing.”

Seriously, I don’t see this ending well.  By the time Rocco turns 40 he’s going to have a hernia from carrying $100 worth of pennies.

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Me:  Did you eat a bunch of shit at the game?

Rocco:  Nope.  I had a cheese steak…oh, and a cheese burger…and many beers.

Me:  That sounds like a bunch of shit to me.

Rocco:  But I didn’t eat any garlic fries.

Five years ago today I tricked that poor hapless bastard into marrying me.

We beat cancer together.  He worked at least as hard as I did – probably more so.  He arranged baby-sitters, missed gobs of work, and even gave up his ticket to see the last ever game at the old Yankee Stadium.  [...]]]>

The Big Day

Five years ago today I tricked that poor hapless bastard into marrying me.

We beat cancer together.  He worked at least as hard as I did – probably more so.  He arranged baby-sitters, missed gobs of work, and even gave up his ticket to see the last ever game at the old Yankee Stadium.  With infinite patience, he reheat the same bowl of chicken noodle soup over and over again in the hopes I would eat a little bit more.  (Later I also learned he was melting entire sticks of butter in said soup to sneak me more calories.  I still have my doubts about that approach.)

I never walked into chemo alone.  He kept detailed notes on each visit.  He sent regular updates to friends and family and fielded all the tough phone calls.  He cried, screamed, bargained, and battled right beside me.  He shaved my head and held my hand as I sobbed in the bathtub.  He mixed my Gatorade and carried my hospital bag.  He fastened my bra when my fingers stopped working.  He comforted me and loved me.

We’ve celebrated ten birthdays, set off the fire alarm nine times, purchased eight power tools, survived seven rounds of chemo, sang six rounds of “Blood on the Saddle”, submitted offers on five houses in Maplewood, traveled to four different continents, watched three Olympic opening ceremonies, lived through two surgeries, and navigated one kitchen remodel.  Every single one of those things was easier, better, and more meaningful because we did them together.

He always sits patiently while I watch my American Idol – though he won’t admit he thought Adam Lambert was brilliant, too.  He cries at sappy commercials.  He finds me a cop show every night so I can fall asleep.  He makes me laugh.  He loves my family.

Thanks for not letting me die, bubs.  Thanks for loving me.  Thanks for five fan-frickin-tastic years.  Here’s to another fifty more.

I’m so lucky he loves me…almost as much as I love him, the poor hapless bastard.

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Here’s an uncommon economic indicator for you – loads of people doing yard work on a Tuesday morning.  It seemed [...]]]> While in Toledo, I decided to take my booty out for a jog before we spent another five hours in the car.  I strapped on my swift scoots, grabbed Rocco’s ball cap and bounded onto the sidewalk.

Here’s an uncommon economic indicator for you – loads of people doing yard work on a Tuesday morning.  It seemed like no one was off working.  I can’t even begin to count how many vacant store fronts we passed.  Every block had at least one bank-owned home for sale.  It seems the ripples of Detroit’s economic troubles have reached Toledo.

Anyway, as I cruised through the neighborhood, dodging Redwing garden ornaments I was surprised by how many Duke fans were in Toledo.  It seemed every other porch had a flag with the swooping gothic “D” that I’d seen so often back in North Carolina.

People sure weren’t as friendly as back in NC, though.  I took all the scowling and glowering to be the by-product of unhappy unemployed-ness.  I threw back an ear to ear grin at each person I passed.  As blocks went by, I started to notice the negativity was strongest from the men I passed.

Eventually I turned around and headed back to Todd and Meg’s place.  I ended up recovering some ground I’d already walked through that morning.  The house, and the truck in front of it, were covered with sporting paraphernalia.  As I neared the truck, I heard a screen door slam.

“Hey!” the owner called out, “Get off of my property!”

“Um, morning!” I sang in response.

“Morning my ass.  I SEE your HAT.”

I just assumed I was wearing my normal plain black ball cap with a little tiny Columbia Records logo on the back.  I certainly wasn’t aware of any cultures the little walking eye would offend.  I tripped a little from the brain exertion.  If I’d been trying to chew gum with all that multi-tasking, I surely would have nose planted into the angry man’s lawn.

“Go TIGERS!”

