(I’ve decided to temporarily discontinue updates on the Facebook about new blog postings because I’m worried that readers are on overload from me. I’m feeling a bit insecure and overexposed circa Britney Spears and her 2008 streak of photos exiting cars commando. I’ll wait until my publicist says the coast is clear.)
Watching Greta sleep at night is one of the happiest moments in my typically uneventful daily routine. The position is always unpredictable. She could be contorted like a yogi master on her side crammed into the corner. She could be on her back in the center of the crib, her chest moving ever so slightly as she breathes. Like any child’s face to his or her parent, G’s during sleep is precious, innocent, and angelic.
When Greta is sleeping peacefully, I imagine she is dreaming of limitless quantities of formula in a bottle that she can swipe away yet never leaves her mouth. Or possibly endless bath time with Mr. Crab, Timmy the Turtle, and Jenny Jellyfish. Maybe a crib piled high with cell phones and remote controls for unlimited gnawing and chewing.
It surprises me, though, that her restless sleeps aren’t more frequent considering her days are basically fodder for bad LSD trips. Think about it. Constant exaggerated facial expressions by mom, dad, or BFF Kate with over-the-top, wide eyed smiles. Songs with confusing topics like bags of wool, spiders walking up spouts, and bridges collapsing in London. Words for letters, numbers, and colors in Spanish. It’s amazing she can get any sleep at all.
The next best thing to watching her sleep, is greeting her when she wakes up. Kicking her legs, babbling, and rolling around, she looks up at me with a drooly smile and a pterodactyl screech. Maybe my daily routine isn’t so uneventful after all…
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Spring Break Shark Attack!
Here’s the Comcast info description of this 2005 made-for-TV movie: “A sheltered college gal encounters studly predators on land and killer sharks in the water during spring break.” I think .7 seconds elapsed before selecting “record” on the DVR. Who could possibly pass up such a horribly awesome program? Certainly not someone watching the “Sy Fy” channel at 11 pm on a Sunday night. While I watched for gratuitous scenes of wet 20 year-olds in two-pieces, I actually received valuable lessons in parenting.
This is what we learn in the opening scenes: Danielle is a busty college student who commutes to college while protecting her virginity. Her parents refuse to let her go to Florida for spring break. Somehow, Danielle convincingly justifies her desire to wrestle in kiddie pools full of jello with other girls in bikinis because father once cheated on mother. Of course, in complete disregard of her parents' instructions, she leaves the next day on a plane to meet her two girlfriends who are staying in a beach house nice enough for Puff Daddy to host his annual white party.
(Don’t forget the equally clichéd Taken also involved a girl disobeying her father’s instructions about traveling and she almost became a concubine – let’s see where Danielle’s decision takes her.)
DAD LESSON 1: Anytime your daughter is planning to go away on a trip, lie to her about natural disasters striking the exact area where she intends to travel. If she persists, chain her to her bed until the spring break week is over. She’ll hate you but at least she will become less popular and less likely to be invited on future spring break trips. Back to the movie.
While the three girls are sunbathing on the beach, one of the girl’s boyfriends (Max) is astonished to learn that they crashed his vacation plans because he and his buddy (J.T.) planned on making a spring break-themed “Girls Gone Wild” video. That night, Max is dancing with his girlfriend but unabashedly hits on a different girl on the dance floor while his g.f. is looking the other way. We soon learn that evil people die horribly in this cinematic masterpiece when Max and his around-the-way girl are devoured during a naughty swim in the ocean.
Meanwhile J.T. is somehow fascinated with humping Danielle even though her friend Karen is ten times hotter and 100 times sluttier. Fortunately for the audience, local nice guy Shane (too poor to go to college so he works with mom at their boat rental shop) enters the scene and vies for Danielle’s affection. Naturally, J.T. is overmatched in this battle to feed Danielle’s horses so he resorts to slipping a roofie into Danielle’s drink like any typical creep on spring break. Don’t worry, Shane foiled J.T.’s plan but not before Danielle called home to confess about her disobedience to her father.
DAD LESSON 2: Anytime your daughter calls you intoxicated or otherwise inebriated from a place where she was not supposed to be, you travel immediately to that location with an unloaded gun and a shovel. Upon arrival, you tell any dudes near your daughter that you intend to use the shovel to hack up their body after you shoot them. In all likelihood, they’ll help carry your daughter to the car when you will subsequently transport her home. (See Lesson 1.)
