C.C.D. Sign-up Cringe

I recently enrolled my first grader for C.C.D. -- the Catholic equivalent to Sunday school or Hebrew school. It is the pre-requisite for receiving Holy Communion and Confirmation. For most people, signing up would be a mundane task…filling out a few forms at the local parish. For me, it caused acute cringe.

As I stood in front of the religious education secretarial desk last week, hesitantly handing over the forms, my heart raced and I felt faint. I couldn’t believe that I was signing Christopher up for a program that tortured me so as a child. My sixth grade self would be astonished—speechless-- horrifed. How did I turn into a grown-up who no longer enjoys rollercoaster rides and would force an innocent six-year-old down the plank to dreaded C.C.D? I am certain that 1983 Tracy promised that she would never exact this punishment on her offspring. I believe I shouted that each week at my mother as she drove me to my captivity.

My husband, Marty, doesn’t understand this dilemma. He went to Catholic school for twelve years, and never had to set foot in an uncomfortable classroom (it was always either too hot or cold at C.C.D. afterschool) at 4 p.m. for eight grueling years. He could ride his bicycle afterschool on Tuesday afternoons and laugh with his buddies until dinner time. He wasn’t a hostage in a metal seat.

My eight years of C.C.D. caused a condition called Post Traumatic Boredom Disorder (PTBD). I become symptomatic when entering any religious establishment. My brain chemistry has been permanently altered—mapped to fall into a boredom coma at church. I try to listen to the sermon. I really do. I attempt to enjoy the choral music. The problem is I revert back to that vexed sixth grader—I return to the stifling classroom at St. Mary’s on Valley Road. I can see the utilitarian clock above the blackboard, its hands never moving. I can hear Sister Kevin’s robed shuffle down the speckled hallway, her sinister face peering into the door panel. The PTBD is so debilitating it renders me unable to daydream in church. I am a person who can daydream anywhere. I have a daydreaming dependence problem. Church overrides it. A component of PTBD is pseudo-dementia. I can never remember the prayers, chants, or the order of the stand-up-sit-down routine.

The secretary at the C.C.D. office looked up at me, her face registering concern. I must have appeared woozy.

“I’m having a hard time with this,” I stammered. She shifted her head to the side in puzzlement. My throat felt dry as I continued.

“I really hated C.C.D. as a kid. It was so….boring,” my vocabulary returned to that of a sixth-grader. “I’m having a hard time thinking that I’m sending my son to this. C.C.D. turned me off to religion.” I exhaled. I had said it.

The secretary was kind. She assured me that C.C.D. had come along way since the 70s/80s. She whipped out the first grade workbook and showed me the creative projects inside. I tried to concentrate, but the PTBD was blocking comprehension. I thanked her and jogged to my car. There are few things that compel me to jog.

At home over dinner, I told Marty about my experience. He cringed. Bigtime. Due to twelve solid years of Catholic school and regular church attendance, he suffers from Catholic guilt.

“You really said that?”
“Yeah…I just couldn’t help it.”

His shoulders raised with a sharp inhalation of breath. I know what he was thinking. The C.C.D. secretary probably stamped “Heathen Mother” in our file. It was on its way in an inter-office envelope to the Monsignor.

Please feel free to share your C.C.D. experiences in the comments section!

Obsessive Compulsive Innkeeper Cringe

All jobs are not suited for everyone. In my case, I would be hopeless at a career working with animals. I often blame my uneasiness around four-legged friends on an ill-fated night of babysitting when I was thirteen. I was attacked by a psychotic cat-- great material for another cringe. But really, my hesitation around pets was evident much earlier. There’s a photo of me at eighteen months surrounded by a litter of new puppies. I’m screaming bloody murder. My father’s persistence to have me ride the pony at various fairs during my childhood would result in full-blown distress. I recently took my kids to a sad little rescue zoo and made the absurd decision to take a stroll through the attached animal adoption shelter. As vicious looking dogs barked and snarled from their cages, jumping so high that I thought they might clear their metal fences and massacre everyone, I lost the feeling in my limbs. I was still engaged in some type of hyperventilation and panic thirty minutes after our departure. Marty had to repeat, “Are you sure you’re okay?” as I gulped air from my passenger side window. No veterinary, circus, zoo, shelter, or pet-sitting jobs for me. I’m aware of my limitations.

