Who took the donut out of the donut hole?

Today I woke up at 7:00 a.m. to take Dinghy, our new puppy, out for “Pees and Poops!” One must exude a certain amount of enthusiasm (I like to channel Dan Aykroyd’s impression of Julia Child - “Save the livah!”) when urging puppies to do their morning “Pees and Poops!” As I attempted to persuade Dinghy to finish her business she zoomed around the yard in her “Let’s play chicken!” mode—a game where she darts about in circles like a crazed foul while I give chase. 

Finally, pees and poops accomplished amidst no small amount of chicken chasing, we proceeded to perform our morning yard check. Suddenly  I noticed a commotion across the street in front of the Josiah Quincy House (a historic Quincy home built by one Josiah Quincy, a mayor of Boston and China trader). Cops and men in some kind of catering uniform all peered through the Jo Qui house fence. The intermittent spit of police radios punctuated morning cricket calls. There was a white truck parked on the street with it's back open and I could just make out racks of what looked like baked goods. I thought, “Must be having a catered affair at Jo Qui today.” But why all the cops?

Just then my neighbor Pete appeared.

“What’s all the commotion?” I asked. Pete has lived in the neighborhood forever. He’s a Quincy guy of first rank. Any Quincy-worthy news, Pete  knows it before anyone else.

“Dunkin Donut truck got jacked.” Pete informed me.

“Jacked?”

“Yah." Throwing me a less than patient look. "As in stolen. Get with the program Tammi. You gotta know the lingo of a crime scene.”

“OOOPS. Sorry.” I didn’t actually feel too bad not knowing “The lingo of a crime scene.” Crime scenes aren’t really my thing. I’m more a food truck scene gal. Crime scenes or fresh made burritos from the Baja Burrito truck? I’ll take the burrito anytime.

I peered across the street. “So are those donuts in the truck?”

Yep. Ten stores worth.”

Wow. What will they do with all those donuts?"

Pete sneered. “Probably take the truck back to the Police Station and keep it as evidence.”

Ten stores worth of deelish Dunkin Donuts. Some poor little old lady just coming from church to get her baker’s dozen (Do they still do that?) is going to have to forgo her Chocolate Chunky Cruller and Boston Cremes. 

Can anyone say crisis in Quincy?

This is a total donut debacle of desperate dimensions. 

I can see the headline now. "Collective Cry Hits Quincy. No Donuts for YOU!"
For those of you who aren't aware, Dunkin Donuts was founded in Quincy so we are very serious about our donuts.

I imagine Quincy citizens raging about the Sunday donut deficit. 

Ritual Sunday sugar highs? NOT! 

Children plead with their mommies, "Mommy, why can't I have my Nutty Butter Peanutty donut hole?" 

Mom sighs, "A really mean man took your donut hole and now the police have it and they won't give it back." 

Meanwhile, Quincy cops are “examining” the “evidence” and “logging” it for the prosecution. Something tells me crumbs will be flying when the DA finds his evidence was “lost.”

As I peer at the truck trying to figure out a way to snag some donuts—someone might as well get a good sugar high and why not me? I asked Pete. "What do you think all the donut eaters will do today without their donuts?"

Pete looked thoughtful. "Let them eat cake?"

Cake. Hmmmm. Sounds good to me.

Adventures in Shameless Self-Promotion

I have decided it’s time to do some shameless self-promotion for my children’s book, Vanilla Gorilla: Animal Art and Poems. Heh, if I don’t do it who will. 

There are myriad reasons why everyone should buy this book. Here’s three.

1. You like me.

2. You don’t like me but you want to read a riveting piece of literature.

3. Your ambivalent about me saying, “ECHH, I could take her or leave her.” but you want to learn some new words and impress all your friends.

In order to really maximize my shameless self-promotion I decided I need a tagline. Who better to consult than my friend Jonathan, a so-called advertising guru who has worked for EVERY major corporation on the planet. If he can’t come up with a really neat tagline no one can.

