Yo, I'm just loungin', G...

I think I ripped that line off a Marky Mark song from back in the day, but it just seemed to fit, especially in light of the velour track suit.

So...

I was fourteen and a resident of a Boston suburb in 1990. As such, I loved me some New Kids on the Block. The confluence of events that brought them into my life at that moment was like a perfect storm of hormones and bubble gum music and I really can't remember anything before or since that inspired that sort of frantic excitement in me. The pure thrill that would buzz through me at the merest sighting of them on TV or a snippet of one of their songs on the radio, or a picture in a magazine...it was intoxicating. Don't even get me started on what it was like when my uncle got me an autographed picture of Joey McIntyre (my chosen favorite)...I was delirious.

My friends and I shamelessly stalked these people, along with God knows how many other girls our age. We were known to do ridiculous things like insist upon driving by Joey's house on the way to one friend's asthma doctor. (Yea. We went to the doctor with her just so we could drive by his house.) Once, when we were going to a concert, we set all the clocks in that same friend's apartment ahead an hour so we could leave earlier. People got to their concerts HOURS ahead of time, hoping for a sighting. Also, that friend's mom should probably be canonized, just for what she had to put up with from our 14 year old selves. She was the first adult I swore in front of, when the Pay Per View feed we were enjoying from six inches away momentarily froze in the middle of the introduction to a concert. Yes, you read correctly. The actual concert hadn't even begun yet.

My poor sister was 20 years old and came home from college to a room absolutely COVERED in images of these people in whom she had no interest. I had removed her beloved Jon Bon Jovi in favor of my beloved Joey. She was outraged, clearly. So saturated was she (unwillingly) in these images that she was known, on occasion, to dream of the fellas. Unlike me, however, she did NOT awake devastated that the dreams had ended. Go figure.

My Dad was the most supportive of my fandom. He bought me all the New Kids CD's. He bought me my concert tickets. Once, he even bought me my OWN Pay Per View concert. My Mom was...displeased, to say the least - mainly because I had a date on the night of the concert, so wasn't even home to watch the thing, meaning she and my Dad had to tape it for me. Naturally, after an evening of feigned indifference of all things New Kids, I RAN home and watched the tape, in its entirety, twice.

By the time they released their last album in 1994 (which, of course, my Dad brought home to me the day it was released), I was a senior in high school and had largely moved on musically to the more timely and hip likes of R.E.M. and Pearl Jam. I was curious enough about the album to give it a few listens, hoping to find some of the magic I remembered form four years earlier. But...that album just wasn't all that good, much as it still pains me to say it. That, combined with my 18 year old self consciousness over actually liking a (gasp!) boy band in the mid-nineties was enough to cause me to turn my back on my idols. A sad day, indeed.

Now, here it is in 2008, and the New Kids are reuniting. And I have to admit, it's pretty enjoyable. It's not as heady as it was 18 years ago. It couldn't be. I have more life experience and fewer hormones raging through me. But it's oddly comforting to see them on my TV once again, to remember how much joy they brought me at a pivotal moment in my life, to remember how daydreaming about Joey McIntyre afforded me an escape during some tough times. I'm hardly a 14 year old girl. I'm a wife and a mother. And I'm hardly going to plaster posters on my walls. I have actual art (apologies to Lynn Goldsmith - I do not mean to imply that your lovely book was not actual art). But I will surely go to see them perform, and remember that time Joey TOTALLY looked right at me from the stage of Worcester Centrum, back in 1990.

Tired

I haven't written here in a couple weeks. I've been in kind of a down cycle lately. I've been so exhausted and uninspired. I try to be a positive person, and especially lately, I've been trying to be more positive, but the past couple weeks, I've been struggling with that. I just get flat out exhausted, and I think that makes it more difficult to stay positive. Work has been frustrating too, so that doesn't help. If I have to spend time away from my son, I want it to be at least time well spent, you know? And sometimes, I feel like I'm just swimming against a current in my career. I want to find that thing that I'm meant to do. I know it's out there, just like how I used to want the right person to come along, and then he did. I know that right career path is out there. And I know what it is. I just need to stop hiding and make it happen. I think there is a part of me that is afraid to go for it, because if it doesn't pan out, then what would I dream of, you know? But the thing is, I know it will pan out. I do. I know it with everything in me. There isn't a shred of doubt. It's just like I've been holding myself back...and I don't know why. And then I have phases like I'm in right now when I feel mentally exhausted and my inspiration is all dried up. I've got to find a way to recharge, so I can go out there and get my career going.

