Month: September 2014

Texts from the Crib

/ DeeDeeFilly / 3 Comments

Look at this picture carefully and tell me what you see.

TextsFromCribPolaroid

Yes, that IS a cell phone in the hand of a teenage girl.

At a state fair.

IN A BABY STROLLER.

We were just sitting around at the Big E Fair in Massachusetts, waiting on the kids to be done on the bouncy thingee and taking in some world-class people-watching.

Then there was this girl.

Just consider, if you will, the melée going on all around this glowing little phone shroud.

A million and one lights flashing, Guns N’ Roses blaring, rides spinning and dropping people at Mach 10, all that delirious screaming, deep-fat fryers sizzling, the steady thump of mole-whacking. There could not be a more overstimulating, kid-centric, happy-making environment this side of heaven’s glory.

Her parents were such jerks to drag her there.

As if that weren’t enough, check out this kid on the swings.

PhoneSwingPolaroidHe is literally SITTING ON AN AMUSEMENT PARK RIDE texting. He’s got a whole 30 seconds before getting swung into the rafters. So what better time to post a Yelp review about the elephant ear stand? It’s all about time management.

I’m sorry, but this crap is BANANAS, y’all.

B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

I seriously wanted to jerk those infernal phones out of their hands and launch them straight off the nearest Ferris wheel. Or maybe run them over with the nearest bumper car. Or whack them to smithereens like the nearest mole.

I know I sound totally judgy and ranty, but I am just sick to death of seeing entire families in restaurants, every last one of them nose-deep in a screen. Just last night at the pizza joint, I watched the patriarch of a family ignore his wife and young daughter so he could play Candy Crush. And he’s the grown-up.

We’ve all seen it. Some of us do it. But it can’t be good.

And I’m sorry, but I have to draw the line at FAIRS.

There is life to be lived, people of the phone. There are whirls to tilt. There are giant turkey legs to consume. There are oversized SpongeBobs to win. There are bearded ladies to see (and at the fair, believe me, they’re everywhere).

And thus I must…sort of…quote Lee Ann Womack.

If you get the chance to text it out or dance, oh Lord help us, I hope you dance.

Or at least eat the chocolate-covered bacon and report back to me.

 

 

A Tale of Two Microphones

/ DeeDeeFilly / 2 Comments

I don’t write much about my husband. He’s this shadowy figure who makes occasional appearances in my writings, but mostly I’ve kept him on deep background.

I love him to pieces. He’s hilarious. But I think it best not to lump him in with all my shenanigans.

Today, however, is Bill’s birthday.

(Note: Some of you may know him as “James.” This is another part of what makes him a shadowy figure. The man goes by two names like he’s Superman or something.)

And he is THE hardest person on planet Earth to buy for. Let’s just peruse the wish list, shall we? A boat. Another boat. And maybe a different kind of boat.

Sailing2

See? He has a boat already. He made it – another reason he’s kind of like a superhero in my book.

So I usually buy him some dumb action movie to collect dust on the decrepit DVD tower, a stack of plaid J Crew shirts, and call it a day. A sad, sad day, but a day.

Today I’m gonna change all that. Today I’m going to WRITE about him.

Actually, I already wrote about him. I’m just going to put back into circulation the embarrassing stuff I wrote about him before. (How’s that for pulling out ALL the stops?)

Hey, it’s cheaper than a birthday card, plus there’s a whole lot more words. And I mean every one of them still.

Matrimony and the Microphone: A Karaoke Love Story – published in the Lyme Times – June 5, 2008

I have never darkened the door of Chuck E. Cheese’s. And with two little kids, I consider that a major personal achievement.

(Note for 2014 readers: I have since lost that distinction, and I’m not proud of it. Those freaky mechanical puppets haunt my dreams.)

ChuckeeCheese2

Here’s the evidence. Those tongues probably licked every germ throbbing on every surface in the place.

But now I can say I’ve been to the grown-up version.

