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
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