If you don’t have inside jokes with your partner, are you even married?
There’s a term I use often in our house: Blowing Leaves. This is term I coined for Mr. KK, on a Thanksgiving morning about a decade ago (when I first wrote about this). It perfectly describes the different mentalities between moi and the hubs when it comes to “getting ready” for a holiday.
I saw this on social media today, and it inspired me to re-share this post, as it’s one of my favorites.
(remember this was 10 years ago. RIP Vito the Wonder Dog)
It was Thanksgiving morning, I had been up early, halving a million pounds of Brussels sprouts, slicing and baking Ina Garten’s Parmesan crackers, and assembling a veggie tray. There were still quite a few things to be done – not to mention me showering and drying my hair, which could take forever in itself – and with only two hours left, even if we didn’t stop to pee or drink something, we’d be cutting it close.
I was piling raw broccoli onto the glass platter when my husband walked by me dressed in windy pants, wool socks, a flannel coat and a winter hat. He was carrying gloves and headed towards the door to the garage.
“Where are you going?” I asked him. He was clearly dressed for the outdoors.
Was he running out to get something we forgot to buy?
Are the stores even open today?
“I’m going outside to blow leaves. The yard and patio are covered,” he replied, sensing nothing wrong with this answer, while we were T minus 2 hours until our guests arrived. “I should only be a half hour or so.” And with that, he was gone. Minutes later, I heard the blower start up and saw leaves swirling in a million directions as he made his way across the patio. Vito was on his feet immediately, barking at what he thought was a crazy stranger on our property. Because who else would be outside doing yard work on a holiday mere hours before 12 people were coming over?
Only a madman, obviously.
The definition of Blowing Leaves is this: starting a task that bears no relevance whatsoever on the situation at hand, and having said task take up WAY too much time and energy, both of which you do not have.
Maybe your husband’s ‘blowing leaves’ is just onemore quick video game before you’re due at a friend’s wedding. Or maybe it’s trying to fix that leaky pipe under the sink that he needs just 10 minutes for as you’re walking out the door to meet your parents for dinner. Or maybe, he’s scrolling Instagram while you’re multi-tasking like a bad ass.
No matter what the activity, every husband blows leaves.
And that’s why we love them.
May your week be easy, and the leaves stay on the trees.
Before I began writing this blog in 2018, I had two other blogs on a now-defunct hosting platform.
I started my first blog in 2007, while at work. My schedule as a writer was so unpredictable, I would sometimes find myself waiting on art directors to design, supervisors to approve, or clients to give feedback. During those lulls, I would write…about anything and everything. The first time I was ma’amed. The girl at the gym who blew dried her hair wearing only a parka. The time our channels were getting crossed and demonic dialog from X-rated shows would blare from our TV. You know, regular life stuff. I wrote that blog until 2013, about 600 posts in total.
For reasons I can’t remember now, I started a new blog in 2014. This was the year that Little Mister was born, so maybe I wanted to shed my childless leash on life writing for more mature subject matter? This blog had about 200 posts, which took me right up until I bought my domain on WordPress and started THIS blog.
The first blog was easy to find – I remembered the URL immediately. Oh, to scroll through my life as a thirty-something DINK (look it up if you need to!). The snark! The unlimited time on my hands every weekend. (You guys, there were weekends when I did nothing. Like, I woke up and thought, ‘What should I do today? nobody is counting on me, I have nowhere to be and nothing to do. today is all about ME’!)
The second blog was harder to find. I could not remember the URL to save my life. This could be because much of that blog was written when Little Mister was a baby and toddler and I was tired all the time with zero energy. Unlike now, where I’m tired most of the time and have 10% energy.
Lying in bed this morning – awake at 4:30am with my arm pins and needles because I was sleeping awkwardly around Bruno, who was sharing my pillow and snoring loudly – I had an epiphany on how to find my old blog. And while I will not reveal my secrets, I FOUDN IT. There it was, all the honesty of becoming a mom, raising a baby, going back to work, and losing a little of myself in the process. 200 more posts.
