Family Intervention at IKEA

- Find out what time they open on any day but Saturday or Sunday
- Check stock availability on line before going to the store
- Bring a canteen and compass
- Leave word with a love one when you expected to return
Mutha's got eyes in the back of her head. Go to "Tell Me A Story, Mutha" for fiction.

I have been gone a while -- from the blogshere that is. This has been for several reasons:
Having grown up with five brothers, I had a rocky road into figuring out how female relationships worked. The communication was the toughest part. I found growing up that men pretty much said what was on their minds, while women used all sorts of complicated double meanings, kooky eye contact that changed the meaning entirely, and switcheroos -- in which you thought you were going to discuss one thing, only to end up talking about another.


On this Saint Patrick's Day, I am reminded of my connections to the fair isle. Having not yet made it to Ireland myself, I rely on my mother's connection to the place and a few friends who grew up there. And then there is the fact that I live in Massachusetts, which somehow makes you Irish-by-association. But with all those factors considered, my very favorite story about Ireland involves my friend Kerry and a ditzy Irish-wanna-be girl.
Kerry was raised in Ireland and came over to Boston during the big wave of visa-waving young adults who fled their homeland in the mid-80's. He has since come to own several very successful Irish bars -- and looks as if he had to brawl for every single dollar. Kerry is not tall, but is strong, has jet black hair, ice-blue eyes, a nose that's cleary been broken several times, and a scar that runs the length of his cheek. Let's just say -- from the look of him, you'd never try and stiff him on a tab. But the other thing to know about him is he's a big mush when it comes to his wife, kids, and friends -- and that he has a very quick wit that waits for no one.
Once at a party I was standing beside him when a ditzy, chatty woman started talking to Kerry simply because he had a brogue. Kerry has pointed out to me before that a brogue helps if you're running a bar in Boston, but everywhere else it can be a pain in the ass because, as he said, "You're either seen as the ambassador to Air Lingus or people are after your Lucky Charms." Plus, in this case, we were kinda drunk. And so, when this woman approached him grinning from ear to ear opening the conversation with a too-excited, "Are you from Ireland??" Kevin just sighed and nodded.
"Ohhhhh I love Ireland," she gushed. "We went last year and I just loved everything about it! The landscape is so beautiful and the people are so friendly! I want to live there!" and then finally stopped and took a breath, gazing at Kerry dreamily and then wondered aloud, "Why would you ever leave?"
Kerry took a deep drink of his beer, leaned forward, looked the ditzy chick in the eye and said in his deepest brogue, "Because it fookin sooks."
Yes, the moral of my story is that Ireland sucks. Kerry's message to us all is that he could have stayed in Ireland and been a "fookin bootcha" as his butcher-father and grandfather before him -- or he could have got the hell out and been rich in America.
Somewhere along the way he learned how to pour a great pint of Guinness and what else do you want on this day of pride in one's heritage? God bless and may you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you're dead.
I make it a habit to ask people about their favorite birthdays and also their favorite birthday cake. My husband's was from childhood and featured plastic depictions of the Beatles. How cool is that? Drum set and all.
cake. For those of you who have never seen such a thing -- it involves placing a Barbie in the middle of a dome cake and then icing it to look like her ballgown skirt. When I asked my mom to make me one (Barbie cakes were not available in bakeries back in the day -- although I am told that now they are) she told me, "No way." My mom was really not the baking type -- and she also thought it was a little gross to stick a doll in a cake.
I have stumbled upon a surprisingly interesting book, The Botany of Desire which explores our relationship to plants. It asserts the uncommon question: Do plants exert an influence of humans rather than humans only exerting their will over plants?
I heard a story on the radio recently about an effort to establish a law in Massachusetts regarding the abuse of 9*1*1. In short, it will be against the law to harass a 9*1*1 operator.
I have been thinking a lot about graffiti and I've found some company in it. The novel The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem, the film Bomb the System, and the television documentary NY 77 all explore the practice and the meaning of painting or writing on the property of others.