This past weekend marked the fifth annual Wetherill Family Reunion. This three-generational gathering rounds up forty cousins, aunts, and uncles from across the United States. It’s a challenge each year to find a location that provides affordability, easy travel access for the majority in the Northeast, and fun/nice/scenic/private setting.

We almost nailed it this year. The price, location, and atmosphere were stellar. The drawback was one neurotic innkeeper named Randy. Randy is as ill-suited for the career of purveyor of human lodging as I am for lion tamer. Regrettably, Randy is not cognizant of his own limitations.

The sign posted at the front desk was the first clue to Randy’s issues. See above. People in violation of Randy’s rules faced expulsion. It was unnerving to sign your credit card receipt and accept your key with this word lurking over Randy’s shoulder. Perhaps expulsion could be an appropriate warning and consequence for some venues, say, Panama City, Florida during spring break. Randy’s place was one step above camping in fifteen immaculate units nestled by an inlet on the sleepy coast of southeastern Connecticut.

Randy was an enthusiastic concierge, describing many local activities and points of interest. It wasn’t immediately obvious, even despite the expulsion notice, that Randy was desperate to have guests off of his property during daylight-- the thought of having us use his pristine pool turned out to be debilitating for him. He mentioned the availability of kayaks for guest use with caution. If you want to use one of my kayaks, you must sign a hold-harmless agreement. He was quick to add: that means if you slip and fall and die, you can’t sue me. As I hugged and greeted my relatives, Randy insisted on personally showing Marty to our room. Marty was instructed on the proper way to open and close the shower doors to keep the floor from getting wet. Slide open. Slide closed.


Randy spent the weekend skulking around the corners and locking the pool gate whenever it was temporarily empty of swimmers. At first he feigned he needed to treat the water with chemicals. Our pre-arranged clambake event, provided by an outside caterer, really put Randy over the edge. He spoke to me several times about the need for all children to wash their hands thoroughly after eating shellfish because he was concerned about lobster entrails on his bedspreads. He also clarified, three times, that his picnic tables were to be wiped down, and that the clambake company would remove all garbage from the premises. Yes, I assured Randy as best as I could, taking notice that he was developing a tic when he spoke of dirty hands. Shortly after the clambake was under way, Randy ran to the pool gate and threw down the lock. He feared lobster claws and mussel slime floating in the blue oasis.

“I’m locking up the pool for your group. I might open it for someone else if they need it,” he mumbled as he walked up the hill back to his quarters. We were collectively confused—there were no other guests but us reunion kin.

The children gathered around the pool gate the next morning, antsy to enter. Some had their goggles on already. Randy stood above with his hands on his hips, pacing. He moved down the hill slowly with a grave expression.

“There are rocks in the pool,” he declared. “I can’t open it up until my guy comes to remove them.”

“The kids can jump in and get them for you,” one of my cousins suggested.

Randy’s whole body reacted. He recoiled. “Unless you want to pay me $10,000. for a new pool liner, you have to wait for my diver to come.”

My Uncle Bob answered for all of us. “No, No. Randy. We don’t want to pay you $10,000. No-sir-yee.”

At this point, more than a few of us were worrying about expulsion. It was the last day of our affair. It seemed prudent to pack up our cars and speed out of this peculiar little man’s cove.

“I sure hope you come back again,” Randy told me as we checked out. He even shook my potentially lobster-juicy hand. “You were a really nice group. The kids were all very well behaved.”

It was true. The fifteen kids had been quite good.

