Aight

It’s the end of the year and there’s a piece of writing from 2010 that I haven’t posted on my blog yet. Some say it was my best work in 2010. I’m not sure about that. It was requested by a few friends that I post it, but I was reluctant and I am still not 100% sold on it. The trouble is it is at the expense of someone else, although he deserved it. It also was a bit out of character for me,although, I can be a bit of a bulldog when someone messes with my family. Well, maybe not a bulldog, but at least a shih-tzu with a twist in my tail. There are two other reasons, one is that there’s a back story to the whole thing and the other is that it is lengthy. Now that I have either got your curiosity up or totally turned you off to this blog, I will begin the back story.

Five or six years ago Mike started a Nascar pool. Similar to a fantasy football league, you pick your “team” at the beginning of the race season and then follow them until the season ends. For those of you who, like me, don’t know much about Nascar, the season starts in February and ends in November. Each week Mike tallies up the points and then emails them out. This process is a lot of math, double checking and entering things into a spreadsheet correctly. It’s time consuming, but has gotten a little more streamlined as Mike has become more computer literate over time. The pool has grown from about 20 people to about 66 and we don’t even know all of the people participating at this point. Mike collects the money at the beginning and then gives out a cash prize (based on some percentages) to the top ten people in the end. He doesn’t keep any money for himself, makes no commission, doesn’t charge extra, etc. etc. So it’s just for fun.

This summer as Mike was taking a summer class (or two I can't remember), hanging with the family, doing house projects etc, he fell behind in sending out the results. Now of course, if you really want to know how your team is doing you could go to NASCAR. com and add all your drivers points together yourself, but Mike tries to get these things out in a timely manner. Again, this summer Mike was a little behind (not four weeks as the accusation states) and that’s where our story really begins.

A certain member of the pool, we shall call him JH, who we don’t know at all, was very unhappy that Mike was behind. Instead of emailing and asking politely what was going on he sent an email out to every single person participating in the pool. And so I now present his email, Mike’s response, his response and then my response. Before I do I want to say there were a lot of other emails that supported Mike and no one stepped forward to support this other guy. I kind of felt bad for him in a way, but he brought it on himself. Since I am leaving his name out of this and since it is for your entertainment purposes, I’m not going to feel bad about posting this. And so I present the “Aight” emails. That was the subject line in JH’s original email. Think Alright, with a southern twang to it.
JH:
OK,
This is just me talking here, and, I have had a few.....so....here it goes......

The Points need to be shown every week. I am tired of waiting 4 weeks to see where I stand! Is it that Hard? if it is, then there needs to be someone else appointed to compute the race. If someone is that busy to where they cannot due the job of a " Commish" then they should not collect money! start showing the Points after each race.....is it that Hard?????? Send me the program and I will upload the race results every weekend.....dang!!

Mike’s cordial and, I think, kind response:

I've had a few myself, so here I go....

Sorry about the delay in getting the past two weeks of results out. But life takes precedence over this "game". It is transfer season, vacation season, and final exam season in my household. Ritdc1 and I created this pool 5 years ago because it makes following the races more fun. It gets people involved in NASCAR that have never even watched a race before. I have never taken a dime of commission from the money people put into this pool, it has always gone to the winners.
I have officially transferred, am off vacation, and have passed my final exam, so I'll be more punctual in getting the weekly results out.

Thanks for everyone's patience...and most of all, for playing this pool.

You will find the past two weeks of results attached plus today's (unofficial) results.

Now another friend of Mike’s who received the emails (remember over 60 people received JH’s email) sent one saying “Just as Nascar institutes a penalty against drivers who speak out against the corporation JH should incur a penalty for lashing out against the commish.” Well, this didn’t sit well with old JH and here’s what happened next.

JH:
I have incurred a penalty!! Waiting 4 weeks for an update is crazy. At least when drivers are penalized, they know what the fine is by that Tuesday!! The fact that there are " 95%" or more members that were wondering the same thing and I just happen to be the one who says something. No one ever said that anyone was gaining any thing thing from this, all i want to know is where I stand week to week. Not Month to month....Period.

In a Nut shell, I am no "Overnight", "Fair Weather", "I love Jeff Gordon", ' Jimmie Johnson", "Dale Jr" kinda Race fan, show me the results!!!! :-)

I went through a Transfer too. Moved a family of 5 from Paris, TN to St Pete, FL. Started a new job, kids a new school, wife a new job, and me....well, thats a whole new story! Didnt keep me from checking my Yahoo too see what my standings were. It doesnt take this to keep me a NASCAR fan.
That was for you Markus!
*****
(Just a side note no one knows who Markus is).

Okay and now the moment you have been patiently waiting for. My responsewhich I sent to all 66 people as well…..

Phew, I'm glad someone is finally speaking up for the "95%" of us (which of course includes Mike's parents, his in-laws, his siblings, his grandparents, his children and me, his wife). We are sick and tired of Mike's antics. Just between you and me, Jeff, we are at our wits' end. We've been planning a family intervention-maybe we can Skype you in on it, you seem like you'd have some great input. You just have no idea what it's like to live with this guy. I mean talk about mixed-up priorities! He says things like "Let's do a road trip up and down the coast, it would be an amazing experience for the kids," but I'm thinking "Dang! Not till you get them race results posted, I have no idea where I stand and I know them damn redwood trees won't have any internet in 'em."

The truth is, this is the 21st century and we all know that there's no need to spend time with your family when you could just shoot them an email while working on NASCAR results. Oh and then those lame excuses about going to school while working full-time, final exams, buying a new house, transferring out of his unit, blah blah blah. Why doesn't he just write a country song about it, am I right? A college education is so yesterday, anyway, why's he wasting his time on that? Don't even get me started about his exercise habits, he's all into his health and stuff, pah-lease, I say if he wants to work out, he should be working those fingertips on the keyboard, Aight!

I just can't believe that after five years of doing this--growing the pool of people from 20 to 66, creating a formula and spreadsheet, setting up an easy pay system, listening to people's feedback and doing his best to accomodate everyone, he just can't see how much pain he causes the "95%" of us when he falls behind in sending out the results. I am hoping the intervention will help, if not I'm thinking of leaving him. Actually we all are, the entire 95% of us, we just don't know what else to do, really.

JH, I just can't thank you enough for taking the high road and sending your email of complaint to all of us instead of just Mike. That is really going to open up some eyes around here. Maybe get the other 5% on our side. It's refreshing to see at least someone has his priorities straight. Oh and I totally agree with you on the whole Jeff Gordon, Jimmie Johnson thing, I'm all about #26 Go Ricky Bobby!!

Thanks again,
Aimee

And so you have it. Was it my best of 2010? I don’t think so, but it kept some Nascar fans entertained. Happy New Year. Be safe,Be Happy, Be good---Aight? 

holiday spirit

Growing up my Aunt and her family did their own thing on Christmas. We did ours. They usually came over for dessert after the separate festivities were said and done. It was a fine existence really, but we had no idea what we were missing. At some point in the last fifteen years or so that changed. Soon we were spending the holidays together. These were new dynamics and though things could get a little loud, perhaps a little heated here and there, I absolutely love holidays with the whole crew. Each year the holiday traditions continued to evolve until we perfected the gift exchange. Now, your family might do a Yankee Swap, or a grab, or choose names, or a White Elephant, or separate gifts for everyone or (gasp) no gifts at all, and you might think your family gift exchange is fun or necessary or what have you. Well, I am happy that you are satisfied with your exchange, but I can guarantee you ours is more fun. Sorry, it’s true. I’m not usually one to brag, but I am going to just get this out on the table. Ours is better. While your exchange is all about the day of…the best parts of ours happen in the weeks leading up to it.

First of all who you draw in the exchange is top secret. I know of families who draw and say something like “Aunt Margie, I have you this year, what do you want?” We are not that family. In fact we used to have a cousin named Jeremy who would do that very thing. So on Christmas eve 2002, when old Saint Nick wasn’t looking, we tossed Jeremy in Santa’s sack, and we haven’t seen him since. We just have no patience for that kind of cousin.

The goal in our exchange is to find out who has who. You need to be sneaky, deceptive and always on your toes. In the end whoever has the most guesses right, not only gets their regular gift, but also gets an additional prize. Now I am pretty good, my cousin Carly is, perhaps, a little better. We formed an alliance several years ago and we are a dream team. My sister Amanda is usually part of the alliance, but this year she’s holding out…hmmm I wonder why. My mom will sometimes exchange info with me, but not always, case in point, this year she is refusing thus far, which means she probably has me, but that blows my theory about Amanda having me. I think they have thrown together their own little alliance, which is fine, but they’ll be back.No one leaves for long.

Like I said before, it is imperative that you leave no stone unturned to find out who has who. Now I’m not going to tell you my tactics, but let me just say that years and years in front of the TV has given me an idea or two. When I walk into a room people start to quiver. Sure I might be more like Maxwell Smart than Jack Bauer, but the point is I can get the job done. While many mothers spent this morning cleaning their homes, feeding their children breakfast and, perhaps, creating a grocery list or something; I spent my morning mapping out who I think has who. Or who has whom, or whom has whom, or, well you get the point. I have some confirmed reports, and some good guesses. One or two of my pieces of information were obtained illegally and for that I am sorry, but the point is, this year, I am going to win the prize.

The past two years we have been using Elfster.com. Everyone signs up on the free website, we pick a date and then we are emailed who we have. One person is the administrator (that’s me) and if necessary can sneak a peek if someone is a little technology impaired and can’t figure out who they have. So, what I am saying is that I have access to who everyone has. Now a lesser person would just peek and call it good. I’m not a lesser person. Instead I live in a constant state of torture. It’s like putting a juicy steak in front of a dog or putting a piece of chocolate cake in front of a PMSing woman--And keeping it there for three maybe even four weeks. It’s good discipline for me I suppose, but it’s not easy knowing that I could simply head over to Elfster and end it all. That of course would be no fun, though. I much prefer the sneaking around, the fishing, the mind games-It’s definitely more my style.