The next day, J.T. inexplicably visits Shane to “thank” him for helping to take care of Danielle. As a token of appreciation, J.T. offers to hire Shane for a 24-hour boat ride with the three girls. (Meanwhile, Max has been missing for 2 or 3 days and no one seems to care.) Shane objects but his mom really needs the money so Shane relents. Just before disembarking, Danielle’s dad arrives and embarrassingly confronts her. Defiantly, Danielle jumps on the boat as J.T. laughs in dad’s face.
DAD LESSON 3: When attempting to kidnap your daughter in front of her friends, calmly convince her to speak with you privately first, then throw her over your shoulder to complete the abduction. Punch J.T. in the face later.
The boat ride ensues followed by a near death experience with two tiger sharks. Clearly, Danielle’s virginity spared her from tragedy as the sharks opted not to attack her – the only person in the entire movie spared from losing limbs. During the struggle to evade the sharks, the boat is slightly damaged and almost sinking. The crew is forced to stay the night on an island ½ a mile away so that Shane can repair the engine. As they get off the boat, Danielle discovers J.T.’s stash of roofies, which he brought with him on the boat for reasons that defy logic. Shane, Danielle, and her two friends ostracize J.T. but allow him back on the boat the next day when they return to shore.
In the interim, the audience discovers that a businessman from a rival town previously used Shane’s boat to chum the waters in an effort to lure sharks to the new beach front that has stolen his profits. He hoped the sharks’ presence would divert the spring breakers back to his bar where they used to go. The best part about this preposterous evil plan is that the businessman is Tom Cruise’s partner, Coughlin, from “Cocktail” who apparently resorted to these guerilla business warfare tactics because the bottle throwing show at his “Hopes and Dreams” bar just wasn’t drawing the spring break crowds he had in 1988.
Anyway, J.T. decides to drown his sorrows of failing to rape Danielle by getting drunk and hitting on a different set of girls. While he parties with hundreds of other college kids on a floating stage at a beach party, they somehow fail to notice approximately 57 tiger sharks infiltrate the waters around them. Mass bloodshed ensues and J.T. (don’t forget he is evil) meets an appropriate ending as a tiger shark tears him apart. Shane, Danielle, and Danielle’s brother (don’t ask) save the day by luring the sharks away using methods that are irrelevant for purposes of my summary. Shane’s mom appropriately chastises Coughlin before police take him away. Shane and Danielle finally french. The end.
DAD LESSON 4: Pray that for every trip that your Danielle takes without permission, a Shane will be out there to protect her long enough for a tiger shark to eliminate J.T. from the equation. If your daughter turns out to be Max’s secret hook up girl, go back to Lessons 1 through 3 before it’s too late!
This is what we learn in the opening scenes: Danielle is a busty college student who commutes to college while protecting her virginity. Her parents refuse to let her go to Florida for spring break. Somehow, Danielle convincingly justifies her desire to wrestle in kiddie pools full of jello with other girls in bikinis because father once cheated on mother. Of course, in complete disregard of her parents' instructions, she leaves the next day on a plane to meet her two girlfriends who are staying in a beach house nice enough for Puff Daddy to host his annual white party.
(Don’t forget the equally clichéd Taken also involved a girl disobeying her father’s instructions about traveling and she almost became a concubine – let’s see where Danielle’s decision takes her.)
DAD LESSON 1: Anytime your daughter is planning to go away on a trip, lie to her about natural disasters striking the exact area where she intends to travel. If she persists, chain her to her bed until the spring break week is over. She’ll hate you but at least she will become less popular and less likely to be invited on future spring break trips. Back to the movie.
While the three girls are sunbathing on the beach, one of the girl’s boyfriends (Max) is astonished to learn that they crashed his vacation plans because he and his buddy (J.T.) planned on making a spring break-themed “Girls Gone Wild” video. That night, Max is dancing with his girlfriend but unabashedly hits on a different girl on the dance floor while his g.f. is looking the other way. We soon learn that evil people die horribly in this cinematic masterpiece when Max and his around-the-way girl are devoured during a naughty swim in the ocean.
Meanwhile J.T. is somehow fascinated with humping Danielle even though her friend Karen is ten times hotter and 100 times sluttier. Fortunately for the audience, local nice guy Shane (too poor to go to college so he works with mom at their boat rental shop) enters the scene and vies for Danielle’s affection. Naturally, J.T. is overmatched in this battle to feed Danielle’s horses so he resorts to slipping a roofie into Danielle’s drink like any typical creep on spring break. Don’t worry, Shane foiled J.T.’s plan but not before Danielle called home to confess about her disobedience to her father.
