Inspiration: The Wisdom of Fred Rogers

Just because we are technically "too old" to sit down and watch Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" doesn't mean we have to leave that era completely behind. Recently, I saw a documentary on PBS called "Mister Rogers & Me," which tells the simple and affecting story of two brothers who knew him personally and wanted to find out what motivated a man who seemed so good and so driven to make a positive, simple change.

Many of Fred's philosophies and personal nuggets of wisdom are included in the film. One of my favorites keeps coming back up in conversation. It's a reminder to keep in mind how easily we can affect others, and to strive to keep those effects positive: “If you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.”

Here's the documentary's trailer: 

You could buy the film here at the Web site or cross your fingers and hope your local PBS affiliate replays it.


NB: A commenter recently pointed out that if a reader is to judge the contents of this blog, he might guess I am in my mid-60s and retired. I am okay with this.

Celebrity Emergency Contact List

Thought Catalog recently posted an essay called "Celebrities I Would Defend to the Death." The author talks about her desire to defend people like Kirsten Dunst, Paul Rudd and Taylor Swift from the cruel taunts and criticisms of the public.

I've been known to feel an inexplicable closeness to certain celebrities too, but I have a different way of classifying it. For years, I have been quietly amassing a Celebrity Emergency Contact List. This is, unfortunately, what it sounds like: a list of famous people I want to call if I'm ever in an emergency situation. I think it would be better for everyone involved if I didn't explain why my brain has this file and just get listing.

Tom Hanks- When my non-existent child goes missing, Tom will be the one I call. Probably even before the police. He will also come over if I am ever burgled, or need someone to walk with me to the bank when I make deposits for the restaurant I don't work at. Tom would know just what to say in any high-stress situation. He is the perfect combination of smart, humble and interested. I once watched him tell a story about how every year his family fights over whether to use the electric knife to carve the Thanksgiving turkey, and for some reason this convinces me that he would keep the most level head in the event of drama and disaster. Is there any reason to think otherwise?

Laura Linney- I want to tell her about every emotion I have ever felt. If you've seen any of her movies, you'll know that I feel this way because it's obvious she knows every single human emotion. Those sympathetic eyes and that fretful mouth... Laura is a great listener and she would let me unleash my emotional burden when I was ready and for as long as I need to. She would also probably place it in a historical context or making some sweeping statement that brings my entire life up until that point into sharp focus. She's just like that.

Matt Damon- Here is a man who loves talking about toilets as much as I do. He is a high-profile advocate for sanitation and clean water, so he is also on my Imaginary BFFs list for that reason. But what is it about Matt that gets him on my emergency contact list? Well, first he is ripped, so he can lift me out from under the bus I crash shortly after being asked to take over for the driver with heart problems. But Matt is also street smart. I only think this because he played Will Hunting, but I feel in my heart it's just as true in real life. Matt can talk me out of a sticky situation, or tell me which street not to walk down at night. I think he might also be good at bartering with street vendors. This Boston Boy will always be on my celebrity speed dial.

Amy Poehler- Amy is a girl's girl, and she will be who I call when I need a friend to sort through my life's problems and then create a really bomb action plan. I'm thinking along the lines of T.P.ing an ex's house or delivering a very pointed speech to a mean girl about kindness, being human and trying to unite rather than divide. But I think Amy would be equally skilled with curbing my hoarding tendencies and helping me price things at a yard sale, for example. I guess we are moving away from emergencies and heading into Boring Saturday territory, so I'll stop here.

Who would you call and why?

Getting felt up in the Schine atrium, A Reflection

I have a well-documented aversion to people touching me in unexpected locations. I'd guess this is a fairly common characteristic, as most of us don't anticipate unsolicited pelvic grazes or torso caresses as we go through our daily motions. My "I'll-scream-if-you-touch-my-midsection" reflex has been beaten into submission recently, however, mostly due to overfriendly yoga classes, and a particular housemate who pokes and prods me with the reckless abandon of an overeager medical student.

Last year, after hearing Connie rave about the free Healthy Monday massages offered in our student center, I decided to confront my anxieties about human touch head-on. There is certainly something uncomfortable about lying down and letting a stranger massage you in the middle of a bustling university hub, but I decided the benefits outweighed the cost. After all, I'm rather prone to knotted muscles and lower back pain, and maybe a massage could help.

So last spring the massages quickly became a regular item on my Monday agenda. The uneasiness subsided almost immediately, and I looked forward to allowing myself that weekly indulgence. This semester, I hadn't made it back until today, when my Com law class (read: a type of hell that requires its own circle in Dante's inferno) let out early, and I remembered to wander by. I noticed they had three massage artists working, instead of two, and a couple of them were using tables instead of the typical massage chairs. This was going to be good, I thought to myself.

