If there’s one thing about Nipmuc I’ll never understand, it’s the seeming inability of its graduates to make it to their 5-year reunion. I don’t mean people are too busy with big, corporate jobs or have relocated to foreign places — the percentage of alumni who do that is slim. I’m referring to the increasing number of students for whom it is simply an impassible challenge to live until the age of 23.
I bring this up now because one of my closest friends from my young and very reckless high school days just passed away. I am in a complete state of shock — and that’s when I feel the need to write the most. Scott Bullock, always a rebel determined to be different from everyone else, was once the boy I spent a majority of my time with. He was my confidant, my friend to be mischievous with, and — though we did drift apart in our later years at Nipmuc — was someone I used to call a great friend. Since graduation (more realistically since I disappeared into the ambitious world of those Johnnie boys), we have spoken perhaps once or twice. We kept tabs of each other through the fantastic rumor-mill of Mendon… and I had only recently discovered he had really “fallen into the wrong crowd.” I guess I never suspected it to end like this.
But he’s not all. A few months ago it was Jill Carboni — a jock, a brain, and a beautiful girl with a boyfriend, a few semesters left for a bachelor’s degree, and a fantastic future. Before that it was Emily Irons, one of the sweetest girls I ever knew, and a co-worker during those long hard days at the radiology lab at Milford Hospital. Before that it was Michael Costa, a soft-spoken guy with a dry wit earning him the reputation as one of the most hilarious kids in the class. Nick Zinno, Gallegher... I'm just sick of it.
These are just a few of kids who never made it to 23. They will never get the chance to grow up, to get married, to have kids of their own. Young lives taken. I get that we are all mortal. I get that young people are often too reckless, too confident in their own strength, their own sobriety, their 4-wheel drive or their ability to absorb toxins. I get there death comes to everyone sooner or later, and for some it’s inevitably sooner rather then later. It’s just not fair.
Friday, March 31, 2006
I'm Sorry...
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Milford Whitinsville Regional Hospital ER
I’ve been here far too many times for my taste. I’m fine, totally healthy, just going through this odd phase of not being able to see straight. And apparently that’s of great concern for some… like my mother and — far less importantly — my doctor.
So here I am, the emergency room of the Milford Whitinsville Regional Hospital — a small, smelly, somewhat crowded space of mix-matched teal and white tiles, cold sterile walls, and a boatload of germs. This is the place where my brother took me when I tore my ankle to bits. It’s also the place my father took me in a haze when I was overdosed on drugs after having my wisdom teeth removed. And this is the place where they prescribed me drugs through my tears and screams whenever I had double-ear-infections. (Yes, I am a wuss — but those things hurt like hell!) This is also the place I used to scurry around frantically while dressed in those hospital scrubs when I was a hard-worker in the radiology department a few doors down. But that was back before my job was replaced by computers. (I’m being dramatic; I’m really not all that torn up about losing it…)
My favorite part of the emergency room — and really the only interesting part compared to those itchy plastic bracelets, long-ass wait, and (rightfully so) impatient doctors — is guessing what everyone else is in here for. I’m fine. Really. Just a little bit blind — but that’ll go away.
The girl across from me though, she’s in trouble. She’s curled up in the seat looking miserable with an awkward green tinge to her skin. With frequent trips to the bathroom and soft tears rolling down her pasty cheeks, I can say with some authority that she ain’t healthy. Flu, maybe. Stomach bug, perhaps. But she’s all alone, waiting, miserable… Poor thing.
The girl behind her, on the other hand, is all together too chipper to be ill. She’s here with her mom, and both ladies are quite beautiful. She’s a loud and obnoxious 16-year-old. I overhear there conversations from time to time… something about her sleeping on a couch… something about someone trying to talk her to get in the backseat and her resisting… something about friends interjected with a whole lot of “like”s and “as if”s. My guess: she partied hard last night, got drunk, fell down. Or perhaps she got into a car accident. Her mom’s mostly concerned with her swollen ankle.
To my left is a husband and wife, looking bored. This one’s way too easy — the lady’s fingers on her left hand are all wrapped up in gauze and tape and bloods seeping through. Who knows how it happens, but the lady almost cut her fingers off.
