Just Checking

I was on the phone with my mom today, and she told me that she and my dad were planning the itinerary for our trip to London/Ireland this summer. She then casually mentioned that she was looking through papers and notes from when we went to Ireland when I was a kid and found a note that I had written to her on the trip.  Take a look at this and join me in trying to figure out what the fuck kind of weirdo child I was once upon a time:

"Oh my god, what?"  (Yes, I heard you say that out loud. Don't worry, I had the same reaction.)

When I asked how and why I had creepily given her this note, she said she couldn't remember what the context was but that she thinks I PASSED IT TO HER UNDER THE TABLE. 

Oh my god, so we were sitting in a pub eating some shepherd's pie and I was in the corner sketchily composing THIS note under the table, like a squirrely little missionary? Like, oh man, I'm so excited we finally got to meet our cousins in Ireland. They're so nice and fun. Shit, what if they're not Catholic? What if these really awesome people aren't Catholic like me and instead of meeting me at the Pearly Gates, they're going to BURN IN HELL?!???  (for the record, I do not - nor have I ever - believed anything like this.. it's just fun to imagine the psychological innerworkings of whatever the eff prompted me to write this very strange note.)

Or was I crafting some clever joke in my head, something about three guys walking into a bar, a Galway man, a Limerick man, and the pope... and thought to myself, maybe it's only funny if you're Catholic. Expert comedy maneuver, Mariel.. definitely double check with Mom. Know your audience.

I really love the "just checking" at the end of it. Because it's like there's an unwritten "or else" that follows. Like I was sitting there and suddenly wondered whether they could be in cahoots with some Northern Ireland Protestants and this pleasant group consumption of shepherd's pies was about to turn into a Tarantino-style blood bath at any moment.  Quick, Mariel, better draw some shitty mountains, circle them, and write Mom a note confirming the religious preferences of our cousins... you know, in case we need IRA reinforcements. JUST CHECKING.

Speaking of messages taken out of context, I will leave you with a text from Kelly McKenna that I received tonight after telling her I was writing a blog post:

"If you site me in this one, don't make me sound like a racist."

No problem.

Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree

While I was growing up, my family never put up our Christmas tree until December.  My mom hated rushing the holiday after Thanksgiving.  But given that I am the only person in my family who enjoys helping my mom decorate the tree, we became "those people" once I went to college because if I didn't put up the tree with her over Thanksgiving, she'd have to go it alone sometime in the weeks following.  Now that I'm living out in New York, though, this has become an especially important part of my Thanksgiving break at home.  My family comes to New York for Christmas, so Thanksgiving weekend, when I decorate the tree with my mom, is the only time I actually get to see our Christmas tree in person.  I have always loved Christmas (if Nat King Cole's "Christmas Song" makes an appearance in the old iTunes shuffle, at any time of year, I will not skip the song - out of respect), and since we have had the same artificial tree for the last 15 years (we could never have a real Christmas tree since we always traveled during the holidays and apparently that would be a fire hazard - one of those facts your parents tell you when you're 8 years old and you just accept as the truth of God, like how eating carrots gives you strong teeth), seeing this tree is a fond reminder of Christmas memories and a welcome constant as life has transitioned rapidly from high school to college to moving across the country and trying to be an adult (I'll get there one day).

Maybe it's because I'd just entered my 24th year on God's green earth just a couple of days before, but as we were decorating the tree this year, I contemplated how many years, how many Christmases and vacations and birthdays and presidential elections (yes, we commemorate each presidential election with a Christmas ornament, you mean your family doesn't do that?), had resulted in the endless number of ornaments my parents have collected. 

So then of course, I started thinking, geez Mariel, you're already 24 and you have about 3 ornaments in your wheelhouse and you don't even have a Christmas tree to put them on, and next year you're going to be 25 and then you start the countdown from 30 and it's like, ok you've got 5 years to get your shit together and have a respectable Christmas tree.. STEP UP, WOMAN.

Ok, nearly-quarter-life-crisis aside, my mom and I started laughing about how funny some of these ornaments are so without further ado, here is a glimpse into the Christmas tree at the Synan house:

It came without ribbons.  It came without tags.  It came without packages, boxes or bags.

This year, Christmas came straight up with a twist.  

This ornament was one of my sister Katy's creations.  I think she made it in first grade.  You know, back when she was going through her Chinese throwing star phase.  I swear to God, one of these years, this thing is going to pierce one of our hands while we're rustling through the ornament box.  This has weathered a lot of packing and unpacking over the years so believe it or not, it has actually LOST a few toothpicks but this could absolutely still double as a weapon.  Kevin McCallister would be proud.

