Z is for Zombies

Ah, the air is crisp, the leaves are colorful and Halloween is just a few days away. This is the perfect time for me to touch on a favorite subject, one about which I am most passionate.

Let's talk about zombies, shall we?

Zombies...flesh eaters...the walking dead...call them what you will (but don't call them late for dinner...Ha!) In 1968, a low-budget black and white film entitled "Night of the Living Dead", written and directed by Pittsburgh native George A. Romero, pushed zombies into the public consciousness. What is it about zombies that freaks people out? Is it their slack expression? Their spine-chilling moan? The slow, shuffling walk that should be easy to outrun? (But for some reason, never is). Perhaps it's their single-minded pursuit of that which we hold so dear...our bodies. Can they help it if we happen to be their primary food source?

I first saw "Night of the Living Dead" on a church youth group retreat. Yes, you read that correctly. Our youth group leaders brought a 16mm projector and a copy of the film for our weekend at an isolated Baptist camp in the woods. After the film, we walked (okay sprinted) back to our cabins, praying that the zombies wouldn't start walking out of the woods and eat us (I guess the movie worked since it got us all to pray).

In 1978, Romero released "Dawn of the Dead"; a full-color, no-holds-barred gore fest where zombies swarmed outside a suburban shopping mall while survivors holed up inside. In the days before NC-17, though the film was rated "R", no one under 17 was allowed admittance. (I was 16 and managed to get in with my older sister and friends). While the blue-tinged zombies and primitive effects seem outdated today, at the time it was freaky. Though I held up well in the theater, that night while lying in bed, the thoughts crept into my head: What if a zombie walked up my stairs? What if one lurched out while I was walking the dog? What if my sister became one overnight? These thoughts led to more than one sleepless night.

You'd think this would have deterred me from seeing more zombie films. Au contraire. Over the years I've become a zombie connoisseur of sorts. There are pale imitations ("Return of the Living Dead") and remakes (both "Night" and "Dawn of the Dead" were remade). There's the brilliant zombie romantic comedy (or zomromcom) "Shaun of the Dead". There are zombies motivated by rage ("28 Days Later" and "28 Weeks Later") and zombies kept as pets ("Fido"). There are slow-moving zombies and zombies that can give Usain Bolt a run for his life. Michael Jackson's "Thriller” features dancing zombies.

But my love of zombies is not limited to film. Max Brooks (son of Mel) wrote the well detailed "Zombie Survival Guide" and "World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie Wars" (the latter is available at the Hanover library, thanks to our library's director,m who purchased the book at my request without passing judgment on my freakish taste. They also purchased "Fido"). While browsing through Borders, you may have noticed an updated version of Jane Austen's classic entitled "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" (the success of which has led to the release of Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters".) Last year my family purchased a set of Zombie action figures for me from Archie McPhee (along with a set of Horrified B-Movie victims so I could create interesting dioramas.) My kids play with zombie finger puppets.

Call me crazy, but I am not alone in my passion. College students are playing a game called Humans versus Zombies (or HvZ) on campuses across the country (including UMASS-Dartmouth). In this adult version of tag, humans defend themselves from zombies with socks and Nerf guns. Once tagged, the student continues as a zombie through the rest of the match (for more information visit www.humansvszombies.org).

If you're not a student, why not participate in a zombie walk? In cities across the nation, groups of zombie lovers coordinate a date, time and place to show up dressed in zombie make-up and shamble around scaring unsuspecting passersby. (There was a Copley Square zombie walk scheduled for October 17 but I missed it. Dang!) Check out www.zombiewalk.com. Or you can just head over to the Hanover Mall cinema for a showing of the delightful new movie "Zombieland" (which has grossed almost $75 million in just three and a half weeks.)

Sure, there's all this focus on vampires what with all the press on "Twilight" and "True Blood" and "The Vampire Diaries". When "New Moon" opens next month, there will be a lot of werewolf talk as well. These movies and shows are popular because they promote a hot, sexy version of these monsters. If there's one thing that zombies are not, it's sexy.

