These Shoes Were Made For Walkin'

I never really thought much about my relationship with the UPS man.

I order things. He delivers. Pretty cut and dry really. But then he started messin' with my shoes.

In my advanced age, my feet have become increasingly more temperamental. Yet, I refuse, REFUSE, to go the traditional route of the American white sneaker. Contrary to popular belief, they do not go with everything. My solution? Bargain shopping stylish shoes on-line that are, gulp, given a seal of acceptance by the American Podiatric Medical Association.

Thank God they exist. And they arrive at my house on the creep. That's usually the easy part.

Granted, in the two years we've lived here, two things we were anticipating were never delivered: a pouch of prescription drugs (hope those water pills provided you with an outstanding high) and a pair of costume clip-on earrings. But in both instances, there was no proof of delivery, so replacements were issued immediately.

We've since smartened up, placing a vintage milk tin at the side door for the smaller stuff, which consequently makes us appear to be the only folks in the 'hood receiving a fresh milk delivery, as well as obsessively tracking the packages so we know which day to expect them.

My new shoes? The tracking status claimed they were delivered to the rear entrance. Now that's odd, because our UPS man du jour, while parked outside our house at the time that delivery was recorded, didn't exit the truck. I was watching. I know how this can go. So I called the on-line vendor, who launched the UPS investigation.

Such a serious term for a lost pair of sandals.

And thus began my intensive UPS education, where I learned, thanks to my new, slightly combative, pal at the national customer service center, that an investigation for a lost package takes 1-8 business days. During this time, not one, but two members of the UPS team, first national, then local, call to make sure you haven't somehow recovered your lost package, next to hypodermic needles in a weed filled lot.

I also learned that the UPS drivers have a whole lot of power. If no signature is required, they have the discretion to leave your box. Ho-hum. But much more disturbing: if a signature is required, they can use their authority to approach a neighbor, any neighbor, and ask them to sign for your package.

Say what?! Indeed, I trust my neighbor across the street, he's from Kansas after all, but I couldn't believe UPS asked him to sign for my new computer if I didn't come to the door.

Yup. All in the very same week.

As my shoe investigation entered its second week, the national office said the next step would be for the driver to return to the scene to see if he could remember where he left the package.

LOL indeed.

Two days later, the local office told me they'd be happy to close out the investigation, and refund my money, because it appears that someone is following said UPS driver around the neighborhood and stealing packages. Clearly, this must be one really quick thief. So quick, that I almost wonder if they hitched a ride on the truck. You know, on the back bumper or something.

So Brown, now that my case is officially closed what can you do for me? I'm so glad you asked.

1. Stop giving your full support to clearly incompetent drivers and/or scammers. 2. Consider that all of those boxes you are processing everyday actually have something in them--that the receiving party would like to see, instead of being obsessed with just the sheer volume of movement and the money that goes with it. 3. Work on getting someone cute to do my route, 'cause if we're going to be brushing hands over the delivery pad, seeing that my address now requires a John Hancock, it might as well be slightly enjoyable.

 And then all might be forgiven. 

East Versus West

On the menu last Saturday? Grilled pork chops.

Or that was the plan.

What I actually ate? A heaping Styrofoam plate of marinated skirt steak, rice, macaroni AND potato salad, passed over the fence from our neighbors, who were celebrating the birthday of their mom, visiting from Guatemala. Awww, right? And so not an isolated incident. Two weeks prior, three Coronas, from a completely different set of neighbors, traveled the same route over the fence.

Life is just kinder here on the West End.

For thirteen years, my husband André and I rented on the East Side. It's typically known as the most desirable area of the city. Clean. Safe. Quiet. Cultured. Highly educated. Professional. And very white (not advertised in polite company, but so, so true). As a result, it's also about four times more expensive to buy real estate here than in other Providence neighborhoods--as well as one of the biggest reasons of why we were renting, for thirteen years, on the East Side.

At first, the West Side, and more specifically, the Armory District, appealed to my bargain hunter instinct. We could buy a single family home here, a historic one even, built on the grounds of the Providence Greys baseball field grandstand, with a backyard, for cheaper than an East Side condo. Sorta like TJMaxx for the real estate market. But the longer we live here--and we're at two years and counting--the more we fall in love.

There's a real sense of community in this part of town. Folks are just, truly, more friendly. During all of our time on the East Side, we made exactly two connections: our friend Courtney, who we would continuously scare in the basement laundry room, and our next-door neighbor Ann. Dozens of tenants passed through our apartment building during our stay there, with an amazingly large number afraid to make eye contact, even if we were within feet of each other.

Invisible? That's not something that I play very well. I'm also not a fan of unfriendly. Or homogeneous. I want to live somewhere that challenges me. And makes me feel alive. And has people who aren't afraid to talk to each other because of the color of their skin. Or how they spend their working hours.

Granted, the West End is still urban living. Gangs are in effect, drugs are bought and sold and an unlocked door might invite someone inside to make off with your tv. But if you don't think that there's an element of this anywhere, you're pretty damn naive.

For us, the vibrancy and unexpected quirks more than make up for its perceived shortcomings. Where else are you gonna see a neighbor manning a powerful telescope on the sidewalk, educating the 'hood to the night sky. Or an Asian vendor at the farmer's market happy to share their recipe for bitter melon. Or dudes pimpin down the street, with a parrot on their shoulder.

Yup. It's good to be home.


Singin' In The Rain

Rain or Shine.