But it wasn't. No, it was not. It was very, very bad.

I hadn't seen the girl who would be my masseuse before, which was slightly discouraging. I have an old favorite, a tiny slip of a thing who somehow manages to dig out knots with the force of a 300-pound wrestler. But I'm open to change. What followed, however, was perhaps a bit too much change.

Okay, so I'll just say it. There was a lot of butt touching. These massages are supposed to be focused on your back. Sometimes there could be a little neck or scalp massage, but generally they stick to familiar spinal territory. And that's how this girl started too, slowly putting heavy pressure all over my back, which made me especially relaxed and sedate. But once she had me sleepy and vulnerable, she moved southward, kneading the extreme lower back with one hand and putting her other on the side of my hip, and sort of, I don't know, poking. She occasionally wandered into butt territory, but just barely crossing the 38th parallel into unadulterated gluteous geography.

Just as I was getting jumpy, it was time to incorporate yet another bodily region. She massaged my hamstrings and calves for several minutes, then moved back northward to go in for the kill on the butt massage.

LADY?!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Would it have been inappropriate for me to ask her to stop? This is not what I signed up for!! I assume they told her in massage school that the derriere is not where most people carry their stress, so why is she touching me like this IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STUDENT CENTER.

I breathed a sigh of relief when she finally seemed to be done copping feels and sending exploratory jabs to locate my hip bones. But this was seriously shaping up to be the longest massage ever. It had to be over soon.

Alas. She began working on my legs again and seemed rather perplexed by the tension she found there. With both of my ankles in hand, she leaned back with all her might, yanking, and I slid several inches down the table. I can't lie, it was sort of enjoyable, if not slightly reminiscent of medieval torture techniques. Then, bending my leg at the knee, she tried to lift it off the table, and apparently took notice of the fact that there is absolutely no flexibility contained within my "hip sockets."

This clearly was a clue to her that she needed to half-mount the table, placing her bended leg under my thigh, hoping to provide some height and added stretch of my quads.

"Catherine, relax your leg onto mine," she gently coaxed.

Again. LADY?!?!? NO! I don't want to do that. I came here thinking you were going to work the knots out of my shoulders, not engage me in some type of physical therapy regimen worthy of an injured quarterback trying to rehab a torn hamstring.

I just laid there, quelling my inner panic and insecurities as all passersby were able to see the circus show that was taking place between my legs. She repeated this process on other side of the table with my right leg, again emphatically stating that I wasn't relaxing my leg into hers enough.

UMMMM. I can't relax. I'm scared.

The massage ended rather abruptly after that. She told me to get up. I said thank you, but I couldn't bring my eyes to meet hers. Unsure of what just happened, I scurried away, threw my jacket back on, and ran out the door.

I don't think I like what happens on those lie-down massage tables.

Is it fate or the gingersnap?

I, like everyone, have my quirks. One of these involves a family tradition passed down from my maternal Scottish ancestors. Perhaps you've heard of making wishes on lost eyes lashes, or birthday candles. My family? We make wishes on gingersnaps.

It's okay if you need to read that twice. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Let me explain how this works. You select a cookie, hold it in the palm of one hand, and use your elbow to break it, making a wish while you do so. If the gingersnap breaks into three pieces, your wish is granted! Don't do this with Oreos, or Girl Scout cookies, or anything else. Only gingersnaps provide the robust texture that make cracking it into three pieces such a satisfying challenge.

I have been known to eat entire boxes of gingersnaps in a day waiting for my cookie to crumble just right. My mother taught this tradition to me, and I've taught it to my friends here at school. My explanations are often met with alarm, but also curiosity, as everyone puts their fate in the hands of Nabisco. It is strangely exhilarating.

This is really my only superstition. Every time I eat gingersnaps, I have to make at least once wish, and more than once, I have credited a certain happy event to a three-part fortuitous fragmentation. My grandmother broke an elbow making wishes on ginger snaps. We don't mess around.

Please tell me some of your awkward family traditions in the comments to make me feel better about my own.

What do carbon monoxide, sandra bullock and halibut have in common?

I picked a bad time to launch another 20 posts in 30 days initiative. Schoolwork picked up, my computer lost its mind, and I took ill with a particularly draining head cold. But I’m here now. I hope you all appreciate the blood, sweat and tears I put into this frivolous exercise I call blogging. Nevertheless, I’m pessimistic about meeting my goal, but I hope you’ll still support me in my effort.

As promised, here’s my TOP FIVE LIST OF (MOSTLY IRRATIONAL) FEARS.