But they sure are fun. Happy Halloween.

It is BALLOON!!

At the risk of sounding like a codger-in-training, I miss the good old days. Come back with me to 1987, a kinder, gentler time. On October 14 of that year, our country rallied 'round their televisions, gripped by the story of a child in peril: Baby Jessica. Little Jessica McClure, only 18 months old, toddled into her back yard and fell down a well. For 58 hours, rescue workers trying to free the little girl from an 8-inch wide pipe riveted America. After countless hours of round-the-clock prayers, Jessica was free.

Nearly 22 years to the day, the country experienced a similar crisis. On Oct. 15, six-year-old Falcon Henne, otherwise known as "The Balloon Boy", was believed to be floating aloft in his family's homemade balloon, speeding across the fields of Colorado as a nation watched helplessly. Viewers were glued to 24-hour news channels while Internet users constantly hit their refresh button, searching for updates. There was speculation that the trapdoor at the bottom of the balloon was unlocked, prompting the idea that the boy could have possibly fallen out (this with the balloon hundreds of feet in the air, zooming untethered across a chilly, Colorado countryside).

I was on the phone with a friend when I first heard about the incident. "Have you seen this thing about the Balloon Boy?" she asked. As I read the news on my laptop, my first reaction was laughter (a kid free-floating in a balloon? Goofy!) My laughter quickly changed to horror when I realized that the authorities were stumped on how to land the balloon safely. As a mother who panics when my kids disappear momentarily at the food store, I imagined how I would feel if one of them was somewhere in the atmosphere, scared and calling for me. At this point, horror turned to nausea and dread. As my children and I sat down to dinner, we said grace and then a fervent prayer that the boy be safely returned to his family.

My prayers were answered, in a manner of speaking. As the entire country knows by now, the boy was hiding while this whole drama unfolded. As Black Hawk helicopters raced to save him, the child was playing with his toys and napping in the rafters of his garage. No sooner had we all collectively breathed a sigh of relief than the rumors began: The family had participated in the reality program "Wife Swap." Twice. The father was an admitted storm-chaser, often bringing his sons with him into potential danger. During an interview on Larry King Live, the boy was asked why he didn't respond when he heard people calling his name to which he replied, "We did this for the show." Speculation that the entire stunt may have been a carefully orchestrated hoax began to spread. As of this morning (Monday, Oct. 19) the local sheriff's department has decided to pursue an investigation that could possibly result in criminal charges.

Let me state for the record that I am thankful that Falcon was not in the balloon and that he is safe and unharmed (although "safe" seems like a relative term as revelations about his family come to light.) But the idea that a media-hungry, spotlight-seeking family could pull such a stunt makes me angry that I wasted my time, my concern and yes, even my prayers on a bunch of nuts. Yet I have only myself to blame. We live in a world where Jon and Kate Gosselin out-nasty each other in front of millions of viewers, where The Real Housewives of Atlanta/Orange County/New York/New Jersey pull wigs and hurl insults, where husbands and wives are swapped like trading cards, all to a weekly audience. If I didn't want to get caught up in the "real life" drama of people like this, would my Tivo be so full each week?

Which brings me back to Baby Jessica. When they finally pulled her out of the well, tired and dirty but very much alive, it was an uplifting moment for our country. We cried our tears, thanked God, and for a few moments felt that there was still hope and good in the world. Baby Jessica did not go on to star in her own reality series. She wasn't mass marketed on t-shirts or as a happy meal toy (Imagine that? "Baby Jessica doll...pipe not included.") She survived her ordeal and went on to live her life quietly, in near obscurity.

I miss those days.

BULLSEYE!

All hail the giant bull’s-eye. Bask in its almighty redness. Target has finally opened in Hanover.

