Thank You Sweet Baby Jesus For The Smokin Hot Dennis Quaid Who Is A Stone Cold Fox

I'm sorry.

I knew at about 9:30 yesterday morning that I had to share this with you.

It was so funny that it actually interrupted my workout. Yup, I had to stop running because I was laughing so hard.

Please, watch.

A Mothers Love

Frack spent the weekend skiing in New Hampshire with the family of his friend and had a great time. They rolled in from the trip at 5 pm last night and Frack called me at the store the second he walked into the empty house.

"Mom, where are you?" he barked.(because he had the day off from school he automatically thinks that it's Sunday)

"I'm at work, buddy. You home?" I said.

"Yeah, I'm home but I am sooo sick mom." he said.

Now, any mother will tell you that the simple utterance of these three words, "I'm so sick" automatically sends shock waves down her spine.

"What's the matter?"I shriek.

"I've got the chills, I'm sweating and I feel really weak, mom."

"I'll be right there," I said, immediately dismissing the dinner plans I had with my friends.

I hardly remember closing up shop, as I was outta there in about a nano second and on my way to the 5 minute ride home, in the blazing snow. I arrived home to find my son's wet winter ski coat and wet hoodie sweatshirt in a ball on the mud room floor. No wonder, I thought. I raced upstairs. The tell tale image of my son fully clothed and in his bed was enough to tell me this was no false alarm.

"Hey buddy", I said a I placed my palm on his blazing hot forehead.

"Ok, let's get you outta these clothes and into your pajamas."

After we got him into his clean, dry, warm pajamas and under the covers, I went to retrieve the medical supplies. A quick temp check revealed a 100 degree temp, which I promptly treated with a dose of Advil and a shot of orange juice. I then laid next to my son and I watched the chill escape his body. I watched him relax and drift off into a peaceful, much needed slumber as his breathing regulated into a peaceful calm. I left him to sleep, safe in the knowledge that at least for now, my boy was alright.

About two hours later I was delighted to hear my child's voice beckoning me from his room.

I had checked on him during those two hours, placing my hand on his clammy forehead to check his temp, this time his fever was gone.

He then uttered the greatest words a sick child could say to a mother, "Mom, I'm hungry."

I happily went to fix my son some sustennance, for that was all he needed.

That and a hearty serving of a mother's love.

They Always Win

The following was found posted very low on a refrigerator door.

Dear Dogs,

The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Racing me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help because I fall faster than you can run.

I cannot buy anything bigger than a king sized bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue sleeping on the couch to ensure your comfort. Dogs can actually curl up in a ball when they sleep. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other, stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out on the other end to maximize space is nothing but sarcasm.

For the last time, there is no secret exit from the bathroom! If, by some miracle, I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, try to turn the knob or get your paw under the edge in an attempt to open the door. I must exit through the same door I entered. Also, I have been using the bathroom for years - canine attendance is not required.

The proper order for kissing is: Kiss me first, then go smell the other dog's butt. I cannot stress this enough.

Finally, in fairness, dear pets, I have posted the following message on the front door:

TO ALL NON-PET OWNERS WHO VISIT AND LIKE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT OUR PETS:
(1) They live here. You don't.
(2) If you don't want their hair on your clothes, stay off the furniture. That's why they call it 'fur'-niture.
(3) I like my pets a lot better than I like most people.
(4) To you, they are animals. To me, they are adopted sons/daughters who are short, hairy, walk on all fours and don't speak clearly.

Remember, dogs are better than kids because they:
(1) eat less
(2) don't ask for money all the time
(3) are easier to train
(4) normally come when called
(5) never ask to drive the car
(6) don't hang out with drug-using people
(7) don't smoke or drink
(8) don't want to wear your clothes
(9) don't have to buy the latest fashions
(10) don't need a gazillion dollars for college and
(11) if they get pregnant, you can sell their children ...

The Dream Lives On

"I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality... I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word."

Martin Luther King, Jr.

"I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character."

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Ode To Jim

(this is not Jim. this is who came up when I typed "happy guy" in google)

I want to tell you about my friend Jim. I've been thinking about him lately, almost daily, as I make myself a sandwich for lunch before going off to work. This Jim is not my funny, commenter friend Jim, so let me explain.

I live in a small town that has one of those little "boutique" supermarkets. It has almost everything you need, at twice the price and on most occasions, it suits my needs just fine. But as I said, it has almost everything. Every once in a while I need to travel over two towns to the big supermarket that has absolutely everything I need. Since I opened my store in September and I began all the construction mid-summer, I have been crazy busy enough not to be able to travel to the big supermarket since the fall. So two Sunday's ago I made the trip to the big supermarket. Upon entering, I did all the normal things that I do at said market, went through the produce, got what I needed and went over to the Deli. I got my number at the Deli counter, and then I looked for Jim.

Jim was an older gentleman who presided over the deli counter for years. His white hair, tucked neatly under the maroon baseball cap of his uniform, worked to set off the sparkle in his piercing, Irish, blue eyes. Jim was the jolliest of souls, always quick with a smile and a hello, and we got to know each other in those few, short exchanges we had over sliced Genoa Salami throughout the years. Jim knew me by name and I knew him by name. He would always start with a, "Hello Candace! What a pleasure it is to see you." I would return the pleasantries. We both loved the Red Sox, Celtics, Pats and B's, and I would always forgo my numbered turn until Jim was available to help me. I knew about his new car, and how proud of it he was, and he knew about my children and their recent triumphs.