5. Sustaining injury to my right eye. I am legally blind in my left eye. If someone shoots an arrow and it lands in my good eye, or I contract some sort of David Patterson-esque infection that ruins my optic nerve, I’m screwed. I can see somewhat out of my left eye, but I couldn’t read, drive, or do most things I take for granted now. It’s possible my vision would strengthen if my left eye was all I had, but it gets increasingly unlikely as I get older. Would anyone be my Anne Sullivan?

4. Gas leaks. As a child, I watched absurd amounts of Rescue 911. Stories of old people dying from gas leaks in their motor homes were featured frequently, and I became preoccupied with buying a carbon monoxide detector for our house. I tried to drop casual hints to my mother, but she felt a lot less threatened by the silent, odorless gas than I did. Consequently, every night before bed, I would open my window and hungrily gasp in as much fresh air as I could. I figured if I started the night with clean air in my lungs, I would be more likely to survive an overnight leak. Sometimes, when I was very afraid, I even slept with the windows open in the dead of winter. This fear is a lot less intense now, but the radiator in my First Aid class hisses maniacally, and I can’t help feeling like we’re about to blow up, or maybe someone will come up to our remote fourth-floor classroom and discover 15 dead bodies.

3. Driving a bus. Whenever I tell people about this fear, they always say, “Oh, so you’ve seen Speed?” No, I haven’t seen Speed and now I know I never should because it could be years before I get another goodnight’s sleep. In order to drive a bus and do it well, you must drive so close to objects that it seems like you’re going to hit them, and you must have an incredible sense of the size of the vehicle you’re controlling. I consider myself a good driver, but I know the bus is entirely beyond my capabilities. It’s unlikely this scenario will ever present itself, but if it does, I hope all of the other cars are off the road that day. What if I am driving a bus with a gas leak? That would be the worst day ever.

2. Having an intersexed child. I have seen many a documentary when a child was born with ambiguous genitalia, or due to a medical error, had his genitals damaged. It was a common procedure to “turn” the child into one sex or another by surgically altering whatever was there into girl or boy parts. This method was met with disastrous results when children grew up feeling that they were born in the wrong body, and identified with the opposite gender. The psychological and physical torture that results is incomprehensible, and I am terrified that I could be faced with the decision to determine a child’s gender. As many as 4 in 1,000 children are born with issues like these. Luckily, medical knowledge and technology have improved a lot since cases like Dr. Money’s infamous experiment, but the fact remains that you can’t raise a genderless child, and difficult choices get made. Just another reason to adopt!

1. Fish. This is probably the most illogical of my fears, and that is saying something when you look at this list. Strangely, sharks, sting rays, and other legitimately threatening aquatic creatures do not bother me in the least. Instead, it is guppies, trout, and those hellish demons that look like oceanic dinosaurs that make my skin crawl. I hate fish. They are barely even animals. You can ask my brother Michael B., and he will tell you that I ruined his first ever catching time a fish because I had an anxiety attack the second he reeled it in. We were fishing in Maine when he snagged a little sunfish, brought it into the canoe to admire it, and it flopped off the hook and directly under my feet. My screams echoed through the cove while he paddled furiously back to our dock. Pictures of the event show my terrified face, ankles raised high in the air, paralyzed by the idea that the fish would somehow jump onto my face. So no, I do not like fish. And don’t get me started on restaurants that think it’s charming and serene to put a 50-gallon fish tank next to my table. I’d rather find a spider in my food.

Losing faith in humanity, finding it , then losing it again

I'll be the first person to rail against the newslessness of cable news. CNN even managed to dampen my inauguration enthusiasm with their CONSTANT!!!! REMINDERS!!!!! THAT THIS!!!!!! IS THE BIGGEST DEAL EVER!!!!!!!!!! for weeks before Obama's big day. But I must admit that every time I turn on a 24-hour cable news station, I come across a story I wouldn't have read in the papers or online. Yesterday's items:

First, some soulless bottomfeeder named James Salcedo thought it would be a good business venture to make a Caylee Anthony Doll, fashioned in memory the murdered two-year-old whose remains were found in December. He probably thought he could get away with it because he planned to donate $3 of the $29.95 pricetag to charity. Apparently the doll was designed intentionally to look nothing like Caylee, and Salcedo said he hoped it would raise awareness. Awareness for what, exactly? I think we can all agree this is one of the worst, most insensitive ideas ever. Thank you for letting me know about it, MSNBC.

Then, I turned to my attention to the next television on the Headline News Channel, and saw this story about a group of firefighters in Massachusetts who saved a struggling deer from icy waters. I was only watching the screen and reading the headlines because my headphones were not tuned to that channel. I thought it was a happy story, but my fact-checking has indicted otherwise. Read to the bottom of the article, and you'll find out they shot the deer because she had a broken leg. There is no where for rehabbing deer to go? Fun fact: Audrey Hepburn had a pet deer!