Oh yeah.  I’m wearing Rocco’s hat.  The one with a big bright Yankees logo on the front.  Maybe, just maybe, that big ‘ol gothic “D” I kept seeing was for those Detroit Tigers he alluded so subtly to, eh?

Chemosabe strikes again.

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As part of my plan to keep Rocco relatively happy while surrounded by the Magnificent Cluckers (Uncle Chuck’s name for the women of the Middleton clan), we scheduled two baseball outings.  The first was an afternoon game at historic Wrigley field.  Poor naive Rocco thought that organizing a trip to a baseball stadium would [...]]]>

Rocco's Weiner

As part of my plan to keep Rocco relatively happy while surrounded by the Magnificent Cluckers (Uncle Chuck’s name for the women of the Middleton clan), we scheduled two baseball outings.  The first was an afternoon game at historic Wrigley field.  Poor naive Rocco thought that organizing a trip to a baseball stadium would be a good way to interact with the men in the family.  Nope, not in this matriarchy.  The men were outnumbered three to one…and that’s if you count Thom who only went to fill a last minute female cancellation.  So we’ll just say that out of the 12 seats, 2.5 were men.  The Cubs beat the Astros twelve to  zip so there’s not a whole lot of story on that game.

The next evening we headed to U.S. Cellular Field to support the Yankees against the White Sox.  Pegger the Kegger and Pops had originally planned to join us, but after dragging their bodies around on swollen knees all day, they opted to hop a train back to Wheaton and rest before the big reunion.  My Uncle John swooped in to save the day and agreed to use one of the tickets.  We dropped the rents off at the train station and picked up Uncle John.

Uncle John is magic.  When we were young, I used to think of him as the Jolly Green Giant.  He was, by far, the tallest person I’d ever known…which made him rather intimidating.  When he’d lean over to talk to you, it seemed like days would pass before his head actually made it down to your level.  It was as though he moved in slow motion with huge expansive and deliberate movements.  Then his slow measured voice would boom out as his wide eyes probed my face.  “What’s new, Elly Lou?” he’d ask as his eyebrows climbed towards his hairline slower than a caterpillar on a leaf.

It would take a few moments to squash my awe and mumble a response.  Then the eyebrows would roll back down his forehead and his eyes would slowly crinkle, as though they were camper awnings that tiny men cranked closed behind the scenes.  Slowly but surely, the widest, most genuine smile the world has ever known would fill his face and lift his glasses up and over his eyebrows.  Absolute magic.

I love Mom and Dad, but I was thrilled for the last minute switcheroo.  He navigated us through the rush hour traffic and got us to the field in time for batting practice.  We parked the van and Uncle John waited patiently as Rocco changed into his Yankee regalia.

“You’re a brave man, Rocco,” was all he said as we traipsed through the parking lot full of tailgaters.

As the hoopla began, Uncle John pulled out his score card and filled out the lineup.  Rocco could hardly hold still from excitement.  Thom left in search of another drink.  I listened with rapt attention as Alice Peacock sang the National Anthem.

Then the ground crew pulled out a giant tarp covered with an Ace Hardware ad.

I don’t go to many games so I was a bit confused.  “Um, is this usual?  Can’t they just put something on the scoreboard for Ace?”

Rocco pretended not to hear my question.  Suddenly the announcer boomed,”Rain will arrive at the stadium in approximately ten minutes.  Then it will rain for approximately thirty minutes, after which we will start the game.”

I couldn’t make up my mind.  Was I awe struck and completely creeped out by the detail these people had divined about the weather?  Did they have some super spidey sense we mere mortals did not?  Did they already know from where Angelina was going to adopt her next baby?  Were they implanting their plans for world domination into my unsuspecting mind as I innocently drank my beer?

On the other hand, what if they were wrong?  How could there be a rain delay when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky?  Ok, exaggeration, but it was definitely not raining.  It wasn’t even spitting.  I saw no reason to drag that baseball shit out any longer than it needed to be.

No complaints from Uncle John, though.  Only the softly spoken comment, “The Cubs would play.”

Well it did rain after ten minutes.  And the rain lasted about thirty minutes.  So clearly the Sox people have super powers and I should be hyper vigilant and watch for any insatiable cravings for human flesh.