So this year when you are reflecting on the true spirit of the holidays—giving, helping, peace, love, charity, putting your best foot forward, etc.—I will be withholding food and water from my 82 year old grandmother in hopes that she tell me who she has for this year’s exchange…

Merry Christmas, Happy Belated Hannukah, Have a fantastic 2011.

The Great American Love Story

I once had a job as a barista. Not the famous bikini-clad gals that keep the Pacific Northwest men driving 20 minutes out of the way for a quick and casual Cafe-Au-Lait, but an old school Starbucks girl working in, of all places, Saugus Mass. It was 1996ish and Barnes and Noble was a new bookstore on Route 1.I cannot remember what possessed me to apply for a job there, although I suspect my salary from the Malden Public Schools might have had something to do with it. I also feel pretty sure that I did not apply specifically to don the green apron, I think I wanted to work in the Children's Section memorizing Dr. Seuss and filling boring moments rifling through Mad Libs. Anyway, that's not how it all went down. Somehow this girl, a girl who, mind you, hates coffee, got a night job working at the Starbucks inside Barnes and Noble. Things started out slow, or slowly for you adverb freaks, but within a week or so a handsome stranger walked into the cafe and a new love affair was born.

Okay, okay, he wasn't handsome; he was short and heavy-set with thick square glasses, a wide red nose and a slight drooling problem. No matter though, he had in one hand a thick hardcover book and in the other a porcelain mug of steamy cappuccino. He sunk into one of those cushy chairs at the edge of the cafe, cracked his book and stayed. He read and read into the wee hours of the night (that would be 9:30 in retail-speak). He rarely moved, but to wipe the occasional string of saliva hanging from his significant chin. Call me romantic, but I just couldn't keep my eyes off of this stranger. Alright, you've got me, it wasn't the man I was looking at…it was the book.

Sure, I had seen books before, thousands of them. Strewn on the floor of my bedroom, stacked 26 floors high at the UMASS library, squeezed into nooks and crannies of the apartment where I grew up, in my classroom, at my friends' houses, in doctors’ offices, in cars, on top of coffee tables and don't forget in the bathroom; for what's a bathroom without a good stack of books? So what was it that struck me that night? I suppose it was that the man in front of me was reading for choice, for recreation, for the enjoyment of a good story. It had been a while since I had done such a thing.

As a child I absolutely loved reading and as I grew older it wasn't so much that I stopped enjoying it, it was more that other things came to the forefront. By the time I was in 8th or 9th grade reading was done only for schoolwork purposes. Friends, boys, movies, friends, socializing, shopping, dances, phone calls, parties and the like were my focus for free time. Once in college I could find a bit of time here and there for some literature, I took a few really fantastic com-lit classes, but reading for just the pure love of it, well those times were few and far between. And so it wasn’t really love-at-first-sight at the café, it was a reunion. Literature and I were back together-reunited and it felt so good.

I think my first book in the rekindled romance was She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb. And for a while I was all about Oprah’s book list and of course B&N employee recommendations ( somewhat bitter note: we back in the café never could recommend a thing except a 1300 calorie shortbread cookie to go with your latte, but the booksellers could throw any old title out there and call it a must-read). I eventually expanded my horizons; falling in love with biographies, classics, memoirs and humor. I adore the feeling you get again and again when you comprehend you’re reading a really good book and the afterglow of finishing one. I love the moment that you realize there’s no way you can put your book down. The deals you start making with yourself when you know you have real world responsibilities, but you’ll just die if you don’t know what happened next. Will she ever find her mother? Did he really hide his son for all those years? Who really was there that night? And of course, how in the world did David Sedaris made it out of the nudist camp?
Six or seven years ago I started a book club with some friends in Connecticut. We loved reading, drinking wine, eating good food, visiting each other’s homes and discussing our books. I loved our little group and though two women dropped out explaining that we were not intellectually stimulating enough, I thought we had remarkable conversations. Well, remarkable for a bunch of dunces anyway.
So nowadays I am not in a face to face book club, which is kind of a bummer, but every once in a while I can stumble upon a good book conversation on Facebook. It’s not the same as sitting around a table drinking wine, eating chocolate and discussing Amy Tan, but it works for now. I have received quite a few good recommendations via friends on FB. This week there have been several posts about books and it put me in the mood to chronicle my own love affair with the printed word.
It’s the classic love story if you think about it. We found each other when I was young and naive, we grew apart and then one seemingly ordinary day, in a little café outside of Boston, we found each other again. The romance continues…

Good Momma?

You should have seen me two hours ago. I was sitting there in sweaty exercise clothes, wisps of curls peeking out from under my Red Sox hat, head in my hands sitting on the floor of our office, crying. After a morning jog with friends I came home to a long, complicated and not-so-successful homework session with a certain overachieving ten year old. She had been working on a writing project for a long time and suddenly one of us was in tears. It wasn’t me; that came later. Frustration at the homework turned to anger and then suddenly our sweet ten year old was talking to me like a disrespectful 16 year old. So--long story short privileges were taken away. When I told Mike what privileges were lost and for how long (not very) he made the innocent mistake of saying I was taking it too easy on her. This is what sent me into my own tantrum of tears. I felt guilty for “punishing” her in the first place, she was clearly spent and frustrated. On the other hand, her tone of voice and attitude were so poor, I had no choice. I felt so lost and frustrated, just as Maddee had felt a few minutes earlier.

Parenting is hard work. Really tough stuff. I always thought I would be very good at it, but lately I have felt like a failure on more than one occasion. I have all the makings of a good parent—patience, humor, a whole lotta education and child development classes under my belt, positive attitude, empathy-but sometimes I just can’t bring it all together in the right combination. I know I have felt like this at different times over the past ten years, and it always gets better, but in the moment it’s so hard to not blame myself for my children's heartache, poor behavior, setbacks or whatever the case may be. I know I am not alone, of course as parents we all want what’s best for our children.

Mike and I really want our children to be happy, confident, caring, respectful, intelligent contributing members of society. We want them to have the ability to solve problems, to hold their own in a group setting, to speak up for what they believe in and to respect and listen to what others believe in too. We want them to work toward the adults they are going to be, while still really enjoying their childhood. We know we can’t dictate what road, or roads, they take to get to be well-adjusted contributing adults, but we can guide them and more importantly we can be models for them. My crying jag today might not have been great modeling, then again we could say that showing a range of emotions is the best form of modeling.

Both of our children can be perfectionists (this trait absolutely, positively did not come from me), can put a lot of pressure on themselves, yet at the same time both of them really love learning and are well-rounded students. Just like so many other things in life, it’s all about balance. For me, I am okay with them continuously pushing themselves, as long as they don’t lose their love for learning, for questioning and for being children. On the other hand, I expect them to persevere, even when they are doing something they don't love.

My friends Mary, Micki and I went to see the movie The Race to Nowhere a couple of weeks ago. That movie really made an impression on me as both a parent and a teacher. (okay the movie made more than an impression—I am totally obsessed with it and think everyone should see it--check out their website for a screening near you www.racetonowhere.com). The movie is all about the academic pressures children in the US face. I can see Madison in some of these children and I guess right now I am overly sensitive to this. I actually wrote about 4 additional paragraphs here, but I decided to delete them, it was kind of getting off track. Just go see the movie if you can. If not email me and I will serve up a nice eight hundred word piece on why we need to be more aware of the academic pressure placed on this generation of children.

Speaking of children, my four-legged nephew is barking so loudly in my ear right now that I think it’s time to wrap it up and give him some much needed attention. (This would be the same four-legged friend from my August Long Strange Trip Blog)
Thanks for reading my blog even though it wasn’t filled with my usual wit and humor (yes my other entries are supposed to be witty, really). I just want this blog to be a reflection of where I am today as a parent, what I think is important for my children and really as a therapy of sorts for my rough afternoon. So thanks for reading it, give your children (human or animal) an extra big hug today as I will give mine. And remember to check out the Race to Nowhere website. 