Needless to say, I experienced quite the roller coaster of emotions during a few short moments on the elliptical machine. I can provide no moral for this anecdote, except to tell you all to be on the lookout for all the WTF moments you experience in your daily consumption of TV news, and please tell me about them, so I can yell about how watching people yell at each other is never informative.

I'd also like to announce the kick-off of a new 20 posts in 30 days blogging blitz. I hope you'll join me in another round of regular posts, filled with all sorts of information you never knew you wanted to read until I wrote it, and even then, you weren't really so sure. Check back soon for my Top 5 Biggest Fears. They will surprise you.

Shit happens

I've had some well-documented trouble getting over (and under...) Hottie McLatte. After more than two weeks of rushing to Starbucks after work, hopefully scanning the counter for his perfect face, I came up empty every time. He was really gone.

I used to love Starbucks, especially in the winter, when I would indulge in its seasonal drinks, and take shelter in its super-heated, gently lit interior. All that nostalgia is gone now. The coffee doesn't taste as good if McLatte doesn't pour it. Living in the fallout of our love affair, even the service seems less friendly.

But this morning, I was the subject of a divine intervention, orchestrated by Howard Schultz himself. He felt me slip away. He also needs to find a way to keep his customers paying $4.00 for coffee that takes 43 cents to make, all while they foreclose their houses and file for bankruptcy. So this morning, there was a girl on the corner near Copley Square, handing out $5 gift cards. At first I didn't see what she was giving away, but I smiled and made eye contact, because that's what I do. I analyze the irises of poor little creatures banished to the city streets in the name of marketing promotions. I was especially grateful when she handed me my gift card.

So this afternoon, when I left work, I decided to stop by Starbucks and treat myself to the gingersnap latte that I've been dying to try. I was delighted to find that the girl on the corner had given me not one, but two! gift cards. Double the latte, double the fun. This was a good sign. Would McLatte be back where he belongs?

It should be noted there is a Starbucks right near where my internship is, but I rarely go there, because McLatte's ghost does not linger in those walls. So, I headed to my old haunt, placed my order, and waited for the barista to make my drink. He seemed backed up, so I texted Ashley that H.M. was officially gone, never to be heard from again, and oh, woe is me, how will I ever go on?

I hit send, and McLatte LITERALLY COMES RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER. He is dressed in street clothes, and had been talking to a manager in the atrium area that adjoins the store. McLatte didn't see me, and he headed for the door. I watched him walk in the direction of the train station I go to... could McLatte be commuting, like me? He slipped away into the night before Dumby McStupid could put together my gingersnap latte. As soon as the drink was made, I ran out into the street. I don't know why, because what did I think would happen? But I guess by now, you all should know about my unreasonable amount of emotional investment in this invented friendship. Clear thinking went out the window after I got my first discount.

So I crossed the street and was walking toward the station, when I felt a cool wetness on my pants. I looked down. Poop. Bird poop, on my leg. I was pooped on. In my quest to find McLatte love, I was literally shat upon. The world is laughing at me.

There are two ways to think about this. One, that it is a final sign that McLatte and I were not McMeantToBe. Or, my mother's school of thought, which says that if you are pooped on by a bird, you should buy a lottery ticket. The poop, you see, is a good luck charm.

I am curious as to your thoughts, and if you will sit with me, here, just for a moment, and picture the torture of McLatte wandering into the dark night, out of sight, as I stood waiting impatiently for my drink. And tell me in the comments... is the poop good luck, or a death certificate for my pretend romance?

Just for good measure, I don't drive to work, but if I did... could this happen?

Another edition of "Stuff You Should Know"

I was originally going to do a SYSK post because I read that some rando dude in Utah found dinosaur prints in the land behind his house. But apparently, that was a false report, so I can't write about that anymore. And thank God, because what the hell? Dinosaur footprints? I suppose these things can happen in Germany, but I don't think the Mormons in Utah should be forced to deal with such scientific wonders as dinosaurs. And certainly not dinosaurs who risk breaking their prehistoric purity pledges with risque dancing. (Just kidding, Mormons are actually OK with dancing. But I think some others really need to think about putting the fun back in fundamentalism.) In other freaky-ass science news, Furbys are actually real. And lastly, you all can rest easy, because scientists have mapped the genome for those adorable woolly mammoths. True story: a few months ago, I was driving home and saw a tractor off in the distance, with piles of dark hay piled up in the back of it. But I couldn't make it all out right away, so given its relative shape, and the fact I am mostly blind, my actual thought was "That's a woolly mammoth." Who thinks that?