Maybe I'm just highly optimistic--or actively in denial--but I've never given much thought to the fine print of say, a Newport Jazz Festival ticket. I mean, I guess it could rain. But that would never happen in my reality where the sun is reflecting off the crystal blue waters of the bay--as well as the asphalt, my husband Andre's sunglasses and my can of iced tea, with live jazz providing the soundtrack in real time, to my death by heatstroke.

So you'd think that I'd be psyched about this year's predicted monsoon conditions. No worries about sunscreen re-application. No concerns about rehydration. Nah. Not so much. Being soaked for eight hours seems like it comes with its own set of challenges. I was actually resigned to take the financial hit and maybe sleep all day, until André innocently said, "Before I became a responsible adult, I would have never considered not going."

Say what?!

First part: completely true. We are responsible adults. Very responsible. Our mortgage and bills are paid on time and in full. We go to work. We work hard. We do not cheat on our taxes, each other or even our diets. It was the second part that, well, made my skin crawl; the implication that, somehow, all of these adult responsibilities, and the pious maturity that is supposed to come with them, were preventing us from heading over to the wild side--in this case, singin' in the rain.

The last time I was frivolously caught in a downpour at an outdoor stage was in the early '90's at Rocky Point. It was a Fourth of July celebration with headliners John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. My date:  my brother Rob. Were we prepared for the elements? You bettcha, because he didn't go anywhere without his volunteer fireman's jacket in the backseat of his Jeep.

You know, in case of emergency.

And indeed, this was. Not exactly standard issue, but after the show, I took off my wet clothes (discreetly) and wore the flannel-lined coat home. Naturally, Rob was hungry, so brother (now shirtless) and sister (now buckled into twenty pounds of flame-resistant goodness) hit the Burger King drive-through. This remains one of my all time favorite memories, from the visuals alone. And know what? I didn't give one thought as to what would happen if we got into a accident.

So, what's different now, besides the addition of a couple of years? Outside of the lack of firegear at our disposal, nada. Sure, André and I could subscribe to those popular, age-related guidelines and expiration dates that put a whole lot of unnecessary restrictions on life, and only make people feel depressed, washed-up and way past their prime, but that's not how we roll.

Too responsible to dance in the rain? Never. And if you can do it in a bright blue vinyl poncho, from the tenth row as Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue close out the weekend, even better.

Rise and Shine

'Twas the night before Christmas...

Yeah, yeah, we all know how the story goes. Not a creature stirring. Not even a mouse.

Except at my house. Behold the story behind my 1970's era blog snapshot.

It's actually the last in a series of three pictures taken by my Dad one Christmas morn'. He shot them documentary style, moving with his subjects to capture them, instead of waiting for them to come back his way.

Good choice. 

Photo number one: My younger brother Rob bounding into the living room to see if Santa came. The actual caption should read: Indeed St. Nick has arrived. Why don't you go wake your sister up? Don't want her to sleep away the day. It's already 6:15am. The sun will be up soon and there's not much time to till the land.

Number two: A shot of Rob from behind, scampering down the hall in his footed pj's on the way to wake me up. Caption: Come back, little one, you're being used as a pawn. The upcoming ire may traumatize you for life.

Grand finale: Me, waking up to greet the day, in an image that perfectly captures my childhood, and how I still feel about mornings. (In my defense, that's a window in the upper right corner. Yup. Black as night.)

There's my trademark short blonde bedheaded do' that helped Mom control my unnaturally thick wig, and got me mistaken, on more than one occasion, for a boy. There's the sheer terror on my brother's face, as he wondered, once again, what exactly he did and how he was going to pay for it. And finally, my oh-too-authentic expression of distain, which I can guarantee will still make an appearance should you wake me up.

Caption: I'm tellin'. Of course.

All 'bout the Learning Curve

Truth?

This website made my brain hurt.

The progression went a little like this:

Monday:  Casual perusing of the host site, looking for the cut and past feature for dummies. Ensuing mental breakdown timed perfectly to the rising temperature in my home office. Hysterical dinner with husband, with conversation punctuated frequently with sobbing phrase, "But I'm not a web prograaaaaaaaamer." Desperate late night e-mail fired to local design firm, requesting info, to salvage sanity (and possibly marriage).

Tuesday:  Refreshed. Ready to take on the world. Husband's reply to "I'm a smart woman. I can do this" is "at least see how much a professional would charge." Hel-lo motivation! Spend hour objectively looking at site, thinking 'I can do this'. Get e-mail from design company saying are booked through fall. Laugh at blatant message from universe. Of course I can do this. Spend rest of day resizing photos. #$#$%$#$%#! Clearly still not in control of situation. Feel that may never be in control of situation. Find another designer to contact.

Wednesday:  Rested. Try again. Sucker for punishment. Grew up with the mantra 'can't means won't'. Thanks Dad. Plus e-mail to designer is not even in my outbox. And then something funny happened. Things started to make sense. Granted, my learning curve wasn't quite up to the same speed as talents that I've honed through years of practice, like sniffing out bargains or making the perfect iced coffee. But with painfully slow baby steps, by Friday afternoon, I had a finished product.

Yay for me, right? Indeed. But I was so close to giving up.

So, this got me thinking about the last time that I tried to do some real heavy learning. Um, butchering of the Spanish language on Rosetta Stone. 2008? Not exactly a success. But I'm ready to go back and give it another shot. Because for me, this website, amigos, is only the beginning.