My Best Friend's Birthday

How many birthday's have we celebrated since we've known each other? More than we'd care to admit.
Friends through it all, you and me, like two pieces of a puzzle that are the perfect fit.

Growing up together, how I remember long days of fun and adventure. We we never far from each other, neither one wanting our time to end if a guess, I had to venture.

Elementary school was a life full of dreams, junk food, and sleepover parties. We told ghost stories and did makeovers and considered ourselves the ultimate smarties!

High School was harder, you were older and  socially trying to make your way. So I stayed in your shadows and understood; a younger best friend needed to stay out of the fray.

Then college came, and we parted ways and made lots of  new friends. No longer down the street, we lost touch but inside our hearts knew this was not to be the end.

You moved.
I got married.
We didn't talk for years.

Yet the second we found each other again we laughed through the tears.

Our second act, as they say, has been quite a ride! Together we've loved and we've lost and we've marveled at accomplishments with pride. This time distance wasn't an issue, as you occupied both coasts.  I'll always be there, you know, you are my family and family is what matters the most.

So you're stuck with me San, and that's not so bad because to me, you are the best friend a girl ever had.
Happy Birthday to my BFF, here's to many, many more, and to the memories we will make and to what ever else our lives together have in store.....

I love ya!

On The Street Where You Live

My brother told me a few Sunday's ago, while we were all together for dinner, that the beloved house that we grew up in was for sale. 

Really, I thought. I had always fantasized about buying it back. 

He then showed us the listing on line. It was with much joy that we (thanks to technology) looked through the photos online of our childhood home. I could hardly believe my eyes..not much had changed since the 37 years ago that we moved out. I noticed the kitchen floor was the same tile floor my mom had installed in the 70's. The bathrooms looked to be the same bathroom we used as kids and the finished basement, where we had a bumper pool table and the neighborhood's first video games hadn't changed at all. Such happy memories growing up in that beloved house. 

For two weeks I couldn't get my house out of my head. Not to far from where I live now, I had often driven by the home and pointed it out to my children and my husband. Each time I watched and wondered why it had fallen into disrepair. I often said I would have given anything to get back inside and see it. Now was my chance and I knew that I probably wouldn't have this opportunity again. I watched the listing waiting for an open house opportunity and yesterday I had my chance!

I took my mom and we toured the house I grew up in. She was delighted to see the deep red, kitchen tile she installed still in pretty good shape. I was so taken by the closet doors, still slatted and with the same door handles that I grew up with. What wasn't so great about that was that the closets inside were still the same wooden dowels that we had hung our clothes many years before. They looked old because they were. Even the kitchen pantry, where I used to scour for goodies and treats, was the same four shelved wooden closet. It had stood the test of time, but because of that it was obviously time for change. 

The bathroom by the back door was the same! I swear my mom installed that Dixie cup dispenser when we were kids...and there it was. We wondered if going back into the house after all those years would be emotional, but it wasn't for either of us. It was great, really! And it felt so good to be able to remember good memories we shared inside the house. Truth is, it felt just like home-even with someone else's belongings everywhere. Even the realtor walked around with us as we toured the house, listening to us comment on everything. She later told us that we had made her day as it was obvious to her how much we loved living in that house.

I took a selfie in almost every room of the house and there I am inside my old room. I stood at the point where I used to sit and play records and dolls and I swear I could have stayed there all day-just happy to be inside. I took pictures for my brothers and sisters too, and I sent this picture to my brother of me outside the closet he used to lock me in-then take off and leave me there-when we played hide and go seek. Again-they were the same wooden shelves I had squeezed into when I was a kid. 

We left no stone unturned and we even toured the garage. 

My eyes spied this on the garage window.

That was my dad's security company that he owned when we lived there!! Mom was tickled to see it was still there. 

Standing there on the driveway where I learned to ride a two wheeler and skinned many a knee, it was obvious that even though we didn't live there any longer, we were still very much a part of that beautiful home and its legacy. If the old saying is true, that life takes you to unexpected places but love brings you home, then I have come full circle and truly come home. 

Will we buy it back? Who knows? We talked about it and we agreed that it seemed like after we left,  the people that lived in it stopped taking care of it, never truly loving it the way we did. We are intrigued to say the least, but we all agree-it needs a lot of love and some serious TLC.

