Christmas, Christmas time was here. Of course, that’s the Christmas song that Alvin and the Chipmunks made famous and one of the ones that I’ve heard 715 times this season. I still have all of my favorite Christmas songs stuck in my head since I have been listening to nothing else since November 25th. I am officially in my post-Christmas funk which happens every year. Why does it happen when I know it will come? Can’t I prepare for it? Can’t I get less swept up in the holiday spirit so that I don’t get the blues when it all comes to an end? The answer is that I cannot.
The build-up to Christmas is such a magical time for me. And there’s no “over” like the moment you realize Christmas is over. It makes you sad to hear the music. It is bittersweet to see the TV specials. I get sad looking at my decorations because I know that I’ll put them away and will not see them for eleven months. I saw some of that same sadness in Kate this year. There was a moment on Christmas night when she realized she had played with all of her new toys and began crying. She was sad because it was all… over. Sure, she appreciated her gifts and had a great day. But she said the words I’d said so many years as a kid, “I wish every day was Christmas”. I heard myself respond the way my father would respond to me; “If Christmas was everyday, it wouldn’t be as special”.
I am giddy for about the entire month leading up to Christmas. I love getting Christmas cards in the mail. I love the music, the lights, the merriment. I am a Christmas nerd. I’ve admitted it before and I feel no shame about it. I. Love. It. But then, Christmas day comes and I already have the sinking feeling Christmas morning that it’s about to be over. It’s almost like I can’t even enjoy the actual day because I’m spending so much time thinking about and dreading the fact that it’s coming to an end.
I do enjoy the day, of course. I love watching my kids experience the joy and the magic of Christmas. This was my first year to have Christmas without my parents present. They went to be with my sister’s family this year. Mike was worried that I’d be weepy about it. I was fine, actually, although I did miss having them over. But this year, the focus was solely on our little family of four. We did have Mike’s parents over for Christmas dinner – which was almost a disaster since Christmas “dinner” is really a late lunch but they understood they’d be joining us at dinnertime which threw all of my pre-ordained traditions into a temporary but ultimately resolvable tailspin. But, for most of the day it was just the four of us.
I was a little worried leading up to the big day because last year’s Christmas was so memorable due to the 8 inches of snow we had. It was my first white Christmas and theirs, but they now associated Christmas with snowman-building. I kept telling them that it was not likely to snow this year, but they just wouldn’t hear of it. In their minds’ limited retention, it snowed every Christmas and they were going to be disappointed if everything wasn’t covered in snow when they awoke. And I must say that the snow made it kind of an extra-special Christmas for me last year. It’s just so rare that we get that much snow all season – let alone in one day. And on Christmas! No wonder there are songs about people dreaming of a white Christmas. It was a magical dream come true.
But I digress. On Christmas Eve, we got the house ready for Santa’s arrival and put the kids to bed. They were worried that they wouldn’t be able to sleep for all of the excitement and that Santa wouldn’t come since “he knows when you’re awake”. About 10 seconds after assuring them that they would, in fact, sleep, they passed out. Mike and I poured a glass of wine and sat out on the porch in front of the fire listening (Mike, begrudgingly) to Christmas music. He’s such a good sport to put up with the forced compliance my Christmas requires.
On Christmas morning, I experienced what my father has relayed to me about our childhood Christmases. Mike and I were awake, waiting for the girls to come bounding down the stairs to “wake us up” and get us all opening stockings. It doesn’t seem right that the parents would be awake first – you’d think the kids would burst into the room at 5 a.m., but for us, as it was for my parents, it’s a waiting game to see when they’ll wake up. My first tinge that “this is almost over” came when I finally heard them rustling upstairs. Once the day was in motion, it couldn’t be stopped from progressing. It was at this moment that I realized that it wasn’t really Christmas that I love, but the build-up to it. The entire experience of it. People you don’t know wishing you a Merry Christmas. People generally in a happier mood (unless in traffic or a mall). The anticipation of what’s to come. The parties. And, oh my – the food!
But they began stirring and came running downstairs and saw the gifts Santa had left. We began opening our stockings, ate a nice breakfast and then started in on the rest of the gifts. I decided to relax my mandatory Christmas routine slightly and not go through my normal showering-before-opening-gifts routine. We actually were allowed to open gifts in our jammies. I didn’t even wear a bra. A Christmas miracle!
The first gifts opened were the ones the girls had made for each other. Kate had made Meg a crown out of pipe cleaners. Meg had colored a picture for Kate from her Charlie Brown Christmas coloring book and had put smiley face stickers on it. They were both excited about the gifts they were giving – which is a very important lesson for a kid to learn. It warms my heart that they not only wanted to make each other a gift, but that they were so excited to give them that we had to start with those gifts in particular. What a special way to start the day.
The girls were also thrilled with the rest of their presents. They seemed to love and be excited about everything they got. Kate would unwrap something neatly and carefully at first. She would then discover what it was and say, “Yes, yes, yes! I LOVE THIS! THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!!” and would rip through the remaining paper. Meg would say, “OOOOH, I wanted this!! Ohmygosh!!” Both of them were so happy and had so much fun. After everything had been opened, the real opening began – removing the layers and layers of impenetrable plastic wrap encasing Barbies and Disney characters as though they held matters of national security. We also had to play every game and remove each and every teeny tiny piece that came with each play set. One Strawberry Shortcake grocery play set alone came with 28 tiny food items, all of which I have stepped on in the four days that have passed since Christmas. The Barbie nurse they got came with a damn doctor’s bag, stethoscope, clipboard, and all kinds of crap my kids will most certainly lose if they haven’t already. Don’t the makers of these toys know who will be receiving them? Does any kid keep up with all of these accessories in a nice, neat compartment that never get in their parents' way??!
But anyway, with each year that passes, my girls seem to experience more and more of the joy and wonder of Christmas. This year, they enjoyed giving. They, of course, enjoyed receiving. They loved the music and the playing. We had a blast together even though we really didn’t do all that much. We had fun just hanging out as a family and watching movies together and popping popcorn. We all had a lovely time during the holidays and on Christmas day. I can’t wait – although it will be a long one – until we can do it all again next year.
And you know what? None of us even noticed that it didn’t snow.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
The Nutcracker
Forgot to post this before Christmas.
Well, it's been a while since I've posted, but it's because of all of the nutcracking that's been going on in my life. First, I took the girls - along with their grandmother (Nonny), Aunt Anh and cousin Ella - to the Chattanooga Ballet's rendition of the Nutcracker. I don't know much about the story of the nutcracker because my parents apparently were communists and never took me to see it as a child. (I was also never taken to Disneyworld, so they're either communists or aliens.) So, I was excited that this year the girls were old enough and well behaved enough to go. Except they weren't. But I'll get to that in a minute.
The girls have been taking dance at their school on Monday afternoons and both have been learning dances for the school’s production of the Nutcracker. So, they both get so excited every time one of the songs comes on my iPod (since I've been listening to nothing but Christmas music since the day after Thanksgiving). So I thought that they would be interested enough, based on their new found love of the music, to sit through the show.
The first problem (and there were several) was that the show didn't start until 8:00 p.m. That's a problem for a couple of reasons. First - my kids go to bed at 8:30 Second, I got to bed at 9:00! How were we going to survive this? We grabbed a rushed dinner at Lupi's Pizza just down the street from the theatre. I was in charge of ordering and due to my deplorable math skills, I miscalculated how much pizza would be needed. I ended up only having two pieces and I was not happy. I normally eat 4-5 pieces because I am a gluttonous beast. As is their usual ritual, the girls shook enough Parmesan cheese on theirs that their slice was completely eclipsed. They had cheese everywhere. All over their the table. All over their clothes. In their hair. In their shoes. Stuck to their tights. Everywhere.
After we scarfed down our pizza, we headed in the frigid air, a few blocks away to the show. I was pleasantly surprised to see how close to the stage our seats were. We were in the orchestra left section which means our party of six had a row all to ourselves. It was great - except that we were so close and so "left" that the last two people in the row had a hard time seeing the entire stage. The hefty, tattooed girl in what appeared to be a 1980's prom dress who sat directly in front of Meg's seat, also was a problem. Meg was very particular about where she sat. She was fine in the two left seats, but anything past that she said, loudly, "smelled like throw-up". I leaned over to smell it to see why she would say that and I couldn't smell anything. The only thing I could smell was the Parmesan cheese that was still all over her. And honestly, it smelled a little like throw up. Could it be that she was offended by her own smell? If so, why couldn't she smell regardless of where she sat? Anyway, she and I were bound to the two seats on the far left due to my fear she's make a scene.
The second problem was that I had misjudged Meg's interest in seeing this ballet. She kept pointing at the hefty, tattooed girl in front of us saying, loudly, "she's in my way". She also continued to comment (loudly) on how everything seemed to smell like throw up - even though she was the only one who was smelling it. She had one nostril that was stopped up which is admittedly very annoying and uncomfortable thing when it happens. However, she KEPT sniffing and blowing and sniffing and blowing and finally sniffing and crying and made it clear to me that I was going to have to make an early exit with her. I wondered why she was trying so hard to breathe when she could only smell throw up, but it didn’t matter. She was determined to get her nostril clear. We had only been there about 15 minutes and I was very worried that her behavior was bothering the people around us. As you are already aware, I always end up sitting next to people who make me question why I ever go out in crowds and I certainly did not want to force this on the people around us.
The third problem, which helped me with the second problem, is that the first act just wasn't that good. The way the story was depicted early on didn't make much sense. The dancing was just "okay". The first part of the story doesn't showcase the best music of the show - the memorable pieces like "March" and "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy". It just wasn't that impressive. So, when the intermission came, I decided to scoop up my crying, sniffing, throw-up-smelling daughter and carry her out into the lobby to get her away from the people around us. Once we were out there, she became the most pleasant, sweetest kid I could ask for. I knew we wouldn't go back into the auditorium (which was actually fine with me given that I hadn't been bowled over by the show so far).
So, the second half started up started up and Meg and I played in the lobby. We bought a nutcracker ornament being sold by the vendors in the lobby. We cuddled together on a bench. She performed her dances for me and other onlookers when the music she recognized began streaming in from the auditorium. We actually had some good Mama and Meg time. Kate, meanwhile, was beginning to hit her own wall. I had left her in the very capable hands and lap of Nonny. But as I've mentioned the show started at 8:00. She is used to going to bed at 8:30. And she is my sleeper. Until maybe 6 months ago, she was still taking 2-3 hour naps. She's the kid who tells the babysitter, "I'm ready to go to bed". Every time a new song would start up Nonny reported to me later (since, as you recall, I was in the lobby), Kate would gasp and whine and groan a very disappointed, “Nooooooooo!”; almost like what I picture a deer does once it has been seized by a hunter's bullet. Not only is she my sleeper, but she's also my kid most likely to behave in most situations, so that's as bad as her behavior got. Just the constant moans of child being forced against her will to sit through the ballet at this late hour. But, lesson learned. They weren't ready for a ballet. Certainly not one that started at 8:00. From what I could tell from the crowd's reaction, the second half was WAY better than the first. But alas, I couldn't watch it. But maybe there was still hope. The girls had their Nutcracker recital at school coming up, so I was finally going to get to see it in its entirety.
Two nights after the Chattanooga Ballet Nutcracker debacle,I finally got the last of the Parmesan cheese out of their hair the girls had their Nutcracker performance at school. From the looks of Meg's costume, I could deduce that she was supposed to be a Sugar Plum Fairy. From the looks of Kate's costume, I could only assume she was some kind of Hoochie Mama. It looked nothing like anything resembling Christmas or nutcrackers or even childhood. It was this black almost flapper-looking, form-fitting, spaghetti-strap something-or-other. And she wasn't happy about it. Meg had wings and pastel colors so there was a lot of jealousy on Kate's part. She was mad because Meg’s costume made her look beautiful (her word) and hers made her look like a tramp (my word).
Still, I pulled their hair into a bun – a welcome change for Kate who is in the early stages of the dreaded growing-out-the-bangs phase, gave them each a tiny bit of make-up for the stage, and off we went to what I was sure would be a better experience than the evening ballet. A better experience? Yes. A better production of the Nutcracker? Um, no. It was about as dog-and-pony as anything I’ve seen. Not that should I have expected anything different. It’s not like they take dance at a studio – it’s just an after-school class taught by one of the school teachers. But I guess I thought it would be more polished and coordinated. Or just polished and coordinated at all.
That’s overly harsh. It was fine. The girls did a good job. They were precious, actually. The quality of the sound system left a lot to be desired. A lot. It probably would’ve been better and clearer if I had just stood up and hummed the music. Also, most of the kids performed as though this was the first time they had actually seen the dance they were doing. But, it was cute. It was fun. Watching kids perform amid organized chaos always is. In this particular performance, I’m not sure there was an actual storyline. There was a giant cardboard nutcracker as part of the scenery and one girl danced with a doll in a way similar to what I had seen at the Chattanooga Ballet. But past that, I have no idea what on earth was going on. Just a bunch of fairies and hoochies flailing about.
During Meg’s dance number, I heard this kind of ferocious splash and then saw a group of people scatter. An attendee, not a performer thankfully, had just thrown up in the audience. Those school workers, probably very seasoned in just such a circumstance, sprang into action. I’ll bet half the audience didn’t even know it happened. They had it cleaned up and covered in that nasty looking kitty litter stuff in no time. I share that because that was probably the most exciting part of the show. But, the girls did their dances, tried their best, and paid attention to the teacher at all times. They were proud of themselves which makes me happy, and they really enjoyed the flowers their daddy brought to give them after their performance. It was very sweet.
So, I have been busy lately with all of the trips to see the Nutcracker and I technically still haven't seen the Nutcracker. Not in it's entirety anyway. Well, there’s always next year’s festivities. Hope you and your family enjoy the Christmas holidays!
Well, it's been a while since I've posted, but it's because of all of the nutcracking that's been going on in my life. First, I took the girls - along with their grandmother (Nonny), Aunt Anh and cousin Ella - to the Chattanooga Ballet's rendition of the Nutcracker. I don't know much about the story of the nutcracker because my parents apparently were communists and never took me to see it as a child. (I was also never taken to Disneyworld, so they're either communists or aliens.) So, I was excited that this year the girls were old enough and well behaved enough to go. Except they weren't. But I'll get to that in a minute.
The girls have been taking dance at their school on Monday afternoons and both have been learning dances for the school’s production of the Nutcracker. So, they both get so excited every time one of the songs comes on my iPod (since I've been listening to nothing but Christmas music since the day after Thanksgiving). So I thought that they would be interested enough, based on their new found love of the music, to sit through the show.
The first problem (and there were several) was that the show didn't start until 8:00 p.m. That's a problem for a couple of reasons. First - my kids go to bed at 8:30 Second, I got to bed at 9:00! How were we going to survive this? We grabbed a rushed dinner at Lupi's Pizza just down the street from the theatre. I was in charge of ordering and due to my deplorable math skills, I miscalculated how much pizza would be needed. I ended up only having two pieces and I was not happy. I normally eat 4-5 pieces because I am a gluttonous beast. As is their usual ritual, the girls shook enough Parmesan cheese on theirs that their slice was completely eclipsed. They had cheese everywhere. All over their the table. All over their clothes. In their hair. In their shoes. Stuck to their tights. Everywhere.
After we scarfed down our pizza, we headed in the frigid air, a few blocks away to the show. I was pleasantly surprised to see how close to the stage our seats were. We were in the orchestra left section which means our party of six had a row all to ourselves. It was great - except that we were so close and so "left" that the last two people in the row had a hard time seeing the entire stage. The hefty, tattooed girl in what appeared to be a 1980's prom dress who sat directly in front of Meg's seat, also was a problem. Meg was very particular about where she sat. She was fine in the two left seats, but anything past that she said, loudly, "smelled like throw-up". I leaned over to smell it to see why she would say that and I couldn't smell anything. The only thing I could smell was the Parmesan cheese that was still all over her. And honestly, it smelled a little like throw up. Could it be that she was offended by her own smell? If so, why couldn't she smell regardless of where she sat? Anyway, she and I were bound to the two seats on the far left due to my fear she's make a scene.
The second problem was that I had misjudged Meg's interest in seeing this ballet. She kept pointing at the hefty, tattooed girl in front of us saying, loudly, "she's in my way". She also continued to comment (loudly) on how everything seemed to smell like throw up - even though she was the only one who was smelling it. She had one nostril that was stopped up which is admittedly very annoying and uncomfortable thing when it happens. However, she KEPT sniffing and blowing and sniffing and blowing and finally sniffing and crying and made it clear to me that I was going to have to make an early exit with her. I wondered why she was trying so hard to breathe when she could only smell throw up, but it didn’t matter. She was determined to get her nostril clear. We had only been there about 15 minutes and I was very worried that her behavior was bothering the people around us. As you are already aware, I always end up sitting next to people who make me question why I ever go out in crowds and I certainly did not want to force this on the people around us.
The third problem, which helped me with the second problem, is that the first act just wasn't that good. The way the story was depicted early on didn't make much sense. The dancing was just "okay". The first part of the story doesn't showcase the best music of the show - the memorable pieces like "March" and "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy". It just wasn't that impressive. So, when the intermission came, I decided to scoop up my crying, sniffing, throw-up-smelling daughter and carry her out into the lobby to get her away from the people around us. Once we were out there, she became the most pleasant, sweetest kid I could ask for. I knew we wouldn't go back into the auditorium (which was actually fine with me given that I hadn't been bowled over by the show so far).
So, the second half started up started up and Meg and I played in the lobby. We bought a nutcracker ornament being sold by the vendors in the lobby. We cuddled together on a bench. She performed her dances for me and other onlookers when the music she recognized began streaming in from the auditorium. We actually had some good Mama and Meg time. Kate, meanwhile, was beginning to hit her own wall. I had left her in the very capable hands and lap of Nonny. But as I've mentioned the show started at 8:00. She is used to going to bed at 8:30. And she is my sleeper. Until maybe 6 months ago, she was still taking 2-3 hour naps. She's the kid who tells the babysitter, "I'm ready to go to bed". Every time a new song would start up Nonny reported to me later (since, as you recall, I was in the lobby), Kate would gasp and whine and groan a very disappointed, “Nooooooooo!”; almost like what I picture a deer does once it has been seized by a hunter's bullet. Not only is she my sleeper, but she's also my kid most likely to behave in most situations, so that's as bad as her behavior got. Just the constant moans of child being forced against her will to sit through the ballet at this late hour. But, lesson learned. They weren't ready for a ballet. Certainly not one that started at 8:00. From what I could tell from the crowd's reaction, the second half was WAY better than the first. But alas, I couldn't watch it. But maybe there was still hope. The girls had their Nutcracker recital at school coming up, so I was finally going to get to see it in its entirety.
