Miscommunication and dumb luck-Two of my favorite storytelling companions. These age old buddies are becoming an endangered species nowadays, what with the cell phone and all. Everyone has their conspiracy theories. Wanna hear one of mine? I believe cell phones were sent here by humorless aliens to ruin our fun and kill our best stories. Think about it. Gone are the days where you can tell a story about missing a rendezvous point, or getting lost, or misunderstanding a friend’s intention or being late for a wedding because you couldn’t find the church and you had no way to get in touch with anyone who could help you.
No you go to tell a great story about how you were being chased by hungry elephants and someone in your audience stops you mid sentence…Why didn’t you just call the zoo? Why didn’t you dial 911? Did you take a photo? Why wasn’t this posted on your facebook? And if you can somehow get past that party-pooper there will be someone else fact checking on their phone and hollering out that elephants are vegetarians-so what the heck was the danger anyway?
I have had so many times when I could have had a great story in my midst, but instead my cell phone sweeps in and saves the day. I'm sure you know the feeling. Flat tire? Call for help-no story there. Are you lost? Google directions-no story there. About to be embarrassed because you’ve bumped into an old boyfriend and you’ve forgotten his name? Fake a sneeze, turn around text your friend Michelle and voila, you’ve saved face, but alas another anecdote foiled.
At least I’m in my 30s so I have years and years of pre-technology stories to share. In fact I don’t even know if Mike and I would be married today if we had a cell phone back in 1995 when we ran out of gas on Route 3. We were in this big orange truck I think it belonged to his friend BJ…hang on let me text BJ and ask him….I’m back, yep it was BJ’s truck a 1984 Chevy pickup, and the gas gauge was broken. We were heading from my swinging bachelorette pad in Boston (aka my tiny bedroom in the apartment I shared with my parents, sister and six guinea pigs in Malden) to Mike’s place on the Cape. We were in the early days of dating, still getting to know each other. We were driving along the highway, (listening to a mixed tape I’m sure), when we ran out of gas. Mike managed to get us over to the shoulder and we sat there for a few moments. Now, if this had been 2011, we would have called someone to come help us…or better yet, maybe we would have just sent a text. Either way that would have been the end of the story. But we didn’t have a cell phone, so we made a decision. We hopped out of the truck and wandered down route 3 for about 2 miles, walked off an exit ramp and entered the town of Plymouth. Just two miles, sure, but did I mention it was about 95 degrees in the shade? Did you focus on the fact that we were walking on a highway in MASSACHUSETTS where drivers are nicknamed Massholes or a reason. Nonetheless, we arrived in Plymouth, got a gas can from the hardware store, filled it with gas and still had enough money to buy a heavenly Reese’s ice cream bar (hmm I wonder if they still make those? I’ll have to Google that when I’m done with this blog). We trudged back onto the highway, managed to get a ride from two women in a van-sure the van wreaked of freshly smoked weed- but who are we to turn down a free ride? Somehow it was actually a great experience. Mike thought it was cool that I was so laid back about the whole thing, and I thought it was gallant of him to use his last dollar to buy me an ice cream. We joke that this was the day that we knew we had a future together. This is something we might not have discovered if we could have just called someone for help.
I have so many great stories that could be instantly ruined by the introduction of the cell phone. There was the time my friend Jenn was supposed to get on the T at Oak Grove station and a friend and I would hop on that same train at Malden Station (one stop later), from there we would all ride the T into town (Boston). For some reason-and this has nothing to do with Jenn being, well, Jenn-when the train pulled up and the doors opened we got on using one set of doors only to see her get off using the other set. I can still see her confused face and her hands reaching for the glass as we streaked by heading into town. Where would we meet? Which stop were we getting off? Should we go back? Would she know how to find us if we didn’t? B-o-r-i-n-g if we had a cell, right? A quick text—meet us at Haymarket we’ll be standing by the bearded man who smells of urine, but sings a mean version of No Woman No Cry-well that would have ruined a classic story. Really, it would have.
As I sit here I can think of many, many, many stories that would have been ruined if we had a cell phone. And that’s just me. Think of the change in sitcoms, Laverne and Shirley? The Brady Bunch? Three’s Company? These guys would never make it now. The cell phone would ruin every single plot from those shows. And how about you? How many good stories are foiled because you can remedy things quickly and painlessly with your Droid?
And yes, the truth is in the real world I rely more on conveniences than great stories to get me through my day. I am the first person to nosedive into a panic attack as soon as my iPhone shows signs of low battery. Still, the storyteller in me can’t help but wonder how much laughter has been lost to this mega-invention. I don’t think there’s an app. for that-at least not yet.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
I Gave At The Office
I hate to sound like an old lady, but back in my day you could walk through the mall and not get stopped every two feet by someone wanting to sell you something. And I hate saying no to people, which makes things a hundred times worse. My typical mall trip consists of me entering and getting swept up by some kiosk worker who wants to straighten my hair, after I have my new cute hairdo I go ahead and get my photo on a mug(don’t worry I make sure there’s no leftover teriyaki in my teeth from the free sample forced on me in the food court). Next I am talked into buying a new cell phone cover to go with the new phone I am unwittingly about to purchase from the guy two kiosks down. Soon I’m entering a drawing to win a new car; meanwhile some random woman is buffing my nails. I take a rest from this whirlwind trip by taking a survey. Then I get some feathers in my straight hair, buy a remote control flying saucer and finally splurge on my eighth pair of super fuzzy slippers. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, the slippers aren’t that fuzzy.
And it’s not just the mall. Grocery stores are bad, too. Do you know how many petitions I’ve signed? Do you know how many tubs of popcorn I’ve purchased from the Boy Scouts? And don’t even get me started on those adorable little girls peddling their sinister Thin Mints. It’s enough to drive a nice girl crazy.
Well, here’s a little irony for you, I’ve been known to stand in the grocery store aggravating customers, too. Yep, I do this once a month for a local charity. There I stand, just inside the grocery store, papers in hand, waiting for someone to make eye contact and then I make my move.
I approach with a smile, look into their eyes and explain that I am collecting groceries for a local food bank. I then hand them the paper, which happens to be a list of items the food bank needs most. Yes, I’m just there to do something good with no ulterior motive. I’m not selling anything and not trying to give away prizes, raffle tickets, or even trying to get petitions signed. However, the truth is at least 40% of the people who come into the grocery store are just exasperated by the sight of me.