Yes, friends and neighbors, the day you’ve been waiting for has finally arrived. No longer will you have to drive two extra minutes to buy your greeting cards, cleaning products, DVDs and 90% cotton-10% modal clothing (FYI, modal is the thing that makes those tissue thin t-shirts cling to your body. Not recommended for the over 30 crowd). No longer shall we trek to Abington or, heaven forbid, all the way down to Kingston. Once only a dream, Hanover’s Target is finally a reality and only a mere stone’s throw away. (In point of fact, my friend Sue can see the bull’s-eye from her home.)

This Target store has been long anticipated. Shortly after our sporting goods-turned-furniture store went defunct, rumors began circulating that our town would have its own Target. We’d already been blessed with Trader Joe’s and Panera Bread. Could we really be this lucky? Could Target actually be within our grasp?

Truth be told, when the Target rumors became fact, I was disappointed. My first thought was, “Do we really need a Target in our town? Do we need to clear cut trees, impact water tables, widen roads and add another set of stop lights on an already crowded stretch of the main road? Do we need to contribute to the “mall-ification” of the South Shore?
Apparently, we do. I guess if we can have a Dunkin’ Donuts at every mile marker, what’s one more Target store?

Don’t get me wrong, I love Target: the books, the toys, the electronics, the clothes. I was first introduced to it while visiting my parents in New Jersey. Subsequently, every trip home for the holidays had to include at least one visit to Target. When I discovered one in Kingston, I was pleased to have it within a twenty-minute drive (close enough to visit every once in a while, but not so close as to tempt me daily).

Then Target opened in nearby Abington, and suddenly it was just nine minutes from my home (yes, I timed it). Now it was almost too close. I could justify going by adding a grocery run at the neighboring Stop in Shop. Thankfully, most days my errands were clustered in the opposite direction. I could resist temptation.

As construction progressed, my children constantly asked, “When will Target open?” (Proof that those children are mine.) When the bull’s-eye went up on the side, they shrieked with joy. Upon entering the YMCA, they would comment that they could see Target from the parking lot. Finally, the piece de resistance: the sign bearing the words “Opening October 11”. The wait was nearly over.

While lunching with a friend last Wednesday, another friend called my cell phone twice in rapid succession. Concerned, I checked my messages immediately, only to hear my friend’s voice, bursting with jubilation and saying, “I have the most exciting news. Target is open!”

Apparently, Target had had their ‘soft open” the night before, inviting local dignitaries and the like (hmmm, where was my invitation?) Although the official opening was scheduled for the 11th, the store was open for business. As I strolled the pristine aisles marveling at how neat and well stocked everything was, I bumped into several friends. At each encounter we would laugh and smile and share our amazement that Target had finally come to our town. I left the store $100 poorer.

That evening my kids begged me to take them to Target. My husband shook his head and said, “But it’s just a store.” Poor man, he grew up in farm country. As a New Jersey native I am living proof that you can take the girl out of the mall but you just can’t take the mall out of the girl. Apparently, I passed that gene on to my sons. We piled in the car and drove the seven minutes (yes, I timed it) to the shiny new store. As we cruised through the parking lot, the glow of the bull’s-eye bathing us in a soft red glow, I thought about my husband’s comment. Yes, it’s only Target.

But it’s my Target.

A Weekend with old Friends

Weekends are always a good time to reconnect with long lost friends, and this weekend I was able to catch up with two that I haven't seen in a long time.

Their names are Buzz and Woody.

On Saturday night, my husband and I took our sons to see The Disney Double Feature: "Toy Story & Toy Story 2 in 3D". While my children have seen both films about a gazillion times, they had only ever seen them on DVD. Toy Story was released in 1995, three years before the birth of my oldest son. Toy Story 2 followed in 1999. My children grew up loving Buzz and Woody, but had never experienced the thrill of seeing their stories played out on the big screen. In 3D no less.

My children were enamored with the idea of a "double feature". (I think they liked the idea of the bathroom break in between films). This took me back to my own childhood when Disney would trot out a different double feature each summer weekend. This would consist of a live action film paired with an animated feature (such as “The Love Bug” and “The Aristocats”). I don't remember how old I was, but I do remember that my parents would drop off my two sisters and me at the theater where we would be alone and unchaperoned for three hours. This was in the days before cell phones or pagers. Imagine doing that now? Not to be outdone, a friend tells the story of how her mother would drop her and her siblings off at one beach with inner tubes, only to pick them up a mile or two south at a different beach. We’re all still alive to tell the tale.

