I tentatively put one toe outside of my front door after a year of near agoraphobia following my brother’s death, and went whale watching off of Cape Ann with a few friends.
As punishment for that, my beloved Casper died the night of the 23rd, sending Peanut into wailing grief on behalf of of the two of us, which was heartbreaking to hear. Now there are just the two of us left, Peanut and me. She follows me everywhere now, like she once did Casper, a little shadow at my heels, looking anxious and lost and needy. And when she moves on … maybe 5-10 years from now … I’m getting on a plane and flying to Italy. And may never come back.
Now, no one will understand this next near tragedy unless they’ve carried a much beloved and oft seasoned cast iron skillet around with them – I had mine since my college days, and (sweadda gawd!) I love that thing more than 99% of my ex-boyfriends, as it is a hell of a lot more reliable and useful. I have no idea why anyone thought those Teflon monstrosities were an improvement.
The disaster began with Stop ‘n Shop. Here’s my thought: if people would tell the truth, however unpleasant, it’s far preferable to being lied to. Or maybe some people like being lied to – I’m just not one of them.
So, there’s this non-dairy creamer I use in my coffee every morning. Got used to it. One day, I’m shuffling around in S&S, and (blink!) there isn’t any! How could they not have it? In its place is the store-brand of the same flavored non-dairy creamer. I whined to a nearby store employee. "Yes," she told me, "they stopped making it. Use ours, it tastes the same and its cheaper."
I took it home, tried it the next morning and spat it back out disgust. It was horrible. It tasted like I had just poured a container of bitter chemicals into my coffee. I pulled them back out of the cupboard and wandered around looking for the receipt so I could return the unused bottles. I temporarily put them in my cast iron skillet, until I could get them all down, and move them to the counter. Yeah, you guessed the rest: forgot about moving them, turned on the wrong burner, next thing I knew I was smelling burning plastic. I grabbed a box of baking powder, doused the mess, turned off the oven and cursed myself out for abject stupidity. My skillet!!! My precious, beloved skillet!!!
A weekend or so later, I reversed the process: melted the plastic back down under more controlled conditions and peeled it off the skillet – good as new, thank goodness! And I discovered they had lied. Right down the street, Market Basket carried an entire shelf of the creamer I used – they hadn’t been discontinued. S&S said the same thing about a type of grocery bag I used – found them on the shelves of Market Basket, too, after S&S told me they’d been discontinued – told me to buy their store brand instead. I started growling. I hate, hate, HATE being lied to.
Written the day after the Boston Marathon bombing.
"It feels no different than the day after 9/11: a vague sense of uneasy nausea, a general state of numbness; a feeling that something ought to have changed, but probably didn’t. Or more that I should feel gravely different … but don’t. I wrote the "Two Swords" (http://snakestrail.blogspot.com/2011/06/two-swords.html) poem crossing the Hudson on a silent ferry after 9/11 but that was all I did – astonished at the sense of pervasive peace and tranquility and silence as the ferry chopped its way cross-current towards Hoboken. Or maybe it was Weehauken. Now I have very little to say. I have no idea who did it. Or, more relevantly, why. But then, I didn’t understand 9/11, either. I suspect we’ll find out soon enough, since rumor has it they arrested someone. Further details unknown.
Actually, when I’m feeling totally illogical, I blame the 9/11 perpetrators for, among other things obviously, setting in motion the wheels that propelled me unwillingly into Massachusetts. When I got home in North Andover from Boston, I sat there, staring at the TV screen (again), wondering why I was in both U.S. cities hit by terrorists (again). Luck? It was also the day that I clasped the cimaruta around my neck. Protection from the malocchio – the Evil Eye. It worked. I survived. Others weren’t quite so fortunate. I learned that there is a group of people who had the same experience that I did – our own little "exiled from New York after 9/11" group of ex-pats. The "ONNA" (for "Oh no, not again") Club, survivors of both attacks. We should sell t-shirts."
Back to the present:
No need to go into the details. We learned who did it, although I should probably toss an "allegedly" in there. And why. The conspiracy theorists are already running full tilt. Again. So unbelievably tiresome.
As the chaos faded … a beautiful full Pink Moon in April rose in the night sky … and on May 25 the Full Flower Moon ... on June 23rd the Full Strawberry Moon. July 22 is the Full Buck Moon or the Thunder Moon. I worked the week up to my first week of vacation since my September 2012 "Il Volo" vacation last year to Manhattan, and then into Boston in a typhoon. I have four weeks of vacation altogether. In the middle of it, I ventured up to New Hampshire, this time to Manchester. A concert in the Verizon Arena on Elm Street.
It was nowhere near as terrifying as the two Il Volo concerts, when I was still suffering from a bout of Bells Palsy and terrified that the One and Only would see me from the stage and grimace at the sight. He did neither, so I was happy. Today I’m still gimping around on a bum knee, but my face has mostly righted itself. The Radisson there had a swimming pool, so for the first time since … (I have absolutely no idea!) … I ordered a bathing suit and terrycloth robe online; they arrived, and I enjoyed the Radisson swimming pool. It’s been so long since I’ve had a good swim. Next step: the beach.
All of the references to fertility and lust and springtime and my beautiful dogwood tree outside the office burst into glorious bloom and had wonderful Solomon’s Seal growing at her feet, glistening with dew first thing in the morning – so beautiful!
The One and Only – or L’uno e solo
And of course, speaking of the One and Only has driven me completely off the deep end with not one but two erotic references to being naked:
- the first, his most embarrassing moment: that he’s always naked when he’s in in his room, but then realizes he has forgotten to close the curtains;
- the second, that he has to prepare for concerts completely naked, so don’t walk in on him when he’s in his private dressing room warming up his voice.
Ahhhh, my handsome, erotic, exhibitionistic angel. I knew there was a reason I adored him. There will now be a long pause while I drool helplessly. Of course, then he posted this photo, and damn near killed me. Slide the waistband of those sweatpants just one tiny millimeter lower, and the women who adore him would be unconscious on the floor. Ahhh, Piero Barone. L’uno e solo.
I know exactly what he wants right now, and it’s not to get married and settle down. That comes later. Right now he wants sex. Hot, steamy, kinky sex. The kinkier, steamier and hotter the better. He is not the romantic third of Il Volo. Someone else pegged him perfectly. He is the gigolo of Il Volo. Yes, I knew there was a reason I adored him.
All of this – and that voice!