One look at me and their faces contort into some sort of grimace. The look says “I know your kind lady, back off.” I’m not gonna lie, it’s a little slap to the ego when someone doesn’t want to give me a chance. Luckily, I can handle a touch of rejection here and there. In fact I’ve come to enjoy some of the more clever avoidance techniques.
a. The cell phone call—Upon seeing me, the guilty party lifts his phone to his
ear and begins to babble away. I know this is a fake because 1. He is usually holding the phone upside down and 2. Talking on the phone rather than texting is sooooo 2008.
b. The sudden interest in your mate-You can see the couple approaching through the parking lot, she’s got her arms folded tightly across the chest and he is fumbling with the zipper on his coat. There’s about a city block’s worth of distance between the two of them before they see me. Then right on cue we make eye contact and she starts fawning all over him, high-pitched giggle, hand on his arm. For his part, he stands there like a deer in the headlights, as he has no idea why after 22 years of marriage she has decided to actually speak to him. She usually then digs her nails into his arm, grits her teeth and then says something inaudible, but effective. They quickly walk away from me.
c. The Ooh I forgot something in the car- These people who don’t typically wander around town making loud blanket statements, suddenly decide to announce to the entire front end of the store that they have forgotten something in the car. They pivot around, leave and then either use the entrance at the other end of the store, or they come back in a minute gabbing away on their upside down phone.
There are more avoiders, too. The people who think the floor is suddenly so interesting they can’t keep their eyes off of it; the people who wait for a crowd to walk in and then quickly follow behind; or the people who have a sudden urge to pick up the nearest ketchup bottle and read it word for word. There are people who try to wait me out, too. They stand by the carts and the hand sanitizer taking as long as they possibly can in the entryway in hopes they will outlast me. These people, the avoiders, are likely good generous people. They might even be interested in helping out the local food bank. I’ll never know because they won’t let me get within a football field of their personal space.
Even so, the avoiders are preferable to the uninformed rejecters. These are the people who look you right in the eye and say “No Thanks,” or “Not Interested,” Before you can even tell them what you are up to. And even these people are, of course, preferable to the people who do listen and then follow up with some sort of cutting remark, rather than a polite “Not today”. I am talking about the ones who have lines such as “Oh you’re collecting for the food bank, good for you.” Or “Sorry, I don’t believe in charities”. My personal favorite was when someone stopped on his way out and made a point to say, “Who could say no to you?” he then left without giving anything. Ouch.
I’m sure many people have their reasons for saying no, but after several “No thank yous,” and” Not interesteds” I begin to wonder why they can’t just take the paper from me and pretend to show some enthusiasm. Then when they walk by me later they can say something coy like “Oh I forgot, catch you next time.” No harm done, no feelings hurt. I mean that’s what I’d do. Then I’d open my purse, pull out one of the several phones I purchased from the mall, put it to my ear, and pretend to give someone a call.
And it’s not just the mall. Grocery stores are bad, too. Do you know how many petitions I’ve signed? Do you know how many tubs of popcorn I’ve purchased from the Boy Scouts? And don’t even get me started on those adorable little girls peddling their sinister Thin Mints. It’s enough to drive a nice girl crazy.
Well, here’s a little irony for you, I’ve been known to stand in the grocery store aggravating customers, too. Yep, I do this once a month for a local charity. There I stand, just inside the grocery store, papers in hand, waiting for someone to make eye contact and then I make my move.
I approach with a smile, look into their eyes and explain that I am collecting groceries for a local food bank. I then hand them the paper, which happens to be a list of items the food bank needs most. Yes, I’m just there to do something good with no ulterior motive. I’m not selling anything and not trying to give away prizes, raffle tickets, or even trying to get petitions signed. However, the truth is at least 40% of the people who come into the grocery store are just exasperated by the sight of me.
One look at me and their faces contort into some sort of grimace. The look says “I know your kind lady, back off.” I’m not gonna lie, it’s a little slap to the ego when someone doesn’t want to give me a chance. Luckily, I can handle a touch of rejection here and there. In fact I’ve come to enjoy some of the more clever avoidance techniques.
a. The cell phone call—Upon seeing me, the guilty party lifts his phone to his
ear and begins to babble away. I know this is a fake because 1. He is usually holding the phone upside down and 2. Talking on the phone rather than texting is sooooo 2008.
b. The sudden interest in your mate-You can see the couple approaching through the parking lot, she’s got her arms folded tightly across the chest and he is fumbling with the zipper on his coat. There’s about a city block’s worth of distance between the two of them before they see me. Then right on cue we make eye contact and she starts fawning all over him, high-pitched giggle, hand on his arm. For his part, he stands there like a deer in the headlights, as he has no idea why after 22 years of marriage she has decided to actually speak to him. She usually then digs her nails into his arm, grits her teeth and then says something inaudible, but effective. They quickly walk away from me.
c. The Ooh I forgot something in the car- These people who don’t typically wander around town making loud blanket statements, suddenly decide to announce to the entire front end of the store that they have forgotten something in the car. They pivot around, leave and then either use the entrance at the other end of the store, or they come back in a minute gabbing away on their upside down phone.
There are more avoiders, too. The people who think the floor is suddenly so interesting they can’t keep their eyes off of it; the people who wait for a crowd to walk in and then quickly follow behind; or the people who have a sudden urge to pick up the nearest ketchup bottle and read it word for word. There are people who try to wait me out, too. They stand by the carts and the hand sanitizer taking as long as they possibly can in the entryway in hopes they will outlast me. These people, the avoiders, are likely good generous people. They might even be interested in helping out the local food bank. I’ll never know because they won’t let me get within a football field of their personal space.
Even so, the avoiders are preferable to the uninformed rejecters. These are the people who look you right in the eye and say “No Thanks,” or “Not Interested,” Before you can even tell them what you are up to. And even these people are, of course, preferable to the people who do listen and then follow up with some sort of cutting remark, rather than a polite “Not today”. I am talking about the ones who have lines such as “Oh you’re collecting for the food bank, good for you.” Or “Sorry, I don’t believe in charities”. My personal favorite was when someone stopped on his way out and made a point to say, “Who could say no to you?” he then left without giving anything. Ouch.
