I've had a few little moments lately when I've thought, "I really should blog about that," but then ... nothing. Truth is, none of the little moments add up to more than a quick sentence or two; none is really a blog post. Therefore, I give you ...

SOME MOMENTS, by Shelley:

Moment Number Uno
I look in my rearview at the red light yesterday and I see a young-ish (okay, around my age) good-lookin' guy in the driver's seat of the car behind me. He has his arms kind of folded above his head in a semi-stretch, and floating near his hands is a frolicking puppy. Frolic, frolic, frolic. It takes me a little while to realize that there is a small child in a car seat directly behind "Dad" who is playing with a stuffed doggie, and not just a floating puppy in the car. Freaky.

Moment Number Deuce
There is a short older lady who is a secretary for my VP at work. She speaks broken English with a very heavy (Russian, I think) accent and I find it very difficult to understand her. On the few occasions when I have managed to have a (brief) conversation with her, I have found her to be rather odd. As in, laughing at completely random (non-humorous) things that I might say or asking completely out-of-the-blue questions that suggest she didn't understand a single word of the conversation I at least thought we had been having up until that point.

So anyway, today I was headed out to a meeting when I saw a short, stocky woman waiting for the elevator in a bright (like, electric) purple sweater with black elongated circles on it, at one end of each of which were smaller, solid black circles. The woman was facing away from me and I was sort of mesmerized looking at her sweater when I realized who she was and what the design was meant to look like. It was this woman and she had big black pitted olives* on her purple sweater. I still can't decide why I think this is weird.

Moment Number Trois
Yesterday I did laundry at a laundromat for the first time in many years. It is freaking expensive and I don't ever want to have to do that again. Which is what motivated me, when I got home from said laundromat, to chip away at the ice that has formed surrounding the gate leading into my back yard, through which I must travel to get to the door to the cellar where the laundry room is located in my three-family house. If one of the Hulk-sized icicles hanging from the eaves of our house and the neighbors' had fallen while I was out there, I would have been impaled and killed instantly. Fortunately, none fell, I'm unhurt, and yet? I am cranky that no one (including me) cleared this path before it became a hazard to spend more than a few seconds out there under the dangling icicles from hell. Also? No one else bothered to lug out the two weeks' worth of trash and recycling that has accumulated in our trash shed since the blizzard. Today was our first trash pickup in two weeks and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to get all the trash and newspapers, etc. out of this place.

Oh, and a little confidential note to whichever of my housemates put a tattered plastic grocery bag overfilled with old spiral notebooks and loose papers into the recycle bin: You f*cking suck. The bag fell apart and spilled every last single page of your crap onto the slushy sidewalk when I carried the stuffed-beyond-the-gills bin to the curb. First of all, next time try a paper bag, genius (it's called recycling for a reason), and make sure all of the stuff actually fits. Then make sure that said bag is placed firmly into a recycle bin, not just balanced precariously on the top of an overflowing bin. Yes, I picked it all up. You're freaking welcome.

Okay, so those were more than a sentence or two. But they still weren't worthy of real posts, so I stand by my earlier remarks. *nyah*

* The kind I used to put on all my fingertips and then eat when I was a kid. (Oh, don't laugh at me in that mocking way of yours. I know you did it, too.)

Chris asked:

How do you motivate yourself to leave the house in that mess? I don't want to leave my house when it's less than 50 degrees.

My response:

Seriously? The motivation is to avoid chopping ice off of your car later (i.e., having to leave for work at 5 a.m. the next day to build in time for car-excavation; oh, and have I mentioned I am NOT a morning person?), so ideally you get out there as soon as it stops snowing, but while it's still light out and before the temperature drops any further. As for my stroll yesterday, it was nominally intended to warm me up since the power was out and the chill was starting to pervade my apartment. While I was at it, I figured I should pop my N*tFlix movies into the mail or else I'd be movieless until the weekend ... and when the mailbox closest to my house was still buried, I thought it would be the safest bet to go all the way to the post office instead. (Sure enough, N*tFlix already e-mailed me this a.m. to let me know that my movies were received. Go USPS!)

Besides, I actually love the snow!! (I hate driving in it or trying to find a parking space when snowbanks overtake the roadways, but DAMN! I love the white stuff!)

P.S. Today I am officially a true Bostonian: This morning I left a blue recycling bin to reserve the parking space I painstakingly cleared the other day. I have never "hosied" a space before, but I defy anyone else to enjoy the fruits of my hard labor whilst I cruise the neighborhood looking for parking tonight, muttering expletives all the while. *shaking fist at the heavens --- and the neighbors*

P.P.S. My fingertips still have some black dye on them from the soaking wet black leather gloves I was wearing when I shoveled on Sunday. I consider this, along with my sore back, quads and glutes, to be a badge of honor of the highest order.