I call him. 

‘I need a shameless self-promotional tagline for my book.’

‘What book?’

‘Vanilla Gorilla: Animal Art & Poems - DUHHH.’

'There’s no such thing as a Vanilla Gorilla.’ He states emphatically. ‘Gorillas are black and maybe a little brown too. But they have pink tummies.’

‘Since when did you become an authority on gorillas?’

‘I’ve worked with my share of gorillas. There was that coke commercial with the dancing gorillas.’

‘But those were cartoon gorillas.'

‘Cartoon - schmartoon! They’re all the same. And, we were almost nominated for an Emmy.’

‘Almost’ doesn’t quite qualify as 'actual' but whatever. I perceive a bit of ego stroking might be appropriate at this point.

‘You must be so proud. My gorilla is only named Vanilla Gorilla, and he’s not black he’s blue.'

‘OK.... A gorilla named Vanilla Gorilla who’s not even Vanilla but blue. How am I supposed to work with that!?’

'You’re supposed to be an advertising genius. Isn’t that what your shameless self-promotional literature says?’

'Well yes but.... OOOPS? Client calling! Gotta Go!’

So much for advertising gurus. So I called my sister Anne the opera singing diva sister who also writes ad jingles on the side. 

'I need a shameless self-promotional tagline for my gorilla book.’

‘What have you got so far.’

‘Well, I’ve got Vanilla is great. Everyone loves Vanilla.’

‘Everyone loves chocolate more.’ she muses, 'Why not change it to Chocolate Gorilla?’

'Because Vanilla Gorilla rhymes. There’s no rhyme in Chocolate Gorilla, AND the book is already printed.'

‘Already printed?’

‘Already printed.’ 

‘OOOPS!’ Did you screw that one up.’

'It is what it is. There’s no going back. Now what about help with the tagline?’

'Let me work on it but I’m pretty busy. Got three performances of La Boheme this week, I’m playing Mimi. I have consumption and I die in a rat infested Paris garrett. It’s very romantic.’

‘How do you sing if you have consumption?’ I ask. 

'Pure talent honey. Pure talent.' 

I hear the phone ringing in the background. 'That’s my Rodolfo calling!' she declares excitedly. ‘Gotta go!’

Rodolpho? Before this all gets a bit weird I call the X. Since he wrote the poems that appear in the book maybe he can come up with a shameless self-promotional tagline.

'I’m super busy right now.’ he says suspiciously. 'Are you calling for money? I don’t have any money.’

‘I’m not calling for money. I need a tagline for the book.’

‘Did you call your crazy advertising friend who did the coke commercial with the gorillas?’

'Yes, he’s busy and he doesn’t believe in Vanilla Gorillas, only the regular kind of gorillas.’

‘That’s odd. Did you call your sister? The jingle one that is.’

Yes. She has consumption so wasn’t much help.’

‘Consumption?’ That’s doesn’t sound too good.'

'She’s alright - it’s the fake kind of consumption not the real kind.’

'I didn’t know there was a fake kind.'

'There is! Enough about the consumption!' I raised my voice a bit. ‘I need a tagline NOW!’

Raised voices and the X don’t go well. He’s never liked confrontation.

‘How am I supposed to be creative when you’re yelling at me?’ He whines.

‘Anyway I’ve got to go. Call ya back in 20?’

Click.

I know he’ll never call me back. 

All my attempts at finding the perfect shameless self-promotional tagline have failed. I sit despondent in my comfy chair staring at VG on the book’s cover. Suddenly a voice in my head whispers lovingly, ‘You worry too much.’ says Vanilla Gorilla. ‘Let’s go eat some ice cream and watch the original Madagascar movie.’  VG loves that part with Robin Williams as the king lemur. “Physically fit. Physically fit...’

As we snuggle together, eating our ice cream (vanilla of course), VG whispers, ‘You could have asked me for a tagline.’

‘Do you have one?’

‘Of course.’ I should have known. Go to the source right? 