The first seven innings were boring as hell.  Uncle John tried to explain his score card technique to me.  It seems he’s not a fan of the traditional symbols and codes for tracking the game.  He’s got his own system of markings that works just fine.  I can totally dig that because it all just looks like gobbledygook to me.

Suddenly the White Sox got a run.  Not good.  Rocco loves his Yankees and their performance generally has a great influence on his mood.  So I ran off to find him some dinner and ward off the potential crab fest.

Holy God did I find him the mother of all hot dogs.  I’ve never seen anything like it, and I hope to never smell anything like it again.  Before that day, I could have never envisioned a $10 hot dog.  Today I know exactly what one looks like – disgusting.

First, they started with a foot long dog in a foot long bun.  Then they laid two kosher dill pickles end to end beside the boiled tube of meat.  Heaped atop of this base went mustard, onions, relish, tomatoes, and hot peppers.  I’ve had salads with less produce.  (Actually I expect to have a few more of those produce-free salads in Ohio this week.)  Rocco had one word to describe the dog – glorious.  I’m assured it was $10 well spent.

The Yankees actually started to play and tied the game up in the ninth inning.  I must admit, even I was sucked into the energy of the crowd at that point.  I turned to Uncle John who had completely abandoned his score card and was standing with the rest of the crowd.

“Who do you want to win?” I asked.

“I really don’t care, Elly Lou,” he answered calmly.  He pursed his lips before continuing.  “I intensely despise both teams.  I think George Steinbrener is a despicable human being.”

All was spoken in his casual but deliberate and measured voice.  I couldn’t help but giggle.

“I just like being with groups of young people.  I like your passion and energy.  I’m getting younger every moment I spend with you all.

The Yankees ended up losing, but even Rocco had to concede the game had still been fun…magical even.

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Another beautiful day in Hoboken – in fact I think we reached a record high.  Sadly, my energy did not match the day.  I could have easily laid in bed watching Lifetime made-for-tv movies and drooling all day.  But seeing as the day was destined to be gorgeous, and my days of making out [...]]]>

Sunny Hoboken

Another beautiful day in Hoboken – in fact I think we reached a record high.  Sadly, my energy did not match the day.  I could have easily laid in bed watching Lifetime made-for-tv movies and drooling all day.  But seeing as the day was destined to be gorgeous, and my days of making out with Hoboken are somewhat limited, I put on a bra, gathered my park paraphernalia and hit the streets.

After a mere four blocks I realized my booty would not be trekking all the way down town to Pier A – our big spread of green out over the always April fresh Hudson river.  I decided instead to hanker down at Elysian Field – where the very first game ever of baseball was played.  If those players had been there today I would have done something to disrupt the forming of America’s favorite sport.  Actually, I don’t have a problem with baseball per se.  In fact I tried really hard to like baseball when Rocco and I first started dating.  I have a problem with 742 Yankee games a year.  And the the 742 Mets games (though I suppose there’s a few overlaps there).  Nothing is that good.  NOTHING.  I don’t even want to watch Twilight 742 times in a single year.  Well…that may be stretching it.

While there was a couple playing catch near the little tuft of grass I staked out for myself, there was no batting nor organized game that I could see.  I put in the headphones, whipped out the sketchpad, and proceeded to enjoy the weather.  Before long, a random purple strap with black plastic buckles slid across my blanket and I was engulfed in a cloud of patchouli.  I looked up as this birkenstock wearing dude walked away from me and towards the nearest tree – dragging his pile of purple straps behind him.

I’ve seen some pretty interesting things hanging in the park over the past few years.  As I was developing a wicked crick in my neck from laying on my stomach while trying to sketch, I decided to flip over and arrange myself to see the show.  I’d even brought snacks!

While I got situated, so did Patchouli Dude and his Slightly Less Zen buddy.  Patchouli Dude was clearly the man with the plan and I suspect Slightly Less Zen followed him around with cartoon hearts in his eyes on a regular basis.  Patchouli Dude wrapped the purple strap around one tree and tightened the buckles as tight as possible.  Slightly Less Zen wrapped his strap to the other tree and they somehow hooked everything together.  Then the both of them (with much grunting and what appeared to be interpretive dance) managed to pull the strap between the trees taught.  When they were done (and giggling a little madly), the strap hung about waist high.  Slightly Less Zen sat on the strap, and slowly eased his feet off the ground.  When supporting his entire body weight, the strap was still six to ten inches off the ground.  He looked at Patchouli Dude imploringly and adoringly.  Patchouli Dude nodded and kicked of his birkenstocks.