Wining about my Palate

I know a good slice of pizza or a quality piece of chocolate when I taste it. I have a sensitive palate for water, turning my nose up at all sorts of bottled and tap without batting an eye. My taste buds can differentiate between a delicious piece of cheesecake or something whipped together by the infamous Sara Lee. I hate freezer burn and will turn away a lavish ice cream sundae if said ice cream is suspected of the burn. Pink chicken makes me nauseous, shiny deli roast beef makes me cry, mayonnaise is my Darth Vader. When it comes to steak I am all about fillet mignon. But we all have our blind spots. Wine is mine.
Don’t misunderstand, I like wine. I like it a lot. I like white wine. I like fruity, white wine and I like not so fruity white wine. I’m not a big red wine drinker, but will knock some back in a pinch. I just don’t quite understand the wine experience. I don’t really care if the grapes were grown in Spain, France, Washington, California, or on Uncle Pete’s farm in Topeka. I can’t taste accents of pear, apple or boysenberry in my wine. I can’t tell if my wine tastes earthy, buttery, dry or wet. I guess I haven’t built my palate yet. (Don’t worry that was an accidental rhyme and will not be followed by some sort of Seusslike monologue-I do love the good Dr. Seuss though, so maybe next time).
The problem of course is that wine is one of those things that as an adult you should know a thing or two about. Well, okay, I know a thing or two. I know that Mad Dog 20/20, despite its extensive flavor selection and undying popularity in 11th grade, is not really a fine wine. Apparently it’s not a wine at all. I know that the Riunite that my Ohio Aunties used to drink out of a jug, well not really out of the jug-they poured it into glasses-is not a great hostess gift in 49 of the 50 states. I know that if you find a bottle of wine in a doorway in your childhood apartment building, even if the cap is still on and the paper bag is still in nice condition, it’s probably not made from the world’s highest quality fruit. And, for some reason, I know that in 2003 the Merlot grape crops were particularly good, but I have no idea why I know that, or in what region that was true, or if someone at the wine shop was just pulling my leg. Those people in the wine community do have quite a sense of humor.
All is not hopeless though. I have a handful of friends who know as much about wine as I know about Hanna Barbera characters. (Wait dear reader, you didn’t know this about me? Well trust me; from Captain Caveman to Atom Ant to Squiddly Diddly, I’m all over that HB trivia). So from my friends I have learned some basics. Like don’t leave your wine bottle open (even with a cork or bottle stopper) in your fridge for a lengthy amount of time. What you consider a lengthy amount of time is of course, subjective. For instance for me four weeks is a long time to have a bottle of wine in the fridge, to my friend Micki four days is a sin. And apparently you shouldn’t save any red at all. An open bottle of red must be finished that very evening, even if it means Micki and Eddy are at your house until THREE AY EM finishing off the bottle! (Wait this advice is becoming suspect…hmm). From Susan I know that some wine needs to breathe, whatever that means. And she also has taught me that most people like Syrah and though expensive, it’s usually a sure thing. Or did she say most people don’t like Syrah? Or did she say most people don’t like Sarah, her old high school cheerleading rival? Yeah maybe I am confusing wine with whine, never mind that advice. From my guy friends in college (who we affectionately nicknamed “The Slobs”) I learned that the much beloved White Zinfandel has certain aphrodisiac powers that are quite strong, yet short lasting, leaving even the prettiest of girls looking disheveled and, frankly, ashamed as they come out of their wine coma, nothing between them and The Slobs but an empty gallon of White Zin. Okay perhaps, The Slobs are not in the same category as Susan and Micki. Still good advice is good advice.
Recently I added to my list of advisers my coworker Gail. Now a fourth-sixth grade teacher, Gail used to own a wine shop for seven years. She’s somewhat of a connoisseur. She has written articles for wine magazines, knows the taste and temperature distinction in grapes in the California wine country and knows the difference between Yellow Tail and well something fancier than Yellow Tail. (yes, my not-so-wine-savvy-friends there is something fancier than Australia’s finest out there). I had to call Gail the other day as I was heading into the wine shop (a.k.a the wine aisle at Albertson’s) to buy a bottle to bring to Micki’s for dinner. This is risky, bringing a bottle of wine to someone’s house, especially someone who knows something about wine. Gail was helpful, though a bit rude as she put me on hold so she could talk to her pet squirrel about his dinner; so as she was asking her squirrel questions like do you prefer something oaky or fruity, I was looking at the cute labels on wine bottles. I guess you could say I was distracted as there are so many choices out there. Maybe I stopped listening to Gail. I settled on Cupcake Chardonnay (sassy label) and some bottle of red with a super cute kangaroo on it. I am not at liberty to say the brand as Gail might be reading this blog and could choose to throw her hands up and never advise me again. Let’s just say that the kangaroo is the logo for a certain mass-marketed super sweet Australian brand. It’s like the Hershey’s of chocolate or the Domino’s of pizza. It was a bad choice, as they don’t even grow grapes* in Australia, but dang, it said it was imported!
At this point you might be asking, What does this blog really mean? Well I have no idea. You can take it to mean that I am not so cultured when it comes to wine, or you can take it to mean that I am very cultured when it comes to L’Eau (French for water), cheesecake and pizza. But I think you should take it to mean that you can show up at my door with either Kung Fu Girl Riesling or Sauvignon Blanc and either way I’ll let you in, just be sure to leave the shiny roast beef at home.

The Shaky Voice

First of all let me start this blog with a good old fashioned apology! I have been so wrapped up in all that is September (back to school for me, for Madison and Max and now for Mike, too) that I only managed to squeak out one blog in the past month! I love blogging, so it pained me not to be here typing away. I have always enjoyed writing--perhaps even more than I enjoy talking. Well, that might be a stretch; after all I do love to gab, to converse, to shoot the breeze. Most people know this about me, so it usually come as a surprise when I tell them my number one fear--public speaking.

Okay, perhaps it's my number 15 fear, the first fourteen would have to do with gruesome death or end-of-the-world scenarios, you know, nothing you want to read about here. Let's save that for the big wigs like Stephen King and the Brothers Grimm. Public speaking really plagues me, yet, it is something I long to be good at. I can visualize myself standing in front of a crowd of thousands telling stories off the top of my head-no index cards or loose leaf paper, strutting naturally across the stage, using big words and knowing what they actually mean. I look out at the crowd and they hang on my every word. I open the lecture to questions and I answer everything with an intelligent, clear and thoughtful response. That's the fantasy. Let's just say I'm not there yet.

We all have our fears, but let's be honest, some fears are easier to avoid than others. Let's say you are afraid of sharks, well maybe you stay out of the the Great Barrier Reef. If it's dark you fear, sleep with a night light. Or let's say it's heights that make your stomach turn, then you choose not to scale the Eiffel Tower. But there are some things you just can't avoid, if you fear spiders, strangers or Starbucks, they're every where and you're kinda screwed. The same can be said for public speaking. Though I am not expected to give a speech on a daily basis there are certain times each school year when I am required to speak to a crowd and sound knowledgeable, while I'm at it.

Okay, at this point you might suggest that I am doing a form of public speaking every day in front of my students, but to me that feels different. I can't explain why, but I am totally comfortable talking to children in large or small groups. In my experience they make a less intimidating audience, though I am sure there are people that would argue the opposite. Like I said, as a teacher, there are occasions when I must give a parent education night or a presentation to fellow staff members. In recent years I have been told by coworkers that they can't even tell that I am nervous. That's because I have learned to cover some of my more obvious flaws.

Different people react to fear in different ways. When I am nervous I speak loudly and my voice quivers.I get very cold and physically shaky. I always take an extra sweatshirt with me when I am flying across the country (yep, I also have a fear of flying-ready to sign me up for therapy yet?) because I know I am going to be freezing for the whole flight. The cold is sometimes accompanied by sweat, which is in my opinion ridiculous, but it happens. The worst part for me, the part that is horribly embarrassing is the physical shaking. When I was in fifth grade I did a huge research project on Betsy Ross. I really got into the role, had a costume, a very well-written report and was excited to present to my class. I could not tell you a single thing that was in that report, but I can tell you that I quivered so much that the only thing my classmates could hear was the sound of shaking paper. If you think I am exaggerating, think again. I saw my fifth grade teacher about ten years ago and she said "Remember that time you did the report on Betsy Ross and you stood there shaking like a leaf, I felt so bad for you!" Remember it? I've repeated it over and over again through they years! In high school I gave speeches during election time to run for class office. I always won, just going to show you that teenagers can be some of the most sympathetic people on earth. Even in college when I was presenting a project on how to make a Japanese kite out of paper, I shook so hard that my friends in my class couldn't make eye contact with me for a week! So now when I give a presentation I do any thing I possibly can to avoid holding things. I memorize what I will say, I call on assistants to help with visuals and I involve my audience whenever possible! It's a clever technique that works much of the time, but not always.

If those things aren't bad enough, occasionally, instead of breaking into a nervous sweat, I get the giggles. And by giggles I mean it starts with a small snicker and ends with an inappropriate and uncontrollable cacophony of laughter. This can also be traced back to childhood. One time in a Hanukkah play the boy speaking before me accidentally said "All the pee-pee" instead of "All the people" I laughed so hard that I thought I was going to pee-pee myself all over the stage. I couldn't recover and in my mind the play was ruined. In seventh grade I was selected to read a Christmas poem with my friends Jessica and Erika, the auditorium was full of parents, grandparents, teachers and students. I managed to get the giggles somehow and the three of us never got through our poem. They say laughter is contagious which was very unfortunate for Jessica and Erika. We were pulled off stage by a very angry teacher. If only she knew I wasn't being disrespectful, just nervous. I've even gotten the giggles at a funeral. Maybe two funerals. It's not a good thing to have happen.

Like I said in the first paragraph September is always a busy month. This month I had to do both a parent night and a presentation for the school board. I have been doing the September parent night in some form for so long that I almost wasn't nervous, but about fifteen minutes before we started I actually began thinking, "I'm not nervous, that's so weird. It's so crazy that I'm not cold, or shaky, or giggly. I think I might be over my fear. After all my coworkers say I always look confident." Umm yeah, you can imagine how I talked myself from calm to frantic in under fifteen minutes. It wasn't my best night. This past Wednesday was the presentation for the school board members. For some reason I gave a presentation that required me to use some hands-on materials. One was very small and I had to hold it up for the board members to see. They probably couldn't see it anyway as my hand was shaking too hard to make out what I was holding.

I tell my students that the more you practice something the better you become. We've all said that to our children because 99% of the time it's true. (One percent of the time you might practice and practice something, like let's say the clarinet and still your band teacher gently suggests that you find a different hobby-I know, I know, t-h-e-r-a-p-y). So yes, I know to be a better speaker I need to get up there in front of the crowds more often. If I was really ambitious, I'd look for public speaking opportunities. But, I'm just not there yet. For now, if I am going to get up on stage to sweat, giggle and shake, I'd like to do it in a dance club in Paris after a rewarding day of scaling the Eiffel Tower.