Since I got off on a religious tangent, let's look at this web site: IveScrewedUp.com. Not much information on the site, but it seems to be run by a church based in Florida, and offers people an anonymous outlet to confess their various indiscretions. A lot of them relate to sex, masturbation, porn, and other things that are likely to make one feel guilt-ridden. But some are of a much more upsetting nature:

I love my best friend and have not told my boyfriend. I killed my son after a so called friend got me drunk. I don't like my ex but her boyfriend I do like. I love my family but sometimes wish my grandfather would pass because he is so hard on me,I am jealous over my brother because he gets all the attention. I feel worthless. I might leave my boyfriend to have a life and a family with my best friend.

That's a lot to process. Interesting how this person murdered their child, but then gets carried away with more pressing matters, such as grandfather issues, and sibling rivalry?

And:

I am in love with my teacher who is 30 years old... I'm also cheating on my boyfriend with 4 other guys. Not to mention, my mom doesn't know I'm dating at all. My father would kill me if he found out. I started dating at age 9. The first guy I dated was a year older than me. I also dated his brother and his cousin. I have gone out with several guys up to 5 years older than me.

Four others? I suppose that is deserving of some type of recognition.

But it's not at all bad. Let's close with a story of rehabilitation and triumph:

I was a peeping tom. I don't do that any more.

Peppermint mocha with a side of McLatte

Recently, I received several queries about the status of my budding "romance" with Hottie McLatte. Unfortunately, I had no news to report, as I hadn't been by his Starbucks in a couple weeks. When we left things, I was worried Hottie McLatte and I might have lost our spark, because I was the recipient of neither a friendly discount nor so much as a lustful gaze. I figured either he fell out of love, or his manager told him he should stop giving employee discounts to every girl who bats her eye lashes. 

But today, boys and girls, our affections reemerged. It bubbled over, steaming and sweet, with the bold jolt of new love. 

Okay, maybe not exactly, but can you humor me here? I took a one-time semi-flirtation and managed to stretch it out over several weeks in the interest of editorial content. This is for you, readers. 

Okay, maybe not exactly. It's really an entirely self-serving endeavor. But I'm not here to talk about my motives. I am here to tell you that today, McLatte and I sallied forth into new territory-- he opened up to me about his past. We shared laughs, prolonged eye contact (my fave), and a warm goodbye. I left with a mocha in my hand, and McLatte on the brain. 

Here's how it went down. I strolled into the Back Bay Starbucks, and saw McLatte placing an order at the counter. I think he glanced my way, but I was too busy nonchalantly drooling over the tempting treats in the glass display. I consider my even seeing him today a serendipitous occasion orchestrated by our Creator because I probably would have missed him, had I not decided to cut out of work a half hour early to stop a Barnes and Noble to pick up this month's gal-pals book club selection.

McLatte and I eventually caught each other's eyes, and he came over to say hello. I asked him if he was working, and he said he was just about to leave, to go home and relax, which might be the last time in a while, because he was starting up school again in January. Woah, holy overshare, Batman. Except not all, because I love oversharing, and I even have a tag in this blog called "Sharing is caring." Turns out McLatte is going back to school to study civil engineering, and the socially-awkward dateless girl inside of me emerged; I grinned like an idiot and exclaimed, "SMARTYPANTS!" Because some things are beyond my intellectual capacity. Things like science. Or engineering. Or the Internet. 

Mercifully, it was time for me to place my order, which I did, while McLatte McSauntered over to the counter to wait for his drink. I played it cool, and stared lustfully at their holiday coffee beans (special brews for Thanksgiving, people) while he made conversation with a man. The queued crowd waiting for their coffees eventually dispersed, until there was a lone cup, which had been sitting there for several minutes. I picked it up; the name written on the side said "Harvey." By this time, McLatte's friend had also left, and he asked the name on the cup. I told him, and he said it was his. 

I knew his name isn't Harvey, so I teased him about picking such a pseudonym that is not at all befitting of his countenance of demeanor. Then, in overarching overshare number 2, he started telling me about how in high school his nickname was Tyson, which led us into discussions about his successes in boxing and football. 

*swoon* 

It was in this moment, however, that I realized McLatte appeared significantly older than I remember. We're all familiar with the forgiving, if not downright flattering, lighting of Starbucks, and he always looked especially fetching behind the counter in the dim lights. In the slightly brighter area of the store, I could see McLatte looked more like 26, instead of the 23 I had guessed, which, let's be honest, only made him more attractive. Also, upon his mention of boxing, it was as if some scars on his forehead emerged like Rudolph's glowing nose, but in a hotter, much more erotic way. Are you still with me? We know how I love a weathered gentleman lover. 