Sunday Morning

So I walked into a local grocery store this morning, to grab a couple of things before work. The moment I entered the aroma awakened my senses with the most amazing smell...

I looked at the cashier at the door and said, "I smell sausage."

She smiled and said, "Yes! The deli guys are making sausage for the lunch crowd."

The smell was heaven. It smelled, I told her, like Sunday morning. When I was a kid, being the last in a line of 5 children, I grew up to the smell of sweet Italian sausage cooking every Sunday morning. On Sunday, my mom would have a big breakfast waiting for her family. There was regularly an array of breakfast foods at my house on Sunday morning. My dad, 100% of Italian descent, would play tennis with his buddies early every Sunday morning and when he arrived home, breakfast was always ready.

Back in the innocence of those days, food was love. We never thought about fat content, calories and gluten. We ate because we were growing kids and my mother made sure we ate well. Sunday mornings were my favorite because it was the best of everything. We always had fresh fruit; cantaloupe, strawberries, blueberries and orange juice as well as toast, assorted danish and pastries, eggs, bacon, pancakes and of course, sweet Italian sausage. Sometimes she even made a breakfast quiche and if you wanted an omelette, my mom would be ready with the frying pan to accommodate.

I was usually the first to rise, my brothers and sisters all teens at the time, would wake later because the yummy smell could wake anyone from a deep slumber no matter how lazy they were. My dad, at the head of the table, ate slowly, with the Boston Globe in front of him and I would happily read the comic page and enjoy the breakfast with my family. Those were some of the happiest memories I have of growing up. It was our very own Brady Bunch moment, and it was part of our routine.

My children love sweet Italian sausage too. Our busy lives today, unfortunately never lent to the innocence of Sunday morning breakfast. When my kids were little there were early Sunday hockey games, lacrosse games or rehearsals to attend, so I tried my best to make Sunday mornings as special as I could. And yes, I cooked the sausage.

It's amazing how that smell this morning brought me such happiness and joyous memories all in a flash.

Frick and Frack are home from college now and you can bet that this Sunday will be special. In fact, I'm making the grocery list now. Be dammed fat, sugar, gluten and calories! I want to make a memory and I think that's far more important, if only for a Sunday morning.

Just Cause

I am a person who hates an injustice.

Recently I have discovered that it has been a theme in my life. I always fight for justice. Justice in myself and justice for others, I tend to stand up for the injustice of it all. So it was recently that I remembered that I was not always just in my life.

The memory came to me upon reflection. I was in 6th grade and I remembered bullying a young red headed girl in my school. I'm not proud nor am I exactly sure why it happened, but I definitely singled her out for whatever reason. She probably pushed some of my buttons, so I decided to make her a target of my anger.

I called her ugly. Daily.
I preyed on her because I considered her to be weak.
I intimidated her with physical threats like my brother had intimidated me, and I was good at it because he was a pro at terrorizing me.

As I reflected on this memory, I remembered her face. Scared and red from crying, she tried her best to let me know she wasn't going to take it lying down. But I knew she was and I wanted it that way. And I used it against her. It didn't go on for very long, as our parents were called and discussions took place between me and my parents and it was swiftly put to an end. And again, I'm not sure why I had chosen this innocent girl to unleash my special kind of terror.

Maybe I knew I was stronger.
Maybe I decided that she would be my target because I was sick of being his.
Yet I can't get the image of her frightened face out of my mind today.

So I want to say to you, Michelle, I am deeply sorry for any pain I caused you back in 6th grade, on the play grounds of the Sheehan school. I'm sure I was sorry then, but I am certain I am very sorry now. My hope is that you have forgiven me for my adolescent angst against you and that it may bring you some perspective to share with your own children.Maybe even a nugget of wisdom.

Because there must be some justice in that...

Thank God It's Friday

When I was a kid, back in the seventies, I remember watching the movie "Thank God it's Friday". The movie was about a Friday night in the hot new disco in town, "The Zoo". I loved this silly movie because it gave me a peek into the glamorous disco scene that was huge at that time. The cast of crazy characters spun together somehow seemed just the right amount of fun.