A small crowd was starting to gather, but I had the sweetest seat by far.  Patchouli Dude went first.  He placed a naked foot on the buckle, right up against the tree trunk, then catapulted himself up onto the strap.  Slightly Less Zen actually squealed and clapped his hands feverishly while hopping up and down just a foot away.  Patchouli Dude started slowly walking across the strap towards the other tree.

Yes.  Tightrope walking.  Practicing in the park.  I can honestly say I’ve never met a tight rope walker before.  An aerialist, a glass blower, a lion tamer even, but never a tight rope walker.

Patchouli Dude made it probably five feet before falling off.  I thought Slightly Less Zen might lose consciousness from hyperventilating.  “Oh my god – MY GAWD!!!” he kept panting.  Patchouli Dude ate that shit up.  He’d smile shyly while putting up his hand in that “no really, I am just a simple man” kind of way that politicians and Brad Pitt use.

He walked back to the tree, put his foot on the buckle, his hand on the trunk, and jumped up again.  This time he talked to Slightly Less Zen as he inched across the strap.  He offered pointers and shared his tricks as Slightly Less Zen mirrored his every move on the grass.  This time he jumped down gracefully at the trunk of the other tree.  I was getting a little nauseous.

Slightly Less Zen decided to have a go.  Slightly Less Zen was also slightly less fit and significantly less coordinated.  He earns at least twenty points in my book for determination and courage, however.  There was no leaping up at the first tree.  There was some scrambling, and some boosting, and some falling, some dusting off, some trying again, and some finally standing on the buckle while clinging to the tree trunk for dear life.  God bless him.  I had of course snarfed on my water from trying to hide my laughter and was sneezing as a result of the beverage in my nose.

Slightly Less Zen managed to turn around so his back was against the trunk and his arms flung behind him in a bizarre embrace.  He reminded me of a chunkier and less buxom figurehead on a ship’s prow.  Slowly he leaned forward, released the tree, and began to inch forward.  Of course he didn’t make it far.  Maybe three whole steps before he was back on the ground.  To his credit, he was impressed with his own accomplishment.  Then immediately went back to fawning over Patchouli Dude.

Patchouli Dude launched himself back onto the strap and resumed his diatribe on the skills and grace that tight rope walkers posses, cataloguing the long list of attributes that made him a particularly gifted tight rope walker.  Yawn.  I’m a little surprised he could balance with a head so ginormous.  This went on for a good thirty minutes.  During that entire time he didn’t give Slightly Less Zen another crack at trying.  I was really rooting for him at this point and wanted to see him kick some Patchouli ass!

Slightly Less Zen made some comment about how great it would be to someday be as talented as Patchouli Dude.  Again with the shy smile and hand wave.  Groan.  Then Patchouli Dude and his gigantic head decided to try some crazy move where he crouched down on one leg with the other one extended straight out in front of him.  Slightly Less Zen of course ooohed and awwwed appropriately.

And then Patchouli Dude lost his balance.

Maybe it was due to the dramatic increase in his head’s circumference.  Maybe it was karma.  Maybe it was a breeze.  Maybe it was because of my silently willing him to fall with my entire being.

There was much weaving, then he toppled and had to place both feet on the ground.  On either side of the strap.  Which then snapped back up with tremendous force into his…

…wait for it…

…groin.

The crowd immediately dissipated as Patchouli Dude pushed the strap away from his balls and Slightly Less Zen rushed to his aid.  After a few moments, Slightly Less Zen sat on the strap and Patchouli Dude managed to raise his leg high enough to step over the strap and get both his legs on the same side.  Patchouli Dude hobbled over to a park bench and sat down while Slightly Less Zen removed the straps from the trees.  I picked back up my sketch pad and tried to look absorbed in my drawing and completely unamused.

After another five minutes or so, the dynamic duo shuffled by my blanket with the purple straps a dragging.  I suspect something else will be purple in the morning.

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