Two nights after the Chattanooga Ballet Nutcracker debacle,
Still, I pulled their hair into a bun – a welcome change for Kate who is in the early stages of the dreaded growing-out-the-bangs phase, gave them each a tiny bit of make-up for the stage, and off we went to what I was sure would be a better experience than the evening ballet. A better experience? Yes. A better production of the Nutcracker? Um, no. It was about as dog-and-pony as anything I’ve seen. Not that should I have expected anything different. It’s not like they take dance at a studio – it’s just an after-school class taught by one of the school teachers. But I guess I thought it would be more polished and coordinated. Or just polished and coordinated at all.
That’s overly harsh. It was fine. The girls did a good job. They were precious, actually. The quality of the sound system left a lot to be desired. A lot. It probably would’ve been better and clearer if I had just stood up and hummed the music. Also, most of the kids performed as though this was the first time they had actually seen the dance they were doing. But, it was cute. It was fun. Watching kids perform amid organized chaos always is. In this particular performance, I’m not sure there was an actual storyline. There was a giant cardboard nutcracker as part of the scenery and one girl danced with a doll in a way similar to what I had seen at the Chattanooga Ballet. But past that, I have no idea what on earth was going on. Just a bunch of fairies and hoochies flailing about.
During Meg’s dance number, I heard this kind of ferocious splash and then saw a group of people scatter. An attendee, not a performer thankfully, had just thrown up in the audience. Those school workers, probably very seasoned in just such a circumstance, sprang into action. I’ll bet half the audience didn’t even know it happened. They had it cleaned up and covered in that nasty looking kitty litter stuff in no time. I share that because that was probably the most exciting part of the show. But, the girls did their dances, tried their best, and paid attention to the teacher at all times. They were proud of themselves which makes me happy, and they really enjoyed the flowers their daddy brought to give them after their performance. It was very sweet.
So, I have been busy lately with all of the trips to see the Nutcracker and I technically still haven't seen the Nutcracker. Not in it's entirety anyway. Well, there’s always next year’s festivities. Hope you and your family enjoy the Christmas holidays!
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
T.M.I.
The other night I met a guy named Jason. We spent about 2 hours together and I was able to extract a lot of information from him. For example, he works at TVA. In management he said, but I have my doubts. He has four kids: two boys, two girls. His girls’ names are Tori and Ni-vay-yuh (not sure how it’s actually spelled, but that’s how you pronounce it). They are six and two respectively. He loves being a father. Greatest thing in the world, he says. He’s actually a single father. His wife died two years ago. He didn’t go into how she passed away which leads me to believe it was likely not true. More likely it was a way to get some sympathy and maybe some company for later in the evening. He thinks the USA is the greatest country in the world. He has some unambiguous feelings about the leadership in the city of Knoxville. He likes to follow every sentence up with, “Know wut I mean?”, just to drive his point home. He’s a real charmer, this Jason.
I met ol’ Jason at a John Mellencamp concert. Now that you know that, please ask yourself why I know so much about his life. I was there to listen to music. Not make a new friend. I was there to spend time with the friend who invited me. Not to engage in anything more than the occasional “excuse me” if we were to accidentally bump into each other while dancing to Crumblin’ Down. I was there to maybe exchange pleasantries with the people around me. Not to have to be accosted by a 300 pound redneck whose ample body exuded the stench of years’ worth of chain smoking. Every time he opened his mouth, I inched closer to a lung cancer diagnosis.
Not only did he continue to talk about his personal life in a room that was, at it’s quietest, 150 decibels, but he would also occasionally give me his profound take on Mr. Mellencamp’s singing abilities after all these years. No fewer than seven times did he turn to me and tell me that for a guy in his 50’s (he’s not, by the way – he’s 60) he still “had it”. “I hope I’m still about to do that when I’m his age”, he would say. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that because of his current stature, he couldn’t even do it at 28, which he also shared with me at some point during the show. “That’s cool”, he kept saying at various times for God knows what reason. He’d literally just turn to me at various times and offer the obligatory, “That’s cool”. Only it was really more of a “coo-wuhl”, coming from him. Enchanting.
When we had our little conversation about his age, he of course had to ask me mine. I told him I was older than he was. That didn’t satisfy him. He guessed 26. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I do know that 28 is GREATER THAN 26.
Me: “No, older than 26.”
Ol’ Jason: “No way”. (He is actually charming the pants on me at this point.)
Me: “A lot older, actually.”
Ol’ Jason: “34?”
Me: I’m tired of this game. “38.”
Ol’ Jason: (nodding with seriousness and sincerity like he really wants me to feel what he’s saying) “Man, you look awwwwesome.”
Me: A half-hearted appreciative smile, and then a quick turn to my friend to end this conversation.
I am so seldom flirted with that I feel like I probably would have trouble recognizing it if and when it were to happen. But, this was not flirtation. It was something more pathetic. I don’t know if he was hoping to get into the pants of an equally desperate lady or just what. What would he have done if I had really been into him? No, I just happened to be the unfortunate soul whose ticket placed her next to him for the duration of the show. I resented that he was encroaching on my time to enjoy the show and the friend I was there with. But I knew. I knew as soon as I saw him bounding down the aisle that he was headed straight to me. It happens every time I go to a concert or sporting event. Without fail, the loser sits next to, in front of, or behind me.
Of course, public events and venues like that are really just loser conventions anyway, aren’t they? So, it stands to reason that losers would be all around me. It’s just amazing to me that these people don’t understand common etiquette in these situations. Haven’t they ever been seated next to someone who drove them crazy? Don’t they know how it feels? Why do they inflict this on the rest of us?
Every time Mike and I go to a concert, about 20 minutes into it we find ourselves asking why we chose to do it in the first place. We once saw Lyle Lovett at the Alabama Theatre in Birmingham. A nice venue. A good, low-key act. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters, the couple in the seats in front of us were making out (complete with tongues and smacking) for most of the show. Really? Lyle Lovett inspires this? Every time they would get going, Mike and I would look at each other in utter bewilderment as to why it was happening. We heard the people behind us laugh a few times so we assumed they were in agreement with us that this was unreasonable behavior. It was only later we realized that they were making out, too. Who finds this to be acceptable public behavior? And why at a Lyle Lovett concert?! I thought his fans were older and lame like Mike and I are. Nope. They are, apparently, horny rednecks.
So, back to ol’ Jason. My friend, Wendy, feeling sorry for my situation, kept trying in vain to peel me away from his boorish conversation. She’d lean over to me when his body language would indicate that he was about to approach me with another one of his profound musings, and begin to talk to me about nothing in particular so he’d take that social clue to mean that I was unavailable for conversation. But ol’ Jason is persistent. He doesn’t let something like that derail his attempts at a budding friendship. He would simply and politely wait for me to finish talking/nodding/laughing with Wendy to dazzle me with more of his reflections on fatherhood.
After the show, Wendy told me what a nice person I was to continue to talk with him. You can actually see from this post that I am, in fact, not a nice person at all. I was nice to him and I did participate in conversations with him. What if he was telling the truth about his wife? Then maybe he was just a lonely guy who needed some companionship. I couldn’t be rude to him. But he was rude to me. I paid money (really I didn’t – the ticket was a gift) to see that show and be entertained by John Mellencamp. I was there for that reason and that reason only. Ol’ Jason prevented me from getting the full enjoyment out of the show. It’s people like ol’ Jason who will keep me at home the next time an act I’m interested in comes to town. It’s just not worth it to have to suffer through the shenanigans of obnoxious fat guys and maker-outers.
Know wut I mean?
I met ol’ Jason at a John Mellencamp concert. Now that you know that, please ask yourself why I know so much about his life. I was there to listen to music. Not make a new friend. I was there to spend time with the friend who invited me. Not to engage in anything more than the occasional “excuse me” if we were to accidentally bump into each other while dancing to Crumblin’ Down. I was there to maybe exchange pleasantries with the people around me. Not to have to be accosted by a 300 pound redneck whose ample body exuded the stench of years’ worth of chain smoking. Every time he opened his mouth, I inched closer to a lung cancer diagnosis.
Not only did he continue to talk about his personal life in a room that was, at it’s quietest, 150 decibels, but he would also occasionally give me his profound take on Mr. Mellencamp’s singing abilities after all these years. No fewer than seven times did he turn to me and tell me that for a guy in his 50’s (he’s not, by the way – he’s 60) he still “had it”. “I hope I’m still about to do that when I’m his age”, he would say. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that because of his current stature, he couldn’t even do it at 28, which he also shared with me at some point during the show. “That’s cool”, he kept saying at various times for God knows what reason. He’d literally just turn to me at various times and offer the obligatory, “That’s cool”. Only it was really more of a “coo-wuhl”, coming from him. Enchanting.
When we had our little conversation about his age, he of course had to ask me mine. I told him I was older than he was. That didn’t satisfy him. He guessed 26. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I do know that 28 is GREATER THAN 26.
Me: “No, older than 26.”
Ol’ Jason: “No way”. (He is actually charming the pants on me at this point.)
Me: “A lot older, actually.”
Ol’ Jason: “34?”
Me: I’m tired of this game. “38.”
Ol’ Jason: (nodding with seriousness and sincerity like he really wants me to feel what he’s saying) “Man, you look awwwwesome.”
Me: A half-hearted appreciative smile, and then a quick turn to my friend to end this conversation.
I am so seldom flirted with that I feel like I probably would have trouble recognizing it if and when it were to happen. But, this was not flirtation. It was something more pathetic. I don’t know if he was hoping to get into the pants of an equally desperate lady or just what. What would he have done if I had really been into him? No, I just happened to be the unfortunate soul whose ticket placed her next to him for the duration of the show. I resented that he was encroaching on my time to enjoy the show and the friend I was there with. But I knew. I knew as soon as I saw him bounding down the aisle that he was headed straight to me. It happens every time I go to a concert or sporting event. Without fail, the loser sits next to, in front of, or behind me.
Of course, public events and venues like that are really just loser conventions anyway, aren’t they? So, it stands to reason that losers would be all around me. It’s just amazing to me that these people don’t understand common etiquette in these situations. Haven’t they ever been seated next to someone who drove them crazy? Don’t they know how it feels? Why do they inflict this on the rest of us?
Every time Mike and I go to a concert, about 20 minutes into it we find ourselves asking why we chose to do it in the first place. We once saw Lyle Lovett at the Alabama Theatre in Birmingham. A nice venue. A good, low-key act. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters, the couple in the seats in front of us were making out (complete with tongues and smacking) for most of the show. Really? Lyle Lovett inspires this? Every time they would get going, Mike and I would look at each other in utter bewilderment as to why it was happening. We heard the people behind us laugh a few times so we assumed they were in agreement with us that this was unreasonable behavior. It was only later we realized that they were making out, too. Who finds this to be acceptable public behavior? And why at a Lyle Lovett concert?! I thought his fans were older and lame like Mike and I are. Nope. They are, apparently, horny rednecks.
So, back to ol’ Jason. My friend, Wendy, feeling sorry for my situation, kept trying in vain to peel me away from his boorish conversation. She’d lean over to me when his body language would indicate that he was about to approach me with another one of his profound musings, and begin to talk to me about nothing in particular so he’d take that social clue to mean that I was unavailable for conversation. But ol’ Jason is persistent. He doesn’t let something like that derail his attempts at a budding friendship. He would simply and politely wait for me to finish talking/nodding/laughing with Wendy to dazzle me with more of his reflections on fatherhood.
After the show, Wendy told me what a nice person I was to continue to talk with him. You can actually see from this post that I am, in fact, not a nice person at all. I was nice to him and I did participate in conversations with him. What if he was telling the truth about his wife? Then maybe he was just a lonely guy who needed some companionship. I couldn’t be rude to him. But he was rude to me. I paid money (really I didn’t – the ticket was a gift) to see that show and be entertained by John Mellencamp. I was there for that reason and that reason only. Ol’ Jason prevented me from getting the full enjoyment out of the show. It’s people like ol’ Jason who will keep me at home the next time an act I’m interested in comes to town. It’s just not worth it to have to suffer through the shenanigans of obnoxious fat guys and maker-outers.
Know wut I mean?
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Girls Gone Wild
Q: What do you get when you cross six former college roommates/sorority sisters with a weekend of drinking and debauchery in Charleston?
A: Conversations about va-jazzling, copious usage of the "f" word, too many inside jokes to name, good food, good drink, and lots and lots of laughing.
Let's rewind:
(I won't go into too much detail in order to protect the innocent. And anyway, trying to recreate it wouldn't do it justice anyway, so I'll just hit the high notes.)
For the past five years, four of my college girlfriends and I have been getting together each summer at one of our houses to catch up and let the kids spend time together. I must confess, when the idea of starting to do this first came up, I was skeptical. It was all sounding great - we'd meet in Charlotte; all stay at one person's house, go out to eat, have some wine - what's not to like? Then someone mentioned something about needing to get a babysitter for one of the nights. A babysitter? You mean we're bringing our kids? This just got a lot less fun...
But it was fun. And I was so glad I went. We've been doing it every year since then and it is so neat to watch the kids get excited to all see each other again. My kids are among the youngest participants, so when I mention that we're doing it again, I am met with the "Who's Miss Paige?" question each time. Funny that this time, they knew exactly who she and everyone else was (we went sans kiddos this time and they were not pleased at our decision to leave them out of the whole affair). So, last year, as we were deciding where we would meet for summer 2011, someone had the INGENIOUS idea to have just a girls-only trip. No kids. (Insert organ music, the clouds parting and a brilliant, white light shining down from the heavens here.) We got our calendars together and picked the first weekend in November - the first time that all of our over-scheduled lives permitted us to all be in the same place at the same time. As the date drew closer, I was almost giddy. I look forward to this event - these girls - every year. And to be able to visit with them without the running and jumping and constant requests for Cheez-its and juice boxes and all of the crying and screaming and whining and noise and fights and uproarious laughter and yelling and breaking and someone-grab-the-bandaids-ing (of course, most of these things come from Amy) was a long time coming.
So every year, Amy, Elizabeth, Paige, Nicole and Maggie have loaded up the kids and traveled somewhere for a few days of reminiscing and creating new memories. Each year, the group begs Sarah to come along. Sarah is smart enough to make the declaration that if the kids are in, she's out, so we have never been successful in our pleading...until this year! The six of us gathered in Charleston thanks to the wonderful planning of Nicole and Elizabeth. I need them to plan every trip I go on from now on. I didn't have to think of anything. I wonder if they've already thought to write themselves a thank-you note from me. Sure hope so.
We had a nice condo at Isle of Palms, plenty of rooms and, more importantly, bathrooms. We didn't spend too much time there because it seemed we were always on the lookout for our next meal. Most meals had been taken care of with reservations, but of course the older you get, the more your entire day revolves around your next feeding. Charleston was awesome - plenty of terrific food and drinks, tons of shopping. Of course, we saw nothing of "historic" Charleston. We'll have to catch that on the next trip. When someone needs to find a fun pair of boots, we just can't be bothered to slog on over to some stupid museum or cultural place of interest. Whatevs.
As we were first catching up, we began to notice that there was a lot of depressing conversation - friends we knew who had cancer, people who had divorced, problems with peoples' kids that we knew. Very somber stuff. Someone questioned why all of our topics were turning into sad stories and I remarked that this is kind of our Big Chill. For those of you who haven't seen that movie, it is about a group of college friends who gather together several years after they graduated and went their separate ways. They are late 30's early 40's (sound familiar?) and none of their lives have turned out as they had planned or hoped they would.
Now, I will say that the stories we discussed were not about ourselves. We actually talked about how we had a carload of pretty damn happy people. But, still, we were struck by the amount of sadness - Big Chilling - out there around us. Every time the conversation took a Big Chill turn, we'd try and interject some humor into it and from then on, the conversations were mostly hilarious and ridiculous and things I won't repeat here. An interesting side note: The morning after our first night there, Amy ran up to the bathroom and said to me through the door, "You have to come into the den right now". I walked out to the den and guess what movie was coming on tv? The Big Chill! Coincidence? Not sure. But I do know we all have better hair than those people did when that movie was made.
So, by now, you may be wondering why this post is titled "Girls Gone Wild" when really it seems as though all we did was eat, drink (lots), shop for boots, and watch The Big Chill. Well, it's a joke, We didn't go wild. We didn't need to. We all prefer hanging out with a drink and relating to interesting people (not sure how I landed in that mix, but grateful I did). I think the latest I stayed up was midnight. But we had a blast! We laughed more than I have for such a sustained period in a long time. We talked about the kinds of things that if I heard someone else talking about them, I'd think they were a trashy, vapid, horrible person. But, man, it was hilarious! And we did drink. A lot. We were hoping for the return of our college friend, Drunk Liz, but Elizabeth kept her faculties about her rather well despite the constant requests that she become "Drunk Liz". I will admit that I was "Slurring Maggie" on Friday night which led to "Headache Maggie" Saturday morning. But all, in all, we kept it classy. Really, the way we talked, we kept it more "Klassy" than "Classy", but who's keeping score? We had a brief period where we discussed the fact that Sarah was the first person I had ever heard use the "f" word (it was actually "M-F") where it sounded funny to me instead of dirty. It is because of her that this is my favorite curse word. Once Paige admitted that she hated this word, it pretty much gave the rest of us license to try and break a record for how many times it could be used in a weekend.
The only Girls Gone Wild moment for me actually occurred the morning after I returned home when I was dead sober. As I made my way to the bathroom to get my shower, I ran right into the enormous suitcase I had packed (for a three day trip) and was too lazy to unpack the night before, and broke my pinky toe. If any of the girls from the trip are reading this, please understand, it was my TOE. Not my finger. (inside joke)
Oh yeah, and the conversations about va-jazzling? None of us do that. But we talked - at length - about it. If you don't know what it is, congratulations! You have some class! But those of us who don't have class discussed that it is the practice of women bedazzling their hee-hoos. And by "discussed it", I mean that we spent hours upon hours laughing about it and asking rhetorical questions about why such a thing was necessary. What else do you talk about with people you've been friends with for almost twenty years? Seriously, I'm asking. We've GOT to have another topic of conversation next year. I did have a lot of fun trying to make up new words that begin with va-jazz. That just never gets old.
On Sunday, we all scattered and went back to our own little lives and routines. I miss Mike and the girls when I'm away (going wild) and was so happy to hug their necks. I was sad, though, when we all left, because I know it'll be another year before I see these beautiful, smart, fun and silly women again. Even longer until we see Sarah again (next year the kids are joining us). I am so thankful for their friendship and for the time we get to spend together. It was a va-jazz-tastic weekend!