Jim wasn't always working on the days I went to the big market, so I wasn't surprised at all last Sunday to find that Jim was not at the counter. There was a slew of young guns, manning the deli slicers, hurrying to get through the masses of customers. When it was my turn, I placed my order, then inquired, "Where's Jim? Is he off today?" The young man looked at me with a blank expression. "Jim?" he said. "I don't know any Jim." I looked over at the other younggin standing next to him and he said, "No Jim works here."

Huh???? Ok, I thought, rookies.

I then saw the two younggins whisper something to each other and then one turned to me and said, quite matter of factly, "I think Jim died."

"No..." was my immediate response, and my heart took on the weight of an anvil at that very moment. I was stunned and numb, but I continued on with my order, with a quiet sadness I was unable to avoid. As I thanked the young man, and proceeded to move on to the rest of the market a bit dumbfounded, a woman from the deli counter came from behind and approached me. She told me how Jim had died, that he had gotten sick and went quick. No suffering. She had gone to see him in the hospital and Jim told her that he wanted no one to cry for him. He was happy. I told her about the last time I had seen him, and how happy he was about his new car, and just about my brief but meaningful exchanges with Jim.Both of us stood in the center of the produce aisle, tears brimming in our eyes. Then I said, "You know, you never realize how someone touches your life until it's too late. Even at the deli counter in the supermarket and just for a few brief moments, but they have touched you."

I was so grateful to her for telling me Jim's story because although I didn't realize it then, I needed to know he was at peace when he went. And today, two weeks later, as I made my lunch for work, I thought of my friend Jim and decided to write this ode to him. Someone who I didn't know at all, really, but somehow Jim left an impression on me. As I wipe the tears from my eyes today, I ask you to quietly let someone in your life, no matter how big or small, know they matter. Before it's to late.

And somehow, I think Jim now knows that he mattered to me.

Senate Race Rule #1: Spell Check

Just in case the rest country wasn't aware of it, there's a little Senate race going on here in Mass between a man and a woman. The woman's a Dem and the man's a Republican and they just so happened to be fighting for THE Senate seat that once belonged to one of the biggest legends of the Senate, the Liberal Lion, Ted Kennedy. If that doesn't warrant the rest of the country's eye upon them, I don't know what will.

The man, MA State Senator Scott Brown, who's biggest claim to fame is his 15 hundred, way-over-the-time-limit-on-fame, minutes daughter, Alya Brown, a Season 5 reject from American Idol, is running against the woman, MA Attorney General Martha Coakley. And it's getting ugly.

Or I should say it's getting good.

Just a few short weeks ago Scott Brown, a pallid underdog who was points behind the technicolor Coakley in the polls, is just now showing his true colors when it really counts. At the finish line. Before this week, Brown was the clear underdog going up against Coakley and the Democratic machine that is MA. With the election one week away, Coakley turned up the heat with an onslaught of negative media ads and it's strategy backfired. Brown then pulled out his favorite weapon, his daughter, *yawn* who was on the front page of the Boston Herald yesterday, blasting Coakley for playing dirty pool with her Daddy. Coakley tried to play the "woman" card in her negative ads, and it may have given Brown the surge he needed in the polls, for as of today, the race is locked in a dead heat.

Besides the snafu the Coakley campaign made with the strategic error, they also made a HUGE, embarrassing error, which wears like a big spot of Ketchup on Coakley's clean whites. In a last minute attack ad on Scott Brown, the campaign misspelled the state of Massachusetts, as, "MASSACHUSETTES". Which leads some to believe that they smell a bit of panic in the air. So what happens when panic ensues? They bring out the big guns. A Brown win would not bode well for Pres Obama's health care reform push, and the Dems would loose the majority in the Senate. I can just hear Teddy turning over in his grave. So Barry just may have to take a trip to Beantown an smile nice with Martha. I know I just LOVE my TV and radio bombarded with their political ads, 24-7.

Either way, it's going to be a busy weekend for the two candidates. Martha has Barak and Scott has Ayla.

While Coakley is still projected to win, Brown has siezed the opportunity to have his voice on the issues heard. If this race is really about health care, I think maybe Scott/Alya have the advantage.

And maybe Alya's 15 minutes is not quite up yet. Maybe the next song she sings won't be a swan song at all, but a song her dad's victory party.

Maybe not. But I bet Scott and Alya Brown can both spell Massachusetts correctly.

AI Why Can't We Be Friends?

American Idol, I guess you and I could maybe be friends again....Maybe.

Even after last year's travesty with the final results, and after I posted this and said I would never watch you again:

I guess since you came to Bean Town, maybe I should cut you some slack. Maybe.

So out of a genuine curiosity and civic pride, I turned on the TV and watched. And I maybe got hooked again. Maybe.

And of course, the first auditioner had the "wicked Boston accent" that makes me want to jump out of my skin in embarrassment. (no we don't all sound like that) And even though this is NOT a good representation of my fair city, I thought we "represented" quite well last night.

He is, quite funny, obnoxious and sassy!!!