The late, great Donna Summer played a young disco diva who wanted her chance to sing in the spotlight at the club, but kept being dismissed time and time again by DJ Bobby Speed. Until the end...when she stole the spotlight and sang her Academy Award winning song, "Last Dance". Good times...

I think I'm going to find a copy of this gem at some point this weekend and go back in time to The Zoo!

Thank God it's Friday Bloggers! Go out and get your "Last Dance" on.

Stranded at The Drive In....

I'm just *ahem* old enough to remember the drive-in movies. My parents would load up the station wagon with all 5 of us kids and drive out to Braintree, MA to take in a movie together at the local drive-in movie complex. We would get in our pajamas and bring blankets and pillows to bed down in the way back to enjoy the experience. I can still see my dad hooking the speaker on the car window so we could hear the all important audio. If my memory serves me correct, my older brother and sisters used to sit on top of the station wagon, pillows and all.

A recent resurgence of drive-in movie complexes in New England brought back all those happy memories. According to the Boston Herald, 350 drive-in movie complexes are still in operation around the country, but like any business, they face their share of unique challenges. Inclement weather and less family friendly movie choices top that list, but the food choices are better and thanks to FM signal, the audio is broadcast right through your car radio.

New England boast four theaters: Mass has Mendon Twin, Leicester Triple and Wellfleet Drive-In and Rhode Island has Rustic Tri Vue, with two already open for business today. Prices range, but for roughly $25.00 a carload of people can experience a movie together in the great outdoors or from the comfort of their vehicle. And make a lot of fun memories too.

I, for one, think the drive-in movies should be salvaged for old time sake. To me, the drive in is as American as apple pie and baseball and that's sacred. Although no one would want to be "stranded at the drive-in" like Danny Zuko sings, no one would "brand you a fool" for enjoying an age old summer past time.

Toilet Paper Tales

So I'm watching those crazy Kardashians, and the episode is all about how Khloe and Kris go out, get drunk, and proceed to toilet paper Kim's house. Right? I know what you are thinking, but his post is not about those crazy bitches. The episode make me laugh so hard because I've got some Toilet Paper Tales of my own to tell.

Back in high school, I was kinda wild. Are you shocked? Me wild?? But it's true, we were a pack of wild kids. We used to stay out late, drink and get this...steal our parent's cars and cruise around after hours without our drivers licences!! How the HELL we got away with it I will never know, but I would KILL Frick or Frack if they even attempted some of the crap we pulled.

Having said that...

We were "the coolies" as my dad dubbed us, and one night "the coolies" decided that we were going to toilet paper the football team's houses. We were probably sophomores, none of us old enough to drive, yet we hatched a plan to stay out all night and create mischief. The first thing was to secure the all nighter..we each lied about a sleepover at so and so's house, then we were free! My BFF's parents owned a gym for gymnastics and they had lots of vans that were unattended at night. We took a cab down to the gym, My BFF had the keys to a van and we took off to pick up the others! There were about 7 or 8 of us and like a team of Navy Seals, we set out on our stealth mission dressed all in black.

We needed lots of toilet paper, and being young and wild, we soon realized that the four pack that we had each stolen from our houses just wasn't going to do the job we needed to do. Steal being the operative word here...
It was then that we decided that every late night fast food joint would outfit us with all the toilet paper we would need. It took about 4 or 5 trips to different Burger King and McDonalds within a 5 -10 mile radius, but each bathroom had an ample supply of overflow toilet tissue which we heartily helped ourselves to. Rotten kids, we were, but we thought it was the greatest thing. When we were supplied to the brim with extra toilet paper, our mission began.

Oh what fun it was to throw the rolls over the trees, creating the effect seen above at each house. Trying to stifle the giggles and voices of 8 sophomore girls in the wee hours of the morning was a feat in itself, but we somehow managed to pull it off. I can still remember the rush of excitement when one or more of the houses were decorated in our special way. And it continued all through the night. One after the other, each home properly vandalized, the team we had assembled joyously worked, creating laughs and memories. It seemed like such good clean fun until....

The next day.

At the football game, it spread like wildfire that we were the ones responsible for the mess at each residence. And would you believe that no one thought it was as funny as we did?

The things a bunch of crazy kid will do for the hell of it.