Along North Carolina’s Outer Banks, where the whole Filiatreault family just vacationed together, we left the kids with their grandparents to hit what could have been the Jimmy Buffet Fan Club headquarters – a touristy dive in Duck that was all garish Key West pastels and fish bowl margaritas.

Where Mr. Cheese offers juice boxes, this place serves hollowed out coconuts carved to resemble a monkey’s head with a bendy straw poking out the top. (Attached is a little gold sticker that reads, “Also a coin bank.” Good to know.)

Where Mr. Cheese offers foosball and a ball pit, this place has Karaoke Night.

Overseeing this operation was a graying man in glasses and a Hawaiian shirt who could have been your office computer guy.

His puffy jester hat must have been calling to us. Before we knew what hit us, Bill and I had grabbed a set of microphones and were belting out the most ear-splitting duet of Islands in the Stream those pink walls had ever endured.

“Tender love is blind, it requires a dedication!” Bill scrunched up his eyes in mock passion, gripping the mic with both hands.

“All this love we feel needs no conversation!” I screeched with total commitment. A Russian guy in a cowboy hat with a plastic ball and chain around his ankle looked on from his bachelor party and winced.

It was a terrible duet lovingly dedicated to our ten-year anniversary, and it was one of the most mortifying things I’ve ever done.

Part of me felt ancient. Swaying our coconut monkey heads to Piano Man with a bunch of drunk college kids isn’t exactly our scene anymore.

But that tone-deaf display was a throw-back to the couple we were ten years ago, exemplifying the campy brand of goofiness that brought us together in the first place.

Gov_shower2

My office gave us – what else? – but a karaoke machine for our wedding. With dual mics. Now that’s love.

As I watched him dance “the running man” in front of strangers, I swooned with love for that guy.

And as I watched him scoop up our little girl in the frilly swimsuit and carry her into the surf, I swooned with love for that guy, too.

BillLucyBeach08.2

This is them then.

I love both those guys, and I’m been very blessed to have them in the center of an awfully good life these past ten years.

Bill, James, whoever you are…I will always love you.

Hmmm, that reminds me of a song. I’ll have to save that one for anniversary #20.

 

 

 

A Dirt Hater’s Guide to Gardening and Friendship

/ DeeDeeFilly / 1 Comment

I hate dirt.

I’m pretty much adverse to all forms of grunge, sweat, humidity, bugs, and most displays of physical exertion — basically all the things you experience outdoors.

I, like everyone else, love pretty flowers, sunshine and rainbows. And all those things look really nice on my screensaver.

But somehow I have an awesome friend who loves dirt. She loves it so much she could roll around in it – all while reeling off the names of every last plant in her flowerbeds. In Latin.

She even knows what these strange garden implements are called - and how to use them.

She even knows what these strange garden implements are called – and how to use them.

She knows her stuff. Better yet, she loves her stuff. And what my pitiful black thumb has done to almost every plant in my possession makes her want to cry.

After my husband (with delusions of yard makeover grandeur) jerked out every overgrown shrub from our front yard by the roots with a chain and a big straining truck, Jen came over.

It was time for a garden intervention.

This is her sketch, now covered with a dusty sheen and smudged with water from the hose.

This is her sketch, now covered with a dusty sheen and smudged with water from the hose.

She sketched a landscaping plan with weird plant names I’d never heard of and could not, for the life of me, spell.

And if that had been me, that’s where my tap of charity would run dry. (Here’s your nice piece of paper with all my wisdom and guidance scribbled upon it! Good luck with all that! Tra la la!)

But this friend actually came over with a shovel and garden tools and a minivan stuffed to the brim with cuttings and sea grasses and these little green darlings she loved.

This friend shuns the white hot media spotlight of this blog and prefers to remain hatted and anonymous.

My friend shuns the white hot media spotlight of this blog and prefers to remain hatted and anonymous.

And she dug in the dirt for me. She poured sweat for me. She shared what she knew and what she loved with me. She tried to make my corner of the world prettier for me.

Ernie2

Ernie helped too.