As we continued our conversation, I saw McLatte pour approximately a third of a cup of sugar into his coffee. Conservative estimate. I exclaimed in horror, to McLatte's surprise and delight. This is the man who had made fun of me on more than one occasion for refusing whipped cream, or requesting sugar-free syrup ("You have to live a little!).  Well McLatte, tell me this, will you still love me if I can only wear pants with elastic waists and shirts I sew at home out of bedsheets? 

 While our laughter hung in the air, I figured it was best to make a quick exit while I was ahead. Before I yelled something like "SMARTYPANTS!" again or accidentally referred outloud to him as "Hottie McLatte." I said I had to be on my way, and as I turned to go, he said "All right, Catherine." He said my name with such warm affection. It made my heart swell and my uterus contract just a teensy bit. 

Until next time, McLatte. Until next time. 

Found Magazine

My mother found this stashed away in the drawer of an old table. It appears to be a relic from a time of great anguish in my childhood. Maybe the "you guys" were my brothers, who are awesome and couldn't help but be amazing at everything the earth has to offer. This reminds me of something you might see on Found Magazine, but I would hate to violate their editorial integrity by submitting something I wrote myself, even though I constantly search piles of litter for a gem to send in. So I'll post it here.

We all remember these desperate feelings of inadequacy from our elementary school days, don't we? Also, side note, I don't recall ever going by the name by Cat. I must have been quite young as my spelling is atrocious and the "then/than" confusion is certainly something I cleared up by third grade. Perhaps I thought a new name would bring me better luck:

Love, Mom

Last week, my loyal reader (so what if there's only one?) Meaghen sent me a web site she thought I'd enjoy and suggested I send in a submission. It is called Postcards From Yo Momma, and I must say it is my favorite new voyeuristic/Found Magazine-esque site that I've come across lately. People send in e-mails/voicemails/texts from their mothers, and we get to read them. The site generally keeps a healthy mix of endearing, hilarious, and relatable maternal correspondences. My fan base (Hi, Meaghen) also happens to be a big fan of my own mother, affectionately known as Joanne, who has been known to pen a colorful missive in her time. Today, I bring you one of her more lively notes, written this morning while she was at home making soup and tending to the men who were coldheartedly cutting down some of my favorite childhood trees.

(It should be noted that in our Jon and Kate Plus 8 fanaticism, we have taken to signing e-mails with the names of the various children.) We're okay, I swear. Here it is:

Hello, wish you were here. Here is what's going on:

The Men in Trees are branching off in many directions
Right now they ain't high in my affections
The soup''s aboil
And still they toil
Despite my spirited objections
--Anonymous
I can't believe they are only charging 500 clams for all this. Things will look very different when you get home!

Guess what's playing in the background? That's right my intuitive little gemstone - Dancing with the Stars!!!! Surprise!!!

I have to work on the soup a little bit. Can't disappoint Lester. But I shall return!

All six yiddo "I gotta pee!" Gosselins

And here is one of my favorite recent entries from Postcards from Yo Mamma. I guess it's memorable to me because it sounds like something that could easily come from the warped brain of my own dear matriarch (love you!):

I believe we have a situation going on. Roy was outside over by the fence. That new Pomeranian was barking and Roy was crying a little bit. I think he likes her! We’ve got a Roymeo and Juliet thing perhaps. She (?) had her paws up on the deck, like a balcony, calling out to him. But they are the Capulets and we are the Montagues. She’s not getting her claws into our Roy! Cheeky thing. It’s good he’s going away for the weekend so he can forget about her.

Edit: I'M HALF WAY TO MY 20 POSTS IN 30 DAYS GOAL. Huzzah!

Sacrificing my integrity so you don't have to be bothered.

One of my favorite things about the never-ending sketchfest called Craigslist is its "missed connections" section. This is where dozens of people, who are likely emotionally imblanced or sex starved, post notes to strangers they saw on the street, train, or anywhere else. In a pleasing display of romanticism, they leave these notes on the board and hope the missed connection will read the message. Then, the two will live happily ever after. Or at least go on a really creepy date. I bring you, the best of the Boston area's "missed connections" from this week, written by men to women.

I saw you today (about 4pm or so) browsing in China Fair on Mass Ave.
I tried to make eye contact and smile, but I don't think it worked :(

Okay, this person clearly doesn't understand missed connections. If she never even saw you, how would she know this message is about her? Dumbass.