But what reading those posts did for me, was remind me that I am a pretty good writer. And that being laid off – which had nothing to do with my performance – HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH MY PERFORMANCE. My blogs are funny, honest, and vulnerable. They are, well, me.
What does this mean? Well, it means that I’m going to take a day and read through all 800 posts and just enjoy them. There are blogs about my grandparents, who have all passed away. Funny stories about our parents. Anecdotes of Little Mister pooping himself so badly as a baby that I had to cut off his onesie.
Then, I’m going to pick out the posts that fit the narrative of my future novel, and start putting them into a document. And shaping them into a story. And hopefully get one step closer to putting something meaningful together.
A little more than a decade ago, I begrudgingly accepted the fact that I no longer had the eyesight of a 25 year old. I bought my first pair of reading glasses.
And I’ll admit, they changed my life. First of all, I could SEE – my texts, the computer screen, even the food on my plate looked sharp and more appetizing. Second, I liked the way I looked with glasses, even furthering my resemblance to my celebrity doppelgänger Julia Louis-Dreyfus (in her Elaine Benes days).
The love affair started slowly. One pair at home, a pair to leave at work. Then, more. Tortoise shell. Teal with wooden arms. Oversized. Sunglasses! I was obsessed with finding stores that had a Peepers kiosk. Book stores. Whole Foods. I even found readers at a gift shop in the Charlotte airport. I was obsessed. They were the perfect accessory – they always fit, and they could match your outfits and your moods.
Even though the glasses were classified as “readers” I wore them all the time – cooking, watching TV, living life. It was just easier to leave them on my face. I climbed my way from a 1.25 magnification all the way up to a 2.75 over the course of a decade. My computer and phone screens were crystal clear, but the world around me was now fuzzy. In the car, the GPS was sharp, the road was soft. My readers spent half their time on my face and the other half on my head (inevitably falling off if I bent to far in any direction). So I schlepped to the eye doctor.
“Have I killed my eyes by wearing these all the time? Am I making myself blind?” I asked. Like, did I do this to myself, this dependency on glasses?
The doctor gave me that look doctors give you when you ask a ridiculous medical question, or tell them that you used Dr. Google for a diagnosis. “That is a myth. You cannot make your eyes worse by wearing glasses, just as you cannot make your child’s feet grow by buying them bigger shoes.”
Fair point.
I walked out with a prescription for progressive glasses, feeling 80 years old. However, I was determined to see life clearly again, so off to Warby Parker I went.
Two weeks later, these babies came in the mail:
The Esme. Photo: Warby Parker
I had heard horror stores about progressive lenses being hard to get used to, people literally missing steps and falling, and incredible headaches. The first few hours, I did have a headache. And then, it just went away. I surprised myself with how quickly I adjusted to the different lens strengths. After two days, I never wanted to take them off.
I. Could. See.
Things I didn’t realize I was doing in a fuzzy haze until I put these glasses one:
Chopping/slicing/mincing and everything else needed to prepare dinner. How I didn’t lose a finger is beyond me!
Driving. I knew it was a little fuzzy, but driving with these glasses honestly made me wonder how I was driving around before!
Watching TV. I used to take my readers off for TV because it was so far away. But apparently I needed just a lower strength to see the TV clearly because I was once again able to read text messages on people’s phones on the screen.
Everything else in life was just…clearer and better.
I feel very progressive in my progressives! And I have even convinced Mr. KK to also get progressive glasses because I don’t want to be 80 years old by myself in this house.
We bought our Little Mister a kid-friendly “smart” watch for his birthday, in an effort to help him become more aware of time (and the passage of time, and how 30 minutes on an iPad feels different than 30 minutes of folding laundry), and his daily activity level.
Last night, he asked to wear his watch to bed so he could “track his sleep”. When he emerged from his shower this morning, he popped his watch on the charger.
“So….” I said, eyeing him expectantly, “how did you sleep?”