I’m sure many people have their reasons for saying no, but after several “No thank yous,” and” Not interesteds” I begin to wonder why they can’t just take the paper from me and pretend to show some enthusiasm. Then when they walk by me later they can say something coy like “Oh I forgot, catch you next time.” No harm done, no feelings hurt. I mean that’s what I’d do. Then I’d open my purse, pull out one of the several phones I purchased from the mall, put it to my ear, and pretend to give someone a call.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
The Professional
This summer I spent a couple of weeks with my family in Massachusetts. Though on most visits we pile into my mom’ car like a bunch of clowns, this year I decided to splurge on a rental. One morning, following a shopping trip to Barnes and Noble, I headed over to the car. After setting my iphone in the passenger seat of my rental car, locking the doors and organizing some bags in the trunk, I realized the keys to the rental were not in my hands, nor were they in my purse. Upon further investigation they were not on the ground, not visibly in the car and not back in the bookstore. Yes, that leaves one place only-securely shut in the trunk.
What’s a damsel in distress to do? Call her daddy, of course. So in I went to Barnes and Noble to borrow the phone, remember my own phone was locked tightly in the car. I asked my dad if he’d swing by Hertz and get me a spare key. Unfortunately, when I called Hertz they said they didn’t keep extra keys in the office, but I could use their roadside service. You know that service they offer you when you pick up your rental car, the one that will cost you more than you originally planned to spend, and the one that, if you are like me, you refuse, because you won’t need it anyway? Let’s cut to the chase, I didn’t get the driver road side assistance from Hertz, I don’t have AAA, and neither do my parents. I had an inkling that we had some sort of roadside service through our insurance company, but never cared much to jot that info down. So now I’ve called my dad, called Hertz, called their roadside assistance for a price check, but the words “up to $200 to break into your trunk if you didn't purchase our insurance,” gave me pause. My next call was to Mike who was 3,000 miles away (if Barnes and Noble is the next to file for bankruptcy it’s probably due to my long distance calls). I knew he would have the insurance info, but guess who wasn’t answering his phone.
I wandered out to the parking lot and saw a familiar white car approaching. It was my mom and my aunt in the front; and in the back seat, with an amused little smirk on her face was one of the most organized people I know-my daughter (the smile read this would never have happened if you invited me along). No offense to this trio, but I couldn’t help but wonder why my dad sent them and what help they were going to provide. Then I saw my mom’s phone glimmering in the sunlight. I borrowed it to call Mike again and this time he answered. He hung up to call the insurance company. Mom and Maddee frolicked into Starbucks without a care in the world, while Auntie Sue decided to stake out a car with a firefighter sticker in the back. “If he’s on the fire department, he’ll have a Slim Jim,” she declared knowingly through puffs on her Marlboros. As for me, I just leaned on the rental and waited.
I wasn’t standing there long when in rolled my dad with a wire snake in hand. He got out of his car, waved to my aunt (who was still on her mission to find the off duty firefighter) and got down to business. He proceeded to feed the wire through the driver side window trying to somehow grab the latch, unlock the door and then, of course, pop the trunk. If I thought it was a weak plan, my dad thought it genius. I kept my mouth shut. In no time a nicely dressed man with slicked back hair, too much cologne and a huge gold watch was by my dad’s side. “I think I can help you,” he assured my dad and put his hand out for my dad to hand over the snake. The two of them took turns working the wire. Though cooperating, they were more like adversaries than friends, each trying to prove to the other their skills in, well, in breaking locks I guess. My self-appointed job was to chime in every now and again about how this was actually a rental car and the fact that they were scratching the paint off the driver side door was not really all that helpful. They responded to my nagging by ignoring me entirely. After several minutes and a bloody knuckle, our new friend tossed the snake back to my dad, shrugged his shoulders and moved on.
As my dad continued to work the lock on his own, Maddee and mom came to report that Mike called on my mom’s phone. He wanted to let me know that someone was dispatched to help us, but they didn’t know how long it would take for help to arrive. Mike, wasn’t thinking and gave them my number-yes on my phone I had no access to-and they were going to call that phone when they were on their way. As I took in Mike’s message, I noticed an older gentleman approach my dad. This guy was all Townie with his white hair, blue eyes and thick, thick, Boston accent.* “Oh let me help yous,” he offered. I could envision him in the days of his youth, breaking locks and hotwiring cars to take on joyrides through the neighborhood. “Listen, let me run home and I’ll get a wire hangah. I helped some lady about a year back unlock her cah.” “Don’t bother,” answers my dad and just as I think he’s going to brush this guy off, he continues, “I brought a hanger, too, it’s in my Explorer.” My dad hands the guy the drain snake and heads to his Explorer. This guy works twice as well as the first guy in scraping paint off the door, but his accuracy at grabbing the latch is just as poor. It doesn’t take long before he bails, too.
Around this time my aunt leaves her post at the firefighter’s car and heads into Starbucks. She comes back to report that Mike has straightened out the phone number situation and that help should be here in about twenty minutes. I tried to call my dad off, but it’s as if the twenty minute window made him work twice as hard. And just as he hits his groove, another man approaches. I couldn’t help but wonder if Barnes and Noble parking lot was a secret meeting spot for recovering car thieves. This guy, in his early twenties, has a slim jim in his hand. My dad says something about “Never trust a guy who carries his own slim jim,” but steps aside, nonetheless. Like I said, each man that approaches is a genuine car thief in my active imagination, but this guy makes me think I’m not imagining a thing. “Okay, first thing we gutta do is find out if she [meaning the car] has side airbags.” I shrug my shoulders, “I don’t know it’s a rental.” He peers in the window for a moment and then looks at me, “Sorry, can’t do it. She’s got side airbags. If I hit the airbag release instead of the lock while I’m leaning over, the airbags are going to come up at me, break my neck and kill me.” I must have had a strange look on my face. “It happened to my buddy,” he casually stated as he put the slim jim in his back pocket, scoped out the parking lot and walked away.
Having had his share of excitement for the day, my dad packed in the wire snakes and hangers and went home for a nap. My mother and Madison went into Staples to do some shopping and my aunt sat on the curb outside of Barnes and Noble, keeping a vigil for that elusive firefighter. Soon a vehicle with the words Search and Rescue printed on the side pulled up. The driver with clipboard in hand approached me. With his icy green eyes and his tight shirt, this guy looked more like the lead singer of the next best boy band, than he did a locksmith. However, I am not joking when I say he had the car unlocked in under a minute. “Wow, that was fast,” I noted. “Well,” he replied with what I am sure was a wink, “I have had a lot of practice jimmying locks; after all, I’m a professional.”
*If you are not from the Greater Boston area, Please, I beg of you, do not attempt to read this passage aloud with a fake Boston accent. Thank you.