I can't give Katy too hard of a time without calling to attention one of my signature pieces.  That's right.  This is a Turd original.  Gold bangs on snowmen were definitely on trend that year.  #MostLikelyToHaveTheBestHair.  The "y" on "Melly" was spelled backwards on the back of this.  Shocking.

I started to rip on my brother Nicholas when I saw this one.  I mean, talk about an egocentric Christmas ornament.  Forget baby Jesus, Christmas is ALL. ABOUT. NICK.  But then my mom reminded me of the homemade Christmas ornament we have from my dad's childhood...

Note that this is the only ornament I am not showing with a close-up, because I needed to give perspective on how large this thing is.  There is no appropriate place to hang it on the tree.  But I have to hand it to my dad, talk about a power play.  There was no amount of macaroni or glitter his brother or sister could use that would upstage this behemoth.  As a fellow middle child, I respect the strategy.  Naughty or nice?  Walk that line, Dad.  This one is for Santa to decide.

Wait, your family doesn't have a dentist/oral surgeon Christmas ornament?

Wait, your family doesn't have two dentist/oral surgeon Christmas ornaments?

Nothing weird going on here.. Nope, just ask these furtive pigs clutching a candle.  

This has always been one of my favorite ornaments.  I don't know what it is, maybe the side eye.  Bringing a little bit of bitchiness to the holidays?  Absolutely.

I can't even take credit for finding the humor in this one.  Way to go, Mom, for pointing out the pantless, pre-pubescent basketball player.  Why is he giggling about covering his privates with a basketball?  Why did he curl his eyelashes?  WHERE ARE HIS PANTS?  Attention readers: if you stumble across an "Unintentionally Inappropriate Christmas Ornaments" tumblr, please, for the love of baby Jesus and the Magi, submit this.

And last but not least.. what's that lurking in the shadows?

Oh don't worry, it's just the velvet-armed gnome-acorn centaur.  Trust me, it's more afraid of you than you are of it.

This ornament is everything.  I feel like my mom got this in Austria?  Or maybe she made it when she was a kid?  Regardless, it is one of those ornaments that doesn't have a string or ribbon or hook or anything, so instead of hanging it up, it nestles on the branches.  

Nestles on the branches.  This creeped me out as a child.  I was convinced it was alive and didn't want to be restrained hanging mid-air by fishing wire so instead it sat on the branches so that it could move about freely during the night.  I don't know why it scared me.  It's not like it has velvet arms or a cane or is half-gnome, half-acorn or anything.

Facebook's Newest Member

Ann Synan has joined Facebook.  That's right, my mom is on Facebook.

If you haven't already friended her in the last 3.7 seconds, learn how to read and open new Safari tabs faster.  Command-T, chumps.

I'm super excited about this because I know she's going to be really good at Facebook.  Almost as good as I am at watching television on Netflix.  That's wizard-level status.

Mom, if you're reading this, no need to sign your wall posts.  Same rules as texting.  However, "Always, Mom" was the cutest end to a first-time wall post so it was truly an honor to receive that Facebook alert.  Can't wait for you to start "liking" every wall post from Reg Douglas/photo taken at Percy's from here until infinity.

Love you!

These Guys Look Like a Bunch of Lemon Pops

Carolyn says she's going to boycott my blog until I post the stories about my dad from our trip to Kauai.  Given the infrequency with which I've been blogging, this would not be a very impressive protest on her part.  But all the same, I know how much the world my 7 loyal readers love stories about my dad, so I shall oblige.

Hawaii Five-No

1.  If any of you have ever been to the Hawaiian islands, you'll know that there are chickens and roosters running around all over the place.  When you first notice them, it's sort of a novel thing and you want to take lots of pictures.  And then after a couple of days, they're sort of just squirrels with feathers.  Anyway, my family had been in Oahu for a week before I got there so the novelty really should have worn off for Bill.  But the first morning I was in Kauai, I went for a walk with my parents, and in the middle of a conversation with my mother and me, he just darted off into some tall grass after some chickens.  And he was meowing.  Meowing.  At some feral chickens.  My previous understanding of the bird-cat relationship - which is mostly based on the Looney Tunes - would indicate that he was trying to scare them away with his meows, but the excited grin on his face suggested it was a misguided attempt at befriending them.  Moving on.

2. He bought the above t-shirt and told me that it's "as seen on Hawaii Five-O.. the new series." I laughed and he said, "No, it really is!" Oh ok.. I thought that was a joke.  I liked it better when it was a joke.

