Is it Akward? You be the judge:

want our opinion on your awkwardness?  send us your situation (awkward@iamawkward.com), we may make it next week’s poll.

Life on the x12

Planes, trains and automobiles.  No matter how you get there, all of us have a commute to work.  Even if it’s 20 steps to a video tele-conference from home (lucky bastard), it’s a commute from your bed.  I split my commute.  Sometimes I drive out to client sites in New Jersey, occasionally I’m one of the lucky bastards who gets to work from home, and other times I get to take the good old express bus into Manhattan.   Whenever commuting requires me to leave the house, it’s inconvenient.    However, express bus delays in the morning are always welcome.  The extra half hour of sleep and built-in excuse can make your day on a rainy commute.  Regardless of your method of transportation, coming home, all commuters hope for the same thing: quick and painless. 

The social norms of an express bus are fascinating.  Setup with two seats on either side of the aisle, you better make sure you take the last empty two seat set, yes the one with the gum on it, before sitting next to another person.  You DO NOT talk on the phone.  You do not talk to the stranger sitting next to you.  If you know the person sitting next to you, you talk in a quiet whisper.  Basically, keep to yourself, keep quiet, and don’t annoy everybody else.

The norms are simple enough to follow, so when they get broken, it’s annoying.  I get on the bus far enough uptown that I get to pick my seat location – 4^th or 5^th row, left side, full window.  (If you’re an express bus regular, you understand.)  Ready to chill out and nod off a bit before getting home, my hopes were quickly squashed.  A loud commotion flew back from the front two rows breaking up my serenity.  A large boisterous woman began yelling from the second row, “I pay $5.50. I will not move.”  

Immediately, my mind drew back Rosa Parks, but it was 2008 and there really is no reason for a person to move on the bus.  Curiously, I poked my head just barely over the seat in front.

The large loud woman begins violently shoving the seat in front of her.  While the calm collected well dressed businessman sitting in the front row inches forward to avoid the shoving of his seat back, turns around, and responds in a smooth soothing tone, “Ma’am the seat is broken and in a permanent reclined position, I can’t put it up.”  

“I PAY $5.50. I SIT HERE. AND YOU NEED TO PUT YOUR SEAT BACK UP.”  The violent shoving of the man’s seat continues.

“Ma’am, I paid $5.50 as well, and while I would gladly put up the seat if it were possible, I also have a right to leave it in the recline position.”  His first mistake was probably trying to appeal to reason. 

“Why don’t we switch seats, that way you won’t have any potential for a seat to be reclined in front of you.” 

“I WILL NOT MOVE, I PICKED THIS SEAT.  I do not want your seat.”  

“That’s fine ma’am, but you cannot shove someone’s seat,” he states as he turns around now clearly looking for reinforcement from me.  

“Can I push his seat?” 

I had tried so hard to remain unnoticed.  I have no place in this argument, but I timidly and reluctantly responded, “Umm, no ma’am.” 

“Oh, that’s how it is.” 

The man, a bit more sternly now, “I offered you my seat, now sit here or stop shoving my seat.” 

“No.  I pay $5.50 to sit in the second row, and I don’t want my seat back reclined, and I want your seat back up.”  It was like watching a small child trapped in a large middle age woman’s body throw the best temper tantrum of their life.  The shoving starts again.

The bus stops – not at a bus stop.  Still with only three passengers, the bus driver stands up, and tells the lady the seat is broken, and the shoving needs to stop.  She starts her $5.50 rant, to which the bus driver, as politely as possible, tells her to change her seat or get off the bus.  She tells him, she only sits in the 2^nd row, and will be leaving the bus.  She picks up her 7 bags and walks off at the next stop.  