I'm sure today if we had completed such a mission, all 8 of us would have at least received a visit at our homes from the local authorities with either the threat of criminal action or forced to clean up what we thought to be a hilarious mess. Thank God for the good old days. Beside a few snarky remarks from the guys on the football team about how they themselves had to clean it up, we escaped the consequences of our actions.

Again, it's a good thing I didn't know Frick and Frack back then. And I'm sure I never relayed to them the exact details of the story.

I don't think the world would find it as funny..

The 80's Child

If they say the heart of Rock and Roll is still beating, then this album is more than barely breathing.
80's mega band Huey Lewis and The News,  today celebrate the 30th anniversary of their number one, award winning album, Sports.

Thirty years ago I was exactly the one who was falling for "The Power of Love", as I had posters of the band and clean cut, raspy voiced Huey Lewis adorning my adolescent bedroom walls. The affable Lewis, and his band mates didn't always feel that  loving power, though. They didn't hit record gold until their sophomore album, Picture This with the mega hit- "Do You Believe In Love?" that fueled a 35 weeks run on the Billboard 200 Album Chart.

With the release of Sports in 1984, the band was fast becoming a household name and went multi-platinum with their four, Billboard Top Ten hits, "Heart and Soul", "I Want a new Drug", "The Heart of Rock and Roll" and "If This Is it".  Following their ascent into fame, they then released their fourth album, a chart topping number one, Billboard 200 Album, "Fore!". That album produced five more top ten singles on the Billboard Hot 100 and it then went triple platinum. Suddenly it was very, "Hip to Be Square".

The band is back and embarking on a tour in celebration of the 30th Anniversary of Sports debut. Judging by this morning's appearance on Good Morning America, the boy has still got it, the band is still rockin' and still delivering that special Huey Lewis sound.


So, relax Huey, no need to let you know, "If This Is It", someone would have told you a long time ago.

Warts And All

There was a time, back when I was in junior high school, when I didn't always feel as confident as I do now. I know, it's hard to believe judging by the size of my ego as an adult, but back then I was bullied. My experiences during those years definitely served to shape me into who I am today and despite the pain, I find myself grateful for having endured it. Yes, I am somewhat grateful for having been bullied.

It was 7th grade and in our school district all of the elementary schools in the town converged together for 7th and 8th grade in one building. It was an exciting time to be a middle schooler, as lots of new fresh faced Tweens, awkward and bright eyed, met for the first time in the halls of our "junior high". It was a definitely a time of "firsts". It was the first time we had used lockers, the first time we didn't have to march single file in a line in the hallway between classes and the first time the new boys and girls got to check each other out.

In junior high, we had homeroom, which was assigned alphabetically and somehow lies at the crux of this story. I don't remember exactly what happened, but a boy in my home room, one I did not know, decided I would be his victim. Looking back, I might have responded to his first interaction with me flippantly, and he decided that my punishment would be to hand pick me for his special brand of torture.

I remember in those first few days hearing the name echoing in the hallways. I wasn't quite sure what it meant, or who it was meant for but it was undoubtedly a nasty, ugly name and it's sole purpose was to demean and punish its recipient. I soon figured out that I was the beneficiary of this horrible name because it started to follow me wherever I went. At first, the boys were having a field day using my new moniker against me, and I was quickly ostracized by the "coolies" in my peer group. But I was ok because I was the last of five in an entire family of "coolies", which made me a coolie by default. Or so I thought.

I had the "coolie" girls for friends, as we were just beginning to form the social groups that would withstand our high school careers. Soon the coolie girls began to make excuses and go to great lengths to lie to me about parties and play dates. I remember being invited to a friend's house with about 5 other coolies after school. We were jumping on her trampoline and having fun when the head coolie came out and made an announcement, "I have to go to gymnastics class, so everybody has to leave now."

We all looked at each other, and since I was the only one to ride my bike, I rose to leave. Feeling suspicious, I asked, "How is everybody else getting home?" I was told that her big sister would be driving everybody else home, pronto. They even took the ruse as far as to march out to the driveway, where my bike was parked, and pile all five coolies into the car. Waving goodbye, I drove away, but the feeling that I was being duped nagged at my psyche. I traveled a bit further down the road and I turned to look back, thereby confirming my suspicions. I caught all of them getting out of the car and going back into the house.