I admire this second man's attention to wardrobe:

The second I got on the train at Copley and noticed your warm smile, I was smitten. I sorta smiled when I saw that you were enjoying music on your ipod touch so much you were "boppin" your head to it. Seemed like you were enjoying yourself. I was dying to ask you what you were listening to. And I saw the chance to, when that seat opened up right next to you. Instead I froze up, and watched another guy ( the one with the mowhawk )sit in that seat. The seat I should have grabbed.
You got off at Bu east. Thought I'd look out the window to wave if I saw you. But that would not be my luck. Taking your heart-warming beauty with you. Yet leaving some of your positive vibes with me. Thank you , you made my night :)
You wore your blonde hair in pigtails. Had a pair of smooth ocean/sky-blue droplet earrings. A light-cream almost sleeveless top. The shoulders were flared. Flared ,light blue jeans. With a pair of white flip flops.

I was the guy with dreadlocks who was being foolishly shy :)

At least this guy was made a better citizen by his missed connection:

To the girl who talked me into voting again I would love to sit down and chat sometime. I know a great place for fruit drinks

Fruit drinks? Okay, well if I am going to sit through a date with a guy who didn't have the balls to ask me out in real life, I am going to need something a little punchier. And finally, someone who hates Boston (there are people like that?!).

I think Boston is filled with these species and I find it hard to understand them! I just moved here and surprised at their snobbish behavior.

I bet you all wish to kick us all out of here! Right?

And this is happening to me who is no wanker! God knows how the common man is surviving here:).

Maybe next week I'll set up a sting operation to catch one of the hookers from the erotic section. There is really nothing I won't do for this blog.

Never say I didn't warn you.

Recently, while on a binge-perusal of Post Secrets, I came across one with a picture of Mr. Rogers. The writing said "You never prepared me for how cruel the world can be."

This sparked a brilliant idea. What if there was a children's show that did just that? One that prepared children for the twists and turns that are inevitable parts of life, a show where the host informed youngsters of the harsh realities of the adult world. Just imagine. I immediately began formulating a list of show topics in my brain.

Episode One: Car Accidents
Episodes Two and Three: Credit Card and Student Loan Debt
Episode Four: When your boyfriend cheats
Episode Five: Unemployment
Episode Six: Health Insurance.

The options are really limitless. We've all had those moments, where you just want to yell at your parents, your teachers, anyone. YOU NEVER TOLD ME IT WAS GOING TO BE LIKE THIS. This show, while brutal and will most likely reduce viewers to tears, will solve that problem. Children will graduate pre-school well-versed in relevant topics, such as the housing crisis, war in the Middle East, and dependence on foreign oil.

Come on PBS, what do you say? Instead of having that damned trolley lead to the land of make believe, let's give those kids a nice dose of reality.

Please leave suggested titles for the program in the comments section.

Speedy Delivery

Be careful what you write on the postcard, Grandma. I'll read it.

For the past two years, I have worked in the residence halls at SU. Essentially my only responsibility is to sort mail and log packages, so residents know when they have something to pick up. You can imagine, a lot of great things come through the mail room-- and for a person as nosy as me, some days are paradise. I bring you now...

Never-stale: An insider's look at the world of snail mail

The Good:

1) Reading post cards from parents who vacation in tropical locations. All of the "wish you were heres" in the world can't make up for the fact that your mom and dad are in Tahiti and you are nestled into your study carrel in the library for the fourth night in a row. Outside, subfreezing winds howl, and inside, you are crying.

2) Mothers who write cutesy things in the spots for the return address. (Most keep their real addresses).

Mom's Awesome Care Packages!
150 Main Street,
WhoLovesYou, NY 90210

3) Friends from other colleges who adorn letters with stickers and inside jokes. Yes, I do read them. And so does the 50-something-year-old mail man who thinks your doodles of various parts of the male anatomy are absolutely dazzling.

The Bad:

1) Packages or letters that arrive smelling so strongly of smoke you would swear the Marlboro man came back to life and is pen pals with the recipient.

2) The morons who address things to "The best friend in the world!" or "My most beautiful daughter!" with no other discerning address or mailbox number, thus making the item impossible to put into a mailbox. I like to get snotty when residents come down and angrily inquire about the location of the package their BFF mailed "like, seriously, two weeks ago." I smile bitterly and say, "Well, I had a sneaking suspicion you were THE BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD, but please next time ask your friend to write your name. Last time I checked, there was no one registered in this building under the name she provided."

The Ugly:

1) I hate putting Victoria's Secret catalogs in boy's mailboxes. Because you just know.

2) Packages that you can tell are filled with pills. You have no idea how badly I want to know what that medication is and whether it was prescribed by a doctor or illegally ordered from Mexico. I also want to know if I can have some.

(note: any "illegal" activities recorded within are purely works of fiction and the result of the overactive imagination of the writer.)