Six Months!...and six days...

Last Friday, April 25th, my son turned six months old. My plan was to write a post that day to mark the occasion. But...he had other ideas. We had an errand to run at noontime, so I was getting him ready to go, when...he projectile vomited all over me. LOVELY. It seemed like maybe his lunch just hadn't settled right, so I changed him and got him ready and we headed out. We got to the parking lot of Babies R Us and I put him into his stroller. He then...projectile vomited all over me again. So, instead of running errands and writing blog posts, we went to visit the pediatrician. He had a stomach flu, and recovered pretty quickly. But then I got the stomach flu and didn't recover as quickly. I haven't been that ill in a long while. So, all this to explain why this post is six days late. But happy belated six month birthday, Buddy!

The past six months have been the most amazing I've had. You hear all these amazingly corny things about parenthood and what it's like...but the thing is, it really is everything they say it is. I have always had an abundance of love in my life. I have so many family members and good friends around me. I never felt like there was any shortage of love in my life, especially not since I've known my husband, who has brought even MORE love to my life. But in the last six months, I've experienced a kind of love I didn't even know existed. All those things you read in greeting cards about a heart beating outside your own body and all that...it's all sort of just TRUE. It's pretty effing cool.

Farewell, Old Friend...

One of the great tragedies (and there are many) of the scandal in the Catholic church the past few years is that the name of priest has been largely besmirched. We've heard about priest after priest acting in horrifyingly inappropriate ways, of abusing their posts and the trust that comes along with it. It's made many of us who grew up Catholic doubt the church as a whole, and priests in general. And that is a shame, because although far, far too many priests have indeed abused their posts, the tertiary victims here are the truly decent human beings who have gone into the priesthood with the most decent of intentions, those who have offered wisdom, guidance and caring to those of us who were (or in many cases, were not) members of their congregations.

One such priest, Father Clyde Chetwynde, was a huge part of my Catholic experience growing up. Whatever devotion I have left for the Catholic church comes largely from his teachings. He was someone I could discuss religion with, confess my sins to, ask my questions of, all without fear of judgment or reproach. He was someone who was devoted to bringing the youth back to the church, and whom parents could trust with their children, never having to fear that he would abuse that trust.

Father Clyde passed away on Saturday, and I, along with all those who were blessed to know him, will miss him greatly. Rest in peace, "God."

Simple Pleasures

It never fails to amaze me how much more simple pleasures mean to me since having my son. Honestly, I could easily spend a full day snuggling with him, smooching his cheeks, listening to him giggle and coo, and never be remotely bored. He's got about the greatest giggle I've ever heard...granted, I'm completely biased. He's such a little snuggle bug and he's got the sweetest smile and voice. It makes my Sunday scaries even worse than they've ever been because after having the weekend with him, I dread leaving him to go to work. I'd so much rather hang out with him. But I know it's good for him - he loves daycare and they love him. And it's good for me, too. Plus, I do like getting a paycheck. But...I think I could forego the paycheck for more time to listen to that giggle. Best. Sound. EVER.

BFF's

I've had the same best friend, more or less, since I was seven years old. I feel like that's somewhat rare in this day and age. We're really more like family at this point than friends. We drive each other crazy sometimes, we've had our clashes, we've gone for stretches not talking (not long stretches, mind you). But we've always made it back to being best friends. We rely on each other in a way that we can't rely on anyone else. We have a certain sensibility and sense of humor that we instinctively "get" with each other. And it's so comforting to have that - to know that I can write a three word email and she'll know exactly what I'm talking about - to know that I can cause her to dissolve in hysterics with a slight hand gesture signifying some years-old inside joke.

We went for drinks on Thursday night - our first cocktail night since I had my son. It was such fun. Then yesterday, I caught the scene in How Stella Got Her Groove Back when Angela Bassett's character is visiting Whoopi Goldberg's character in the hospital and Whoopi's near death. Scenes like that always kind of tear me up because I always think - what would I do if I lost my best friend? I mean, yea, I have the same thoughts when someone in a movie loses her husband or mother or child, but today I'm talking about my best friend. It just brings home the fact that I count on her in a million little ways that most of the time I don't even give a thought to. There is a certain kind of feedback that only she can provide. It's funny how you can know someone your whole life and most of the time, you don't even think to thank them for the million little things they might do for you, you know? So, I guess I want to thank my bff for being the funniest girl I know, the girl who got me through a million little heartaches, the girl who never judged me for my moments of bad judgment, the one who believed in me a million times I didn't believe in myself.