He deftly hit a few buttons. “Eight hours and forty four minutes!”
Almost nine hours! Oh, to be a kid again. The last time I slept for that long was…probably never? But we have been training Little Mister to be a champion sleeper and apparently it has paid off.
Somewhere, under this pile of stuffed animals, is Little Mister and our dog Rocco and potentially our dog Bruno as well.
Way back when, as I was gently placing Little Mister into his crib on the last night of my maternity leave, I whispered into his ear, “You need to sleep through the entire night”, then I kissed his head and backed out of his room.
Guess what? He slept through the night from that day forward. I believe it was because I willed it to be true, because I could not even begin to think about waking up for work every day after having been up multiple times during the night.
Up until that point, Little Mister had already been a great sleeper. In his early days, newly home from the hospital, he would sleep in 5 hours stretches of time (which, ironically, sometimes now passes as a full night’s sleep for me).
It’s no wonder that he sometimes clocks 9, 10 or 12 hours of sleep (I have had to wake him up on more than one occasion on a weekend as the clock neared 11am!)
I was never a late sleeper, and Lord knows I’m a morning person and not a night owl. As a child, I would wake up on Saturday mornings WAY before the morning cartoons started, quietly playing in my room until my parents woke up. In high school, I never needed an alarm to wake up for school. In college, well, let’s just I would lie awake on my bottom bunk waiting to hear someone in our house stirring so I could pounce on them to start the day.
I know how important sleep is for my body. Because I can’t sleep late, I try and go to sleep earlier on the front end to get some quality hours in before midnight. Almost every morning, my eyes open close to 5am. (It was 4am a few weeks back when we changed the clocks because apparently I have the sleep patterns of a toddler). Every morning Mr. KK wakes up to see my face lit up by my phone or Kindle, eagerly waiting for someone to talk to.
At this point I’m so used to being away so early. I do some of my best online shopping before the sun comes up.
Since I wasn’t a late sleeprer, I needed to ensure that I was getting quality sleep over quantity. Mr. KK and I were waking up sore every morning. I was crooked when I first would stand up, hobbling to the bathroom until I could stand up straight. We knew it was our mattress.
So a few years ago, Mr. KK and I bought a Sleep Number bed. And it changed our lives. I can control the firmness of my side of the bed with my phone, AND it tracks my sleep for me. Now I wake up (pain free, I might add) and I can see how restless I was, when I was in deep sleep, and when I got out of bed. And while I’m not sleeping any later, I am sleeping better. We have a friendly competition going of who got the better sleep score the night before. We are both tied for best score ever of 95; but for me that was only after traveling 11 straight days for work, sleeping like shit in hotel rooms, and coming home while Mr. KK was traveling and having the bed all to myself (plus 2 dogs). That night I got quality AND quantity.
I am so incredibly jealous of how well my child sleeps. Not only can he sleep late, he can stay up late! On Friday nights we’ll all be on the couch watching TV and before I know it, I’m waking up and it’s 11:34pm and Little Mister is sitting there wide eyed, holding the remote, watching a show.
And now that he is older, he wants to go to bed later. Which is the opposite of me, who wants to go to bed the minute the dinner dishes are in the dishwasher. Especially because I have no problem falling asleep within 3 minutes of climbing into bed. There are nights where Mr. KK and I can’t wait to go to sleep, and we’re ready to hop in bed the minute Little Mister turns out his lights. Those are the nights that LM loses his mind, yelling, “I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED AT THE SAME TIME!”
To which I reply, “So go to bed earlier.”
When I heard Little Mister slept for almost nine hours, I’m not ashamed to admit that I was a little jealous. What does it feel like to sleep that long? Do you wake up feeling rested? Does your back hurt because you’ve been lying down for so long? I have so many questions.