What’s a damsel in distress to do? Call her daddy, of course. So in I went to Barnes and Noble to borrow the phone, remember my own phone was locked tightly in the car. I asked my dad if he’d swing by Hertz and get me a spare key. Unfortunately, when I called Hertz they said they didn’t keep extra keys in the office, but I could use their roadside service. You know that service they offer you when you pick up your rental car, the one that will cost you more than you originally planned to spend, and the one that, if you are like me, you refuse, because you won’t need it anyway? Let’s cut to the chase, I didn’t get the driver road side assistance from Hertz, I don’t have AAA, and neither do my parents. I had an inkling that we had some sort of roadside service through our insurance company, but never cared much to jot that info down. So now I’ve called my dad, called Hertz, called their roadside assistance for a price check, but the words “up to $200 to break into your trunk if you didn't purchase our insurance,” gave me pause. My next call was to Mike who was 3,000 miles away (if Barnes and Noble is the next to file for bankruptcy it’s probably due to my long distance calls). I knew he would have the insurance info, but guess who wasn’t answering his phone.
I wandered out to the parking lot and saw a familiar white car approaching. It was my mom and my aunt in the front; and in the back seat, with an amused little smirk on her face was one of the most organized people I know-my daughter (the smile read this would never have happened if you invited me along). No offense to this trio, but I couldn’t help but wonder why my dad sent them and what help they were going to provide. Then I saw my mom’s phone glimmering in the sunlight. I borrowed it to call Mike again and this time he answered. He hung up to call the insurance company. Mom and Maddee frolicked into Starbucks without a care in the world, while Auntie Sue decided to stake out a car with a firefighter sticker in the back. “If he’s on the fire department, he’ll have a Slim Jim,” she declared knowingly through puffs on her Marlboros. As for me, I just leaned on the rental and waited.
I wasn’t standing there long when in rolled my dad with a wire snake in hand. He got out of his car, waved to my aunt (who was still on her mission to find the off duty firefighter) and got down to business. He proceeded to feed the wire through the driver side window trying to somehow grab the latch, unlock the door and then, of course, pop the trunk. If I thought it was a weak plan, my dad thought it genius. I kept my mouth shut. In no time a nicely dressed man with slicked back hair, too much cologne and a huge gold watch was by my dad’s side. “I think I can help you,” he assured my dad and put his hand out for my dad to hand over the snake. The two of them took turns working the wire. Though cooperating, they were more like adversaries than friends, each trying to prove to the other their skills in, well, in breaking locks I guess. My self-appointed job was to chime in every now and again about how this was actually a rental car and the fact that they were scratching the paint off the driver side door was not really all that helpful. They responded to my nagging by ignoring me entirely. After several minutes and a bloody knuckle, our new friend tossed the snake back to my dad, shrugged his shoulders and moved on.
As my dad continued to work the lock on his own, Maddee and mom came to report that Mike called on my mom’s phone. He wanted to let me know that someone was dispatched to help us, but they didn’t know how long it would take for help to arrive. Mike, wasn’t thinking and gave them my number-yes on my phone I had no access to-and they were going to call that phone when they were on their way. As I took in Mike’s message, I noticed an older gentleman approach my dad. This guy was all Townie with his white hair, blue eyes and thick, thick, Boston accent.* “Oh let me help yous,” he offered. I could envision him in the days of his youth, breaking locks and hotwiring cars to take on joyrides through the neighborhood. “Listen, let me run home and I’ll get a wire hangah. I helped some lady about a year back unlock her cah.” “Don’t bother,” answers my dad and just as I think he’s going to brush this guy off, he continues, “I brought a hanger, too, it’s in my Explorer.” My dad hands the guy the drain snake and heads to his Explorer. This guy works twice as well as the first guy in scraping paint off the door, but his accuracy at grabbing the latch is just as poor. It doesn’t take long before he bails, too.
Around this time my aunt leaves her post at the firefighter’s car and heads into Starbucks. She comes back to report that Mike has straightened out the phone number situation and that help should be here in about twenty minutes. I tried to call my dad off, but it’s as if the twenty minute window made him work twice as hard. And just as he hits his groove, another man approaches. I couldn’t help but wonder if Barnes and Noble parking lot was a secret meeting spot for recovering car thieves. This guy, in his early twenties, has a slim jim in his hand. My dad says something about “Never trust a guy who carries his own slim jim,” but steps aside, nonetheless. Like I said, each man that approaches is a genuine car thief in my active imagination, but this guy makes me think I’m not imagining a thing. “Okay, first thing we gutta do is find out if she [meaning the car] has side airbags.” I shrug my shoulders, “I don’t know it’s a rental.” He peers in the window for a moment and then looks at me, “Sorry, can’t do it. She’s got side airbags. If I hit the airbag release instead of the lock while I’m leaning over, the airbags are going to come up at me, break my neck and kill me.” I must have had a strange look on my face. “It happened to my buddy,” he casually stated as he put the slim jim in his back pocket, scoped out the parking lot and walked away.
Having had his share of excitement for the day, my dad packed in the wire snakes and hangers and went home for a nap. My mother and Madison went into Staples to do some shopping and my aunt sat on the curb outside of Barnes and Noble, keeping a vigil for that elusive firefighter. Soon a vehicle with the words Search and Rescue printed on the side pulled up. The driver with clipboard in hand approached me. With his icy green eyes and his tight shirt, this guy looked more like the lead singer of the next best boy band, than he did a locksmith. However, I am not joking when I say he had the car unlocked in under a minute. “Wow, that was fast,” I noted. “Well,” he replied with what I am sure was a wink, “I have had a lot of practice jimmying locks; after all, I’m a professional.”
*If you are not from the Greater Boston area, Please, I beg of you, do not attempt to read this passage aloud with a fake Boston accent. Thank you.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Twenty Things I Learned from my Twentieth High School Reunion (or already knew but needed a reminder):
1. I know all the words to Bon Jovi’s Living On a Prayer—can’t decide if I’m ashamed or impressed.
2. Staying up until 5:30 in the morning should be illegal for anyone over the age of 30.
3. I’m not as good with names as I thought.
4. People remember things you wish they forgot, and forget things you wish they remembered.
5. I’m not totally into vanity, but a cute dress, good make-up and a great hairdresser go a long way.
6. There’s something truly heartwarming about people who married their high school sweethearts.
7. Boston sports fans will ALWAYS choose Red Sox tickets over money.
8. Don’t waste time talking about your job, your location or how cute your kids are—everyone knows these things from Facebook already.