Behind them are two Japanese kids. You can’t honestly expect me to guess that one — I don’t even know what language they’re speaking! But they’re the only other patients sitting impatiently and waiting to see a doctor on this fine Sunday afternoon. Old ladies and gentlemen come and go with illnesses or injuries, and they are rushed in well before us and released long before we even get to see the nurse. There’s also a kind woman from Texas who keeps coming the payphone beside me to call her fiancé (all facts she’s told me) because a friend of hers is being seen. I’ve overheard her conversations too: something about cat scans and neck braces.
I do hope everyone ends up all right.
In the meantime, I’m going to continue sitting impatiently and bond with my darling mother, who was kind enough to waste the last precious hours of weekend sunlight with me in the nasty emergency room of Milford Whitinsville Regional Hospital.
Thanks, Mom. : )
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Welcome to Spring!
Yes, the first official day of spring was earlier this week...
But as I'm preparing to leave for work this morning I can't help but notice that - despite the freezing weather - there are birds singing.
I LOVE SUMMER
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The Long Distance Relationship Thing
"you're so vain...
you probably think this song is about you..."
~ Carly Simon
I've come to the conclusion that the biggest catalyst or challenge to long-distance relationships is something innate to (almost) all human beings: Imagination.
Seriously. People fall in love with strangers or fight with best friends because of the things that go on in their heads. I'm convinced.
I guess it first occurred to me in a past long-distance and romantic relationship I had in which we'd go a few days without speaking and then come to the next phone call with entirely different attitudes - pissed at or pleased with something the other may or may not have done. It also occurred to me as so many faded relationships strengthened when I was in France for so long. And now, my best friend is in Australia, many of my closest friends from college made my dream move to San Francisco, and the rest are scattered randomly across the country and/or wrapped up in their own lives - as I am wrapped up in mine. I never see these people, but we talk often. In between conversations though, we think of each other... something triggers a memory, we hang-up contemplating some provocative thought that stays with us for days, or we just genuinely miss each other and dream about hanging out and having fun again. And that's when the problem starts - we dream.
Based not on fact but simply on our wild imagination and passionate emotions, this is where things grow strong or fall apart. In thinking of each other between calls, we progress our relationships, yet only one-sidedly. Then, next time we meet or chat, we bring with us attitudes based off of the things we've individually been thinking of. Basically, you bring with you sentiments based on the actions that occurred only in your imagination - whether you realize it or not.
When apart, things happen - if only in one person's mind - that further the relationship with you.
Maybe that doesn't make sense. Maybe I am - and many of my like-minded peers are - simply prone to this because of over-active and wild imaginations. But I still find it interesting... weird... fascinating how two different minds - two different lives - can take the same relationship in totally different directions without ever realizing it.
That's what I'm here to do. Realize stupid things.
Yea philosophy.
Monday, March 20, 2006
An Incredible Weekend
It's Sunday night and I'm curling up with my big floppy puppy full of love. Tonight we watched a new episode of the West Wing; enjoyed a fantastic dinner of steak, veggies and a salad laced with my tasty Provence style vinegrette, and I just heard the proposal I worked my ass off for the week before last was approved so (yea!) we have a fun new client. Since the lovely dinner Thursday night when my father announced he found a job to an extraordinary meal with my wonderful grand-parents yesterday, I just can't find enough positive words to explain the past few days.
Rock on.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Miss Responsibility... or, more accurately, Lucky as Hell
Responsibility is not one of my fortes.
Last night, despite gaining a frog, lei and CD, I lost something most would consider far more valuable... my wallet.
That's what happens when you don't own a purse and drink too much with your credit cards and money tucked lightly into your back pocket.
It wasn't in my jeans, it wasn't in my jacket, it wasn't with my cell phone.
I remember giving my wallet to Alex - thinking ahead of how it was quite possible it would fall out of my jeans. Checked Alex's coat pocket and his pants pockets... nada.
I did have a very difficult time squirming into Alex's trashed backseat (trashed myself) and thought maybe - hopefully - it fell out there. Wrong.
I called the bar - "Um, my wallet was in my brother's coast when he went out last night and it never made it home. Have you found a lime green card case with an under-21 driver's license lately?" No.
Where else could it be? Think hard. As far I was concerned - there was only one option. The construction site with the porter potty. Now THAT sucks.
Alex so kindly volunteered to drive my sorry-irresponsible-ass back there this afternoon while returning Jon to his car. Before we could even get out our pajamas though, the doorbell rang.