I average about 6 hours of “good” sleep a night. The other hour I’m in bed is me tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable around the two dogs who are bed hogs, and thinking. Making my mental lists of what appointments need to be made, what we need at the store, what time the holiday concert is, whether or not I need to adjust Little Mister’s dismissal plan. Not to mention what’s for dinner, what’s going into lunches and when was the last time that the little dog Lucy pooped.
All this to say: I’m incredibly jealous of Little Mister’s carefree life that enables him to sleep late. And that it’s barely 9pm right now and I can’t keep my eyes open!
Growing up, there was really only one restaurant in town: The Rustic Oak. Sure, we had fast food places – McDonald’s, Arby’s, Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips – but The Oak was the only spot for a **good** meal.
The two things I remember most about The Oak was the massive fireplace that was always roaring (and the stacked wood outside the front door to keep it going) and their soup and salad bar. The salad bar wasn’t anything fancy – tan tubs of iceberg lettuce, grape tomatoes, olives, bacon bits that could crack your teeth, and croutons nestled in ice under a brightly lit sneeze guard – but as a kid, unlimited anything was exciting. If you saw me and my parents at the Rustic Oak in the 80s, we were probably celebrating something.
Photo from the New Haven Register
I don’t remember eating out much growing up, unless we were on vacation. And even then, when we would go to the Jersey Shore every year, we’d stay in an efficiency hotel room, equipped with a small kitchenette, where my mother would cook dinner for us after the beach a few nights during our week-long stay. The hotel hallway would smell like fried chicken cutlets all night.
This is the kitchen where my parents insisted on cooking dinner a few nights a week while we were on vacation. Photo from The Pan American Hotel.
Most of my restaurant meals were Happy Meals picked up from the drive thru after church on Saturday nights. My treat with my babysitter while my parents went out for the night. And when we did go out! Man, did those nights feel luxurious. It’s probably what led to my obsession with restaurants and food and eating out today.
I LOVE EATING AT RESTAURANTS.
Like, really love it. I would eat out every single night if I could. And it’s not because I don’t like to cook – because I do – but I just like having someone cook for me even more. I love reading menus and eating. I love to eat. My Insta feed is filled with deliciously plated foods and fancy cocktails, with the occasional sweater-wearing dachshund mixed in.
In what could only be described as a cruel twist of fate, I am raising a child who does NOT like to eat out. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE??
To be clear: Little Mister likes restaurant food, but he wants to eat it at home (the place where – after you eat your meal – no one cleans up after you and does the dishes and offers you dessert).
Every weekend when Mr. KK and I are ready to leave the house and relax with an adult beverage and a meal cooked by someone who is not Yours Truly, the negotiating begins.
“Where are we going?”
“What kind of food is it?”
“What else is there to do there?”
“Is anyone else coming with us?”
“Can I watch a movie while I’m there?”
After a long week, I don’t want to see the inside of my kitchen – for cooking or for eating. Instead, let’s enjoy each other’s company, take our time easing into the weekend, enjoy some delicious food, and revel in the fact that we don’t need to clean up!
(Also, if parents say we’re going out to eat, WE’RE GOING OUT TO EAT!)
In honor of Veterans’ Day, I thought I’d share the story of my dad in the army.
Until the day she moved out of her apartment, my grandmother kept an 8″x10″ black and white photo of my dad in his army uniform on her armoire. In it, he look at 14 years old, crew cut, clean shaven, hat and deer-in-headlights look on his face. She was so proud of him for serving in the army, you would have thought he won the war.
The other day, Little Mister was surprised to find out that my dad – his grandfather – was a veteran.
“What did Grandpa do in the army?” he asked me.
And with a straight face I let him in on the long-running joke I have with my dad: “He was a secretary.”
True story.
And I have been joking with him about it for as long as I can remember. Mr. KK’s dad was stationed on a submarine, working as an electrician on a boat, while my dad sat behind a desk and answered phones.
Apparently, sometime between when he arrived at boot camp and was trying to avoid getting the shots necessary to actually be in the army, someone found out that my dad could type.