I thanked Randy and felt a stir of empathy for him, and of course, a pang of cringe. He really is in the wrong line of work, and working very hard at it. Given his limitations, he was getting by. He was doing far better than I would on the canine squad.

Another Cringe At The Same Station

….Continued from last post, At The Station That Night Cringe…..

There was no satisfying resolution to my gas hose mishap. My cringe would have had a stronger narrative arc (“good story”) if my money had been returned. I was out $120. and now uneasy about living in a town with public protection in the form of Porncop.

My only recourse was to tell my embarrassing story with the goal of convincing locals to boycott that particular station. One of the people I told was Ted, a friend I wrote about in a previous post entitled, Ferry Cringe. It turns out that Ted had a run-in with Mean Old Gas Man at that station too. However, Ted’s resolution was so satisfying that I have adopted it as the footnote to my own tale:

Mean Old Gas Man runs a sideline business on his premises—a gas grill propane tank exchange. A few years ago, Ted bought a new grill that came with a gleaming white virgin tank. Many hotdogs and hamburgers later, he went to the Shell Station for his first propane trade. Mean Old Gas Man took Ted’s perfect tank and handed him a rusted, chipped, and dented poor replacement. It appeared as if bowling balls had been thrown at the ancient vessel.

“I just gave you a brand new tank. This one’s shot.”

Mean Old Gas Man dismissed him with an impatient toss of hand. “Then you bring this one back and you get a different one. It doesn’t matter. So what?”

Ted had guests waiting for barbeque ribs in his backyard. He took the crap tank and hurried home.

A few weeks later, the crap tank ran empty. Ted returned to the station to exchange. Mean Old Gas Man wouldn’t accept the rusty tank! An argument ensued. The swindler denied that he had peddled the old tank weeks before. Ted called him a liar. Chest puffed out with righteousness, Mean Old Gas Man continued to refuse, adamant that he had never had the crap tank in his possession.

Ted got back in his car and drove to Home Depot. He purchased a spanking new white tank. He didn’t drive straight home. He pulled into the evil Shell Station, opened his driver door with the car still running, and stepped out. He grabbed the dilapidated crap tank from the backseat. Locking eyes with the Mean Old Gas Man, he extended his left arm. With one powerful motion, Ted hurled the crap tank up in the air. It rocketed over the hood of his car and bounced like a creaking bed across the pavement of the gas bays, sputtering and clanging as Mean Old Gas Man watched its trail.

Ted exited the station contented.

I like to think that a tiny current of my spirit soared with the flying crap tank.

At The Station That Night Cringe

……continued from previous cringe, Gas Station Cringe……..

Marty entered into research mode. He read up on the mechanics of breakaway gas station hoses, their costs, and what typically happens when fools drive off still connected. In most cases, the driver cringes, apologizes, pays for fuel only, and leaves. The gas station attendant usually reattaches hose to pump, muttering “asshole” under his breath. Transaction complete. My shakedown was irregular.

Marty called his childhood friend, Tom, who now works as a Connecticut state trooper. After Tom howled, he advised Marty to head down to the local police and request that an officer “facilitate” the return of money. Tom confirmed that the station had clearly been dishonest and felt that a visit from a cop should result in the swift credit of $120 to our american express card.

At around 7:00p.m., we took a family trip to our town police station. The family included me, Marty, 2 ½ year old Christopher, and unborn baby Brendan. As Christopher spread informational pamphlets with titles like, Signs of Domestic Abuse, all over the lobby floor, our lawman appeared.

He looked like a porn star portraying a policeman in a 1980s adult flick. I expected tinny Bowm Chicka Bowm Bowm music to mark his entry into the room. Forty- something, chip-on-shoulder, slightly graying feathered hair, Magnum P.I. bristly moustache, tight uniform. Porncop had never upped the waist size of his polyester blues since graduating from the academy some twenty years ago—a quick pursuit would surely bust seams. He greeted us with a bored gaze that expressed that we were interrupting real police business occurring behind the sealed door he just came from. He picked at his nails while Marty introduced himself and cliffnoted the shifty cringe down at the Shell.