A: Conversations about va-jazzling, copious usage of the "f" word, too many inside jokes to name, good food, good drink, and lots and lots of laughing.
Let's rewind:
(I won't go into too much detail in order to protect the innocent. And anyway, trying to recreate it wouldn't do it justice anyway, so I'll just hit the high notes.)
For the past five years, four of my college girlfriends and I have been getting together each summer at one of our houses to catch up and let the kids spend time together. I must confess, when the idea of starting to do this first came up, I was skeptical. It was all sounding great - we'd meet in Charlotte; all stay at one person's house, go out to eat, have some wine - what's not to like? Then someone mentioned something about needing to get a babysitter for one of the nights. A babysitter? You mean we're bringing our kids? This just got a lot less fun...
But it was fun. And I was so glad I went. We've been doing it every year since then and it is so neat to watch the kids get excited to all see each other again. My kids are among the youngest participants, so when I mention that we're doing it again, I am met with the "Who's Miss Paige?" question each time. Funny that this time, they knew exactly who she and everyone else was (we went sans kiddos this time and they were not pleased at our decision to leave them out of the whole affair). So, last year, as we were deciding where we would meet for summer 2011, someone had the INGENIOUS idea to have just a girls-only trip. No kids. (Insert organ music, the clouds parting and a brilliant, white light shining down from the heavens here.) We got our calendars together and picked the first weekend in November - the first time that all of our over-scheduled lives permitted us to all be in the same place at the same time. As the date drew closer, I was almost giddy. I look forward to this event - these girls - every year. And to be able to visit with them without the running and jumping and constant requests for Cheez-its and juice boxes and all of the crying and screaming and whining and noise and fights and uproarious laughter and yelling and breaking and someone-grab-the-bandaids-ing (of course, most of these things come from Amy) was a long time coming.
So every year, Amy, Elizabeth, Paige, Nicole and Maggie have loaded up the kids and traveled somewhere for a few days of reminiscing and creating new memories. Each year, the group begs Sarah to come along. Sarah is smart enough to make the declaration that if the kids are in, she's out, so we have never been successful in our pleading...until this year! The six of us gathered in Charleston thanks to the wonderful planning of Nicole and Elizabeth. I need them to plan every trip I go on from now on. I didn't have to think of anything. I wonder if they've already thought to write themselves a thank-you note from me. Sure hope so.
We had a nice condo at Isle of Palms, plenty of rooms and, more importantly, bathrooms. We didn't spend too much time there because it seemed we were always on the lookout for our next meal. Most meals had been taken care of with reservations, but of course the older you get, the more your entire day revolves around your next feeding. Charleston was awesome - plenty of terrific food and drinks, tons of shopping. Of course, we saw nothing of "historic" Charleston. We'll have to catch that on the next trip. When someone needs to find a fun pair of boots, we just can't be bothered to slog on over to some stupid museum or cultural place of interest. Whatevs.
As we were first catching up, we began to notice that there was a lot of depressing conversation - friends we knew who had cancer, people who had divorced, problems with peoples' kids that we knew. Very somber stuff. Someone questioned why all of our topics were turning into sad stories and I remarked that this is kind of our Big Chill. For those of you who haven't seen that movie, it is about a group of college friends who gather together several years after they graduated and went their separate ways. They are late 30's early 40's (sound familiar?) and none of their lives have turned out as they had planned or hoped they would.
Now, I will say that the stories we discussed were not about ourselves. We actually talked about how we had a carload of pretty damn happy people. But, still, we were struck by the amount of sadness - Big Chilling - out there around us. Every time the conversation took a Big Chill turn, we'd try and interject some humor into it and from then on, the conversations were mostly hilarious and ridiculous and things I won't repeat here. An interesting side note: The morning after our first night there, Amy ran up to the bathroom and said to me through the door, "You have to come into the den right now". I walked out to the den and guess what movie was coming on tv? The Big Chill! Coincidence? Not sure. But I do know we all have better hair than those people did when that movie was made.
So, by now, you may be wondering why this post is titled "Girls Gone Wild" when really it seems as though all we did was eat, drink (lots), shop for boots, and watch The Big Chill. Well, it's a joke, We didn't go wild. We didn't need to. We all prefer hanging out with a drink and relating to interesting people (not sure how I landed in that mix, but grateful I did). I think the latest I stayed up was midnight. But we had a blast! We laughed more than I have for such a sustained period in a long time. We talked about the kinds of things that if I heard someone else talking about them, I'd think they were a trashy, vapid, horrible person. But, man, it was hilarious! And we did drink. A lot. We were hoping for the return of our college friend, Drunk Liz, but Elizabeth kept her faculties about her rather well despite the constant requests that she become "Drunk Liz". I will admit that I was "Slurring Maggie" on Friday night which led to "Headache Maggie" Saturday morning. But all, in all, we kept it classy. Really, the way we talked, we kept it more "Klassy" than "Classy", but who's keeping score? We had a brief period where we discussed the fact that Sarah was the first person I had ever heard use the "f" word (it was actually "M-F") where it sounded funny to me instead of dirty. It is because of her that this is my favorite curse word. Once Paige admitted that she hated this word, it pretty much gave the rest of us license to try and break a record for how many times it could be used in a weekend.
The only Girls Gone Wild moment for me actually occurred the morning after I returned home when I was dead sober. As I made my way to the bathroom to get my shower, I ran right into the enormous suitcase I had packed (for a three day trip) and was too lazy to unpack the night before, and broke my pinky toe. If any of the girls from the trip are reading this, please understand, it was my TOE. Not my finger. (inside joke)
Oh yeah, and the conversations about va-jazzling? None of us do that. But we talked - at length - about it. If you don't know what it is, congratulations! You have some class! But those of us who don't have class discussed that it is the practice of women bedazzling their hee-hoos. And by "discussed it", I mean that we spent hours upon hours laughing about it and asking rhetorical questions about why such a thing was necessary. What else do you talk about with people you've been friends with for almost twenty years? Seriously, I'm asking. We've GOT to have another topic of conversation next year. I did have a lot of fun trying to make up new words that begin with va-jazz. That just never gets old.
On Sunday, we all scattered and went back to our own little lives and routines. I miss Mike and the girls when I'm away (going wild) and was so happy to hug their necks. I was sad, though, when we all left, because I know it'll be another year before I see these beautiful, smart, fun and silly women again. Even longer until we see Sarah again (next year the kids are joining us). I am so thankful for their friendship and for the time we get to spend together. It was a va-jazz-tastic weekend!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Steve Jobs, Lionel Richie And The Commodores
I got a text a couple of weeks ago on my iPhone telling me that Steve Jobs had passed away. What wasn’t surprising was that I got the text. My friend Amy and I always try to race to be the first one to tell the other some breaking celebrity news – usually a divorce (Ashton and Demi are keeping us busy these days) or a death. What was surprising was how sad I was to hear about it. Of course it wasn’t unexpected. A diagnosis of pancreatic cancer does not offer much hope. But to hear of his death – the death of an icon – was really sad to me.
Can you imagine inventing something that changes the way people live their lives? I can’t imagine first of all having that good of an idea. Not to mention having the energy to actually design it and share it with others. And surely no one would want my idiotic invention anyway. Let’s say just for laughs that I did have an idea and got off the couch long enough to make a prototype. What the hell would it be and who on earth would want it?
I did have an idea once that I thought should be looked into. I think loaves of bread should be smaller. I throw out a lot of bread. Not half as much as I did when I was single, but still it’s a lot. I could invent a half-loaf (patent pending). But technically bread has already been invented. So, maybe it’s not so much an invention as it is a good idea. Although maybe it’s not so much a good idea as it is a random thought. Personally, I think a half-loaf would be the greatest thing since… sliced bread. (I wish I had invented that.)
But back to Mr. Jobs. He revolutionized the way we communicate. That’s HUGE. Imagine the movie Jaws in today’s world. Chief Brody is chucking dead fish into the ocean hoping to lure the killer shark. The shark appears and Brody jumps back in fear, the hair raised on the back of his neck. He tells Quint that “they’re gonna need a bigger boat”. Quint is unconvinced (because he’s kid of crazy-obsessed with the shark). Matt Hooper appears and pulls out his cellphone, calmly calling for back-up. Back-up arrives and kills the shark. The credits roll. Sure, that’s not as good of an ending as getting to see Quint spit up blood when the shark bites him in half. But a cell phone would have totally changed the story.
Think of Star Wars. Luke Skywalker is wanting to know more about his nemesis, Darth Vader. So, he grabs his iPad and does a quick Google search that turns up all kinds of personal information (and a few questionable photos). Luke reads about his past learning more about what motivates Vader so he can use it to defeat him. He clicks on a link to Vader’s Facebook page. He sees a mobile upload of Darth with his own mother! What?!! It can’t be!! Darth Vader was with my mom? That must make him… my dad! They talk via Skype and then use Mapquest to find the best route to a good restaurant. Father and son bond over a wonder feast prepared by all of the creepy little creatures in Tatooine (Had to Google that. Had no idea where Luke Skywalker lived.) Again, totally different movie if it had been made today. And maybe we could have avoided having to suffer through JarJar Binks.
What was really interesting was learning of Steve Jobs’ death via a text to my iPhone. I remarked that I wondered how many people also were using his invention when they discovered he had died. President Obama also made a similar remark, but I said it first. I think it’s remarkable that we saw that kind of genius in our lifetime (Steve Jobs, not me, although I am very wise as evidenced by this blog). I believe his name will be alongside the Thomas Edisons and Albert Einsteins of our history. What a neat man and a wonderful contributor to our way of life and our culture.
Which brings me to Lionel Richie. I’ve never posted a picture on my blog because it could really become just a forum for me to show you how adorable my children are. That’s what I use Facebook for, so I want the blog to be different. So, instead I bore you with my profound musings about life and popular culture. But today I feel compelled to post a picture because it is so ridiculous and makes me laugh. No other reason. Well, one other reason – it made sense to do so in order to have a clever title for this post (as you will see when I get to the part about the Commodores). So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you this picture that was sent to me via email (again, thanks, Mr. Jobs).
Funny, huh? I have no idea who came up with this or why, or even why I find it so funny. Maybe it’s just the utter ridiculousness of it. Maybe it’s his hair. (I’m sure it’s his hair! Look at it!!!) Maybe it’s the fact that no one has pulled one of the stubs. Could be the turned up collar. But it’s most likely the fact that someone has just now come up with this. This would have been hilarious 25 years ago! Why now? Not sure, but I’m glad someone thought of it.
Which now brings us to the Commodores. Not Lionel Richie’s Commodores, the Vanderbilt Commodores. The three legged, blind, stupid puppy of the SEC. Mike and I took the girls to their first college football game a couple of weeks ago. It was the UGA/Vandy game. We chose that game because we thought it would be a good introduction to college football (although some would argue that that particular game could hardly qualify as “football” but… Mike is an alumnus of Vanderbilt (grad school), so we technically are fans, I guess. I mean really, how do you not root for the ‘Dores? I think I might even root for them if they were playing my undergrad team (Auburn – War Eagle! Woo Hoo!) because they just never can win a big game. At any rate, we figured it would be an easy trip to Nashville and an easy, not terribly crowded game. We sat in the Vandy section (hence the lack of a crowd) and had plenty of room to stretch out and take everything in.
The girls were excited about seeing the cheerleaders. A kind man whom I had approached to ask him where he had gotten his shakers, had given Kate and Meg each one of the two shakers in his possession. Not at all what I intended when I asked (and it kind of made me wish I had asked him where he had gotten his Tag Heuer watch) but it was very nice. So, they girls wildly shook their shakers during the game yelling, “Cheer! Cheer!”, which is what they think the cheerleaders say.
The other thing they were excited about, and I have to admit I was too, was the food. Whenever I go to a sporting event I eat as much junk food as I possibly can before my stomach explodes and other patrons are pelted with the popcorn kernels and pepperonis that I have digested. My kids are no different. For those of you who have seen my children, you know that they are very petite. Try and imagine them eating the following: a hotdog, two small pieces of pizza, popcorn, reese’s pieces, m&ms, a blue slushy thing, a lollipop, some water, and some peanuts. You can’t? WELL THEY DID!! They ate all of that. As did I, except I had a diet coke instead of the slushy thing and I didn’t eat “some” popcorn. I ate a veritable shitload. And, of course, I decided to stop at the little hotel mini-mart on the way back from the game and get a can (large) of sour cream and onion Pringles.
But at any rate, my kids became ravenous beasts. They rarely paid attention to the game itself. They were so engrossed in their food and our friends who we went with. They would periodically look for the cheerleaders or comment on the band, but that was pretty much it. At one point, I leaned over to Kate and tried to explain the game to her so she’d understand what she was supposed to be watching. I explained that we were supposed to cheer (cheer! cheer!) for the team dressed in black. When they did something good, we needed to clap or yell. So, on the next play, Kate saw me cheer (cheer! cheer!) for the ‘Dores and she yelled – and this is a word-for-word quote – “GO BLACK PEOPLE!!!” While I appreciated that she is embracing diversity, this was not exactly the best way to support her team. I asked her to change it to a simple, “Go Dores!” and that was the end of her embarrassing cheer.
The weather was perfect. Our hotel was right next to the field. We spent some good time with some great friends. It was a very nice weekend. It makes me happy that our family enjoys spending time together. And even though I was miserably full of food and fearing I’d have a heart attack and die in the middle of the night, it was a great memory.
So, that’s been my last couple of weeks. Steve Jobs, Lionel Richie and the Commodores. Now I need to wrap up this post so I can grab my iPhone and text my friend Amy. It appears that Lindsay Lohan may pose for Playboy and Kim Kardashian may be headed for divorce…
Can you imagine inventing something that changes the way people live their lives? I can’t imagine first of all having that good of an idea. Not to mention having the energy to actually design it and share it with others. And surely no one would want my idiotic invention anyway. Let’s say just for laughs that I did have an idea and got off the couch long enough to make a prototype. What the hell would it be and who on earth would want it?
I did have an idea once that I thought should be looked into. I think loaves of bread should be smaller. I throw out a lot of bread. Not half as much as I did when I was single, but still it’s a lot. I could invent a half-loaf (patent pending). But technically bread has already been invented. So, maybe it’s not so much an invention as it is a good idea. Although maybe it’s not so much a good idea as it is a random thought. Personally, I think a half-loaf would be the greatest thing since… sliced bread. (I wish I had invented that.)
But back to Mr. Jobs. He revolutionized the way we communicate. That’s HUGE. Imagine the movie Jaws in today’s world. Chief Brody is chucking dead fish into the ocean hoping to lure the killer shark. The shark appears and Brody jumps back in fear, the hair raised on the back of his neck. He tells Quint that “they’re gonna need a bigger boat”. Quint is unconvinced (because he’s kid of crazy-obsessed with the shark). Matt Hooper appears and pulls out his cellphone, calmly calling for back-up. Back-up arrives and kills the shark. The credits roll. Sure, that’s not as good of an ending as getting to see Quint spit up blood when the shark bites him in half. But a cell phone would have totally changed the story.
Think of Star Wars. Luke Skywalker is wanting to know more about his nemesis, Darth Vader. So, he grabs his iPad and does a quick Google search that turns up all kinds of personal information (and a few questionable photos). Luke reads about his past learning more about what motivates Vader so he can use it to defeat him. He clicks on a link to Vader’s Facebook page. He sees a mobile upload of Darth with his own mother! What?!! It can’t be!! Darth Vader was with my mom? That must make him… my dad! They talk via Skype and then use Mapquest to find the best route to a good restaurant. Father and son bond over a wonder feast prepared by all of the creepy little creatures in Tatooine (Had to Google that. Had no idea where Luke Skywalker lived.) Again, totally different movie if it had been made today. And maybe we could have avoided having to suffer through JarJar Binks.
What was really interesting was learning of Steve Jobs’ death via a text to my iPhone. I remarked that I wondered how many people also were using his invention when they discovered he had died. President Obama also made a similar remark, but I said it first. I think it’s remarkable that we saw that kind of genius in our lifetime (Steve Jobs, not me, although I am very wise as evidenced by this blog). I believe his name will be alongside the Thomas Edisons and Albert Einsteins of our history. What a neat man and a wonderful contributor to our way of life and our culture.
Which brings me to Lionel Richie. I’ve never posted a picture on my blog because it could really become just a forum for me to show you how adorable my children are. That’s what I use Facebook for, so I want the blog to be different. So, instead I bore you with my profound musings about life and popular culture. But today I feel compelled to post a picture because it is so ridiculous and makes me laugh. No other reason. Well, one other reason – it made sense to do so in order to have a clever title for this post (as you will see when I get to the part about the Commodores). So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you this picture that was sent to me via email (again, thanks, Mr. Jobs).
Funny, huh? I have no idea who came up with this or why, or even why I find it so funny. Maybe it’s just the utter ridiculousness of it. Maybe it’s his hair. (I’m sure it’s his hair! Look at it!!!) Maybe it’s the fact that no one has pulled one of the stubs. Could be the turned up collar. But it’s most likely the fact that someone has just now come up with this. This would have been hilarious 25 years ago! Why now? Not sure, but I’m glad someone thought of it.
Which now brings us to the Commodores. Not Lionel Richie’s Commodores, the Vanderbilt Commodores. The three legged, blind, stupid puppy of the SEC. Mike and I took the girls to their first college football game a couple of weeks ago. It was the UGA/Vandy game. We chose that game because we thought it would be a good introduction to college football (although some would argue that that particular game could hardly qualify as “football” but… Mike is an alumnus of Vanderbilt (grad school), so we technically are fans, I guess. I mean really, how do you not root for the ‘Dores? I think I might even root for them if they were playing my undergrad team (Auburn – War Eagle! Woo Hoo!) because they just never can win a big game. At any rate, we figured it would be an easy trip to Nashville and an easy, not terribly crowded game. We sat in the Vandy section (hence the lack of a crowd) and had plenty of room to stretch out and take everything in.
The girls were excited about seeing the cheerleaders. A kind man whom I had approached to ask him where he had gotten his shakers, had given Kate and Meg each one of the two shakers in his possession. Not at all what I intended when I asked (and it kind of made me wish I had asked him where he had gotten his Tag Heuer watch) but it was very nice. So, they girls wildly shook their shakers during the game yelling, “Cheer! Cheer!”, which is what they think the cheerleaders say.