I imagine it went something like this:
My dad – in line for some ebola or rabies vaccine at the army base – joking with his buddies. A Captain or a General is walking up and down the lines of newbies, picking out the ones who weren’t going to make it and the ones who would rise in the ranks. Maybe one of them muttered, “Man, I wish we had someone who could take notes really neatly.”
Upon hearing this, my dad’s ears perk up and his arm shoots into the air. “Sir, I can type 80 words a minute, Sir!”
Upon hearing this, the Grand Puba plucks my dad out of line. “Boy, can you type without mistakes? Can I count on you to take notes and memos?”
And just like that, my dad avoided combat and got himself a desk job. Pretty smart if you ask me. It’s like getting the best job at the worst place to work; it’s not great to be there, but you could be getting shot at.
At family gatherings, I will tease my dad, mimicking him typing on typewriter, and tapping the point of a pen to his tongue to start writing a memo. I’ll yell out, “You! Take an emergency memo! The troops are moving in! STOP. We must prepare. STOP.” and then we all laugh and laugh.
But jokes aside, I’m proud that both my dad is a veteran. Even if his greatest weapon was Wite Out.
It was my first time traveling to Europe and I experienced it with Mr. KK’s cousin and Aunt – a girls’ trip with 3 generations of women (with me in the middle).
This was the first vacation I’ve even been on that I did not plan. As the resident family vacation planner, this was a foreign concept for me. I literally just showed up. When asked what I wanted to do on our trip, my response was: “Eat lots of croissants and see the Eiffel Tower.”
Mission accomplished!
We spent 5 days in the City of Love, where we ate all the food, and drank all the drinks. Our trip was the perfect balance of seeing the sights but not overdoing it. I’m so excited to share our 5-day itinerary with you!
Business Class for the Win
Yes, we flew business class overnight from JFK to Paris. And it was the single best experience I have ever had flying. First of all, the whole seat situation was amazing. Roomy. Reclining. Padded ottoman foot rest. Blanket. Sleep mask. Private TV. You would have thought we were flying on that plane for a week with all the amenities!
My home for 7 hours. This cubicle is almost bigger than a room in my house.That look when you realize that you are a travel princess. Also, travel outfit on point.
We were welcomed with a glass of champagne! “Oui, merci!” Followed by a multi-course meal that included lobster salad, a cheese plate, chicken, more champagne, baguette, dessert, and more champagne. And then, they took our order for breakfast, which was to be served approximately 3 hours after we finished eating our late-night dinner.
I am spoiled for all other travel.
Day 1: Arrival & First Meal
We made it! We checked into our super cute boutique hotel, Grand Boulevard Experimental. It was every bit as charming as you would imagine a hotel in Paris would be. It had this lovely rooftop bar where we had our very first cocktails of the trip. The rooms were quaint, and I had a room all to myself, including a HUGE bathroom with two sinks and mirrors. Truly indulgent.
The hotel still used real keys. And held them at the desk for you. A whole big beautiful bed to myself!
Our first meal was at a traditional French bistro, Bistro Des Tournelles. We were starving! We ordered the mushrooms with garlic and parsley, Croque Monsieur, ravioli, filet of beef with fries (steak frites!), and the roast chicken.
And I couldn’t go to bed without doing one VERY PARIS thing on our very first night. We hopped on the Metro and went to see the Eiffel Tower all lit up at night!
Pictures don’t do it justice. And it sparkles on the hour every hour.
Day 2: Eiffel Tower, Champs-Élysées, Arc de Triomphe, Cocktails & Dinner
The sun shone bright on our first full day in Paris. I was so exhausted from traveling that I slept for 10 hours. TEN HOURS! I woke up with a start at 8am just minutes before my breakfast was being delivered. Can we pause to talk about how delicious the yogurt in France is? Thick and creamy, topped with honey. I ordered it every morning.
The Eiffel Tower was majestic at night, and equally as impressive during the day. We rode the elevator up to the top for the most fantastic panoramic view of the city.
If you look closely you can see the Olympic Rings on the bridge over the Seine.Bonjour from Paris!