DAD LESSON 2: Anytime your daughter calls you intoxicated or otherwise inebriated from a place where she was not supposed to be, you travel immediately to that location with an unloaded gun and a shovel. Upon arrival, you tell any dudes near your daughter that you intend to use the shovel to hack up their body after you shoot them. In all likelihood, they’ll help carry your daughter to the car when you will subsequently transport her home. (See Lesson 1.)
The next day, J.T. inexplicably visits Shane to “thank” him for helping to take care of Danielle. As a token of appreciation, J.T. offers to hire Shane for a 24-hour boat ride with the three girls. (Meanwhile, Max has been missing for 2 or 3 days and no one seems to care.) Shane objects but his mom really needs the money so Shane relents. Just before disembarking, Danielle’s dad arrives and embarrassingly confronts her. Defiantly, Danielle jumps on the boat as J.T. laughs in dad’s face.
DAD LESSON 3: When attempting to kidnap your daughter in front of her friends, calmly convince her to speak with you privately first, then throw her over your shoulder to complete the abduction. Punch J.T. in the face later.
The boat ride ensues followed by a near death experience with two tiger sharks. Clearly, Danielle’s virginity spared her from tragedy as the sharks opted not to attack her – the only person in the entire movie spared from losing limbs. During the struggle to evade the sharks, the boat is slightly damaged and almost sinking. The crew is forced to stay the night on an island ½ a mile away so that Shane can repair the engine. As they get off the boat, Danielle discovers J.T.’s stash of roofies, which he brought with him on the boat for reasons that defy logic. Shane, Danielle, and her two friends ostracize J.T. but allow him back on the boat the next day when they return to shore.
In the interim, the audience discovers that a businessman from a rival town previously used Shane’s boat to chum the waters in an effort to lure sharks to the new beach front that has stolen his profits. He hoped the sharks’ presence would divert the spring breakers back to his bar where they used to go. The best part about this preposterous evil plan is that the businessman is Tom Cruise’s partner, Coughlin, from “Cocktail” who apparently resorted to these guerilla business warfare tactics because the bottle throwing show at his “Hopes and Dreams” bar just wasn’t drawing the spring break crowds he had in 1988.
Anyway, J.T. decides to drown his sorrows of failing to rape Danielle by getting drunk and hitting on a different set of girls. While he parties with hundreds of other college kids on a floating stage at a beach party, they somehow fail to notice approximately 57 tiger sharks infiltrate the waters around them. Mass bloodshed ensues and J.T. (don’t forget he is evil) meets an appropriate ending as a tiger shark tears him apart. Shane, Danielle, and Danielle’s brother (don’t ask) save the day by luring the sharks away using methods that are irrelevant for purposes of my summary. Shane’s mom appropriately chastises Coughlin before police take him away. Shane and Danielle finally french. The end.
DAD LESSON 4: Pray that for every trip that your Danielle takes without permission, a Shane will be out there to protect her long enough for a tiger shark to eliminate J.T. from the equation. If your daughter turns out to be Max’s secret hook up girl, go back to Lessons 1 through 3 before it’s too late!
Friday, August 28, 2009
Say Cheese
G-sizzle’s two front lower teeth recently poked through her gum. Depending on the facial expression she makes, you can get a quick glimpse of them. I try to pull her lower lip down to see the central incisors (thanks Google!) but she gets annoyed and swats my finger away with her forearm of sausage links. Upon seeing the teeth for the first time, a few questions arose in my head:
How long until I don a tutu and play the tooth fairy? What is the going rate for a lost tooth these days, adjusting for the recession and of course, the state of the current economy (the blame of all current evils)? What happens if she catches me as I’m trying to do the cash-for-tooth exchange?
Furthermore, what kind of orthodontic work is my daughter going to require as an adolescent? Considering the dental makeup of her mom and dad, it’s a good possibility that head gear, rubber bands, and awkward pronunciations of esses are in her future sometime between 5th and 8th grade.
What I notice most about braces is not the actual hardware. I mean, they’re noticeable but after a while, I forget about them. More so, it’s the awkward way that many braces wearers curtain their lips over the teeth in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence, as if to throw off the scent. “Nothing to see here folks. Just a normal set of pearly whites here. Move along.” All I can think of is a boxer before a fight after the trainer plops in the mouth guard before squirting some water in his mouth. Brett Favre and Tom Cruise always did this during their adult invisalign periods. Overall, though, no big deal.