Porncop glanced up to meet my eyes at the part about me driving off attached. The flicker of "dumb chick" registered on his mustachioed mug as a nonverbal mutter. Porncop raised his hand and cut Marty off before his summation.

“Well, let’s all go down there and check this out.”

Later, when we told the story to Tom the state trooper and my stepfather (a former NYPD detective), they both let out cries of incredulous shock-- amazed by Porncop’s procedural lapse. They insisted that the first chapter of Policing 101 includes: investigate rip-off claims individually—do not drag victim(s) to scene of alleged fraud.

I was already cringing. I did not want to go down there.

“Christopher’s tired. Can you drop us off before you go?” I pleaded to Marty.

“Aren’t you the one with THE PROBLEM?” Porncop snapped. “I need you there.”

At the station, I crouched down in the passenger seat, practically below the dashboard, as Marty, Porncop, and Mean Gas Man Owner argued by the pumps. At first, Marty and Mean Gas Man exchanged heated words. Mean Gas Man ran to the garage and grabbed a hose for show and tell. He pointed and yelled and threw the hose on the blacktop. Marty held pieces of paper and thrust them at Mean Gas Man, pointing at them and challenging the old man to read the information. All the while, other cars pulled up and received gas from the same pump I had used earlier that day. The pump that the old man was now claiming I had irrevocably broken. Somehow, my station wagon morphed into a tank that afternoon, permanently shredding a hose that is engineered to withstand extreme tugs.

A woman ran out of the mini-mart, the Mean Gas Man’s wife. She began to scream and shake, pointing to her husband’s chest. She protested he had a weak heart that could not withstand accusation. I slouched down further in my seat as I saw Marty pointing towards us. I caught some words and phrases, You should be ashamed to treat two pregnant women like that and Liar! and That's Bullshit! I could hear this through shut car windows.

Now Porncop was in the mix. His face was very close to Marty’s and there was bobbing and pointing between them.

“Why is Daddy yelling at that Policeman?” Christopher asked from his car seat behind me.


My cringe was about to jump out of my chest and break the windows.

“Ummm….Daddy’s just having a little disagreement with that policeman.” I offered, holding my breath. Just one of my eyes was cracked open.

“Why?”

“Why don’t we play I Spy?” I attempted to distract, hoping that one of the objects would not be handcuffs around Daddy’s wrists.

Fortunately, Marty stormed back to the car, arms swinging freely. Porncop had been useless. We found out later from another cop in town that the Shell Station is where Porncop gets his free coffee, newspapers, and whatever else.

Bowm Chicka Bowm Bowm.

Next week....Part three.

Gas Station Cringe

My good friend, Elise, waddled over to the mini-mart to get us bottles of water. I write waddled because we were both eight months pregnant in the extreme June 2006 heat, and thirsty. When she got back and handed me the drink I chugged it, and forgot that my gas tank was presently being filled with fuel. The water felt so cool that it led me to turn on my ignition with pep, put swollen ankle to metal, and take off. (Note to non New Jersey folk: I am not so spoiled that I don’t pump my own gas. It’s actually illegal in the state.) The foreign station attendant screamed out in his native language as I felt the resistance of the hose breaking away from my car.

“Trace! The gas! You’re not done!” Elise warned, wide-eyed. Man, I was done. I lumbered out of my car and looked over at the mad gas man, holding a rubber hose in the air, still yelling.

At first, I just cringed. I was a total idiot. A big-bellied one. I looked around and hoped that no one besides Muhammad had witnessed my stupidity—not just anyone I knew, but anyone at all. Then I tried to process the incident. What had I just done? Was the gas station going to blow up? Was my car going to explode? Was I going to be handcuffed and arrested for reckless endangerment? I wanted to split, but stood confused.

An older man ran out from the mini-mart, waving his hands and chastising me in half English- half something else. The message was easy to decipher: stupid pregnant baffoon—you’re in trooouuuble.

