QUACK!

My parent’s road is flooded, as in completely impassable. We have become the Chappy of the western suburbs of Boston…you know, [celebrity filled] neighborhoods which are only accessible by boat. Residents at the far end of Pelham Island Road are unable to leave because flood waters have them surrounded. Come out with your hands up!

Solution? Bring in the duckboats.

For all you nons, Duckboats are a fleet of land-to-water megaboats that transports tourists to and fro all the historical and culture cornerstones of Boston. To all Bostonians, the Duckboats are a mass tourist movement company that efficiently moves slow, meandering tourists around the city, effectively getting them out of our way. I am 90% duckboat fan; the other 10% of me cannot forgive the lone boat who snuck up behind me and sneak attacked me with massive amounts of group duckboat quacking. Apparently I wasn’t in a non-quacking zone (yes, they have those) but regarless, I may never come back from that. All details aside, Duckboats have now temporarily found a home in my parents suburban neighborhood/standing body of water.

Luckily for Bob and Diane, our home is on the civilization side, meaning we can access the Metropolis that is my hometown without needing to take a boat. As if Sudbury, MA isn’t already completely separated from all other walks of life as is, Mother Nature wanted to isolate our road even further. Thanks, girlfriend!

This whole duckboat conundrum leaves me with one very important question. Is Pelham Island Road a quack-free zone? Do I now need to remain alert on walks with my mother incase a feisty duckboat crew decides perform another surprise quake-a-thon at my expense? I wonder if the driver has prompted them to quack, and if those being transported to and from our beautiful wildlife sanctuary are in good enough spirits to participate.

I am hoping we remain quack free but at this point, anything is possible.

Also, looking forward to another three inches of rain this evening!

TGI(w)T

Thank God it (was) Thursday! (Woopsie!)

This is my annual "I don't know jack about collegiate basketball" March Madness bracket that I make with my father (who also doesn’t know jack.) I have now made her public. Please note: I am very sensitive about my picks, especially when they loose.

I still get anxiety about completing this bad boy. I sit there and stare at it, with no background information.

A majority of my picks have nothing to do with the actual sport of basketball. Below is an example of my inner monologue when picking between Notre Dame (#6) vs Old Dominion (#11)
Self #1: Well, ND is the familiar name here, so they will win because I know who they are.
Self #2: But what if ODU is the #11 upset and wins? ODU is the winner.
Self #1: Yes, but Bud (my grandfather, may he rest in peace) loved Notre Dame, so I should pick them to win.
Self #2: Yes, but Bud also loved the Giants, and they didn’t win this year.
Self #1: True, ODU is going to win because their colors are pretty, and their mascot is a lion

TGI(w)T: Kristin, you don’t know shit about basketball, so even if you only get a few right this further proves that you have slight psychic abilities…and yes, there is a direct correlation between the two.

springing to summer?

I don’t want this to turn into a meteorology blog by any means, but March’s weather has been purely unpredictable. Yes, Spring by definition is supposed to be inconsistent, but this spring has been particularly hormonal…to put it lightly.

This year, New England Spring is the mid-puberty adolescent daughter of Mother Nature, complete with mood swings and tears.

Monday graced us with 8 inches of rain, hurricane force winds, and flash flooding, which was fun by all standards.

Tuesday came along and Spring then felt bad for making such a stink over the weekend. She cleared the clouds away and left us with crisp but unusually sunny weather. To be honest, the sharp contrast was mildly ophthalmologically offensive, being that my eyes hadn’t seen sunlight, nevermind cloudless sunlight, in over 5 days.

Still redeeming herself, today was another absolutely perfect day, stunna even. The sun was warm (judging by the 7 minutes of outdoor time I got today) and the skies were the perfect shade of blue. It wasn’t too cold, but I wasn’t uncomfortably warm in my [very fashionable] blazer.

To ice the cake, I predict that both Friday and Saturday will send thermometers into shock, clocking in at 68 and 66 degrees respectively. It will be perfect. I will whip out my flip flops and pool floaties, just incase I can find some time to soak up some rays.

I think about this and smile; this must mean that summer is just around the corner, right? Wrong! This is not Florida in June. This is New England people, in March nonetheless. I predict after this weekend of pure bliss, we are due for at least one more solid frost and/or deep freeze, only to then thaw out again and plateau in a semi-cool spring until July. Maybe you find me to be pessimistic, but I am going with realistic.

So for now, I will enjoy the premature spring that is being handed to me, and wait for Indian Summer (my favorite season of all).

hop shuffle leap tip!

Today is Tuesday, and that means two things:

1. tomorrow is Wednesday which means essentially, I am halfway through my work week
2. tonight is my tap class.

Yes, laugh it up if you want to, but I take a tap class and I find it to be one of the most enjoyable parts of my week, you know, besides that small light at the end of the tunnel called “the weekend.”