At least the wife was fortunate enough to get braces as a kid. She apparently had a good set of bucked out choppers and did the whole 80’s grille circa Jennifer Grey in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or Martha Plimpton in The Goonies (they had braces, right?).
Unfortunately or not, AIG did not have a dental plan when we were growing up so I was blessed/cursed/stuck with my gap on the upper deck. Honestly, I’ve been totally content with my gap for a long time. It took some time and teasing of course to get there. But at this point, if dentures are in my future, I’ll opt for a recreation of the gap as long as the replica isn’t Michael Strahan-esque.
Whether G grows buck teeth, a gap, or even a shit tooth, I am comfortable knowing that cosmetic orthodontic solutions abound. However, there is one dental fear for G-sizzle that I dread worse than zombies, Sarah Palin boosters, or Greta alone in a bar with a single, 55 year-old Casey O’Connell: the dreaded food in teeth phenomenon. My teeth crevices are like a Venus fly trap for food scraps, I swear. Might as well just pack a box of tooth picks with me 24-7.
While the horror and embarrassment of discovering a post-meal treat long after several conversations, laughs, and grins with multitudes of people are excruciating, it doesn’t compare to the frustration I experience when a friend or relative who admits he/she chose not to disclose that half a pound of chicken was visible in my teeth for all the world to see beginning 2 hours ago. And don’t even get me started on the red wine/wood teeth thing.
Greta, don’t worry kid, I got your back. Not only do we have dental coverage, but I’ll give you the head’s up when broccoli or poppy seeds decide to stick around in the fangs after a meal. Just make sure you tell me, too!
How long until I don a tutu and play the tooth fairy? What is the going rate for a lost tooth these days, adjusting for the recession and of course, the state of the current economy (the blame of all current evils)? What happens if she catches me as I’m trying to do the cash-for-tooth exchange?
Furthermore, what kind of orthodontic work is my daughter going to require as an adolescent? Considering the dental makeup of her mom and dad, it’s a good possibility that head gear, rubber bands, and awkward pronunciations of esses are in her future sometime between 5th and 8th grade.
What I notice most about braces is not the actual hardware. I mean, they’re noticeable but after a while, I forget about them. More so, it’s the awkward way that many braces wearers curtain their lips over the teeth in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence, as if to throw off the scent. “Nothing to see here folks. Just a normal set of pearly whites here. Move along.” All I can think of is a boxer before a fight after the trainer plops in the mouth guard before squirting some water in his mouth. Brett Favre and Tom Cruise always did this during their adult invisalign periods. Overall, though, no big deal.
At least the wife was fortunate enough to get braces as a kid. She apparently had a good set of bucked out choppers and did the whole 80’s grille circa Jennifer Grey in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or Martha Plimpton in The Goonies (they had braces, right?).
Unfortunately or not, AIG did not have a dental plan when we were growing up so I was blessed/cursed/stuck with my gap on the upper deck. Honestly, I’ve been totally content with my gap for a long time. It took some time and teasing of course to get there. But at this point, if dentures are in my future, I’ll opt for a recreation of the gap as long as the replica isn’t Michael Strahan-esque.
Whether G grows buck teeth, a gap, or even a shit tooth, I am comfortable knowing that cosmetic orthodontic solutions abound. However, there is one dental fear for G-sizzle that I dread worse than zombies, Sarah Palin boosters, or Greta alone in a bar with a single, 55 year-old Casey O’Connell: the dreaded food in teeth phenomenon. My teeth crevices are like a Venus fly trap for food scraps, I swear. Might as well just pack a box of tooth picks with me 24-7.
While the horror and embarrassment of discovering a post-meal treat long after several conversations, laughs, and grins with multitudes of people are excruciating, it doesn’t compare to the frustration I experience when a friend or relative who admits he/she chose not to disclose that half a pound of chicken was visible in my teeth for all the world to see beginning 2 hours ago. And don’t even get me started on the red wine/wood teeth thing.
Greta, don’t worry kid, I got your back. Not only do we have dental coverage, but I’ll give you the head’s up when broccoli or poppy seeds decide to stick around in the fangs after a meal. Just make sure you tell me, too!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Ffffffbbbbpppbbbttt
While feeding a bottle to G as she sat on my lap the other day, I sensed that all too familiar vibration ripple on my thigh. As I pondered whether it was a dry fart or one with bonus features, I dare say a sly grin came across my daughter’s face. At that moment, I wanted to high five her.
Let’s be frank. Farts are funny. They sound funny. They smell funny. They are funny among friends and family. They are especially funny when occurring outside of friends and family. Well, okay, at least for me and anyone else with a juvenile sense of humor.