I continued on my bike ride home, tears stinging my eyes against the cool afternoon breeze, and as I turned to corner I spied two coolie boys from my grade, riding their bikes up the same street approaching me. The pending doom I felt at that moment was instantly lifted when they both waved enthusiastically and called me by my proper name. Instantly I had been vindicated and I felt a sense of triumph,albeit only briefly. Once we passed each other the smiles faded and I was reminded that I was not entitled to feel social grace of any kind. They screamed out my horrible name and laughed as they continued on.

I have thousands of stories like that one, most of which comprise my middle school years. My own brother was ashamed of me and if he really wanted to hurt me, he would pull out the name to sink the knife deeper into the wound. By the grace of God I survived and somewhere along the way, during the summer of my entrance into high school, the swan blossomed. I got my braces off, I had a great summer camp experience that helped to bolster my self esteem and I got noticed once I entered high school.

I left the name behind back in middle school and I never heard it again. I say I am grateful because I'm not sure I would be who I am today without that experience. It made me a better person. It taught me compassion and it made me see people through different eyes. In high school I was lucky because my bullying experience allowed me to navigate my way through every social group effectively. I was accepted for who I am because I had at one time been where no man had wanted to go and I survived.

Those coolie girls, the ones who were indifferent to my pain in middle school? I still call them my friends today and the one who pulled the ruse to get rid of me is today part of my inner circle. Crazy? Maybe, but what I learned through it all was that people make mistakes. I can't control other people's decisions, good or bad. We all survived high school and they have since made restitution for their sins, because they might have won the battle, but I won the war. I am the lucky one because they gave me a gift.

I am so grateful that it didn't turn me to a dark place that I may have never came back from and grateful that I was strong enough to withstand what I was handed. But I am most grateful for the effect it had on me as a human being. If I could say one thing to anyone who is experiencing bullying today it would be...hold on...the message will be revealed and you too will have your redeeming swan moment. And somewhere, some how, there is a reason you have been chosen to receive this message. I pray for you to be be a lucky one, too and accept yourself for who you are. Warts and all.

Magic Bird

Back in 1984, I was a bright eyed college freshman who arrived to my first day at my freshman dormitory and met the girl who would be my college roommate. I was as excited as I had ever been. My mom had planned my dormitory supplies well. I had new bedding, flashy new pillows, coordinating blankets and sheets, tons of toiletries (it is me, after all) new clothes and big dreams. My roommate and I, shook hands, met each others families, then said our goodbyes to them and immediately got busy setting up shop on our own "side of the room."

For me that was a bed, a bureau, some shelves, and a desk. My mom and I had picked out together almost everything, except for the wall art. That was my job alone, and I could only imagine what my roommate thought when the first thing I did was hang two enormous posters, side by side, over my bed. One poster was of Larry Bird and the other was of Magic Johnson. A huge Celtics fan, then now and forever, back then Larry and Magic were the show and I was besotted. And so was the nation.

Their rivalry was legendary, and in that shared history they ultimately became friends. The learned about the game from each other, they learned about themselves from each other and Magic says that Larry's presence on the court made him a better player and a better man. The great Boston Globe sports scribe, Jackie MacMullen, (who is from my home town of Westwood, MA, and who I know) had the incredible opportunity to co-author a book with these two legends. "When the Game Was Ours by Larry Bird and Magic Johnson" tells the tale of how these sports legends basketball careers coincided from college; Bird at Indiana State and Magic at Michigan State through to their NBA careers. Both men always observing the other, often time obsessing over achievements.

It is no surprise to me that on this Wednesday a new show on Broadway opens up entitled, "Magic Bird". It's a show that gives me goosebumps because it takes me back to a time when these two were Kings of the parquet and I was buying whatever they were selling. While sport and theatre may mirror each other in their spectacle, the real story here is of mutual respect, admiration, determination, perseverance and show business. Win or loose, we wanted to experience every second of it because we knew they wouldn't disappoint. We loved the show.

Here's hoping Magic Bird on Broadway doesn't disappoint.