This One's On Me

I thought this world was only big enough for one of me, but apparently someone out there in New Haven Connecticut begged to differ. When you are as fantastic, popular and lovable as I am, sometimes your fans go a little over the top and start to dress like you, talk like you, listen to the same music as you and change their entire belief system to be more like you. I don't know why I am so surprised that someone else out there wants to be me. I myself have thought it wouldn't be so bad to be more like Madonna, Oprah or the lead singer of the Flock of Seagulls. I mean look, we celebs are all in the same boat--A following so devoted to us that they unknowingly cross the line from benign fan to super-devoted and somewhat psychotic Number One Fan, just like that. Of course my NOF (number one fan) was so dedicated that he or she decided dressing/talking/walking like me wouldn't really be a fitting tribute, so instead NOF decided to become me via my social security number. Now there's some savvy, right? I mean why go with the superficial stuff when you can get to the heart of someone's finances instead. Wait, hold on, oh gosh, I was just notified by my fact checkers here at the Squeaky Voice that said person did not borrow my social security number out of his or her desire to be Aimee, but instead stole it, just to wrack up a $440 phone bill and not pay it! I don't know how this could be. This is a preposterous accusation! Do you think there are people out there who would really just steal from someone else like that?

Wow, I feel kind of dumb here. Well I guess no harm no foul right? I mean what's $440 amongst friends anyway. Oh, hold on again, hmmm, it seems my staff here at the old SV want to make it clear to me that this person was neither fan nor friend. Wow, way to knock a girl when she's already down, huh? I say friend, you say identity thief, I say fan, you say felon. Tomatoes/Tomahtoes people, really.

Well let's look at this level-headedly, shall we? Perhaps this person really needed to make $440 worth of phone calls and just plain couldn't afford it. Maybe she has a boyfriend living someplace exotic like Minneapolis. Maybe this boyfriend is out there serving our country, sure he's serving Artificial Apple Pie at Minnie's Apple-Less diner, but still that counts. Maybe she needs to call him constantly out of fear that someone else will win over his heart in that City of Sin and Temptation. I can see her sitting on the lawn of Yale University, hugging his photo and letting her imagination get the best of her. Why, of course she should call him! What's that? She could get a plane ticket and motel room for less than $440 and actually go see Bobby Joe in Minneapolis? Okay then, that's probably just the wrong scenario.

Maybe it's not a she at all. Maybe it's a male, yes and maybe he has a sick dog, sure that's it. And the dog has a rare disease and there are only a handful of vets in the entire country that can treat said disease. And for some reason these special vets also moonlight as spies, so they have to carry on their practice in secret locations and are very hard to contact. There's a password involved and long story short he has to call around a lot to try to make contact. I mean call after call and being on hold for hours on end well that could be worth $440 in a heartbeat, right? Or maybe it's a QVC addiction or a simple 900 number fetish, we all know from experience that, though certainly worth it, these could be costly calls, agreed?

Or maybe, really the most likely scenario, is that the person has a similar name, date and social. Maybe she was just opening her own phone account but accidentally wrote the wrong info. This seems reasonable, like instead of Aimee Lynne Allen the person is Jamie Wynn Fallon and instead of being born on 8/4/73 she was born on 4/8/37 and maybe instead of her social security number being....oh gosh, just informed by my chief of staff not to put my social on this blog. My crew here at the Squeaky Voice is so untrusting!!

Okay, I guess I have to be a bit more realistic. I guess there might be a handful of bad guys out there willing to steal someone's social and use it to their benefit. Still, I liked it better when it was all about their adoration of me, rather than their desire to make long distance calls! I need a moment to collect myself and rework my blog here. After all, I thought this was going to be a tribute to my Number one Fan, but I guess that's off. It's too bad really especially since I spent my entire morning putting together over two dozen fan club packets. They contain all the traditional swag, too. A T-shirt, an 8X10 glossy photograph, a copy of my first interview with Tiger Beat Magazine and of course a notarized and autographed copy of my birth certificate!
I guess I'll just have to put those aside for another day. Well, I guess I'm going to log off so I can go sit and sulk somewhere. Sometimes it's tough to be Aimee Allen, unless of course, there's another Aimee Allen out there paying your bills for you.

What a Long, Strange Trip it's Been....

In the game of friendship the number one rule is to never poke fun at your friend’s children. Don’t joke about them, don’t make judging comments about them and certainly, by all means, don’t blog about them! But as Moses said when he dropped commandments 11-20, “sometimes rules are made to be broken.” So it is with permission and with a hearty measure of love that I write the following about a four-legged child I know…some names have been changed to protect the innocent-ish.

Today I went for a run with a group of friends. My good friend Nikki brought her dog Scooper with her. After our run and a dose of caffeine, I offered to take Scooper home with me as he loves to play with my dog, Styx. Okay, you got me, my dog’s name is Six, you figured that out already, but you have no idea who Nikki and Scooper are, so there…

Let’s have a moment of background info for those of you who don’t know Scooper (and since I have cleverly disguised his identity even those of you who know him, will never recognize him here). Nikki and her husband, Freddy got Scooper at the Humane Society a few years ago. A full-bred Walker Coon Hound, Scooper stole their heart with his combination of wholesome good looks, droopy brown eyes and saliva- filled jowls. No one knows what life was like for Scooper before that day, but it is safe to guess he was confined in some way and treated poorly. As a result he doesn’t like small spaces. Also, though I’m not a therapist I feel strongly that he has Sensory Integration Disorder, which is manifested in his phobia of loud noises and OCD which is manifested in his persistence to stick to one routine and his fastidious sorting of M&Ms by color (oh wait, the M&Ms thing is someone else I know).

So, why on Earth did I decide that it would be a good idea to drive almost 20 miles with such a large animal in my Prius? Especially since once, two years ago, I drove with him in my Prius, and that ride had to be followed up with some heavy duty tranquilizers-not for Scooper, but for me. I believe my offer this morning was a combination of love, amnesia and that annoying optimism that I am always spewing. Micki, ah, I mean Nikki, was a little hesitant, but I convinced her that I could handle a ride with Scooper. I know that he loves to have the windows down and the weather was perfect for that. I would remind him to stay in the backseat and it was only a twenty-five minute ride anyway, so what could go wrong?

I started with all four windows down, but he was attracted to the driver-side window, of course, which meant that he stood directly behind me (FYI Scooper never, ever sits for a car ride). I thought, Okay this is fine, as I braced myself to be drooled on, but instead of drool on my head, I felt a tightness around my neck as if being strangled by something. You see, in lieu of sticking his head over mine and out my window, he decided to rest his head on the shoulder strap of my seat belt and work his way out the window that way. The weight of his head caused the strap to constrict around my neck. Once I regained consciousness I closed the front windows, leaving the back for Scooper’s enjoyment.

As I drove, Scooper moved from side to side across the backseat of my tiny Prius, crying and panting the entire time. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of his handsome self in my rearview mirror and stop pacing, put his feet on the console between the driver seat and the passenger seat and just stare. It was probably in one of these moments that he realized there was nothing blocking his access to the passenger seat. This is when he added hopping into the front as part of his constant dance. So now he would move from left to right in the back and then bound onto the front seat.

Unfortunately for our sensory-sensitive friend, our passenger seat has a weight sensor so every time he landed on the seat a tiny alarm would sound reminding him to put on his seat belt. Well, this alarm scared him each and every time. It would beep, beep and he would startle and leap into the backseat crying. Then he’d try it again, adding a little bit of oomph to his bounce each time. Finally he jumped with such force into the front seat that he missed and hit his face on the front dash before falling in a crumpled ball to the floor. Well, his front half was crumpled his back legs were still on the seat as he is too big to fall down entirely.

At this point, which is about 2 miles into my ride, he decided to spend more and more time on the console, at first I thought it was a decision to avoid the seat belt sensor gods, but really it was just another step in perfecting his routine. Well, as I said Scooper is a Walker Coon Hound, which means he is very tall. His position on the console allowed him to unwittingly turn on all the overhead lights in the front seat with his head, while turning the back seat lights on with his butt. We also have this nifty little compartment above our dash that holds our sunglasses. You just need to tap it and the holder drops down allowing easy access to your shades. Unfortunately for Scooper, each time he got too close he would hit the compartment, the holder would drop down, bump him on the head and scare him to death, sending him cowering into the backseat. Once in the back he would pace left, right-sticking his head out of each window, jump up front, set off the seatbelt alarm, fly back, pace once more and then position himself on the console again. I don’t think Scooper is dumb, I just think his OCD prevents him from stopping this schedule once he has started.

Still, I had high hopes that when I hit the highway the allure of the open road would keep him in the backseat with his head out the window. He did like to stick his head out for a longer duration, but he also liked to come visit me via his regular routine. At one point I made the mistake of actually saying something out loud, I think it was a simple “Seriously, Scooper?” Simple to me, but to him it was an invitation to get even closer. At this point our Clifford-sized friend defied the laws of nature by getting all fours onto the console while turning in circles. This was unfortunate for me, as all I could see in front of me was tail (and not the kind you would see if you were cruising the beach). I swatted at his tail so he turned and put a paw on the wheel, scaring me senseless and crushing my ego. Even the dog drives better than I do! His paw was there for maybe a second and he never tried that move again, but his tail was back a few times, and frankly his tongue got pretty close, too.

About five miles from home, for no apparent reason Scooper went into the backseat, stuck his head out the window and stood quietly for at least 3 minutes, which to me seemed like an eternity. Just as I exhaled thinking that he was finally settled, I heard some heavy panting coming from my lower left. I looked and saw Scooper trying to wedge his head between my seat and the driver side door. I was really afraid that he was going to get stuck there, but I didn’t know how to help him. Would I have to call the fire department and have them remove the entire left side of my door? Whether it was on his own accord, or whether it was divine intervention, I’ll never know, but just as I thought he was really stuck, Scooper pulled his head out and went back to pacing.

When we pulled into my neighborhood he must have recognized the area because he started quietly yipping with excitement. By the time we were two houses away from home he was just three barks shy of a full-fledged hound-dog-howl. Before I could even shut the car off, my children and my dog were at my door. “We knew it! We thought we heard Scooper!” They let Scooper out of the car,opened the gate to our yard and they were all off and running.