9. Just because you like two people does not mean they will like each other and that’s actually okay.
10. Aimee speaking to a crowd over a microphone gives the Squeaky Voice a whole new meaning-ugh.
11. Everyone still looks so young-until you put in the video and slideshow. :)
12. The song More Than Words is both the most catchy and most annoying song on the planet, even after twenty years.
13. The people you enjoyed talking to in high school are still pretty cool.
14. The people you didn’t really talk to in high school are pretty cool, too.
15. I am now older than most of my teachers were when I was in high school.
16. Drinking champagne out of a bottle at 4:00 am is never a good idea.
17. No matter how much you try you can’t look normal when you are on a crowded elevator with half a mannequin pressed up against you and a headless lion costume slung over your shoulder.
18. Even if you aren’t a good dancer you should dance. It might be ugly, but it’s so much fun.
19. Everyone has a funny story and a great high school memory to share, spend some time listening to them.
20. We are all grown-ups and should behave as such, but there is something to be said for acting like you're seventeen again just for one night…
2. Staying up until 5:30 in the morning should be illegal for anyone over the age of 30.
3. I’m not as good with names as I thought.
4. People remember things you wish they forgot, and forget things you wish they remembered.
5. I’m not totally into vanity, but a cute dress, good make-up and a great hairdresser go a long way.
6. There’s something truly heartwarming about people who married their high school sweethearts.
7. Boston sports fans will ALWAYS choose Red Sox tickets over money.
8. Don’t waste time talking about your job, your location or how cute your kids are—everyone knows these things from Facebook already.
9. Just because you like two people does not mean they will like each other and that’s actually okay.
10. Aimee speaking to a crowd over a microphone gives the Squeaky Voice a whole new meaning-ugh.
11. Everyone still looks so young-until you put in the video and slideshow. :)
12. The song More Than Words is both the most catchy and most annoying song on the planet, even after twenty years.
13. The people you enjoyed talking to in high school are still pretty cool.
14. The people you didn’t really talk to in high school are pretty cool, too.
15. I am now older than most of my teachers were when I was in high school.
16. Drinking champagne out of a bottle at 4:00 am is never a good idea.
17. No matter how much you try you can’t look normal when you are on a crowded elevator with half a mannequin pressed up against you and a headless lion costume slung over your shoulder.
18. Even if you aren’t a good dancer you should dance. It might be ugly, but it’s so much fun.
19. Everyone has a funny story and a great high school memory to share, spend some time listening to them.
20. We are all grown-ups and should behave as such, but there is something to be said for acting like you're seventeen again just for one night…
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Warrior Tough
This weekend thousands, and I mean thousands, of Washingtonians gathered in North Bend for the Warrior Dash. They came in all shapes, sizes and umm, costumes. Alice in Wonderland and the White Rabbit were there, Wonder Woman and Batman were in attendance, too. A man dressed in a full business suit clambered up walls while holding a brief case. There were people clad in warrior garb, ninja costumes, or barely clad at all. There was even a finish line wedding for one couple. The groom wearing a tuxedo T-shirt held the hand of his bride, who was dressed in a white tutu, as they leapt over fire and swam through the mud.
The Warrior Dash is a 3.5 mile event, with several obstacles including scaling vertical walls, crawling through trenches, climbing on junkyard cars, walking planks and so on. Oh and in between each obstacle competitors run through mud-lots of it.
How do I know all of this? Well, I was there. Yes, somehow this take-a-deep-breath-and-look-both-ways-three-times-before-crossing-street girl got talked into competing in an obstacle course like no other. Okay, let me be honest. No one talked me into it. I was the one who approached them. I have no idea what possessed me to gather a group of friends and willingly put myself in one uncomfortable situation after the next, but I have a feeling it would cost me many dollars and many hours on the therapy couch to find out.
There are certain things I knew about myself before the dash and certain things I found out while out on the obstacles. For example, it was only when I was twenty feet in the air, trying to figure out how to turn my body around so I could climb down the other side of the wall I just scaled, that I realized I was afraid of heights. I was also afraid of falling backward, landing on my back and dying, but I already knew I had that fear. As I sat atop the wall wondering whether they would take me down by fire truck or crane and how much the bill for that would be, several women I didn’t know started cheering for me from the ground. Apparently in my scared stupor I didn’t notice almost all of my friends had completed the climb and were willing me on from the other side. They soon had a chorus of people joining them in a supportive and genuine “You can do it Aimee!” I looked at my husband who was still waiting to take his turn. He was enthusiastically cheering me on, too. Before I knew it I was safely over the wall.
Later, I crawled on hands and knees across a series of slippery wooden planks, called the Teetering Traverse. I was impressed not by my strength or agility, but my ability to recall all 206 bones in the human body. The recollection went something like, if I fall to the left I’ll break my femur, but if I fall to the right I might just get a few phalanges, if I fall at a 25 degree angle I will spare my legs, but likely break a rib. By the time I had reached the clavicle in brace scenario I was dismounting the traverse holding the hand of an encouraging friend.
There were some obstacles I found fun, like jumping on old cars and crawling through dark trenches. I loved watching my more confident friends scale walls and jump hurdles like they were superheroes. Some of my favorite moments involved slinging mud, watching friends fall in the mud and slinging mud at said friends while they were falling in the mud.
After climbing yet another huge wall, this one made of cargo ropes, and jumping over two rows of fire we approached the finish. All we had to do was crawl through mud about two feet deep while ducking under some barbed wire. As I slid under the first row of barbed wire, nearly an hour and ten minutes after I had begun, I caught a glimpse of the finish line. That’s when I felt something. No, I wasn’t caught on the barbed wire, and no, my knee hadn’t hit a rock under the mud. What I felt was good old-fashioned pride. I had done it. I was a Warrior.
The Warrior Dash is a 3.5 mile event, with several obstacles including scaling vertical walls, crawling through trenches, climbing on junkyard cars, walking planks and so on. Oh and in between each obstacle competitors run through mud-lots of it.
How do I know all of this? Well, I was there. Yes, somehow this take-a-deep-breath-and-look-both-ways-three-times-before-crossing-street girl got talked into competing in an obstacle course like no other. Okay, let me be honest. No one talked me into it. I was the one who approached them. I have no idea what possessed me to gather a group of friends and willingly put myself in one uncomfortable situation after the next, but I have a feeling it would cost me many dollars and many hours on the therapy couch to find out.