But I digress. I worried that I might be bored watching the Toy Story films again, even with the addition of 3-D (which was pretty snazzy, by the way). It just goes to show you how a great film can stand the test of time and multiple viewings. While the name of Sid's dog, Scud, seemed a bit dated, the rest of Toy Story was still fresh and engaging. I even heard a few comic references that I missed the first two hundred viewings. (Woody tries to prevent Buzz from being taken by "the claw" in the grabber machine. The little green men hold Woody back saying "He has been chosen..he must go." to which Woody retorts "Stop it you zealots!" Priceless.)

The underlying theme of Toy Story film is how new friends impact existing relationships. Top dog Woody suddenly finds himself bumped to second place when shiny new space ranger Buzz Lightyear enters the picture. Woody's feelings of anxiety, annoyance, jealousy and sadness are relatable to both children and adults alike. I see these same feelings in my 8-year old, my 11-year old and myself. Toy Story 2 is a darker tale, with a sinister stranger kidnapping Woody. Buzz and the gang then set off to rescue him. The second film again taps into Woody's anxiety and insecurity about his relationship with his owner, wondering if he would be better off on display as a “collectible” in a Japanese museum than staying with Andy and risk being cast aside in a few year's time. I enjoyed the film's blatant disdain for collectibles versus toys. Collectibles remain in boxes and behind glass, whereas toys are meant to be played with and loved. (Hmmm. I wonder how many Pixar executives have original Toy Story toys, mint in box?)

The sold-out show was packed with a mix of adults and children, with adults outnumbering kids by a good 5 to 1 (though to be fair, the three hour plus double feature started at 7:30 p.m.) And while each film earned a round of applause and cheers, the highlight of the evening occurred even before the movies began: the trailer for Toy Story 3 (in 3-D), scheduled to open in June 2010. From what I could glean from the preview, Andy goes to college (college!) and the toys are donated to a day care.

So now you know where I'll be in June: Learning more life lessons with my pals, Buzz and Woody.

My Changing Feelings about The Flu

Can I admit that I struggled with this week’s column?

Actually, that's only half true. My idea for this week's column was my family's experience with the flu. It seemed like a timely issue. What with Autumn upon us and the cold and flu season in full swing several weeks early, I wanted to make the point that while the flu should be taken seriously, we shouldn't panic unnecessarily about it.
You see, so far everyone in my household has had the flu (except for me.) Each year we all get flu shots. My reasoning is that my husband and 11-year old son are both asthmatic so a dose of flu could be potentially lethal. If my older son gets the vaccine, I can't deny my younger son, can I? And I personally get a shot for myself, my rationale being that if I were to get sick, who would take care of everyone else?

So, last year we all got the flu shot. And then in June, just weeks after thousands returned from Mexico bringing back more than just cheap jewelry and souvenir t-shirts, it hit our house. My asthmatic son got on the bus to middle school one morning, seemingly healthy, and came home with a cough. After spiking a fever during the night, we headed to the doctor who swabbed my son and confirmed a diagnosis of Influenza A (she later asserted that though he had not been tested for H1N1, she was certain that he had had it.) Within a day, my husband came down with it. My fears had been realized. My "high risk" husband and son had the flu. Both spent several days in bed, chugging liquids and taking Tylenol around the clock. Though his breathing wasn't compromised, my son had to spend a day in the ER being re-hydrated. But within a week, both recovered.

Last week, my younger son woke with a fever. When he complained of a headache and a sniffy nose, I booked an appointment with our physician. Sure enough, the diagnosis was "flu-like virus". Here we go again. My son took to my bed (yes, my bed), chugged Gatorade, popped Tylenol and watched enough Cartoon Network to memorize entire episodes of "Chowder" by heart. And then he recovered. As I type this, he is getting dressed for school.