After the ET we walked over to the Champs-Élysées (so many tourists) but we felt the need to see the Arc de Triomphe and be all Paris-like.
Our itinerary included some of the best known craft bars in the city, and our stop that night was The Cambridge Public House.
Dinner that night was at an Italian restaurant, Carbonis. This was my favorite meal of the entire trip (imagine, my favorite restaurant was an Italian restaurant in Paris!). Every bite was amazing.
We needed to start with drinks, of course. My introduction to the Sbagliato Negroni.Heirloom tomato salad, watermelon, marigold, bottargaMy favorite bite of the night: pappardelle with sweet corn, crispy shallots, guanciale, chili oil.Cacio e PepeGrilled octopus, green beans, caponataCaserecce with tomatoes, fried eggplant, spiced lamb, dukkah
Day 3: Train to Reims to tour Veuve Clicquot
You can’t go to Paris without taking a day trip to the Champagne region. Well, I can’t. And the Veuve Clicquot tour in the caves is not to be missed!
The tour ended with a tasting of four signature champagnes, one of which is not sold in stores and only served in the caves.
After a short nap on the train on the way home, we relaxed at the hotel until it was time for dinner. That night, we went to Le Mary Celeste, a cute little wine bar with small plates. We sat at a crooked little table, squished in the back corner, and basically ordered almost the entire menu.
Highlights included:
Tuna sashimiDeviled eggsVeal tartareRisotto
Put a fork in me!
Day 4: The Louvre, Notre Dame, Cocktails & Dinner
We started our morning at the Louvre – pre heist. I wanted to see the building, as it’s an impressive city block; however, I didn’t feel the need to go inside. But we did have fun taking photos outside.
Notre Dame was, well, it was a church. Mostly covered in scaffolding. With a ridiculous number of people trying to see it and get inside. I’m glad we walked by to snap a pic so I could cross it off my list.
One and done with the Hunchback’s home.
During the afternoon we did some shopping around Le Marais. We became regulars on the Metro. I felt like a local.
Sabre
Another day, another cocktail bar! This time we headed to Little Red Door, named the Number 5 best bar in the world in 2022 (and Number 6 in 2023). Hard to get in, hard to leave. Dark. Moody. Delicious.
After cocktails, we headed to dinner at a mediterranean restaurant Kubri. There were so many things we wanted to try, so naturally we over ordered!
Look at these shrimp!This roasted cabbage with aleppo pepper butter and peanuts was divineBeef tartare
Day 5: Charcuterie and Pasta
After a weather forecast that threatened rain the whole week, it finally came. The lunch vibe we wanted was wine and charcuterie, and we found the perfect place. It was a BYOB – build your own board, from a thick booklet of cheeses, meats and accoutrements. I present: Le 17.45
That lunch required some rest before gearing up for our last dinner in Paris. We went off itinerary and ended up at a little hole in the wall Italian restaurant Sugo. The menu was small, but the pastas were fresh and delicious.
Cacio PepePesto MalfadineAmatriciana
We headed back to the hotel on foot, hoping we could walk off some of the pasta, and I captured this beautiful street in the quiet of the evening.
What a memorable trip! My pants are still tight!
My one request was croissants, and they didn’t disappoint. The patisseries were magnifique!
If you hold onto something long enough, it will come back in style. And this year – among the wide leg jeans – it’s the barn jacket.
photo: J. Crew
It was during my time in college that everyone was wearing barn jackets. Neutral colors. Plaid interior. Corduroy collar. Big buttons. My college campus looked like a walking J. Crew catalog.
My barn jacket was light khaki in color, dark brown collar. And the pockets! So big and roomy! My claim to fame was the time I was able to sneak a 12-pack of beer (Icehouse – what were we thinking??) on my person into Flynn Hall because of my barn jacket. Cans in the outside pockets, cans on the inside pockets, maybe one or two in the small of my back. This feat could not have been accomplished without my trusty barn jacket.