A soft-spoken older man with kind eyes - the typically townie - stood on our front steps with a smile. "Are you Catherine Michel?" There was only one reason he'd know that. And in his outstretched hand was my lime green wallet.
Sometimes something happens in this world that reminds you that people are - at heart - truly good.
I was so grateful. Of course, at the same time I felt amazing awkward... I knew he knew I was at the construction site last night and it was not a story I felt like relating to a stranger. (Yet I did post it on my blog?) God, some people are so wonderful.
So it all ended well then. I got my wallet, Alex didn't get a ticket, I had an incredible Friday and tonight I'm visiting my grandparents. Rock on, man.
Everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day!
It has recently come to my attention that I haven't written in my blog for 3 weeks. There are really only two reasons for that:
1.) Work consumes my life.
2.) Nothing exciting has happened to me in the past 3 weeks that's worth writing about…
...until now.
St. Patty's Day in Boston is ALWAYS worth writing about.
And, with my cousin in a fabulous Irish band, I really had no excuse not to party.
(Except – of course – for that minor detail of me not quite being 21 yet…)
So party I did.
What a fantastic night! Hell – what a fantastic day. I woke up happy (my dad announced at our wine-filled sushi dinner Thursday night that he got a job!), had a lovely lunch with my boss (who’s fabulous) at a nice French restaurant, and worked my ass off on a number of really interesting projects all day. But six o’clock came around, I knew I had other places to be.
The night started with a beer at bar by Alex’s work. He had been hanging out with his friend and her colleagues, and I made the trek to Cambridge despite the frigid March weather. There were way too many clowns downtown to handle – all day long echoes of laughter, screams and general drunkenness crept into the offices of work. Yes, in Boston people start celebrating St. Patrick’s Day at midnight the evening before. Hell, there was a cover charge at all the local pubs at 8:00 this morning. Welcome to the most Irish town in the nation…
Regardless, we didn’t stay long in Kendall Square. The Old Brigade was playing at 8:00 at a bar near the Davis T-Stop, and that’s where we wanted to be. So we snuck into the back door of Olde Magoun’s Saloon (yes – I am a sketchball, I know… and just wait – it gets better) and prepared for a fun night out.
Fun I had. My friend from forever – one Jonathon Trotta – and one of Alex’s “brothers” whom I adore – Mr. Jon Dias – showed up to enhance the incredible evening. 
My only girl cousin was there, and we caught up talking about big dreams and such. 
And it was an Irish bar on St. Patty’s day. And I love Danny – my cousin in the band- and I think the Old Brigade plays wonderful Irish music. God, it was so fun!
The ride home was the real adventure of the evening. Somehow, at the bar, I acquired a frog and a CD and drank far too may drinks. Somewhere in Upton (about 15 minutes from home) I realized there was no way I could wait until we arrived to use the facilities. I wasn’t alone – Jon (Alex’s frat-brother) also needed to pee…. But these things are way easier for men. Fortunately, Alex found us a construction site equipped with a porter potty (yuck!) that I quickly made use of. Unfortunately, the cop driving by didn’t love that.
He pulled us over. Blue lights flashin, sirens on, Upton’s finest approached the window of the ancient Ford Probe with a vengeance. (Let’s be honest, he was clearly bored and had nothing better to do.) But Alex was a good boy and had stopped drinking a long time ago, nor was he really speeding (5 miles over is not nearly enough to care!). The cop was more interested the drunk girl in the back seat (that’d be me). I need to learn how to keep my mouth shut. He pissed me off, I talked back, and he suddenly wanted to know how sober I was and when my birthday was (6-18-83 man!), and why I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt (which was broken)… The cop took his sweet ass time, but when realized every aspect of our life was within in the law (we had a designated driver, everyone was of legal drinking age – or pretending to be, and the license and registration was all in order), he let us go with naught but a written warning. Personally, I don’t think we even deserved that, but – as the drunk girl in the backseat – I was instructed not to argue.
Bright and early the next morning, I look forward to some delicious homemade French toast and afternoon with the grandparents.
I love my life.
As for now, The world may or may not still be spinning… so I’m going to curl up with Tequila and try to sleep for a few more hours…
Alex and his Jons
Early in th evening...
...sometime later...
We're not really sure who this woman was... nor are we sure that her jacket wasn't still alive. All we know is that she came in with a short skirt, high heels and man whom she followed around all night. It's quite possible she was one to "provide services for money"...