3. While getting ready for dinner one night, he walked into my siblings' and my room, looked at my brother, and said, "Look at this kid!  What are those.. he's got linen shorts?  Ann, this kid has linen shorts.  Why didn't I think of that?  God, I can't keep up with these three."  I'm a really big fan of overreactions, just in general, and when they're sparked by something like linen shorts, that's just icing on the cake.  When he visits in October, I may have to just walk him around H&M with a tape recorder and see what happens.

4. Ok, this was so long ago at this point and I'm just looking at the notes I took on my iPhone as reminders for blog material.. so now I don't remember where I was going with this conversation but here we go.  I think it's still funny:

     Me: "Ok, don't take this as an insult--"
     Dad: "I already am."
     Me: "--but did you bring..."
     Dad: "Rogaine?"

Both of my parents have aged really well, but since I can remember my dad has been convinced that his hairline is receding.  I can't remember what I was trying to ask my dad in this instance but I can assure you, it had nothing to do with his hair.  But he managed to go there.  Yet again.  He is also very concerned about having man boobs.  I think this is because he learned the word "moobs" in the last year or so.  But yeah, you can imagine how often that question came up on a beach vacation.  At one point, he said that I get my boobs from him, managing to insult himself, myself, and my mother in one fell swoop.  Irish charm.  That's why we love him.

5.  Here's another great conversation that went down that week:

     Dad: "The man behind the counter looked like a sushi man maker.  A man sushi maker.  A sushi maker man?"
     Nick: "He looked Japanese."

It's not often that Nick gets to be the voice of reason.  Way to step up.

6.  I gave him my phone and asked him to take a picture of my mom and sister with me.  He stands there making us shift a little bit left, a little bit right, etc. to supposedly get the perfect shot...

"Mariel's party hat."

... when in reality, he was trying to get us to line up so that the tiki torch behind me would look like "Mariel's party hat."  I can't tell you how long he laughed about that one.  Just picture a grown man who needs glasses, holding an iPhone as far away from his face as he can, chuckling "Mariel's party hat" to himself.  Incredible.

7.  As I've mentioned previously, my dad is not the savviest when it comes to technology.  He's really into taking photos with his iPhone now, though, and it's rather endearing when he tries to take artsy photos of ducks in Central Park.  His one complaint, though, is the dual camera.  I got to witness this frustration first hand and it sounds something like this: "Ughsdfhh, I hate when the camera flips around on you like that.  I look like the biggest loser."  Classic overreaction.  Classic Synan.

8. This is him zip-lining into a pond:

Look at that form.

9.  We were in Hawaii during the Olympics, and every time Mary Carillo would show up on screen, he'd say, "Who's this guy?"

10.  While one male gymnast gracefully made his way across the balance beam, he expressed his admiration by noting that he can't stand on one leg and take off his sandal at the same time.  #Respect.  Then when it came to one of the Irish gymnasts doing his floor routine, every time he'd do the splits, my dad would make a fart noise.  #NotSoMuchRespect

11.  And last but not least, his reaction to the Olympic sport of track cycling.  As soon as I saw those helmets, I knew he was going to lose his mind.  First to line up, the Australian team.  "What the hell is this?  What the hell?  These guys look like a bunch of lemon pops!"  Well, to be fair, they kind of do.  Then the race begins and he is not impressed, directing most of his anger at the pace bicyclist, who he referred to as "the mailman."  Well, to be fair:

Sometimes he really is spot on.

My favorite comment of the evening, was, "You know what would be really cool?  If they were really tiny people and they cut up your pizza pie."  When it was all over, and I was wiping tears of laughter from my face, trying to catch my breath, he just said "There are literally millions of texts being sent around the world that just say 'WTF.'"  Which, ironically, was my reaction to his 7 minute long commentary.


Well, that's all for now, friends.  Bill comes to visit in a little over a week so if you have any suggestions for a Dad-inspired blog post, please send them to me!  mariel.synan@gmail.com

G'night!

Mouse Hunt: Part III

Busted.

The mouse is dead.  Before I could even post my "help us name the mouse" poll.  Name candidates included The Earl of Snackington, Herman Muenster (spelling intentional), William Jennings Bryan (three-time candidate for President and opponent of the gold standard.. how fun would it be to say things like "William Jennings Bryan chewed a hole in the Triscuit box" or "I just saw William Jennings Bryan behind the fridge"), and Heisenberg.  I'm post-humously naming him Heisenberg.  Respect.

I walked home tonight after getting dinner with my cousin Katie.  I called my parents to chat as I made my way home.  I was still on the phone with my mom when I walked into my apartment, and immediately saw the trap that had made its way a foot and a half out from under the kitchen counter.  Stuck to it was Heisenberg himself.