The FedEx man knows the innermost workings of my soul

The same FedEx man who used to deliver to the main desk in BB still delivers this year to Booth. Last year, he used to make deliveries between 8am and 10, where he would frequently find me dozing in my post, because, frankly, it's a human rights violation to make college-aged students get up much before 10. He always greeted me with a smile, though, and would ask about my day and listen to the answer. If he didn't believe my almost unfailingly cheerful response, he would wait until I made my confession. ''I have a test! I'm tired!" He always calls me (and I am sure every other female on the planet) "dear," which you could say is sexist or inappropriate, but at 8am if you call me anything other than "loser-face" I would probably just crawl into your arms, sigh gently, and little tiny "Z's" would start coming out of my mouth.

Today, he came to deliver in Booth, and I was bent over (in my usual position), and heard him knock, looked up for literally a split second, then turned around to flip the switch to bypass the door and let him in. Immediately he exclaimed, "Uh oh, someone's having a bad day!" This he could tell a split-second flash image of my face as I turned to let him in? What!? I smiled broadly and said "What! Me! Heavens no! I'm in a good mood!" And he looked at me with that "Do I look like an idiot?" glare that I've found most parcel carriers have perfected and said flatly, "Really?" I can't lie to the FedEx man! He stared at me with his soulful brown eyes and defeated, I said, "Well, I'm sick, I think I might have the flu." He said, "I thought as much. I can just tell these things about you, you know."

I stretch because I feel sad

A stranger wraps her hands around my hips and pulls them up toward the ceiling. Then, she moves a hand to the small of my back and puts another one around my rib cage. She pushes, twisting my torso outward.

It's 9:30 a.m., and I feel intensely uncomfortable. I have never spoken to this girl in my life and she is freely groping in third-date territory. Welcome to yoga!

After frustrating schedules in past years, I finally had the time to take a fitness class at SU this semester. For reasons that presently escape me, I decided to take yoga. I figured it would force me to stop being a maniac, who worries incessantly about things like hegemony and cultural genocide, and ''center" myself for a couple hours a week. Despite being about as flexible about as Britney Spears is reasonable, I came to enjoy and look forward to the class.

But in the past weeks, it has somehow devolved into a touchy-feely, earthy crunchy feelings fest. Our Hippy Instructor Extraordinaire, Annie, recently ended class early and instructed everyone to gather in a circle. We were told to state why we were taking yoga and what we hoped to get out of it.

Cue eyeroll. I mentally check out at this point and begin wondering whether there is enough change in my bag for coffee at People's Place.

The sharing begins. Mary takes yoga because her grandmother is 84 and is as bendy as the day she was born, and by God, Mary wants to be like that too! (Have you ever tried to bend a baby? LIKE RUBBER BANDS, THEY FLEX!)

Julie is a senior and is having trouble facing the stressful reality that, in nine short months, she will have to be a Big Girl. Yoga, she is sure, will fix this and postpone the onset of reality. I picture Julie pulling out tufts of hair at a cubicle, breathing deeply and whipping out a Warrior III yoga pose, just as her boss rounds the corner to ask about those cover sheets for the TPS reports.

Instructor Annie looks on sympathetically, eyebrows furrowed, listening closely to her pupils' tales of woe. She tells us her story-- she moved to San Francisco to be a dancer (flapper?), but it didn't work out. The room is heavy, wondering what catastrophe befell Annie. What could keep Annie from the stage?! My nagging questions go unanswered, and Annie tell us she happily teaches dance and yoga now and lives a comfortable life with husband and dog. By piecing together the chronology of her tale, she is at least 10 years older than I thought. Note to Lindsay Lohan: Maybe you should do yoga because you have aged 20 years in the last three.

But this interruption to class, while annoying, is not entirely maddening. But fast forward to the next class. Annie stops us again with 30 minutes left, instructs us to count off by ones and twos, with each group going to an opposite side of the studio. Walk backwards, she says. Then, CRASH INTO SOMEONE AND TALK TO THEM. We are not allowed to ask regular questions like majors, years, and all of that. We are to ask deep, soul-probing questions and report back to the class about the girl that we met.

Cindy: This is Emily, her dog just died and she feels constipated today.
Emily: This is Cindy, she loves Hello Kitty and wants to operate hot air balloons for a living.

Do you feel my pain? I love engaging strangers in conversation, don't get me wrong. But not in yoga, which seems to be happening with increasing frequency. Last week, when I was feeling particularly in the zone, Annie stopped class because our ''energy" was too heavy.

Dear Professor,
I will not be handing in my research paper. It makes my energy too heavy. Please let me know if there is a sexual favor I could perform in exchange for credit.
Thanks,
Catherine

Today, when we partnered up with people to do the aforementioned adjusting of each other's postures, I could not have wanted to do anything less. Maybe I am being overly self-conscious or narrow-minded, but am I asking too much if I want to do downward dog by myself, without the probing finger tips of strange girls all over my body?

Just saying.