The place the barn jacket truly came into its own was for parties at the Caves. When I went to Stonehill College, it was surrounded by woods. Now, those woods have been leveled to make room for dorms and buildings. But back in the day, following a path behind New Hall (the new dorm that no one could apparently name?), up hills and through trees and around thickets, there was a clearing with huge boulders. This could be one of those times that the boulders felt huge looking at them through my beer googles, but if I saw them today theywould just be regular sized rocks.
The barn jacket was the perfect outerwear for the Caves. It was likely the only coat I had at college or was willing to wear out, jury is still out on that one. No one gets cold in college. Hundreds of kids would gather at the Caves to drink and party. I think there might have been music if someone had enough batteries to power their boom box (hey kids today, your lives are so pampered with music libraries in your pockets!) and we’d listen to Pearl Jam or Nirvana or Oasis. Someone made a bonfire in the middle of a wooded area, tended by drunk twenty year olds (how did we not burn down the town?), which looking back seems like a sure fire way to draw attention to underage drinking in the woods. “Hey Earl, do you see that FIRE over there on the top of that hill? Wonder what that is?”
The barn jacket held many purposes on Caves nights.
Transporting beer
Providing a nice little shield for your privates when you had to pee in the woods
Warmth (questionable during winter months)
Making it nearly impossible to find your friends in a sea of neutral-colored barn jacket-wearing drunk kids
Repelled any beer spilled on you
Camouflaged you when you were running from campus police
If you’re getting nostalgic for your barn jacket reading this post, you’re in luck. They. Are. Everywhere! Long and short lengths. Variety of colors. Snaps, zips or buttons. Quilted or canvas. A style for every day of the week.
And if you want to go old school, J. Crew is selling a vintage barn jacket this year for $188!
NOTE: I’m sad to say, that the Caves no longer exist at Stonehill College. They are now dorms or buildings or some shit. I feel sorry that the students do not get to experience a Caves night. My 22nd birthday was celebrated at the Caves at a party during the day (man, we were bold!) and I will never forget running through the woods being chased by campus police careful to not spill a drop of beer out of my red solo cup. Now, they have fancy lounges and bars on campus, and I feel sorry for them. You have not lived a true college experience unless you wake up hungover with twigs and leaves out of your hair, and you glance over to your desk chair for the comforting sight of your barn jacket hanging on it (most likely with mystery stains on it).
Staying true to the tagline on this blog of “You can’t make this sh*t up”, get a load of this story.
A few Fridays ago, my dad had routine kidney stone surgery. This is when they give you propofol (aka: the good stuff) and put you to sleep and then go in with a laser and blast the kidney stones to smithereens. (I can’t tell you how excited I am to have used the word ‘smithereens’ on my blog!)
My dad has had this surgery before, it’s in and out of the hospital on the same day, then go home and rest and don’t lift anything heavy for a week. And this is exactly what we did. However, the weekend following the surgery, my dad developed a fever and the chills and was lethargic, and on Monday the morning the nurse told him, “Go to the Emergency Room!” And so Uber KK went and picked up Mom and Dad, and drove back to the hospital, this time to the ER. Blessedly, there was no one there and he was taken back immediately.
My dad was in his street clothes on a gurney, parked in the hallway due to no open curtained rooms. It’s possible my dad was one of the only sober person being treated. The guy behind him was hacking up a lung and throwing up on his gurney. A woman was screaming for hematology and ripping all the gloves out of the boxes that hung on the wall and throwing them all over the floor. Someone else kept a steady tempo of yelling “Nurse!” for a solid hour. During all of this they poked and prodded my dad, taking urine and blood and his temperature until finally they admitted him with an infection. (No medical training over here, but hearing his symptoms when I picked him up that morning, I diagnosed him with the same thing).
When they wheeled my dad into the room, there was already someone else there in the bed by the window. He was about thirty or so, walking with a limp and cane. His music was blaring and he was singing loudly. If he walked by us once, he walked by us a thousand times – grabbing pudding out of the floor fridge, handing out at the nurses’ station, visiting other patients on the floor.