Hi I'm Jackie's Packie. We Sell Ciggies and Beer

St. Patrick's day is a big deal in this city. Boston, home of the liberal, Irish Catholic political hack, the St. Patrick's day breakfast in South Boston is legendary. It's an opportunity for partisan politics to poke fun; a roast, so to speak, for political allies and foes.

The city also hosts one of the biggest St Patrick's Day parades in the country in the heart of Irish Catholic Boston, SOUTHIE. Growing up, it was a rite of passage, attending the parade. For me it was always exactly for what it was meant to be for-getting completely hammered and checking out cute Southie boys. A true celebratory "wearin' of the green".

I post his today in honor of that Boston tradition. It's my favorite installment of the Housewives franchise, The Real Housewives of South Boston. While this one is not as funny as the first one, (in fact it's kind of crass) I can't quite say that this one is too far off the mark. While I did not grow up in South Boston, I knew plenty of people who did and I'll venture to guess that after seeing this, they wouldn't own up to spending a few St Paddy's day parade day's this way.

Happy St. Paddy's Bloggers! Keep your Irish up!

Dreamy Davey Jones

Aw crap, we lost another one that made me wistfully sad to see 'em go. I felt that way when I heard about Davey.

I used to worship The Monkees. I watched that show faithfully everyday on Channel 56. I remember it was wedged somewhere between the Banana Splits and the Brady Bunch and I never missed it. Mike, Mickey, Peter and Davey were the dreamy foursome that captured the hearts and the imaginations of generations of kids. What's funny is that I was just born when the Monkees TV show originally aired and was just 2 when it ended. Thanks to the magic of syndication, a whole new generation of kids like me were able to watch and enjoy The Monkees.

And Davey? He was my favorite. He had those teen heartthrob looks and a killer smile all wrapped up in a pint size package with an adorable British accent. I had more that a few pictures of Davey on my bedroom wall. The Monkees will always hold the best of memories for me.

The group was criticized for being a band formed around a TV show and for not having the chops of a group that had been together for years. What did they know? 45 years later their music still stands and plays on major radio stations around the country and when Diane Sawyer reads your obituary on World News Tonite, I guess you can say you did something right.

At 66, Davey was taken much too young, but somewhere up in heaven today there are a few more Daydream Believers than there were yesterday.

Time To Change

If you grew up around the same time as I did, you definitely remember the TV show "The Brady Bunch" which was a huge part of my childhood. Now an adult and mother, I recently had occasion to bring one of those legendary episodes to mind. My boy Frack, almost 16 years-old, is currently experiencing an extreme, pubescent changing voice. It would seem that for me, life has imitated art.

It started a few months ago and very slight at first. I would hear the high pitch in his voice when he was talking, but just slightly and only sprinkled in conversation here and there. I even mentioned to him that I thought his voice might be changing, to which he made no comment to confirm it. After spending last week's vacation with the family, we are no longer searching for a cute, minimal pitch change here and there. Frack is in the middle of a full on, four alarm, squeaky, pitchy, voice change.

Frack was having a conversation with my dad, when he tried to casually call his name,

"Pa-PA?" The squeak in his voice, surprising even him.
"What the hell was that?" Frack replied.

We, of course, laughed and offered him our support. Throughout the week, it would pop into conversation. He would stop mid-sentence, revealing his frustration over this inconvenient rite of passage. Now he can't wait for it to be over.

Who really knows for sure how long it will take for the process to complete, but I'm sure Frack will roll with it until then. Just like those crazy Brady's say," it's time to re-arrange who you are into what you're going to be."

"The Notorious P.I.G."

I die...Miss Piggy in Brian Atwood shoes


Miss Piggy in Jason Wu designs in this month's In Style magazine

Miss Piggy in Prabal Gurung in her photo fashion shoot from this month's In Style magazine

I've always loved pigs. Maybe I was influenced by Charlotte's best friend Wilbur when I was a little girl, but their cute little pug noses and curly tails always made them the best stuffed doll option in the toy store. Pigs were big when I was a kid and I remember there was a great store in the Faneuil Hall Market place called, "Hogs Wild" that carried any and all things that had to do with pigs. I loved it there.