This was on Monday.  I managed to avoid both the businessman and the large loud seat “shover” for the next couple of days.  Thursday, I get on the bus, and sitting upright in her seat is my loud adversary.  I avoided eye contact, but hear her say, “Going to try and ignore me.”  I didn’t know she was talking to me until I started hearing a skewed recount of the Monday’s events.  She was retelling her version of the story to the current bus driver and anyone in the front who would listen.  She pointed me out several times.  People looked at me.  It felt like the bus came to a screeching halt and was now crawling its way back to Staten Island.   My fellow bus riders hearing the biased recount of events continued to ever so slowly try and slyly catch a glimpse of me.  An eyebrow curled up from the guy in the third row, a stare from the man sitting across from me.  I knew I was being judged.  I felt that unavoidable sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Knowing I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still had the gut wrenching almost, “What the hell happened last night?  Why me?” sensation running through my veins.  Fellow bus riders were trying to catch a glimpse of the bitch who thought it was okay for the $500 suit to recline his seat.  Finally, the man sitting next to me, who had been working up the courage to talk to the stranger next to him asked, “Is that true?”  What choice did I have.  I was frozen – I had no response.  I didn’t want to be berated again.  I just wanted to get off the bus and get rid of this upended feeling in my stomach.  I simply rolled my eyes, and shook my head no.  I walked off the bus with all eyes on me.  For the simple fact that I agreed with a man who said she shouldn’t shove his seat.  I had pissed off the wrong person.   

I take the x12 bus maybe a total of five weeks out of the year.  This happened over a year ago, and I still sometimes see the businessman and large middle age woman who stares and continues to point me out to fellow bus riders as the smug bitch who thinks it’s okay to recline a seat.

…AWKWARD!

ZAM-BOOO-KA!

http://susanhenschen.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/i-was-an-awkward-kid.jpg

I’ve been awkward my whole life.  During my early years I was sheltered from my own awkwardness under the “ignorance is bliss” theory.  My parents on the other hand, had to face the awkwardness of their first born with finesse.  They taught me my observations were okay, BUT it wasn’t polite to touch the lady’s sweater because it looked soft, or that I shouldn’t ask so loudly why the man’s hair looked like a bad hat of fake hair.  Loudness and volume control became a key component in tempering the awkward moments caused by their precocious and observant little child.  One look from my mother and I knew it was time to stop talking, it was a brilliant skill.

My father on the other hand, somewhat enjoyed the state the obvious side of his four year old daughter.  Knowing full well it could get him into trouble sometimes he enjoyed it nonetheless.  He liked to entertain and be the center of attention.  Having a four year old say silly things was a great way to accomplish both.  My parents sometimes let me stay up past my bedtime at family parties for this very reason.  I would get to sit on my father’s lap and watch the grown-ups have their fun while enjoy various spirits of choice.  Of all the liquor bottles which had passed through my family’s tables, my younger self was enamored with one bottle in particular:  Romana Sambvca.  A favorite after dinner drink of my father’s, Sambuca was a usual at family parties.  The bottle was clear glass with a blue label and shiny silver writing.  To top it off, it was a fun word to say: ZAM-BOOO-KA.  I even got to try a sip once.  I was so excited - until I tasted it.  I spit my sip all over the kitchen table and my grandmother, and I haven’t tried black licorice since.  I still liked saying the word.  I even took to ordering my father’s after dinner drinks, “Daddy drinks ZAM-BOOO-KA.”  The waitress would get a kick out of it; I would smile, and go back to eating my ice cream.  While he found it amusing, my father was also careful who he showed my newly learned word and drink ordering skills too: Family, friends, and the regular waitresses and waiters.

When I was three years old, a local Commerce Association was putting on a Christmas Puppet Show at a local restaurant.  A bunch of parents from my pre-school were bringing their kids.  My parents decided it would be a great way to spend time outside of school events with the other parents.  My brother got sick at the last minute, and so it was just Dad and I out for the night.  We arrived late, the lights had already been dimmed, and getting me up to the kids section near the stage would have been difficult.  My father decided to wait for intermission.  He found two seats open at the bar with a view of the stage.  He pulled my seat closer to his, and pointed me in the direction of the stage.  The lights in the restaurant were then fully dimmed, and the crowd went silent with anticipation of the performance.  It was at that moment I turned around.  I noticed the dimly lit shelves across the bar from me.  I leaned over the bar to get a better, closer look at the lighted shelf with all the fancy liquor bottles, and began tugging eagerly on my father’s shirt sleeve.  Not getting his attention quickly enough, I adjusted the volume of my voice and yelled into the silent parent filled dark:

“LOOK DADDY!  ZAM-BOOO-KA!  JUST LIKE YOU DRINK.”