“This guy is like the mayor,” my dad commented as our roommate hobbled by.
The next morning Uber KK picked up mom and then we headed down for another full day of bedside sitting at the hospital. I was reliving my childhood sick day dreams: glued to the TV watching Let’s Make a Deal and The Price is Right (RIP Bob), plus more hours of news in one morning and afternoon than I have consumed in the last 20 years.
A nurse came to check on our roommate, and – with those flimsy curtains doing nothing to block sound – I heard her ask: “Did you break your parole?”
Say what?!?!
Not long after this exchange, three hulking men in street clothes with multiple guns strapped to their legs and waists came into our little hospital room.
“Excuse us, ma’am,” one of them said to me. “We’re just going to move that gentleman to another room.”
It was like we were in a COPS episode. At once both of my parents started talking.
“SHHHHHHHH!” I commanded, waving at them to be quiet, my eyes bulging at them. “I can’t hear!” I whispered.
The cops moved the curtain aside and smiled at the roommate. “I’m going to have to take your phone,” the first one said.
A second officer glided in, ordered the roommate to lay down, and handcuffed him to the bed.
This was really happening!
With little fanfare, besides multiple men with giant guns and the arrival of a uniformed police officer, they starting wheeling our roommate out of the room. I didn’t know where to look! Do I pretend to be into the muted episode of Judge Judy? Do I bury my face in my phone? Do I look him dead in the eye…no definitely not that one!
“I need to finish my antibiotics,” he said to one of the officers. “Oh you will,” the cop replied. “And when you’re done, you can go back to jail.”
When my dad’s nurse came in to check on him, she peeked on the other side of the curtain to see if he was gone.
“See all this entertainment I provided for you?” she joked, taking my dad’s temperature.
I asked the obvious question: “He has been walking around this floor for two days, why did they now handcuff him to the bed?”
The nurse said matter-of-factly: “Oh, that’s because they just found out where he was.”
Oh.
“They came in here to arrest him. That’s what they just did. Now he’s in a private room on the other side of the floor.” She finished up with my dad. “They’ll be in soon to clean, someone else is moving in here.”
I looked at my dad. “We have to get you out of here,” I said. And then the news came on. Again.
I think my last post brought the mood around here down to near depression level, so I thought we’d lighten things up.
Let’s talk about pizza.
Oh, delicious, cheesy, salty, crispy pizza. I don’t think a more perfect food exists. (Prove me wrong)
Living in Connecticut means being able to enjoy the best pizza any time you desire.
My perfect pie looks like this:
It’s a mozz, bacon and black olive pie. Perfectly thin and crispy, salty from the bacon and olives, gooey from the cheese. Well done but not burnt. Minimal bubbles. If given the time and elastic waist pants, I could probably eat the entire thing myself. (Seriously, just look at that pizza! If your mouth isn’t watering you are made of stone!)
New Haven pizza is the only pizza, in my opinion. You’ve got the big 3: Pepe’s, Sally’s and Modern (my personal favorite). But then, as you slowly move away from Wooster and State Streets, you still are surrounded by amazing pizza joints. Olde World (our Friday night go-to). Fuoco. Ernie’s.
Non-New Haven pizza? You have no place here.
Square pizza? Um, no.
Deep dish pizza? Why is it so thick?
Chicago-style pizza? Is this a cake?
Pizza is good hot, warm, or cold out of the fridge. And while you could eat it any day of the week, I feel like Fridays are the traditional pizza night.
Much to Mr. KK’s dismay, I am a knife and fork girl when it comes to pizza. At least the first two slices. Then, once the pizza is at it’s optimal stand-up-on-its-own temperature, I’ll pick it up. I’ll leave you guessing if I fold oversized piece in half.
And, sure, I could call it pizza like everyone else. But I prefer to call it by it’s proper name: Ahbeetz!
Life of kk 