There are certain things I knew about myself before the dash and certain things I found out while out on the obstacles. For example, it was only when I was twenty feet in the air, trying to figure out how to turn my body around so I could climb down the other side of the wall I just scaled, that I realized I was afraid of heights. I was also afraid of falling backward, landing on my back and dying, but I already knew I had that fear. As I sat atop the wall wondering whether they would take me down by fire truck or crane and how much the bill for that would be, several women I didn’t know started cheering for me from the ground. Apparently in my scared stupor I didn’t notice almost all of my friends had completed the climb and were willing me on from the other side. They soon had a chorus of people joining them in a supportive and genuine “You can do it Aimee!” I looked at my husband who was still waiting to take his turn. He was enthusiastically cheering me on, too. Before I knew it I was safely over the wall.
Later, I crawled on hands and knees across a series of slippery wooden planks, called the Teetering Traverse. I was impressed not by my strength or agility, but my ability to recall all 206 bones in the human body. The recollection went something like, if I fall to the left I’ll break my femur, but if I fall to the right I might just get a few phalanges, if I fall at a 25 degree angle I will spare my legs, but likely break a rib. By the time I had reached the clavicle in brace scenario I was dismounting the traverse holding the hand of an encouraging friend.
There were some obstacles I found fun, like jumping on old cars and crawling through dark trenches. I loved watching my more confident friends scale walls and jump hurdles like they were superheroes. Some of my favorite moments involved slinging mud, watching friends fall in the mud and slinging mud at said friends while they were falling in the mud.
After climbing yet another huge wall, this one made of cargo ropes, and jumping over two rows of fire we approached the finish. All we had to do was crawl through mud about two feet deep while ducking under some barbed wire. As I slid under the first row of barbed wire, nearly an hour and ten minutes after I had begun, I caught a glimpse of the finish line. That’s when I felt something. No, I wasn’t caught on the barbed wire, and no, my knee hadn’t hit a rock under the mud. What I felt was good old-fashioned pride. I had done it. I was a Warrior.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Being a Big Girl
Woo-hoo! I am happy to actually have a few moments for the Squeaky Voice. Things have been so busy lately and it’s been really hard to get to some of my favorite things. However, the summer has been and should always be, about doing things that you love. Right now, I am happy to report, I am doing several such things. Currently, I am sitting on the ferry waiting to set sail to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. Love that! I’m surrounded by three of my favorite people. Love that! The sun is glistening on the water. Love that, too! We are heading out for a five day camping vacation and have some friends joining us tomorrow. So much to love and enjoy and having time to blog is the icing on the cake.
I took a little break there, we are now on the great San Juan Island. Yippee. We’ve had a laid back day just hanging out. Right now Max is climbing trees, Madison is reading a book, I’m writing and Mike is getting the grill set for dinner. Our friends are in route and I think there are s’mores in our near future. It doesn’t get better than this.
I do love camping and family time, but I also love alone time. It’s funny because when I was younger I hated to be by myself. But as I’ve grown older I have come to value “me time.” Earlier this week, I was teaching a class in Bothell which is about an hour and a half away. Because I was teaching two days in a row I decided to stay overnight in a hotel. The hotel is just across the street from the school where I was working. I had never stayed in a hotel by myself before and I was pretty excited to give it a go. It just seemed like such a grown-up thing to do-Going on a business trip, as I came to see it. I looked the hotel up on the internet and it had an outdoor pool. I can’t remember the last time I just went and sat around a pool for hours. I decided that after my class I would treat myself to pool time. Even if some of pool time was spent going over my plans for the next day.
I didn’t book my hotel on the internet website, because they gave a discount to teachers at MEIPN where I was teaching. So I got up got my phone, looked the phone number up, called and made my reservations. Would they give me the discount? Well, sure, they hesitated, why not. After my class, I headed over to the Country Inn, which despite its name and outward appearance, was very modern indoors. It’s funny because I’d never heard of the Country Inn before this, I had only heard of the Comfort Inn another chain. The inside was really beautiful lots of windows and I knew, as I stood at the check-in counter, that just a few minutes separated me from the outdoor pool. Thank goodness because it was an amazingly beautiful day and we don’t always get those, even in the summer. I could picture myself by the pool, laptop on the table next to a fuzzy, yummy grown up drink. I would look like a magazine ad for a sophisticated urban woman. A real live grown-up.
The girl at the counter was young and friendly. She was very gentle with me when she broke it to me that I did not have reservations for the night. “Oh no! Did I accidentally book for tomorrow night?” No not the next night either. At this point most people would think it was the hotel’s mistake, but that never crossed my mind. Something had been nagging me since the moment I pulled into the parking lot. It was the name –The Country Inn. I leaned over the counter and, in a whisper, asked “Is there aaaa Comfort Inn around?” She told me there was one about three miles away. One exit north. She offered to call them for me and assured me that this happened all the time. She offered to save me some embarrassment by not telling them she was calling from the main desk at the Country Inn.
“Hi this is Aimee Allen and I was just calling to confirm my reservation,” she began. I held my breath half-hoping for the reservation and half-hoping they would just take me in at the Country Inn. She hung up the phone, nodded, printed out some directions and off I went to the Comfort Inn.
Even on my way to the Comfort Inn (which I couldn’t find for thirty minutes)I tried to convince myself that maybe the website I was originally on, was the Comfort Inn and maybe that great outdoor pool would be waiting for me, if of course I could ever found the place. After several U-turns and a few words not worth repeating here, I pulled into the Comfort Inn and knew immediately that these accommodations that shared a parking lot with The Holiday Inn Express, QFC and Papa Murphy’s was not where I was hoping.I guess I initially was on the Country Inn site, but in the time it took to get the phone in hand, I had switched Country Inn to Comfort Inn in my mind.
Don’t get me wrong, the Comfort Inn was fine. I have certainly stayed in worse, and remember I am the girl who is choosing to sleep in a nylon tent for the next four nights. The Comfort Inn was clean. Everyone was friendly. The woman at the front desk assured me that my room was “Very nice” the continental breakfast was “Very delicious” and the location was “very convenient”. I already agreed with her on the convenient part seeing as the “hotel” was at the back of a grocery store parking lot, of course it would be more convenient if the hotel was across the street from the school, like the Country Inn. There was a pool, but it was indoors, which defeated my purpose. And the rooms were fine, but there wasn’t a balcony or deck to sit on. My visions of sophisticated big-girl time were beginning to unravel.
I was hungry, I was lonely, and I sure didn’t have pool time and a fuzzy drink in my future. I headed out to get something to eat, bypassed the QFC, got into my car and found a hole in the wall pizza place. While waiting for the pizza I witnessed a very heated argument between a teenager and his father. The kind that makes you very slowly and very steadily get out of their line of vision, while still watching to make sure they don’t hurt each other. I hurriedly took my pizza and vanilla shake back to my hotel room where I proceeded to watch three back to back episodes of Law & Order.