Back then, there was one pig who reigned supreme if you were a pig lover and no other pig even came close. Miss Piggy was the Queen of the pig-loving world and every other pig was a cheap imitation. Piggy had swagger and the posse to prove it and she had her man, Kermit the Frog. Although Miss Piggy didn't start out as a major Muppet character, in the late 70s and early 80's, Piggys popularity sky rocketed, surpassing all the other Muppet characters in popularity and merchandising.

It was like nothing could stop her.

Miss Piggy has written 5 books, one a New York Times best seller, and performed with many Hollywood hotshots. She even sang a duet with Sir Elton John himself and wore the clothing of the most sought after fashion designers in the world. Not bad for a puppet with purple gloved hands who never quite seemed to get her man, I mean frog. Poor Kermit. When she isn't loving him and smothering him in kisses, she is giving him a huge karate chop with her signature, "Hi-Ya!" and sending him flying.

Now Miss Piggy is enjoying a resurgence of her popularity due to the upcoming Muppet movie. What will Miss Piggy do for an encore? It's hard to top Piggy. Those who knew her best suggest not even going there.

The late, great Jim Henson, creator of the Muppets once said of Miss Piggy when they were creating the new show, "Fraggle Rock",

"We would anticipate coming up with new personalities which would have much of the same appeal as a Kermit , Fozzie or Gonzo. We will not create anybody with Miss Piggy's kind of appeal-nobody should even try."

Flashback Friday

Hey Bloggers! Happy Friday. I'm dedicating this post to my blogger buddies Beckeye and Dr Kenneth Noisewater, Heff and Bama Trav and all you other music aficionado's.

Me? I suck at music, but a song came on the radio the other day that brought me back to a wonderful time in my life. The Monkees were a TV phenom boy band back in the day and I used to watch them with stars in my eyes. The beloved band, The Monkees, were comprised of heart throbs and awkward hippy teens who cranked out a groovy sound for a comedy TV show aimed at teens. I was their target demographic and I took the bait hook, line and sinker.

Funny, the group endured all kinds of criticism because the band was formed around a TV show. Some say they lacked the strengths of a band that had been jammin together for a while and dubbed them a fraud. But you can't deny the songs they produced that still stand today.

So I chose three of my Monkees favorites and lets vote on the quintessential song that represent them. I'll tell you later which one is my favorite.

Have a Pleasant Valley Weekend Bloggers.

When The Happy Was In Happy Hour

I graduated high school in the early eighties. Life, back then was a little bit easier, a little bit safer and a hell of a lot more fun than the way things are today. Summer vacation meant weekends on Cape Cod, with your friends and most definitely Happy Hour.

Happy Hour on Cape Cod seems like another life time ago, but I made some of my greatest memories of young adulthood there. It was legendary. We would team up and hop into someones car, drive the hour and a half ride to the Cape and land directly on the beach. The days were spent working on our tans, flirting with cute boys and laying in wait for the main event, Happy Hour.

Back then, there were lots of places serving 25 cent beers and deals for fruity cocktails, just perfect for a young crowd with little money and a fake ID. Happy Hour was the place to be if you wanted to enjoy the cheap booze and cute boys/girls. Headquarters for us was the legendary Pufferbellies or The Mill Hill Club, where the lines to get in would snake around the building. More often than not we would go straight from the beach, bathing suits still wet from the ocean and wait in line to enjoy Happy Hour.

Gordy Milne, DJ Gary Titus and Jim Plunkett were the genius' armed with a cadre of dirty sing along songs to entertain and drinking contests with prizes. But the real prize was the experience, the culture of Happy Hour and the memories we made. More often than not, after hours of Happy Hour, we had no place to stay overnight, so we would either crash in our cars or crash on the floor of someones weekend rental that you didn't know. Then get up the next day and do it all over again. The Jersey Shore cast has nothing on Happy Hour, as we invented the good old, drunken summer rite of passage.

Now there is a documentary being made about those days of glory called "The Kings Of Cape Cod", and this trailer takes me back to a wonderful time of youthful abandon. Some of my close high school friends met inside the walls of the huge warehouse turned night club, Pufferbellies, and are now 20 years happily married with teens of their own. Would they want their teens doing what we did back then? Most certainly not, but they still share the stories with them about a time when things were different.