As I wrote this weekend, my words came easily. I was able to blend my usual humor with just a touch of snarkiness: Do we really need to be so panicked about the flu? For goodness sake, it's not Ebola or the Plague! Yes, we should take precautions, like hand washing and flu vaccines, but let's not give in to national panic and start buying plastic and duct tape (remember that?) Looking back on my original column, I marvel at the smugness and superiority that permeated my words. I went to bed confident that my column was ready to submit.

And then, this morning I noticed a story in the paper about a healthy Hingham teenager who contracted H1N1 while at college in Ohio. Both his roommates had it as well, along with 300 other students. His roommates recovered. Tragically, he did not. How could I, in good conscience, run my original column? Out of respect for that mother in Hingham, I cannot.

So, it's okay to be apprehensive about the flu, but be sensible. Don't panic. Despite your best efforts, your child may get it. You may get it. But God willing, you will recover, just as my family did.

And now I realize how truly blessed we are.

Who You Calling Chicken??

While walking outside to the bus stop last week, my 3rd grader pointed across the street and asked, “Mommy, is that a chicken?" I squinted my eyes and saw that, yes indeed, there was a russet colored chicken pecking contentedly in the grass. This wasn't a wild bird, as we've seen in the past, but the type of chicken you'd see in a farmyard. We don't live on a farm, nor do we live in close proximity to one, but after putting my child on the bus, I picked up the phone and called a friend in a nearby neighborhood. This friend keeps dogs, goats, turtles, rabbits and guinea pigs in her menagerie (along with five boys, but they barely qualify as animals). "Hi," I said, as I spoke to her answering machine, "are you guys missing a chicken? If so, it's wandering around across the street."

It's kind of nice to see animals from time to time in a community so close to Boston. My husband grew up in farm country, so for him it's not unusual to see a herd of deer or a neighbor's bull grazing in the back yard. I, however, grew up in a suburban New Jersey neighborhood where the most exotic animal we'd see was the neighbor's cat. No wild turkeys strutting through the grass, or horses clip-clopping down our street. There’s a rabbit in the back yard? Quick, alert the media!

For many years, living and working in Boston, wildlife was limited to the rats in my company’s parking garage (“ledge bunnies” we called ‘em) and giant, mutant cockroaches. Moving to the south shore was like being dropped into an episode of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. While living in Norwell, nestled on 16 acres, we would often encounter deer, skunks, raccoons, snapping turtles, and the bane of every gardener's existence: the woodchuck. That fat, evil creature thought my husband's garden was his own personal salad bar. No matter how high the fence or how well protected the plot, that oversized rat managed to ravage our vegetables. I once shot it point blank in the gut with my husband's pellet gun. The woodchuck gave me a look that said, "Is that all you got?" and ambled off into the woods, only to return that night to eat all of our salad greens. Further proof that woodchucks are the devil's house pets.

While I won't be playing Dirty Harry with woodchucks here in Hanover, I have seen families of rabbits and wild turkeys in our yard. And of course, we're not limited to big game. My husband spends countless dollars on bird food to lure goldfinches, cardinals and hummingbirds to our back yard. And then there are horses. One of my favorite things about Hanover is the stable located smack in the center of town. Is there anything more pastoral than watching foals frolicking in the fields as you drive down the street? Our community has a nice mix of both domesticated and wild animals.

Of course, wildlife comes at a price. A friend of mine was so enamored with the deer in the woods behind her house that she placed a salt lick in her yard to encourage them. Unfortunately, she soon realized that with deer come deer ticks, and that was the end of the salt lick. It's one thing to enjoy wildlife, it's quite another to treat your entire family to Lyme disease. Another friend who keeps chickens and peacocks (yes, peacocks) has lost countless animals to coyotes. And while you could argue that even coyotes need to eat, I draw the line when they might potentially eat my children.