Ed. note: I stand corrected: The spelling is "hoseyed," not "hosied" and it is defined here as a regional New England term for choosing sides in children's games, but more often we "hoseyed" (or "called") the front seat in the car(or the hat in Monopoly or the turkey drumstick).

At 9 o'clock this morning, I shoveled our front steps and sidewalk. At 3 p.m. I went out to dig out my car, only to find that it had been buried extra deep courtesy of a neighbor with his snowblower. I nicely pointed out to him what he had done and asked if he would help me by blowing away some of the snow around my car, which he did grudgingly. It still took me over two hours to dig out my car. Mad props to Bobby, the dude from across the street who helped me with the last bits after he dug out his own truck that was parked next to me. Buddy, I'd've kissed you on the lips for all your help but for your girlfriend who trotted out to monitor our conversation. (Chill, chica. I know he's yours because he was talking about you incessantly before you came outside. Yeesh.)

There are a few pictures in the extended entry, in case you're curious about the storm, which dumped about 26 inches of the white stuff here in the land of the bean and the cod.

Here's the view from my kitchen out to my deck:

Here's what I found when I opened our front door:

My street in beautiful East Boston:

Drifts on my deck:

And my boss called me around 2 p.m. to tell me that we're closed tomorrow. Woooooooo! Snow days RULE!!!! (But frostbitten toes hurt. Owie.)

RIP Johnny Carson.

Thanks for the mammaries, dude.

Kayak
Racecar
Madam, I'm Adam.
A man. A plan. A canal: Panama.
Boston did not sob.

Now you.

... but because I can't bring myself to let house9 down, I bring you this meme:

1) What is the total number of music files on your computer?

Only about 10 songs. *shrug* Why so few? Well, for one, I only recently got DSL; before that, dial-up made downloading painful. But as it turns out, I think I have plenty of music to play on my home stereo and in my car without downloading, am not willing to pay to download, and am not willing to break the law to do it for free. Also, when I've tried searching for songs I'd like to download that might be legally available for free, I can never find what I want. Maybe I just don't have the patience for it.

2) The CD you last bought is:

I bought all of the following at once:
Modest Mouse - Good News For People Who Love Bad News
Les Nubians - One Step Forward
The Cure - The Cure
Sarah McLachlan - Afterglow

3) What is the song you last listened to before reading this message?

I Hear Laughter In The Rain. Seriously. I'm sorry to say that I just got home from the mall and, since I listened to Car Talk on the way home, that was the last song I heard before sitting down at the computer. Can't get it out of my head now, either. (Oddly enough, the cat doesn't seem to enjoy me singing it at the top of my lungs. I don't understand why.)

4) Write down 5 songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you:

Love and Affection - Joan Armatrading
Walking in Memphis - Marc Cohn
Will You Remember Me? - Sarah McLachlan
Let's Stay Together - Al Green
Get On The Bus - Violent Femmes

I'll leave you to wonder which songs mean a lot to me and which ones I just happen to listen to a lot.

5) Who are you going to pass this stick to? (3 persons) and why?

I'm not going to pass the baton (or whatever) to anyone in particular, but if you want to give it a shot, you have my blessing. Go nuts.

Can I tell you something wicked cool?

Can I? Huh?

Okay, good. So I’ve mentioned before that I am in a couple of weddings this spring, right? One of them is, believe it or not, a heterosexual pairing, as shocking as that may seem to those of you who know my friends. And I am to be a groomswoman, or a groomsmaid, or whatever you want to call it when a woman is standing up for her male friend in his wedding. And as if that wasn’t cool enough all by itself …

I have been invited to go on the male-only bachelor-party weekend junket! In Montreal! Woo-hoo! Strip clubs, here we come!

Hey. Wait just one cotton-swabbin’ minute here. I mean, it’s all good that I’ll be the only woman with a bunch of horny (married-or-about-to-be-married but still) straight men. That’s hot, for sure. (In an essentially sick and twisted way, but hot nonetheless.) But it suddenly occurs to me that the strippers they’re gonna want to see are probably not exactly of the gender of stripper that I might just possibly well not really oh hell yes I sure the heck do wanna see.

Would it be impolite for me to go to a different strip club than the rest of the group?