Sure it was a rough ride, but it was worth seeing two happy kids and two carefree dogs. Really, at this point, I’ve almost forgotten about the entire incident. I only hope the next time I offer to take him in my Prius, Nikki will gently, but firmly slap some sense into me or at least give me a couple of tranquilizers for the road.

A Little Lost

I really like living in the Pacific Northwest. I have fantastic friends and a great house. It's so beautiful here. We have everything from mountains, to oceans, to canyons, to rainforests. The young folk tell me we even have vampires-had we had those in Massachusetts I could have explained away some mysterious marks on my neck my senior year of high school! "Oh gee Dad it was just that shy vampire kid from my chemistry class, he forgot to bring a lunch to school and he was really hungry. I was just helping a friend." Too bad I was in Malden not Forks, huh?

Vampires aside, Mike and the kids love it here, and me, well, like I said I really like it. Especially in the summer when the skies are blue, Mount Rainier is in sight and the temps are warm, but not scorching. I love to explore different trails, to walk or run on the waterfront, to camp (umm okay, love is a strong word, like to camp), to sit on my back deck and enjoy the lake, to kayak, to take the ferry to get an ice cream, to wander around Seattle, to spot whales, to take road trips to and through crazy and beautiful places. The dark and dreary winter is not really my cup of tea, but that's why there is a Starbucks on every corner in this state. They'll serve you your cup of tea or a latte, play some Dave Matthews Band, and send you on your way feeling like there is hope in caffeine. Who needs sunshine when you can order a venti anything?!

Some people feel strongly that this is the best place on Earth and while I see it, really, I do, I'm not sure this is home for me. The beauty of being a military spouse is that we get to sample a lot of places before we finally pick one. The hard part is time does not stand still; parents, siblings, cousins, grandparents, nieces, nephews all grow older in a different part of the country. You miss birthday parties, weddings, baby showers, births, graduations and more importantly all the little moments in between. At the same time you get to see new places, meet amazing people and perfect your guilt trip on all friends and family members that have yet to visit. (you know who you are).

Mike and I have lived in five states since we met. We have been in the Pacific Northwest for exactly four years and this has been by far the hardest adjustment for me. I still feel homesick and it comes out of nowhere, it could be as simple as hearing an Aerosmith song on the radio or seeing someone wearing a Red Sox cap. Technology has made it both better and worse, sometimes Facebook or texting hit the spot, but sometimes it just reminds me of what I am missing. I can go weeks and weeks without feeling homesick and then quite suddenly it will hit me. Mike might say "I think we could put a beach in here by the lake," and I will think Oh that's too long term for me! and start to panic. Another day he could say the same thing and I'd think Oh that sounds perfect!

When we traveled the Oregon Coast two weeks ago I texted my friend Kate. She is a native of Eugene, Oregon, but now lives in Jersey. We talked about how beautiful Oregon is, and she mentioned how she'd like to get back to the West Coast. I mentioned how I'd like to eventually head back East. For both Kate and I, our desires to get to our homelands are one thing, but our kids are the number one priority--when should we move them? What is a good age to go? How will they adjust? (Amazing the depth of conversation possible via text).

Sometimes when I really get rolling I think of other things like What if I'm the only one of the four of us who really wants to leave?-or just as scary-What if in two years I don't want to go after all? How heartbroken will my family be if we stay? What if we go back to the EC and regret it? What if we don't fit it anymore? Shouldn't we do one more away tour someplace really different like Hawaii or Puerto Rico before moving back to New England? How heartbroken would my family be then? What if we move back and then the kids turn around and choose a West Coast college? Do we follow them? What about Mike's family? Should we do a few years in Colorado and if so, would I ever be able to breathe walking up a flight of stairs again?

Having said all of this, I'm not unhappy here. Like I inferred earlier, it gets harder emotionally in the winter when the sky is a bleak gray almost everyday. Still I never hate it and sometimes I love it. I'm just not used to getting into these little funks, these pangs of homesickness. Sometimes I feel just a little lost and can't quite find my way home, because I'm not terribly sure where home really is.

There's this saying that I have seen hanging on various plaques in many Coastie homes "Home is where the Coast Guard sends you"... and of course, though a little syrupy and goofy for my taste, it is a fact. (umm any of my followers who have that plaque please disregard the above statement about goofy and syrupy. I never said it). Of course, home is where Mike and the kids are, I do believe it. We could be living in (gasp) Alabama, but as long as we're together it's okay. So yeah, home is with my family, but honestly geography matters. Max and Maddee have said a few times that they wish we could pick up Washington and stick it next to Massachusetts. Pure genius if you ask me, but New York would probably put up quite a stink about being displaced. Of course, they can look at it as a good deed--just a few moments in New York's old spot could improve Washington's pizza situation immensely.


Unlike the common cold, there's really no easy fix to homesickness. A bowl of chicken soup will just remind me of my Nana and I'll want to hop on the next plane to Boston just to give her a hug. It's not helpful to get bogged down in the whole Should I stay or Should I go thing (I always thought my first Clash reference would be to a lesser known, but cooler Clash song-oh well). Mike has two more years here for sure and what happens after that is a mystery. I don't know what the future may hold, but right now I do have a very cozy bed, in a very spacious bedroom, in a pretty little house, in a beautiful state and it is calling my name. I'm just going to throw on my garlic necklace and head up to bed. Good night.

It Had to Happen Sometime...

If it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. You and I will be somewhere, perhaps a party, perhaps the grocery store parking lot, maybe a lazy day stroll, or a marathon shopping trip, possibly it will be in my own home lingering over a glass of white wine. I can't tell you when or where, but it will happen. There we will be engaged in conversation when somehow you will bring it up. It will likely be innocent, possibly playful, never vicious, no matter though, there it will be.You'll see the change in my eyes, my mannerisms; you won't quite know how to read me, what's happening to Aimee. Her eyes are as round as saucers, her face is turning so red. I'll try to practice self control, as we experts do, but finally, I won't be able to hold back my knowledge and my opinions.

"What was that?" I might start, "You say you've never tasted anything better than a Margarita Pizza from the California Pizza Kitchen? Did I hear that right?" If other people are around, people who are privy to my paramount pizza palette, they will start to inch slowly out of the room. You might notice it, but it won't register until it's a little too late. Now I'm the one doing the inching, inching closer to you, so close you feel the air in the room growing thin. I'll edge closer still, my teeth clenched in a very polite New England smile. "I'm sorry, would you just repeat that? Did you just suggest we order Domino's?" Don't fret, that's not anger you are seeing in my eyes, oh no, it's sheer pity. Poor ignorant fool, it's likely you have never been East of Pittsburgh. (A quick and loving note to my Chicago friends the deep-dish is a fantastic invention to be discussed at another time-apples and oranges).

See "back East" we enjoy something called REAL PIZZA! And it has become this girl's quest, some might say obsession, to find it. Here's the thing, I had no idea that good pizza was a regional gig. It's just not something we talked about in our family. Sure, mom and dad claimed to be open--ask me anything they'd say, but when it came to warning me about the pizza deprivation I might face, well their lips were sealed. I understand, there are some things that parents just can't prepare their child for and bad pizza is one of them. Still, I should have known, all the signs were there. Let's rewind about 14 years, I was visiting my now in-laws in Colorado. They ordered pizza one night, but I just thought we got a bum pizza. I didn't know this was the standard fare. Then the next visit the same thing. Over the years I developed a false belief that my in-laws had stock in some second-rate pizza company and that is why we never got a real ,piping hot, quality pizza. I feel so guilty for thinking such things, but really I was so naive then. I didn't even catch on when I once heard my father-in-law telling the story about his first visit to Boston. He was walking around the North End and all these people were eating huge slices of pizza. He noticed they were all folding their slices so he did it, too. He was pretty passionate, calling the whole experience, "fascinating". I should have known at that moment that I had something special going tucked up in the Northeast. I just never put two and two together. That is until I moved to Washington.

Now before you get your umbrellas in a bunch, I am not dissing Washington. This state has a lot of bragging rights, but alas, pizza isn't one of them. Of course, there are pockets of good pizza places, but you shouldn't have to try so hard to find one. If my calculations are correct, and you know they are, there is 1 good pizza place for every 17.2 mediocre pizza places and 38 bad places.* Tonight I wanted good pizza, so I drove 20 minutes one way to pick up a pizza from Tony's in Bremerton. Tony's makes me happy, they get the crust almost perfect, there are bubbles in the pizza, the cheese/sauce ratio is usually right, when it's hot everything starts to slide right off (yes this is a good sign my friends) and the slices are perfect folding size. Tonight the pizza was a little greasier than I would like, but my word, that's why there are paper napkins out there people--a little dab will do ya!

You have to eat a lot of bad pizza to find a gem. And sometimes the gems are in the most unexpected places.Yesterday, on our road trip, we stopped at Cape Disappointment State Park on the Washington coast. As we swung the family truckster into the parking lot we noticed a little pizza stand on wheels called Serious Pizza. Mike and I were just oozing with feelings of pity for the campers gathered round that pizza stand. Heck, we just had McDonald's in Asotria and these poor folks were stuck here at Serious Pizza. No wonder they call this place Cape Disappointment. Then we caught a better look. There was a real wood oven! My eyes darted over to the pizza as it passed from cook to camper--it looked perfect! I could taste it from my seat. If I hadn't just eaten, or let's face it, if no one knew I had just eaten, I would have pulled a Yogi Bear and snatched that pizza out from under those campers' noses. We decided then and there that we will be vacationing there next summer. Didn't even get a glimpse at the beach or the campsites. But the truth is, who needs high quality amenities when you have good pizza. You say Cape Disappointment, I say Cape Delicious.