…AWKWARD!

Staten Island: The Good, The Bad and The Awkward

I’ve always been told: “Write what you know.”  So, when a Staten Islander wrote and directed the movie, “Staten Island,” with a storyline of mobsters and corner delis, I knew this guy was told the same thing as I was in his creative lifetime.

Being a native Staten Islander, there are things that I “know.”  I know, “the saddest thing in life is wasted talent.”  I know when I’m out on a first date and the guy opens the door for me, I should reach over and unlock his door.  All my friends, who are native Staten Islanders, also “know things” too.  They know that our neighbor’s cousin – Frankie, owner of a waste management company, “sleeps with the fishes.”  My friends also know to “take the canolis.”

I work in a construction office.  Notice the word construction is not in quotations because, well, it’s actually a construction office.  These days, a lot of construction companies are no longer mafia fronts, and the old-school mob scene has died down tremendously.  But, some of the rudiments of this scene linger.

My boss walks into the office, flustered, one afternoon from a long day at the accountant’s office.  He is very particular, precise and honest about his finances because getting into any trouble with the IRS that would cost his self-grown business he has worked so hard for 15 years to build would devastate him.  He pays all his bills in full and on time. Let’s face it. He is the most straight-laced business owner a person could be.  Today, his accountant had screwed up his entire financial statement, and my boss was on his last nerve.

Boss: THAT’S IT!  I’ve had it with my accountant!

Uh oh.  A flustered boss means a flustered day.  He sits in the chair in our office, which faces another construction office – VALDUZZI CONSTRUCTION. I offer to get him a cup of coffee, but he declines. My boss flips through his financial statement with a look of frustration and desperation.

Boss: Cara, can you go across the street and ask Gino Valduzzi who his accountant is?  He probably has a good one who has worked with construction companies before. I’m going to head into my office and see if I can salvage this statement.

I’ve been in the VALDUZZI CONSTRUCTION office before, and the people who work there have always been extremely nice and warm to me. They’ve pointed me in the right direction   when I needed to find a notary public to notarize a document.  They’ve suggested a perfect holiday card company to use around the holidays when I was in desperate need to find one. They’ve got to know a good accountant, too.

I put on my jacket and start making my way across the street. As I approach the tinted store front windows and door, I start rehearsing the question in my head making sure that I don’t sound like a non-professional.  I ring the doorbell and get buzzed in.  As I enter, I am greeted by smiles and the usual Staten Island, “How are you?”  I smile back and say,

Cara: My boss wanted me to ask you about Mr. Valduzzi’s accountant.

The smiles disappear as if they’ve never known me at all.

Valduzzi Secretary: Ummmm… who’s asking?

Cara: My boss, ya know, from across the street? He asked me to ask your office if you had a recommendation because he’s very upset with his current accountant for doing a poor job with his financial statement.

Valduzzi Secretary: Well, let me talk to Mr. Valduzzi.  I’ll take a message.

Weird.  Usually they offer me a freshly baked cookie or some coffee.  Maybe they had just as bad of a day as my boss.  I didn’t really think too much about it. There are good days in the office, and there are bad days in the office.  It’s completely understandable.

I told my boss that Gino Valduzzi’s secretary took the message for her boss because he wasn’t around the office today.  It was time for me to go home.  I headed out the door, drove to my house, took in the mail, picked up the folded Staten Island Advance, and took a seat at my kitchen table.  I sorted the mail between junk and bills, and I unfolded the local newspaper.  The headline, written in big bold letters, reads: GINO VALDUZZI INDICTED FOR TAX EVASION.

….AWKWARD!