Getting back to the chicken...I never did find out to whom it belonged. That same afternoon, my next-door neighbor, Cindy, walked over to my yard. With wonder in her voice she said, "There's a chicken in my driveway." Apparently, the chicken was able to avoid being McNuggetized when it ventured over to our side of the street.
Which answers the eternal question:
Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to my neighbor's driveway.

Are You Being Served?

I've been reading "Waiter Rant" by Steve "The Waiter" Dublanica. Based on his popular blog of the same name, Dublanica's book is a funny, irreverent take on the ups and downs of being a waiter. My husband has always said I would make a terrible waitress (he's been a waiter, a bouncer, a DJ and a bartender, so he speaks from experience). I always questioned his evaluation until I read "Waiter Rant" and realized that it wouldn't take too many difficult customers to provoke me to a public confrontation (which would inevitably lead to my dismissal. So scratch waitress off my list of potential professions.)

Coincidentally, I had a conversation the other day with a friend of mine who is in the service business. She is not a waitress but does work in the food industry. Her particular job puts her in direct contact with customers from the moment she walks through the door to the end of her shift. I was intrigued with her suggestion that one problem with the service industry lies not with the servers, but with the customers they serve.

Think about it. If you've ever seen an irate customer let loose on a waiter, a cashier or a customer service rep, then you'll have a sense of what she's talking about. Granted, there are incompetent, rude, apathetic employees in every profession. Dealing with these people can raise anyone's blood pressure. But, for every clueless retail clerk there's an honest, hard-working counterpart doing his or her best to service customers while scratching out a living. We complain about bad service but what about bad customers?
What is our responsibility as consumers? Have we become so complacent with our role of being served that we're confusing servers with servants? Have we as a society developed a sense of entitlement that blinds us to the fact that the woman behind the returns counter at the department store deserves the same courtesy as us (no matter how slowly she might move?) Has it become so ingrained that we don't even realize we're doing it?

My husband (the former waiter) has severe food allergies. Whenever we go out to eat, you can see the panic form in our server's eyes when he realizes there's a potential dead man walkin' in his section. My husband, however, does not demand that the restaurant jump through hoops to accommodate his condition. Instead he respectfully adjusts his expectations of what he can order based on what the chef can reasonably prepare without killing him.

My years in the direct sales business were wonderful; doing home parties opened doorways to new friendships. The majority of my hosts were warm, friendly and respectful of my job. However, there were one or two hosts who definitely saw me as the hired help and treated me as such. It was an eye opener.

In most service and retail industries, the rule of thumb is The Customer Is Always Right. Consumers and the dollars they represent are too precious to lose, so bend over backwards to keep them at any cost. But does that give consumers the right to exploit that rule and demand good service without regard to our own behavior? My friend's point was that if you want good service, try being a good customer. Which of course comes back to that valuable nugget we teach our children: Treat others as you would like to be treated yourself. Treat the people who serve you with respect and dignity and, hopefully, it will come back to you in the form of good service.

Don't get me wrong; I am far from perfect myself. I recently blurted out an expletive (loudly) while standing in line waiting to board the USS Constitution. We had been waiting for more than 30 minutes in the hot sun, children in tow, when a group of tourists, lounging off to the side, were allowed to go ahead of us (something to do with timed tickets they had been given earlier in the day when the crowds were much larger). Those of us in line grumbled at the prospect of waiting even longer in the heat, to the point where I lost my temper and shouted, "This is (something that comes out of the back end of a male cow)". In front of my children. And other people's children. And an active duty Naval midshipman. In uniform. Not my finest moment.

So yes, we're all capable of rude behavior when it comes to being served. But if I may drag up another cliché, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar (and even more with what comes out of that male cow!) I'm a talker, and I tend to initiate friendly conversation with waiters, cashiers, bank tellers and the guy who pumps my gas. My friends make fun of me, but I can't help myself. For the most part, though, I tend to get good service in return. Not always, but most of the time. Bob Dylan said it best in his 60's version of yet another cliché, what goes around comes around: "You're gonna have to serve somebody."

With my luck, it will be that Naval midshipman.