On the topic of pizza I could go on and on, and I will, I promise you. Just because you've read this blog doesn't get you off the hook. Sure, it will buy you some time, but we're not through here. You might try to outsmart me by writing it down on your list of things never to discuss with Aimee (I'd like to see that list by the way and I am going to go ahead and suggest you add adverbs to it if you haven't yet), but there will come a day when you slip up. And when you say the "P" word, get ready for me to unleash my wisdom East Coast Style.


*I am working feverishly on an official equation and once I own the rights to said equation I will publish it right here on the Squeaky Voice. :)

Adventures on Yakima St

In Massachusetts when I was younger we called the Department of Motor Vehicles “The Registry”, most places call it the “DMV” and here in Washington it’s simply “The Department of Licensing” aka the “DOL”. No matter what you call it, I’ve always considered it a shoe-in for the gold medal at the World’s-Most-Boring-Place-on-Earth contest. Well that’s what I thought anyway, until I hit the DOL on Yakima St. in Tacoma yesterday.

I drove to Yakima St looking for a sleek metropolitan style building, but found the DOL tucked into a shopping center with only a cheesy blue “Driver Licensing” sign to indicate its presence. In an effort to save our tax dollars, the DOL thought it was a good idea to rent a store front in between a liquor store, a Subway and the dollar tree. The room, complete with tile floor, fluorescent lights and a shopping cart or two, was clearly once a Fred Meyer or a Safeway. Instead of aisles of groceries the body of the store was filled with rows and rows of hard plastic chairs. Most of which were occupied. Madison insisted on coming in, even though from experience I knew she was going to be bored out of her skull. Still, it was an alternative to sitting in my hot car with my sister, nephew and Max. Madison was a trooper she lasted about five minutes in the place before she decided she’d rather be squished in the back seat of the Prius reading picture books with her brother and cousin.

Bear with me as I try to run through the seamless and fantastic organizational process of the DMV (DOL, Registry whatever). Okay first you get in a long line to get a number, this number allows you to sit and relax in aforementioned chairs for the hour or so that you wait to be served. Back in my day we used to have to stand in line for the entire time, so actually now that I think of it, the take a number business is quite lovely. They give numbers that also have letters in front of them which clues in the kind- hearted and patient workers to the service you will need. For example R for renewal, E for enhanced and so on. There’s a big screen that announces who is next and which window to attend. So it isn’t horrible per se, especially if you have, let’s imagine, eight games of scrabble going with your friends via the iphone.

As I was standing in the first line I met a very nice woman about my age and her mom, who was also very likable. We did a little small talk and they even saved my spot in line when I had to dash off to the ATM machine to press clear since my entire account information was still on the screen. The woman my age had been to the DOL once already that morning, but had to go back to get her mom to vouch for her or something like that. I’m not quite clear on that piece. Anyway, I got my number and hunkered down in a chair a couple of rows behind my new friends. (We liked each other, but I didn’t want to seem desperate for DOL kinship).

Then there was the waiting. Waiting is a strange thing. It separates the strong from the weak, the sweet from the ugly and the kind from the kind-of-crazy. But really, when push comes to shove (and it will just about come to that in a few paragraphs so hang tight) even seemingly good people can go bad.

So there I was watching the clock, texting my sister, playing scrabble, checking my email and occasionally chatting with my fellow waitees. Things were slow, but not unpleasant really. I enjoyed a light conversation with the man next to me about the DOLs of the future, I suggested they’d be obsolete, everything could be done online; he took the other argument, the one where our world is so overpopulated and so many more people will be needing the service of the DOL, but with all the cut backs in the state there would never be enough employees and so on. What we were dealing with was nothing compared to the chaos of the future. Nice fellow, half empty glass and all. Our conversation was interrupted when R378 was called to counter number 1, “Ooh I’m R379, I am going to be next.” I bragged out loud. Mr. Half Empty was R402. He turned and struck up a conversation with the woman on his right. I went back to scrabble when suddenly there arose such a clatter…

R378 happened to be those nice women I met in line earlier-the ones who saved my spot. I have no idea what went down, but something happened and the mother, (who I will now refer to affectionately as my friend) started screaming and then started to storm out. Not wanting to be outdone the clerk behind the counter mumbled something that I think sounded like “Never come back” and of course my friend came charging back. “Excuse me?” She started shouting and wagging her finger. Her head was bopping a million miles a minute. Then she addressed the entire crowd—all of us in our rows and rows of seats. “You know these people at the DOL are rude. You know they’re rude to us.” She got some Yes ma’am and You got that rights from the crowd. “Oh look at that, he’s calling the police. Go ‘head.” (then to us again) “I don’t even think he’s really calling the police, but he can go ahead I ain’t afraid anyway.”

A few moments pass and the guy behind the counter is either really speaking to the police or doing what my aunt used to do when my cousins were naughty which would entail pretending to have an entire conversation with their father about how bad they were, when really she was just talking to the dial tone. I didn’t think he was pulling an Auntie Sue. This was the real deal, he was giving the police a description. Meanwhile the rest of us were whispering to each other, sure there was a moment or two when we all tried to look away or pretend to busy ourselves, but the pretenses were gone. This was quite a show. Now we were speculating and taking sides. My friend was going on and on, “That’s right, you call them. Uh-uh, you got it wrong, I’m five foot two. Wait a minute,” at this point she takes a big step back and puts herself in the middle of the room and says “Not black, I’m gooooolden brown.” She looks at all of us for our approving nods, which I felt obliged to give, given our relationship. You see forging a friendship at the DOL is something akin to being old army buddies.

I swear we made eye contact at that moment and I felt like I needed to say something, so I leaned over to Mr. HalfEmpty and told him that I met her earlier in line and she was really a great lady. Two rows in front of us a man with all of his front teeth, but strangely none of his back, said “I went to high school with the daughter. She was always a good kid. Real friendly.” I suddenly pictured the two of us—front tooth dude and me—as character witnesses at the trial. As if reading my mind, my friend gets up real close to the guy behind the counter who is still on the phone with the cops and then steps back and addresses us again. “I didn’t get physical with this guy. Did anyone here see me gettin’ physical? If you did you better speak up right now. (she paused, did this amazing full body wag and then said) That’s what I thought.See now I got my witnesses.”

“This is just like Social Security, except at Social Security they have cops on the premises.” Half Empty says to me. “They are so rude there. That’s why they have to have the cops. Ever been there?” “Uh-uh” I say feeling suddenly as if I have missed out on some exclusive club. “No? Really? In fact they were so rude last time I was there I’m going back with my lawyer on Thursday.” I had no idea what to say to this and then I blurted in my typical Little-Miss- Diplomat way “I bet it’s a hard job to be behind that counter all day.” That was stupid, so I followed that quickly with, “But still they should be respectful, there’s no reason to be so rude.” “Mmmhhmm.” He nodded noncommittally. I couldn’t tell if I had gotten out of his good graces or not and for some reason I cared. Just at that moment my number was called. “Good for you,” Half Empty remarked. Maybe he really was HalfFull after all or maybe he was just happy I was leaving.

Right around that time my friend and her daughter stepped outside, as did the unhappy DOL clerk and his supervisor. The cops came, but I am relieved to say they didn’t single me out as a character witness. Strangely, no one really wanted to hear my side of it. Well no one except the clerk behind window number seven, because the first thing she said to me when I approached the counter was, “Oh my God. What happened out there?”

Food for Thought or Thoughts on Food

Yesterday I started my day with honey nut cheerios. For lunch I had half of a roast beef sandwich on a nice thick sub roll, tortilla chips and a freshly baked oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie. At some point yesterday afternoon I enjoyed a brownie. Dinner was a grilled chicken salad, big chunk of French bread and for dessert, yes I still had dessert, a vanilla cupcake slathered with chocolate frosting from one of our favorite spots-Hello Cupcake in Tacoma. While it is a stretch to say this is the norm for me, it certainly isn’t a rare indulgence. I love my sugary high carb. treats. I like healthy food, too, of course-note the grilled chicken salad. But let’s put it this way salad is like Drew Barrymore’s boyfriend, what’s his name? Oh yeah, Justin Long--nice, dependable, cute in his own right. However, home-baked chocolate chip oatmeal cookies are like Brad Pitt or Jude Law--irresistable, beautiful with a slight touch of danger. (For those followers who prefer drooling over females go ahead and replace Justin Long with Lisa Kudrow and Brad Pitt/Jude Law with Scarlet Johansen and Salma Hayak.) Now you get the picture.

I am sure some of you are like me, right? We understand the whole eat to live not live to eat concept, but can’t quite commit to it. Forgive me if I sound like a five year old, but it’s just not fair that some of the yummiest foods are the foods that should be off limits. Wouldn’t it be nice to fill our days with our favorite foods? I propose that if you love to fuel up on chocolate chip cookies, French bread, greasy, wood fired pizza and Ghiradelli chocolate bars (milk, not dark) you should just go for it! If you prefer to fill your day with cheetos, soda and ice cream, then so be it! All in favor…say thigh. I mean aye.

The other day I was in the locker room at the gym. There was this woman there, about my age, well she looked a little older really, still she was cute and confident. She was strutting around that room like she owned the place. I tried not to stare, but on her petite naked body she was sporting quite a pouch. Clearly she didn’t have a baby in tow, but her belly was round like that of someone into her second trimester of pregnancy. You know me, I’m not often judgmental, but I couldn’t help staring at this woman, surely someone who took exercising seriously, but couldn’t kick the sugar habit. Before I could look away, she caught my eye and that’s when I remembered that I wasn’t in the locker room at all, I was in my bathroom and that girl I was staring at was me! What are the odds that Mike installed funhouse mirrors in the bathroom without me knowing? Not likely, I suppose.