The other thing they were excited about, and I have to admit I was too, was the food. Whenever I go to a sporting event I eat as much junk food as I possibly can before my stomach explodes and other patrons are pelted with the popcorn kernels and pepperonis that I have digested. My kids are no different. For those of you who have seen my children, you know that they are very petite. Try and imagine them eating the following: a hotdog, two small pieces of pizza, popcorn, reese’s pieces, m&ms, a blue slushy thing, a lollipop, some water, and some peanuts. You can’t? WELL THEY DID!! They ate all of that. As did I, except I had a diet coke instead of the slushy thing and I didn’t eat “some” popcorn. I ate a veritable shitload. And, of course, I decided to stop at the little hotel mini-mart on the way back from the game and get a can (large) of sour cream and onion Pringles.
But at any rate, my kids became ravenous beasts. They rarely paid attention to the game itself. They were so engrossed in their food and our friends who we went with. They would periodically look for the cheerleaders or comment on the band, but that was pretty much it. At one point, I leaned over to Kate and tried to explain the game to her so she’d understand what she was supposed to be watching. I explained that we were supposed to cheer (cheer! cheer!) for the team dressed in black. When they did something good, we needed to clap or yell. So, on the next play, Kate saw me cheer (cheer! cheer!) for the ‘Dores and she yelled – and this is a word-for-word quote – “GO BLACK PEOPLE!!!” While I appreciated that she is embracing diversity, this was not exactly the best way to support her team. I asked her to change it to a simple, “Go Dores!” and that was the end of her embarrassing cheer.
The weather was perfect. Our hotel was right next to the field. We spent some good time with some great friends. It was a very nice weekend. It makes me happy that our family enjoys spending time together. And even though I was miserably full of food and fearing I’d have a heart attack and die in the middle of the night, it was a great memory.
So, that’s been my last couple of weeks. Steve Jobs, Lionel Richie and the Commodores. Now I need to wrap up this post so I can grab my iPhone and text my friend Amy. It appears that Lindsay Lohan may pose for Playboy and Kim Kardashian may be headed for divorce…
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Gratitude
I have been reminded over the past week how blessed I am and how I need to be more appreciative of the things I have in my life. I like the line from Mary Poppins where she wisely tells the children that, "Enough is as good as a feast". I have enough. I have more than enough. But still I lose sight of that. Two things happened this week to help bring this back into focus for me that I will now share with you.
A few weeks ago, I interviewed for a new job. There are some aspects of my current job I have not been happy with and they seem to have been more pronounced lately. I went into this job three years ago telling myself I wouldn't like it and I have been telling myself for three years that I was right. And yet, I love my boss and my coworkers. I laugh every day I'm there. make a (small) difference to some of the people there. I have a decent reputation. My opinions are sought and valued. I have a good amount of flexibility and some freedom. I'm paid well and I'm part time. WHAT IS NOT TO LIKE?
But I've managed to convince myself that I'm not happy. Sure, my job can be hard and is overwhelming from time to time. But what job isn't? I interviewed for this other job - outside of my current company - and received the offer a few days ago. That's when things really got hard and overwhelming. I really fretted over it. I was stressed out and torn about making the right call. I had two migraines in one week which is very rare for me, but that's how physically affected I was by the whole thing.
Without going into too much detail, it was a good opportunity. But, at the end of the day, it was not a better opportunity than what I have now. I don't know why I've never viewed my current job as a good opportunity. I haven't been grateful for it. But I was reminded through this whole experience just what a good thing I have and how foolish it would have been to give it away.
One of the main motivators for me to decline the offer was that it meant a move to a full time work schedule. Today, my youngest daughter Meg lives for Tuesdays and Thursdays. She wakes up happy on those days because she knows she will be spending it with me. The three days during the week that I go to work, she's very weepy and latches onto me begging me not to go. Now I'm not saying that I have allowed a four year old to make this decision for me. I am well aware that in two year's time she will have no choice but to go to school five days a week. But I also hated the thought of having her and Kate in school and then after school care five days a week. I know other parents can do it and do it well. I do not believe am one of those parents. I'm barely organized enough in my life to be able to manage everything only working 24 hours a week.
At one point during this decision making process, I had decided I was going to accept the new position. As soon as I have made that decision, I began to get very upset and uneasy. I felt such guilt. I thought it was just the guilt of forcing them into after school care five days a week. But I also couldn't shake the feeling that I had been ungrateful to my current company in the past three years I had had this particular job. I realized that much of the guilt I was feeling was a recognition that I had this great set-up and I was just about to throw it away. So in this process, I had waffled quite a bit and had now made the decision to accept the new role. The anxiety and uneasiness made me decide finally, ultimately to decline it. As soon as I had made that decision, I immediately felt better physically. A short while later that night, I was helping Meg into her jammies and she started crying, anticipating the next day which was a school day for her. In between the tears she said, "I don't wanna go to school". I knew then that I had made the right decision. For her and for me.
I decided that this while exercise had been designed to make me realize how good my situation has been and how lucky I have been to have it. That has definitely been the most important thing I have taken from this (that, and the stroking my ego got when I was offered the job). I decided I would change my approach to,my job and not view it as a burden but view it for what it is - a great opportunity for me to contribute something of value to an organization, to work and interact with good and interesting people, and to have the flexibility with time and money it allows to do the things that are most important in my life. I could have done without the stress this process brought me this week, but I am choosing to be grateful for it. I took my new grateful attitude to work on Friday and I had a really good day. It's just too bad it's taken me over three years in this role to come to this understanding of it.
Then, Friday night after work, I met Mike and the girls out for pizza downtown. It was a nice evening so we ate outside. People would stroll by - most of them very wisely heading to Ben and Jerry's for some yummy ice cream - when something caught my eye. It was a shiny, round thing I was seeing - almost like a smooth ball. But where I was seeing it was out of place and it took a minute for my mind to make sense of it. I looked closer and it gave me a jolt to realize I was looking at the perfectly round, perfectly smooth bald head of a 10-12 year old girl.
I was stupefied. I mean, I know there is such a thing as childhood cancer. I learned too much about it when I worked at MTSU and did terrific fundraisers for *St. Just Children's Research Hospital. But there it was - 15 feet away from me. This pretty little girl out with her family. Battling cancer.
What the hell am I worrying about?
What the hell do I have to complain about?
I have enough.
I have plenty.
I have more than I deserve.
I don't know what gratitude is next to this family.
This family is grateful to all of their friends and family who are supporting them in this fight. They are grateful to the team of doctors, nurses and other caregivers who are responsible for her care. There are grateful for a good day like today when she's healthy enough and feeling good enough that they can go out together as a family and do something mundane like getting ice cream. They are grateful for her strength and her confidence that she can be out in public at her age with a bald head and not worry about the double takes she gets from ignorant people like me. This family knows gratitude. And I am spoiled and unworthy of the things I have. To this point, I haven't been smart enough to know that enough is as good as a feast. But I know it now - having been shown it it two different ways within a span of 24 hours. And I will make it a priority to never lose sight of it again.
* For information about donating to St. Just Children's Research Hospital, please follow this link.
A few weeks ago, I interviewed for a new job. There are some aspects of my current job I have not been happy with and they seem to have been more pronounced lately. I went into this job three years ago telling myself I wouldn't like it and I have been telling myself for three years that I was right. And yet, I love my boss and my coworkers. I laugh every day I'm there. make a (small) difference to some of the people there. I have a decent reputation. My opinions are sought and valued. I have a good amount of flexibility and some freedom. I'm paid well and I'm part time. WHAT IS NOT TO LIKE?
But I've managed to convince myself that I'm not happy. Sure, my job can be hard and is overwhelming from time to time. But what job isn't? I interviewed for this other job - outside of my current company - and received the offer a few days ago. That's when things really got hard and overwhelming. I really fretted over it. I was stressed out and torn about making the right call. I had two migraines in one week which is very rare for me, but that's how physically affected I was by the whole thing.
Without going into too much detail, it was a good opportunity. But, at the end of the day, it was not a better opportunity than what I have now. I don't know why I've never viewed my current job as a good opportunity. I haven't been grateful for it. But I was reminded through this whole experience just what a good thing I have and how foolish it would have been to give it away.
One of the main motivators for me to decline the offer was that it meant a move to a full time work schedule. Today, my youngest daughter Meg lives for Tuesdays and Thursdays. She wakes up happy on those days because she knows she will be spending it with me. The three days during the week that I go to work, she's very weepy and latches onto me begging me not to go. Now I'm not saying that I have allowed a four year old to make this decision for me. I am well aware that in two year's time she will have no choice but to go to school five days a week. But I also hated the thought of having her and Kate in school and then after school care five days a week. I know other parents can do it and do it well. I do not believe am one of those parents. I'm barely organized enough in my life to be able to manage everything only working 24 hours a week.
At one point during this decision making process, I had decided I was going to accept the new position. As soon as I have made that decision, I began to get very upset and uneasy. I felt such guilt. I thought it was just the guilt of forcing them into after school care five days a week. But I also couldn't shake the feeling that I had been ungrateful to my current company in the past three years I had had this particular job. I realized that much of the guilt I was feeling was a recognition that I had this great set-up and I was just about to throw it away. So in this process, I had waffled quite a bit and had now made the decision to accept the new role. The anxiety and uneasiness made me decide finally, ultimately to decline it. As soon as I had made that decision, I immediately felt better physically. A short while later that night, I was helping Meg into her jammies and she started crying, anticipating the next day which was a school day for her. In between the tears she said, "I don't wanna go to school". I knew then that I had made the right decision. For her and for me.
I decided that this while exercise had been designed to make me realize how good my situation has been and how lucky I have been to have it. That has definitely been the most important thing I have taken from this (that, and the stroking my ego got when I was offered the job). I decided I would change my approach to,my job and not view it as a burden but view it for what it is - a great opportunity for me to contribute something of value to an organization, to work and interact with good and interesting people, and to have the flexibility with time and money it allows to do the things that are most important in my life. I could have done without the stress this process brought me this week, but I am choosing to be grateful for it. I took my new grateful attitude to work on Friday and I had a really good day. It's just too bad it's taken me over three years in this role to come to this understanding of it.
Then, Friday night after work, I met Mike and the girls out for pizza downtown. It was a nice evening so we ate outside. People would stroll by - most of them very wisely heading to Ben and Jerry's for some yummy ice cream - when something caught my eye. It was a shiny, round thing I was seeing - almost like a smooth ball. But where I was seeing it was out of place and it took a minute for my mind to make sense of it. I looked closer and it gave me a jolt to realize I was looking at the perfectly round, perfectly smooth bald head of a 10-12 year old girl.
I was stupefied. I mean, I know there is such a thing as childhood cancer. I learned too much about it when I worked at MTSU and did terrific fundraisers for *St. Just Children's Research Hospital. But there it was - 15 feet away from me. This pretty little girl out with her family. Battling cancer.
What the hell am I worrying about?
What the hell do I have to complain about?
I have enough.
I have plenty.
I have more than I deserve.
I don't know what gratitude is next to this family.
This family is grateful to all of their friends and family who are supporting them in this fight. They are grateful to the team of doctors, nurses and other caregivers who are responsible for her care. There are grateful for a good day like today when she's healthy enough and feeling good enough that they can go out together as a family and do something mundane like getting ice cream. They are grateful for her strength and her confidence that she can be out in public at her age with a bald head and not worry about the double takes she gets from ignorant people like me. This family knows gratitude. And I am spoiled and unworthy of the things I have. To this point, I haven't been smart enough to know that enough is as good as a feast. But I know it now - having been shown it it two different ways within a span of 24 hours. And I will make it a priority to never lose sight of it again.
* For information about donating to St. Just Children's Research Hospital, please follow this link.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Whiskers
So, I recently celebrated my 38th birthday. I don't mind aging particularly (yet) but I am starting to feel older than my age would dictate that I should. All summer I have dealt with major back pain that even physical therapy and chiropractic intervention took a while to heal. I swear I have had a few hot flashes already. And last, but certainly most disturbing, I am growing whiskers on my chin and neck.
I noticed this strange growth a year or more ago. I was rubbing my chin and thought I felt something kind of wiry - like stubble - growing there. I got my vanity mirror out and turned it to the side that magnifies all of my hideous flaws, and discovered that yes, in fact, I was growing a whisker. In the time that has passed, I have routinely and dutifully plucked it when it gets long enough - about once every 2-3 weeks. Like clockwork it returns. But it hasn't been too alarming up to this point because I've only been battling one. I'm afraid that battle has now expanded and I feel like they have me surrounded.
Now, I do have a fair amount of hair on my face. I'm not proud of it by any means. I'm certainly not bragging. It is simply a fact. I always kind of thought is was just an extension of my hairline. But I suppose if that were the case, it wouldn't make sense that my hairline covers my upper lip. I never really considered it an issue until a few years ago when I was getting my eyebrows (more of my hairline?) waxed. The stylist (is that what an eyebrow-waxer is? A stylist? A waxer? A browologist?) asked me, "Would you like me to get your mustache while I'm at it?".
My mustache? My mustache?! Which mustache? The one I thought was light enough that no one noticed it? Or, the one I really didn't realize I had until that insulting question was asked? In either case, I guess the answer is yes. And by the way, this will be my last visit to you.
So, thebitch browologist waxed my mustache. And so began my journey into extreme self-consciousness over my facial hair. After the mustache was yanked off of my lip, I didn't feel the need to wax it again, but I was certainly more aware of the amount of hair I had on my face and, perhaps more importantly, the lack of it on others' faces. I never really liked my mustache or the amount of hairs I had around my jaw and chin but it didn't become something horrifying to me until the introduction of the whisker.
I can't really pinpoint the first time I noticed it; only the horror that came over me upon realizing what it was. I could picture my grandmother and the prickly little hairs shooting out of her chin that were visible to me when I'd visit her in the nursing home. I was in my early thirties and already starting to grow my you're-old-senile-and-stuck-in-a-nursing-home beard. If I didn't want others to snicker that I was growing a beard, I was going to have to pluck away my new little friend every time he (it was definitely a male hair) showed his little face.
I kept up this routine for several months - even years. I was self-conscious enough about it that I would subtly run my hands and fingers over my chin in an effort to discover any new friends that may have sprouted. The whisker problem appeared to be limited to my bottom left chin. Or so I thought.
In the past year, as I have run my fingers across my chin, I have found a new little patch (a patch!) of them - this time on the lower right hand side. This new cluster grows at a different rate of speed than my original one and because of that, I can't simply declare one night of the week as Whisker-Pluckin'-Wednesday. It doesn't work that way. I may pluck lefty this Saturday and then turn right around on Tuesday and have a soul patch to contend with on the right side.
As I mentioned, my hairline comes right up under my jawline. At times, I have been known to find a random hair that's a quarter inch long and something I feel I should address before others begin to notice it. The way I search for these annoying but very thin and light and hardly noticeable neck hairs, is I'll take my first two fingers and I'll run them across my neck and jawline making a scissor motion to try and find a hair that I can pull away from my neck with them. If no hair ends up getting pulled between my fingers, I'm in good shape. If there's one that seems to be a little long, I'll pluck it like I do my my brows or whiskers - on an as-needed basis.
Late last week, I was on a search for hairs on my neck. I catch myself doing it sometimes in meetings and wonder if people around the room know what I'm doing. If they do know, I don't think they're disgusted by it. I think they are probably relived and appreciative that I'm aware of the problem and trying to correct it. I was in this meeting subtly fishing for neck hairs when all of a sudden my two fingers caught something and began to pull it away from my neck. I grew concerned when I pulled it past what I thought was a reasonable distance and it didn't tug at my neck. I kept pulling and kept pulling feeling my eyes widen with the knowledge that there was seemingly no end to this strand growing out of a part of my body that always exposed to others. When I had finally pulled it the entirety of it's length and I could feel the gentle tug on the skin of my neck, I felt two things: relief and utter embarrassment. What if the other meeting attendees were watching what I was doing? Had they already been aware of this spool of thread growing out of my neck? What if they'd noticed the hair all along and were placing bets on when I'd finally decide to do something about it?
I tried to remain calm. I figured the best course of action would be to simply comb it back down, actually pay attention to the subject matter and contribute something to the meeting, and deal with it with my tweezers and vanity mirror in the privacy of my own bathroom. I worried that once home, I would not be able to locate it again. That it would simply blend in with the other blonde hairs around my chin and jaw. However, when I got home and tilted my head up to try and locate it, I saw (without having to use the extra-magnifying side to the mirror) a long, thick, black strand of hair that was practically waving at me with balloons and sparklers; begging me to see it and do something about it.
I was mortified. How long had this hideous thing been there and why was I just now becoming aware of it? And why was it so dark? Was someone secretly slipping me testosterone? How could I be capable of producing such a long, thick hair? I plucked it immediately and actually considered saving it to show Mike. I just couldn't believe how long it was and felt someone else needed to share in my astonishment. I reconsidered, thankfully (for him and for me), after realizing that a husband probably would begin to view his wife differently if she started growing more hair on her face than he did. So, I threw it away.
So, I'm 38 years old and I am already turning into an oldman woman. If this is what I have become at this age, what on earth kind of shape will I be in at 48? Should be frightening fun to see. I know one thing for sure: I will never be far away from my tweezers.
I noticed this strange growth a year or more ago. I was rubbing my chin and thought I felt something kind of wiry - like stubble - growing there. I got my vanity mirror out and turned it to the side that magnifies all of my hideous flaws, and discovered that yes, in fact, I was growing a whisker. In the time that has passed, I have routinely and dutifully plucked it when it gets long enough - about once every 2-3 weeks. Like clockwork it returns. But it hasn't been too alarming up to this point because I've only been battling one. I'm afraid that battle has now expanded and I feel like they have me surrounded.
Now, I do have a fair amount of hair on my face. I'm not proud of it by any means. I'm certainly not bragging. It is simply a fact. I always kind of thought is was just an extension of my hairline. But I suppose if that were the case, it wouldn't make sense that my hairline covers my upper lip. I never really considered it an issue until a few years ago when I was getting my eyebrows (more of my hairline?) waxed. The stylist (is that what an eyebrow-waxer is? A stylist? A waxer? A browologist?) asked me, "Would you like me to get your mustache while I'm at it?".
My mustache? My mustache?! Which mustache? The one I thought was light enough that no one noticed it? Or, the one I really didn't realize I had until that insulting question was asked? In either case, I guess the answer is yes. And by the way, this will be my last visit to you.
So, the
I can't really pinpoint the first time I noticed it; only the horror that came over me upon realizing what it was. I could picture my grandmother and the prickly little hairs shooting out of her chin that were visible to me when I'd visit her in the nursing home. I was in my early thirties and already starting to grow my you're-old-senile-and-stuck-in-a-nursing-home beard. If I didn't want others to snicker that I was growing a beard, I was going to have to pluck away my new little friend every time he (it was definitely a male hair) showed his little face.