I’m pretty sure there’s gonna be a high kill rate. Some of these precious green things will not make it. I’ve been watering, I swear – but it’s been wicked hot out there by New England standards and I have no idea what I’m doing. The brown is creeping.

But she knew it was a gamble going in. And she took that gamble. For me.

That’s a friend.

JenPlants2

There’s risk involved. There’s sacrifice. There’s getting your hands dirty in the mess of other people’s lives.

But in it, there was so much joy. We giggled and we gossiped and I got mulch everywhere. It was as much fun as an inside nerd can have in the Great Outdoors.

She tells me that real gardeners don't wear gloves. I'm sure quiche is okay though.

She tells me that real gardeners don’t wear gloves. I guess this makes me BONAFIDE.

Lord, let me be a friend like that – one with a brimming full station wagon, a solid set list of funny stories, and two really dirty hands.

If not literally dirty, then at least figuratively.

It still counts.

Snooki, Shakespeare and Me

/ DeeDeeFilly / 7 Comments

Psst…I’ll let you in on a little secret.

I’m about to have something in common with such luminaries as Bill Shakespeare and Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi of Jersey Shore. (And no, it’s not an unfortunate hairstyle.)

Shakespeare looks pretty on my shelf. I don’t actually read it. Too heavy…

I will soon be joining their ranks as a published author.

There. I said it out loud. I’M GETTING A BOOK PUBLISHED!

(I just broke a major rule from my college journalism classes. The only exclamation point I’m  supposedly allotted in my writing life is for the headline: “WAR!”

Well, college was a long time ago. And I want to exclaim.)

So here’s the skinny:

It’ll be a book of my favorite Tales from the Crib columns from the Lyme Times (which I’ve been writing since Will was three, who’s now ten, so that’s a bunch). It’s being published by a fantastic little publishing house, Skyhorse Publishing in New York.

And it’s probably coming out in spring 2016, so mark your calendars now. Oh, who are we kidding? I’ll remind you. SO MANY TIMES.

One thing’s for sure: it won’t look anything like this book.

 

This EXISTS. I cannot unsee it.

This EXISTS. I cannot unsee it.

Getting a book published is equal parts wildly exciting and hard-core ulcer-inducing.

As someone who writes for a life and a living, it’s been my personal Everest to have my very own words in my very own book on my very own coffee table.

And to be able to stare at it sitting there and to love it and to make my family proud (after they get over being horrified by what I wrote about them…)? Swoon.

Unless..I don’t love it and nobody’s proud and it’s a huge flop and it’s nowhere near as good as Tina Fey or even Bob Saget and there’s a hideous picture me on the back.

Oh, it could happen.

 

In the grand tradition of Tina Fey and Mindy Kaling, I’d prefer to use an embarrassing adolescent photo on the back cover, preferably with hand puppet &/or weird hair issues.

In the grand tradition of Tina Fey and Mindy Kaling, I’d prefer to use an embarrassing adolescent photo of myself for the back cover, preferably with hand puppet &/or weird hair issues.

 

Perhaps this perm from my first drivers' license?

Like this, maybe? My 16-year-old driver’s license — complete with poodle perm.

 

So many fears and insecurities and needling doubts will be along for this ride, but so will lots of you – as my crazy hollering cheerleaders always there to help drown them out.

It was one such lovely loud-mouthed friend who kept talking me up to an editor…and then this happened.

This is happening.

Boom.  Or at least, yahooooo.

So for all of you who have been faithfully reading my nonsense all these years —

Who have stopped me in the produce aisle to tell me nice things about my latest column…

Who have read my columns out loud to your poor long-suffering husbands…

Who have clipped my writings and sent them to friends…

Who have never once sent me hate mail…

Who have been sweet enough to ask with some frequency, “When are going to write a book?” –

For you, I am so so grateful. A writer’s words are worth a hill of beans if nobody reads them. And you actually read them. Better yet, you don’t line the turtle box with them. (If you do, don’t tell me).

Now, if you really love me, you’ll buy a copy for every friend on your Christmas list. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it.

For now, just THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.

And yeeeeehaw.