The Secret Lives of Our Co-Workers

Seven days a week equals 168 hours.  Keeping in mind that the estimate below will be different for everyone based on career, priorities, location, etc, I’ve put together a rough break down of an average person’s week (in hours):

40 hours (if you’re lucky) at work

10 hours commuting to and from work

56 hours sleeping

62 hours of “free time”

Based on the assumptions above, it’s estimated that during the week we spend about 25% of our time with our co-workers.  Back out the time we spend staring at our eyelids, and it’s up to 36%.  One Third of our waking hours are spent with the people sitting in the cubicles next door, and yet, how much do we really know about them?

With a few of my co-workers, we having a running joke, about how we are “More than Just Co-Workers.”  We’re friends outside of work, we enjoy each other’s company; and out of proximity they have become some of my closest friends.  Then there are those co-workers, who you get along with, but for whatever reason you don’t become as close, the ones who maintain a healthy ambiguity.  They are just what the definition states:  One who works with another; nothing more.

Adam happens to be one such person – he works on a different floor and my team and his never seem to work directly with each other.  He is a very well kept Italian American with a perfect dark complexion, always dressed to the nines, hair styled just right, and amazingly still managed to maintain the image of a “guy’s guy,” a tough guy if you will.  Although very personable and out-going, he remains an enigma due to the lack of interaction. 

Katie, one of my “more than just co-workers,” was assigned to a new project a few months ago, and now found herself working more closely with Adam.  Through her investigative prowess she had discovered he lived in my apartment complex, which was around the corner from hers in Hoboken.  We found this information, along with Adam and his perfect image, quiet amusing.  While out in Hoboken we would play “Spot Adam,” trying to see if we could find him on the road or somewhere in the city limits.  With all the new information Katie was filling us in on about Adam; I jokingly began to refer to him as her work boyfriend.  For the most part though, Adam remained a mystery to us.  He gave up very little personal information and liked to remain just co-workers.  Finding out more information became a mission for me and Katie.

It had been a killer week at work, requiring us to go in on a Saturday.  As we left work Saturday, Katie mentioned doing something on Sunday, but in a rush to get home I half listened and told her my plan was to stay in with the boyfriend, watch a movie, and drink some wine.  It was glorious.  Monday morning came far too quickly, and grumpy that I was back at work less than 36 hours after leaving, I didn’t ask anyone about their weekend.  The morning went smoothly and before we realized it was lunch time.  We passed our buddy Adam on our way to the cafeteria.  I started to innocently giggle to myself thinking about which Adam joke I would pull out today.  Katie stopped suddenly in a not so nonchalant attempt to avoid contact with him; and I slammed into her back.  Adam turned and looked in our direction, acknowledging us with an ashamed look on his face and reluctant head nod in our direction.  Recomposed post collision, I look at Katie.

Me: What was that?

Katie: I ran into Adam this weekend.

Me:  You actually spotted Adam?

Katie: Yes.

Me: Okay…

Katie: I ran into Adam this weekend, and well the where is kind of awkward.

Me: Awkward for you or awkward for him?

Katie: Him.

Me: Explain.

Katie: I went to Sunset Tan, to get ready for my vacation next week.  When I was paying at the register, I turned to leave and who’s standing point blank in front of me in his little tanning shorts…

Me: No.

Katie: Yeh.

Me: Wow.

Katie:  Pretty sure we’re “More than just Co-Workers” now. 

Me:  (Chuckling) Until you tell the guys upstairs.

…AWKWARD!

When in LA.. do as the LA-ians do.

In reputable newspapers and magazines, articles have surfaced about how the gang scene has returned to Los Angeles, California.  Gang related violence has increased 143% in the last year because criminologists believe those arrested in the crazy crack epidemic bust in the late 1980s and early 1990s are slowly, but surely, opening the cell doors where they’ve served their sentenced time. 

“Hail Mary, Full of Grace…..please find me a parking space,” Keith thought to himself as he turned the corner around his office building trying to find a parking spot in downtown L.A.