I kept up this routine for several months - even years. I was self-conscious enough about it that I would subtly run my hands and fingers over my chin in an effort to discover any new friends that may have sprouted. The whisker problem appeared to be limited to my bottom left chin. Or so I thought.
In the past year, as I have run my fingers across my chin, I have found a new little patch (a patch!) of them - this time on the lower right hand side. This new cluster grows at a different rate of speed than my original one and because of that, I can't simply declare one night of the week as Whisker-Pluckin'-Wednesday. It doesn't work that way. I may pluck lefty this Saturday and then turn right around on Tuesday and have a soul patch to contend with on the right side.
As I mentioned, my hairline comes right up under my jawline. At times, I have been known to find a random hair that's a quarter inch long and something I feel I should address before others begin to notice it. The way I search for these annoying but very thin and light and hardly noticeable neck hairs, is I'll take my first two fingers and I'll run them across my neck and jawline making a scissor motion to try and find a hair that I can pull away from my neck with them. If no hair ends up getting pulled between my fingers, I'm in good shape. If there's one that seems to be a little long, I'll pluck it like I do my my brows or whiskers - on an as-needed basis.
Late last week, I was on a search for hairs on my neck. I catch myself doing it sometimes in meetings and wonder if people around the room know what I'm doing. If they do know, I don't think they're disgusted by it. I think they are probably relived and appreciative that I'm aware of the problem and trying to correct it. I was in this meeting subtly fishing for neck hairs when all of a sudden my two fingers caught something and began to pull it away from my neck. I grew concerned when I pulled it past what I thought was a reasonable distance and it didn't tug at my neck. I kept pulling and kept pulling feeling my eyes widen with the knowledge that there was seemingly no end to this strand growing out of a part of my body that always exposed to others. When I had finally pulled it the entirety of it's length and I could feel the gentle tug on the skin of my neck, I felt two things: relief and utter embarrassment. What if the other meeting attendees were watching what I was doing? Had they already been aware of this spool of thread growing out of my neck? What if they'd noticed the hair all along and were placing bets on when I'd finally decide to do something about it?
I tried to remain calm. I figured the best course of action would be to simply comb it back down, actually pay attention to the subject matter and contribute something to the meeting, and deal with it with my tweezers and vanity mirror in the privacy of my own bathroom. I worried that once home, I would not be able to locate it again. That it would simply blend in with the other blonde hairs around my chin and jaw. However, when I got home and tilted my head up to try and locate it, I saw (without having to use the extra-magnifying side to the mirror) a long, thick, black strand of hair that was practically waving at me with balloons and sparklers; begging me to see it and do something about it.
I was mortified. How long had this hideous thing been there and why was I just now becoming aware of it? And why was it so dark? Was someone secretly slipping me testosterone? How could I be capable of producing such a long, thick hair? I plucked it immediately and actually considered saving it to show Mike. I just couldn't believe how long it was and felt someone else needed to share in my astonishment. I reconsidered, thankfully (for him and for me), after realizing that a husband probably would begin to view his wife differently if she started growing more hair on her face than he did. So, I threw it away.
So, I'm 38 years old and I am already turning into an old
Monday, September 12, 2011
Back To School
This post was actually written in August, but I just couldn’t get it finished and posted. So, while it’s a bit outdated, you may still find something that resonates with you.
Last night I went for a run. I went earlier than I have been going lately because it was a wee bit cooler and it seemed to be getting dark earlier than it has been. I ran my usual course – a course I am so familiar with that straying from it causes my puny body to peter out prematurely. I kept hearing this strange sound as I ran down the sidewalk. I finally realized that the sound was leaves crunching under the weight of my running shoes. I hadn’t heard that sound in months. It dawned on me as I looked up and around at the houses, that I was the only person outside. Where were the kids? I passed this one house where I used to run into a gaggle of boys playing a pick-up game of football in the yard. There was no one in sight. Just a lamp I could see lighting the den. Everything was very quiet. The only thing I could hear, other than those crunchy leaves, was my lumbered breathing. Where was everyone? Where was the noise? The heat?
It was gone - because it is becoming fall and the hustle and bustle of school and the start of everything is beginning anew. Normally, this only affects me in two ways:
1. Much more traffic on the main drag in the city where I work
2. Excessive annoying posts in my news feed on Facebook about football teams, games, players, crappy calls, stupid fans (from opposing teams, of course), tickets for sale, pain, misery, elation, etc.
But this year, it has a different feel. For the first time, I have a child entering kindergarten. This is the first time that school starting will have a significant impact on my life (other than when I was in school). Of course, it will have a greater impact on Kate’s life, but we’re talking about me here. This is the first year of the next 12+ that we will go “back to school”. I am having to change my mindset about being able to keep her and Meg out of school on a Friday so we can go out of town. We will now have to be more deliberate about reading together and discussing what they are learning. We always did that, but now there will need to be more substance to it. I’ll have to be strategic about getting them to bed early since there will be no nap at school. That means I’ll have to be strategic about EVERYTHING that precipitates bedtime. Ugh. I’m getting my first back-to-school headache.
I actually bought school supplies on Sunday. I’ve never had to do that before. All those pitiful looking people digging through the notebooks and folders that I’ve seen through the years – I was one of them. I was trying to be good about buying the “right” kind of pencil pouch. I was afraid that if I got the wrong style or color, Kate would be ostracized on her first day and would never forgive me. There was an off-brand of crayons that I never even considered buying. A kid who shows up without Crayola? A total loser. Past that, I don’t know what the acceptable brands of these items are. Mead? Trapper Keeper? Seems like a kid in my grade got beat up for having a Trapper Keeper so I’ll steer clear of that.
I am utterly clueless about how to parent a kindergartener. When Kate has homework, do I write the answers for her or do I spell everything out to her and let her write the answers that she won’t be able to read? When I ask her what she learned at school today and she responds, “I don’t know” what am I supposed to do? Do I drag it out of her or do I just let her tell me in her own time? She and Meg are starting at a new school this year and we all have some trepidation about that. Do I worry about everything on the front end or do I just let them grow and blossom in their own time and just get out of their way? I realize the answer to that last question of course, but I am not built that way. I worry about all of the possibles instead of just trying to concentrate on any probables. It’s what I do. How am I supposed to let go of all of the things I fear for both of my girls and just allow them to experience this time for themselves?
I realize I don’t have a choice in the matter. They will experience all of the things that are typical of childhood regardless of what I do. They will have good days and they will have bad days. They’ll have best friends one day who won’t speak to them the next. They will compare themselves to other kids and think they come up short. They will be self-conscious. They will be good at some things and not so good as others. They will doubt themselves. But those moments will be fleeting. If Mike and I do our job right, they will get past those feelings and learn to be happy with who they are and proud of the good things they do. I think my most important job is to make sure they feel the love I have for them. If they feel love, then those painful things they’ll experience during the next few years will simply be learning experiences for them. I am smart enough to know this, but I’m not yet seasoned enough to be confident in my ability to lead them through their childhood.
Of course, this IS just their first week of school. Perhaps I should just take it day by day as I am encouraging them to do. I just want so much for both of my girls. There’s not much I can solve for them tonight, so I think I'll focus on what I can do which is to put them to bed so they can get a good night’s sleep. I’ll leave you with this quote:
There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots. The other is wings.
- Hodding Carter, Jr.
Best of luck to you in establishing roots and providing wings.
Last night I went for a run. I went earlier than I have been going lately because it was a wee bit cooler and it seemed to be getting dark earlier than it has been. I ran my usual course – a course I am so familiar with that straying from it causes my puny body to peter out prematurely. I kept hearing this strange sound as I ran down the sidewalk. I finally realized that the sound was leaves crunching under the weight of my running shoes. I hadn’t heard that sound in months. It dawned on me as I looked up and around at the houses, that I was the only person outside. Where were the kids? I passed this one house where I used to run into a gaggle of boys playing a pick-up game of football in the yard. There was no one in sight. Just a lamp I could see lighting the den. Everything was very quiet. The only thing I could hear, other than those crunchy leaves, was my lumbered breathing. Where was everyone? Where was the noise? The heat?
It was gone - because it is becoming fall and the hustle and bustle of school and the start of everything is beginning anew. Normally, this only affects me in two ways:
1. Much more traffic on the main drag in the city where I work
2. Excessive annoying posts in my news feed on Facebook about football teams, games, players, crappy calls, stupid fans (from opposing teams, of course), tickets for sale, pain, misery, elation, etc.
But this year, it has a different feel. For the first time, I have a child entering kindergarten. This is the first time that school starting will have a significant impact on my life (other than when I was in school). Of course, it will have a greater impact on Kate’s life, but we’re talking about me here. This is the first year of the next 12+ that we will go “back to school”. I am having to change my mindset about being able to keep her and Meg out of school on a Friday so we can go out of town. We will now have to be more deliberate about reading together and discussing what they are learning. We always did that, but now there will need to be more substance to it. I’ll have to be strategic about getting them to bed early since there will be no nap at school. That means I’ll have to be strategic about EVERYTHING that precipitates bedtime. Ugh. I’m getting my first back-to-school headache.
I actually bought school supplies on Sunday. I’ve never had to do that before. All those pitiful looking people digging through the notebooks and folders that I’ve seen through the years – I was one of them. I was trying to be good about buying the “right” kind of pencil pouch. I was afraid that if I got the wrong style or color, Kate would be ostracized on her first day and would never forgive me. There was an off-brand of crayons that I never even considered buying. A kid who shows up without Crayola? A total loser. Past that, I don’t know what the acceptable brands of these items are. Mead? Trapper Keeper? Seems like a kid in my grade got beat up for having a Trapper Keeper so I’ll steer clear of that.
I am utterly clueless about how to parent a kindergartener. When Kate has homework, do I write the answers for her or do I spell everything out to her and let her write the answers that she won’t be able to read? When I ask her what she learned at school today and she responds, “I don’t know” what am I supposed to do? Do I drag it out of her or do I just let her tell me in her own time? She and Meg are starting at a new school this year and we all have some trepidation about that. Do I worry about everything on the front end or do I just let them grow and blossom in their own time and just get out of their way? I realize the answer to that last question of course, but I am not built that way. I worry about all of the possibles instead of just trying to concentrate on any probables. It’s what I do. How am I supposed to let go of all of the things I fear for both of my girls and just allow them to experience this time for themselves?
I realize I don’t have a choice in the matter. They will experience all of the things that are typical of childhood regardless of what I do. They will have good days and they will have bad days. They’ll have best friends one day who won’t speak to them the next. They will compare themselves to other kids and think they come up short. They will be self-conscious. They will be good at some things and not so good as others. They will doubt themselves. But those moments will be fleeting. If Mike and I do our job right, they will get past those feelings and learn to be happy with who they are and proud of the good things they do. I think my most important job is to make sure they feel the love I have for them. If they feel love, then those painful things they’ll experience during the next few years will simply be learning experiences for them. I am smart enough to know this, but I’m not yet seasoned enough to be confident in my ability to lead them through their childhood.
Of course, this IS just their first week of school. Perhaps I should just take it day by day as I am encouraging them to do. I just want so much for both of my girls. There’s not much I can solve for them tonight, so I think I'll focus on what I can do which is to put them to bed so they can get a good night’s sleep. I’ll leave you with this quote:
There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots. The other is wings.
- Hodding Carter, Jr.
Best of luck to you in establishing roots and providing wings.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Best Day/Worst Day
When I was in high school, the movie City Slickers came out. At the time, I thought it was hilarious. Now that I'm older and understand intelligent, clever comedy, I realize it was really just an average movie. But there was one scene that stood out to me even then. It was a scene in which the men - unhappy in their middle age - begin discussing what were their best and worst days. I struggled then to try and figure out how I would respond to that. Now that I am older and have some experience behind me, I can absolutely answer it.
My best day is kind of hard to pin down. I have had a lot of fun times. I have been able to do many of the things I have wanted to do. For the most part, I have had a very happy life thus far. I have two beautiful children and while nothing has been more significant in my life than having my girls, I can't say that the days they were born were my best days. Kate was born in my 29th week of pregnancy. It was tense and scary. Ultimately it was a wonderful outcome but at the time we were scared to death not knowing if she would be okay. We had no idea what to expect. All we knew was that we would not be taking our baby home for a long time so it wasn't exactly a time to celebrate.
With Meg, my post-partum depression had already kicked in (unbeknownst to me) so I was already in a bit of a downward spiral. Her birth was not as dramatic as Kate's was by any means. I was just kind of already in a fog. We were relieved she was healthy, but at the time, I really was not. I knew I loved her, but I was scared to death at the prospect of having a newborn PLUS a rambunctious almost two year old. Again, the outcome was beautiful. But at the time I wasn't myself. So, neither day can go down as my best day.
What was my best day you may be wondering (if you are still reading)? I would have to say it was the day after I got engaged to Mike. The actual day-of was a pretty crappy day until about 9:00 that night when he popped the question. But that next day I was absolutely floating. I could not get over the sudden appearance of this beautiful ring I thought would never be on my finger. I couldn't wait to talk about it with my family and friends. Mike and I were free to talk about our future together without me fearing I sounded like a a psycho girl trying to sink my claws into the first man who didn't run away screaming. I was so excited and giddy at what my future had in store with this wonderful man. People were so kind and seemed genuinely happy for me. It was a lovely day. Although I was excited beyond words, I could not have known what a wonderful life I would have with him and then with our girls. And things are still going strong.
My worst day, you may have gathered by the date of this post, was September 11, 2001. It was the day after my birthday and the morning after my first quasi-fight with Mike. He and I had come home from my birthday dinner to find that Dudley (my dog and now Mike's step-son) had experienced explosive, projectile diarrhea in our absence. The little gift he had left us was all over Mike's pristine, cream-colored carpet. Mike had spanked him even thought I had told him that Dudley wouldn't understand at that point why he was in trouble. I was angry with Mike for hitting him especially after I had told him not to. I didn't say much to Mike that night after it happened and after we scrubbed and scrubbed his floor (to no avail).
The next morning, I was still irritated with Mike and I had a headache. I had an event later that day on campus where I worked and so I decided to go into work late. I lied down on my couch in the den and closed my eyes listening to the Today Show. That's when I heard about what was going on in New York City. My first thought, like many of yours, was, "Man some air traffic controller is gonna get fired over this". Of course, the whole thing unfolded before my eyes and before the eyes of just about everyone in America that day. I was absolutely stunned at what I was watching. Mike was supposed to be flying to Chicago that day and I grabbed the phone and called him to beg him not to go. Of course, in the end, that decision was made for him.
I remember watching the TV on the phone with my sister when the first tower collapsed. I was hysterical because I thought bombs were going off. It just didn't occur to me that those massive buildings could fall. Before the collapse I was just heartsick watching the images not only of people jumping to their deaths, but seeing those stuck above the impact zone you knew were not likely to make it out. And when the cameras cut to a picture of the Pentagon engulfed in flames, that's when I lost my innocent, naive view of the world forever. This was a deliberate, coordinated attack perpetrated by people who hated us. I couldn't understand that kind of hatred. I don't hate any group of people. Why couldn't these people just live and let live? What on earth would drive them to kill all of these innocent people? There were towers collapsing. The Pentagon was under attack. There were other planes unaccounted for. There was a sickening feeling in my stomach because you just didn't know what was going to happen next. It was the most scared, sad and hopeless I have ever felt in my life.
I ended up going in to work because I just didn't know what else to do. I was scared and felt so alone and helpless. I knew that there had been tremendous loss of life (and I am still flabbergasted and grateful to the public servants and heroes who saw to it that the numbers were not higher that day). I needed to be around people - although I was of no solace to any of them. I needed Mike. (Dudley's little gift the night before was a distant memory.) He and I snuggled up together that night and listened to President Bush and Rudy Giuliani try to calm the public while clearly stating that the people responsible for this would pay. I was grateful for their words. I had a lump in my throat watching our members of congress come together and sing God Bless America. I felt such pride that I really hadn't thought about before about being an American. Sure, I knew I was lucky to have been born and raised in this country, but I never understood what it meant until that day.
I cried a lot that day and in the days to follow. The more TV coverage was on, the more I watched it. I listened to people's stories of loss and stories of survival. There were so many heroic acts that day. I'm sure that there were several acts of heroism that none of us will ever know about because those involved did not live to tell the tales. To this day, I can get absorbed into a 9/11 documentary no matter what I'm doing. I feel like I need to watch those stories in order to honor the dead.
It's been ten years and it as still as vivid to me and to so many as though it was yesterday. It is still so utterly scary and indescribably sad. Our understanding of our world has changed. The world in which our kids will grow up is different than the world we thought we were growing up in. And let's not forget the thousands of people who lost someone they loved that day. So very sad. And still so very real.
I have been glued to the coverage of the tenth anniversary of that horrible day. So much has changed in my life since that day that I am so grateful for. I got engaged and married in 2002. I had my kids. Have had various nieces and nephews. Have had a lot of happy times. But nothing will ever be quite the same for those of us who were living during 9/11. And my experience is nothing compared to those who were there or who lost someone. But it is part of our collective consciousness as a nation. To be an American is to remember where you were and what you were doing that morning. And so, too, is it American to find ways to press on and live a good and happy life.
So, as we mark the decade that has passed since that horrific day, let us hold our loved ones close and never forget how quickly our world can change. Let us find ways to honor those whose duty is to run into the burning buildings as the rest of us run out. And let us all be thankful for every gift that we have. We all have a lot more than we could have. God Bless America indeed.
My best day is kind of hard to pin down. I have had a lot of fun times. I have been able to do many of the things I have wanted to do. For the most part, I have had a very happy life thus far. I have two beautiful children and while nothing has been more significant in my life than having my girls, I can't say that the days they were born were my best days. Kate was born in my 29th week of pregnancy. It was tense and scary. Ultimately it was a wonderful outcome but at the time we were scared to death not knowing if she would be okay. We had no idea what to expect. All we knew was that we would not be taking our baby home for a long time so it wasn't exactly a time to celebrate.
With Meg, my post-partum depression had already kicked in (unbeknownst to me) so I was already in a bit of a downward spiral. Her birth was not as dramatic as Kate's was by any means. I was just kind of already in a fog. We were relieved she was healthy, but at the time, I really was not. I knew I loved her, but I was scared to death at the prospect of having a newborn PLUS a rambunctious almost two year old. Again, the outcome was beautiful. But at the time I wasn't myself. So, neither day can go down as my best day.