Just think about the word itself. FART. Could there possibly be another word that more appropriately fits its definition? “Flatulate” just doesn’t do it for me. I think queens and dukes “flatulate.” Normal folks fart. And Massholes fahht.
Usually, if a variety of euphemisms exists in lieu of a proper word, it’s a good indication that the proper word refers to a body part and/or bodily function. For example, penis and dong dong, vagina and vajajay, breasts and booby salad, scrotum and ball bag, defecate and poop, urinate and piss like a race horse, etc. Sorry, I digress.
As for farts, we’ve got a myriad of euphemistic substitutes for flatulence. One alternative is the polite “passing gas.” Then, there is the old school “breaking wind.” And, of course, don’t forget the 1980s elementary “cutting the cheese.” We even use euphemisms to temporarily distract bystanders within earshot of our gas passing such as the sincere “is that a squeaky board?” or the naturalist “did you hear that barking spider?”
Admittedly, I would classify myself as a quite gaseous person. Everything makes me fart. Beans of all sorts and pretty much any stereotypical Mexican food, no surprise. Frozen yogurt especially. Anything with garlic. Fresh fruit definitely. Multiple draft beers from dive bars, particularly. Wheat bread – no joke. For Gigi’s sake, I hope she didn’t get my colon. If she did, perhaps I write this to pre-empt some of the societal shame and embarassment of simply carrying out a function of the digestive system.
On a different note, farting is a good measuring stick to determine how tight you really are with a person. In other words, who is in your fart circle of trust? Is there really any better way of gauging how comfortable one feels in the company of another than to toot at will in their presence?
I released the hounds in front of the wife on our second date. I was tired of holding the gas in until it was safe to crop dust away. (We went out for pizza at Woody's.) I decided to cut to the chase (and the cheese, for that matter) by revealing my true gassy side. Fortunately, she didn’t hold it against me. And now we have our little girl.
So, G-Spice, I write this to you now. Thank you for letting me into your fart circle of trust. That is, at least while your diet is still just formula and rice cereal. Go ahead, pull my finger.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
I Want to Ride My Bicycle!
The wind whipped my slightly feathered, middle-parted bowl cut as I coasted speedily down Union Street on my 12-speed. I felt triumphant and exhilarated after a long awaited make out sesh with Carla Gresham. It was the summer before my sophomore year. My driver's license wouldn't be until the following year but at least the bike could get me around for the time being. Things were looking up.
If my bike ride was an episode from The Hills, "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas would be playing in the background as I smiled and head bobbed to the beat. Although I'd also probably be text messaging on an iPhone while driving a BMW suv without a license.
Unfortunately, my moment of euphoria was short lived. A brake handle became detached from the handlebars, which eventually lodged into the spokes of the right front tire. Several facial abrasions and an undiagnosed concussion later, I had to explain to my parents why I disobeyed their order not to pedal the 8 mile return leg from Manch to Hooksett after dark.
Now fast forward to a few weeks ago when I bought a used ("burns my fingers" hot) mountain bike off Craigslist from a shady dude in a Dorchester basement. During one of my subsequent commutes home from work, the post-frenching wipeout of 1991 flashbacked in my head and my thoughts eventually moved to G-sizzle. I think my inner monologue went something like this:
"That kiss was still so worth the wreck. Yeah, I must have been what - 15? Probably... Hmm, where was Carla's dad when the business was going down? (Downshifting as the road inclines.) What the hell am I gonna do if I catch some pumpkin haired teenager sucking face with my little girl? I mean, I don't want to deprive her of innocent teenage rites of passage. I like to think that I'm on the progressive side, but what is too much freedom?... And what about the blatant disobedience of my parents for the sake of a crush? What kind of stunt is G gonna pull that will make me cringe?... Man, this hill goes on forever. I'm definitely sweating through my shirt by now... At least I have a long time to develop a game plan... Hey, maybe I should get one of those bike cabooses so that Greta and I can ride around together."
So on that note, I look to you readers, fellow parents, and anyone who accidentally found themselves on this page. Any good or bad experiences on child seat/attachment-thingies to a bike, out there? If so, what brand and model?
And while you're at it - do you turn a blind eye to frenching under your roof, because at least you know you can find a lame excuse to enter the living room at any moment? Or is it just easier to enforce a strict "no tonsil hockey allowed" zone in your house?
If my bike ride was an episode from The Hills, "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas would be playing in the background as I smiled and head bobbed to the beat. Although I'd also probably be text messaging on an iPhone while driving a BMW suv without a license.