Los Angeles is different from New York  City – different accents, different mentality, terrible PT system. The borders of many neighborhoods in Los Angeles are very sudden (you can be on one side of the street and be in a “sunny” neighborhood, and then cross the street and end up in a “shady” part of town… and I’m not talking about the weather.)  But, one headache is the same - Parking. Especially, if you’re late for work. 

After circling the fifth time in his black Prius, he gave in.  Keith had to drive down the block and park in the lot in the dodgy side of town.

He pulled up to the ticket booth, paid his entrance fee and found the closest parking spot for his eco-friendly stealth bomber. Keith got out of his car, put on his suit jacket without a wrinkle, picked up his briefcase and bid good morning to the security guards.  After he clicked the button to lock the car, He was ready to start his day.

BANG!  BANG! BANG! BANG!

Keith’s heart was racing!  He could feel all the nervous energy fall to his stomach.  Of course this would happen the only time he had to park in the lot farthest from his office.  Looking around to find the nearest cover,  Keith tucked his body as he leaped in the air and rolled underneath the nearest car for protection.

He saw the security guards sitting on two folding chairs looking at him –  puzzled – in what seemed like  two football fields of open war zone.

“What are you guys doing!?” Keith yelled over to the men, “Take cover! Can’t you hear the gun shots!?”

The men look at each other, trying to hold it in, but they just can’t. They burst out laughing.

“They’re filming a movie down the street,” one man chuckled to Keith.

Keith rose off the ground to his feet and brushed himself off.

“I was totally getting ready for my audition for the young Jack Bauer… did it look real?  You think I’ll nail it and get the part?” 

He walked away and went to work. 

….AWKWARD!!

Junk Mail

PrivacyRights.org, defines Junk Mail as “advertising of one sort or another that arrives in your postal mailbox along with the mail you really want or need.”  Junk mail is a nuisance to everyday life.  You get it.  If you’re bored, you read. If you’re annoyed, you bitch about it.  But, at the end of the day most of it winds up in the recycle bin. 

In order for Junk Mail to be an effective advertising method, senders need to ensure delivery to their target audience.  Whether that audience is the coveted males aged 18-34, income of X Dollars a year, or stay at home soccer moms; marketing companies will pay top dollar to corporations with a specific customer basis willing to sell their information.  Thus, allowing the nuisance of targeted junk mail to slip into our homes without our expressed permission. 

It’s not even exclusive to home addresses anymore.  My work mailbox has wound up on the dreadful Junk Mail listing, as well.  Working as an accountant by trade for a large “stuffy” public firm, many executive recruiters will pay top dollar for a listing of the firm’s employees, attempting to steal away talent for their clients.  To this point, my firm over the past few years has stopped publishing a formal printed directory.  From time to time, however, Non-Profit organizations will request a listing of employees within the office in order to send donation requests.   A prime audience.  Who wouldn’t want to solicit donations from group of individuals with a known source of income?  For the most part, I have received requests from Habitat for Humanity, the March of Dimes, and a few food pantries  – nothing too crazy.  Annoying, yes, but over a span of six months, a few letters was nothing to complain about. 

Overwhelmed with assignments, and trying to meet a tight deadline, I ask one of my co-workers to check my mailbox for a Fedex package I was expecting.   My co-worker returned with a sheepish look on her face.  She quietly handed me the Fedex package and a few miscellaneous Junk Mail items as well.  Distracted, I thanked her quickly and somewhat shortly as I snatched the pile of mail from her and placed it to the side. 

A few hours go by, people stopped by my desk.  I got strange looks.  The day goes on.  I got a few more odd looks.  What is going on here?  I went to the bathroom to check my appearance:  No food in my teeth, my hair looked fine, and I certainly wasn’t growing a third eye.  What was everyone so weird-ed out by?

 I returned to my desk, and decided it was time to open the Fedex Package my co-worker had so kindly brought me earlier in the day.  I looked down at my pile of junk mail.  Sitting on top, in plain view for all visitors to see, was a very formal looking and well disguised 8×11 envelope with big bold letters in the return address section:

 

…AWKWARD!