What was my best day you may be wondering (if you are still reading)? I would have to say it was the day after I got engaged to Mike. The actual day-of was a pretty crappy day until about 9:00 that night when he popped the question. But that next day I was absolutely floating. I could not get over the sudden appearance of this beautiful ring I thought would never be on my finger. I couldn't wait to talk about it with my family and friends. Mike and I were free to talk about our future together without me fearing I sounded like a a psycho girl trying to sink my claws into the first man who didn't run away screaming. I was so excited and giddy at what my future had in store with this wonderful man. People were so kind and seemed genuinely happy for me. It was a lovely day. Although I was excited beyond words, I could not have known what a wonderful life I would have with him and then with our girls. And things are still going strong.
My worst day, you may have gathered by the date of this post, was September 11, 2001. It was the day after my birthday and the morning after my first quasi-fight with Mike. He and I had come home from my birthday dinner to find that Dudley (my dog and now Mike's step-son) had experienced explosive, projectile diarrhea in our absence. The little gift he had left us was all over Mike's pristine, cream-colored carpet. Mike had spanked him even thought I had told him that Dudley wouldn't understand at that point why he was in trouble. I was angry with Mike for hitting him especially after I had told him not to. I didn't say much to Mike that night after it happened and after we scrubbed and scrubbed his floor (to no avail).
The next morning, I was still irritated with Mike and I had a headache. I had an event later that day on campus where I worked and so I decided to go into work late. I lied down on my couch in the den and closed my eyes listening to the Today Show. That's when I heard about what was going on in New York City. My first thought, like many of yours, was, "Man some air traffic controller is gonna get fired over this". Of course, the whole thing unfolded before my eyes and before the eyes of just about everyone in America that day. I was absolutely stunned at what I was watching. Mike was supposed to be flying to Chicago that day and I grabbed the phone and called him to beg him not to go. Of course, in the end, that decision was made for him.
I remember watching the TV on the phone with my sister when the first tower collapsed. I was hysterical because I thought bombs were going off. It just didn't occur to me that those massive buildings could fall. Before the collapse I was just heartsick watching the images not only of people jumping to their deaths, but seeing those stuck above the impact zone you knew were not likely to make it out. And when the cameras cut to a picture of the Pentagon engulfed in flames, that's when I lost my innocent, naive view of the world forever. This was a deliberate, coordinated attack perpetrated by people who hated us. I couldn't understand that kind of hatred. I don't hate any group of people. Why couldn't these people just live and let live? What on earth would drive them to kill all of these innocent people? There were towers collapsing. The Pentagon was under attack. There were other planes unaccounted for. There was a sickening feeling in my stomach because you just didn't know what was going to happen next. It was the most scared, sad and hopeless I have ever felt in my life.
I ended up going in to work because I just didn't know what else to do. I was scared and felt so alone and helpless. I knew that there had been tremendous loss of life (and I am still flabbergasted and grateful to the public servants and heroes who saw to it that the numbers were not higher that day). I needed to be around people - although I was of no solace to any of them. I needed Mike. (Dudley's little gift the night before was a distant memory.) He and I snuggled up together that night and listened to President Bush and Rudy Giuliani try to calm the public while clearly stating that the people responsible for this would pay. I was grateful for their words. I had a lump in my throat watching our members of congress come together and sing God Bless America. I felt such pride that I really hadn't thought about before about being an American. Sure, I knew I was lucky to have been born and raised in this country, but I never understood what it meant until that day.
I cried a lot that day and in the days to follow. The more TV coverage was on, the more I watched it. I listened to people's stories of loss and stories of survival. There were so many heroic acts that day. I'm sure that there were several acts of heroism that none of us will ever know about because those involved did not live to tell the tales. To this day, I can get absorbed into a 9/11 documentary no matter what I'm doing. I feel like I need to watch those stories in order to honor the dead.
It's been ten years and it as still as vivid to me and to so many as though it was yesterday. It is still so utterly scary and indescribably sad. Our understanding of our world has changed. The world in which our kids will grow up is different than the world we thought we were growing up in. And let's not forget the thousands of people who lost someone they loved that day. So very sad. And still so very real.
I have been glued to the coverage of the tenth anniversary of that horrible day. So much has changed in my life since that day that I am so grateful for. I got engaged and married in 2002. I had my kids. Have had various nieces and nephews. Have had a lot of happy times. But nothing will ever be quite the same for those of us who were living during 9/11. And my experience is nothing compared to those who were there or who lost someone. But it is part of our collective consciousness as a nation. To be an American is to remember where you were and what you were doing that morning. And so, too, is it American to find ways to press on and live a good and happy life.
So, as we mark the decade that has passed since that horrific day, let us hold our loved ones close and never forget how quickly our world can change. Let us find ways to honor those whose duty is to run into the burning buildings as the rest of us run out. And let us all be thankful for every gift that we have. We all have a lot more than we could have. God Bless America indeed.
Monday, August 1, 2011
My Old Friend
Those of you who know me know that I have a 14 year old Jack Russell Terrier named Dudley. I have had Duds since he was 6 weeks old. He and I have been through a lot together. In the beginning, I was a single mother. I would work and come home at lunch and let him out of his crate to run around and take care of his bowel and urinary needs. I would rush home at the end of the work day to once again free him from his crate. I would go out on dates based on whether or not the guy was worth sticking Dudley back in his crate during the time I’d be gone. Most of them were not.
Dudley was seen as part of the package when it came to family gatherings. My sister would bring her husband and her young sons for Christmas. I’d bring Dudley. Cousins would share a bed with their spouses. Dudley and I would spoon in my queen sized bed. On weekends, I’d schedule errands around his schedule. I wouldn’t want to be gone too long at a stretch. I’d make sure it wasn’t too hot when we’d go on walks or play with his racquetballs. I’d talk to him a lot. Sing to him (and change lyrics of songs to make them about him). Cuddle with him a lot. Worry and fuss over him. I loved, loved, loved that dog.
When I started dating my husband, I worried that Dudley would come between us. Mike was not used to having pets in the house - much less a dog curled up in his lap or begging for food at the dinner table. After Mike met me, he confided to one of his friends that he liked me enough to where Dudley was not necessarily a “deal-breaker”. Not a deal-breaker? My sweet Dudley?! Let me tell you something, if anyone’s the deal-breaker it’s YOU! Dudley and I are perfectly happy in our little world and don’t need any disruptions to our little routine, thank you very much.
And Dudley did not like Mike at all, either. Their first few months together were just a disaster. I likened it to a teenager getting a new step-parent and pushing the boundaries with all the angst and resentment they can muster. That was how Dudley behaved. He’d growl and snarl at Mike and whimper so I’d think Mike had just struck him (which he hadn’t… that I’m aware of). He was extremely manipulative like a child would be.
You may think I’m exaggerating but picture this: These two hate each other and then we go to my parents’ house for the dreaded, “this is my new boyfriend” weekend of humiliation and Dudley spends the entire time IN MIKE’S LAP. That’s right. He was perched there every time Mike sat down. Now this was due, in part, to the fact that my parents had several dogs and he was trying to “claim” Mike as his. But it also made it seem to others as though Mike was exaggerating or lying about all of Dudley’s childish (doggish) antics. Thankfully, after a potentially relationship-ending encounter between Dudley and some not-quite-dry cement that Mike got blamed for letting him ruin, Mike and Dudley finally made their peace and actually became little buddies in their own right.
In fact, I dare say that Mike is now more of Dudley’s caregiver than I am. When I was single and used to have to leave him in his crate when I’d go to work, I would tell him that someday he wouldn’t have to sit in a crate all day. That I’d create a better life for him somehow. I felt such guilt about having to leave him in his cramped little crate. Enter Mike who is (or, was at the time) self-employed. Dudley now gets to go to work everyday and earn a living. Mike even made him Director of Employee Complaints. Who could complain around such a cute little face? He was the office mascot. And he and Mike got to spend all day together.
Dudley has always been what you’d call a high-needs dog. From a very early age, he had major separation anxiety. It got so bad that at one point he was Prozac – human Prozac – to try and calm him down. It didn’t even make a dent in his behavior, so I considered just taking it myself so I wouldn’t worry so much about him.
In his younger years, we went through a rough stretch where he was being regularly targeted and attacked by a menacing neighborhood mockingbird. If you’ve ever had a run-in with a mockingbird, you know their chirp immediately. They are aptly named – they truly do mock with their aggressive chirps. This one would fly over to a certain point on my roof and would watch him for a while and then swoop down and fly right into him Kamikaze-style with his beak. It got so bad that as soon as we would hear his chirp, Dudley would tuck his tail and run to me, begging to be rescued and taken inside. In fact, we went though a period where Dudley wouldn’t even go outside to relieve himself anymore because he was so frightened of being hurt. I contacted Animal Control who told me that the bird was probably just protecting his nest and that they’d come over and remove the next once I was able to locate it. Okay, I would think locating the nest would be something Animal Control would do. And anyway, I’ve seen the way this bird treats my dog. I’m not going to go try and piss him off. The problem ended when we left for a week on vacation (Dudley couldn’t come – rental house). I guess the bird got bored with no one to pick on and so he flew off to find his next victim.
So, yes, Dudley has always had some special needs. But, they were cute little quirks. Things that made him uniquely Duds. And I loved him for all of the trouble he was. I still do, although my feelings for him have been changing lately. He is now 14 years old which is hard to imagine as you watch him run, swim and play. He looks much younger and is in great shape. But you are quickly reminded when he… say… pees on the bed. Or…just as an example….poops on the dining room rug so that you can smell a hint of feces as you are eating your savory meal. I know he probably can’t help it, but I already have two children. I don’t need a third one. And he now requires more care than I have the time or inclination to give him. And I feel so guilty for it. He has been my little buddy for 14 years and I am getting so annoyed with him these days. It’s not his fault. It’s his age.
I guess it's his age. but I do look at him differently now than I used to. Where he once once the center of my universe he has become a burden to me. Do I find him expendable because he’s old and no longer capable of things that he once was? My goodness - Is this how my kids will feel about me when I begin to age and become incontinent? Will they resent having to yell things to me because I can no longer hear? Will I get in trouble if I chew up the wooden blinds because I’m upset that I’m alone in the house? Will they be angry when I need a bath because I’ve rolled in something dead because it is in my nature to do so? Hopefully not. So why am I so impatient with Dudley? I really do love him and I will be crushed – a sobbing mess – when he dies. It will be awful. Mike and I get teary-eyed just talking about the fact that he won’t be around forever. To actually be faced with it will be excruciating for both of us.
When these things cross my mind, I feel guilty for being so intolerant of him and I’ll go and cuddle with him or scratch him or feed him a piece of something he likes. In the time he has left with our family, I want try and be sure he knows every day that he’s my little buddy no matter where he pees or poops. I’ve seen a lot of posts on Facebook recently where people have had to put their dogs to sleep after a long, healthy life. That will be me sooner rather than later and I don’t need to take it for granted.
Sorry to ramble, but I needed to express it. I needed to focus again on my love for that doggie. Plus, I got nervous that something tragic might happen to me and my last words to all of you would be a post about feminine odor. Thought this one was slightly more heartwarming. Here's a nice quote for you:
Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really.
~Agnes Sligh Turnbull
Dudley was seen as part of the package when it came to family gatherings. My sister would bring her husband and her young sons for Christmas. I’d bring Dudley. Cousins would share a bed with their spouses. Dudley and I would spoon in my queen sized bed. On weekends, I’d schedule errands around his schedule. I wouldn’t want to be gone too long at a stretch. I’d make sure it wasn’t too hot when we’d go on walks or play with his racquetballs. I’d talk to him a lot. Sing to him (and change lyrics of songs to make them about him). Cuddle with him a lot. Worry and fuss over him. I loved, loved, loved that dog.
When I started dating my husband, I worried that Dudley would come between us. Mike was not used to having pets in the house - much less a dog curled up in his lap or begging for food at the dinner table. After Mike met me, he confided to one of his friends that he liked me enough to where Dudley was not necessarily a “deal-breaker”. Not a deal-breaker? My sweet Dudley?! Let me tell you something, if anyone’s the deal-breaker it’s YOU! Dudley and I are perfectly happy in our little world and don’t need any disruptions to our little routine, thank you very much.
And Dudley did not like Mike at all, either. Their first few months together were just a disaster. I likened it to a teenager getting a new step-parent and pushing the boundaries with all the angst and resentment they can muster. That was how Dudley behaved. He’d growl and snarl at Mike and whimper so I’d think Mike had just struck him (which he hadn’t… that I’m aware of). He was extremely manipulative like a child would be.
You may think I’m exaggerating but picture this: These two hate each other and then we go to my parents’ house for the dreaded, “this is my new boyfriend” weekend of humiliation and Dudley spends the entire time IN MIKE’S LAP. That’s right. He was perched there every time Mike sat down. Now this was due, in part, to the fact that my parents had several dogs and he was trying to “claim” Mike as his. But it also made it seem to others as though Mike was exaggerating or lying about all of Dudley’s childish (doggish) antics. Thankfully, after a potentially relationship-ending encounter between Dudley and some not-quite-dry cement that Mike got blamed for letting him ruin, Mike and Dudley finally made their peace and actually became little buddies in their own right.
In fact, I dare say that Mike is now more of Dudley’s caregiver than I am. When I was single and used to have to leave him in his crate when I’d go to work, I would tell him that someday he wouldn’t have to sit in a crate all day. That I’d create a better life for him somehow. I felt such guilt about having to leave him in his cramped little crate. Enter Mike who is (or, was at the time) self-employed. Dudley now gets to go to work everyday and earn a living. Mike even made him Director of Employee Complaints. Who could complain around such a cute little face? He was the office mascot. And he and Mike got to spend all day together.
Dudley has always been what you’d call a high-needs dog. From a very early age, he had major separation anxiety. It got so bad that at one point he was Prozac – human Prozac – to try and calm him down. It didn’t even make a dent in his behavior, so I considered just taking it myself so I wouldn’t worry so much about him.
In his younger years, we went through a rough stretch where he was being regularly targeted and attacked by a menacing neighborhood mockingbird. If you’ve ever had a run-in with a mockingbird, you know their chirp immediately. They are aptly named – they truly do mock with their aggressive chirps. This one would fly over to a certain point on my roof and would watch him for a while and then swoop down and fly right into him Kamikaze-style with his beak. It got so bad that as soon as we would hear his chirp, Dudley would tuck his tail and run to me, begging to be rescued and taken inside. In fact, we went though a period where Dudley wouldn’t even go outside to relieve himself anymore because he was so frightened of being hurt. I contacted Animal Control who told me that the bird was probably just protecting his nest and that they’d come over and remove the next once I was able to locate it. Okay, I would think locating the nest would be something Animal Control would do. And anyway, I’ve seen the way this bird treats my dog. I’m not going to go try and piss him off. The problem ended when we left for a week on vacation (Dudley couldn’t come – rental house). I guess the bird got bored with no one to pick on and so he flew off to find his next victim.
So, yes, Dudley has always had some special needs. But, they were cute little quirks. Things that made him uniquely Duds. And I loved him for all of the trouble he was. I still do, although my feelings for him have been changing lately. He is now 14 years old which is hard to imagine as you watch him run, swim and play. He looks much younger and is in great shape. But you are quickly reminded when he… say… pees on the bed. Or…just as an example….poops on the dining room rug so that you can smell a hint of feces as you are eating your savory meal. I know he probably can’t help it, but I already have two children. I don’t need a third one. And he now requires more care than I have the time or inclination to give him. And I feel so guilty for it. He has been my little buddy for 14 years and I am getting so annoyed with him these days. It’s not his fault. It’s his age.
I guess it's his age. but I do look at him differently now than I used to. Where he once once the center of my universe he has become a burden to me. Do I find him expendable because he’s old and no longer capable of things that he once was? My goodness - Is this how my kids will feel about me when I begin to age and become incontinent? Will they resent having to yell things to me because I can no longer hear? Will I get in trouble if I chew up the wooden blinds because I’m upset that I’m alone in the house? Will they be angry when I need a bath because I’ve rolled in something dead because it is in my nature to do so? Hopefully not. So why am I so impatient with Dudley? I really do love him and I will be crushed – a sobbing mess – when he dies. It will be awful. Mike and I get teary-eyed just talking about the fact that he won’t be around forever. To actually be faced with it will be excruciating for both of us.
When these things cross my mind, I feel guilty for being so intolerant of him and I’ll go and cuddle with him or scratch him or feed him a piece of something he likes. In the time he has left with our family, I want try and be sure he knows every day that he’s my little buddy no matter where he pees or poops. I’ve seen a lot of posts on Facebook recently where people have had to put their dogs to sleep after a long, healthy life. That will be me sooner rather than later and I don’t need to take it for granted.
Sorry to ramble, but I needed to express it. I needed to focus again on my love for that doggie. Plus, I got nervous that something tragic might happen to me and my last words to all of you would be a post about feminine odor. Thought this one was slightly more heartwarming. Here's a nice quote for you:
Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really.
~Agnes Sligh Turnbull
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Yep, I'm Going There
*Guys, you probably don’t want to read this. You’ve been warned.
A lot of what this blog is, is a platform for me to use to complain about things I find annoying (which is a considerable – and ever growing - list). There is one thing that has really found it’s way under my skin (pardon the pun that you don’t really “get” now but will after reading on a little further…) lately that I have been reluctant to address but feel I can avoid no longer. That is, the amount and the content of vaginal product advertisements out there right now. Not only are these ads completely degrading and ridiculous, but they paint a picture that the only thing women do is drip, itch, and stink.
In a previous post, I talked about my fear of flying and how I feel like the whole time we are up in the air, the pilot is wrestling with the controls trying desperately to keep the plane in the air when what it really wants to do is crash. These ads make me feel the same way because they would have you believe that women have to constantly work to keep the itch, stench and general not-so-freshness at bay in order to function normally in their lives. Now, I have noted before that I am not a big feminist. I’m not even a small feminist, really. But I do think that these ads are demeaning and I am tired of being portrayed in this way. Let’s walk through a couple of examples, shall we?
First, we have a commercial where a woman is in her wedding dress with her attentive bridesmaids helping put the finishing touches on her hair on the most important day of her life. The very reasoned and comforting voice-over says something to the effect of this being the very last place you would want your feminine itch cream to stop working. My first problem with this ad is they refer to it as “feminine itch” as though that is supposed to make it sound dainty and delicate. You are talking about someone’s vagina itching, how pleasant is that? My second problem is pretty much everything else about the ad. It’s as though this woman could one day be looking at her wedding photo album and instead of recalling the cutting of the cake or the wedding kiss, she’ll be thinking, “I just wish I hadn’t had such an itchy vagina”. I can assure you that vaginal itch NEVER crossed my mind on my wedding day. Not once. Well, maybe once. But certainly not twice.