And when being a 19 year old, spending the summer drinking on Cape Cod was considered a normal rite of passage. Oh, Happy Hour.....where have you gone?

Mean Old Mrs. Reeves

I had this third grade teacher who was just plain old mean. I'll never forget the bitch because I think my eight year old self might have taught her a lesson.

She was the kind of teacher that yelled...a lot. We were petrified of her and if she was nice to you, you strove to keep things that way. Nobody wanted to be on Mrs. Reeves' bad side. She was teaching us our multiplication times tables and she would shout out randomly, "Candy, what is 5 times 6?" She gave you all of two seconds and if you didn't know the answer in a mili-second she would ask someone else. I swear, I still can't call those multiplication times tables to mind quickly because I was traumatized by her back then.

Well, the end of school came and it was the second to last day of school. We had field day, when all the classes competed against each other for ribbons in stuff like the egg toss and tug of war. I think it rained on our field day, because it was in the school gym. We were in a single line, passing by the library for our treat, a big m&m cookie, when I tripped over my untied shoe lace and skinned my knee.

Mrs. Reeves, being the bitch that she was, yelled at me and sent me to the nurse for a band-aid and told me in an exasperated manner that she would get my cookie and put it on my desk. Off I went to the nurse who gave me some TLC and a band-aid and I was sent on my way. When I returned to the classroom, everyone was laughing and sharing in a celebration with punch and cookies. There was no cookie on my desk. So I went up to Mrs. Reeves and quietly asked her if she had gotten me a cookie.

For whatever reason this set her off, and she hailed a barrage of screaming at me that literally caused wind burn on my face. I was mortified, embarrassed and pissed off at this injustice. And I was fed up with her. She told me to go sit at my desk and as I walked over to my chair, instead of sitting, I slammed the chair as hard as I could into the desk and I took off!!

Eight years old and I was free!!! Free of that rotten bitch Mrs. Reeves and free out the door of the school. I was going home. I wasn't going to take her abuse for one more second. I think I might have been laughing as I ran up the street towards home, but I felt good knowing that I had taken a stand against mean old Mrs. Reeves.

I kept going, triumphant in my quest to get home, until I saw our school Principal's car pull up beside me. Now if you think Mrs. Reeves was a bitch, then Ms. Hadelski was Osama Bin Laden and I knew I was screwed. Panicked, I began to run faster but she caught up to me, except she wasn't mean at all. In fact, she was nice. She told me that we needed to talk and that she would love to give me a ride back to school.

So I went with her, all the while, talking. She was calm and clear and not at all threatening. But I was ready for her and old Reeves, fists clenched. When we got back to school, I sat in her office while, get this, Hadelski got me a cookie and some punch. She never called my mom and I got into no trouble. She told me I didn't have to go back into my classroom if I didn't want to and I didn't want to.

When school was over, I went home on the school bus and awaited my punishment because by now I figured my mom had been called. But she never said a word. How could this be? My mom never brought it up and neither did I. I went reluctantly back to school, the last day and Reeves was waiting for me when I got there like a predator waiting for her prey. She took me out into the corridor and began yelling at me about how dangerous my behavior was, blah, blah blah. She asked me if I had told my mother about what happened, and I was silent. I think I was paralyzed with fear because I couldn't speak, but what that bitch did next was unforgivable.

She grabbed me by the arm, hard, and began demanding that I answer her. All I could feel was pain in my arm from where she was squeezing me, and instinctively I kicked her as hard as I could in the shin, multiple times, until she released my arm. At this time other teachers in other classrooms came out to see what the commotion was in the hallway and there we were, standing with heaving breath and red faces looking at each other.

Reeves went back into the classroom and so did I. She never came near me again, and the rest of the day went peacefully. I was kind of a celebrity with the boys and I enjoyed a pleasant last day of school. I thought for sure I would be in trouble when I got home, but my mom never said a word about it. They never told her.

Looking back, I think I know why. Reeves was an abusive teacher and she had been a problem throughout the year, and not just with me. I think I was the only one to stand up to her, me in all my eight year old bravado. I never saw Mrs. Reeves again, but I will never forget her.

I'm sure some where in the depths of her mind she will never forget me either. I took a stand against her abuse and she messed with the wrong kid.

Of that, I am certain.