NYC Subways

I pride myself in being a native New Yorker.  I know a lot about the city. I know where to find the best kept secrets in the city. I know where NOT to go when it’s tourist season. I know which direction is which on the subways.  I know when to give a few bucks to the magic show guy on the 4 or 5 or 6.  I know when to ignore the dodgey-looking fella sitting across from me.  I’m pretty street-smart.  Well, sort of.

There are a lot of characters riding the NYC subways.  You’ve got all kinds of students, businessmen, poets, musicians and those just trying to make a buck. Of course, the time I decide to take a different route, on a different subway line than my precious 1 train, I no longer am the big fish in a little pond.  More like small-town flotsam and jetsum in a huge city sea.

I look around and manage to find a seat on a packed train heading to the Brooklyn Museum of Art.  Stand clear of the closing doors. Next stop.  The doors open.  Some people leave, some people get on.  A man in dread-locks, ripped jeans, a dirty t-shirt and his guitar hops on.  He starts to play a song he wrote, expressing his new york views on politics and religion.  His segment was short and sweet, but funny and entertaining. So, the applause he received was an appropriate measure of his talents.   He takes off his hat and goes around the subway asking for change.  And so, it begins.

Dread-locks Musician:  Time are tough, can you spare some change?

I felt bad, but replied nicely.

Cara:  Uhh, no, sorry.

Dread-locks Musician: Where are you headed? The museum?

Cara:  Yes.

Dread-locks Musician:  A pretty girl like you…. you must have a dollar or two?

I just want to get to the museum already! He won’t leave me alone! I want this guy to let me be, so I can get to the museum.

Cara:  No.  I don’t.

Dread-locks Musician:  But, you’re going to the museum, right?  You must have something.

That’s it!  No more!  With all my built up frustration in such a short amount of time, I just came out with it and shouted:

Cara:  No!  I don’t have any small bills!

The subway came to a screetching halt.  Or,  so it seemed.  The passengers in the subway car turn their heads in my direction in utter amazement that I had just said what I just said.

Dread-locks Musician:  Well… isn’t that nice?  No small bills.  Well, I wish I didn’t have any small bills either.

I don’t say anything.    He keeps on going. 

Dread-locks Musician:  Well, I guess you can sleep at night because you don’t have any SMALL bills.  I bet you can get a cup of coffee because you don’t have any SMALL bills.  I wonder why you’re taking the subway if you don’t have any SMALL bills.  It’s cool.  It’s cool.  I see how it is.

The Dread-Locks Musician just looks at me in disgrace. Next stop.  He hops off as the doors open.  The remaining patrons just stare at me.

Man sitting next to me:  First time in New York?

…..AWKWARD!

The Great Pumpkin – Farce

As a child, I loved Halloween.  I would wake up extra early.  Free candy?  You think any kid is going to miss that?

On my fourth Halloween my parents decided the whole family would dress up like clowns.  I begged my mom to start putting on my costume the moment I woke up.   She worked tirelessly, white base paint, bright pink highlights around my smile.  The themes between mine, hers, and my father’s make-up were understated and brilliant.  Okay, fine, we were a family clowns it wasn’t brain surgery, but there was no doubt we were going to have the best family costume of the day.  All we needed now was for my little two year old brother to wake up, and complete the Clown Quartet.

When my little brother woke up, he didn’t recognize the grown ups standing in front of him.  The crazy lady with a white face and bright red smile sounded like his mother, but certainly didn’t look like her.  He cried and cried.  He hid in his crib, under his blanket, away from clown “body-snatchers.”  How did they manage to eat his family?!  Quickly, she ran next door to enlist help.  Good thing our neighbor was also a family friend.  Try explaining that one, “Our son doesn’t recognize us, can you help?”  Our neighbor came over, got my brother out of bed, and put on his coustume.  They baby was now afraid of his shadow.

Talk about traumatizing.  The baby was afraid of clowns, Halloween, his reflection, his shadow, and keeping me from my candy!!  I knew at that moment he would be trouble for my favorite holiday.