Now this will obviously not be a problem for the other wedding I’m in this spring. I know for a fact that both of those grooms want to see the same strippers I want to see. My only question there is, what’s the etiquette about bachelor parties when two men are getting married anyway? Do they get a joint bachelor party? Or do you do two separate ones? Or do they really just want a (pre-jail) Martha Stewart-esque themed groomal (groomal?) shower featuring items from P*ttery Barn, Pier One, and Rest*ration Hardware instead and forget the naked men?

You need to see Hotel Rwanda.

You also need to see this. Why, you ask? Because I am a big flaming bleeding-heart liberal commie pinko spy and I said so. That's why.

At the risk of having two downer posts in a row, today would have been my father's 71st birthday. He died exactly 2 weeks shy of turning 61.

I miss you, Daddy.

I used to work with a woman named Bess. She ran the mailroom of the small company we worked for, and everything operated like a well-oiled machine under her guidance. She could handle bulk mailings of tens of thousands of pieces or just a single first-class envelope with the same level of smooth professionalism and swiftness. The only thing that was odd about Bess was that she was, well, a little bit of an odd duck.

We all know someone like this, to one degree or another. A little bit socially awkward and shy, only "opening up" after knowing someone for a very long time, but even then never truly opening up. Always seeming to march to the beat of a different accordion player. Not seeming to notice or care when her behavior seemed a bit out of the standard range. Stuff like that.

Bess was very quiet, kept to herself, was very friendly when spoken to but rarely initiated contact. Intensely shy, if you suggested having lunch together, she would laugh nervously and say "Sure," but the look in her eyes said she didn't believe you would follow through. She never would follow up on such things. If specific dates were suggested, she would (conveniently? coincidentally?) be out sick that day. Even her closest friend at work, Rayna, with whom she would share cigarette breaks at least 8 times each day, could never convince Bess to come out for a drink or dinner after work. When Bess' longtime, beloved boss announced she was resigning, Bess went home with a stomach ache and didn't return for a full week. She really didn't seem to realize that it was obvious to everyone why she suddenly didn't feel well.

Her personal life was closely guarded. Essentially all we knew was that she was in her forties (that was a few years back when we worked together; now she is closer to 50), had never married, had no significant other (and never spoke of any past relationships), lived alone in a studio apartment on Beacon Street in Brookline, had no car, walked everywhere, smoked, looked (and dressed) a bit androgynous and asexual like "It's Pat" from Saturday Night Live, except when she smiled and her face lit up and she became strangely lovely and girlish, and refused (without ever seeming to be refusing) to eat a meal with or in front of anyone we knew.

We knew that her parents were divorced and that they both lived elsewhere in Massachusetts. She frequently spoke of her father fondly. None of our colleagues had met or spoken with either of her parents. She had worked for our company for over 20 years, yet none of our colleagues had ever socialized with her outside of work or had any idea what she did with her time. Most of our colleagues wouldn't have attempted to get close to Bess; she was not their "kind." She wasn't pretty enough, funny enough, social enough, "cool" enough, or *something* enough for most people. But those who made an effort to draw her out had discovered a heart of gold, even if that heart was encased in something protective, maybe even secretive.

At times I had speculated that she might have an eating disorder. She wasn't thin but had the almost-but-not-quite-chubby build that characterizes some bulimics and binge eaters. A couple of colleagues wondered if she was a deeply closeted lesbian. Another theorized that she had an alcohol problem, claiming to have smelled alcohol on Bess' breath and pointing out her ruddy Irish complexion as some sort of corroborating evidence. At the very least, it didn't seem like too much of a stretch to think that she might have some level of social anxiety combined with an intense protectiveness of her privacy, whether for its own sake or to actually hide something.

About two months ago, Bess arranged to take two weeks off from work. Most people assumed she was simply taking some of her much-deserved and long-accrued vacation time. She confided in her boss and a few select people at work, however, that she had had a biopsy and had been diagnosed with an early stage of cancer. She was going in to have surgery to remove a tumor, after which she and her doctors would determine what her subsequent course of treatment might be. There seemed to be no reason to think all would not go smoothly. A week into her leave, her mother called the office to speak with her boss. The official word was that Bess was ill and would be out of the office for an undetermined period of time. As surprising and upsetting as that news was for those who believed Bess was simply on vacation, those of us who knew a little bit more were alarmed.