I am a life-long dance enthusiast (duh), and tap has always been one of my favorite genres of dance…especially to perform. Tap was always my favorite class throughout the years (besides those senior company classes where we performed fosse-esque numbers that allowed me prance around like a hootch with little to no repercussions.) There is nothing more therapeutic for me than throwing on a pair of tap shoes, and cramprolling my problems away.

In all seriousness, what is there not to love? I am wearing a pair of flat shoes with large metal noise makers on the bottom and encouraged to stomp, stamp, step, or hop around (yes, those are all different tap moves, and all require different weight shifts)!

Talk about serious stress relief, unless of course we rewind back to my tap glory days in high school, where if I didn’t land all four sounds in my double pull backs, my dance teacher would threaten to cut off my leg. (Oh, the memories…)

And so, in the words of said dance teacher (when happy): “Of to tippity-tap!”

1 in of rain= 1 ft of snow

What did I do this weekend? Well, like most New Englanders, I fought with Mutha Nay-tcha! Yes, God was doing some serious crying...and no one was able to stop him.

Now usually, I love me a good spring rainstorm. For one, rain serves as an excellent excuse for almost anything. Don’t want to go to the gym? Don’t worry about it, its raining! Want to watch television all day? Why wouldn’t you- its raining! Don’t want to go out tonight? Probably shouldn’t because its raining! Accidently got excessively drunk when you were forced to go out? Obviously, its raining!

Secondly, rain serves as the perfect backdrop to the end of a wintry/springy weekend. Throw in some lightning, a bit of (light, but not overly aggressive) thunder, a good television show, a bottle of wine and a pizza, and you have yourself a pretty wonderful Sunday evening.

This is not to say that I approve of this weekend’s weather forcast. This weekend was more of a monsoon than it was an enjoyable storm; and I enjoy rain, not aggressive, yet slowly moving walls of water. So, besides the major road floodings and closures, a declared state of emergency, a washed out bridal shower, and some minor (very minor) hydroplaning, I would rate this rainy weekend in the high 9's.

And for the record, so proud of myself for fixing the windshield wiper prior to the wall of water that moved in on Friday afternoon. I most likely avoided causing myself a coronary. Mazel Tov, Kristin. You are learning!

When life gives you lemons, fix your own wiper

Today was a big day.

Today I fixed Sass’s broken windshield wiper. Alone. I used multiple tools.

Yes, yes I did.

I had an inkling that I would be able to do it myself, as the last time my wiper broke (yes, it happens often) I hovered over the Saab tech, watching his every move of the 35 second fix. I remember driving away from the dealership feeling defeated after seeing how easy it was to complete the repair, and knowing that the techy was inside the dealership mocking me and my inability to speak car talk, nevermind understand it. Generally, I walk into the service center, and my appearance alone triggers cash register sounds for the technicians. Cha-ching! I hate that feeling. I am smart. I am quick to understand. Do not treat me like I am inept, and then charge me $150 for an oil change, thank you very much.

So, today was the day where I either had to make the call to Saab, or fix the wiper myself. I decided today was the day where I take back my voice… and did I ever take it back.

I fixed it, and yes, I had a witness. My mother, who is my #1 supporter in all my “I can do it myself” endeavors (which usually end up with me making the problem even larger), came down to the garage to bear witness to this miraculous event. And while I am sure the thought of me failing, and ultimately breaking the windshield wiper completely off my car, had her ready to run, Diane did very well throughout the exercise, and even participated with a celebratory thumbs up upon my fix.

I admit my experience was not free of problems. The once 35 second fix for the techy ultimately turned out to be a 35 minute fix for this novice, but I attribute a majority of that time to searching for the correct tools in my father’s OCD organized workshop. (Do not ever borrow a pair of scissors from Bob’s workshop, even if you put them back he will still know they were used.)

After a quick hood pop, removal of a decorative cover and some quick, but stern bolt tightening, I had single-handedly fixed my own windshield wiper. Mission complete.

I would like to take a moment to thank Sass and acknowledge her willingness to accept change. I know today was a turning point in our relationship because even though she knew that I had never operated on a vehicle before, she still trusted me enough to fix her.

Sass and I are no longer fighting.

TGIT

Being fifth row at the Bruins / Mapleleafs game last week? Good!

Being forced onto the jumbo tron 3+ times? Great!

Bruins winning in a shoot out? Amazing!

Watching one of Tim Thomas' best NHL games? TGIT...especially for my family...

Here he is, the man of the year: Tim Thomas. The player who owes his entire professional career to my father, who believes he single handedly fostered it with a single nod. For more information on said nod, read #4 of"...and Canada Dry Gingerale." If you would like my father to foster the career of one of your loved ones, please feel free to email me. TGIT!