Another commercial that is loathsome to me is a tampon ad wherein there is a lady in a white bathing suit doing a flip off of the diving board. They pause her mid-spin and leave her there, upside down. She tells you that this is a time she hopes that she can rely on the strength of the tampon currently collecting what must be a geyser in her vagina. As though the tampon will fail and she will look like one of those old vaudeville clowns that shoots seltzer water at the crowd. Again, it leaves the viewer to assume that women are hyper-bleeders and that at any moment one could blow and we’d all be neck-deep in…well, you get the picture. I mean really, why should we even leave the house when it’s “our time of the month”? It’s much too risky for all involved.
Finally, the commercial that really prompted me to cover this topic in the first place is the one for Vagisil Feminine Wash. In the ad, there’s a girl who seems to be headed into a party or something. She very sheepishly opens the door to enter with a look of nervousness on her face. You see, she is self-conscious because of her “feminine odor”. And who wouldn’t be?
Let me ask this: How little are you bathing if you are concerned that merely walking into a room will reveal your palpable vaginal stench? Based on this, the next scene in the commercial should be her walking by and people collapsing into the punchbowl because the pungent smell has overtaken them. And then, her friend – the only one who hasn’t passed out due to years of building up a tolerance to it after repeated exposure – would walk over to her and say, “Sally, you really must do something about your vagina”. I don’t recall how it actually ends because I change the channel every time it comes on.
Come on, is this product really necessary? Can’t the Dove or Dial I’m currently using keep things ship-shape down there? Do I really have to have a separate cleaner for my crotch? Do men have Scrotophyl Penis Wash? No. So, why is this necessary? And who buys this stuff?
Actually, I can tell you who buys these things. And it ain’t pretty. I was in line at the grocery store behind a woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties a few years ago. It was very troubling to me which is why I still remember it. She was purchasing two items. Bananas and douche. The check-out guy was about 18 years old and was probably thinking the same thing I was: this woman is going to go home, eat a banana, and cleanse her vagina. (At least I hope to God that’s what the bananas were for.) I have no idea why this woman felt she needed a good dousing, but apparently she did. Even if I ever needed a product like that – which, I haven’t so far after 37 years of reasonably decent hygienic practices – I would never buy it. I wouldn’t want someone to be pondering just what in the hell was wrong down there as he or she was ringing it up.
Sorry to be so gross and so negative. I just get riled up about these things. Plus, I get that way when I’m about to start my period. Everyone, seek cover.
A lot of what this blog is, is a platform for me to use to complain about things I find annoying (which is a considerable – and ever growing - list). There is one thing that has really found it’s way under my skin (pardon the pun that you don’t really “get” now but will after reading on a little further…) lately that I have been reluctant to address but feel I can avoid no longer. That is, the amount and the content of vaginal product advertisements out there right now. Not only are these ads completely degrading and ridiculous, but they paint a picture that the only thing women do is drip, itch, and stink.
In a previous post, I talked about my fear of flying and how I feel like the whole time we are up in the air, the pilot is wrestling with the controls trying desperately to keep the plane in the air when what it really wants to do is crash. These ads make me feel the same way because they would have you believe that women have to constantly work to keep the itch, stench and general not-so-freshness at bay in order to function normally in their lives. Now, I have noted before that I am not a big feminist. I’m not even a small feminist, really. But I do think that these ads are demeaning and I am tired of being portrayed in this way. Let’s walk through a couple of examples, shall we?
First, we have a commercial where a woman is in her wedding dress with her attentive bridesmaids helping put the finishing touches on her hair on the most important day of her life. The very reasoned and comforting voice-over says something to the effect of this being the very last place you would want your feminine itch cream to stop working. My first problem with this ad is they refer to it as “feminine itch” as though that is supposed to make it sound dainty and delicate. You are talking about someone’s vagina itching, how pleasant is that? My second problem is pretty much everything else about the ad. It’s as though this woman could one day be looking at her wedding photo album and instead of recalling the cutting of the cake or the wedding kiss, she’ll be thinking, “I just wish I hadn’t had such an itchy vagina”. I can assure you that vaginal itch NEVER crossed my mind on my wedding day. Not once. Well, maybe once. But certainly not twice.
Another commercial that is loathsome to me is a tampon ad wherein there is a lady in a white bathing suit doing a flip off of the diving board. They pause her mid-spin and leave her there, upside down. She tells you that this is a time she hopes that she can rely on the strength of the tampon currently collecting what must be a geyser in her vagina. As though the tampon will fail and she will look like one of those old vaudeville clowns that shoots seltzer water at the crowd. Again, it leaves the viewer to assume that women are hyper-bleeders and that at any moment one could blow and we’d all be neck-deep in…well, you get the picture. I mean really, why should we even leave the house when it’s “our time of the month”? It’s much too risky for all involved.
Finally, the commercial that really prompted me to cover this topic in the first place is the one for Vagisil Feminine Wash. In the ad, there’s a girl who seems to be headed into a party or something. She very sheepishly opens the door to enter with a look of nervousness on her face. You see, she is self-conscious because of her “feminine odor”. And who wouldn’t be?
Let me ask this: How little are you bathing if you are concerned that merely walking into a room will reveal your palpable vaginal stench? Based on this, the next scene in the commercial should be her walking by and people collapsing into the punchbowl because the pungent smell has overtaken them. And then, her friend – the only one who hasn’t passed out due to years of building up a tolerance to it after repeated exposure – would walk over to her and say, “Sally, you really must do something about your vagina”. I don’t recall how it actually ends because I change the channel every time it comes on.
Come on, is this product really necessary? Can’t the Dove or Dial I’m currently using keep things ship-shape down there? Do I really have to have a separate cleaner for my crotch? Do men have Scrotophyl Penis Wash? No. So, why is this necessary? And who buys this stuff?
Actually, I can tell you who buys these things. And it ain’t pretty. I was in line at the grocery store behind a woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties a few years ago. It was very troubling to me which is why I still remember it. She was purchasing two items. Bananas and douche. The check-out guy was about 18 years old and was probably thinking the same thing I was: this woman is going to go home, eat a banana, and cleanse her vagina. (At least I hope to God that’s what the bananas were for.) I have no idea why this woman felt she needed a good dousing, but apparently she did. Even if I ever needed a product like that – which, I haven’t so far after 37 years of reasonably decent hygienic practices – I would never buy it. I wouldn’t want someone to be pondering just what in the hell was wrong down there as he or she was ringing it up.
Sorry to be so gross and so negative. I just get riled up about these things. Plus, I get that way when I’m about to start my period. Everyone, seek cover.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Kneel Before Zod
For those of you who do not recognize the title of this post, you are either A. too young; B. too cool; or C. both too young and too cool. I however, know exactly what it means since my sister and I proudly work it into at least one conversation every other week. It is a very powerful line from *one of the best action movies ever made, Superman II. I use it as my title today in order to prove how awesome I am and to engage in a little foreshadowing for how my kids will turn out.
Yes, I am slowly ruining my children. I am exposing them to things that I think are funny or interesting or cool and I see them emulating that and it scares the crap out of me. You see, I am almost 38 years old. I can go around quoting Superman II and it could be perceived as ** "funny" or "hipster" or "hey, she's SO cool she can quote a lame-ass movie and still be okay with herself". But if my kids watch, say, *** one of the all-time greatest musical movies ever - The Pirates of Penzance - and walk around singing the songs, the other kids will simply think they are weird. And will most likely stop playing with them.
You know, the older we get, the more comfortable we are in our skin. We know ourselves better. We care less what others think of us. We are fine with our little weird tastes, habits and idiosyncrasies. We are even fine if someone else thinks we're weird because - HEY - maybe they're weird. They don't sing folk songs by The Kingston Trio at the top of their lungs in their car??? What's their problem?!! But when we are kids, we want desperately to fit in. Even before we understand what it means to fit in, we want acceptance from others. We want the same bow so-and-so was wearing in her hair. We don't want to be ****the last person picked for the kickball team. We want others to like us and think we're neat.
That's where this issue with my children begins to get complicated. You see, I have a fairly juvenile sense of humor. I will do anything to make my girls laugh even if I have to talk about boogers and poo-poo to do it. You know they march into their school and tell people what their mother has taught them. They don't dare mention that I also taught them how snap their fingers or to make a ponytail. It's the idiotic things I do that most likely make it to the playground. I dance around like a robot when I give them their weight-gain shake they have to drink so they won't be forever saddled with my childhood body. They laugh. I continue to do it. They have picked up on this little routine and now dance the same way I do. They don't realize they are being taught to dance by a complete moron.
I like Bugs Bunny cartoons. They now watch them, and quote them, religiously. They are really funny - to people in their 60s. Seriously, how many kids nowadays watch those cartoons? Few if any. They are classic. Utter ridiculousness. My sister and I still quote the silly lines to this day. You know what kids are quoting today? Fart jokes. But, I won't let my kids say "fart". We don't fart in the McCallie household. We toot. All of their friends can say "fart". My kids want desperately to say "fart" and will even say it in a hushed tone so I can't hear it. But they know they aren't supposed to and so they usually go with "toot". I fear the labeling of them as weirdos has already begun.
Getting back to Pirates of Penzance, Kate has now proudly proclaimed on several different occasions that this is her favorite movie. MY GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE TO HER? I love the movie - grew up watching it - and the music is great. And yes, my sister and I still quote it. But no ***** self-respecting person admits this. And certainly no child should admit to this. I am so embarrassed for her that I have begun a process of manipulation to convince her that Despicable Me is actually her favorite. I think it's rated PG (I'm wanting her to be the "bad girl") and it has Steve Carell in it. What could be cooler than that? But no, she insists that Pirates of Penzance is her favorite. And really, what 5 year old wouldn't love the song stylings of Mr. Rex Smith and the incomparable Angela Landsbury? Kevin Kline and Linda Rondstadt are also in it which ******slightly raises the cool factor, but geez, it's still Angela Landsbury! I don't think my kids could identify Justin Beiber or even Hannah Montana. But that lady from Murder She Wrote? They know her. Rex Smith, who hosted Solid Gold in the 80s alongside Marilyn McCoo? Yep, they know him. Kate sings the songs and discusses the various predicaments of the characters all the time. You know the kids on the playground are thinking, "who the hell is the Pirate King?".
And then there's Meg. She is slightly better off because she doesn't emulate things that I do to the degree that her sister does. But I'm afraid I have warped her a bit, too. A good example is this coming Halloween. My kids have been talking about what costumes they want to wear for months now. They both love the movie Annie (Starring Aileen Quinn. You know, Aileen Quinn. Hello? Anyone?) so I suggested to Meg that she go trick or treating as Annie. She happily agreed and now there is no talking her out of it. That's great and all, except it was totally my idea... from 1982!! Other kids will be going as Jessie form Toy Story with their hair braided and their cute cowgirl boots. Other kids will dress up in a pretty dress with long, white gloves and a tiara and go as a princess. Other kids will wear pretty, sheer wings and have glitter in their hair and go as a fairy. Meg will be clomping around the neighborhood wearing a big, red afro.
So what are some other things my children have to *******look forward to? Well, my sister and I happily quote Superman II (as well as the original Superman of course!), The Pirates of Penzance, Looney Tunes, Annie, and scores of other embarrassing, ridiculous movies pretty much EVERY time were speak to or see each other. We do quote a lot of Saturday Night Live, but before you go thinking that somehow ********redeems us, you should know that a lot of it is from the early 80s when people like Tim Kazurinsky were on. (In case you are wondering, her kids are probably no better off than my own. My apologies to them as well as to my kids who are doomed to turn out just like me.)
While I am doling out apologies, I obviously owe a big one to my sister whom I have outed as being as gigantic a geek as I am. I will have to now throw myself at her mercy. I hope she doesn't hit me with a stern, "KNEEEEEL BEFORE ZODDDDD"!!!!
Anyway, if you or your children come in contact with either of my girls, please do your best to undo some of the monumental damage I have done. Please put them in touch with the right movies, music, dancing and popular culture for a child their age. Please intervene as you see fit and they will thank you for it one day when they realize they have forgotten all of the words to "A Rollicking Band of Pirates We".
* No one has ever called Superman II one of the best action, or any other type of movie, ever made.
** It is actually perceived as none of these.
*** The Pirates of Penzance has never been labeled as one of the all-time greatest movie musicals ever. Ever.
**** Say hello to the last person picked to be on the kickball team. :(
***** I have no self-respect.
****** Not nearly enough.
******* Dread.
******** As if anything could.
Yes, I am slowly ruining my children. I am exposing them to things that I think are funny or interesting or cool and I see them emulating that and it scares the crap out of me. You see, I am almost 38 years old. I can go around quoting Superman II and it could be perceived as ** "funny" or "hipster" or "hey, she's SO cool she can quote a lame-ass movie and still be okay with herself". But if my kids watch, say, *** one of the all-time greatest musical movies ever - The Pirates of Penzance - and walk around singing the songs, the other kids will simply think they are weird. And will most likely stop playing with them.
You know, the older we get, the more comfortable we are in our skin. We know ourselves better. We care less what others think of us. We are fine with our little weird tastes, habits and idiosyncrasies. We are even fine if someone else thinks we're weird because - HEY - maybe they're weird. They don't sing folk songs by The Kingston Trio at the top of their lungs in their car??? What's their problem?!! But when we are kids, we want desperately to fit in. Even before we understand what it means to fit in, we want acceptance from others. We want the same bow so-and-so was wearing in her hair. We don't want to be ****the last person picked for the kickball team. We want others to like us and think we're neat.
That's where this issue with my children begins to get complicated. You see, I have a fairly juvenile sense of humor. I will do anything to make my girls laugh even if I have to talk about boogers and poo-poo to do it. You know they march into their school and tell people what their mother has taught them. They don't dare mention that I also taught them how snap their fingers or to make a ponytail. It's the idiotic things I do that most likely make it to the playground. I dance around like a robot when I give them their weight-gain shake they have to drink so they won't be forever saddled with my childhood body. They laugh. I continue to do it. They have picked up on this little routine and now dance the same way I do. They don't realize they are being taught to dance by a complete moron.
I like Bugs Bunny cartoons. They now watch them, and quote them, religiously. They are really funny - to people in their 60s. Seriously, how many kids nowadays watch those cartoons? Few if any. They are classic. Utter ridiculousness. My sister and I still quote the silly lines to this day. You know what kids are quoting today? Fart jokes. But, I won't let my kids say "fart". We don't fart in the McCallie household. We toot. All of their friends can say "fart". My kids want desperately to say "fart" and will even say it in a hushed tone so I can't hear it. But they know they aren't supposed to and so they usually go with "toot". I fear the labeling of them as weirdos has already begun.
Getting back to Pirates of Penzance, Kate has now proudly proclaimed on several different occasions that this is her favorite movie. MY GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE TO HER? I love the movie - grew up watching it - and the music is great. And yes, my sister and I still quote it. But no ***** self-respecting person admits this. And certainly no child should admit to this. I am so embarrassed for her that I have begun a process of manipulation to convince her that Despicable Me is actually her favorite. I think it's rated PG (I'm wanting her to be the "bad girl") and it has Steve Carell in it. What could be cooler than that? But no, she insists that Pirates of Penzance is her favorite. And really, what 5 year old wouldn't love the song stylings of Mr. Rex Smith and the incomparable Angela Landsbury? Kevin Kline and Linda Rondstadt are also in it which ******slightly raises the cool factor, but geez, it's still Angela Landsbury! I don't think my kids could identify Justin Beiber or even Hannah Montana. But that lady from Murder She Wrote? They know her. Rex Smith, who hosted Solid Gold in the 80s alongside Marilyn McCoo? Yep, they know him. Kate sings the songs and discusses the various predicaments of the characters all the time. You know the kids on the playground are thinking, "who the hell is the Pirate King?".
And then there's Meg. She is slightly better off because she doesn't emulate things that I do to the degree that her sister does. But I'm afraid I have warped her a bit, too. A good example is this coming Halloween. My kids have been talking about what costumes they want to wear for months now. They both love the movie Annie (Starring Aileen Quinn. You know, Aileen Quinn. Hello? Anyone?) so I suggested to Meg that she go trick or treating as Annie. She happily agreed and now there is no talking her out of it. That's great and all, except it was totally my idea... from 1982!! Other kids will be going as Jessie form Toy Story with their hair braided and their cute cowgirl boots. Other kids will dress up in a pretty dress with long, white gloves and a tiara and go as a princess. Other kids will wear pretty, sheer wings and have glitter in their hair and go as a fairy. Meg will be clomping around the neighborhood wearing a big, red afro.
So what are some other things my children have to *******look forward to? Well, my sister and I happily quote Superman II (as well as the original Superman of course!), The Pirates of Penzance, Looney Tunes, Annie, and scores of other embarrassing, ridiculous movies pretty much EVERY time were speak to or see each other. We do quote a lot of Saturday Night Live, but before you go thinking that somehow ********redeems us, you should know that a lot of it is from the early 80s when people like Tim Kazurinsky were on. (In case you are wondering, her kids are probably no better off than my own. My apologies to them as well as to my kids who are doomed to turn out just like me.)
While I am doling out apologies, I obviously owe a big one to my sister whom I have outed as being as gigantic a geek as I am. I will have to now throw myself at her mercy. I hope she doesn't hit me with a stern, "KNEEEEEL BEFORE ZODDDDD"!!!!
Anyway, if you or your children come in contact with either of my girls, please do your best to undo some of the monumental damage I have done. Please put them in touch with the right movies, music, dancing and popular culture for a child their age. Please intervene as you see fit and they will thank you for it one day when they realize they have forgotten all of the words to "A Rollicking Band of Pirates We".
* No one has ever called Superman II one of the best action, or any other type of movie, ever made.
** It is actually perceived as none of these.
*** The Pirates of Penzance has never been labeled as one of the all-time greatest movie musicals ever. Ever.
**** Say hello to the last person picked to be on the kickball team. :(
***** I have no self-respect.
****** Not nearly enough.
******* Dread.
******** As if anything could.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Questionnaire
The other day I was flipping channels as I often do when I should be cleaning my house or interacting with my children. I came across Inside The Actors Studio – a program which I love hosted by James Lipton whom I also love. Mr. Lipton has always seemed to be a neat guy, but it wasn’t until his hilarious turns on Arrested Development (R.I.P., sniff) and Late Night with Conan O’Brien (call me, Sweet CoCo!!) that I discovered how hilarious he is. Of course, many people only know him from Will Ferrell’s spot-on impersonation of him on Saturday Night Live, but I’ve watched his show several times over the years when he’s had interesting guests appear.