I just read Joyce Maynard's book At Home In the World, an account of her life and her infamous year in the company of J D Salinger. I am a great fan of Salinger's work and came to Maynard's book cautiously. After all, what good can be said about an affair between a man in his fifties and an 18 year-old girl? At the very least it isn't a fair fight (girl who thinks she is grown up meets man who is) -- at its worst, all definitions of adult aside, it could be a hell of a lot more sinister. Certainly, there is the "It was the style at the time" argument, pointing to the example of the Mia Farrow/Frank Sinatra relationship (made even a little bit stranger by the fact that Farrow looked like a 15 year old BOY -- Jeez Frank). But anything involving Salinger is different because of his complete retreat from public life. To become involved with him means cutting oneself off from a lot of the outside world -- which interestingly enough Maynard seemed all too happy to do. The story goes that she was a strongly hyped young writer, which included her picture on the cover of the New York Times Magazine and book deals galore -- all bagged in her freshman year at Yale. But she was very unhappy in school, more than a little freaked out by her sudden fame, and with no useful input from her parents Maynard hightailed it up to New Hampshire at Salinger's invitation and disappeared into his world.
heard, his relationship with Mia Farrow was unconventional to say the least, but even in that context, his decision to make Farrow's daughter his lover and then wife is very creepy. I have loved Allen's films, but I must admit I have gone to see very little of his work since that story broke. Why? I think he really baffled me in a way I find hard to shake when I see his work. Is it because his movies seem so autobiographical? Is it because Allen so often turns to the camera in order to have an intimate conversation with the viewer that I feel compelled to yell back, "Yuck! What the hell have you been thinking, you kook?!"
I have vivid memories of being told that I had to get ready for bed early in order to be allowed to stay up and watch The Brady Bunch followed by The Partridge Family. To say I loved these shows would be an understatement. I was simply devoted to them. In fact, I spent a lot of non-viewing time thinking about the characters and making up scenarios for them. These scenarios would sometimes bleed characters from one show to the other -- which of course really did happen occasionally (i.e. Sonny and Cher on "Scooby Do") -- but as my overly-intense-emotional-self tended to lean, I made the characters far too involved in one an
other's lives.
ce on Family Affair when he keeled over from a heart attack. Because even at 7 years old, I could sense that Buffy and Jody's dad was simply not going to remarry. Alcoholism? Rage issues? I am not sure, but there was something wrong over there. Which is why I was not surprised when I overheard the grown-ups talking about how Buffy and/or Jody and/or the teen aged sister ended up flipping out on acid in real life. Meanwhile, Mrs. Livingston could have saved the day with her soothing Japanese ways.
The Artist Formerly Known as Merely Kooky has finally gone off the deep end. Not content with simply turning his name into an unpronounceable symbol, he shaved the word "slave" into his facial hair -- all in the name of getting out of his record contract. Well now it seems that none of that is enough. No. Now he hates his fa
ns. And not in that general funk "stop looking at me because I hate myself" kind of thing that Kurt Cobain had going. Prince is SUING his fans -- trying to get them to stop posting about him, and even making photos of their own Prince-tribute tattoos public.
According to the Prince fan site prince.org, they have been sent a "DMCA takedown notice and at least two Cease and Desist letters from attorneys representing Prince. Their demands for removing content and mandating how we would refer to Prince, if obliged, would essentially mean the end of any discussion of Prince-related topics, hosting of images (even of people\'s symbol tattoos!) and more. We at prince.org will not stand for this, and have joined forces with the other affected sites to tell our side of the story and stand up to what are, in our opinion, bullying tactics designed to silence freedom of speech."
So! Let's go to the fans' new hangout. Come on Prince -- you can come too! Oh...and one more picture...


women from many of the pitfalls of clothes shopping. If I dared to go clothes shopping while suffering from the Uglies I would end up feeling pissier about my hunchback or freakishly broad shoulders or my breasts that are either too large, too small, or too saggy (depending on the garment being tried on). This simply does not happen with shoes. They either fit or they don't fit and if they don't it is not because of my foot being somehow unacceptable -- it is because of some flaw in the shoe. When a shoe is too tight I do not think, "Shit, my toes are fat." No. I think, "They've got no business labeling this an 8 1/2!"


I attended a meeting recently
in which the name of a person who had died was mentioned. Without missing a beat the woman beside me and I both murmured, "God rest his soul." We then looked at each other, surprised.

To anyone who has been following the story of Mac, Ellen and Charlie -- there is a whole 'lot more posted as of today at http://tellmeastorymutha.blogspot.com/. Scroll back to get to the beginning -- and thanks for giving a damn.
Now that the Red Sox have won their division title, Red Sox Nation is off to another post season. It makes me think of the historic 2004 season, of course -- but also of a conversation that happened two years before that between a fellow die-hard Sox fan, a psychic, and me. My younger son wants to be a Cub Scout
.


Here is a story I have been told...and I have told it is true.
A young woman was hired to watch a house for a family while they traveled, which included checking in on the family's dog. Unfortunately, the woman found the dog dead. She called the family's vet who told her to bring him the dog. Without a car of her own (and no cab money?) the woman decided she had to take a public bus to the vet's office. But -- how could she transport the dog in a way that would not cause a disruption? The woman decided upon a suitcase. Now on the bus, the woman was approached by a man who volunteered to help her carry the suitcase once her stop arrived. The woman agreed. Much to her horror, when she stood for her stop, the man punched her in the face and ran off the bus with the suitcase. So...I've got some questions for you to consider: Is this a theft she must report? How much could you get for a dead dog at a pawn shop? Would it make everyone happier if she told the family that she buried the dog?
Fascinating creatures -- men. I have had my eye on them for some time. And it has been my pleasure to read three books recently that depict men who are interesting, complex, soulful, and genuine -- in other words, real.

After a long absence (in which I may or may not have been battling the forces of a certain blond hate-bomb), I have the audacity to break my silence only to ask a favor. Hold on though...it is for the sake of art...and I promise it doesn't involve 'N Sync (pictured here, sorry).I need a joke for a story I am writing.
I want it to be told by one guy in his 30's to his two friends (one guy in his 30's, another in his 50's). These guys are all white, have worked as laborers together for a long time, all born in Massachusetts. And I don't care if it is dirty...just so it is funny. PLEASE and thank you.
All I can say in my defense is that she started it.When asked to describe his performance in a recent rough start against the Yankees, Curt Schilling -- a man never found speechless -- selected the word "Craptastic."
Or I use variations on Yiddish: Instead of trying to describe an unidentified bunch of glop, I might say, "What is all this shmutz?"

Growing up in a house full of brothers, I understood how to hang with boys and men from a young age. I tended to be shy around girls and women because I had a hard time following their cues. They seemed to talk in code, every word and look having a double meaning. When I was with my brothers and their friends I understood that when you thought you were being insulted you probably were -- but unless their was a harsh tone to go along with it, the insult was meant as a ribbing, a way to feel part of the group. In the company of girls I felt the opposite was true -- if you thought you were being paid a compliment, chances were somebody either wanted something from you or was actually insulting you through the backdoor. I found it spooky and so I kept my mouth shut and prayed no one would notice me.