Let me stop here and note something that some of you might be thinking right now, how can a girl who can often squeeze herself into a size 4 sit here and cry to me about bad food choices and fat belly pouches? I really don’t know how to answer that, I know that there would be people happy to be my size. I do appreciate this. But I believe that you should take care of whatever you have and the truth is I am taking care of my sweet tooth and my taste buds, but the rest of me, well not so much.

It’s not so easy to change and that’s why I am writing this. I figure if I shout out to the world (aka my 29 followers) that I am thinking about changing my ways maybe I will hold myself more accountable. Perhaps before I grab that third slice of pizza I will think of that girl in the mirror and grab something healthy like a hot fudge sundae instead. Ugh, just kidding, maybe I will grab a handful of carrots or (gasp) maybe I will just walk away from the third piece….imagine that?

Chirp and Hope

Greetings friends, I join you today from a sunny patch in my backyard. It's about 78 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, I'm sitting on a blue camping chair with my feet kicked up on a cushy outdoor ottoman. The lake is calm, the birds are chirping, the fish are jumping, the dragonflies are giving each other piggyback rides, (aren't they playful?).

I have responsibilities in the house, but truth be told, one of us needs to be outside whenever the kids are in the lake. The kids have been in the lake at every possible moment, so here I am parked with my laptop, my Kindle and a few crumbs from a much enjoyed chipwich--a sacrifice only a mother can make.

Speaking of mothering, yesterday morning, I heard a relentless chirping that seemed to be coming from the master bathroom. Max and I noticed that whenever we stepped outside rather than the noise growing, it got quieter, muffled. It didn’t take too much detective work to realize there were birds in my ceiling (different than bats in my belfry, you crazy jokers). Well there was nothing this damsel in distress could do about it, even though my heart went out to the little tweeties, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to get into the ceiling and save those creatures. Once Mike got home there was some eyelash batting, some sweet talking and soon he was trudging up the stairs with ladder in tow. It seems some momma bird had made a nest in our bathroom fan, which she accessed from a vent near the roof of our house. At this point in the story you might suggest, “Hey it’s survival of the fittest, baby, if you’re stupid enough to make your nest in an air vent, you ain’t worth saving”. To this I say, if we let every child suffer because of their parents stupidity, humanity would have died out long ago. Now you think “Touche, Aimee” and you let me continue my story.

Mike reaches in to the fan area and pulls out a tiny limp baby bird. It was so adorable, small and clearly on its last legs. It was covered in grey downy feathers and couldn’t have been more than a day or two old. That sweet bird, who had been chirping all day, lay still in Mike’s hand. He was barely breathing, not chirping at all, eyes closed. It didn’t look good. We headed out onto the porch with him. The kids had a nest that they had found weeks before and they left it sitting in a Swan shaped planter on the front porch. There was some serious discussion as to what to do with the bird. Madison named the little creature Chirp. Mike put it in the nest and then put the nest in a nearby bush, where he thought there was another nest and perhaps another bird might take care of Chirp. I wasn’t really satisfied with this, but decided to acquiesce for the time being. In all honesty Mike was sure that Chirp wouldn’t make it through the night and I was beginning to agree.

We went back in to the house and headed upstairs only to hear another bird chirping in our ceiling. Once again Mike reached up and found a sweet little bird, this one had more life than the first. He took her to the nest after we named her Hope. As soon as he went to put Hope down, our little friend Chirp stretched up with his little baby bird mouth wide open looking for food. Definitely a good sign. He may look all tough, but that softy husband of mine was back in the house with both birds in tow. He had placed their nest into that Swan planter I mentioned earlier. I called the vet who gave me the number of a wildlife rescue. Of course the rescue agency was closed. We did some research on the internet and found out that we could feed the birds cat food soaked in water. We read that we should use a toothpick to feed them, not a dropper or syringe, and we read that baby birds need to eat every two hours. The birds took to the cat food like a goat takes to a coke can and all was well. There was conflicting advice on what to do about night feeding. Some sites said that they would need to eat through the night, just not as frequently as every two hours. Other sites suggested they would sleep well if they were in a dark place. No matter what all the sites agreed that they needed to be kept warm. So we stuck them in the oven at 200 degrees. No, no, I’m totally kidding, we wrapped them up and put them in our closet out of the reach of our cats.

We read that you could feed your baby birds certain bugs including flies if you removed their wings. So Mike caught a fly and tore off its wings, put it on my bedside table and suggested I give it to one of them during the first night feeding. Of all the jokes I have told in my blogs this, unfortunately, isn’t one of them.

It’s been a long time since I have had to get up and do a middle of the night feeding, but at 3:00 with no help of an alarm clock, I startled awake. I listened carefully but there was no chirping coming from my closet. I am not going to lie, it crossed my mind to roll over and go back to sleep, but I thought “What if they aren’t chirping because they are dead!” On my way to my closet I gave the dead fly a glance, but really how could I decide who got the fly. Every mother out there can agree with me that you can’t give one baby a treat like a wingless fly and leave the other baby without. So I left the fly where it was and thought Mike could handle that during the 5:00 am shift. I crept into the closet, carefully closing the door behind me so the cats wouldn’t get in and looked at the babies. First I checked to see if they were breathing and they were. Their eyes were closed and they were sound asleep. Just as the first time your baby sleeps through the night, I was at a loss, do I wake them to eat or do I just leave them be? I decided they had to eat, so I took some of the wet cat food, put it on a toothpick and started tapping at their beaks with it. Then I started making some horrid clicking noises, that sounded nothing like a momma bird, but it was the best I could do standing in my closet at 3:00 a.m. The birds scooted in to each other and away from me. I gave up, they clearly weren’t hungry.

This morning the wildlife people called us back and told us to put the babies on the roof as close to the vent as possible. They confirmed my belief that it is an old wives’ tale that a mother bird would not come back to their babies if they had been handled. Mike set the whole planter on the roof and we have for the most part left them alone. The wildlife people have assured us that if they chirp loudly enough momma bird will find them. Sure enough, we have seen a beautiful little bird circle our roof several times today and she eventually landed in the planter. So it looks like the wildlife people were correct, little Chirp and Hope will be fed by their real mom and will eventually fly off to become the wild birds they were meant to be.

On a side note we remain hopeful that the swan planter won’t confuse the water fowl living on the lake, as we don’t need any big Canadian Geese trying to mate with our plastic planter. But, if by some miracle they try and succeed, at least we will know how to take care of the babies.

Brrrrr

At some point over the past two and a half years I was introduced to a very foreign concept called The Ice Bath. The idea is that after a long run the runner would submerge herself in a cold tub water and ice cubes. Ha, what a bunch of weirdos, I thought when I listened to a group of runners talk about their afternoon plans which included beer, burgers and a bath of ice.

I am not sure when I decided that the idea was not as outrageous as I originally thought, but one day after a training run for the Portland Marathon, I came home and announced I was going to take an ice bath. And I did. I took a few that summer as I trained to run 26.2 miles. After my one and only marathon I decided I liked running 13 miles much better than 26, quickly taking my insanity level down a notch. Training for a half marathon meant half as much time training, half as many aches and pains and made ice baths a distant memory. In fact the last time someone mentioned an ice bath I declared I would only take an ice bath after running 18 miles or more, which I have no plans to do as of right now.

Of course, I broke that declaration yesterday. You see, yesterday I ran the Seattle Rock n Roll Half Marathon. I was under-trained and my sneakers were old. I have been in a habit of doing minimal stretching and I have been under a bit of end-of-the-school-year related stress. Not the best conditions for running 13.1. Still, I figured I would be a good sport and do it. Unfortunately my IT Band-a little tendon with a big personality-was not such a good sport. The IT band runs from the hip to the knee and is not technically a tendon, but its something like one. You feel IT pain on the outside of your knees and the pain can sometimes shoot up your leg all the way to the glutes. Anyway once it starts to act up it makes running, walking, climbing stairs and downhill runs really miserable. Mine started to act up around mile 7 and though it wasn't bad enough to pull me out of the run, I knew by mile 10 that I was in need of some heavy duty icing.

Not unlike childbirth, the ice bath is one of those uncomfortable experiences that you remember as painful, but cannot quite conjure the extremity of it until you do it again. Yesterday afternoon I filled my tub with cold water, filled a large pitcher with ice, made a cup of hot peppermint tea and grabbed an oversized hoodie. At this point I ask that you do your best not to picture me naked, but if you must, please note that when nude I look surprisingly like Angelina Jolie sans tattoos. I stayed clothed from the waist up in a tank top and that warm hoodie. I set my tea on the edge of the tub, knowing it would warm me from the inside out. I stuck one foot in the tub and then stood there--it was a painful shocking sensation- as if I stepped barefoot into a snowbank. I pulled my other foot off of the floor and went to submerge it but I just couldn't. I just stood there balanced on one foot like a flamingo. Every time I went to put my foot into the water it was if it had a mind of its own--there was no way it was going in. I probably could have stood in that position for hours, but let's face it, I had just run 13 miles (14 if you include the mile we ran just to get to the start line) and there was no way I could balance like that forever. Finally I gave in and stood with both feet in the cold, cold water. I thought about frostbite, and stupidity and the fact that I was an idiot for trying. I stood there for about five minutes when I finally became brave enough to sit....