‘What is it?’

I’m Vanilla Gorilla and I’m on the covah.”

So don’t be afraid, I’m a lovey Dovah.’

Yah. What he said. 

Teenagese:

Recently I was hanging out enjoying the company of my son and his friend Dennis. Dennis is a great kid but most of the time I can’t understand a word he says.  Dennis’s unintelligible blather and my frequent requests for translation reminded me of a piece I wrote several years ago when my son and his friends were just entering their teenage years. 

   

My son, 'Little Bean,' has finally turned into a teenager and become 'Big Bean.' There are so many changes I felt I had to document a few of the more interesting ones. 

Of course he has grown taller than his father. This is a source of endless entertainment for Big Bean. He now enjoys activities like resting his chin on his father’s head, declaring, 'Oh my! Your so little daddy!' Now—Daddy is 'Little Bean'.

There is one disturbing trend. My son has started mumbling a lot more lately even though we've always stressed good communication habits and proper pronunciation. When he was in pre-school he started dropping his r’s. Granted we live in the Boston area so he is exposed to the 'Bahston' accent on a daily basis. 'Park' became 'pahhk' and car became 'cahh.' Having grown up with a father who was a radio personality I was determined that no child of mine would decimate the English language but explanations like, ‘You’re hurting poor R’s feelings when you don’t pronounce it,’ had no effect. Not until I told him ‘You won’t be able to run as fast if you don’t pronounce your R’s,’ did he take heed. Lovely letter R came back with a vengeance.

All of the sudden, these carefully scripted lessons have sailed out the window and I am left with someone speaking a new and unintelligible language. I’ve coined it 'Teenagese.' Apparently (I’ve done my research), it’s an ancient language, passed on from generation-to-generation of teenagers, mostly while standing at urinals in the school bathroom. My research shows there are even cave paintings illustrating Teenagese early beginnings. Back then they didn’t have urinals, a rock sufficed. 

Only teenagers are fluent in Teenagese and they are perfectly capable of understanding each other. 

‘Can adults understand it?’ you ask. 

‘NO WAY JOSÉ!’ 

As teenagers, adults used to speak it but through some secret process it’s been erased from our memories (it has nothing to do with multiple bong-hits) and been replaced with snoring. We have no recollection of our Teenagese years— and it’s probably better that way. 

I walked into my kitchen the other day to see my son sitting at the computer with a couple of his friends. My first thought: 'Not again! Their speaking Teenagese!'

Big Bean is looking intently at the computer screen and emphatically declares, 'Blah bler mam patt buh suh!' Since the NFL website was up I imagine the conversation had something to do with football. But, who knows? 

What’s a clueless mother to do? While I’m busy trying to extract some sense from this conversation—teenagers know I’ve forgotten my Teenagese so they aren’t worried in the least—they’re going on their merry way chatting about God knows what, and most likely it isn’t good. 

The irony of all this is that when they are compelled to swear (which comprises roughly 50% of the conversation)—guess what?— It comes out CLEAR AS DAY. 

‘Mush mush bacha pa somthn fo FUCKING a mofo!’ 

It’s kinda crazy when you think about it. Parents are forever reprimanding their children for swearing, saying things like, ‘Johnnie! That language is inappropriate.’

You’d think that if teenagers can come up with a secret language, they could incorporate some swears in there too. I’m sure it has something to do with passive aggressive tendencies, teenage rebellion, and other things that cause adults to cringe and wring their hands in despair. Looking on the bright side—and I’m a glass half-full gal—at least there’s one word in there that we adults can understand. We may not want to hear it but that’s beside the point.

Parent's take heart! 

Teenagese, like acne and other artifacts of your child's teenage years, shall pass. Most likely by the time your child goes off to college. They'll be back to speaking good 'ole english, asking you for money, the car, a new laptop and stuff like that. So just be patient and enjoy every mumbly moment with your child.

My last word on this subject: “A gome is mush mush ist badd SHIT!”