Not. Dead. Yet.

Heisenberg, ya dead? No, man.

After some incoherent squealing coupled with the poor cell reception in my apartment, my mom insisted I slow down and tell her what was happening.  I told her the mouse was caught in one of the sticky traps but wasn't dead.  The lower half of his body was caught in the trap but he was using his face and/or hands to scoot his way forward.  He was sporadically flailing his head about as I talked my way through this which only led me to question how long it had taken him to move a foot and a half.  How long had I been torturing this furry little creature? Suddenly, I was no longer out for blood, determined to eliminate this pest that had settled in my apartment without an invitation.  Maybe it was because I had a long conversation with my co-workers today about the death of our family pets.  Maybe it was because he seemed a lot smaller and cartoonish up close.  Maybe it was because he didn't even get to eat any of the peanut butter out of the trap.  But suddenly I felt very sorry for the mouse.  And suddenly I was crying.  Like really really crying.

I shall remember you as the adorable mouse that you never were.

My mom put me on the phone with my dad who proceeded to talk me through the rest of this situation. (Sidenote: Carolyn, hope you're having fun at Bonaroo.  This weekend has been eventful.  We'll catch up over some Seamless web in a few days.)  Dad was not really having any of this crying business, so he told me my best option was to.. wait for it.. drown the mouse in the toilet.

Hang on a second..

Yes, I heard that right.  Drown the mouse.  In the toilet.  That seems like it would calm my nerves, right?  How am I supposed to get the trap out of the toilet then?  What if the mouse comes out of the sticky trap in the toilet and then I have to pick up the DEAD, TOILET-WATER-SOAKED MOUSE out of the toilet WITH MY BARE HANDS?

Dad: Ok, do you have any other traps?  Yes, obviously I have 9 of them.  Ok, take one of those and put it on top of the mouse and then put the whole thing in a bag and take it out to the trash.

Somehow this mouse trap sandwich idea seemed a little undignified.  Can't explain it, but it wasn't sitting right with me.  I asked my dad if maybe I could put some of the mouse poison pellets in front of Heisenberg so that he could inch his way toward them, eat them, and then die in his sleep.  That idea was.. well.. we'll say it was "scoffed at."  Back to the drowning plan...

I took a tall piece of Tupperware (sorry, Carolyn.  I'll replace it before you get home) and filled it with water.  Bear in mind, my dad was on the phone with me for this whole process.  Bear in mind, the mouse was still squirming around during this whole process.  Simply horrifying.  Nevermind the fact that as I was narrating this, my dad said, "Of course he's moving around, he's fighting for his life."  Oh my GOD, not helping.  Now I had to work up the nerve to pick up the trap, with the live mouse still wriggling around on it, and stick it in the Tupperware container.

It was one thing to set a shitload of traps in the hopes of "catching" the mouse.  I knew catching the mouse meant killing it but, you know, out of sight, out of mind.  Now I wasn't just catching the apartment mouse anymore.  I was putting Heisenberg to death.  There's an episode of The West Wing that deals with the morality of capital punishment.  I don't remember the exact crime committed but there is a man who is on death row who is about to be executed and there is a chance the President might spare his life.  Whatever the crime was, it is clear that is was something really horrible but even as basically everyone is agreeing that he should be put to death, C.J. Cregg, the Press Secretary, says, "I just wish I didn't know his mother's name, that's all." Well, I wish I hadn't looked Heisenberg in the eyes or known he likes peanut butter or mentally associated him with those dogs with wheels instead of hind legs.

BRB, just have to go drown this adorable, handicapped puppy in my toilet.

I was very upset at this point and told my dad how small Heisenberg was.  "Yeah, of course he's small.  There's millions of them.  You want them to give you diseases?"  This was said in the you-know-who-else-cut-corners?-Janis-Joplin Mr. Weir tone.  Amazing.

His best line, however, was when he was trying to convince me that the most humane thing to do would be to drown Heisenberg:

"Remember how the people died on the Titanic?  It's a peaceful way to go."

I could hear my mom laughing from the other room.

Anyway, shaking and wincing and crying my way through it, I picked up the mouse trap and quickly lowered Heisenberg, head first, into the water-filled Tupperware container.  It all went so fast.  My parents simultaneously launched into rapid-fire questioning:

Do you have the lid on it?
Do you have a plastic bag to put it in?
Is the lid on yet?
Do you have your keys?
Are you headed downstairs to the garbage?
Do you have your keys?
Is he dead?
Ugh, yes, I just looked him in the eyes.
Why did you look him in the eyes??
I KILLED HIM. I HAVE TO LOOK HIM IN THE EYES.
Is he dead?
Yes. His eyes were definitely dead.
Dad: This is a big step for you. I'm proud.