Come to think of it, three episodes of Law & Order, more slices of pizza than I will ever admit, and a large vanilla shake might just qualify as grown-up time after all. And on that note I have been invited to climb a Madrona tree with Max. Sometimes being a big girl isn’t all it’s cut out to be anyway.
I took a little break there, we are now on the great San Juan Island. Yippee. We’ve had a laid back day just hanging out. Right now Max is climbing trees, Madison is reading a book, I’m writing and Mike is getting the grill set for dinner. Our friends are in route and I think there are s’mores in our near future. It doesn’t get better than this.
I do love camping and family time, but I also love alone time. It’s funny because when I was younger I hated to be by myself. But as I’ve grown older I have come to value “me time.” Earlier this week, I was teaching a class in Bothell which is about an hour and a half away. Because I was teaching two days in a row I decided to stay overnight in a hotel. The hotel is just across the street from the school where I was working. I had never stayed in a hotel by myself before and I was pretty excited to give it a go. It just seemed like such a grown-up thing to do-Going on a business trip, as I came to see it. I looked the hotel up on the internet and it had an outdoor pool. I can’t remember the last time I just went and sat around a pool for hours. I decided that after my class I would treat myself to pool time. Even if some of pool time was spent going over my plans for the next day.
I didn’t book my hotel on the internet website, because they gave a discount to teachers at MEIPN where I was teaching. So I got up got my phone, looked the phone number up, called and made my reservations. Would they give me the discount? Well, sure, they hesitated, why not. After my class, I headed over to the Country Inn, which despite its name and outward appearance, was very modern indoors. It’s funny because I’d never heard of the Country Inn before this, I had only heard of the Comfort Inn another chain. The inside was really beautiful lots of windows and I knew, as I stood at the check-in counter, that just a few minutes separated me from the outdoor pool. Thank goodness because it was an amazingly beautiful day and we don’t always get those, even in the summer. I could picture myself by the pool, laptop on the table next to a fuzzy, yummy grown up drink. I would look like a magazine ad for a sophisticated urban woman. A real live grown-up.
The girl at the counter was young and friendly. She was very gentle with me when she broke it to me that I did not have reservations for the night. “Oh no! Did I accidentally book for tomorrow night?” No not the next night either. At this point most people would think it was the hotel’s mistake, but that never crossed my mind. Something had been nagging me since the moment I pulled into the parking lot. It was the name –The Country Inn. I leaned over the counter and, in a whisper, asked “Is there aaaa Comfort Inn around?” She told me there was one about three miles away. One exit north. She offered to call them for me and assured me that this happened all the time. She offered to save me some embarrassment by not telling them she was calling from the main desk at the Country Inn.
“Hi this is Aimee Allen and I was just calling to confirm my reservation,” she began. I held my breath half-hoping for the reservation and half-hoping they would just take me in at the Country Inn. She hung up the phone, nodded, printed out some directions and off I went to the Comfort Inn.
Even on my way to the Comfort Inn (which I couldn’t find for thirty minutes)I tried to convince myself that maybe the website I was originally on, was the Comfort Inn and maybe that great outdoor pool would be waiting for me, if of course I could ever found the place. After several U-turns and a few words not worth repeating here, I pulled into the Comfort Inn and knew immediately that these accommodations that shared a parking lot with The Holiday Inn Express, QFC and Papa Murphy’s was not where I was hoping.I guess I initially was on the Country Inn site, but in the time it took to get the phone in hand, I had switched Country Inn to Comfort Inn in my mind.
Don’t get me wrong, the Comfort Inn was fine. I have certainly stayed in worse, and remember I am the girl who is choosing to sleep in a nylon tent for the next four nights. The Comfort Inn was clean. Everyone was friendly. The woman at the front desk assured me that my room was “Very nice” the continental breakfast was “Very delicious” and the location was “very convenient”. I already agreed with her on the convenient part seeing as the “hotel” was at the back of a grocery store parking lot, of course it would be more convenient if the hotel was across the street from the school, like the Country Inn. There was a pool, but it was indoors, which defeated my purpose. And the rooms were fine, but there wasn’t a balcony or deck to sit on. My visions of sophisticated big-girl time were beginning to unravel.
I was hungry, I was lonely, and I sure didn’t have pool time and a fuzzy drink in my future. I headed out to get something to eat, bypassed the QFC, got into my car and found a hole in the wall pizza place. While waiting for the pizza I witnessed a very heated argument between a teenager and his father. The kind that makes you very slowly and very steadily get out of their line of vision, while still watching to make sure they don’t hurt each other. I hurriedly took my pizza and vanilla shake back to my hotel room where I proceeded to watch three back to back episodes of Law & Order.
Come to think of it, three episodes of Law & Order, more slices of pizza than I will ever admit, and a large vanilla shake might just qualify as grown-up time after all. And on that note I have been invited to climb a Madrona tree with Max. Sometimes being a big girl isn’t all it’s cut out to be anyway.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Now That's Handy!
Greetings! I write to you this evening from my dining room where my precious laptop is housed. Now my laptop, well, it’s not in top-notch shape. It functions just fine, but it’s no beauty. If it were a car you’d say it was reliable, if it were a house you’d call it a fixer-upper, if it were a high school girl, you’d say it had a nice personality. Over a year ago Mike had it in the airplane in his backpack and a water bottle leaked on it. It filled the screen up and a project was born. In a time when maybe your husband or wife would have thrown in the towel and bought a new laptop, my husband purchased a fix-it kit and spent hours taking layer upon layer of screen off of it,(there are several layers in your laptop my friends) repaired it, and it was as good as new. Like a good plastic surgeon Mike managed to keep it looking good and working well. But what this plastic surgeon failed to mention to his graceless wife was that the laptop was a bit more fragile than it used to be.
I may be small, but you can hear me coming a mile away. The pounding of my feet, the accidental crashing of the door, the muffled cry as I once again stub my toe, catch my fingernail, step on a lego, trip on a shoelace, kick myself in the shin, you get the picture. Anyway, precision and grace aren’t my strongest suits, and when I am done with my computer for the night, the top gets slammed down and I’m off. Long story short, the top of this already fragile entity, was slammed one time too many and now I am the only girl on the planet who has a laptop held together on one side with two sets of nuts and bolts. Sometimes, even with the bolts in place, part of the screen will still pop out and I will push it in and go on with my day.