The old man shoved the length of hose at me and pointed wildly to the end of it. He demanded $120 cash. There was an emphasis on CASH. I don’t have $120 in cash in my wallet, I protested. Elise and I pooled our money…but we weren’t even close. The man frowned and yelled some more.

“Should you call Marty?” Elise suggested.

Ahhh….Marty, my husband. Marty would never drive away from a gas station with the nozzle still attached to his vehicle. Calling him at that moment and confessing that I once again had lived up to Spacey Tracy (my father coined that nickname for me from the time I was old enough to forget things), seemed too cringe-prolonging. Plus, I feared that some form of law enforcement might arrive and cart me to jail to give birth. I told the mean old gas guy that I could pay him with a credit card. He scoffed, but finally ushered me inside to swipe my card.

120 Lottery Tickets. That’s what the receipt said. That was the first hint that I was somehow getting scammed. But at least I could get out of there. When I got back to the car, Elise told me that another worker at the station approached her and whispered that we were getting scammed: those gas lines are designed to break away, because, amazingly, I’m not the only moron to make the mistake.

Safely away from the scene of the cringe, I called Marty. He didn’t need the aha! 120 lottery ticket bill to know I had been taken. Not to worry, he told me, he would go down to the station that evening and get the money back. He had a few choice words for the proprietor…and he wasn’t surprised when I revealed which station in town it was. He always knew they were shady (expletives). Some intensely primal anger ignited inside Marty….the fact that his pregnant wife had been so mistreated needed rectifying.

To be continued….PART TWO next week….. entitled “At The Station That Night Cringe”

And then PART THREE…. “Another Cringe At The Same Station” the week after.

Hot Todd Cringe

Todd is a handsome thirty-two year old construction supervisor who works with my husband. Todd is also an exceptionally talented self-taught craftsman. He was hired by our neighbors, Kendra and Rich, to renovate their second floor as a side job.

Mitsie lives across the street from where Todd is toiling. We all live on Church Street, which sounds very proper and demure. Mitsie’s eighteen year old daughter and several girlfriends took notice of the “hot guy” sawing on her neighbor’s front lawn. They liked his blondish hair and his well-developed tattooed surfer arm. If a guy like Todd had been working in my neighborhood when I was eighteen, my girl gang would have found many reasons to cruise up and down Church Street for views. We may have even feigned that we were lost (on my own street) and asked the hardworking man for directions.

“Who’s the hot guy on the Colburn’s lawn?” The girls asked Mitsie.

“Oh, he’s Marty’s friend, Todd. He’s fixing Kendra’s upstairs.”

Mitsie started to refer to Todd as “Hot Todd.” The name stuck. Kendra followed. Yeah, Hot Todd is almost finished with the mouldings—they look great! Hot Todd is coming over again tonight—I think I’ll make spaghetti for him. Hot Todd is so nice.

A few Sundays ago, Mitsie walked across Church Street with her seven year old twin boys to enjoy a glass(es?) of wine with Kendra and let their boys play together. Todd was stationed out front, bent over his power tools. Mitsie asked Todd about his interest and availability for a project at her house. Todd agreed to come take a look. She called her twins to leave.

“Why?” they complained.

“Because “Hot Todd” is coming over to look at our fence.”

Her wine glass almost slipped from her hand. She used the other to cover her mouth, which was now surrounded in deep crimson. She bolted back inside and fell on the couch, enveloped in cringe. Her boys looked at Hot Todd curiously. Kendra retreated to her kitchen, feeling her own cringe coming on.

Like most good dirt on Church Street, the story traveled. Mitsie called me to confess the cringe the next morning. I told Marty who got a kick out of it, and promptly teased Todd at work. The legend of Hot Todd (and his phone number) traveled with the story—there was a cute, reliable guy available who could fix things. Church Street was abuzz.