Post-humous texts from my parents include the following:

Texts from Mom:

Text 1: Glad the mouse hunt is over.  Good job!
Text 2: Mariel caught the mouse and got rid of him... She's somewhat traumatized.
Text 3: I meant to send to Nick and sent to you ;)
Text 4: Hope you got a glass of wine! I did!

Texts from Dad:

In conclusion, here is my dedication to Heisenberg.  Hope you're eating peanut butter in a better place now.

Mouse Hunt: Part I

Only cute when voiced by Michael J. Fox and/or holding tiny teddy bears

I was standing in my bedroom (the only place I get consistent cell reception in my apartment) chatting with my mother on the phone this evening when I spied with my little eye something grey scurrying across our kitchen floor and running under the oven.  Mouse in the hizzouse, ladies and gentlemen.

I don't consider myself a stereotypical girl when it comes to most things.  I don't know how to walk in heels (I look like a baby deer standing for the first time).  I don't enjoy shopping.  Etc.  This mouse, though.  I freaked out a little bit.

Dealing with a mouse seems like one of those things that comes with growing up.  You have your first apartment, you're paying rent, you're dealing with leaky bathroom ceilings... and you have to figure out how to kill your first mouse.  Fortunately, I have my wonderful mother who knows everything about everything and tells me what to do in all of these first-time situations.  So after I screamed and asked her who I call to kill the mouse, she assured me that this is something I can handle myself.  Oh right, mouse traps.  I don't know why my first instinct was that I had to call an exterminator.  Probably because 0% of me wanted to walk past the oven to get to the front door.  WHY DOES HE KEEP POKING HIS HEAD OUT TO LOOK AT ME?  WHAT IS YOUR ANGLE, MOUSE? DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT EATING MY FACE.

When I told her that I didn't know where any hardware stores were around my neighborhood, my mom assured me that I could find what I needed at the grocery store or a Duane Reade.  She spent a few more minutes calming me down and then asked me how close the nearest drug store was.

Me: Oh, I'm already there.
Mom: [laughing] That was fast. Did you run there?
Me: I've got my reasons.
Mom: Alright, did you find the mouse traps?
Me: No, I got distracted by some scented candles.

Pound cake scented candles.  I've got my reasons.

Still on the phone with my mom (and candle in tow), I find a Rite Aid employee and ask the mustachioed woman where the mouse traps are.

Mustachioed Rite Aid lady: [quizzical look]
Me: Mouse traps.
Mustachioed Rite Aid lady: [still looking quizzical, still mustachioed] Mouse traps?
Me: Yes. Traps. For catching mice.
Mustachioed Rite Aid lady: Oh, sure [points to aisle 14]
Mom: Seriously?
Me: Yes, I just explained to a grown woman what a mouse trap is.

I sorted through their selection but there were no sticky mouse traps which is what my mom was telling me to buy.  My poor mother was still on the phone with me, the saint that she is, as I talked through my options.  Ok, not getting the old school wooden snappy things.  I was trying to explain this one big trap that seemed pretty sturdy..

Me: Ok, there's this one.. I can't tell how it works.  It looks like the mouse walks in and then the door closes behind it.  But I think that means the mouse is going just hang out in there?  Alive?  I can't tell what this is.
Mom: [pause] It sounds like you're describing a mouse hotel.

Anyway, after much deliberation I bought the mouse hotel and mouse poison pellets to go with it.  That's right, mouse.  You can check out anytime you like but you can never leave.

$18.26 later, I walked a couple blocks further to the Duane Reade.  Surely they must have sticky mouse traps and employees that know what mouse traps are.  Nope, no sticky mouse traps.  I decided to buy a set of 4 Tomcat traps (mini hotels) for good measure and, a set of two Rid Rite pest control systems.  You plug these bad boys into your wall outlets, and they send out ultrasonic signals through the walls so mice won't want to come inside.  Let's end the bloodshed here, my furry brethren.

$34.82 ($53.08 total), I headed home.  Eh, I was passing the grocery store anyway.. might as well take a look inside.  Yup, sticky mouse traps.  Bingo.  And it was only $2.17 for the CatchMaster set of 4!!

I set 5 of the 9 traps just to be safe.  I will consume this mouse with fireballs from my eyes and bolts of lightning from my ass.  FREEEEEEEEDOMMMMMMM.

Take no prisoners.

To be continued.