My little brother would get his revenge a few years later.  My favorite thing about Halloween as a kid was cutting the jack-o-lantern.  Dad and I would go to pick out the BIGGEST PUMPKIN.  At minimum, the pumpkin had to be bigger than me in order to qualify.  Dad would gut the pumpkin and decide what facial expression it would have.  The first year I was old enough to really participate, my mother threw out the Jack-O-Lantern the morning after Halloween before I woke up. 

I was inconsolable. 

Crying about where the pumpkin went, and why it left.  Thinking quickly on her feet my mother told me, “The Great Pumpkin comes and takes away the best craved baby pumpkins so they can grow bigger for next year.”  Being 3 or 4, I bought the story, stopped crying, and woke up anxious the day after Halloween to see if we had craved a pumpkin good enough for the Great Pumpkin to choose.

A few years of this goes on, and now, as the good older sister I am, I decided to explain to my brother the legend of the Great Pumpkin.  Half way through my story, when I tell the youngster about how the Great Pumpkin takes away the best craved baby pumpkins, my baby brother looks at me and says:  “No it doesn’t.  Mom threw it out this morning.”

Normally, the older sibling ruins “lore” for the younger siblings, unless you’re me.

AWKWARD!

Cricket…..Cricket

Killing a cricket is an omen?  A superstition?  Bad luck?  Yes.

An explanation from www.goodluckcreations.com:
“In the Far East as well as across Europe, it is considered very bad luck to kill a cricket, even by accident. Images of crickets appear on charms and amulets, particularly those intended to ward off the evil eye, in most ancient cultures of the Middle East and Europe. One of the best known in America is the large weather vane on Boston’s Fanuel Hall, a copper cricket fashioned by our Colonials forefathers to protect the building.”

My family is very superstitious, but no one is CRAZY superstitious – except my Uncle Fred.  Each time he sees a murder of crows; he counts each one and recites:

“One crow: sorrow, two crows: joy, three crows: a letter, four crows: a boy, five crows: silver, six crows: gold, seven crows: a secret never to be told.”

If he sees one crow, and with time on his side, you bet he will drive around until he sees the second crow to bring joy.  Then start his hard-working, high-profiling, Harvard-Law-Degree-earning, corporate lawyer-ing job he needs to do during the day.

One afternoon, he gets home to a quiet house, relaxes on the couch, picks up the remote when….. “chirp……chrip.”  A cricket.   “Chirp…chirp.”

“My grandchildren must have brought it from their yard when they came over here!”

Uncle Fred immediately gets up and overturns the entire living room.  The cricket must be found and brought back to the yard from whence it came before it dies! Somehow, he manages to capture the cricket, put it in the only thing he could find – an airtight container, wrap the container in his jacket, and scurry away with the keys to his car.

Time is NOT on his side. He knows this.  He knows this all too well.  His daughter’s house is a 15-minute drive on a normal day. The cricket is chirping.  He steps on the gas. The cricket begins to chirp less and less.  He punches it.

Sirens.  Crap.

As he sits in the driver’s seat, with the cricket’s life on the verge of termination in the passenger seat, drips of sweat begin to appear over his brow.

Uncle Fred: I’m sorry officer, is there a problem?

Police Officer: Is there a reason why you were going 60 mph in a 25?

He reaches over to get the container wrapped in his jacket to explain the cricket and the bad luck it will bring if that cricket dies.

Police Officer: Whoa, whoa, whoa…

The police officer reaches for his weapon.  The suspect is reaching for an unidentified object underneath his jacket. Normal procedure.

Uncle Fred: No, no.  Under that jacket, is a cricket in an airtight container about to die.

The officer is speechless.

Uncle Fred: I’m very superstitious and if that cricket dies, I will have bad luck.

The officer walks back to his vehicle and says something to his partner through the window.  He comes back to my uncle’s car.

Police Officer: Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.

He complies.  The police officer nods to his partner, goes to the other side of the car, and picks up the jacket with the container.  He takes the jacket away, looks in the container.

Laughing uncontrollably, he yells to his partner,  “I don’t believe it! Yep!  It’s really a cricket!”

They let my uncle go to release the cricket.

…AWKWARD!