Many on Church Street attended our annual Ryan Fourth of July shindig, as well as Todd. The ladies took cover from the 100 degree swelter in the air-conditioned kitchen. Their red solo cups were filled with wine and even deadlier concoctions like iced-tea flavored vodka (very tasty and refreshing - by the way). When Todd entered the kitchen, he was met with the giggles and shouts of tipsy suburban mavens—teenagers-times- two (or 2 ½). He was greeted as “Hot Todd” and women who hadn’t met him gasped, “Oh…you’re Hot Todd!”

Poor Hot Todd let out a pained cringe, quickly fetched ice for his drink, and escaped outside to the scorching heat.

Thanks for reading The Weekly Cringe. If you are not yet on my email distribution list, please write to me at weeklycringemail@yahoo.com. Thanks, Tracy

Ferry Cringe

It took me roughly ten years to answer a simple, “New Jersey”, to the question, “Where are you from?” I spent a decade explaining my circuitous route to the garden state. My husband and other native Jerseyans regularly call me out as a snob. They protest that New Jersey is not as bad as it is portrayed on television. I say yes and no to that claim. Yes: I see women very similar to the Real Housewives of New Jersey all the time. If I drive just twenty minutes to a county park, I am surrounded by crass, heavily made-up loudmouth mothers, following after their spoiled brats with Louis Vuitton purses slung over their shoulders, kitten heels, and keys to flashy vehicles grasped by acrylic nails. Another yes: the turnpike is a lousy road and does reek in Elizabeth. No: there are lovely spots in New Jersey, and I am lucky to live in one-- one hour from Manhattan, and seven minutes to decent beaches here in Monmouth County. The acrylic nail ratio is low in my sleepy town. Lawns are green and kids ride their bikes to school.

Another plus to this location is the availability of ferry transportation to the city. Companies based out of local marinas ship commuters to New York City in just 45 minutes. My friend, Ted, rides the ferry to work.

Ted and his wife, Dana, were recently at a dinner party. A woman who Dana had met from the neighborhood had invited them to their home. Dana noticed that Ted seemed bristly at the gathering of three couples. He spent most of his time speaking to the host’s husband. He seemed to ignore the other male guest. It was strange.

“You kind of left that one guy out tonight,” Dana commented as they walked home after the party.

“Yeah, well, I pushed that guy once.”

“What do you mean, you pushed him? Like at hockey?” Dana withheld her initial cringe, hoping that the push was athletic even though this was an unlikely scenario. Ted is a burly six-foot-four ice hockey force—the snubbed dinner guest was slight with a pencil-thin moustache and foreign accent. He resembled the Pink Panther.

“Nah. I pushed him on the ferry.”

“What are you talking about?” Dana stopped to let her cringe flow. She felt dizzy under the streetlights.

Ted explained without apology. He had watched the guy blatantly disregard ferry boarding etiquette for weeks. Ferry commuters follow a simple system each morning. Two lines form on each side of the ramp, and passengers feed on one-by-one, alternating from the two queues. One from the left. One from the right.

The Pink Panther rudely charged on each time, failing to pause for the opposite line. It caused the cut passenger behind him to hesitate, followed by a bumping domino effect. A series of slight jolts often accompanied by spilled coffee. Ted was sick of this guy. He finally had the chance to right the situation. As Ted reached the platform one morning, Pink Panther was directly opposite. As always, the jerk darted ahead. Ted stretched his long leg forward and abruptly threw a Heisman jab to his left. Impact. The startled man swayed back and tap danced in place to steady himself. Ted moved ahead and found a seat, unruffled. He opened his newspaper with a satisfied snap.

“Ahhh…Ted! You can’t just go around pushing people….because then we end up like tonight-- having to feel awkward. I am mortified! This is a small town.” Dana was now cringing as she walked, as if there were little hot coals underfoot.

“I didn’t feel awkward. He’s the one who should feel awkward. He’s an idiot. And guess what? He now follows the rules.”

Sometimes a little jersey push is all it takes.