Unfortunately, my moment of euphoria was short lived. A brake handle became detached from the handlebars, which eventually lodged into the spokes of the right front tire. Several facial abrasions and an undiagnosed concussion later, I had to explain to my parents why I disobeyed their order not to pedal the 8 mile return leg from Manch to Hooksett after dark.
Now fast forward to a few weeks ago when I bought a used ("burns my fingers" hot) mountain bike off Craigslist from a shady dude in a Dorchester basement. During one of my subsequent commutes home from work, the post-frenching wipeout of 1991 flashbacked in my head and my thoughts eventually moved to G-sizzle. I think my inner monologue went something like this:
"That kiss was still so worth the wreck. Yeah, I must have been what - 15? Probably... Hmm, where was Carla's dad when the business was going down? (Downshifting as the road inclines.) What the hell am I gonna do if I catch some pumpkin haired teenager sucking face with my little girl? I mean, I don't want to deprive her of innocent teenage rites of passage. I like to think that I'm on the progressive side, but what is too much freedom?... And what about the blatant disobedience of my parents for the sake of a crush? What kind of stunt is G gonna pull that will make me cringe?... Man, this hill goes on forever. I'm definitely sweating through my shirt by now... At least I have a long time to develop a game plan... Hey, maybe I should get one of those bike cabooses so that Greta and I can ride around together."
So on that note, I look to you readers, fellow parents, and anyone who accidentally found themselves on this page. Any good or bad experiences on child seat/attachment-thingies to a bike, out there? If so, what brand and model?
And while you're at it - do you turn a blind eye to frenching under your roof, because at least you know you can find a lame excuse to enter the living room at any moment? Or is it just easier to enforce a strict "no tonsil hockey allowed" zone in your house?
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The Dirty Seagull meets Crazy Legs McGigi
Based on this audition tape alone, Nigel Lithgow has agreed to waive the age requirements for both Shell and Greta so that they may compete on "So You Think You Can Dance" next season. They are going straight to Vegas.
Crazy Legs gets her groove on at the 34-second mark, and then again at 1:13.
Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eZjhppf6e8
Crazy Legs gets her groove on at the 34-second mark, and then again at 1:13.
Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eZjhppf6e8
Friday, July 17, 2009
Reunited … and it feels so good!
So three good buddies marry three sisters. They live within a few blocks of each other in Brooklyn. They have kids. They rotate Sunday dinners at each other’s homes. Their kids grow up together. Their kids party together, play games together, get in trouble together, and end up just plain loving each other. That is pretty much my dad’s side of his maternal family in a nutshell.
My grandmother Grace Teravainen’s maiden name is Triano. Grace’s sisters Rose and Dorothy (“Dottie”) ended up marrying buddies Frank Kelly and Pete (“Dude-a-bops”) Milazzo. Frank and Pete were buddies with my grandfather Allan. He was born in Finland but ended up somehow in Duxbury, Massachusetts and eventually in New York.
Last weekend, as they have done every year for more than a decade, my father’s cousin Marie (Milazzo) Williams and her husband Doug hosted a Triano family reunion at their home in Bloomville, New York. You need to get a visual before we proceed.
First, Bloomville is pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Farms dot the hilly, green landscape with pretty wooded areas separating most neighbors. As you pull your car up to a reunion, this is what you will see.
The Williams’ home is a beautiful, two-story farmhouse set on a few acres of lawn, flower gardens, and trees. A huge barn sits to the house’s left, which functions as a poker hall, concert house, and saloon – more about this later. As you walk past the barn up a small incline, you will see an old two-story schoolhouse and a large function tent immediately next to it with a bunch of picnic tables underneath. By the way, a four-wheeler and a golf cart could be buzzing by you at any moment, which are usually operated at unsafe speeds by kids too young for driver’s licenses. As you come under the tent, a charcoal grill is to your right. A covered deck adjacent to the schoolhouse is on its back side, which overlooks a large open backyard surrounded by a sprawling corn field and a steep hill with tall grass to the right. The yard is our bocce court.
Meanwhile, most folks pitch their sleeping tents in various locations of the yard between the house and the picnic tables. Some people sleep in their cars, others in the schoolhouse, while the truly adventurous sleep at the Buena Vista motel about 8 miles away.
As stated previously, my father’s generation of Triano cousins (and not just the children of Grace, Rose, and Dottie) had their own bonds and shared experiences growing up in Brooklyn. As they married and mated, many of them relocated to greener pastures. Due to the geographic distance and lack of opportunities to spend time together, the Triano cousins planned sporadic reunions in random locations or used special occasions like weddings to accomplish their bonding time.