I lowered myself into the tub inch by inch. I had a surprising amount of strength and was able to hover in all sorts of positions before my bottom finally hit the porcelain of the tub. BRRRRR that water was so cold. I hugged my legs to my chest leaving my knees high up in the air. My whole body was shivering. I took a sip of tea and started to push out my feet hoping my knees would follow-another sip of tea-my feet pushed away another centimeter. At this point my knees and most of my legs are still dry, I'm shivering so I pull my hood up and tie it tightly in hopes for a little more warmth. This entire time I am reminding myself that the purpose of this bath is to ice my knees and they are still sitting pretty at 68 degree room temperature. Finally, with a wave of courage I didn't know I had, I pushed my legs out straight and they went under the water. YOW!! It was soooooo cold. I sat there afraid to move, and waited to go numb. Eventually I started to get used to the water, except for my toes, they just never recovered from that snowbank feeling--I lifted them slightly, so that the tips of my toes could poke out of the water. I was starting to settle down and decided to have another sip of tea. I looked to my left and there by the tea cup was the pitcher of ice. I had forgotten to dump it in. Believe me it crossed my mind not to do it, this water was plenty cold, but I went ahead and dumped in the cubes. I dumped them carefully in the corners of the tub, hoping they would be kind enough to stay away from my body. Any time a cube floated near me, I started to swat at it. At some point I realized I was speaking to the ice cubes. I was seriously saying things like "Come on, stay away from me...please." The arctic temps. were getting to me- I was actually pleading with frozen water!!

If all of this wasn't enough, my cat Autumn was in the bathroom and at some point decided she was very interested in the ice cubes in the tub. She hopped up on the ledge and hung over like a ragdoll. She stretched her paws as far as they could go and tried desperately to bat at the ice cubes. She was maybe a half inch from the water's surface and could not manage to get any closer. I knew there was a good chance that if she inched forward any further she could fall in--making herself miserable, but even worse, splashing me with the cold water. I could have scooted toward her and given her a nudge off of the edge and back onto the floor, but that would mean moving and I was quite frozen to my spot. I just held my breath and watched her, every now and again I would look away to continue negotiating with the ice. "Really you don't want to come too close to me, I might melt you." My eyes darted back and forth ice cubes, cat, ice cubes, cat, either one could possibly send me screaming at any given moment.

Finally, when I felt like an eternity had passed I decided to pull the plug and get out, but pulling the plug meant once again moving, and I just couldn't bring myself to it. Time kept ticking, Autumn kept her position, and eventually the ice cubes began to get smaller. My toes never stopped hurting. Eventually, I felt like I had to get out before I popsiclized. And so I did. I drained the tub and hopped into a nice hot shower.

I don't really know if the ice bath helped much. My knees are still sore, but not as bad as yesterday. I plan to take some advil, maybe put some ice packs on, perhaps elevate my feet, definitely go for a walk to keep my other muscles from stiffening, but I do not plan to ever, ever take another ice bath. Unless of course I run more than 18 miles.

A Gentle Guide To My Other Side

My husband has to load the dishwasher. He hates how other people load dishes. It's not that he is some anal, dish snob, it's just the plain old truth--no one can do it quite like him. If you were to stand next to him and load dishes he would stand next to you and move the dishes into much better positions in the machine. I don't even think he knows he's doing it. It's like he really can't help himself. It must be hard to be the world's most fantastic dishloader, a lonely job that earns little respect. Because I am a supportive wife, I allow my husband the glory of loading the dishes the way he likes them, trying my best not to get in his way. After all if Diana Ross lived with me I'd let her sing "We are Family" all day every day--I'd never try to sing with her, or instead of her. Leave the art to the artist, that's my motto. I see a sink full of dishes and I think Now there's something my husband can really enjoy. I walk away knowing that by leaving those dishes I have brought a little happiness into Mike's heart.

Busted! Mike just read this over my shoulder. He said I made it sound like he "enjoys"doing the dishes, when really it's not about enjoyment, it's about maximizing space, being efficient and getting as many dishes clean in one load as possible. Doesn't enjoy it, hey? Sounds like he's awfully proud of his work. He's probably downplaying it for the sake of modesty. After all, no one likes a highfalutin dishloader. Still, it just peeves him to think of let's say a bowl in a place where a plate should be--or a knife blade down, when clearly knives get cleaner upright.

Well, we all have our pet peeves, even yours truly. Yes, my friends, there's another side to this laid-back, cool cat. Yep I have my little things, too. Here's a list, which you can use as a gentle guide so that you are sure to NEVER EVER EVER EVER do any of the following things in my presence....

My Top Six Peeves(in no particular order) are....

1. When someone says "Oh you look tired." Duh that's synonymous with Those bags under your eyes could hold all of Paris Hilton's shoes. Your skin reminds me of my grandmother's knee-highs. You absolutely must see a plastic surgeon immediately because today you look like crap. Better luck tomorrow.

2.When someone says "Well, you've got your hands full." Oh brother. Everyone knows that translates into You can't handle your kids, lady. Your child is most likely the only three- year-old on the planet to ever throw a tantrum in public. And look at how you've allowed your five year old to dress herself. My lord she's wearing stripes, with plaid! Someone should call social services. I especially hated this expression when my kids were younger, but if I were you I'd stay clear of saying it to me EVER, just in case.

3. The fact that miles and kilometers don't convert nicely really bothers me when I am running, I know that 5K is 3.1 miles, 10K is 6.2, but throw an 8K or a 12K in there and I'm not particularly happy with the system. Alas there's not much that you, my faithful follower, can do about it, just know it leaves me feeling a bit unpatriotic...Why not take the plunge USA and convert to the KMs? Oh wait! I know, it's probably because the metric system is some undercover socialist conspiracy. Of course.

4.When people leave cabinet doors open. This action disturbs me very much. This shouldn't bother me as I am, in most cases, too short to hit my head, but bother me it does.


5. People who run backwards. I think these folks are quite possibly the most arrogant people on the planet!!!! Most likely the backwards runner is doing this to "encourage" his/her partner. To me it just says Hey I'm faster than you, I'm in better shape than you, in fact I feel so good that I don't need to look where I am going, I am so confident that I don't even need to look over my shoulder or perhaps worry about the safety of others. But they don't say that do they, nah they say things like "Come on Susie, it's just another 5 miles uphill till the finish, when I ran this route with Meb and Uda last week we did it in under 10 minutes. This is a cake walk. You can do it!"

6. BABY TALK . It makes me want to pull my eyebrows out strand by strand. Any questions?

Well that's probably plenty for you to nosh on tonight. Speaking of noshing, I've just finished a delightful piece of cheesecake and must put my dish near the dishwasher. I'd hate for Mike to wake up with nothing to do in the morning. He'd be so disappointed.

Time Marches On

When I was five years old I had my birthday party at a place called Bonanza. Bonanza was a steakhouse chain and did not last long in a community that thrived on family restaurants with really good food. Still I loved that place, for my five year old palette it was just perfect. I was very excited for my big day and remember the party well. My Auntie Sue and her friend Trisha dressed as clowns, my birthday cake was a chocolate square with chocolate frosting, a whipped cream border and four cherries-one on each corner of the cake. Mmmm I can practically taste it. I had friends from preschool, the neighborhood and of course children of my mom's friends. It was a great day, but it started a little rough. I have no recollection of what led up to the party, after all I was five, but my memory of that fine summer day starts in the Bonanza parking lot. We were running late--as usual--and pulled into the parking lot after the party was scheduled to start. I was okay with it, until I looked out the window and saw that the car on the right belonged to my mom's friend Jeanie. Jeanie was the person who was always, very unfashionably late for everything. It was her claim to fame in my five year old mind, and there sat her station wagon--empty--she was already at the party. I remember saying to my mom "We are so late, even Jeanie is already here!" I was late for my own birthday party and the memory is still with me. You can't change history--WE WERE LATER THAN JEANIE!

Fast forward 32 years (well 31 years 10 months and 2 days, but who's counting?) and here I am. I am almost always late and while I could pretend it is directly related to that sunny August day in 1978, but that would be a stretch at best. I am a grown woman and I take responsibility for my perpetual tardiness. The thing is there are people who are never late, I mean they can get up in the morning, run 5 miles, take a shower, make pancakes and eggs for their kids, do a round of Meals on Wheels, remove a splinter from their cat's paw while using the other hand to write their memoirs and they still arrive at work promptly at 8:00! Of course there are the people who are late and are okay with it, they don't consider it disrespectful or irresponsible, but I do! I think I should be on time for things which, as you can imagine, is quite troublesome for someone who is always late. To make matters worse, I am someone who wakes up every single day with the firm belief, the sincere thought, that today I will be on time. I start my day with the distinct feeling that I am the person who is usually on time, and each morning at some point something shakes my belief, I get a dose of reality--perhaps a peek at the clock--and it absolutely rocks my world. I go from laid-back super-sweet Aimee to a raving lunatic--someone most of you would not recognize. I get flustered--say to my kids about 80 times in one breath "We're going to be late, let's go." and then stumble out the door, inevitably forgetting something important, which I need to go back into the house to retrieve. The next thing I know the digital clock in my car says 7:50 which is clock-speak for "You foolish woman, you're late again."

Let me just let you in on the irony of all of this--I started this blog several hours ago and just as I finished the last paragraph, I looked at the clock-it was time to get ready for Maddee and Max's piano recital. Actually, believe it or not, ten minutes beyond time to get ready. Their teacher (smart lady) wanted every child there at 2:40 as the performance began at 3:00. We had every intention of getting there by 2:40, then around 2:20 when we were still home rather than on the road, I thought it would be okay to arrive at 2:45. We pulled in at 2:57 before the start, sure, but 17 minutes after she wanted us there. The worst part, or perhaps the best, was that several families followed us. The recital didn't start until close to 3:15 thanks to the fact that while I am late, so are half the other families I know.

I won't lie, it makes me happy when other people are later than me. Quite honestly, it makes me feel, well, fantastic. While I am in my mind notoriously late, I am never the Jeanie of the group. I'm sorry to admit, but it makes me feel kind of smug. It creates some sort of pseudo-amnesia, allowing me to believe that I really wasn't so late after all. Before you know it I have recreated the events of my day completely with me arriving to school, recitals, plays, dinner, and other places quite promptly. This alone could be the reason I awake each day thinking today I know I am going to be on time.