Being married to someone handy is amazing. If something breaks I guarantee you my husband can fix it. I always say if you can’t marry for money then for goodness sake, marry handy. Oh yes, and marrying for love might help, too. Lucky for me, I love my handyman. Whenever we see something cool at a store, Mike says, “Let’s not spend the money, I can make that.” And the truth is he can, now does he, well that's a blog for another time. To make matters even better for a scatterbrain like myself, my husband is also very, umm, frugal. This is great for a girl who is a little more lax with the spending…Mike keeps me from making dumb purchases and shady investments. He might say things like Do you really need those shoes or do you really want to invest all our money on a beach resort in Antarctica? So if marrying frugal is good and marrying handy is good, and marrying for love is the ultimate, then for goodness sake marrying someone handy and frugal who you love must be like winning a gold medal in life, right? Well, for the most part yes, but, you might want to re-read paragraph two here, and realize that I have a laptop that is BOLTED together! Rather than give up and dig up the funds to get a new computer my husband bolted the thing together and called it a day.
When our dog chewed through her leash for the 50th time, instead of spending $25 on a heavy duty chain Mike bought a bunch of rope and a clasp from Home Depot for a few bucks and made his own version of a chew-proof leash. When Madison complained that she was getting grease on her pant leg from the chain of her bike, Mike cut a piece of Velcro, fastened it to her sweat pants and they held tight, never to flap into the path of her chain again. Car sliding on ice? Mike will throw an engine block in the back for some added weight and you’re good to go. Pets eating from each others' bowls? Mike can rig something to fix that. Cables out? Car’s broken? Phone’s fallen into Lake Union? Fixed, fixed, fixed.
Don’t misunderstand it’s not all duct tape and Jeff Foxworthy here at the Allen house. Mike can be quite a craftsman, too. We have a beautiful fireplace in our bedroom, an awesome fire pit in our backyard, a huge hand-built shed on the back of our house and a beautiful dining room table that he refinished, and that’s just to name a few.
Even though it’s just a hobby and I will likely never be a real author; my blog gives me a little boost of adrenaline and the chance to be a writer. Mike knows this and supports me 100%. I like to have something posted at least every two weeks. When two weeks have gone by and I haven’t posted something, I start to worry about this self-imposed deadline. I sit down to write, whether I have a subject matter or not. I can really get caught up in wanting to make my blog just right and Mike knows that as well. This evening I was working on a blog about my less than savvy technological skills, but I just couldn’t make it work. Mike came into the kitchen and suggested I go for a kayak ride alone and just think for a bit. While I was out there, I realized I’d have to table the tech blog for another time. It just wasn’t in me.
Discouraged, I paddled to shore, tied the kayak up to a rusty crowbar that Mike has inserted into the ground as a temporary mooring and came into the house, being careful not to be hit by the wooden doorstop Mike invented to keep the dog from pawing open our sliding glass door. I sat down and started typing this blog. It might not be what I set out to achieve, and it might not be pretty, flowery and full of beautiful language, but it works. Looks like Mr. Fix It has done it again.
I may be small, but you can hear me coming a mile away. The pounding of my feet, the accidental crashing of the door, the muffled cry as I once again stub my toe, catch my fingernail, step on a lego, trip on a shoelace, kick myself in the shin, you get the picture. Anyway, precision and grace aren’t my strongest suits, and when I am done with my computer for the night, the top gets slammed down and I’m off. Long story short, the top of this already fragile entity, was slammed one time too many and now I am the only girl on the planet who has a laptop held together on one side with two sets of nuts and bolts. Sometimes, even with the bolts in place, part of the screen will still pop out and I will push it in and go on with my day.
Being married to someone handy is amazing. If something breaks I guarantee you my husband can fix it. I always say if you can’t marry for money then for goodness sake, marry handy. Oh yes, and marrying for love might help, too. Lucky for me, I love my handyman. Whenever we see something cool at a store, Mike says, “Let’s not spend the money, I can make that.” And the truth is he can, now does he, well that's a blog for another time. To make matters even better for a scatterbrain like myself, my husband is also very, umm, frugal. This is great for a girl who is a little more lax with the spending…Mike keeps me from making dumb purchases and shady investments. He might say things like Do you really need those shoes or do you really want to invest all our money on a beach resort in Antarctica? So if marrying frugal is good and marrying handy is good, and marrying for love is the ultimate, then for goodness sake marrying someone handy and frugal who you love must be like winning a gold medal in life, right? Well, for the most part yes, but, you might want to re-read paragraph two here, and realize that I have a laptop that is BOLTED together! Rather than give up and dig up the funds to get a new computer my husband bolted the thing together and called it a day.
When our dog chewed through her leash for the 50th time, instead of spending $25 on a heavy duty chain Mike bought a bunch of rope and a clasp from Home Depot for a few bucks and made his own version of a chew-proof leash. When Madison complained that she was getting grease on her pant leg from the chain of her bike, Mike cut a piece of Velcro, fastened it to her sweat pants and they held tight, never to flap into the path of her chain again. Car sliding on ice? Mike will throw an engine block in the back for some added weight and you’re good to go. Pets eating from each others' bowls? Mike can rig something to fix that. Cables out? Car’s broken? Phone’s fallen into Lake Union? Fixed, fixed, fixed.
Don’t misunderstand it’s not all duct tape and Jeff Foxworthy here at the Allen house. Mike can be quite a craftsman, too. We have a beautiful fireplace in our bedroom, an awesome fire pit in our backyard, a huge hand-built shed on the back of our house and a beautiful dining room table that he refinished, and that’s just to name a few.
Even though it’s just a hobby and I will likely never be a real author; my blog gives me a little boost of adrenaline and the chance to be a writer. Mike knows this and supports me 100%. I like to have something posted at least every two weeks. When two weeks have gone by and I haven’t posted something, I start to worry about this self-imposed deadline. I sit down to write, whether I have a subject matter or not. I can really get caught up in wanting to make my blog just right and Mike knows that as well. This evening I was working on a blog about my less than savvy technological skills, but I just couldn’t make it work. Mike came into the kitchen and suggested I go for a kayak ride alone and just think for a bit. While I was out there, I realized I’d have to table the tech blog for another time. It just wasn’t in me.
Discouraged, I paddled to shore, tied the kayak up to a rusty crowbar that Mike has inserted into the ground as a temporary mooring and came into the house, being careful not to be hit by the wooden doorstop Mike invented to keep the dog from pawing open our sliding glass door. I sat down and started typing this blog. It might not be what I set out to achieve, and it might not be pretty, flowery and full of beautiful language, but it works. Looks like Mr. Fix It has done it again.
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