Over time, the cousins’ spouses and children were added to the mix. They, too, began to enjoy and partake in the bonding of the reunions, holidays, or whatever event they may be spending together. Ultimately, Doug and Marie hosted their first reunion at Bloomville and the annual pilgrimage to their home began.
As Bloomville became a staple event of everyone’s summer schedule, my generation of “cousins” also began to stage our own reunions at different times throughout the year. For example, uncles and cousins come to Boston for one weekend of NFL playoffs every year. Other times, relatives of any generation are known to show up for shows by our cousin Steve’s world famous band, Peculiar Gentlemen. There is also an annual trip to Key West by any male Triano (and in-laws) over 21. Basically, we find excuses to reunite, bond, catch up … and party.
At any reunion, we have certain traditions – and most of them involve gambling. After everyone arrives on Friday, we eventually congregate in the barn. After a lot of arguing about ground rules, a massive game of scat (see http://www.pagat.com/draw/scat.html for the rules) will ensue with players of any age. After scat, poker begins. It doesn’t matter how old you are, Uncle Bob will bleed anyone dry of lunch money or social security in 7/27. Meanwhile, bodies will fade into the night to their respective sleeping spaces as the crowd gradually thins. The usual suspects who close out the barn playing drinking games tend not to be the early morning risers on Saturday.
Saturday morning usually begins with someone vowing never to sleep in a tent again because of some drunkard’s late night antics. After people return to the premises, we collect $20 from each participant for a massive bocce tournament complete with a championship belt that memorializes the first and second place finishers of years past. Again, as long as you have $20, we don’t care how young or old you are. You’re in.
As the day goes on, people drink, eat, chat, watch and play bocce, and compete in any other yard games that arise along the way. During these rituals, we reconnect with our loved ones. You trade stories. You catch up. You share news. Perhaps you relive a memory from a previous year’s reunion.
By the time Saturday night rolls around, a live music show begins. Doug sings in a doo-wop band that warms up the crowd. After the opening band’s set, Peculiar Gentlemen comes on and stokes the crowd into a dancing frenzy. The night usually ends in a similar fashion as Friday, but usually with more mutants and cretins. This year’s Saturday was highlighted by keg stands and cross-eyed daddies whose baby mamas went back to the Buena Vista sans papa.
More importantly, 2009 was Greta’s first experience at Bloomville. Our family greeted her with hundreds of hugs, kisses, smiles, laughs, goofy faces, weird sounds, and every other way I hoped they would. The highlight of the weekend for me was our chance to compete together a la Baby Bjorn in the Sunday morning Frisbee golf tournament, which is another belt eligible event and a $10 entry fee.
While reflecting on this year’s reunion and looking forward to the next one, I am excited about Greta’s future reunions and Triano experiences. I can’t wait for her first bocce tournament in Bloomville when she eliminates Uncle Bob in the first round. It will also be fun to see her holding cards at the beginning of a scat tournament, hoping that her three chips will hold up long enough to win the big money. Above all, I am especially looking forward to seeing her interact with the next generation of her own “cousins.” There is such a comforting warmth in experiencing the connection to an extended, loving family. Even though we all live far apart, the reunion lets us forget about our problems and stresses for a little while, we get to know each other a little bit better, and we have fun doing it together.
Anyway, next year’s Scrabble tourney leaders are rumored to be developing a championship sash to rival the bocce and Frisbee belts. Looks like Gigi and I have some reading to do…
My grandmother Grace Teravainen’s maiden name is Triano. Grace’s sisters Rose and Dorothy (“Dottie”) ended up marrying buddies Frank Kelly and Pete (“Dude-a-bops”) Milazzo. Frank and Pete were buddies with my grandfather Allan. He was born in Finland but ended up somehow in Duxbury, Massachusetts and eventually in New York.
Last weekend, as they have done every year for more than a decade, my father’s cousin Marie (Milazzo) Williams and her husband Doug hosted a Triano family reunion at their home in Bloomville, New York. You need to get a visual before we proceed.
First, Bloomville is pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Farms dot the hilly, green landscape with pretty wooded areas separating most neighbors. As you pull your car up to a reunion, this is what you will see.