My favorite part of his show is not the dreaded Q&A part at the end. I cringe whenever they hand a microphone to someone to ask someone else who is infinitely more intelligent than they are a question. My husband and I went to a John Irving appearance and reading at the Ryman Hall in Nashville a few years back (gosh, that makes me sound so intellectual and stuff) and he (my husband, not John Irving) and I both wanted to just crawl under the seat every time some tattooed, pierced goth girl got up and asked him what advice he’d give a new writer starting out. I don’t know why, I just think the questions people ask end up sounding juvenile and poser-y (it’s a word, I swear). I feel the same way when the ITAS students introduce themselves (I’m a third-year film student…) and ask questions about “the craft”, etc. I don’t want to listen to them. I want to listen to Kevin Spacey, Morgan Freeman and Tina Fey.
No, my favorite part of the show comes right before the Q&A starts. It is a 10 question questionnaire tailored after the Proust Questionnaire (whatever the hell that is). You know each guest has rehearsed his or her answers to these questions prior to coming on the show because Lipton asks them on every episode. They always have these profound answers – actors can be so smug. So, it’s a little annoying that their answers are not spontaneous, but I still like listening to them. I have often wondered how I would respond to the questions. I don’t think I’ll ever be on ITAS for a lot of reasons the main one being that I am not a famous actor. But that doesn’t mean I can’t answer these questions for you, my adoring fan(s). So here goes. And I haven’t rehearsed these answers, I swear!!!
Q1. What is your favorite word?
A1. My favorite word is most likely obsolete by now. It is tocadiscos, the Spanish word for record player. (If you look at the word, it is comprised of two separate words – toca, which comes from tocar which means to play. Then there’s discos, which are records or, I guess now, CDs.) I like this word simply because of how much fun it is to pronounce. If you don’t lose about a tablespoon of saliva when you say it, you’re not trying hard enough. And I always say it as a plural when I say it (which admittedly isn’t very often) which is los tocadiscos. Here is how you want to pronounce it:
First, “Los”: You should drop your chin a little bit and kind of form a square shape with your mouth. Your eyebrows should be furrowed (you’re not angry, you’re just getting a good, guttural drawl going) and your teeth should be showing. You reach deep within yourself and say "lllloooossssss!" And you say it with conviction.
Then there’s “tocadiscos”: You still have the furrowed brows (those are important). The Spanish “T” can sometimes sound like a “TH” and you need to try and get somewhere between the T and the TH when you start off. It packs more punch that way. So, with your jaw semi-clenched, you say “th/tohka”. Of course, following the toca is the best part – the discos! With a little more emphasis than is necessary, you launch into the deeeeeskohs part. It is important to continue to form your mouth into a square during this part as well. And you should try and say it fast. It just comes out sounding more fierce if you say it fast.
So there it is. My favorite word. Tocadiscos.
Q2. What is your least favorite word?
A2. Usually when a celebrity responds to this question, he or she will say the typical bleeding-heart “oppression”, “suffering” or “intolerance”. Mine isn’t quite that deep I’m sorry to say. No, my least favorite word is smear. I just think it sounds gross. Nothing pleasant is ever smeared. If I write a book someday, I’ll never describe someone smearing lipstick on her plump, supple lips. She will have to apply it. Or, God forbid, simply put it on. No smearing. Yuck.
A runner-up would be haberdasher. This isn’t an offensive or even gross word. I just don’t like it. It just sounds so Old English. So snooty. And where does a haberdasher work? A haberdashery? I guess so. I don’t like it.
Q3. What turns you on?
A3. I don’t think this question is meant to have a sexual connotation so, much to your relief, I will not answer it from that perspective. Instead, I’ll assume it is getting at the things in life that interest you and/or make you happy. So, what turns me on is humor. A sense of humor says so much about a person. One, it says that you don’t take yourself too seriously which means you’re generally pleasant to be around. Two, it says that you are reasonably intelligent. People who don’t “get the joke” are not clever or intuitive and so they are not interesting. Three, it makes you more fun to be around than people who aren’t humorous. I’ve met people who aren’t funny. There's a word for people like that. Bland. Can you imagine not laughing everyday? What do these people talk about? Who falls in love with them? What stories do they tell?
Everyone in my family (husband, children, parents, siblings and extended family) is funny. Most of my friends are funny. That’s not an accident. I purposely seek funny people out with whom to surround myself. Life is too hard and too short not to find reasons to laugh.
Q4. What turns you off?
A4. Pretty much all of my previous posts have covered this. My quick answers would be Reality TV, Katherine Heigl, Donald Trump’s hair, Atlanta traffic, anyone with the last name Kardashian, Organic carrot juice with fresh ground ginger, stupid songs, and Kate Gosselin.
Q5. What sound or noise do you love?
A5. I love the sound of my kids cracking up. We laugh a lot in our house. We act silly. We dance around. But when my kids get really tickled at something and just get into a laugh of complete abandon, it cracks me up and warms my heart.
That’s the nice answer. The weird one is that I love the sound of a good congestion-y cough. Love it. I realize that the sound I am hearing is the loosening of phlegm, but the heart wants what it wants. I get so disgusted every time I have one of those dry, irritating coughs. What’s the point? If I can’t hear that exquisite crackling sound it is an utter disappointment. Kids get those good, wet coughs. As much as I hate for my kids to feel bad, I do enjoy listening to that rasp. Love it. Love it. Love it.
Q6. What sound or noise do you hate?
A6. A dry cough, of course. Just a total letdown. But also, a really thick New York accent. Nothing against NY. It’s just such an ugly dialect. I know people think a Southern accent makes people sound stupid (which it does and which many of us are), but a Bronx-ian accent makes someone sound like a shrill, know-it-all, obnoxious ass. Mike and I were in Chicago walking down a crowded street behind these two ladies who were obviously from NY. They were talking about some girl named Ellie or Allie (couldn’t really tell). At one point, one of the ladies, disgusted with the conversation, turned to her friend and said, “Well, theeeaat’s just EEEAAllie. She’s sucha howahh.” (For those of you who need a translation – That’s just E/Allie. She’s such a whore.) Not only is the accent grating, but people outside of the south also are a lot louder and talk more freely than we do here. If I were calling someone a whore, I would do it under my breath and not broadcast it so that everyone on Michigan Avenue could hear me. I would say it, of course. I’m not above that. But I would say it so only my friend would be able to hear it. And since when does the word “whore” have two syllables?!
Q7. What is your favorite curse word?
A7. Motherfucker. Hands down. And I used to NEVER say the “F” word. I thought it was the worst word you could say. Which it is – at least, one of the worst. I thought it was so dirty and so disgusting. And then you add the “mother” to it and it just completely morphs into the worst and most demeaning put-down ever. But, I’m afraid this word has crept into my vocabulary over the years because a few of my friends were able to show me the joys of using it. It just perfectly sums up what you need to say. I use it as an expression if something isn’t going my way. Sometimes I’ll refer to someone as that but usually only if I am joking. Like, I’ll refer to someone’s grandfather as that. It just sounds hilarious to accuse an 87 year old person of being a motherfucker.
I don’t know where the word came from or how it first got its start. You have to think that when a language is developed, one person uses a word and then other people hear it and like it and so they start using it. I’m not sure who the first person was to use the word motherfucker. I imagine it was probably a caveman who was trying to bang out a wheel with some primitive tools and hit his thumb and said, “Well Mo-ther-Fucker!”.
Q8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A8. A writer for SNL, Conan, or 30 Rock. How awesome would it be to be part of that synergy? Can you imagine how much fun those people have? Can you imagine sitting around a room and coming up with a concept and then playing off of each other trying to make it better and funnier. (I’m not at all sure that this is how the writing process takes place but in my mind, this is how it goes.) That is what I do every day of my life. Wouldn’t it be awesome to get paid for doing that? I’m not funny on my own. I need people to play off of. I need a good audience. That’s why all of my friends are funny. That’s why I enjoy being with my family. They make me funnier. I would love to be funny and write funny things for a living.
Q9. What profession would you not like to do?
A9. Anything in the medical profession; particularly nursing. Nurses have to wipe bottoms and clean up vomit. I do that now for two little girls that I love more than life itself. I would never, ever want to do this for a stranger. And next time you’re in Wal-Mart or the airport or anyplace where large numbers of people gather, take a look around. These are the bottoms nurses are having to wipe. I know that I keep my bottom relatively clean. I can’t say with any confidence that the dude standing in line in front of me at the DMV with 2/3 of his crack peeking out from above the waistband of his pants does the same.
Q10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
A10. This is the hardest one for me to answer. I really don’t know what I’d want Him to say. I’d need to start off by saying, “Sorry I wasn’t really sure this place existed”. I’m afraid He would say, “This is a mix-up. You’re supposed to join the rest of your friends and family who have gone before you in hell.” But, if it does exist and I was forgiven for having doubts, I’d hope He would say, “You were a good person, a good wife and a good mother and you made people feel good about themselves.” I hope I treat people with kindness and sensitivity and help them to laugh. I hope it makes a difference to the people I have in my life. I hope He says, “The people in your life whom you loved, loved you in return”. I also hope He shows me over to where my loved ones have been since they’ve been there. I’d hug my Gannie first.
So there’s my list. It was harder than I thought it would be which is why I am convinced now that all of the guests who come on the show practice it over and over before their appearance. Next time a hoity-toity actor gives a neatly thought out answer, I’ll know that they likely spent hours going over their responses in order to perfect them and sound pompous. Those motherfuckers.
My favorite part of his show is not the dreaded Q&A part at the end. I cringe whenever they hand a microphone to someone to ask someone else who is infinitely more intelligent than they are a question. My husband and I went to a John Irving appearance and reading at the Ryman Hall in Nashville a few years back (gosh, that makes me sound so intellectual and stuff) and he (my husband, not John Irving) and I both wanted to just crawl under the seat every time some tattooed, pierced goth girl got up and asked him what advice he’d give a new writer starting out. I don’t know why, I just think the questions people ask end up sounding juvenile and poser-y (it’s a word, I swear). I feel the same way when the ITAS students introduce themselves (I’m a third-year film student…) and ask questions about “the craft”, etc. I don’t want to listen to them. I want to listen to Kevin Spacey, Morgan Freeman and Tina Fey.
No, my favorite part of the show comes right before the Q&A starts. It is a 10 question questionnaire tailored after the Proust Questionnaire (whatever the hell that is). You know each guest has rehearsed his or her answers to these questions prior to coming on the show because Lipton asks them on every episode. They always have these profound answers – actors can be so smug. So, it’s a little annoying that their answers are not spontaneous, but I still like listening to them. I have often wondered how I would respond to the questions. I don’t think I’ll ever be on ITAS for a lot of reasons the main one being that I am not a famous actor. But that doesn’t mean I can’t answer these questions for you, my adoring fan(s). So here goes. And I haven’t rehearsed these answers, I swear!!!
Q1. What is your favorite word?
A1. My favorite word is most likely obsolete by now. It is tocadiscos, the Spanish word for record player. (If you look at the word, it is comprised of two separate words – toca, which comes from tocar which means to play. Then there’s discos, which are records or, I guess now, CDs.) I like this word simply because of how much fun it is to pronounce. If you don’t lose about a tablespoon of saliva when you say it, you’re not trying hard enough. And I always say it as a plural when I say it (which admittedly isn’t very often) which is los tocadiscos. Here is how you want to pronounce it:
First, “Los”: You should drop your chin a little bit and kind of form a square shape with your mouth. Your eyebrows should be furrowed (you’re not angry, you’re just getting a good, guttural drawl going) and your teeth should be showing. You reach deep within yourself and say "lllloooossssss!" And you say it with conviction.
Then there’s “tocadiscos”: You still have the furrowed brows (those are important). The Spanish “T” can sometimes sound like a “TH” and you need to try and get somewhere between the T and the TH when you start off. It packs more punch that way. So, with your jaw semi-clenched, you say “th/tohka”. Of course, following the toca is the best part – the discos! With a little more emphasis than is necessary, you launch into the deeeeeskohs part. It is important to continue to form your mouth into a square during this part as well. And you should try and say it fast. It just comes out sounding more fierce if you say it fast.
So there it is. My favorite word. Tocadiscos.
Q2. What is your least favorite word?
A2. Usually when a celebrity responds to this question, he or she will say the typical bleeding-heart “oppression”, “suffering” or “intolerance”. Mine isn’t quite that deep I’m sorry to say. No, my least favorite word is smear. I just think it sounds gross. Nothing pleasant is ever smeared. If I write a book someday, I’ll never describe someone smearing lipstick on her plump, supple lips. She will have to apply it. Or, God forbid, simply put it on. No smearing. Yuck.
A runner-up would be haberdasher. This isn’t an offensive or even gross word. I just don’t like it. It just sounds so Old English. So snooty. And where does a haberdasher work? A haberdashery? I guess so. I don’t like it.
Q3. What turns you on?
A3. I don’t think this question is meant to have a sexual connotation so, much to your relief, I will not answer it from that perspective. Instead, I’ll assume it is getting at the things in life that interest you and/or make you happy. So, what turns me on is humor. A sense of humor says so much about a person. One, it says that you don’t take yourself too seriously which means you’re generally pleasant to be around. Two, it says that you are reasonably intelligent. People who don’t “get the joke” are not clever or intuitive and so they are not interesting. Three, it makes you more fun to be around than people who aren’t humorous. I’ve met people who aren’t funny. There's a word for people like that. Bland. Can you imagine not laughing everyday? What do these people talk about? Who falls in love with them? What stories do they tell?
Everyone in my family (husband, children, parents, siblings and extended family) is funny. Most of my friends are funny. That’s not an accident. I purposely seek funny people out with whom to surround myself. Life is too hard and too short not to find reasons to laugh.
Q4. What turns you off?
A4. Pretty much all of my previous posts have covered this. My quick answers would be Reality TV, Katherine Heigl, Donald Trump’s hair, Atlanta traffic, anyone with the last name Kardashian, Organic carrot juice with fresh ground ginger, stupid songs, and Kate Gosselin.
Q5. What sound or noise do you love?
A5. I love the sound of my kids cracking up. We laugh a lot in our house. We act silly. We dance around. But when my kids get really tickled at something and just get into a laugh of complete abandon, it cracks me up and warms my heart.
That’s the nice answer. The weird one is that I love the sound of a good congestion-y cough. Love it. I realize that the sound I am hearing is the loosening of phlegm, but the heart wants what it wants. I get so disgusted every time I have one of those dry, irritating coughs. What’s the point? If I can’t hear that exquisite crackling sound it is an utter disappointment. Kids get those good, wet coughs. As much as I hate for my kids to feel bad, I do enjoy listening to that rasp. Love it. Love it. Love it.
Q6. What sound or noise do you hate?
A6. A dry cough, of course. Just a total letdown. But also, a really thick New York accent. Nothing against NY. It’s just such an ugly dialect. I know people think a Southern accent makes people sound stupid (which it does and which many of us are), but a Bronx-ian accent makes someone sound like a shrill, know-it-all, obnoxious ass. Mike and I were in Chicago walking down a crowded street behind these two ladies who were obviously from NY. They were talking about some girl named Ellie or Allie (couldn’t really tell). At one point, one of the ladies, disgusted with the conversation, turned to her friend and said, “Well, theeeaat’s just EEEAAllie. She’s sucha howahh.” (For those of you who need a translation – That’s just E/Allie. She’s such a whore.) Not only is the accent grating, but people outside of the south also are a lot louder and talk more freely than we do here. If I were calling someone a whore, I would do it under my breath and not broadcast it so that everyone on Michigan Avenue could hear me. I would say it, of course. I’m not above that. But I would say it so only my friend would be able to hear it. And since when does the word “whore” have two syllables?!
Q7. What is your favorite curse word?
A7. Motherfucker. Hands down. And I used to NEVER say the “F” word. I thought it was the worst word you could say. Which it is – at least, one of the worst. I thought it was so dirty and so disgusting. And then you add the “mother” to it and it just completely morphs into the worst and most demeaning put-down ever. But, I’m afraid this word has crept into my vocabulary over the years because a few of my friends were able to show me the joys of using it. It just perfectly sums up what you need to say. I use it as an expression if something isn’t going my way. Sometimes I’ll refer to someone as that but usually only if I am joking. Like, I’ll refer to someone’s grandfather as that. It just sounds hilarious to accuse an 87 year old person of being a motherfucker.
I don’t know where the word came from or how it first got its start. You have to think that when a language is developed, one person uses a word and then other people hear it and like it and so they start using it. I’m not sure who the first person was to use the word motherfucker. I imagine it was probably a caveman who was trying to bang out a wheel with some primitive tools and hit his thumb and said, “Well Mo-ther-Fucker!”.
Q8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A8. A writer for SNL, Conan, or 30 Rock. How awesome would it be to be part of that synergy? Can you imagine how much fun those people have? Can you imagine sitting around a room and coming up with a concept and then playing off of each other trying to make it better and funnier. (I’m not at all sure that this is how the writing process takes place but in my mind, this is how it goes.) That is what I do every day of my life. Wouldn’t it be awesome to get paid for doing that? I’m not funny on my own. I need people to play off of. I need a good audience. That’s why all of my friends are funny. That’s why I enjoy being with my family. They make me funnier. I would love to be funny and write funny things for a living.
Q9. What profession would you not like to do?
A9. Anything in the medical profession; particularly nursing. Nurses have to wipe bottoms and clean up vomit. I do that now for two little girls that I love more than life itself. I would never, ever want to do this for a stranger. And next time you’re in Wal-Mart or the airport or anyplace where large numbers of people gather, take a look around. These are the bottoms nurses are having to wipe. I know that I keep my bottom relatively clean. I can’t say with any confidence that the dude standing in line in front of me at the DMV with 2/3 of his crack peeking out from above the waistband of his pants does the same.
Q10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
A10. This is the hardest one for me to answer. I really don’t know what I’d want Him to say. I’d need to start off by saying, “Sorry I wasn’t really sure this place existed”. I’m afraid He would say, “This is a mix-up. You’re supposed to join the rest of your friends and family who have gone before you in hell.” But, if it does exist and I was forgiven for having doubts, I’d hope He would say, “You were a good person, a good wife and a good mother and you made people feel good about themselves.” I hope I treat people with kindness and sensitivity and help them to laugh. I hope it makes a difference to the people I have in my life. I hope He says, “The people in your life whom you loved, loved you in return”. I also hope He shows me over to where my loved ones have been since they’ve been there. I’d hug my Gannie first.
So there’s my list. It was harder than I thought it would be which is why I am convinced now that all of the guests who come on the show practice it over and over before their appearance. Next time a hoity-toity actor gives a neatly thought out answer, I’ll know that they likely spent hours going over their responses in order to perfect them and sound pompous. Those motherfuckers.
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