Bess' parents did not know that Bess had confided in any of her friends and colleagues. Bess' parents didn't want anyone to visit. One of Bess' parents specifically requested that no one attempt to contact her. Bess' parents severely underestimated Bess' smoking buddy, Rayna, and some of the others who had spent five days a week with Bess for 5, 10, even 25 years. One of Bess' parents finally revealed that Bess had developed an infection after her initial, successful surgery which had necessitated another surgery. During the second surgery, Bess suffered cardiac arrest. She was in a coma for about a week. When she came out of the coma, we were told that she was going into a rehab hospital to convalesce. What we didn't learn right away was that Bess apparently suffered some sort of brain damage during this course of events and not only didn't recognize people but was not able to speak, walk, or breathe on her own. She could follow lights or people with her eyes, but did not respond to questions or other stimuli. She was physically able to move her head, arms and legs, but did not do so when prompted.

The majority of people in the office still don't know most of this story. They don't know about the initial cancer or the scheduled surgery. They have just been told that Bess became ill and underwent surgery which ended up with her suffering some sort of event that requires her to undergo long-term rehabilitation. They are picturing her using weights and treadmills to get strong enough to take care of herself at home and return to work in the near future. What they don't know is that Bess probably will never work again; probably will never live on her own again. And they don't realize that even those of us who would like to visit her and believe our visits would be welcomed (despite her own predilection for privacy) are being thwarted by a parent who presumably means well but who doesn't even entertain the notion that maybe, just maybe, Bess would remember one or another of us or might be affected in a positive way if we came to visit. That we would only visit for short stints, one or two of us at a time, and if we seemed to be causing any agitation, we would leave.

You hear so much about people in comas and vegetative states who really do hear and sense the things going on around them. I wonder if a parent who likely instilled in his or her child this intense protectiveness of her privacy -- and, perhaps, her very social awkwardness -- could possibly understand that this adult child, this grown woman, might actually receive a real benefit from the caring and concern of her friends, such as we are.

Do all cats go crazy about the smell and taste of chlorine?

My cat can't seem to get enough of me after I go swimming. She normally loves it when I scratch her head and neck (c'mon, what self-respecting cat DOESN'T?), but on days when I have been in the chlorinated pool at my gym, she won't allow me to scratch her. Why, you ask? Because she's much too busy licking my hands obsessively with that sandpapery kitty tongue of hers. Is there some weird cat thing about chlorine? Or is this just another weird Olivia thing? 'Cause all this licking makes me think of that line from "The Truth About Cats & Dogs": "It's okay to love your pets; just don't LOVE your pets."

I adore the snow. I love the way it looks when it's falling. I love the way everything looks when coated with it. I love the echoing hush that comes over the world when the snow settles over all the dirt and chaos and bare trees and bushes. Just outside my ground floor office window there is a little terraced patio, with tables and benches and small trees, all of which are now blanketed with about three inches of fresh, clean, perfect snow. I want to go make a snow angel out there on the patio at lunchtime. I want to run through the Arboretum in JP tonight and be the first to make tracks in the white, velvety carpet there. I don't want to think about how filthy and brown and mud-spattered the roads will look tomorrow once the plows and sanders and filthy cars and trudging people have done their work. For now, I can believe that the entire world is beautiful and clean and perfectly untouched, something like the way a carpet looks after it's vacuumed or the grass right after it's mowed, with the threads and blades all seeming to lean in the same direction until the first footprints destroy the smooth symmetry of it all. For now, it's exquisite and I wish it could last forever.

Okay, okay. You can all stop holding your collective noses now. I took a long, soapy shower, mostly in deference to my dear work colleagues. In fact, I've bathed several times since I last posted. If something still stinks around here, it's probably all the smelly spam.

Those bastards.

So in case you were wondering, my cat is WAY better than your dog. Yep, she now knows how to play "fetch," and when she (repeatedly) brings me back her favorite mousie toy, she does it without all the slobber that one typically associates with the game. Olivia brings me a perfectly dry mousie, oh, yes she does. That's 'cause she's a dainty, polite CAT and not a slobbery DOG.

Not that I have anything against dogs, slobbery or otherwise, mind you. I love 'em, really. I just hate the way they always want me to play "fetch" or "tug o' war" with all their disgustingly drool-soaked paraphernalia. I mean, I'll handle the goopy toys 'cause, well, even some of my very favorite things in the world get wet and sticky sometimes. But those other favorite things have a certain je ne sais quoi that drooly doggie toys do not.

Actually, "je ne sais quoi" is a bit of a misnomer here. I know exactly what is appealing about those other certain sticky and/or drippy items and I know exactly why they appeal.

Crap. It always comes back to this, doesn't it?

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

Hate me because I smell funny.

Or because my cat is an honor student and yours isn't. (Where can I get one of those bumper stickers anyway?)