The Williams’ home is a beautiful, two-story farmhouse set on a few acres of lawn, flower gardens, and trees. A huge barn sits to the house’s left, which functions as a poker hall, concert house, and saloon – more about this later. As you walk past the barn up a small incline, you will see an old two-story schoolhouse and a large function tent immediately next to it with a bunch of picnic tables underneath. By the way, a four-wheeler and a golf cart could be buzzing by you at any moment, which are usually operated at unsafe speeds by kids too young for driver’s licenses. As you come under the tent, a charcoal grill is to your right. A covered deck adjacent to the schoolhouse is on its back side, which overlooks a large open backyard surrounded by a sprawling corn field and a steep hill with tall grass to the right. The yard is our bocce court.
Meanwhile, most folks pitch their sleeping tents in various locations of the yard between the house and the picnic tables. Some people sleep in their cars, others in the schoolhouse, while the truly adventurous sleep at the Buena Vista motel about 8 miles away.
As stated previously, my father’s generation of Triano cousins (and not just the children of Grace, Rose, and Dottie) had their own bonds and shared experiences growing up in Brooklyn. As they married and mated, many of them relocated to greener pastures. Due to the geographic distance and lack of opportunities to spend time together, the Triano cousins planned sporadic reunions in random locations or used special occasions like weddings to accomplish their bonding time.
Over time, the cousins’ spouses and children were added to the mix. They, too, began to enjoy and partake in the bonding of the reunions, holidays, or whatever event they may be spending together. Ultimately, Doug and Marie hosted their first reunion at Bloomville and the annual pilgrimage to their home began.
As Bloomville became a staple event of everyone’s summer schedule, my generation of “cousins” also began to stage our own reunions at different times throughout the year. For example, uncles and cousins come to Boston for one weekend of NFL playoffs every year. Other times, relatives of any generation are known to show up for shows by our cousin Steve’s world famous band, Peculiar Gentlemen. There is also an annual trip to Key West by any male Triano (and in-laws) over 21. Basically, we find excuses to reunite, bond, catch up … and party.
At any reunion, we have certain traditions – and most of them involve gambling. After everyone arrives on Friday, we eventually congregate in the barn. After a lot of arguing about ground rules, a massive game of scat (see http://www.pagat.com/draw/scat.html for the rules) will ensue with players of any age. After scat, poker begins. It doesn’t matter how old you are, Uncle Bob will bleed anyone dry of lunch money or social security in 7/27. Meanwhile, bodies will fade into the night to their respective sleeping spaces as the crowd gradually thins. The usual suspects who close out the barn playing drinking games tend not to be the early morning risers on Saturday.
Saturday morning usually begins with someone vowing never to sleep in a tent again because of some drunkard’s late night antics. After people return to the premises, we collect $20 from each participant for a massive bocce tournament complete with a championship belt that memorializes the first and second place finishers of years past. Again, as long as you have $20, we don’t care how young or old you are. You’re in.
As the day goes on, people drink, eat, chat, watch and play bocce, and compete in any other yard games that arise along the way. During these rituals, we reconnect with our loved ones. You trade stories. You catch up. You share news. Perhaps you relive a memory from a previous year’s reunion.
By the time Saturday night rolls around, a live music show begins. Doug sings in a doo-wop band that warms up the crowd. After the opening band’s set, Peculiar Gentlemen comes on and stokes the crowd into a dancing frenzy. The night usually ends in a similar fashion as Friday, but usually with more mutants and cretins. This year’s Saturday was highlighted by keg stands and cross-eyed daddies whose baby mamas went back to the Buena Vista sans papa.
More importantly, 2009 was Greta’s first experience at Bloomville. Our family greeted her with hundreds of hugs, kisses, smiles, laughs, goofy faces, weird sounds, and every other way I hoped they would. The highlight of the weekend for me was our chance to compete together a la Baby Bjorn in the Sunday morning Frisbee golf tournament, which is another belt eligible event and a $10 entry fee.
While reflecting on this year’s reunion and looking forward to the next one, I am excited about Greta’s future reunions and Triano experiences. I can’t wait for her first bocce tournament in Bloomville when she eliminates Uncle Bob in the first round. It will also be fun to see her holding cards at the beginning of a scat tournament, hoping that her three chips will hold up long enough to win the big money. Above all, I am especially looking forward to seeing her interact with the next generation of her own “cousins.” There is such a comforting warmth in experiencing the connection to an extended, loving family. Even though we all live far apart, the reunion lets us forget about our problems and stresses for a little while, we get to know each other a little bit better, and we have fun doing it together.
Anyway, next year’s Scrabble tourney leaders are rumored to be developing a championship sash to rival the bocce and Frisbee belts. Looks like Gigi and I have some reading to do…
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